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CHAPTER 1
Desert Banditos
JAKE FOUND THE VASTNESS of the desert captivating, the endless ruggedness enchanting, and the sweltering heat far more intense than he'd imagined! He'd never been near the bleak, sand covered country before, but the scorching, barren, quiet he construed as tenacious as mortal combat and almost equally inexplicable. However, his thin smile disclosed mystifying respect for the brutality and splendor of the Sonora Desert with the thin outline of mystic, distant mountains.
The desert's overpowering calm allowed diverse visions of his homeland to roll through his mind in pleasant vestiges, bringing a gleam to the jubilant blue eyes that emphasized the handsome, sun- toned face. Back there, near Kansas City, the trees grew tall and were filled with lush green leaves that floated on strapping, flexible branches in the spring and summer; prairie grass, sparsely sprinkled with purple and yellow wild flowers habitually swayed with the gentle push of the ever-present breeze. And gurgling streambeds always carried fresh, sweet water. He imagined the coolness of that moisture on his wrinkled, parched lips; but his tongue found only jagged, desiccated flesh.
The lucid smell of horse and saddle over the past five days, since he'd ridden the emptiness of West Texas, clutched at his clothes and skin, stabbing through the onerous layer of dust. The denim jeans had become slick and shiny on the backside and thighs as he stood down to rest in the sparse shade of a meager, crooked-limbed mesquite tree that clung to life, seemingly like an orphan deposited in the barren land. The contorted tree stubbornly disallowed the elements to extinguish its' destitute life.
The desert-newcomer uselessly brushed his clothes with a wrinkled hat, standing as close to the gangly tree as possible in want of the slight offer of shade, hoping to lessen the heat for at least a moment.
"You know what, Mr. Tree?" Jake stoically admired the meager tree with a slow lifting of his head and eyes, and said with a gravel voice, which caused his horse, Cody, to turn and look at him goggled-eyed, "If I was a major ... or a captain ... and you was a soldier, I'd give you a medal! You got more spunk than most men." His lips smarted slightly as the meek smile found them.
Jake poured a generous portion of water into the sweat-streaked Stetson for Cody. Once the horse had drunk he hoisted the canteen overhead and poured slowly from the sparse vessel, allowing the slight stream of tepid water to flow through his hair and down his face. He spread his feet to allow the minimal runoff to fall and penetrate the ungracious soil where the tree's dark craggy trunk rose from the ground. "There. We all got a bit of good out of that."
'Zinngg.' A bullet split the air near Jake's left ear. His hand, as if by magic, braced the grip of his Colt. He crouched to one knee by reflex, looking in the direction from which the shot came. Cody wrenched and nickered.
"Hombre," a deep, raspy voice laced with weighty Spanish broke through, "you want to live, you put down yor pistola and zee canteen. Leeve your horse tied to zee tree and walk toward de mountain range behin' you."
Jake saw no one. Experience had taught him, he could even the game once he'd determined the whereabouts and strength of potential adversaries. He focused on a knot of boulders some thirty yards distant that was large enough to hide a pair of wagons. He shouted back, "And what if I don't?" Another bullet answered, slamming the ground beside him and throwing up a fan of fine sandy soil. "We keel you and take yor theengs enyway," a different voice this time ... from the rocks where Jake identified a gray-white puff of smoke.
'Well, odds are in their favor; but I ain't walkin'! He holstered the Colt, stuck the cork into the opening of the canteen and hung it on the saddle horn, "Okay, okay!"
He stooped and swung under Cody's neck. Then, in the blink of an eye, he jerked the Winchester from the rifle boot and leaped to his left. Following two long strides, he ducked his head to his chin and hit the ground on agile, muscled shoulders. Tucking his body into a tight ball, he held the Winchester flush across his chest. A turbulence of dust obscured the profile his body offered the banditos.
He wedged into the stifling sand and lifted his head slightly. Braced on elbows, he chanced a look over the transitory cover, a spattering of melon-sized rocks which had collected clumps of brown bunch grass.
A small, rumpled man stepped out from behind the boulder, rifle at his shoulder. Another shot rang out! It missed the strapping young desert novice a good six feet.
The Mexicans both fired Greenies, old breech-loading single- shot carbines, but then both switched to Patterson revolvers. Sensing they'd lost the upper hand, they fired as quickly as they could with the vintage hand guns.
Perceiving the Mexicans to be simple desert rats, Jake's confidence grew. He hypothesized the odds were now in his favor. He sent three .44 caliber chunks of lead to their position from behind his newly acquired stronghold.
All grew quiet.
"Senior", one of the banditos cried out dubiously, his voice strained, not defiant as when they had the drop on Jake, "maybee we need to talk!"
"You didn't seem to think so before. Why talk now?" Jake barked back intrepidly.
A brief silence fell between them. And then, "We thenk you are someone else – not the hombre' we thenk you are before."
"Oh yea! Well step out from behind them rocks so I can get a good look at you."
A few seconds passed. "Si ... but you no shoot, okay?"
"Okay. Step out and lay them guns down where I can see 'em."
They stepped into the open, one with pistol hanging low in hand and gently laid his rifle on the sandy hard-pack at his feet. The rifle-man poked his aged Patterson back into the holster at his midsection, all the while keeping a twitching eye on the American. Jake lowered the barrel of the Winchester and looked them over. The man with his Patterson holstered moved slightly to his left and pushed one foot to the side. He sneered through a veil of dirty black hair. Both men had grimy, multicolored serapes draped around their shoulders, their boot's soles separated from the tormented leather uppers, and encrusted canvas pants long past washable. Surprisingly each of them touted a vibrant new sombrero, complete with beads and braided string ties.
"Where'd you get them sombreros?" Jake's voice was amplified.
"We buy yesterday," a subtle response dispatched.
Jake rolled his eyes. "Look boys, I ain't no fool. You didn't buy them hats ... you stole 'em didn't you?"
The two dark skinned pirates ogled one another before turning back to Jake. The one with a disgustingly grimy moustache, the man that held a hand close to the holstered gun, dropped his eyes and drawled, "Si, we take from bathhouse in El Paso yesterday."
"Bet ya didn't take no bath though," Jake's voice disclosed a guarded laugh.
"No, senor, no bath."
'Uummm, El Paso just a day or less in front of me', Jake thought. He shouted back, "Sounds to me like you two think you can take just about anything you want. Where I come from they put you in jail for that ... you want to go to jail?" He flipped the barrel of his Winchester toward El Paso, gesturing as if he'd take them back to town.
"No, senor – no jail!"
The grimy moustache bandit slowly wrapped his fingers around the old revolver at his side, "No jail, hombre." The sour face crumpled, "You maybe take my cowsin, but you not take me."
Jake jerked the Winchester to level and raised his left hand, "Stop! If you pull that gun I'll have to shoot."
His warning froze the would-be bandit momentarily, but only momentarily. His eyes narrowed and he spat; his old revolver readied the answer.
The Kansas man's Winchester roared and shot flame.
"Yiii"! The Mex toppled before he could get a shot off.
The meaty part of his thigh flushed a dark red blossom and he flopped to the ground.
"I didn't want to do that, amigo ... what the hell's wrong with you? When I told you to stop you shoulda stopped. Now look what you caused!"
Jake was a peace-loving man, not the type of rogue that derives satisfaction out of killing or injuring a man beyond need. He didn't figure these two for hard cases, thought them to be not much more than petty thieves, taking just enough to stay alive, not smart enough to steal much more than sombreros. He shouted to the Mex that remained upright, "You," he shook the muzzle of the rifle at him; "are your horses back there behind those rocks?" He lifted his chin and flipped his head toward the enormous stones.
"Si, senor, horses." The man pushed his hands high in the air, fear gripped his face.
Jake gestured at the man, "Put them guns down at your partner's feet, and get your horses. I'm not going to shoot you, and as for him," Jake nodded at the injured man he'd wounded, "I want you to pack him up and the two of ya get outta here before I get mad. I don't want to waste away the day with the likes of you."
Soon the downcast man appeared from behind the prodigious boulders, scuffing the crusty earth with his craggy boots. He led two decent looking horses in tow, both saddled with wood-frame, single-rig Spanish saddles. A third, a packhorse, carried only a light load wrapped with the remnant of canvas. The old nag's ribs could be counted from forty yards away and her tail chewed by a mule.
The heat of the day drew beads of perspiration to Jake's upper lip, "Hombres, I don't like the idea of you shooting at me. I should probably stake you down and let the coyotes make a meal of your ornery hides ... but I'm not going to." Jake paused and rubbed his chin. He pulled the fixin's from his shirt pocket and started a cigarette, glancing rhythmically at his deficient adversaries. After running the paper along his tongue, he scratched a match with his thumbnail and lit the twisted end of the quirley.
Jake's eyes methodically appraised the Mexicans as he exhaled a sizeable stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Here's what we're gonna do, hombres," he squeezed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "First, you," he slapped the rifle barrel again in the direction of the man standing, "wrap your cousin's leg ... wrap it tight to stop the blood flow, and you're going to leave your guns, all of them, here. Then you're going to empty them canteens of yours at the base of that tree there." He pointed to the scrappy little tree he'd complimented earlier.
The Mexican's eyes widened. "But, senor, you would leeve us weeth no water?"
"Si." Jake responded. Knowing El Paso was only a day's ride, maybe less, they might get real thirsty, but they wouldn't die. "Then you two are to walk to the base of that mountain, the one you wanted me to walk to." He waved the rifle barrel. "I'll leave your guns here and you can come back and get them. I figure that'll take you long enough that it'll for sure be dark before you get back ... Si?" The two men looked at one another and started jabbering Spanish. "Whoa! Hold on now." Jake shouted and the fussing between them stopped. "And while you're headin' to that mountain, I'm staying right here and will fix myself a little something to eat." He squatted on his heels and laid the rifle across his knees. He had no intention of eating but by saying so he could be assured the two bandits wouldn't return too quickly. 'But they surely wouldn't go clear to the mountain ... would they?'
The Mexicans were panicky and glowed with anxiety, but failed to move at the directions given them.
Jake levered a shell into the chamber of the long gun. "You either vamoose or I'm changing my mind and will put you in the ground, here and now!"
The would-be-thieves started off, the wounded man gripping the bandaged leg and hobbling. Within the first two hundred yards, they wearily looked over their shoulders time and again before dropping into a sand flat and disappeared from sight.
The Mexican bandits were not young men. Their faces were drawn and the way they carried themselves told of age. The dawdling movement reminded Jake of his aging father.
CHAPTER 2
A M ER ICA NO & LUCIN DA
JUST TWO MONTHS PRIOR, on his twenty-fifth birthday, Jake informed his father he was going to be making this trip. His older brother, Matt, from down in Tucson, sent a letter in dire desperation stating he needed Jake's help. Matt had taken on the job as general manager of a freight outfit that was being tormented with robbery and murder; he was confident there wasn't a better man to handle the job of security for the Arizona Star Freight Company than was his brother, Jake Cantlin.
The dusty, rutted road on the outskirts of El Paso carried Jake through a strung-out, formidable accumulation of unique, scattered wickiups and simple, scrappy adobes strewn among dismal cactus and rock formations. He could tell the river was within a stones throw; a well used path could be seen falling over a cactus clustered rise laden with shards of clay vessels that had likely been overburdening and jostled from the grasp of young transporters.
For the number of structures, humans were scarce; those visible were squatted near their dwelling, but mostly wide-eyed small boys clad in ripped, grimy pants of varied length. The boys hesitated from make-believe sword fights alongside timid, dark, frazzle-haired childish girls that held tattered dresses close to their bodies. With heads raised slightly, they occasionally lifted a hand to acknowledge the American. Jake grinned and winked at two, thumbing the brim of his hat as he did so. Their wide-eyed grinning responses, with closed fingers held near their mouths, reflected a shy apprehension. He waved approvingly and looked over a shoulder as he walked Cody slowly onward.
Smoke rose above the rocks and spiny, leafless plants that shrouded hills, giving notice El Paso was a short distance ahead. Across the Rio, the hillsides in Mexico sat mixtures of earthen adobes, casita shacks and jacals on the lower elevations, near the river and half way uphill. From there, on the up side of the hills, hacienda style structures with tile roofs, well decorated and walled surroundings, appeared to be those of more prosperous residents. The Kansas man figured the occupants there were served by the population below where dwellings were pitiable.
Within minutes he saw buildings constructed of adobe and sawmill boards, larger structures of the dull, drab city. Upon reaching the hard-packed street, Jake found the row of buildings stood against one another like it depended on the other for stability. They lined the street with a perception of a narrow canyon as Jake made his way toward the thick, adobe-brick wall-encompassed presidio he'd expected according to research he'd done before leaving Shawnee Mission, Kansas. The long-standing wall stood, no doubt, as a resolute barrier built years ago as protection from hostile Apaches.
Numerous peddlers, all womenfolk, wore long, faded cotton skirts of various colors and loose blouses topped with serapes, their coal black hair pulled back loosely and braced with decorative combs, they sat indolently cross-legged with a cloth fan in hand. They offered meticulously displayed merchandise; everything from chili peppers, goat meat, polished stone with brilliant jewels and straw baskets to saddles. They crowded beneath the overhand which outlined the garrison that served as official quarters for the territory. They raised their faces limply, following Jake with pleading eyes, as he plodded past.
Men were scattered about on the street or boardwalks, tending lazy headed horses. Some were gathered near wagons in docile conversation. Most were dressed in oversized buff colored long, droopy shirts and rawhide fringed leggings over cotton pants; all wore slapdash sombreros. Many stood aside balcony support posts; their heads tilted down and eyes drawn scarcely beneath the brim of the sombreros, morosely smoking slim cigars. Their composures suggested they were satisfied they could watch passerby without feeling examined.
Jake's eyes moved slowly, accompanied by an occasional slight grin and subtle nod of his head. He sensed a feeling of necessary acceptance, or maybe not being welcome at all from most onlookers, other than the peddlers; the younger ladies of the group exhibited persuasive smiles, to which he thumbed his hat in recognition.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Arizona Star"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Don M. Russell.
Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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