The Chicanery of Paco Ibañez Page 5

  When the three lawmen bedded down that night, their second on the trail, Lucas Wilde was flushed, his eyes suspiciously glassy. Thornton Wilde examined his son’s wound, merely grunted non-commit-tally when he saw the angry inflammation that suggested infection was taking hold, then dressed it as best he could with the available medical supplies.

  By next morning, Lucas was beginning to sound incoherent. Thornton Wilde knew that the infection was causing Lucas’s temperature to rise and pushing him towards delirium. And they were still forty miles from El Paso.

  They again broke camp early, hoping to get some miles under their belts before the sun got too high. They managed that but, by the midday rest that was taken in the meagre shade of wilting aspens scattered across a dry creek bed, Lucas was drifting in and out of consciousness. He had been riding slumped in the saddle, head lolling, clinging to the horn with both hands with the natural instinct of a born horseman. In unspoken agreement, Thornton Wilde and Gord Bogan had ridden close in on either side of the injured man’s big blood bay. If Lucas fell to left or right, the Texas Ranger or the town marshal would be there to support him.

  When they set off again in the heat of the afternoon they were, in Wilde’s estimation, within twenty miles of El Paso. By Socorro, with ten miles to go, they were riding close to the banks of the Rio Grande, hats tipped back and faced turned to make the most of the cool breeze coming off the rolling waters.

  The bracing air revived Lucas Wilde. He was conscious, his eyes were brighter, and he nodded and smiled weakly when Thornton asked how he was feeling. Being realistic, Thornton Wilde allowed himself only a small measure of hope – but it was hope. He had regained a son. That son was a member of an elite band of lawmen, and he was on a perilous assignment. Wilde knew, as a father, he couldn’t ask for much more. He was so damn proud it was making him embarrassed in case it showed on his face, but at the same time he was scared out of his wits that the boy would be snatched from him before they’d had time to get acquainted. He’d do his best to make sure that didn’t happen, but he knew that they were not yet out of the woods. Not yet, and not by a long shot – but, God-willing, by sundown they would be riding into El Paso and putting the Texas Ranger known as Lucas Wilde into the capable hands of a doctor.

  NINE

  The first shot came whistling out of the blue. It dropped Gord Bogan’s gallant buckskin. The horse went down without uttering a sound, dumping the Texas Ranger in the dust. Even as Thornton Wilde’s eyes widened in shock he heard the crack of the rifle. It was followed by shrill, excited cries, and the drum of hoofs along the river-bank to their rear.

  ‘Mexicans,’ Bogan yelled. He crawled over and tried to drag his rifle out of its saddle boot. The horse had fallen on that side. The leather scabbard was under its dead weight. Bogan moved to a sitting position, put his boots against the horse and used his leg muscles to pull the rifle free. Then he scrambled to his feet and ran for the cottonwoods fringing the river-bank.

  ‘Lucas, get after Gord and keep your head down,’ Wilde roared.

  With considerable trepidation he waited until his injured son turned his horse and urged it down the slope after Bogan. Then, spinning his sorrel on the spot, Wilde turned to face the danger.

  Four riders. Still almost a quarter mile away. They were spread out, advancing in open line. But not hurrying, Wilde noted. Didn’t relish the task. Mindful of Lucas’s story, he guessed shrewdly that they were obeying orders. Trying to make life easier for themselves by waving their repeating rifles, screaming themselves hoarse and firing wildly. Hoping to scare off the gringos. Well, they hadn’t achieved that, but one of those wild shots had downed Bogan’s horse.

  Grinning sourly, Wilde again spun his horse and made for the trees at a fast canter.

  ‘Fair odds?’ he said to Bogan, swinging out of the saddle and reaching for his rifle.

  ‘Those Mex boys don’t know it, but they’re in trouble,’ Bogan said, and he dropped to one knee, steadied himself against a slim cottonwood and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

  ‘Warn them,’ Bogan said. ‘They’re worried now. Maybe the sound of hot lead whipping by’ll be too much to swallow and they’ll turn tail.’

  Bogan began firing, snapping spaced shots over the heads of the slowly advancing Mexicans. Wilde turned to his son.

  ‘Lucas, in your condition you’re best out of this. Turn around now, ride through the trees and out, then keep going for El Paso.’

  Lucas, eyes bright, face animated as he sat atop the big blood bay, shook his head firmly.

  ‘You’re letting your heart rule your head, Pa,’ he said. ‘Look to your front. Those Mexicans have split up. If you’re not careful they’ll be coming at us from front, flank and rear.’

  Galvanized by Gord Bogan’s steady firing, the Mexicans had stopped their wild shooting and were riding with purpose. Two were bouncing in the saddle as they trotted along the river-bank, without haste, weaving in and out of the sparse cottonwoods. They should have been easy targets, but the river curved behind them and the bright sun was bouncing off the water, searing the eyes of the unwary.

  The other two Mexicans had swung inland. Flattened along their ponies’ necks, they were riding hard and fast in an arc that would take them past the cottonwoods where the lawmen were sheltering, but at a distance. Wilde knew his son was right. One of those Mexicans would rein in when he was on the flank. The other would push on, eventually swinging round to take the lawmen from the rear. When both were in position, all four Mexicans would begin the attack.

  ‘Gord,’ Thornton Wilde said, ‘I think you’d better begin making those shots count.’

  ‘Both of you do that,’ Lucas said. ‘Coming straight at you, they’re sitting ducks. Me, I’m a better shot, so let me handle those two riding across the line of fire.’

  Despite the brave words, his movements were stiff and awkward. Face set, he bent to slip his rifle out of its boot. When he straightened, his brow was damp with sweat. His left shoulder was the problem. He could move the arm, could lift it, could even use it to steady the rifle’s barrel – but each movement was agony. Angry at his own near helplessness, he shot a glance at his two companions, then bared his teeth and somehow got the rifle into his shoulder and worked a shell into the breech.

  Wilde and Gord Bogan exchanged glances. Bogan shrugged, again faced front. Thornton Wilde joined him, and dropped to his knees. But even as he did so, he realized the situation had changed. While the three men had been talking, Wilde and Bogan briefly distracted, the two Mexicans coming at a leisurely pace along the banks of the Rio Grande had disappeared from view.

  ‘Now where the hell have they got to?’ Wilde said, frowning.

  ‘Trees are thicker a hundred yards out,’ Bogan said, flicking a glance behind him as Lucas Wilde’s rifle cracked, then cracked again. ‘I’d say one of ‘em’s in there.’

  ‘One?’

  ‘Yeah. The bank dips steeply in those hundred yards. Steep enough to hide a man.’

  ‘Than that’s where the second man’s at – that what you’re saying? They’re working it so they come at us from four directions: front, rear, and both flanks?’

  ‘One flank,’ Lucas sang out. ‘The feller on the left’s out of it.’

  Wilde grinned and looked over. ‘What about the one hoping to take us from behind?’

  ‘He made it. He’s in position, and out of sight.’

  Wilde sighed.

  ‘Waiting never was my idea of a good time,’ he said, ‘and the older I get the less I like it. You boys set tight here. I’m going to give that Mex by the river the shock of his life.’

  He stood up, straightened each stiff leg in turn. Then he propped his rifle against a slender tree trunk, drew his Colt and moved towards the edge of the trees. One backward glance told him that Gord Bogan was watching the front, Lucas the rear. Comfortable. Steady as rocks. Working as a team, each man with complete faith in his partner.

  They don’t need me, he thought.
Two tough Texas Rangers – hell, if they hadn’t been deferring to my age and judgement and Lucas was one hundred per cent fit they’d have picked all four of those boys off at a quarter mile and been away before the dead bodies came to rest.

  As it is….

  Bogan’s assessment had been accurate. At the edge of the trees, the bank fell away towards the river. There was a steep slope of twenty feet or so, then a flat stretch of mud and gravel where the cool waters lapped.

  Six-gun at the ready, Wilde stayed just inside the trees and began slowly to work his way downstream. He made ten yards, around a slight bend – and then he saw the Mexican. A fat, moustachioed man wearing a big sombrero, he was astride a bony mule, still and waiting. He was cradling what looked like a single-shot Sharps rifle. A big lump of iron hung at his waist – and that, Wilde realized with awe, was about the oldest firearm he’d seen in a long time. Colt Paterson, most likely. Probably rusty, but nevertheless powerful enough to blow a hole in the side of a cliff.

  Suddenly, behind him, Lucas and Gord Bogan opened up with their rifles. At the same time, from the cottonwoods downstream and the position of the Mexican coming in from the rear, there came the crackle of returning fire.

  That was the signal the fat Mexican by the river had been waiting for. Grinning, he shrugged his shoulders inside his loose cotton camisa and kneed his mule towards the slope.

  OK, Wilde thought, let’s see what you’re made of.

  He stepped out of the trees.

  The Mexican saw him. His head jerked. The sombrero slipped to his broad shoulders, held by its neck-cord. Dark eyes glittered in the bright sun. Held in two big hands, the rifle whipped around, barrel gleaming.

  ‘Stop right there,’ Wilde shouted. ‘Drop the rifle, get your hands high where I can see them.’

  He might as well have tried to stop the mighty river from flowing.

  The rifle barrel came all the way around. The muzzle spurted flame. Wilde felt the wind of the shot, brushing his cheek. As the Mexican flung the empty rifle from him and stabbed a hand for the pistol at his belt, Wilde lifted his six-gun. He fired once. The six-gun kicked against the heel of his hand. In the centre of the Mexican’s chest, his shirt dimpled. The dimple had a black centre. Then the centre turned liquid and dark red as blood welled.

  The mule was already making for the bank. Startled by the gunfire, it bounded forward. The Mexican fell, barely clearing the mule’s slashing hoofs. He hit the dirt heavily and rolled onto his back. Wild eyed, the mule tried futilely to scrabble its way up the grassy bank. Then turned, slithered back down on stiff legs and stood shivering by the water.

  Carefully, not trusting the man, Wilde slid down the bank and walked over to where the Mexican lay, arms outstretched, hands limply curled. He was alive – but only just. His breathing was wet and clogged. Blood filmed his lips. His eyes were already glazing.

  Wilde dropped to one knee, reached out and loosened the sombrero’s cord where it bit into the man’s throat.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The Mexican tried to speak, coughed, and blood dribbled onto his stubbled chin.

  ‘Quickly. Make your peace. Tell me who’s responsible for this.’

  The Mexican forced a grin, exposing glistening red teeth.

  ‘Paco,’ he whispered. ‘Ees Paco behind eet. My good frien’, Paco Ibañez – and now, you and your frien’s, now you weel pay for what you have done.’

  And then he died.

  TEN

  The remaining miles along the river to the border town of El Paso were covered at a comfortable canter and without incident. Gord Bogan and Thornton Wilde rode double on the Cedar Creek marshal’s big sorrel. Bogan had, reluctantly, left his saddle behind, but hidden in the cottonwoods to be reclaimed when they had completed their investigation into the ambitions of Paco Ibañez.

  Before they turned their backs on those cottonwoods, Wilde had insisted they bury the gunmen he and Lucas had shot. Gord Bogan was against the idea, and suggested tossing them into the river. The two Mexicans who had traded bullets with the Texas Rangers had fled, but there was always a chance, Bogan pointed out, that they would return with reinforcements. Get out fast, had been his advice. He was overruled, and the fat Mexican and his companion were safely put to rest.

  The brief but violent fracas had breathed new life into Lucas Wilde and, while the fight lasted, it looked for all the world as if he had again slipped into his role of the violent Waco Kid. Or maybe not, Thornton thought with an inward smile. The boy was a Texas Ranger. He was formidable in his own right, and surely without the need of any assumed outlaw identity which in any case had been nothing more than a convenience.

  Nevertheless, formidable or not, when they rode into El Paso in the late afternoon with the mountain shadows cooling the baked earth, Lucas was noticeably tiring. So much so that when they did locate a doctor – a bespectacled man called Merryman – and help the wounded man off his horse and into the surgery, it was to be told that for the next twenty-four hours at the very least he was confined to bed. And not in some dusty hotel room, the doctor informed them. The wounded Texas Ranger would stay there, where the sheets were crisp and clean, the air pure, and the young nurse dark and very pretty.

  Which left Thornton Wilde and Gord Bogan out on the plank walk with time on their hands to puzzle over recent events, and their next moves.

  ‘A Mexican called Paco Ibañez,’ Thornton Wilde said. ‘Does the name ring any bells?’

  ‘Funeral bells,’ said the man to whom the question had been directed. ‘Lots of ’em, loud, clear and frequent enough to drive a man crazy.’

  ‘Here? Across the border in Mexico? Or is he giving both the rurales and the Texas law the run-around?’

  The other man was long and lean. He was stretched out behind a desk, ankles crossed, hands linked behind a head of thick grey hair. A badge was pinned to his vest. On the desk there was a hunk of timber. On the front of the wood, someone had used a hot iron to burn the words: TOM CRANE. MARSHAL.

  ‘How long have you got?’ Crane said. ‘I could tell you tales from now until midnight. The man you’re talking about’s a cross-border menace, I’m running out of fingers and toes counting the incidents, and he’s getting worse year by year.’

  ‘Ahah.’ Wilde nodded thoughtfully, looked across at Gord Bogan and winked. ‘We weel have to be very careful when we catch up with thees hombre,’ he said in an appalling imitation of the dead Mexican’s accent. ‘He ees—’

  ‘Knock it off,’ Crane said, grinning, ‘and give me something to chew on. According to what you’ve told me so far, I’m looking at the Cedar Creek marshal way off his home patch, a Texas Ranger—’

  ‘Not forgetting my partner, another Ranger not present but enjoying the hospitality of Doc Merryman,’ Bogan said.

  ‘Right.’ Crane looked quizzically at Wilde. ‘That makes for an impressive tally of law officers to be chasing one poor Mexican – even if he is a blood-thirsty son of a bitch. I can’t check your qualifications, because the telegraph hasn’t reached Cedar Creek. The rangers, on the other hand, have their headquarters in Austin and are just a wire away.’ He looked at Bogan. ‘If I send that wire, will ranger HQ vouch for you and your partner?’

  ‘Definitely – though they might ask you what the hell we’re doing this far west. But why waste time? You know we’re not crooks, because crooks wouldn’t be sitting talking to the town marshal. And crooks wouldn’t be chasing – how did you describe him? – a poor, bloodthirsty Mexican.’

  ‘Fair point.’ Crane nodded. ‘So tell me your interest in him, and if it sounds legal I’ll see what I can do to help. Far as I know, Ibañez is nothing more than a small-time bandido who sets out on murderous raids when driven halfway loco by mescal. That makes him dangerous, but shouldn’t give him the notoriety needed to attract the attention of Texas Rangers. But here you are, sitting in my office, so clearly I’m wrong and you’re about to tell me why.’

  It took Thornton Wilde ten seco
nds to tell an amazed Tom Crane that it had been suggested the poor but bloodthirsty Paco Ibañez was planning to reclaim Texas, another ten minutes to relate the story of a gang of outlaws led by another Mexican called Charlie Gomez robbing banks clear across Texas to finance Ibañez’s dream only to see that money snatched from their grasp.

  Mention of yet another lawman, this time a maverick, had Crane rolling his eyes in disbelief.

  ‘So where is this gang now, these outlaws, Allman, Ryan and Jago? And what about the maverick lawman, Tindale?’

  Wilde spread his hands. ‘We were hoping you could tell us.’

  Crane shook his head. ‘Not a chance. El Paso’s on the Mex border, so there’s a lot of movement in both directions. And I’m like you, like any other town marshal: if a man’s passing through and he causes no trouble in my town, I leave him alone.’

  Wilde grunted agreement, but it was distractedly. His mind was racing as he thought over everything that had been said, the various happenings since he and Gord Bogan had ridden out of Cedar Creek, and his realization that to survive it was imperative he second guess outlaws playing a game he didn’t fully understand. Hell, the truth was he didn’t understand any of it.

  ‘We were attacked, as you know,’ he said, musing out loud. ‘The only way those damn Mexicans could have known anything about us is from Allman and his gang. So both bunches met up on the trail, or outlaws and Mex bandidos came together here, in El Paso. If they’re here, then so’s Tindale, because he was ahead of them.’

  ‘Unless they caught him,’ Bogan said, ‘in which case Marshal Tindale’s already cashed in his chips.’