The Sonora Noose Page 3

  “This is mighty unusual, Deputy,” Dooley said in his clipped, precise tone. His lips thinned to a line, and he shook his head slowly, as if denying everything Barker said and stood for. “Ordinarily, I hire youngsters to help out in the store. Eight, ten years old.”

  “Nate needs to be whipped into shape, no question,” Barker said. Sweat formed on his upper lip. He wished he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning. Even a ghost of a mustache would have hidden his nervousness better, but the weather was too damn hot to sport such a lip rug. “You’re the one to do it. He needs to learn to do an honest day’s work for a day’s pay.”

  “Not likely to pay as well as other places,” Dooley said carefully, but Barker saw the sparkle in the merchant’s eyes. “Won’t pay more than two bits a day, and they’d be long days.”

  “Just what I’m looking for,” Barker admitted. The store owner saw a way to get decent work done for less than he would pay a grown-up. “I hope it won’t be for long.”

  “Long enough to learn what it means to earn a wage,” Dooley said, nodding now. “Very well. Get your boy in here tomorrow morning, seven o’clock sharp. I’ve got a new shipment arriving that will require a strong back and a half day’s work.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Dooley,” Barker said, sticking out his hand. They shook.

  “That reminds me, Deputy,” Dooley said. “You never picked up the book in your last order.”

  “Book?” Then Barker remembered. He had special ordered a history of Italy from back East. Reading provided about his only decent escape and allowed him to forget his back pain for a spell. “It’s a big one, isn’t it?”

  “Heavy,” agreed Dooley, digging around behind the counter to pull out the brown paper-wrapped book tied up with twine. “That’s a dollar.”

  “Put it on my bill. The missus will be in later to pay what’s due and get more supplies.”

  “Very well,” Dooley said, his formal manner falling around him again like a shroud. “See that young Mr. Barker is here bright and early.”

  “That I will do, sir. Thank you again.” Barker left the general store, fumbling at the string to get a look at the volume that had traveled so far from Boston to reach southern New Mexico Territory. He grinned when he saw it. Small print, dense, and every page filled with detail. Barker knew many of the folks in Mesilla would wonder about him if they discovered how he buried his nose in a book every chance he got, but then most of them couldn’t read, write, or cipher. He had been lucky, growing up with a mother who had been a schoolmarm and a father who encouraged his children to read to widen their horizons, even though he was illiterate himself. Without that support, Barker knew he would never have become intrigued with distant lands, daring explorers, and heroic soldiers, and he might never have gotten up the nerve to volunteer for Colonel Kit Carson’s campaign against the Navajo after both his parents and two brothers had died of cholera up in Denver City.

  Barker tried to walk and look at the book at the same time and found himself almost run down by a wild-eyed man galloping in from the south.

  “Marshal, Marshal!” the man called, reining back so hard his horse dug its hooves deep into the street and kicked up a choking dust cloud. “They done it. They went and done it.”

  “What’re you going on about, Caleb?” Barker asked, scowling. Caleb Young was an excitable sort who managed to find disaster in the simplest problems. Something about him this time warned Barker it might not be a false alarm.

  “The stagecoach, outside o’ town. Not ten miles back toward El Paso. The Ben Halliday coach. Road agents!”

  “Did the stage get robbed?” Barker asked pointedly. “Caleb! Was anyone hurt?”

  “Don’t know, Marshal. Came right away after I heard the shootin’. I wasn’t a mile off.”

  Barker tucked the book under his arm and hurried to his small office with the adjoining four iron-barred cages that served as cells. He dropped the book onto his desk amid a small cloud of dust and made certain the rifles in a pine-wood case on the wall were chained securely, then dashed back into the street to get his horse.

  Caleb Young was holding court, telling anyone within earshot what had happened. Barker wished he had told the man to keep quiet, but that would have been going against his nature. Caleb might have exploded if he hadn’t been able to spread the news.

  “You need help, Marshal?” asked a man at the edge of the growing crowd.

  “Not right now, thanks. If I have to rustle up a posse, I’ll pass the word.” He looked over at Caleb. “Actually, I’ll let Caleb pass the word since he seems to take a shine to doing that chore,” he amended.

  He gathered the reins and climbed into the saddle, wincing slightly. He settled down so that his back stopped twinging, then wheeled about and shouted to Caleb, “You lead the way.”

  This served several purposes. It separated Caleb from his audience, quieted the worry that spread like wildfire, gave the young man a reason for going along, so he could report even more to the people of Mesilla later on, and also provided backup for Barker should he run into the road agents. Caleb might not be much of a fighter—Barker had no idea if he could even fire a pistol—but the mere sight of two lawmen coming onto the scene might spook the robbers.

  Even if one of the “lawmen” was more inclined to shoot off his mouth than his six-gun.

  Barker had to admit the chances were good that the outlaws had already stolen what they could and left.

  He pulled his bandanna over his nose to block out the gritty, biting dust from the road and tugged at the brim of his floppy hat to protect his eyes a mite. As he rode behind the frantic Caleb Young, he wondered what he would find ahead. The cutthroat gang of desperadoes over in Arizona calling themselves the Cowboys had been a constant source of annoyance, not to mention death, for the entire territory, but there had been rumors of a gang of Mexican banditos run north of the border by Rurales. If so, those banditos would be about the only ones afraid of the Mexican soldiers. But Barker knew other reasons could bring outlaws from the depths of Mexico.

  As flies sought out fresh cow flops, banditos went where there was money to be stolen.

  Barker pulled himself back to the reality of the countryside and scanned the rugged, arid terrain for other riders. He and Caleb might as well have been the only men on earth for all the life he saw. Even as this thought crossed his mind, Barker heard Caleb shout and start to wave his arms around like a windmill.

  “Don’t fall off,” Barker called.

  “There, Marshal, up there!” Caleb pointed, and the lawman saw the coach ahead, canted at a crazy angle. The six-horse team was nowhere in sight, but Barker saw two men crouched atop the coach, arguing. He guessed they were debating whether the road agents had returned or if help had finally arrived.

  “Hallo!” Barker called, not wanting the shotgun guard to open up on him when he rode closer. “It’s Deputy Marshal Barker, from Mesilla. Are you all well?”

  “Dammit, Marshal, we been robbed!” shouted a hunched-over man rising up out of the driver’s box. Barker recognized Little Tom Goff.

  “Tom, keep your gun pointed some other way so I can get closer.”

  “Get your worthless carcass over here, Marshal,” Goff growled, scrambling to the top of the coach with the other men. Even standing, Goff was hardly five feet tall and was bent over like a question mark.

  “You stay back till I give you the sign,” Barker told Caleb. The man’s head bobbed as if it were mounted on a spring.

  Barker rode slowly, not wanting to spook the men any more than they already were. He had identified himself, but he took no chances with passengers inclined to have itchy trigger fingers. As he approached, he saw that the stagecoach had lost a rear wheel, causing it to tip precariously. Of the team he saw no trace.

  “They done up and robbed us, Marshal,” complained Goff. “I seen a man sittin’ alongside the road, whittlin’ up a storm. He was on the upslope, so I was goin’ real slow.”

  “You didn’t
see the others, mounted, who came up from the sides,” Barker finished.

  “You saw them varmints? You saw them shootin’ us up and didn’t do nuthin’?”

  “That’s how I’d’ve attacked,” Barker said. “A driver as experienced as you, Little Tom, well, they’d have to make a powerful distraction so’s they could take you by surprise. I’ll be sure to put in a good word about how hard those owlhoots had to work to rob you.”

  “There wasn’t any effort on their part,” groused a passenger on the coach top. “This short drink of water throwed up his hands and gave in without any fight. They stole my pocket watch! It was an heirloom! My granddaddy gave me that watch on his deathbed.”

  “Whoa, hold your horses,” Barker said, seeing how angry this made Goff. “You may not realize it, but the driver might just have saved your life. There only the pair of you?” He saw Goff nod and the two men reluctantly agree. “How many of them were there?”

  “Not countin’ the road agent doin’ the whittlin’, there was five of them. Two on each flank and one behind, as if I coulda turned this rig around and beat a retreat back to El Paso.”

  “Six against three,” Barker said, letting the numbers sink in with the passengers. “That would have been a bloody fight, six desperadoes with guns already drawn and ready to shoot. Little Tom knew that and figured losing a watch, even an heirloom, was better’n you losing your life.”

  “Might have been that way,” the passenger said reluctantly.

  “Give me a description of the watch. It might be the only way I can bring these sidewinders to justice.” Barker listened as the man, a patent medicine peddler, described the watch. Barker allowed as to how it was distinctive and would be a help finding the outlaws.

  “They rode up wearing masks,” said the passenger, as if this was in the least helpful. “And they had them bright-colored Mexican blankets—”

  “Serapes,” cut in Goff.

  “What he said,” went on the passenger, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “They had those see-wrap-pees draped over their shoulders so I couldn’t tell what kind of clothes they wore.”

  Barker’s eyes drifted southward, deeper into the Chihuahua Desert. He had worried that banditos might have crossed the border to pick up a few dollars before hightailing it back to safety, and he had been right. The deputy took no pleasure in being right, because it meant a long, dusty chase that wasn’t likely to come to a satisfactory end.

  “Caleb!” he bellowed. “Get yer ass on over here.” To the men on the coach, he said, “This here’s Caleb Young. He’ll do what he can for you, then ride back to Mesilla for help.”

  “Where’re you headin’, Marshal?” asked Goff.

  “South” was all Barker said, already hunting for tracks. A blind man could have found the trail, since the outlaws had stolen the six horses in the team. A dozen horses, even in the sandy desert, left quite a path behind, but they had to be followed fast, before the restless wind erased all trace. He spent a few more minutes soothing the passengers, puffing up Goff’s already big opinion of himself and his bravery. It did no harm and might eventually do some good since Little Tom Goff was almost as big a talker as Caleb.

  Almost.

  Barker got on the trail and trotted along, keeping an eye peeled for any sign that the outlaws had halted and were lying in wait for a posse after them. He didn’t fault Goff for not shooting it out with six armed, determined outlaws. And he certainly felt no shame knowing he would turn tail and run if he found himself facing those same six varmints. His best hope was to find their camp, fetch a posse, and maybe bring them to justice. He didn’t think much of his chances, but he was a federal deputy marshal and had to try to enforce the law.

  The sun burned down on him from a cloudless blue sky and then turned suddenly cooler as it sank over the mountains in the far west. Just at sundown Barker drew rein and squinted to be sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. Six men rode toward him. All six were Mexicans and several wore striped, patterned, brightly colored serapes.

  He reached up and pulled off his badge, tucking it into his vest pocket. A quick move took the leather thong keeper off the hammer of his six-shooter, but he knew he would never survive a shoot-out if they caught a hint that he was a lawman. What bothered him most was how they were retracing their trail, going toward Mesilla and not south into Mexico and sanctuary.

  “Hola!” shouted one rider, waving all friendly-like.

  “Howdy,” Barker called, turning his mare’s face toward the riders. His heart beat faster, and he tried not to sweat more than he had been. In the cooler early twilight, wind blew constantly and chilled him.

  The men exchanged quick whispers among themselves and looked furtive, but Barker had the feeling they were more scared of him than he was of them. Curious, he rode closer and saw right away that the six Mexicans were riding the horses that had earlier been part of the stagecoach team. He recognized the Halliday Stage Company brand and the way the horses reacted skittishly to having riders instead of traces guiding them. To emphasize it even more, none of the riders had a saddle.

  “Where you headed?” Barker asked.

  The six swapped glances, and the one who had called to him said in heavily accented English, “We go to Mesilla.”

  “Looking for work there?” asked Barker, as polite and interested as he could be.

  The men understood and all nodded, grinning.

  “What can you tell me about the six men who sold you those horses you’re riding?” Barker asked. The one who understood and spoke English the best jerked back, startled. He obviously considered making a run for it and then settled down to bluff through the question.

  “What do you ask?”

  “Tell me about the men who sold you those horses. Sus caballos,” he said.

  “Sí,” the leader said suspiciously.

  “You traded for them?” pressed Barker.

  “Food. Frijoles. Water. Todo el mundo.”

  Barker pieced together what had happened in a few more minutes of roundabout questioning. These six were making their way on foot up from Mexico and had come across the fleeing stage robbers. The outlaws had swapped the horses for enough food and water and everything else the six had to get them across the Mexican border, safely away from American justice. It was only a coincidence that there were six outlaws and six Mexicans hunting for jobs.

  “Ships passing in the night,” Barker muttered to himself. Louder, he asked, “Were they your countrymen?”

  “Sí,” the leader said, looking uneasier by the minute at these questions. “From Sonora. They say they come from Sonora. We come from Chihuahua.”

  Barker studied the men closely and believed their story. None carried a weapon more dangerous than a knife, although those blades might be mighty deadly, and other than the horses they rode, they carried no baggage. Although they might have hidden the booty from the stagecoach robbery, they wouldn’t have ventured back into the desert without a few supplies.

  “Any of you got the time?” Barker asked.

  The leader squinted and looked into the setting sun. “It is half hour till the darkness,” he said.

  “Tiene un reloj?” he asked, being more specific now.

  “No, no watch,” the leader said, frowning at the question.

  This satisfied Barker that none of them carried the stolen watch. Ask a man for the time and if he has a watch, it’ll come out in a flash without an instant of thought about the action. These half dozen caballeros used the sun and stars to gauge their time and might never have even seen a pocket watch in their lives.

  “How long ago did you trade for the horses?”

  “Two or three hours,” the leader said.

  Barker sagged a little. That gave the outlaws plenty of time to have crossed the border. He had never expected to overtake them, but hope sprang eternal.

  “Any chance you recognized any of them? Can you describe what they wore?”

  It took the better part of ten minut
es for Barker to piece together the description. The outlaws’ leader had worn a large sombrero with flashing silver conchas; all six had serapes covering crossed bandoliers of ammunition with six-guns tucked into broad hand-tooled leather belts. But description of the men themselves was sadly lacking. The six Barker had found had been too awed by the sight of so much firepower and too eager to trade their supplies for the stolen horses to pay much mind to what the outlaws looked like.

  About that, Barker had to think a minute or two. Receiving stolen property was a crime, and he didn’t doubt for an instant these men had known the horses were stolen and that their benefactors were actually banditos running from the law.

  “If you’ll accept it, can I give you some advice?” Barker asked.

  “Sí, señor, gracias.” The man looked as if he was going to be forced to swallow a mouthful of alkali water. The way he shifted his weight away from Barker caused his horse to shy, as he waited for what had to be bad news.

  “Don’t go riding into Mesilla on those horses. They’re stolen and the stage company agent might not believe you had nothing to do with stealing them. They’re all carrying Halliday brands, unless I miss my guess. Go west, right into the setting sun, and head for Shakespeare or Lordsburg. They’ll recognize those horses as belonging to the Halliday Company, too, but those crooks over there don’t pay much mind to such things if you mind your own business.”

  “They would hang us in Mesilla?”

  Barker laughed harshly. It was a hanging offense in New Mexico Territory to rob a train. Stealing a horse was even worse.

  “At the drop of a hat. I know.” He fished out his badge and pinned it back into place on his vest. “You head on west now, and thanks for your help.”

  The six lit out like they had fires set under them.