Stryker's Ambush ( a Stryker Western #2)

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Matt Stryker took it easy after taking lead from King Rennick, spending most of his time in a big chair leaned up against the wall of Charlie Clark's Kitchen. Then Deputy U.S. Marshal Ness Havelock rode in and asked Stryker to find Alfredo McLaws. Worth ten thousand dollars, Havelock said, alive.

  McLaws, being half Yaqui, headed down the Outlaw Trail for Mexico, not knowing someone had framed him in a stage holdup. Important government papers were missing, and McClaws was said to have them.

  Having nothing better to do, Stryker took the job. In riding for Mexico, he heard of a militia being put together in Nogales, Arizona. To protect the town, Jason Bills said, but the sign said the militia was getting set to invade Mexico.

  Bills held that Arizona's southern border should be a straight line across the 19th parallel, and he was going to back his claim with a hundred men, new repeating rifles, and Gatling guns.

  Suddenly Matt Stryker was in a race. He had to enlist the Rurales, the Yaquis, the Apaches, and the Pimas in an ambush to keep Bills’s Nogales Guards out of Mexico and save Alfredo McLaws’s neck.

  STRYKER’S AMBUSH

  STRYKER 2

  By Chuck Tyrell

  Copyright © 2013 by Chuck Tyrell

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Cover image © 2013 by Edward Martin

  edwrd984.deviantart.com

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Corinne

  She believed before anyone else believed

  Chapter One

  Rimrock lay far behind Matt Stryker, though Katherine de Merode often strode through his memories on nights when he was able to sleep. In Ponderosa, Jake Cahill ruined Stryker’s face while others held him. Tom Hall took Jake down and Seth Graffunder, the breed, shot his sadist brother Wynn. The boy Sam Brady turned out to be a good lawman and Graf the breed backed him up well as deputy.

  Stryker stuck around Ponderosa after Tom Hall left, often riding Saif down to Old Glory for a drink or sitting in Charlie Clark’s Kitchen with Fletcher Comstock, reliving their Virginia City days. He sat on the boardwalk in front of Charlie’s, a toothpick in the corner of his ruined mouth and a tear leaking from his left eye, as it often did those days, a product of Jake Cahill’s lead-filled fists. He’d just tipped his hat down over his eyes and settled back against the wall of Charlie’s when a horse came to a halt at the hitching rail in front of him. Stryker raised his head enough to see a set of black-stocking legs attached to a dun horse. No one he knew, not someone after him, or they’d’ve come in shooting. None of his business. He settled back into the nap mode as catnaps in the daytime made up somewhat for the hours he couldn’t sleep at night.

  “Matthew Stryker?”

  Stryker pushed his Stetson back on his head and peered at the rider through squinted eyes. “I am,” he said.

  “Ness Havelock.”

  Stryker rocked the chair forward so it sat on all four legs. He stood up, a tall man and broad in the shoulders. “Ness Havelock, you say. Little brother to Garet?”

  “He thinks so.” A note of mirth touched Havelock’s voice. “Still, it seems like I’m the one that’s always pulling his irons out of the fire.”

  “See you’re wearing a badge. Deputy U.S.”

  “I am. Used to belong to Stomp Hale. Him and his boy died in a shootout down to the badlands.”

  “Who with?”

  “Each other.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Stryker shoved his hands into his pockets and a grimace that passed for a smile showed on his face. The scars from Cahill’s brass knuckles made Stryker’s face so the muscles didn’t work like he figured they ought to. “Just so there’s no mistake, I ain’t done nothing wrong. County lawmen looked into the Cahill do-all and said we was within our rights as town law.”

  “Got a job for you if you’re willing.”

  “I’m free, but I’m picky. Don’t do just any old job.”

  “Know Alfredo McLaws?”

  “Know the name.” Stryker shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

  “U.S. Government wants him.”

  Stryker pulled a blue-and-white bandana from his hip pocket and swiped the trickle of tears from his face. He put the bandana back as another tear formed at the edge of his damaged eye socket. “Send the army,” he said.

  “Can’t.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t.”

  “Before I tell you the details, let me tell you how much he’s worth, delivered to U.S. Authorities.”

  Stryker stood silent, eyes on the swarthy face of Ness Havelock.

  Havelock flinched first. At least he spoke first. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Delivered.”

  Fletcher Comstock’s sawmill let out a steam whistle that sounded like God’s largest locomotive. It told the whole town that noon had come and all working people should take thirty minutes to eat and do whatever else needed doing.

  “Coffee?” Stryker said. He wagged his head toward the door of Clark’s Kitchen. “Good grub, too.”

  Havelock climbed off the dun and lapped his reins over the hitching rail. He, too, nodded at the door. “Lead on, Matthew Stryker,” he said, “Let’s go palaver.”

  Stryker grimaced a smile. “You got it, marshal.” He strode into the Kitchen and took the corner table in the back of the room. It gave both Stryker and Havelock a wall at their backs.

  Becky Clark bustled in with a big coffee pot and two mugs. She put one in front of each man and poured them full of rich black brew.

  “Ain’t smelled anything that good since I left home,” Havelock said, grinning at Becky.

  She returned his look deadpan. “Beans is what we got,” she said. “Ham hock or chili. Sourdough or biscuits. ‘N today we got fresh butter, long as it lasts.” She stood hipshot, waiting for their orders.

  You know me, Becky. This is breakfast time for me. Have Charlie fry me a couple or three eggs, like always. Some sowbelly, and three of his good saleratus biscuits.”

  “You got it, Matt.” She flicked a glance at Havelock. “Mister?”

  “Been on that razor-backed dun of mine since before daybreak,” Havelock said. “Chili beans sounds good to me, but I wonder if the cook’s got a good thick steak he could fry up to go with them beans? Along with some sourdough.”

  “Meat we always got,” Becky said. She bustled off with the coffee pot and started shouting their order to Charlie in the back as she went through the door.

  Stryker sipped at the coffee. Black and strong and hot as always. “What do you mean by ‘delivered,’ marshal?”

  “You can bring him in with his hands tied to the saddle horn, or belly down over the saddle. Don’t matter. It’s just that a U.S. Marshal or a deputy like me’s got to be able to identify him.”

  “Hmmm.” Stryker sipped at his coffee and savored its dark nutty flavor. For an instant, he wondered what Charlie Clark did to brew such good coffee. Then he turned his attention to Ness Havelock. �
�Any idea where McLaws might be?”

  “Isom Dart says he rode down the Trail about a week ago.”

  Stryker gave Havelock a sharp look. “The Trail?”

  Havelock grinned. “Been up and down the Outlaw Trail a time or two, back when they called me Johnny. Nothing much travels the Trail without Isom knowing. He’s the Outlaw Mail, you know.”

  “So where’s he likely to be? Chinle? Alma? Round Valley?”

  Havelock shrugged. “Could be anywhere.”

  “Damn. Not much help.” Stryker mopped the tears away again.

  Becky Clark pushed her way into the room with food for Stryker and Havelock, so conversation stalled while they devoured it. Becky refreshed their cups twice while they ate. Stryker used the last half of saleratus biscuit to sop up the bacon grease left on his plate. He ate the greasy bread in two bites, washed down with coffee. He leaned back in his chair and had another long look at Havelock. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “Why me? You know that I’m not hurting for money.”

  Havelock took interest in his coffee, staring at the dark liquid as if it could tell him the future. He took a deep breath and studied Stryker’s battered face. “I’d like you to find that man, Matthew, and bring him back alive.”

  Stryker’s eyebrows shot up.

  Havelock nodded. “Alive.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Nothing on the Trail says he done what they say he done.”

  “What’s he not done, then?”

  “Robbed a Hale & Hodges stage, they say, and got away with an official letter that the government don’t want to get into the wrong hands.” Havelock put his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. He rested his chin on his thumbs and stared at Stryker, his eyes fathomless.

  “You figure he didn’t do the stage job?”

  “Dunno for sure. But who can tell? Everybody on the stage’s dead. Execution style dead. Lined up and shot.” Havelock rubbed his face with both hands as if the conversation was not to his liking.

  “Funny I haven’t heard about it,” Stryker said. “Everyone killed. Looks like someone had it in for whoever was on the stage. Robbery might have been done just to make it look like that was the motive.”

  “Or the holdup men couldn’t afford to leave witnesses.”

  “Yeah.” Matt Stryker drained his coffee cup, his eyes on the restaurant’s windows. A wind had sprung up and the Ponderosa pines across the way swung their arms. Something didn’t sit right. Ness Havelock had a reputation as an honest man. But if there were no witnesses left, how could government people come up with the idea that Alfredo McLaws was a dangerous man? He shifted his gaze to Ness Havelock’s face. “You figure this is a put-up operation, don’t you?”

  Havelock gave Stryker a half smile. “It smells to me like a polecat’s in the chicken coop. The part that says I can’t deputize makes me more than a little wary.”

  “Wary? You’re starting to use big words for a lawman.”

  “Downright wary, in fact.” Havelock went on as if Stryker had not spoken. “That’s another big reason I’ve got to ask you to do the hunting.”

  “Jayzus. I’ve hunted bounty before, but I always had a wanted poster.” Stryker rubbed at the stubble starting to come out on his jaw. He shaved twice a day in town so the shadow on his jaw wouldn’t show up the scars Jake Cahill’s knuckles had carved into his face. He fished out the blue bandana and wiped away the tears. “Now I’ve got nothing but your word,” he said.

  Havelock’s black eyes bored into Stryker’s. “The ten thousand price is for real,” he said. “But I want that man alive. I’ve seen politicians and such play too fast and loose for me to agree to ‘dead or alive’.”

  “Hmmph.” Stryker dug into a shirt pocket for a cigarillo. He lit it with a Lucifer from the box on the table, puffed on it twice, then shifted it to the right corner of his mouth, the side least scarred by Jake Cahill’s fists. He watched the smoke spiral towards the ceiling. “Any rush? I mean, am I supposed to sprint out of here, climb on Saif, and gallop away into the sunset?”

  “Wrong direction,” Havelock said. “But the sooner the quicker.”

  “I’ll want to get Tom Hall to ride with me.”

  “That’s up to you, Matthew. The price for Alfredo delivered is the same, no matter what army you put together,” Havelock said.

  “I reckon I’ve got nothing better to do, Havelock, and one Trail rider gets a square deal out of it. That’s enough reason to go. I’ll be outta here as soon as I can get myself ready.”

  Havelock’s face didn’t change, but somehow he managed to look relieved. “Glad to hear that, Matthew. Mighty glad.” He scraped his chair back and stood. “How much for the chow’n coffee?”

  Stryker waved a hand. “On me,” he said.

  “Trying to bribe a federal officer?”

  A grimace of a grin showed on Stryker’s face. “Take it any way you like, Marshal. It’s on me.” He put a silver dollar on the table. “Thanks, Becky,” he called.

  “Thanks to you, Matt.” Becky’s voice came from the kitchen.

  Out on the boardwalk, Havelock unlooped the dun’s reins from the hitching rail. “I’ll amble along, Matt. And thanks for accepting the job.”

  “On me,” Stryker said.

  Havelock mounted the dun and turned away. He raised a hand to Stryker as the dun went into a singlefoot and disappeared down the mail road toward Saint Johns.

  On second thought, Stryker decided against calling on Tom Hall. There were none better than Tom when a man needed his back watched, but this would be a hunt.

  Two days into the badlands, Alfredo McLaws realized there was someone on his back trail. He searched his memory for a reason why, and found none. He climbed off his strawberry roan, dug a set of rawhide boots from his saddlebags, and put them on the horse’s hooves. They’d cover up the horseshoe prints and perhaps give him a chance to see who was trailing him.

  Back aboard the strawberry, Alfredo McLaws walked the horse into the soft sand of a dry wash and turned him around a few times. He rode back and forth, then down the wash for a ways, then back again. He took the strawberry with its rawhide shoes out of the wash over sandstone ledges where no marks would show. Well, a Yaqui or an Apache could find them. Wolf Wilder could find them. Jaime Sparrow could find them. But none of those men were on his back trail, were they?

  McLaws found an unlikely place. A clump of green tumbleweeds gave him cover. The strawberry holed up in a jumble of malapai rocks that fell from the eastern cliff some time eons ago. He pulled a gunnysack moral from his offside saddlebag and put it over strawberry’s ears. Not a lot of grain in the moral, but it should keep the horse from nickering when and if other horses came along. He left the Ballard .50 in its saddle scabbard. He took off his gun belt and shucked the Remington New Model Army .44 from it. He added another .44-40 shell to the cylinder and shoved it into his waistband at the small of his back. Six shots. With luck, he’d use none. In this kind of job, his weapon of preference was a 14-inch James Black Bowie that he’d taken from his dead father’s body.

  McLaws stepped carefully, walking backwards and scuffing his moccasined footprints away with a piñon pine branch. That wouldn’t keep a tracker from finding him, just make it a little harder. His clothes were the color of desert sand. He shook out the muslin bandana that served as his headband and used it to cover his black hair. Near the tumbleweeds but not in them, he snuggled into a depression, scattered some sand over himself to break up the unnatural lines of his body, and settled down to wait.

  If anything, Alfredo McLaws knew how to wait. Half Scot and half Yaqui, he’d spent most of his younger years with his mother’s tribe in Mexico. His hatchet face and light complexion set him apart from the other boys, and he had to best them all to make up for it. The patience he learned at hunting and at waiting out Mexican Federales and banditos was now a precious asset. Waiting motionless for hours, even under the blazing sun, had saved McLaws’s life more times than he liked to remem
ber.

  For a while, he dozed, ear to the ground. Sounds of a walking horse, just one, woke McLaws. He remained motionless, but coiled like a steel spring.

  The horse walked closer. No clink of iron on stone or shush of metal against sand. Any warrior, Apache or Yaqui, would not be fooled by his trick. In his body, the steel spring coiled tighter.

  The horse stopped. How far away? Ten paces? Twenty? He held his breath to the count of ten, then burst from the little hollow with his Bowie knife leading the way. In a flash, he saw the uniform shirt of an Apache scout and the face of Norrosso. His momentum carried him forward. Norrosso’s own hand swept a knife from a scabbard at his belt, but McLaws was upon him, flying, crashing, knocking the scout from his saddle and the knife from his hand.

  As agile as a cat, McLaws landed on his feet. He took three running steps toward Norrosso, and grabbed a handful of the Apache scout’s hair. He jerked back hard, and laid his Bowie’s blade on the scout’s bared neck.

  “Why?” McLaws’s single world carried both question and threat.

  Norrosso gulped. The pressure of his larynx on the Bowie’s blade slit his skin and a drop of blood mixed with the sweat on his neck, turning pink as it spread.

  “Why.”

  Norrosso closed his eyes and relaxed. Then he began singing his death song.

  Chapter Two

  Where there were scouts, there were horse soldiers. If I kill Norrosso, they’ll have a blood debt. They’ll chase me far into Mexico, they will.

  “Shut up, Norrosso,” McLaws said in guttural Apache. “I will not kill you.”

  Norrosso the White Mountain Apache scout kept singing.

  McLaws sneered. “And they call you sergeant.” He took a thumb hold on Norrosso and stood him up, keeping the Bowie at his throat.

  Norrosso sang, but he watched McLaws from the corners of his eyes.

  McLaws walked him to the mound of boulders where the strawberry stood. Norrosso seemed very docile. Perhaps the horse soldiers were not so far away. McLaws scanned the horizon for dust plumes that would indicate troops on the move. None. He sniffed the air for a trace of earthy smell. None. Norrosso stood motionless, his eyes hooded. His uniform shirt with three stripes was faded and worn.