Stryker's Ambush ( a Stryker Western #2) Read online

  Roberts cleared his throat. “Either of you got the makings?”

  “Sid?” Stryker said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Roberts wants a smoke.”

  “Yeah.” Lyle dug a sack of Bull Durham and some papers from his shirt pocket and handed them to Roberts. “Got a Lucifer?”

  Roberts shook his head.

  “Here’s one. And don’t throw it out in the dry desert brush, either.”

  Roberts took his time building the smoke, like he didn’t really want to say what he had to say. Stryker didn’t try to hurry him. Lyle took his lead from Stryker, but his eyes never long off Roberts. He kept the other Guards in sight, even though Norrosso watched from the heights.

  After he’d ground out the smoke with the heel of his boot, Roberts handed the makings back to Lyle. “Obliged,” he said.

  “What’ve you got to say, Roberts?” Stryker’s voice held a hard edge.

  “You know about the gold?”

  “Gold?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “There must be a hundred stories about gold in Sonora,” Stryker said. “Which one is yours? The old mission? The missing galleon? The lost mine? Shall I keep going?”

  Roberts said nothing, but his face was set, and he looked Stryker in the eye.

  “Tell me your story,” Stryker said.

  “Got us a map,” Roberts said. “An’ it looks good to me. I’d like to have me a go at finding that cache. Most ever’body’s chose to walk back to Nogales rather than rot in a Mex jail. But me and two others, Hall Raven and Bill Demarest, we’d kinda like to stay behind. Outta sight, kinda.”

  “You get that map from Bisbee?” Lyle asked.

  Roberts’s eyes whipped over to Lyle’s face. Lyle gave him a wide-eyed innocent look.

  “Why do you say that?” Roberts asked.

  “Knew a old man down to Bisbee once,” Lyle said. “He musta had a dozen of them maps to Sonora gold. Sold them maps for a hundred in gold, got real secretive about it. When he was really hard up for a drink, he’d part with one for an eagle, a measly ten dollars.”

  “That what happened?” Stryker said.

  “No.”

  “Where’d you get the map?”

  “Don’t matter. I got it. Want to follow it up.”

  “Serious?” Stryker dabbed at the tears beneath his torn eye.

  “We are,” Roberts said.

  “I’ll have to clear it with the Rurales,” Stryker said. “They’re the cock of the roost in these parts.”

  Roberts frowned.

  “Gotta do it,” Stryker said.

  Roberts nodded.

  “You stay here with Roberts, Sid, if you would. I’ll go talk to the capo.”

  “Yo,” Lyle said, like a cavalry sergeant. He grinned and touched his Stetson in a salute when Stryker shot a glance his way.

  “Right,” Stryker said. He held his Winchester by the action and moved off toward the Rurales’ breastworks with the fluid stride of a man used to walking the wilderness.

  “Capo Gutierrez,” he called as he approached the Rurales position.

  “Si.” Gutierrez stood.

  “A moment, Capo. I must discuss something with you.”

  Stryker and Gutierrez walked away from the breastworks, not that the Rurales would understand their English, but to reinforce the confidential nature of their conversation.

  “We have been most fortunate, Senor Stryker,” Gutierrez said. “None of our Rurales are muerto, though two are, what do you say, heridos.

  “Captain Gutierrez, your Rurales have done very well. Now, I would ask a favor of you. Actually, two favors.”

  “Of course, senor.”

  “The Nogales Guards accept that they cannot win this fight. Most of them agree to my offer. I said they could walk back to Nogales. The Apaches and I will make sure they do not die of thirst and hunger. They will leave their weapons behind.”

  “Si. It will be fortunate to obtain new weapons, perhaps. The Gatling guns especially. And we have no carcel for so many prisioneros. It is good that you take them back to el Estados Unidos.”

  Stryker gave a short nod. “I will do that. And the man who sent these mercenaries into your country will stand trial.”

  “Por favor,” Gutierrez said.

  “One more thing,” Stryker said. “Two or three of the Guards believe they can find hidden gold in Sonora.”

  Gutierrez snorted. “Another?”

  Stryker grimaced and swiped at his teary eye. “I think the Guardsman will keep any promise he makes. What are your conditions? Or do you refuse?”

  “Two or three?”

  “Yes. And Norrosso’s Apaches will watch them, I think.”

  Gutierrez lifted his sombrero and scratched at his hairline. Then he grinned. “The conditions are simple, Senor Stryker. They are free to search for the hidden gold, but must not burden the citizens of Mexico, Spaniard or Indio.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “Then, if they find a treasure, one half of it must be delivered to me at the presidio. One half. Even if it is one ounce of dust or two nuggets or a cache of ancient Spanish coins, one half must come to the presidio, to me.”

  “Very well,” Stryker said. “I’ll tell them. If they don’t agree, I’ll take them to Nogales. If they do, I’ll bring them to you and make them promise. I also expect you as an officer and a gentleman, to adhere to your own promise.”

  “Naturalmente.”

  “Good. Thank you. That is all I have to discuss with you.”

  “Please leave the weapons stacked,” Gutierrez said. “We will gather them after the gringos are gone.”

  Stryker said, “Oh, one more thing. Some wounded men out there. Can the presidio look after then until they die or recover?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good.” Stryker thrust his hand out. Gutierrez clasped it. “It has been a pleasure working with you,” he said. “Perhaps we will meet again somewhere.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Gutierrez turned and walked back to his troops, back straight, shoulders square, a soldier to the core.

  “Mr. Roberts,” Stryker called as he returned to the Guards’ position.

  “Sir.” Roberts’ reply was automatic, as if he’d been in the army before.

  “Come and talk with me and Mr. Lyle.”

  Roberts came. Stryker noticed a slight limp, but said nothing. Lyle joined them.

  “Who wants to go with you, Roberts?” Stryker asked.

  “Me, Hal Raven, and Willy Demarest.”

  “The Rurales say you can go, but you have to give me your word.”

  “On what?”

  “Half of anything you find goes to Capo Gutierrez at the Altar Presidio.”

  “Half?”

  “On your word, half.”

  Roberts nodded.

  “That’s not enough,” Stryker said. “Say it.”

  “On my word, we’ll give half of anything we find to—what’s his name?”

  “Gutierrez.”

  “To Capo Gutierrez at the Altar Presidio.”

  “A man’s only as good as his word, Roberts.” Stryker’s voice was matter of fact, but his steel gray eyes were stern and hard.

  “I know that,” Roberts said.

  “You know that Bisbee map’s a fake, don’t you?” Lyle said. “That old fart’s been selling them up there for a long time. Ain’t never heard of no one finding gold from following them maps.”

  Roberts nodded. “May be chasing a dust devil, Mr. Lyle.”

  “Sid. Just call me Sid.”

  “May be chasing a dust devil, Sid. But I ain’t got nothing up in Arizona that’s calling to me. Chance in a thousand, chance in a million’s still a chance. Maybe no one’s found any gold because no one’s ever gone to look. Stryker agrees, we go.”

  Stryker stepped away from Roberts and Lyle. “Guards, Nogales Guards, listen up. Artemus Canby’s dead by his own hand. That should tell you something.” He swipe
d at his leaky eye with the back of his hand. “You can make fires tonight. Cook what grub there is. We’ll start walking for Nogales when the sun’s down and things’ve cooled off a bit. Right now, you all move back to where the wagons were and settle down.”

  “Lots a dead bodies and some wounded men,” someone called.

  “Leave the bodies. The Rurales and the Pimas from Altar will do for them. And leave the wounded, the Rurales will care for them. Just remember. There are Apaches and Yaquis and Pimas all around, not counting the Rurales in Zetate Pass. No use trying to sneak off.”

  Stryker stood spraddle-legged, his right hand on his hip and his Winchester in the crook of his left arm. “You all come by me, stack your rifles, drop your gun belts or pistols, and move on back toward the wagons. Mr. McLaws’s Yaquis will wait for you there. Understood?”

  Silence.

  Stryker raised his voice a notch. “Understood?”

  A scattering of voices answered, “Yo.”

  “Then move.”

  “Them Arkansawyers at Mountain Meadows got shot to Hell after they’d surrendered,” someone said.

  “Worse’n that. Remember what the Mexes did at Goliad?”

  “Enough!” Stryker’s voice cut the air like a sharp Bowie. “You had your chance to fight it out. Now it’s over. But you can’t tramp back to Nogales under arms.”

  “Shit.” A man got up from behind a dead horse that was starting to bloat. He let the hammer of his Henry down and brought it to Stryker.

  “Name?”

  “Scotch.”

  Stryker’s eyebrows raised.

  “Drink it when I can, which ain’t often, but people still calls me that.”

  Nogales Guards lined up behind Scotch, staking their Henrys and putting their sidearm’s on a blanket Stryker pulled off a dead horse.

  Of eighty-four men, forty-one stood under their own power. Half a dozen lay wounded. Thirty-seven to bury, Stryker thought.

  “Got any water?” a Guardsman called.

  “Won’t hurt you to wait for a trifle,” Stryker said. “Just sit tight.”

  Sparrow stepped from the shadowing boulders at the south side of the pass. To the casual eye, he looked like a Mexican, complete with a felt hat in the vaquero style. But the way he walked as he approached Stryker, and the knee-high Apache moccasins on his feet said to those who knew such things that Sparrow was no Mexican.

  He stopped at Stryker’s side and turned his face away from the Guards so they could not hear what he said. “Pimas go home,” he said. “Fight done, they say.”

  Stryker nodded. “Let them go.” Then he raised his voice. “Alfredo, come on over.” He made a megaphone of his hands and shouted, “Norrosso. Please come here. Por favor.”

  Hardly had Stryker called when Norrosso came from between two large boulders on the northern side of the pass. His shirt had once been blue, as it was an Army issue. Now it was faded nearly to white across the shoulders. But the chevrons that said Norrosso was a sergeant were easily seen. The tails of his breechclout showed front and rear, and the skin between shirttail and moccasin tops was brown and weathered as a Gila Monster’s hide.

  When Alfredo, Sparrow, and Norrosso stood beside him, Stryker addressed the Guards. “Have a look here, men. The fellow in the cavalry shirt is Norrosso, chief of General Crooks Apache scouts. You get on the wrong side of him and you’ll have the whole 9th Cavalry breathing down your necks. I don’t know how many are in his band on the heights, but you can bet on more’n one.”

  Stryker waved a hand at Sparrow. “The youngster’s Jaime Sparrow. He may look like a Mexican to you, but his father is Chief Puma of the Jicarilla Apache. Don’t get on his bad side. Ain’t worth it atall.”

  Then Alfredo. “And here you have another dark-looking cowboy. Only he’s Yaqui. A hundred percent. He’ll be tagging along somewhere with some Yaqui warriors. Oh, his name’s Alfredo McLaws. His men burned your wagons. Who knows how many Yaquis’re out there? This is their country.”

  Where the Guards had been standing when Stryker began, most now sat. “Y’all got something to eat, now’s the time to break it out. We’ll start walking at dark. Build fires if you need them.”

  “Alfredo.” Stryker called the Yaqui over with a wave of his hand. “Got a couple of things to clear with you,” he said.

  Alfredo nodded, eyes impassive.

  “First, I’m gonna need one of those wagons. Hope they’re not all burnt or drove away.”

  “Why?”

  Stryker inclined his head toward the pile of handguns on the saddle blanket. “Too much hardware to fit behind my saddle. And I reckon these men would like to have their own guns back when they get to Nogales. He paused a moment. “Be good if some of the supplies were left. You know, hardtack, salt pork, and whatever.

  Alfredo nodded. “Bueno. I think maybe. I must go see.”

  “One more thing. I’d like you to come to Nogales with me.”

  “Why?”

  “To see Ness Havelock.”

  “Why?”

  “To get the law off your back.”

  Alfredo looked hard at Matt Stryker, his eyes hooded. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He watched the buzzards that circled in the air above the battleground, waiting for the living to leave so they could consume the dead. “I’ll not go with you, Matt Stryker,” he said. “But I will meet you there.”

  “Fair enough,” Stryker said. “Could you see about a wagon?”

  Again Alfredo nodded. He strode away, heading for the smoke of burning wagons.

  The Nogales Guards started walking an hour after sundown. One wagon followed, carrying their personal sidearms, two hogsheads of salt pork, several boxes of hardtack, and two barrels for water. On the high seat was one of Alfredo’s fellow Yaquis. He’d drive the wagon and teams to Cocorit from Nogales.

  They made nearly twenty miles the first night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the morning of the fifth day, the Nogales Guards neared the border town. Stryker camped them just over five miles out. “You’ll look better walking in fresh,” he said.

  Most of the men had plodded their way back, not happy to be walking, happy to be alive. They’d not caused trouble, but then, they were hardly in a position to try anything. Things would change in Nogales. Stryker knew that, but he had no choice. Not really. He could have let the slaughter in the pass go on, but why should men die without reason? Sure, it happened, but not if he could help it.

  Roberts and Raven and Demarest were gone. Sid Lyle kept them company. They slipped out of the Guards camp in Zetate Pass, each with a Henry rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition. Sid Lyle agreed to tag along to keep them honest. Stryker erased them from his mind.

  The Guardsmen were still three miles out when Sparrow rode out from behind a stand of palo verde and creosote bushes. He waited, face impassive, until Stryker reached him.

  “Nogales Guards are not very good foot soldiers,” he said, thrusting his chin in the direction of the limping men.

  “Me neither.”

  “The zebra’s waiting for you in Nogales,” Sparrow said, “along with Ness Havelock.”

  “Already?”

  “Railway’s open now. Don’t take long to get here from anywhere on a train track.”

  “Progress.” Stryker turned to watch the column of tired Guardsmen. “Wonder how many’re carrying a grudge along with all them blisters?”

  Sparrow shook his head. “¿Quién sabe?” he said.

  “Likely some. Cross that bridge when we come to it. Where’s Ness?”

  “Waiting.”

  “Yeah. Well. We’ll be there directly.” Stryker put his Winchester across his shoulders, hung his arms over the barrel and stock, and trudged on toward Nogales.

  Sparrow reined his little gray mare around. “I’ll be in Nogales someplace.”

  “See ya when I see ya,” Stryker said, without breaking stride.

  Nogales ignored the trudging Guardsmen as they crossed
the border. Stryker led them to the wide road in front of Harry’s place. He faced them as they gathered in little bunches. “This is it,” he said, loud enough for them all to hear. “You’re back on U.S. land and I want no more to do with you. If you have a complaint, talk to Jason Bills, if he’s still around. Get your guns from over there.” He waved a hand at the wagon driven by Alfredo’s Yaqui companion.

  The wagon itself sat on the Mexico side of the border. Just across, on the American side, the handguns lay jumbled up on a threadbare Mexican blanket.

  The Guards broke up. Some headed for the water trough in front of the livery, some went for their weapons, some just stood around. Stryker ambled over to the pile of weapons. He nodded at the Yaqui, who turned the wagon around and headed back into Mexico. He watched as the Guardsmen retrieved their guns. None said a word. Nor did Stryker try to start a conversation. When the guns were gone, he picked up the scraggly blanket, folded it over his arm, and headed for the livery stable. Most likely, he’d find the zebra there. Then Ness Havelock rode out of a side street, leading Stryker’s horse.

  Stryker stopped. He used his bandana to wipe tears from his cheek. As Havelock neared, he grimaced a smile. “Hell of a basket of hornets you sent me into, Ness Havelock,” he said.

  “Heard about it,” Havelock said, his face impassive.

  “How?”

  “Alfredo McLaws told me.”

  “Sumbitch. Where’s he at now?”

  Havelock shrugged. “Halfway home? Hiding out in the brush? Who the hell knows with that Yaqui? Want your sorry nag?”

  “Ain’t mine.”

  “Well, you was riding it.”

  “Yeah, Wilder said I oughta, so I did. Good pony.” Stryker took the reins from Havelock.

  “What now?”

  “Who in Hell knows?”

  Havelock pulled a yellow telegram from his vest pocket. “This came for you,” he said. “Picked it up in on the way here.”

  “She-it. Man no more than puts a foot back into the U.S. of A. and people start sending for him by wire. Sheesh.” He took the telegram.

  “Men coming,” Havelock said. “Look disgruntled.”

  “Disgruntled?” Stryker threw a glance over his shoulder. “You could be right.” He squared around to face the oncoming Guardsmen. “You might want to get out of the line of fire, Havelock.”