Raiders of Concho Flats, page 1
Raiders of Concho Flats
Raiders of Concho Flats
MATT LAIDLAW
© Matt Laidlaw 1999
First published in Great Britain 1999
ISBN 978 0 7198 2392 3
Robert Hale, an imprint of
The Crowood Press Ltd
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
www.bhwesterns.com
This e-book first published in 2017
The right of Matt Laidlaw to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
To Alistair John Hurst,
Grandson, and number one fan.
ONE
‘There must be more to being a ranger than eating oily sardines and chewin’ on two hundred miles or more of trail dust,’ Rockwell Lane said disgustedly as he buried the remains of their breakfast and used a branch to brush over the ground’s surface.
‘Yeah – and searching half of New Mexico for a man don’t even exist,’ Charlie Rivers said, grunting his own long-smouldering complaint as he heaved on his saddle cinch.
‘Oh, Jake Arkle was out there all right. Trouble is he had all the villagers so doggone scared they just gave us that infuriating blank look and shrug of the shoulders every time we asked a question.’
‘No comprendez,’ Rivers echoed bitterly. ‘Maybe we should’ve just stood in the square in Tularosa and hollered his name, waited for him to come crawlin’ out of one of them adobes.’
‘Wouldn’t have done much good. By then I reckon he was already long gone, heading south through the San Andres, making for Las Cruces.’
Or some other godforsaken hell hole, Rockwell Lane thought, admitting to himself that in truth he had no idea which direction the killer had taken.
Alerted by telegraph from Austin, the two rangers had handed over a double eagle – which she tested with gleaming white teeth – to buy the information from a black-eyed Mexican wench in a Santa Fe bar that Jake Arkle had headed west. He was, she told them, riding a sorrel with a marked left hind shoe. They knew this already, and so considered the money well spent. Acting on her information they picked up Arkle’s trail as they cut across country to the Bravo, and with the conviction that they were closing they followed the outlaw’s thin sign clear down to Albuquerque.
But somewhere between there and the Malpais they’d lost him. The ride to Tularosa had been wasted effort. As Rockwell Lane had pointed out as both rangers gazed over a blistering landscape of saw-toothed sierra and waterless, dust-caked foothills, Jake Arkle could have headed west through the Jornada del Muerto with his mind set on making the long run for the Gila and Arizona, or ridden south down the San Andres towards El Paso del Norte.
At sunset on the fourteenth day they’d given up the chase. Next morning they’d swung about to head for Texas. On weary horses they negotiated the jagged ridges and tortuous ravines of the Guadalupe Mountains, and got a brief taste of searing heat as they skirted the southern bluffs of the Llano Estacado. It was with immense relief that they came down from the dazzling white escarpments and rode south east down Mustang Draw towards the Concho.
But it was a relief that for Ranger Rockwell Lane was spoiled somewhat by the knowledge that when they reached Austin, he’d have some explaining to do. They were Texas Rangers, and they’d lost Jake Arkle.
‘San Andres, Las Cruces,’ Rivers said now, without conviction. ‘Seems to me like this whole darn business has been full of “maybes” and “ifs”.’
‘So here’s a couple more,’ Rockwell Lane said, his tone suddenly holding a new, sharp note of warning. ‘Maybe you’d better get over here with your saddle gun, Charlie, if you don’t want to get caught with your pants down. We’re about to have company – and that’s a certainty.’
Instantly, in a sequence of swift, practised movements, Rivers slid his Spencer out of its scabbard, ran towards the ridge, then hit the dew-soaked grass and snaked up behind a clump of beaded mesquite that afforded some cover but allowed him a clear view.
Lane was already flat on his belly, his black Stetson tipped forwards to shield his eyes as he gazed into the near distance.
They had made camp the previous day on a low knoll, where a hollow of lush grass watered by a shallow pool provided feed for their horses, and a grove of trees afforded relief from the blazing summer sun. It also gave them a clear view for many miles in every direction, so Rockwell Lane was able to give an accurate assessment of the tragedy that was about to happen.
‘Whoever he is, that feller’s got no place left to go,’ he said, and spat disgustedly into the parched mesquite. ‘And if he could find a hole to crawl into, that wrung-out horse he’s on’d die before it got him there.’
The early morning sun was a red disc painted on the orange-streaked eastern skyline, and was not yet warm. Mist that lay like a thin white blanket over the land between the north and middle Conchos transformed the limitless plains into a landscape that deceived the eyes. But the single rider in the white shirt desperately flogging his jaded horse towards the gleaming waters of the big bend in the middle Concho was no illusion, and the three horsemen riding in a ragged, extended line half a mile back – no more than ugly black shapes riding out of the sun – were swiftly closing on their quarry.
‘Heading for San Angelo. Sure must have a reason for ridin’ that horse so hard,’ Rivers observed. ‘Posse chasing him – or bandits after something that feller’s carrying?’
‘We’ve got maybe a couple of minutes to decide,’ Lane said, ‘and not a lot to tell us which way to jump.’ He rolled away from the ridge, climbed to his feet and moved quickly to the stand of pines where their horses were tethered.
He was a tall man, Rockwell Lane, with a rawboned strength in his long limbs and a laziness in his movements as he reached for his pouched Winchester, that had led lesser men to believe him easy meat. But those men had neglected to look into the deep-set eyes spaced wide over high cheekbones and a sensitive mouth. If they had done so they would have seen shining there the implacable will of a man for whom defeat was an unknown word. For many of them, that would have been the last picture they took with them to Hades. That, and the thin smile – it might have been one of sadness – that always flickered across Lane’s angular countenance at such moments.
‘Me, I’d side with the underdog every time,’ Charlie Rivers offered as Lane jacked a shell into the Winchester’s breech and came back through the damp grass.
As tow-headed as his partner was dark, and of no more than average height, Rivers was stretched out with his old Spencer pointing casually towards the approaching riders. Even in repose his hard, sinewy build was impressive, the unusually wide shoulders seemingly built to take the kick of the powerful rifle. Whereas Rockwell Lane’s face was slow to break into a smile, his brown eyes always thoughtful, Rivers usually had a twinkle in his sharp blue eyes and a smile lurking around the corners of his wide mouth.
But now, as he eased the bull of the Spencer into his shoulder, he was scowling, and there was a note of righteous anger in his voice.
‘So, which is it to be, Rocky?’
‘Well, if we side with the feller being chased,’ Rockwell Lane said, ‘we’re outgunned three to two.’
‘Hell, last time we had such favourable odds was when we caught them three Sioux slicing beef steaks off a maverick steer,’ Rivers said. He flashed his partner a tight grin, then flattened his cheek against the Spencer and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the shot sent birds soaring and wheeling from the tall trees. It was as if the chill, misted air rippled as the bullet sped towards the racing horsemen. Rockwell Lane settled down some yards away and snugged the Winchester into his shoulder. As he did so a faint cry drifted to his ears, and a rider out on the flank pointed towards the knoll and swerved his horse violently.
‘Reckon they know we’re here,’ Lane said. He took careful aim and the Winchester bucked as he sent a bullet screaming uncomfortably low over the head of the centre rider. Distinguishable now as a big, bulky man, he flattened himself along his horse’s straining neck, but kept coming hard and fast. And now all three riders were eating up the ground between them and the lone figure spurring the weary bronc.
‘Seems wrong to blast ’em out of the saddle,’ Lane said pensively, ‘when we don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on.’ Posse or renegades, he thought, squinting at the fast-moving drama being enacted under the lightening skies. Innocent man – or a killer about to get his just deserts?
‘If we don’t do something, that feller dies,’ Rivers said, but his voice, too, was uncertain.
‘Maybe if he makes the river…’ Lane began, then smiled fleetingly as he realized that once again he was putting voice to conjecture.
Then the crackle of pistol fire interrupted their musings. Puffs of smoke erupted from six-guns as the chasing men, judging they were in pistol range, sent a hail of lead screaming towards the desperate rider.
For a few, fleeting moments it seemed as if he would emerge from the volley unscathed. Then, as Rockwell Lane watched with eyes grown suddenly bleak, the fugitive jerked back his head and arched his back. For an instant he tried to hang there, tossing bonelessly on the horse’s back, while face lifted to the skies. Then he toppled from the saddle. One boot caught in a stirrup and he was dragged, bouncing. Like a sack of grain the slack body towed a trail of dust almo
‘I guess that settles it,’ Lane said grimly.
The three gunmen were much closer to the river now, converging as they thundered down on their victim. Pistols glittered in their gloved hands. Even at a distance of 150 yards, Lane could distinguish dark, unshaven faces bearing expressions of savage intent.
Once again Rockwell Lane lined up the Winchester on the middle rider, a burly figure in dusty black garb. But this time he offered him no warning. He squinted along the sights, centred on the man’s broad chest and blasted a shot.
The heavy figure was slammed backwards out of the saddle. As the gunman tumbled helplessly over his horse’s flying tail, Charlie Rivers’s Spencer roared and another man yelled in pain and anger.
Then the two remaining riders, mounted on a fast, rangy buckskin and a big bay, reached the river. They rode recklessly over the low, vertical bank and raced through the shallows, flying spray sparkling like droplets of blood against the morning sunlight. Cursing through clenched teeth, Rockwell Lane and Charlie Rivers fired again. Both shots went low and wide, kicking up sand. But now killers and victim were too close together for further shots to be risked.
The two rangers watched with grim faces and narrowed eyes as the two riders reached the body lying half in the water. They rode past on either side, cutting in close. The man on the buckskin cut it too fine; a pounding hoof raised dust as it thudded into the prone man’s shoulder.
And then, in the fraction of a second they were alongside, each rider leaned out of the saddle and cold-bloodedly shot the man in the back.
A laugh rang out, clear on the morning air, and the man on the bay lifted his hand in triumph.
‘Murdering bastards!’
The expletive was torn from Lane’s lips as again he triggered a shot. But now the men were swinging their horses wide, once more riding a diverging course as they urged their mounts across the sun-painted waters.
It seemed as if they were heading straight for the knoll. A fierce fusillade of pistol shots sent bullets hammering into the ridge, showering the rangers with dirt. They dropped flat, hugging the grass. But when the firing abruptly ceased and they cautiously lifted their heads, the two gunmen were more than fifty yards upstream.
They spurred their horses up onto the bank, streaming water. As they sped away, another shot from Charlie Rivers plucked a black hat and tossed it high as he swung the big Spencer to follow the racing horses. A third clipped the big bay’s flank, and its thin squeal trailed behind it as it raced away from the river.
Out on the open plain the killers rode with distance between them, skilfully directing their horses into a fast, swerving gallop. Twin plumes of dust rose in thin clouds, mingling with the hanging mist to make accurate rifle fire impossible. Rivers’s Spencer cracked as he swore through clenched teeth. The thunder of racing hooves began to fade. Sunlight winked on metal, caught the flash of skin as one rider glanced back. Then they were over a low rise and as they raced down the far slope they came together and swung north-west so that a thick stand of trees that poked through the mist was between them and the two rangers.
‘Leave ’em,’ Lane gritted.
‘San Angelo’s due east,’ Charlie Rivers said, grounding his rifle as he squinted calculatingly into the drifting dust. ‘They ain’t headed that way.’
‘We’ll come to that. First, let’s see if anyone’s alive.’
Rockwell Lane was first off the knoll, flinging himself into the saddle then ramming the Winchester into the boot under his left thigh as he sent his powerful dun gelding streaking down the shallow slope and made for the river.
At the big, sweeping ox-bow the middle Concho was wide, but shallow. Lane took his horse across fast, its flashing hooves beating the icy water to a white foam. As he approached the far bank his heart sank within him. The lone rider’s white shirt was soaked with bright red blood. He had not lifted his face from the sand.
Lane leaped from the saddle without drawing rein, and as the dun trotted away he dropped to his knees alongside the still, bloody figure. Conscious of Charlie Rivers splashing towards him, he took hold of the man’s shoulder and gently rolled him over onto his back.
Shock was like a solid punch, rocking him back on his heels.
Behind him, Charlie Rivers’s boots crunched in the wet sand. ‘Judas Priest!’ he said in hushed tones. ‘They murdered a woman!’
‘A girl,’ Lane said tightly.
Instinctively he reached down to brush coarse, wet sand from a hauntingly beautiful face that would never feel his touch. The eyes were closed, dark lashes lying on pale cheeks. She had been no more than eighteen, Lane reckoned – and she had been hunted down like a rabid dog, her young body riddled with bullets fired by men who knew they were being watched.
‘Must be pretty damn sure of themselves,’ he mused.
‘Or operate so far outside the law they no longer abide by any rules,’ Charlie Rivers said. He moved away from the girl’s body to look over the low bank and said, ‘The feller you shot is wearing old Union pants and shirt. Renegades was right. What we’ve got here is part of a bunch of jayhawkers, Rocky – though why they went to all that trouble to ride down and kill a young girl has got me beat.’
‘San Angelo’s maybe ten miles east,’ Rockwell Lane said, climbing up off his knees. ‘About the same distance west of the river’s that cluster of shacks we skirted before we bedded down.’
He brushed off wet sand and stretched to his full height, whistled softly to call the gelding, caught his partner’s nod of understanding.
‘Town called Concho Flats,’ Rivers said, his face grim at the recollection. ‘They didn’t come from there, but that’s surely the miserable hole they’re headed for.’
‘There’s a scattering of ranches in these parts,’ Lane went on. ‘One I know of is up on the North Concho, a pretty powerful outfit run by a fiery old Virginian, name of Sam Wallace, who came out west for his health and made himself a fortune. Or,’ he said, gathering the trailing reins as the gelding reached him, ‘it was powerful when the War started. What it’s like after four years of slaughter is any man’s guess.’
‘And you’re saying these men are part of that outfit? Maybe the girl, too?’ Charlie Rivers questioned, frowning.
‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ Lane admitted. ‘Thinking out loud is the best way I can put it, Charlie – but what I do know is I’m takin’ these bodies into that town called Concho Flats, and then I’m going to do some digging.’
‘Uh huh.’ For the first time since witnessing the sickening killing of the young girl, Charlie Rivers flashed a knowing grin. ‘That should occupy us for days, maybe even weeks – and what you’re hoping is when we do eventually ride into Austin, tempers will have cooled, the small matter of Jake Arkle become somewhat faded—’
‘Mount up,’ Lane snapped.
‘Yes, sir!’ Rivers returned, grinning broadly now.
By the time they had rounded up the loose horses and lashed the bodies belly-down over the saddles – the girl’s tenderly, the big man in the faded Union garb roughly and with several muttered curses – the sun was well up, the river mist thinning in its heat.
Dashing sweat from his brow with his sleeve, Lane planted his stiff-brimmed black hat on his head and said, ‘You winged one of those killers, Charlie. There’s also a big bay horse carrying a bloody gash. That should make ’em easy enough to find.’
He finished tying the lead ropes, stepped up into the saddle and looked thoughtfully across at Rivers, sitting comfortably atop his horse with his hands folded on the horn.
‘If two of us ride into Concho Flats, all our cards are on the table, face up,’ Lane said, again doing his thinking the way he often did – out loud. ‘Might make a better start at getting to the bottom of this if you head north. Ride a wide sweep, come into that big spread from the far side, act like you’re a drifter looking for work.’
Rivers pursed his lips. ‘And if the War’s taken its toll – and that feller lyin’ belly down is anything to go by – could be a different kind of work from that you’ve got in mind.’
