The Wild Bunch Page 13

  A muted, excited voice from the wagon cut him short, made them both look up. Lyle was beckoning.

  “Hey, Pike, take a look at what we found.”

  Pike stepped to a wheel spoke to look over the side. Lyle was holding up a machine gun, grinning.

  “You know how one of these works?”

  Pike’s mouth widened, turned up at the corners.

  “Whatever I don’t know I’m going to learn.” He reached, took the gun Lyle held toward him. “Can you find the ammo for it?”

  Tector, searching through the boxes, said, “Here it is—I think.”

  He passed down the case.

  Pike stepped back to the ground, stood rubbing his hand over the hard metal shape as if he were fondling a woman.

  “This,” he said in a sighing tone, “could make all the difference in the world. Maybe the general will give us a bonus.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  General Mapache would have appreciated a machine gun. He had been surprised by a band of Mexican guerrillas and badly mauled while out of Agua Verda on a raid. Mohr had advised pulling back and fighting a delaying action. Mapache had withdrawn to the north-south rail line and made makeshift camp in the string of box cars waiting there. The scene was hectic as horses, wounded, women, children and soldiers were loaded in.

  He was short of guns and ammunition. The guerrillas had settled into a range of low hills and had the area under sporadic fire. Standing out apart from the loading operation, General Mohr with Mapache at his side studied the hills through field glasses. He passed the glasses to Mapache.

  The general had a long look.

  “There can’t be too many of them or they would have rushed us.”

  Mohr was less sanguine.

  “They’re still doing damage. Our casualties are still going up and our ammunition down. If those American bandits had only brought the guns—”

  He was interrupted by a small brown boy running toward them, waving a telegram and shouting Mapache’s name.

  “What the hell now?”

  Herrera, another aide, ran at an angle to intercept the boy, caught him by his hair and yanked him to a stop.

  “What is it, Juan?”

  The boy held the paper at arm’s length behind him, choking on his excited words.

  “A telegram from San Antonio for His Excellency.”

  Herrera doubled his fist, then saw the pride shining in Juan’s black eyes and laughed.

  “All right, Juan, go deliver it.”

  Juan raced, skidded to a halt and saluted as he held the paper breathlessly.

  “A telegram from San Antonio.”

  Mapache looked down and solemnly returned the salute, accepted the message and tore it open. His heavy face spread in a wide smile.

  “The Americans took the guns from the train. We must get them quickly. It is important to have them in our hands before Villa learns of them.”

  The sporadic firing from the hills picked up and Zamorra hurried forward in a panic.

  “General, they are attacking. We must get out of here.”

  Mapache shook his fist at the hills, his bull voice roaring. “Next time we will destroy you.” He turned his attention back to Herrera. “Send men at once to meet the guns on the road to Agua Verde. Take possession of them and deliver them to us in town.”

  Herrera saluted.

  “And if the gringos object?”

  “Kill them.”

  Mohr coughed and touched Mapache’s arm.

  “My General—they succeeded in this venture. Maybe they can be useful in others.”

  Mapache looked startled, thought Mohr’s suggestion over. He smiled again. The shooting from the hills had reached a crescendo. Mapache ignored it, ignored also the soldier who fell dead ten feet away.

  “So bring the Americans in with you. Overcome their objections. Reason with them. Convince them of our good intentions.”

  Herrera had reservations.

  “And if they still object?”

  “Kill them.”

  Mapache dismissed him. He raised the glasses to the hills, then joined the others in boarding the train.

  At the head of a column of soldiers Herrera spurred for the Agua Verde road as the train pulled out.

  • The column reached the road and turned north. Herrera sent a scout ahead. After a time the man rode back to report that the Americans were in sight, coming through a dry river bed, an arroyo closed by hills on both sides. Herrera divided his force, deployed men behind each hill and, with only a few soldiers at his back, continued up the road.

  They came around a bend and saw the wagon moving slowly toward them. Herrera recognized an old man driving, Pike Bishop at his side. The yellow-haired Gorch brothers lay on top of the wagon load. Angel and Dutch followed on horseback. Herrera spread his soldiers across the road, blocking it.

  Pike reached over and took the reins, hauled the team up. The old man, Sykes, appeared to relax, lighting a cheroot. Dutch and Angel walked their animals abreast of the wagon, their rifles ready, and stopped there.

  A brief conversation seemed to take place among the Americans. Herrera saw Bishop reach behind him on the wagon seat. Without turning.

  Herrera walked his blockade toward the wagon, raising his hand.

  He called, “We are friends. From General Mapache.”

  “All right. Ride in alone.”

  Herrera gave the order, “Stand fast—” and came on. He took off his hat, bowed in his saddle and made a short, flattering speech. “What bravery you have, to have done this magnificent act for the liberty of Mexico.”

  Angel laughed sharply and spat his contempt. Herrera threw him a vicious glance but dredged up a fine smile for Pike.

  “We have come to escort you to the general.”

  The Americans did not move, nor the young Mexican, whose gun along with Dutch’s stayed on Herrera. The emissary arched his brows, looking from one to the other.

  “Tell me what is your wish?”

  “Come closer.”

  Bishop brought his hand forward, held up the end of a fuse where it could be plainly seen and recognized.

  Herrera was puzzled. The meeting was not developing as he had planned. He edged his horse ahead, saw Bishop take the cheroot from the old man’s mouth and hold the coal an inch from the fuse.

  “You see this?”

  Herrera’s eyes traced the fuse back into the wagon bed and his face tightened with apprehension. Bishop grinned. He tickled the fuse with the ash on the cigar.

  “This whole shebang is rigged to blow if I light this. Dynamite.”

  “Wait.” The word broke from Herrera before he could stop it. Then he fought for control, managed a sickly smile. “Hey—that is very smart—very smart for you damn gringos. Nobody can rob you of the guns.”

  “That’s right,” said Pike. “Nobody. You’d better explain it to that lineup back there so they don’t make any mistakes.”

  “Ha.” Herrera had got his bearings again and waved offhand. “I am not afraid. They are not afraid. This is a bluff. You blow up the wagon and you also die. But why so we argue? We are friends.”

  Bishop smiled at Herrera and then slowly at the men around him.

  “Maybe we ought to show him.”

  “Sure,” said Dutch.

  Tector jerked the tarp off the machine gun. Lyle armed it with exaggerated movements.

  Herrera’s eyes went wide as he saw the gun. The barrel nosed out at him between Sykes and Pike. He spread his hands eloquently.

  “Please. The general is your friend. There will be no trouble. He awaits you in Agua Verde. He will make you rich.”

  “Sure. We know he means to make us rich. We are just helping him, my friend. Go back and tell Mapache that tomorrow one of us will ride in and make the trade. If there’s gold, fine. If not—no guns.”

  Herrera chewed his mustache. He did not want to go back and face Mapache without the new weapons but the machine gun pointing at him made a very convinc
ing alternative. He bowed again, put on his hat, rode back through his men. He led them down the arroyo and stopped at the bend.

  Pike’s face was sardonic. His eyes narrowed. He spoke loudly.

  “Watch yourselves. This isn’t finished yet.”

  Herrera felt the Americans’ eyes on him as he halted, whistled shrilly, then shouted, “Muchachos—”

  Experience made the Wild Bunch look up the banks, Herrera noted. It did not matter. On both crests horsemen suddenly appeared. Herrera saw Bishop turn around to see himself surrounded. Herrera’s men sat quietly, waiting for the next order.

  The Americans made no move. Then Herrera shouted.

  “Vamos.”

  The riders whirled and disappeared behind the rocks and Herrera laughed and waved his hat, then rode around the bend.

  • A communal sigh of relief went up from the bunch.

  Pike said softly, “Angel—Dutch. Ride ahead a hundred yards and check the washes. Tector, you and I’ll cover the flanks. Lyle, stay with that machine gun.”

  “Gimme that cigar.” Sykes reached for it as Pike stepped to the ground. “If anything moves I’ll blow her sky high.”

  Lyle said hastily, “Wait a minute, old man. I’m still on this wagon and—”

  Pike grinned up at Sykes.

  “I’ll tell you when.”

  Angel and Dutch rode ahead, one on each side of the trail. Tector and Pike climbed to the ridges where the riders had been.

  The climbing was hard on Pike’s leg but from the height he had a wide view of all the country around.

  Far off was a diminishing cloud of dust that he judged were Herrera’s troop.

  He had won the first round.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Deke Thornton led his crew to the end of the long valley and up a rocky rise. Beyond lay a stretch of badlands a wagon could not possibly get through.

  Jess turned in his saddle, easing one leg over the horn, looking the whole way around. He took off his hat and scratched at his head.

  “Looks like we lost them. I can’t figure how, but that flat back there’s so hard an elephant could walk over it and never leave a dent.”

  Coffer argued plaintively, “There’s only one way a wagon could get out of here and this is it.”

  Thornton said, “They haven’t taken it out.”

  T.C. Nash said, “We ain’t going to make too much farther without we get something to eat. Anyhow, we’ve lost them and—”

  “We haven’t lost them,” Thornton told him in disgust. “I could point to them right now.” They whirled in their saddles to look at him and he cursed them savagely. “Sit still, damn it. You think Pike and old man Sykes haven’t been watching us all the way down here? You think if we’d turned off where they did they wouldn’t have just sat back and waited for us to walk into their ambush? Six of them—hidden with all those rifles and ammunition. You think I wasn’t sweating blood that they wouldn’t try and hide their trail?”

  His men sat silent.

  “Pike and Sykes know what this is all about,” Thornton said. “And I know. And what do I have to fight them with? A bunch of damned egg-sucking, chicken-stealing gutter rats—with less than sixty rounds of ammunition between you.”

  Nash flushed angrily.

  “Listen, Thornton. I don’t have to take any talk like that.”

  “Me neither.”

  Jess was ready to fight. Thornton was contemptuous.

  “You’ll take it. You don’t even have sense enough to keep your boots on.” His voice changed suddenly. “Now listen to me. We’re after men. And they have the cards. We don’t. I wish to God I was with them. And if you bastards make one mistake—or don’t take orders—I’m going to ride out and leave you to die.”

  He pulled his horse around and quartered off the trail, not looking back. His men sat sulking for a moment, then followed.

  They rode up the face of a steep bluff toward a flat spot on top. There he motioned them to dismount and creep with him to the far edge of the little plateau.

  They looked down across descending ridges into an arroyo, seeing the full length of it. The Wild Bunch, the wagon were slowly moving along the bottom.

  The bounty hunters made small sounds of pleasure. Thornton swore softly to himself and pointed farther down the draw where a column of Mexican soldiers was moving up. Obviously it would intercept the wagon.

  Nash groaned at the possibility of once again losing out on head money.

  “Looks like our bankrolls are in real trouble now.”

  Thornton said, “Maybe, maybe not. I had it figured Pike was stealing those guns for Mapache. A lot depends on whether those soldiers are Mapache’s or Villa’s.”

  He saw Herrera halt his troop down grade, well out of sight of the wagon, deploy men in an encircling movement and lead the rest up the road to the meeting.

  Thornton wished he could hear what was being said but he was too far even to be sure of what Pike was doing. But one thing became plain as the argument progressed. Pike was not surrendering anything.

  Deke saw the Mexicans pull away, rejoin their comrades and ride south. The wagon moved again. Thornton felt a glow of admiration for his old friend and a great regret.

  “Looks like he buffaloed them good. I wonder where he’s heading now. Come on, let’s go find out.”

  T.C. Nash backed off the flat. He glared at Thornton. Through the last few days the southerner had developed an overt, burning hatred of his leader. He tried to control his voice.

  “The stock needs water and grain—and we need water and food.”

  Thornton met the issue squarely.

  “I don’t give a damn about you. But I do about the stock.”

  • The wagon finally cleared the arroyo and began a long, crooked climb through foothills. Pike put off rest, thinking ahead, refining what had to be done. He knew that the last card in the game with Mapache had not been played. He would have to move with fine care if he hoped to collect for these guns and get out of Agua Verde with a whole skin. It was going to be ticklish, but the machine gun gave them a little edge.

  He called a camp before sundown and permitted a small, carefully constructed fire for boiling coffee, killed it the instant its use was over, smothered it with a thick blanket of sand to prevent a dying billow of smoke before the sun touched the mountain horizon. He posted Tector on the top of the highest of the small hills to watch. Put Lyle in the wagon with the machine gun. He left Angel beside the wagon and himself retreated to a large tree, sitting against it with his rifle across his knees.

  The spot was sheltered by a thick growth of shrubs. Shadows gathered as night came, separated into a tangled pattern when the moon rose.

  Pike drew on his long experience, relaxing his body and mind without sleeping, in the way a mountain cat can lie with every muscle flaccid and yet hear every sound, see every movement, be ready for an instant spring.

  Time ran on. He noticed one thing. He heard no small scurrying of night animals.

  An owl hooting close by startled him.

  Angel’s dark shape rose and came away from the wagon, a silent shadow until he stood at Pike’s side. His voice was soft.

  “My people are here for their guns.”

  Pike saw no one, had seen no movement except Angel’s.

  “Where?”

  Angel’s smile was in his soft voice.

  “Ignacio? Quien hablas por mi pueblo?”

  Voices like the whisper of a breeze answered, “Sí, Angelito. Soy Ignacio. Ya estamos.”

  Pike heard a scramble of boots. Dutch materialized, anger and concern roughening his voice.

  “What’s happened to Tector? Why didn’t he warn us?”

  Pike did not answer him but said to Angel, “Call them in.”

  Angel raised his tone only a little.

  “Vengan, muchachos.”

  Silence followed, heavy, unbroken. No shadow moved.

  Pike blinked. A figure in white was standing before him as if
it had been there all the while.

  His eyes went to the wagon. Other white figures stood behind Sykes and Lyle. Others were around the wagon.

  Then came sound—a thrashing in the brush—and two more of the apparitions pushed Tector into the clearing. His hands were tied behind him. He was gagged.

  Pike said to Angel, “Tell them to cut Tector loose.”

  Angel murmured against the night. The ropes were pulled from Tector’s arms. He loosened the gag, looked around at the figures beside him and whistled softly.

  “Never knew anything like it. Never saw them. Never heard nothing. They had me before I could move.”

  Angel said, “They apologize, Mr. Bishop. They show no lack of trust in you—but only such caution as they need to stay alive.”

  “Hell.” Tector’s laugh rumbled. “That’s all right. I’d just like to join them.”

  He stood rubbing his wrists as Angel and his Indians climbed into the wagon. Pike was on his feet, jumping down the bank, calling a sharp warning.

  “Don’t break the fuse.”

  “I know.” Angel lifted a case of rifles, passed it over the side of the wagon to the upstretched hands, then passed out a case of ammunition.

  Pike was close to them now, able to see their faces.

  “Angel, are these people part of your village? I didn’t see them there.”

  “Part of my village, yes, but not from it. They are pure Indo. These mountains belong to them.”

  “How long have they been around?”

  “What?” Angel was intent on transferring the ammunition into the reaching hands.

  “How long have they been following us?”

  Angel spoke to Ignacio.

  “Cuanto tiempo nos sigas?”

  Ignacio permitted himself a tiny smile.

  “Desde ante ayer, cuando salieron de la Ilanura grande. Hey otros grupo de gringos—ellos se fueron a uno ranchita.”

  Angel translated, “He says they have been with us since we left the big plain. He says that others went to a little ranch.”

  Dutch had never sounded so in awe.

  “I never saw anyone could sneak around the way they can. Like ghosts.”

  Sykes grunted.

  “These people been fighting Apaches for a thousand years. They just had to learn.”