Kid Rodelo (1966) Read online

  When Harbin offered no comment, Turkey walked away, and Badger took over holding the drill on the new hole. “If Dan doesn’t need that money,” he said, “he must have a good idea where he can get more.”

  “I got to get out of here.” Harbin’s eyes were wild. “Tom, we got to get out.”

  “We’ll get out. We’ll get out tonight.”

  Harbin’s head jerked up in astonishment. “Tonight?”

  “You be ready. About sundown.”

  Joe Harbin’s tongue touched his lips, and he glanced at the sun … a couple of hours to go. He could feel cold sweat inside his shirt. Was he scared? Well … maybe. But he was going through with it, no matter what. He could already taste that cold Mexican beer … or the tequila. Now, there was a drink!

  As they worked, the sun’s heat was thrown back by the sandstone, and it was fierce, blistering, turning the bottom of the quarry into an oven. The careless touch of an ungloved hand to a steel drill would sear the flesh, and across the quarry two men had dropped from the heat, but Joe Harbin continued to work steadily. Tom Badger, a slower, more methodical worker, nevertheless accomplished as much. Badger had no lost motion, no wasted effort. He had worked enough to know all the knacks and tricks that made hard work easier.

  Miller, the nearest guard toward the end of the long, blistering afternoon, walked down to them. They were completing the last hole of their round, well ahead of any of the others.

  “You fellows outworked every team on the job. Go turn in your tools. You’ve done enough for today.”

  Badger straightened up, rubbing his back. “Thanks, sir. I guess you’re right. We’d best save something for tomorrow.”

  Badger picked up the drills one by one while Joe Harbin shouldered the double-jack. During a moment when the guard’s attention was distracted, Badger kicked one drill away among the rocks, then slowly the two walked off. Glancing back, Badger saw the powder-monkey was already dropping sticks of giant powder into the drilled holes, tamping them home with a long stick.

  Badger’s eyes swept the quarry, measuring distances, imagining the scene as it would be, and carefully estimating his chances. For a moment his eyes held on Gopher, who was struggling with a heavy wheelbarrow loaded with broken rock. The boy looked bad … he would never live out his term, Badger thought.

  Turning, he walked on beside Harbin toward the prison tool shed, where a trusty was checking the tools as they were brought in.

  “You’re early tonight. Miller must be goin’ soft,” the man said. He grinned at Badger. “All right, Harbin. You got your hammer?”

  Joe Harbin placed the double-jack on the shelf at the door, inadvertently glancing over his shoulder. His mouth was dry and he was jumpy, knowing that any minute now—

  Badger had swung his drills to the shelf and the trusty glanced over at them. “You’re a drill short, Tom.”

  “I must’ve overlooked it,” Badger said calmly. “I was in a hurry to get in.”

  “Well, you hustle right back there and find it. You know the rules.”

  Badger walked back slowly, timing each step, knowing eyes were on him. He also knew that when he bent to pick up the drill he would be momentarily out of sight of the guard, now standing over the prisoners lower down in the quarry, and of the trusty in the tool shed.

  As he stepped down, apparently searching for the drill, he suddenly dropped to one knee, struck a wooden match hoarded for the purpose and lighted the newly placed fuse, then another, and another. He picked up the drill and walked slowly away.

  He knew how long it would take for the fuse to burn, knew when the explosion would come, and knew what must follow if there was to be an escape. Tom Badger was a careful man and he had planned every move with care, yet even as he planned there had lurked in his mind the shadow of the Yaquis. There was no way to plan for them, or to make plans against them. It came down to a simple matter of outrunning them if possible, or outfighting them if it was not.

  He came up to the tool shed. “Here’s your drill. Satisfied?”

  “It ain’t me, Tom,” the trusty said. “It’s the rules. You got to abide by them.”

  As he reached to take the drill from Badger’s hand the air was suddenly torn by a shattering blast, and in the instant of the explosion Badger swung the steel drill and struck the trusty on the skull.

  The sound of the explosion died amid a burst of yells, and then came screams of pain from the injured, guards and convicts alike. Instantly, Tom and Harbin ran toward the quarry. The first body they came upon was that of Ferryman, half covered with rocks and sand. Jerking the body free, Badger ripped the gun belt and pistol from the guard’s hips, shucking the cartridges swiftly into his palm from the belt, then thrusting the gun into his pants.

  Seizing the rifle of the fallen guard, Joe Harbin smashed it against a rock.

  Convicts and guards were struggling to crawl out of the welter of smoke, dust, and debris. Several staggered up, bleeding, and started to clamber out of the quarry. Pushing past them, Badger climbed out of the quarry and ran toward the team and wagon that stood nearby.

  The warden suddenly appeared, accompanied by several guards. He paused abruptly, staring down at the confusion in the quarry, while the guards ran on down the ramp to give aid to those below.

  Tom Badger moved quickly to the warden’s side, thrusting the gun into his ribs. Harbin closed in on the other side, jerking the warden’s pistol from its holster.

  “We got nothin’ against you, warden, so if you want to go on livin’ just head for that wagon.”

  “I’ll do—”

  “Warden,” Badger warned, “we ain’t got time to argue. You head for the wagon.”

  The warden started to protest and Harbin promptly slammed him over the head with a gun barrel. Quickly, they dragged him to the wagon and heaved him in. Tom Badger caught up the reins and the team started for the gate at a smart trot.

  Joe Harbin pulled the warden in front of him and propped him up so he could be seen. The plan was working! Now, if only—“Halt!”

  Badger kept the wagon moving forward, and a second guard stepped out of the watch tower beside the gate, with shotgun lifted. “Halt, or we fire!”

  “Open that gate,” Badger ordered, “or you’ll have a dead warden on your hands.”

  Hesitating, the guards glanced right and left, looking for help, but there was none. The deputy warden and the others had rushed to aid the injured in the quarry.

  “You’ve got three seconds,” Harbin said, “and then I blow the warden’s head off and we shoot it out … One!”

  The guards looked at each other. They owed their jobs to the warden, who was a friendly, pleasant man, although stern where duty was concerned. “Two!”

  One of the guards turned sharply and went to the rope that opened the gate. Without a word he began hauling on the rope. The gate opened … all too slowly. Joe Harbin could feel the sweat trying to find a way through his thick eyebrows, and he could feel the hair crawling on the back of his neck. At any moment there would be shooting.

  Then the gate was open and they went through, walking the horse until the wagon was safely clear, then picking up the team to a fast trot.

  They were at the break of the hill. “Drop him!” Tom said, and Joe Harbin shoved the still unconscious warden from the wagon and Tom Badger slapped the horses with a whip. Instantly they broke into a run. From the tower at the gate came a rifle shot, another, and then they were shielded by the break of the hill.

  Suddenly from behind them the bell began to peal, and Badger swung the wagon off the road and into the brush at the base of the hill. They moved along through the brush, bumping over stones, but holding to a good pace.

  A dry wash suddenly showed and Badger turned into it, the wagon making no sound in the soft sand. They drove on around the bend, then Badger said, “Beyond that rock cut the team loose and mount up. Here!” He tossed Harbin a hackamore that he took from inside his shirt.

  Swiftly, they strippe
d the harness from the two horses and, slipping the hackamores on, they mounted up, bareback. They rode south, holding to the soft sand where the hoofs of the horses left no definite prints, merely indentations in the loose soil.

  From the wash they rode into the bottoms and went a devious route through the acres of willows growing near the river. Suddenly Badger turned sharply and left the willows, riding again into the drift sand of the dunes.

  Joe Harbin, following a horse’s length behind, could only admire. It was obvious that Tom Badger had planned every bit of this. He had entered the willows where no tracks would be left, and now he left them at a place where tracking would be equally difficult.

  Badger kept glancing at the sky, and for the first time Harbin thought of the hour. That, too was well chosen. It would be sundown in a matter of minutes, and dark soon after, as always in desert country. Then they could ride on, comparatively secure until dawn.

  But Joe Harbin was a suspicious man. Badger had planned well, every step of the way … what plans did he have for the time after they got the gold? It was an unpleasant thought, but Joe Harbin had been doing his own thinking along those lines and he was wondering just how far he wanted to go with Badger.

  The trouble was they needed that boat, and Harbin was not at all sure how the crew of the boat could be handled. He was sure that Badger had a plan for that too, and Harbin might need him to help. Moreover, if the Yaquis came after them each of them would need the other to help. Standing off desert-wise Yaquis would be no simple task.

  Among the sand dunes, Badger drew up and waited for Harbin to come alongside.

  “You tell me straight, Joe, and no hedging. Does anybody know where that gold is hidden?”

  “You think I’m crazy? Nobody knows.”

  Badger considered that. If nobody knew, it was unlikely that either the Yaquis or the warden would guess their direction for despite their need to get away they would be riding east rather than south … at least until they found the gold.

  But if anybody knew, and if the warden was tipped off, he could be in the vicinity of the gold, watching for them. In that case they might as well throw in their hand.

  “If you’re lyin’,” Badger said, “it’ll be your neck as well as mine. If one person other than you knows where that gold is, or even knows about where it is, then you can lay a bet somebody else knows, and we’ll be walkin’ into a trap.”

  “Nobody knows,” Harbin said shortly. Only somebody did know, Harbin was thinking. That girl knew … he had talked big, talked when he should have been listening.

  Hell, what did that matter? She was probably long gone out of the country.

  Chapter Three.

  When the sun was still half an hour above the horizon, Dan Rodelo took the trail. He had always enjoyed walking, something rare among riding men, and he enjoyed it now. After a year in prison it was a grand feeling to be out on the open road, swinging along at a good gait. Above all, it gave him time to think, and to plan.

  It was not yet dark when he heard the rattle of a light wagon behind him, and turned to see a four-horse team approaching, drawing a light wagon with a saddle horse tied behind. In the wagon were two men and a woman.

  When they came abreast of him, they drew up. “You goin’ some place, mister?”

  “Gold City.”

  “If you’re huntin’ gold it’s no place to go. The only gold they ever found there was in the name.”

  “I might be lucky.”

  “Get in. We’re goin’ thataway.” The big man spoke to the team, slapped them lightly with the reins, and the wagon rolled off with Rodelo in the back, sitting near a girl, and a damned attractive one, he decided.

  “That’s a ghost town now, mister. You realize that?”

  “It’s not quite a ghost town. Old Sam Burrows is still around. He runs the store and saloon. I left my horse with him some time back.”

  “Seems a far-off place to leave a horse,” the big man commented.

  “Does, doesn’t it?”

  Dan Rodelo looked at the girl, who regarded him coolly, showing no interest. The two men exchanged comments from time to time, and Rodelo gathered their names were Clint and Jake.

  The night was still, and when the horses slowed to walk up a long bill, there was no sound to be heard but that of their own passage. Dan Rodelo stretched out his legs. It felt good to be riding. He eased his holster into a handy position and caught the girl’s glance as she noticed it.

  They were wondering about him, as he was about them. Two men and a girl going to Gold City … for what?

  Gold City was not only a ghost town, but it was the end of the trail. Beyond lay the desert … a desert that was empty all the way to the border, and far beyond. Dan Rodelo was not really a suspicious man, but at the moment he was wondering if somebody else had the same idea he had. It would be wise to be careful, very careful.

  Gold City was not much more than a ramshackle store and saloon, three steps up from the walk to the porch under the overhang. Across the street stood an adobe, crumbling to ruin, and there was a scattering of other abandoned buildings along this street and back from it on both sides. There was no tree in sight, nothing but creosote brush, brittle bush, and a scattering of prickly pear and ocotillo.

  Sam, smoking his pipe on the porch, watched the wagon approach. The dog lying at his feet growled, then subsided. Sam wore a belt gun, which he could use, and there was a shotgun just inside the door.

  As the wagon rolled to a halt his wary old eyes slid over the occupants, then held on Rodelo.

  “Hiya, Sam!”

  “Bless my soul, if it ain’t Rodelo. I’d no idea your time was up.”

  Dan dropped to the ground. “These strangers gave me a lift. Mighty kind of them.”

  He had underlined the word “strangers” just a little, and Sam understood. He glanced at them, smiling. “Reckon you boys could do with a bit of something.”

  “You got some whiskey?” Jake asked.

  “Best in town,” Sam said. He struggled to his feet and lumbered through the door ahead of them. “Can’t say I’ve got much competition.”

  Placing two glasses and a bottle before them, he then glanced at the girl. “And you, ma’am, a spot of coffee?”

  “Show me where it is and I’ll make it.”

  “Right through the door, ma’am. You’ll find everything easy to hand.”

  “You carry quite a stock for a ghost town,” the man called Clint commented.

  “We ain’t as lonesome here as a body would think. Lots of cattlemen, and sometimes there’s one of them Arizona Rangers or some Wells Fargo man … prospectors too, and the like of that.”

  “I didn’t think there was anything between here and the Gulf.”

  “There ain’t. Port Isabel down there ships some beef stock. That’s about it.” He nodded his head toward the desert. “Most God-forsaken country on earth.”

  Sam refilled the glasses. “Have one on the house. Always like company, and any friend of Dan’s is a friend of mine.” He glanced at them, his eyes innocent. “Plenty of accommodation in this town, such as it is. Where you from mister?”

  “Flagstaff,” Clint replied.

  Jake shifted his weight and glanced irritably at Clint.

  “Ain’t much worth seein’ down here unless you’re prospectin’,” Sam said.

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “You know your own business.”

  “That we do, old-timer.” Jake tossed off his drink. “Let’s go, Clint,” he said.

  “You ain’t had your coffee yet.”

  “That was for Nora—Nora Paxton. If she wants coffee, let her have it. I want to find a place to bed down.”

  “I’d better see if the lady needs help.” Sam turned toward the door at the back of the bar but Jake stepped in front of him. “I’ll do that, mister.”

  Dan Rodelo sat very still. He had found a kitchen chair near the other end of the bar and had seated himself, keeping out of t
he way, but with everything within range of his vision. He could hear the faint murmur of voices from the kitchen but he could not distinguish what they were saying.

  Nora was standing by the stove when Jake Andrews entered. “We’re goin’ to look around and find that ‘dobe,” he said. “We don’t want anybody over that way, d’you hear?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Just be damn sure you don’t do too much. I don’t know who that man is, but I don’t like him. And he’s fresh out of Yuma.”

  Nora Paxton looked at him sharply. “That’s where Joe Harbin is!”

  “You’re right. How do we know this gent ain’t a friend of Joe’s? You be careful.”

  As Jake went out she filled a cup, and took the cup and the coffee pot into the other room.

  Dan Rodelo was on his feet. She looked at him, seeing him in the light for the first time; she had not dared to notice him while Jake Andrews and Clint Wilson were near.

  He was tall, a wide-shouldered, easy-moving young man with a dark, lean face and high cheekbones. He was well dressed for a man just out of prison, so they must be clothes he had when he went in.

  “I’d better be findin’ a place to bed down myself,” Rodelo said.

  “So soon? The party is just beginning,” Nora said.

  “What party?”

  “The one we’re going to have.” She put the cup down in front of him, and placed the pot on the table. “I’ll get some more cups.” Turning, she saw the guitar on the shelf. “Do you play that, Sam?”

  “A mite … when I’m by myself. Dan here, he used to play almighty well. How about it, Dan?”

  “Not now,” said Rodelo.

  Outside in the street Clint had walked to the wagon and picked up a lantern, raised the globe, and struck a match to the wick. The first match went out, the second caught, and he lowered the globe in place.

  Jake came up to him. “Down that way, I’m thinkin’,” he said.

  They walked away together lifting the lantern to look at the houses on the other side of the street. Finally they saw the adobe they were looking for, the door standing a few inches ajar. Over the door was a horseshoe that had been nailed in place with the front of the shoe at the bottom, but the nails at the top had come out and the shoe had fallen so that the open part at the back of the shoe pointed toward the ground.