Gun Runners Read online

  GUN-RUNNERS

  by

  JACKSON COLE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Prologue

  THREE men dreamed of wealth and power. Two, seated in a dimly lighted room in the border town of San Rosita, conversed earnestly in low tones. The third, lithe, sinewy, dark of face, with glittering black eyes and lank black hair, furtively forded the shallow Rio Grande and rode northward under the bright stars of Texas.

  He glanced repeatedly to right and left and scanned the trail ahead. Riding slowly, ever watchful, he still did not see the silent figure that slipped along in the shadow just out of sight of the trail, a tireless figure that easily paced the steadily jogging horse.

  In the dusky cabin room, lighted by but a single low-turned lamp, the two men spoke in guarded tones, despite shuttered windows and closed doors. One was tall and broad of shoulder. The other hunched grotesquely in his chair, the smoking lamp, behind and slightly to one side of him, casting his distorted shadow across the warped board floor.

  From time to time the tall man glanced impatiently toward the door which he faced.

  “He’d oughta be here any minute now,” he growled. “Late now. Wonder if anythin’s happened to him? He knows we’re takin’ a big chance, gettin’ t’gether this way. Hadn’t oughta keep us waitin’.”

  The other nodded, and raised his head suddenly at a slight sound outside the cabin. The other tensed, his eyes fastened on the door. The hands of both dropped out of sight beneath the table. Then both grunted with relief as the door swung outward on silent hinges and a dark, lithe man stepped carefully into the room lifting his booted feet high and setting them down gently before he turned to draw the door shut behind him.

  “Bolt it!” the tall man shot at him. The newcomer nodded and slipped the rusty bolt under its rusty hasp. Drawing a third chair to the table, he sat down.

  • • •

  Young Dick Webb, Texas Ranger, slept lightly in his little room over the livery stable. Hardly had the echoes of a knock at the door died away before he was on his feet and slipping quietly across the room. As his hand reached for the knob, the knock was repeated. Webb’s eyes snapped with excitement as he slipped the bolt and swung the door wide.

  A sinewy, dark-faced little man slipped into the room and spoke in liquid Spanish —

  “He crossed the river tonight.”

  “Cartina, you mean? Cartina, the bandit?” exclaimed Webb. “Where’d he go?”

  “He is here,” replied the other imperturbably.

  “Here in San Rosita!”

  “Si! He entered the old cabin that sits in the shadow of the bluff. A light burned within the cabin, and there were men inside. I saw before the door closed.”

  Dick Webb was hurriedly drawing on his clothes. He buckled his heavy cartridge belt into place with a snap, drew his Colt from its holster and slipped it back again, assuring himself that the action was smooth and free. The little man watched with beady eyes. Webb’s face worked with eagerness.

  “The chance I’ve been waiting for!” he exulted. “The chance to catch Cartina on this side the Line. Pancho, you’re making no mistake about this, I hope.”

  The little Yaqui tracker grunted.

  “Meestake the man who slew father and mother?” he asked in broken English. “Señor, that ees not likely. Pancho knows! Pancho himself would have slain thees night, had not Pancho promised the tall señor, his friend. Pancho forgets not the great favor, the kindness.”

  “You’ve more than paid back the little thing I was able to do for you, Pancho,” Webb declared earnestly. “This means one helluva lot to me, who’s just got into the Rangers. Any man in the outfit would give his right arm to bag Cartina; and here’s where I get him!”

  He slapped his wide-brimmed hat onto his head and strode to the door.

  “I go also?” questioned Pancho. “There is more than one?”

  Webb shook his head. “No Pancho,” he said, “I think I can make out alone. You keep out of sight. The fact that nobody knows you’re tied up with me is what makes you so valuable. If you went with me, it would tip your hand. You wait here for me.”

  Pancho said no more, but his dark countenance voiced silent disapproval. However, as the door closed, he squatted on his heels and rolled a cigarette with slender, nimble fingers.

  It was less than three minutes’ fast walk from the livery stable to the ramshackle old cabin by the bluff. The cabin, originally built by a wandering prospector, had long been deserted. It was seldom visited, even by children, and never at night. Crouched in the shadow of the steep bluff that overhung the trail, young Dick Webb surveyed it with eager eyes.

  As he had said, Webb was new to the Rangers, and he was anxious to distinguish himself. He had been sent to San Rosita because of the raidings and killings of this very Pedro Cartina, the Mexican bandit, leader of a powerful and utterly merciless outfit. Cartina had defied the local authorities on both sides of the Line and even had routed a detachment of El Presidente’s rurales, the efficient Mexican mounted police, which had been sent against him. The capture, lone-handed, of Cartina would be a feather in the cap of the oldest veteran of the Rangers. It would be a priceless boon to a recruit, the ink on whose commission was hardly dry.

  Cautiously, Webb circled the cabin. He noted a front and rear door. It would not do to wait for Cartina to leave the shelter of the shack, for it was impossible to watch both doors at once and the Ranger had no way of knowing which the bandit would use. Cartina’s horse was nowhere in sight, or Webb would have waited beside it. There was but one thing to do — tackle the cabin itself. Loosening his gun in its holster, Webb glided toward the front door. It opened outward, he saw, and doubtless was bolted on the inside.

  Dick Webb was a big man and extraordinarily powerful. He had huge shoulders and muscle-packed arms. He saw that it was possible to slip his thick fingers between the warped door and the jamb, which it fitted imperfectly.

  To do so was the work of an instant. With a mighty wrench he ripped the bolt screws from the wood and flung the door wide open. Gun in hand he leaped forward, and sprawled with a crash on the cabin floor, the Colt clattering across the room. A rope had been stretched across the doorway, ankle-high.

  Webb rolled over on his side as the cabin seemed to fairly explode with the roar of six-shooters. He never had a chance. He died sprawled on the floor, his body battered and broken by bullets.

  The bandit Cartina hissed words through the smoke.

  “Out, pronto! Someone will have heard! Out, and away! We are agreed! Each knows what he is to do! Out!”

  Boots clattered over the boards. The tall man and the Mexican vanished amid the shadows. The third man whisked the ponderous table from the floor as if it were made of straw and hurled it at the guttering bracket lamp. There was a crashing of glass and hot oil spattered the floor. Flame flickered for an instant, then snuffed out in a cloud of evil smelling smoke. The man, seeing the failure of his plan for burning the cabin and thereby destroying all evidence of the killing, growled a curse and stumbled after his companions. A moment later fast hoofs drummed southward toward the Rio Grande.


  • • •

  Sheriff Branch Horton shipped the body of Dick Webb to Ranger headquarters at Presidio.

  “…. and can’t tell how it happened,” the sheriff concluded his report. “Folks up the trail heard the shooting and reported it. All I could find was some cigarette butts the kind a Mex smokes — and horse tracks leading toward the river.”

  Stern old Captain Brooks had notions of his own, however. He made bitter exclamation and chalked up another murder against Pedro Cartina or some one of his outfit. He noted a peculiarity of the wounds in Webb’s bullet riddled body.

  “Not much to go on,” he muttered to himself, “but it might mean something.”

  And the sardonic Gods of the Hills, looking down at the ant-like activities beneath their mountain tops, chuckled to themselves and warped another thread into the grim web that Death and Destiny were weaving back and forth across the silvery river.

  • • •

  Night over the Tamarra Valley, with the bright stars of Texas flaming like beacon lights on the towering crests of the gaunt Tamarra Hills. A lonely wind whispering through the blue grasses, and the Rio Grande a lovely silver mystery in the moonlight.

  All the banks of the silver river were the purple pools of ragged-edged shadow, which marked the dense clusters of black willow, interlaced with scraggly button-bush. The hardy button-bush ventered even into the shallow water and seemed to reach tentative branches toward the dim Mexican shore. Welcoming branches, perhaps, extending an invitation to the moving shadows that flowed almost soundlessly into the murmuring water, and forged steadily toward the inquisitive button-bush and the willow screen.

  The moonlight showed swarthy faces, lean sinewy bodies and the blue-gray glint of rifle barrels. Under the men and their guns were the blurry forms of tough little mountain mustangs with shaggy heads and dainty goat-hoofs. Five minutes later, the soft rustling and crackling among the willows ceased and those swift little hoofs drummed over the rolling rangeland of the Tamarra.

  The gibbous moon swung low over the Tamarra Hills, faltered, seemed to hesitate and then slowly sank behind the glowering crags. For a moment the hill crests were outlined, grim and forbidding, against the wan afterglow. Then they softened to nebulous tracings on the star-flecked velvet of the sky.

  Under that velvety, silver-jeweled sky, the great Slash K trail herd drowsed peacefully. The two night hawks riding herd silently blessed the docility of their long-horned charges. There was not a faint flicker of lightning along the horizon or a far distant mutter of thunder to disturb the tranquillity of the cattle. Stomachs full of sun-sweet grasses of the great valley, the great beasts chewed ruminative cuds and allowed cattle-dreams to move sluggishly through their furry-edged minds.

  The two cowboys, their stomachs full of steak, hot biscuits, sugary molasses, and other things equally delectable to puncher appetites, also drowsed comfortably in their saddles, their even-paced ponies moving slowly around the herd.

  Beside the chuck wagon, the other Slash K punchers slept soundly, with nothing to disturb their slumbers. Nothing while the golden stars turned silver with the first faint kiss of the dawn.

  And then — “lightning” flashed, “thunder” rolled and shrieking “rain” spattered the sleeping camp. But the lightning was the spurting fire from the black muzzles of unseen rifles, the thunder was the crash of the reports and the rain was a leaden rain of death.

  The Slash K punchers by the chuck wagon died in their blood-sodden blankets — died without awakening from their sleep.

  The two night hawks also went down under that first withering blast of fire, one drilled dead center with only a single spasmodic twitch left in his long body after it thudded to the ground. The other, crashing through a tangled clump of brush, came to rest with his bleeding head jammed against the gnarled roots, the low growing branches completely hiding him from view.

  Silent and motionless he lay, while the band of swarthy-faced, yelling fiends got the great herd into motion and sent it thundering toward the Rio Grande. Dizzy, shaking, he crawled forth as the clamor dimmed into the distance. A stumbling run to the bloody shambles that had been the camp quickly showed that he was the sole survivor of the raid. As the first light of dawn glowed softly over the crest of the eastern peaks, he caught a horse that had been overlooked, managed to crawl onto its bare back and set out for Presidio, where he knew there was a Ranger post. The sun was hardly an hour high before a compact body of Rangers was riding with loose rein and busy spur toward the spot where the silver band of the river marked the Texas Border.

  “What are we going to do if we don’t catch up with ‘em before we reach the river?” a fresh-faced young Ranger asked of the tall, silent man who rode a splendid golden sorrel and led the troop. “Did Cap’n Brooks say anything about us crossing the river, Hatfield?” he added.

  The tall leader turned slightly in his saddle and favored the young Ranger with a level glance from his gray eyes. His lean, bronzed face was stern but there was a slight twinkle of humor in the strangely colored eyes.

  “Well,” he drawled, “he didn’t say anything about us not crossing.”

  A murmur of approbation greeted the reply. The Rangers straightened in their saddle.

  “Cap’n McDowell did it in the old days,” exclaimed one. “Brought his man back, too. We’re with you, Jim. Whatever you say goes.”

  The man whom a taciturn old Lieutenant of Rangers had named the Lone Wolf, smiled at their enthusiasm, and that smile wrought a singular change in his stern face. His wide mouth quirked at the corners, his even teeth flashed white against his bronzed cheeks and his eyes grew sunny. The smile was fleeting as a shadow at sunset, however, and an instant later the mouth was a hard line and the eyes were as coldly gray as a snow-burdened wind sweeping under a leaden sky. Directly ahead was the silver shimmer of the Rio Grande, and beyond the wide river a rolling dust cloud fogged the clear crystal of the morning.

  A buzz of exultation arose.

  “It’s them” exclaimed the young Ranger, “and they’re on the other side of the river!”

  Hatfield glanced to right and left.

  “I understand there’s a ford right over by those cottonwoods,” he remarked casually, swerving his tall sorrel.

  The Rangers followed. In another moment they were surging through the shallow waters of the ford.

  Once across the river, they gained rapidly on the scurrying dust cloud. Soon they were able to make out the undulating line of the herd. To right and left were riders who urged the tired cattle to greater effort. Hatfield’s dark brows drew together as he estimated their number.

  “Must be nearly a hundred of them,” he muttered. “This is a pretty ambitious outfit. It must be Cartina, himself.”

  An angry hum arose at mention of the bandit-revolutionary’s name. There was not a man of the outfit but who had his feud with the snaky-eyed, swarthy Cartina whose ruthless cruelty was a byword along the Border. Time after time the Mexican raider had swooped down onto Texas soil, left a line of robbery, arson and murder in his wake and dashed back across the river and into the mountains before organized pursuit could catch up with him and mete out the justice of the frontier.

  The bandit was uncannily skillful in timing his raids and picking spots unguarded at the moment. The Tamarra Valley lived in terror of the clatter of his horses’ hoofs and the thunder of his guns. Usually he operated toward the west end of the valley — seldom indeed did he come so far east as the scene of his present raid: it was too near the temporary Ranger post at Presidio. Doubtless the temptation of the great Slash K trail herd had proven too great.

  “The devil’s got brains,” was the general verdict of the valley — “Brains and nerve, and no heart.”

  Jim Hatfield had caused silent old Captain Brooks to knit his white brows thoughtfully just a few days before.

  “Uh-huh,” Hatfield remarked, “he’s got nerve — that’s sure and certain, but brains? Maybe, and then again, maybe the
brains belong to somebody else!”

  Swiftly the Ranger troop closed the distance. Puffs of smoke from the dark figures riding beside the herd, and the whine of bullets, told them they were observed. Hatfield eyed the dust cloud thoughtfully.

  “Thre’s too many of them for us to tackle head on, boys,” was his verdict. “Hold back a bit and let’s see what a little fancy shooting will do.”

  It did plenty! Saddles began to empty once the Rangers opened fire. The shrewd Hatfield gave another order —

  “Hold back a bit more. I think our guns have got a longer range than theirs.”

  The order was obeyed and the results were immediate and salutary. Several more raiders were hit and return bullets kicked up puffs of dust yards in front of the troops. There was a wild milling among the Mexicans, a frantic waving of arms and a general disposition to seek shelter behind the terrified herd. Then order came out of chaos.

  Hatfield saw a tall figure ride forward, another slighter one following closely; then the Mexicans stormed forward in a straggling body. They closed the distance quickly and bullets began whining about the Rangers. Hatfield immediately gave orders for retreat. The Rangers, on fresher horses, outdistanced the raiders, who finally halted and appeared to hold a conference. A moment later the two tall leaders detached themselves from the main body and rode away at a sharp angle. Hatfield watched them go, his eyes narrowing.

  “That won’t do,” he told his men. “Those two are going for help. If they get it, they’ll cut in behind us and get us between two fires; and that’s liable to be uncomfortable.

  “Haskins,” he told a lean, grizzled Ranger, “you take charge of things. Keep after the herd and drive those horned toads off, if you can. If you get them on the run, turn the herd and head it back toward the river. I’ll light out after those other two. Old Goldy won’t have any trouble running them down. So long.”

  He spoke to the sorrel and crashed away in pursuit of the fleeing pair. As he had predicted, the tall golden horse gained steadily.

  The pair were well mounted, however, and the bellowing herd was out of sight before he got in rifle range of the quarry. He could still hear the battle that was sweeping south, faintly crackling like dry sticks breaking or a winter fire popping.