"I didn't figure it that way," Longarm said. "It looks to me like you're the man to get Sheriff Tucker into line and organize whatever kind of bunch he can help you put together in Los Perros."
"I'm not sure you're right about that, Marshal." Hill shook his head. "Tucker and I have had our differences. He propositioned me to be his silent partner a couple of years ago in a plan he'd come up with to turn Los Perros into a honkytonk town. Wanted me to give my troopers extra payday liberty to come in and spend their money at the whorehouses — excuse me, Miss Flo — and the gambling joints he proposed to put in. I read him off and told him I'd do my damnedest to keep my men out of his town in the future. And I have. I don't think he'd forget that."
"No. He ain't that kind," Longarm said. "Damn it! I was sorta counting on you to take care of that part of the scheme."
"I won't say I can't, but I won't say I can. You know army policy. We're not supposed to interfere with civilian government affairs unless we're asked by the authorities for help."
"I don't know you'd call Tucker an authority," Webster put in.
"He never was elected to be, except by himself. But John's got a reason to be doubtful, just like I have. I had a run-in with Tucker when I first started looking into the Laredo Loop business. He just the same as told me to go to hell. I've got a hunch that it was Tucker who tipped off his partners in Mexico to get the rurales looking for me after he found out I'd crossed the border."
"That leaves you, Marshal," Hill said. "I think Nate and I both feel you're the man to do it. From what you told us while we were in that cell together, you've handled Tucker before, and you've got the lever on him to handle him again."
"John's right," Webster agreed. "Your scheme might just save all our butts — excuse me, Miss Flo — save our hides, if you can get Tucker to round up a couple of dozen men to cover the two of us when we get close to the river."
"I didn't plan to be the one to split off when I dreamed up this scheme," Longarm said. "But I can see you might be right in figuring the best way to work it out."
"There's only one weak spot I can see," Hill frowned. "Ma'am, can you handle a horse at a gallop over rough country?"
"I never had to, until now," Flo said. "But if I'm betting my life on whether I can or not, I'll do it one way or another."
"Flo's kept up so far," Longarm reminded them. "I ain't too worried about her staying right alongside of me."
"It's settled, then," Hill nodded. "We'll push on, and when the time comes, all of us will know what to do."
"And all we need to make things work," Longarm said, "is some nerve and good shooting and one hell of a lot of luck!"
Chapter 17
"How much farther is it?" Flo asked Longarm. They'd pulled up to give the horses a breather.
"Two hours. Maybe three." He squinted at the sun dipping now to the west, but still well above the humped tops of the Burro range. "You getting tired, Flo?"
"Some. But don't look for me to quit, Custis. I won't do that."
"Didn't figure you would, or you wouldn't be here."
They'd parted from Webster and Hill shortly after noon, at a rock outcrop that all of them agreed was the best defensive position they'd seen so far. The spot was on that single long spur of the Burros that pushes out far past the other rises of the foothills, and runs at an angle to the rest of the range. The spur, instead of lying generally north-south, slants off to the east, in the direction of the Rio Grande.
A fault in the rock had created a fortress in miniature that might have been planned by an engineer. Through the centuries, the crevasse had become filled with broken rock, then topped with rain-washed sand to create a firm, fairly level floor. The rock fissure was triangular, big enough to hold two horses and their riders and still leave room for them to move about. To the south and along the hump of the spur, the rock was unbroken, solid but slick. A horse could not keep its footing on it, and a man would be able to do so only with difficulty. The triangle that constituted the fort was deep enough to protect a horse or a standing man. Behind it, sheer, raw rock rose two hundred feet straight up. Except for the extension of the fissure that gave access to the triangle, there was no way for an attacker to approach it.
Captain Hill had been delighted from the instant they'd seen the place. "That's our spot, Nate! From behind that shelf, we can cover any approach the rurales might want to use."
"Except from behind us," the Ranger pointed out. "If they get a man or two up above us, shooting down, we're wide open."
Hill squinted along the face of the cliff. "I think there's enough of an overhang to shield us. I'll take the chance, if you will."
"Oh, I didn't say I'd back away from it," Webster said quickly. "Time's running out, and this is about the only place we've come to where we'd have a better than even chance."
"You might not have to make a fight at all," Longarm reminded them. "We've kept ahead, so far. You stay here about two or three hours. If they don't show up, ride for the river."
"I wouldn't bet we're going to get off that light," Webster said. "And I wouldn't want Ramos's outfit to get off, either. After what happened to John and me, we're both ready to sting 'em."
"Win, lose, or draw, then," Hill said, "this is where we stay. Three hours, Marshal. We'll guarantee you that much time."
"No," Longarm shook his head. "Don't set a limit, John. Just do your best if they catch up, but don't let 'em get you. If it gets too hot, you and Nate pull leather for Los Perros. We'll try to be ready. Just remember, Ramos ain't Santa Ana, and this place ain't the Alamo."
He and Flo had started off, and had ridden as fast as they dared push their horses without crippling them. Longarm kept a close lookout for familiar country. The trailless foothills were strange to him. The path taken by the rustled herd he'd followed south had avoided the higher country and moved along the narrow strip of flat land between the Burros and the Rio Grande. He'd set a course on a long slant that he'd confidently expected would intersect the rustlers' route. Once on that frail, he'd planned to follow it to the ford above Los Perros. He didn't want to risk a strange crossing; the Rio Grande's reputation for horse-swallowing quicksand beds in its shallows and tumbling, unpredictable currents in its deeper stretches was something he remembered from his earlier trip there. So far, though, there'd been no sign of the rustlers' route.
Now, looking as far ahead as possible from the slight elevation of the ridgeline they'd been following, he still saw nothing that resembled the terrain he'd noted on his way south. He pressed his knees to Tordo's ribs, and found that the gray was breathing easily, no longer panting. Flo's Mexican mount seemed to have eased, too.
"We've given 'em all the time we can spare," he told her. "We better be moving again." He picked up the reins from his saddle horn and was just about to nudge Tordo ahead when he saw the thin column of dust below and behind them. He called to Flo, "Hold up!"
"What's wrong? Did you see something?"
"Dust devil, maybe. It's hard to tell what the wind's doing in country like this." He kept his eyes on the smudge that rose low into the harsh blue sky. The thin cloud wasn't acting the way a dust devil ought to. Those miniature whirlwinds rose fast, moved erratically, and died quickly. This one was moving slowly and kept hanging in the sky. There wasn't enough dust to mark a lot of riders, though, he thought.
Anxiously, Flo asked, "Is that the dust devil, right there?" She pointed.
"That's what I'm looking at. Only I'm damn sure now it ain't a dust devil. It's riders."
"How many?" she asked. Then, as soon as she realized how impossible her question was to answer, she added, "I'm sorry. That was a silly thing to ask."