“We are not bandidos, senor,” one of the men said.
“I don’t give a damn what you are. I’m not taking any chances. I want you both to drop your guns and belts, then turn around and ride out of here.”
“Senor, there are many very bad men in this country. It is not safe to be without guns,” one of the riders argued.
“You don’t say,” Jim replied. He made an impatient motion with the barrel of his rifle. “Shuck ’em,” he ordered.
Grumbling and protesting their innocence, the two men got rid of their weapons, dropping them onto the rocks with a clatter.
“Now turn your horses around and—” Jim’s words were interrupted by two gunshots. Both Mexicans tumbled from their horses.
“What the hell?” Jim shouted, twisting around in his saddle. He saw a wisp of gunsmoke curling up from a rock about twenty-five yards behind him. He raised his own rifle. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
Hector Ortega raised up from behind the rock, holding his own rifle over his head.
“It is me, senor! Hector Ortega.”
“Ortega! What the hell did you shoot them for?”
Ortega climbed down the side of the large rock until he was just a few feet away from Jim, then he jumped the rest of the way down. “To keep them from shooting you,” he said.
“How the hell were they going to shoot me? Their guns were on the ground.”
Ortega removed the sombreros from the dead men. Reaching down into the crown of each of the large hats, he pulled out two small pistols. He held the pistols up for Jim’s observation.
“They would shoot you with these, I think,” he said.
“I’ll be damned,” Jim replied. “How did you know about those guns?”
“It is a trick many bandidos use,” Ortega said.
“Well, I reckon I’m beholden to you, Ortega,” Jim said, his anger over what he had thought to be senseless killings quickly abating.
Some distance away, a United States marshal and a Texas sheriff were meeting with Capitán Eduardo Bustamante of the Mexican Federales.
“Sí,” Bustamante said in answer to one of the American lawmen’s question. “We know of Senora Kincaid and the two young senoritas who were captured.”
“The thing is, Captain Bustamante,” Sheriff Parker said. “We don’t believe it was Mexicans who captured ’em. We think it was Americans. But we believe these Americans are going to bring ’em down here and try to sell ’em to one of the bandit gangs in the hills.”
“We will be most vigilant,” Bustamante promised.
“Does such a thing really happen?” Marshal Gibbons asked. “What I mean is, will the Mexican bandits actually pay for American women?”
“Sí, senor,” Bustamante answered. “If they are young and innocent, they are worth much money in gold.”
“Damn. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard of,” Gibbons said with a sneer. “I mean, how can you Mexicans do such a thing?”
Bustamante flashed Gibbons a look of disdain. “Senor Gibbons, the Mexicans pay money for the unfortunate senoritas—this is true. But it is also true that it is the Americanos who raid the homes, kill the men and capture the senoritas.”
“Bustamante is right, Tom,” Sheriff Parker said. “We got no right to be throwin’ stones down here till we clean up our own house.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Gibbons said. “I apologize, Captain. It’s just that, well, I want those girls back safely. Their mama, too, if she is still alive. But what I want more than anything are the American sons of bitches who would do such a thing to their own people.”
Bustamante smiled broadly. “Perhaps I will soon have good news for you,” he said. “We have learned of a group of Americans traveling south along the Chihuahua Trail.”
“You think they might be the ones we are looking for?”
“That we do not know,” Bustamante said. “There are no women traveling with them, but we do know that they crossed the border to come into our country at about the same time the women were taken. Perhaps they have left the women somewhere under guard, while they go into the montañas to find the evil ones so they can do their business.”
“You have reports on such men? Where are they now?” Gibbons asked. “I wouldn’t want them to get away.”
“Do not worry, senor. They will not get away. The Americans are riding through the Cumbres de Majalca now. But Teniente Montoya and Teniente Arino, two of my best men, are keeping a close eye on them.”
Chapter 10
It was two days later when Chad saw the poster nailed to a tree. In bold, capital letters at the top of the poster were the words:
MUERTO O VIVO!
Just beneath the words was a line drawing of a man’s face. The face was rather round with heavily browed eyes and a large mustache. In truth, the drawing looked like half the Mexicans Chad had seen since they crossed into Mexico. It wasn’t the face that attracted Chad’s attention, nor the words, none of which Chad could understand. It was the name beneath the picture that Chad saw:
HECTOR ORTEGA
DESEADO PARA ASESINATO
DIEZ MIL RECOMPENSES DEL PESO.
POLICIA FEDERAL MEJICANO DEL CONTACTO
Chad removed the poster. That night, when they made camp, he showed it to Jim.
“What do you think this means?”
“I don’t know,” Jim said. He studied it for a moment, then said, “From the way it’s put together, I’d say it is a wanted poster. Look at the bottom line, poli . . . polisee-ah,” he struggled with the word, then said, “Policia. Police. Federal police. And this last word: contacto. Contact, you think?”
“Mejicano,” Chad said, “must mean Mexican.”
“Contact the Mexican Federal Police,” Jim said.
The others, made curious by Jim and Chad’s secretive conversation, came over to see what was going on.
“What you boys ponderin’ over?” Barry asked.
“Chad found this today,” Jim said, showing him the poster.
“What the hell?” Tennessee asked. “You think that’s our Ortega?”
“Ours? You ready to claim him now?” Ken asked.
The others laughed.
“You know what I mean,” Ken said, a little miffed at being teased.
“You have to admit, it does look a little like him,” Gene said.
“Yeah, looks like him, and like every Mexican we’ve come across since we came down into this godforsaken land,” Gene insisted.
“Well, there’s no gettin’ around one thing, and that is the fact that the fella on this poster is named Hector Ortega, and so is our trail boss. And the drawing of this Hector Ortega looks a lot like the man we’re trailin’ with,” Tennessee said. “So I figure it’s something we ought to find out about.”
Ortega, who was at that moment eating from a can of beans, realized that the others were engaged in some sort of discussion. He had no idea what the subject of the conversation was, but knew it must be about him because he heard his name, and they kept looking over toward him.
“Senors,” he finally asked, “what are you doing?”
“Are you goin’ to tell him?” Ken asked.
“Tell him?” Jim replied. He shook his head. “I’m not going to tell him a damn thing, because I don’t know what to tell him. I reckon I’ll just have to come right out and ask him.”
Jim took the paper over to Ortega and showed it to him.
“Have you seen this?”
“Sí.” Ortega ate another spoonful of beans before he spoke again, answering in a very nonchalant voice. “Many times I have seen this poster.”
“Is this supposed to be a picture of you?” Jim pointed to the drawing.