Chapter 25
Off aways, the peace was shattered by the rhythmic, pounding thunder of iron horseshoes striking the hard dirt.
"Keep on him, Isum!" Will Fain's voice echoed from the ridge as the three lawmen tore past the canyon floor, leaving Del and Carlos behind.
Guerrero was leaving a crimson trail of droplets on the pale caliche dust, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side.
He slammed his heels into his horse's ribs, bursting out of the brush and plunging down the steep embankment onto the wide, rutted expanse of the San Antonio Road.
The open thoroughfare stretched out before him, shimmering slightly in the early morning glare.
Behind him, the three marshals crested the ridge in a tight formation, their mounts at a full, desperate gallop.
"He's flagging!" Isum roared, leaning over his horse's neck, his rifle balanced in his left hand. "The blood loss is slowing him!"
"Don't let up!" Will yelled back, the wind whipping his duster coat around his saddle. "If he reaches the thickets, we'll lose him in the brush! Push 'im hard!"
Guerrero looked back over his good shoulder, his face pale and slick with sweat under his battered straw hat, his teeth bared in a grimace of agony.
With the lawmen closing the distance to less than a hundred yards, the assassin gripped the reins with his teeth, drew his Remington revolver with his left hand, and began blindly firing back down the San Antonio Road, the heavy gunshots echoing across the flat Texas plains.
Abram didn't try to match the assassin's straight-line speed on the open road.
Instead, he veered his mount sharply to the left, plunging into the low, jagged cedar breaks that ran parallel to the thoroughfare.
His horse navigated the rough limestone shelf with practiced agility, cutting the angle while Guerrero was occupied firing blindly over his shoulder at Will and Isum.
Emerging from the brush just ahead of the fleeing rider, Abram pulled his horse to a sudden, rigid halt. He raised his rifle, took a fraction of a second to lead the target, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot hit Guerrero's mount right behind the front leg, the bullet driving deep into the heart. The horse gave a sharp, breathless scream, its front legs buckling instantly as it went down in a cloud of blinding caliche dust.
Guerrero was a seasoned horseman, he didn't freeze. The moment he felt the horse sinking beneath him, he kicked his boots free of the wooden stirrups and threw his body to the side. He hit the dirt hard, rolling through the rocks and weeds, his clothes shredding against the gravel.
Dazed and bleeding from his shattered shoulder, Guerrero scrambled onto his knees.
His face was slick with sweat and dirt as he frantically clawed at the pale dust with his left hand, trying to retrieve the long-barreled Remington revolver that had spun away from him in the crash.
His fingers brushed the checkered wooden grip. He never got to lift it.
The thundering roar of iron hooves drowned out the ringing in his ears.
Will Fain didn't check his reins. He rode his massive mount right over the top of the fallen kidnapper.
The horse's chest struck Guerrero with a dull, heavy thud, throwing him backward into the caliche.
The animal's hooves narrowly missed his skull but kicked up a shower of loose stones that pelted his face.
Guerrero hit the earth flat on his back, the breath entirely driven from his lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp. Before the dust could even settle around him, the cold, heavy barrel of Isum Wood's rifle was pressed directly under his chin, pinning him to the Texas dirt.
Will Fain hauled his horse around in a tight circle, kicking up a final screen of dust as he looked down from the saddle, his Winchester resting across his thigh.
"Don't even twitch, hombre," Isum said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble.
Will dropped off his horse. "You're going back to New Braunfels, and you're going to tell us every single thing Don Rodrigo paid you to do."
Guerrero lay flat in the caliche dust, his breath rattling in his throat as Isum searched him with a rough, practiced efficiency. The chief deputy pulled a heavy pouch of Mexican silver coins from the assassin's belt, tossing it into the dirt.
"He's bleeding bad, Will," Isum said, using his bowie knife to hack off a strip of Guerrero's own shirt to tie a crude tourniquet around his shattered right shoulder. "But he'll live to hang."
The rhythmic thud of hooves signaled Del's arrival.
He rode up leading Carlos's horse, the boy sitting safely in front of his father on the saddle, his small face buried against his father's chest. Del looked down at the bleeding assassin with an expression that was colder than a winter frost, but he kept his hand off his Colt.
The boy was safe; the rage had hardened into a quiet, protective vigilance.
"Take the boy's horse," Del said, his voice flat as he tossed the lead reins of Carlos's mount to Abram. "The bastard can ride that back to town. Carlos stays with me."
Will Fain nodded, his face grim under the brim of his Stetson. "We'll haul him straight to the county jail. Abram, heave him up there. Tie his feet under the belly of the horse so he can't fall off."
Abram hauled Guerrero to his feet. The assassin groaned, his face gray with shock and pain, his left hand clutching his bound, ruined shoulder.
They hoisted him into the saddle, wrapping his legs with heavy hemp rope.
Guerrero looked up through the sweat stinging his eyes, glaring at Will Fain with a dark, silent defiance.
"Not one word from me, gringos," Guerrero spat, his Spanish accent thick and raspy. "You don't even know my name."
"You're right about that, but we'll hang you anyway," Will said. "We'll see how you feel when the noose tightens around your neck." He turned his horse back toward the San Antonio Road, checking the sky. The morning sun was climbing higher, burning off the last of the canyon mist.
"Move 'im out, boys. Let's get this felon behind iron bars." With Isum leading the prisoner's horse and Abram watching the rear, the three lawmen set a steady, unrelenting pace back toward New Braunfels, the dust rising in their wake.
Del watched them go for a long moment, then followed them to a different destination. He was heading toward home, his arm tightening around his son. They rode home not saying much at all, just savoring the closeness and safety of each other.
The agonizing wait at Del's house had kept Elena awake all night, praying continually.
She was exhausted, but when she heard the hoof beats on the small bridge across the creek, she burst through the oak door and onto the porch, her hands wringing the apron tied around her waist. Her heart stopped when she saw the lone rider cresting the low ridge this side of the creek, and in his arms, a little boy... her little boy.
"Del!" she screamed, her voice cracking as she ran down the steps, her shoes churning up the dry dirt of the yard.
Del pulled the gelding to a halt. Before the dust could settle, he swung his leg over the saddle and slid down, holding Carlos tightly in both arms. The moment the boy's boots touched the ground, Elena fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around him so hard she nearly toppled them both over.
"Oh, mijo, mijo," Elena sobbed, burying her face in the crook of Carlos's neck. She pulled back just enough to touch his face, her fingers tracing the raw, red marks where the calico gag had been, then smoothing back his tangled hair. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"
Carlos shook his head, the tears finally flowing freely now that he was safe in his mother's arms. "I'm okay, Mama. I stayed flat. Papa shot him in the shoulder, and now Marshal Will's got 'im in jail."
Lupita dropped down beside them, crossing herself in a flurry of whispered prayers, tears streaming down her lined face as she pulled both Elena and Carlos into a tight embrace. "Thank the saints. Thank the Virgin. We thought...we thought Vega might have taken him forever."
Del stood over them, his large, calloused hand resting heavily on Elena's shoulder.
The exhaustion of the night-long hunt finally caught up to him, his shoulders drooping as the tension drained from his frame.
Elena looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears, and reached up and placed her hand on his face.
No words were needed between them; the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.
The threat from Mexico wasn't gone, but for today, the family was safe.
Elena pulled Carlos close against her side as they slowly stood, guiding the tired boy toward the shade of the porch. "Come inside, mijo. Let's get you some milk and some stew. You're safe now. You're home, and we have to bandage those wrists."
"I knew Papa would come," Carlos said. "He always comes."
Elena laughed through her tears. "Yes, he does. He always comes."