Chapter Twenty-one
Ramon sat astride his big black stallion, Viento Prieto.
Dark Wind had carried its master as if he were the wind in truth, moving like a zephyr through the night.
Beside him, Ruiz Dominguez, Ignacio Juarez, and a dozen of his vaqueros, all that remained after the raid on Llano Mirada, surveyed the village of San Juan Bautista, nestled at the base of the foothills in the fertile valley below.
“Each of you remembers what he is to do?”
“Si, Don Ramon,” muttered the men. The tension among them was so palpable even the horses could sense it. They snorted and blew, their nostrils flaring, hooves shifting nervously, and there was a wildness in their eyes that matched that of the men.
“Ruiz and Ignacio will come into the jail with me,” Ramon reminded them. “Emilio and Esteban will guard the door, while the rest of you take up the positions you were assigned. You are ready?”
Another muttered agreement.
“Fan out and move in quietly. Do not spare your horses once the men are freed and we are ready to ride out of town.” Grim-faced they set off down the hill, each of them knowing the price they would pay if they failed. Their friends would hang. And they would all be dead.
As they had planned, they spread out and rode in, traveling quietly along the narrow lanes and alleys till they reached the sheriff’s office across the street and down from the mission.
Ramon’s jaw tightened at the sight of the makeshift gallows in the square, its four swinging nooses a grisly reminder of what might await them.
Moving with stealth, he eased closer to the stoutly constructed, thick-timbered jail with its two small windows, and nodded to one of his men, who took out the guard at the rear.
The butt of a pistol silenced a second guard, this one leaning against the building that housed the sheriff’s office.
The sign above the door fluttered briefly in the turbulence stirred up by the men below, and Ramon held his breath that the sound of squeaking hinges would not be noticed.
The noise finally faded and no one inside appeared at the door.
Another guard fell soundlessly as a big, beefy vaquero wrapped a thick forearm around the man’s throat and squeezed off his air supply.
None of the men were killed. Ramon had warned them to use only as much force as necessary. The fury of their pursuit would be lessened, and murdering men in the name of justice seemed at odds with his beliefs.
He stepped closer to the guard who stood beside the door to the jail holding a scatter gun in his hands, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth.
“Pleasant evening for a smoke, no?”
The big man whirled toward the sound of the voice. “Who the hell are you?” he said around the cigar.
Ramon’s long-barreled Colt swung up in answer, the smooth wooden stock clipping the man on the chin. He went down with a muted groan, his long body crumpling into the dirt, the cigar broken in two, one end still glowing, a wisp of smoke drifting up.
Ignacio stepped from the shadows. “The sheriff and two more men are inside his office. There is only one guard inside the jail.”
Ramon nodded and rapped twice on the thick jail door.
“That you, Wilkins?” sifted through the heavy oak planking.
“Let me in,” Ramon said, working to hide his accent.
He must have done it because the door swung open, and the minute it did, the barrel of his rifle cracked hard against the man’s balding head.
“Get the keys,” he commanded Ignacio, who wrested them from the pocket of the guard lying on the floor, a thin stream of blood running down his forehead, along his nose, and onto his cheek before it pooled on the floor.
“Don Ramon!” Pedro Sanchez rushed forward, gripping the bars of his cell along with Santiago Gutierrez and the other two vaqueros.
Ramon smiled, glad they appeared to be in good health. “It is good to see you, compadres.”
“Far better seeing you, my friend,” Pedro said. Ignacio worked the key, the heavy iron lock grating, and the minute the door swung wide, the men stumbled out of the cell and into the small airless room.
“What about Angel?” Pedro asked, reading a moment of indecision in Ramon’s hard face.
“I ought to let him hang.”
Pedro smiled, crinkling the lines at the corners of his eyes. “Si, but I do not think you will.”
Ramon shook his head. “No, I do not suppose I will.” Striding to the end of the corridor, he unlocked the door to Angel’s cell, then wordlessly turned and walked back toward the other three men.
“Vamanos, amigos. We have spent too much time here already.” He didn’t look to see if Angel followed, just strode out the door and swung up on his night-black horse. “We ride out through the old arroyo that circles the town. Once you are safely away, cut back and head into the hills.”
“Si … El Dragón,” one of the freed vaqueros said with a grin. Four saddled horses waited for the men, who swung hurriedly up on their backs. Ramon whirled Viento, made a high sign to the men, touched the horse with his spurs, and galloped off down the street toward the dry wash leading out of town.
* * *
I’m not going to make it! The frantic thought tore through Carly’s mind as she raced her horse across the grassy square in front of the mission.
A little to the right of the huge carved doors into the church, she reined the mare to a sliding stop and leapt down from the sidesaddle, losing her balance, landing hard, and twisting her ankle.
Muttering an unladylike curse, she jerked her plum silk skirts to mid-calf and started limping as fast as she could through the heavy wooden door and up the stairs leading to the choir loft and the ropes that rang the bells in the campanario, the towering bell wall beside the church.
By the time she had spotted Ramon, he was already riding into the town and it had been too late to stop him. Her only chance now was to warn him.
She knew the risk she was taking. Her daring plan put him in even more danger, yet it was the only chance he had.
She prayed he would know what her frantic warning meant.
Wincing with every step, she made her way up the stairs and looked up at the bells mounted with rawhide thongs in each of the three arched openings. She grabbed the long dangling length of hemp tied to the one at the top, pulled with all her might, and began to ring the huge iron bell.
The loud clang of metal sent a vibration down the rope, up her arm, and rang out over the big church plaza.
It carried past Segundo Street, down Castro, and started to rouse the town.
Curtains flew open, heads ducked through windows, people came out of their houses to see what was going on.
Nothing was scheduled at the church this time of night, no weddings, no socials, no funerals. Something had to be wrong.
At the edge of the city, Ramon cursed the sound.
In seconds the entire town would know about the breakout.
The sheriff and his men would be behind them in hot pursuit.
He wondered who the hell was sounding the alarm, then frowned at the irony that whoever it was had chosen to ring the big bell.
First Andreas had fallen to the sound, now it appeared to be his turn.
Ramon’s stomach tightened as a cold fissure of warning sliced through him, a feeling so strong he could not shake it. They had almost reached the arroyo, were just seconds from disappearing out of sight in the dry old wash that would carry them to safety.
Or would it?
“Hold up!” he commanded, raising an arm to the men who thundered along in his wake. “We will take the alternate route, ride through the plaza, down the hill to the river. Go! Do it now!”
They did not wait for an explanation. Too many times in the past El Dragón’s instincts had been right—the only thing that had saved them. And now that instinct was telling him the way to safety lay not in the way they had planned but in the opposite direction.
The men whirled their horses, dug in their spurs, and urged their mounts into a flat-out run.
A rifle shot rang out, then another and another, the shots not coming from town, but from somewhere behind them.
Over his shoulder, Ramon saw a wave of men, mounted and riding full tilt, surge out of the arroyo and thunder toward the town.
His own men answered fire, but didn’t slow down.
One man fell, another took a lead ball in the shoulder but kept on riding.
Ramon jerked his pistol from the bandolero across his chest and fired over his shoulder, bringing one man down, while Ignacio wounded another.
They rode past the front of the church and the men, now riding ahead of him, dropped over the ridge off toward the river.
Ramon didn’t follow. Instead, the moment he dropped out of sight, he wheeled his horse, leaned low over Viento’s neck, circled around to the left, and came up at the back of the mission.
Making his way toward the high bell wall, he saw what he knew he would see. Caralee’s palomino mare, his wife limping frantically toward her.
“Ramon!” she cried out when she saw him. He was down from his horse, running toward her, catching her up, and tossing her into the saddle before she could say any more.
“Ride, Cara—back through the arroyo. The men are no longer there and I will be right behind you.”
She spun the little mare and the horse leapt forward. Shots still rang out but they were coming from the riverbed below them, more sporadic now and echoing from different directions. The men had split up, their pursuers would have to do the same.
Ramon smiled grimly. His vaqueros were the finest horsemen in the world. In a life and death contest like this one, he did not doubt the Californios would win.