The Thunder Riders Part 1

The Thunder Riders.

by Frank Leslie.

Chapter 1.

Arizona Ranger Wilson Pyle built a quirley with his gnarled, slightly arthritic fingers and snapped a match to life on his belt buckle. As he touched the flickering flame to the end of the twisted cigarette, his partner, Kenny Danaher, kneeling atop the rocky escarpment above Pyle and the rangers' two ground-tied horses, yelled, "I don't see a d.a.m.n thing down there, Will!"

"Nuthin'?"

"Don't look to me like there's been a soul in that old ghost town since the miners pulled out two years ago."

Letting smoke dribble out from between his wind-burned lips, Pyle glanced around. "Look hard, Kenny. It's late. No doubt quite a few shadows in that canyon."

Pyle was tired. He and Danaher had been on the trail the last five days, brush-popping owlhoots between the White Mountains and the Chiricahuas. Or trying to. Desperadoes holed up like black widows in Mormon tea this time of the year. The old ranger felt as though his saddle had grown into his a.s.s.

"Ah, h.e.l.l." Danaher lifted his field gla.s.ses again, directingthe lenses out and down. Long dark red hair fell down from his black-brimmed hat, and his thin red beard was rimed with trail dust. His green duster hung slack on his lean frame, scratched from brambles and cactus thorns.

Young enough to be Pyle's grandson, Danaher had the patience of youth-which is to say, very little patience at all. But then, Pyle didn't have a gal waiting for him back home in Benson like Kenny did. A young wife with a baby on the way. Pyle hadn't had a wife waiting on him in a long time, having outlived two-a half Apache and a pretty blond ex-dance-hall girl from St. Louis by way of Prescott. The old ranger didn't have anything waiting for him back in Benson-except a bottle, a dime novel, and a cord of wood that needed chopping out back of his rented shack near the ranger station.

"Hold on!" Danaher said above the chill winter breeze sighing among the rocks. "I do see something, after all. Holy s.h.i.t!"

Pyle's heart quickened. He removed the quirley from his lips and straightened, his tired back creaking. "What is it?"

Danaher was turning his head slightly from left to right, following something with the field gla.s.ses. "You ain't gonna believe this, Will." His voice was sharp with mockery. "Oh, Lordy, you just ain't gonna believe what I see down there."

Pyle relaxed, and a faint smile shone on his leathery face, all but hidden by his thin gray beard. "What is it?"

"Coyote strollin' down the main street just like he owned the place. Got him a rat hangin' out of his mouth."

Danaher lowered the gla.s.ses and turned to stare down the scarp at Pyle resting on a flat boulder near his paint mustang, one spurred boot propped on a knee. "You want to go down there and arrest him for trespa.s.sin' or huntin' on mine company land without a permit?"

Pyle chuckled. He blew out a long plume of cigarette smoke, then stuck the quirley between his teeth and hiked his old Walker Colt higher on his hips. "Come on, kid. We're gonna go down and have a look."

"What for? I told you there ain't nothin' but a coyote down there, Will!"

"Mount up," Pyle said, tightening his paint's saddle cinch. "That bullion's gonna be pa.s.sin' through here on the old army road, about a mile east. We best go down and have a look up close. Could be owlhoots holed up, sharpening their horns and cleanin' their irons for tomorrow."

Worse still, it could be the Thunder Riders-they'd been raiding along the border for several months now- though a vague dread kept the old ranger from mentioning their name aloud.

"Ah, s.h.i.t. I'm gonna be late getting home for supper, ain't I?" They were on the last day of their campaign and had expected to be back in Benson by nightfall.

"Just take a minute."

"It'll take an hour at the least."

Pyle grabbed the apple and swung into the saddle-a task that seemed to get harder every day. "Orders are orders, son. Cottonwood Canyon has been a prime owlhoot nest ever since the company pulled out, so we're gonna give it a look-see. Now quit flappin' your lips and mount your horse."

Danaher cursed as he cased his field gla.s.ses and began descending the scarp, his duster flapping around his long, denim-clad legs, the afternoon breeze bending his hat brim over his deep blue eyes. "You knew we were gonna ride into that canyon all along, didn't you, you old geezer?"

"Yep." Pyle laughed. "I was just takin' a smoke break and restin' my tired old a.s.s!"

With Pyle leading, the rangers found a game trail angling across the canyon wall and followed it down into the cottonwoods lining a dry riverbed on the canyon floor. As they crossed the riverbed, their horses' shod hooves ringing like cracked bells off the water-polished stones, Pyle scrutinized the shanties-all of them made of adobe or logs and sod-and the falling-down stables huddled in the creosote and mesquite.

The shacks and corrals looked like the ruins of some lost civilization. They gave off the spooky aura that Pyle felt whenever he was around ancient Indian cliff dwellings or the Native kivas he came upon frequently as he patrolled the territory's deepest reaches.

The breeze swept the chaparral, lifting veils of sand. A rough-legged hawk, perched on a splintered gray corral post, stared intently at the approaching riders, lifting one long-taloned foot at a time. Its wings ruffled and spread, the talons pushed off the post, and the hawk rose, screeching, toward the ridge the two rangers had just left.

"Population, two," Danaher drawled, riding off Pyle's paint's right hip. "I missed him from the ridge."

"Let's hope he's all you missed." Pyle checked down the paint, canted his head left. "You start at the west end. I'll start at the east. We'll meet in the middle."

When the younger ranger had heeled his piebald off toward the west end of the town, weaving around corrals, chicken coops, goat pens, and privy pits, Pyle put the paint forward.

He swung between a couple of tar-paper shacks, the paper having come loose and fluttering in the breeze, and pulled up behind the town's easternmost Main Street dwelling. Remaining mounted, he sidled the paint up to the livery barn's rear double doors and pulled a handle.

The door opened with a soft thud and a sc.r.a.pe. Pyle backed the horse away from the barn as he swung the door open, and the black mouth of the barn expelled the rotten smells of hay, manure, and rodent scat on a vast, musty breath.

He sat the horse to one side of the open door, using the door as a shield, listening for sounds of human movement, one hand resting on the walnut grip of his holstered Colt. Hearing only the faintly creaking timbers and scuttling mice, he booted the paint through the opening.

The horse had taken only two strides along the barn's mashed-earth floor when a great whooshing sounded, and a sudden wind barreled out of the bowels of the rancid-smelling livery. There was a roar like the shuffling of a giant card deck. The paint whinnied and lurched to the side. A flickering black cloud welled up from the shadows.

Pyle lowered his head to the paint's neck, keeping a firm grip on the reins, feeling the horse's muscles bunch and leap in fear beneath the saddle.

Several screaming bats bounced off the ranger's raised left arm and a couple nearly ripped the soiled Stetson from his head. The covey careened through the open doors behind him, their screeching diminishing gradually until they were gone and a heavy silence fell. Dust and straw flecks sifted.

Pyle patted the neck of the jittery, snorting paint. "Easy, boy. They're gone."

The horse shook its head indignantly. Pyle nudged it on down the barn's central alley, swinging his head from side to side. When he'd reached the closed front doors and had seen no sign of anything living in the barn except bats and a couple of kangaroo rats, he kicked the front right door wide and booted the horse onto the town's main street.

He looked around at the false-fronted buildings that, with their dilapidated porches and brush arbors and broken windows, looked like giant tombstones in a forgotten cemetery. Tumbleweeds were basted along the buildings' stone foundations and boardwalks, and several were hung up in the windows.

Horse tracks were etched in the street's deep dust, but since the town was still on a secondary trail used by prospectors and saddle tramps, the tracks didn't mean much. There was no way to know if the town was being used as an owlhoots' nest-especially by owlhoots who intended to go after tomorrow's bullion run-unless Pyle saw direct evidence.

Namely, the owlhoots themselves.

Pyle dismounted the paint and dropped the reins, then shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle boot. Leaving the horse in the shade of the livery barn, he jacked a sh.e.l.l into the rifle's chamber, off-c.o.c.ked the hammer, and began angling across the street.

He spied movement out of the corner of his right eye. Danaher rode into the far end of the town, a rifle resting stock down on his thigh. Pyle waved to indicate all clear so far, then mounted a boardwalk and stuck his head through the window of a drugstore.

He walked through three buildings on each side of the street and looked into two more, then gingerly mounted a gap-boarded walk in front of the Bale of Hay Saloon. He turned to see Danaher stride toward him before swerving onto a boardwalk on the same side of the street as Pyle. The kid disappeared into a sporting house-the newest and probably the best-preserved building in town.

Pyle stepped through the saloon doorway, which had long been missing its two louvers, and strode past the long mahogany bar. The backbar and mirror were gone. The dust on the bar and on the few tables left behind by human scavengers was thick and littered with mouse droppings and the tracks of rodents and even birds.

The ceiling creaked over Pyle's head. He stopped and looked up. There was another soft creak, as though someone were moving slowly across the floorboards. Dust sifted from the rafters to tick on the floor in front of Pyle's boots.

The old ranger hefted the Henry repeater and thumbed back the hammer. Holding the barrel straight up, he crossed to the back of the saloon, then slowly climbed the stairs, wincing each time a rotten riser squawked. He stared at the pine-paneled wall growing before him, from which a rusty nail protruded.

A shuffling rose behind the wall on his right, growing louder-something moving toward Pyle fast. He extended the rifle straight out from his right shoulder and aimed at the paneled wall, eyes wide, heart thudding.

A dun gray shape appeared, moving in a blur across the landing at the top of the stairs. Pyle caught only a glimpse of the beast-a scrawny brush wolf with p.r.i.c.ked ears and a bushy gray tail-before it bolted off to his left. Footpads thumbing and toenails clicking, it clattered away down the hall.

Pyle lowered the rifle, depressing the hammer. He leaned against the stair rail and sighed. "I'm gettin' too d.a.m.n old for this."

He suddenly lifted his head. Again he'd heard something. This time it had come from outside, though he couldn't tell from which direction.

He turned, tramped down the stairs and across the saloon's main hall, and outside. Swinging his head from left to right, he stepped gingerly across the boardwalk and into the street.

He looked at his horse. The paint was staring toward the other end of the town, its eyes wide and cautious, ears twitching.

Pyle moved out into the sun-washed street, where a light, cool wind was swinging a shingle chain and stirring the dust and old manure. Up the street, boots thudded and spurs chinged raucously.

Pyle tensed as Kenny Danaher stumbled out the front door of the sporting house, which sat alone on a wide lot surrounded by sage. The junior ranger's hat was off, and his shoulder-length red hair spilled over his shoulders as he lurched across the house's front porch. Holding both arms across his lower belly, Danaher headed for the steps. He dropped to a knee and lowered his head. Keeping his arms folded taut across his belly, he lifted his chin suddenly and stretched his lips back from his teeth.

His beseeching scream echoed up and down the street. "Wiillll!" "Wiillll!"

He rose to a crouch and bounded down the five porch steps, tripping halfway down and tumbling into the street. He rolled onto his side. Blood glistened across Danaher's belly, welling out between his crossed arms.

"Will!" the kid screamed again. the kid screamed again.

A high-pitched laugh rose from the sporting house, but no one appeared on the porch. If faces peered through the broken windows, Pyle couldn't see them.

He started toward Danaher, thought better of it, and stopped. Whoever had stabbed Kenny would pink Pyle from the windows or the open door.

The Thunder Riders? Pyle's spine turned to jelly. Could his luck have gone that sour? But why in the h.e.l.l wouldn't wouldn't the woolliest gang in the Territory and northern Sonora be after that gold? He'd heard there was over fifty thousand dollars' worth. the woolliest gang in the Territory and northern Sonora be after that gold? He'd heard there was over fifty thousand dollars' worth.

To his right was an alley. Pyle swung toward it, digging his heels in as he dashed between an old harness shop and the doctor's office. He ran around behind the harness shop, then up the alley, leaping trash heaps and what remained of firewood and weed clumps. By the time he reached the rear of the sporting house, his chest was burning and his heels ached in his boots.

At the rear corner of the general store, he took a quick study of the sporting house sitting just west, thirty yards beyond. No faces or rifles shone in the windows on this side of the house. No gunmen waited on the porch or the roof.

Pyle sucked in a deep breath and, squeezing his Henry in both gloved hands, bolted up toward Main Street along the general store's sun-blistered wall.

His spurs rang softly, occasionally catching in the sage. Ten feet from the street, he angled toward the sporting house's front porch, toward where Kenny now knelt in the street, his head down, shoulders rising and falling sharply. Blood stained the dirt beneath him, and liver-colored cords of gut leaked out from between his arms.

Pyle raked his gaze along the front of the sporting house, then dropped to one knee beside Danaher. "I'm gonna get you to the other side of the street, Kenny."

The young ranger only shook his sagging head. "I'm done, Will. Get outta here."

Pyle kept his eyes on the front of the sporting house. It looked abandoned.

"Try to stand. You gotta help me here, boy."

Pyle wrapped his arms around the young man's b.l.o.o.d.y waist, tried to heave him to his feet, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the front of the quiet sporting house. Kenny was nearly a deadweight, but when Pyle had hauled him up almost to standing height, the young ranger straightened his knees, took some of his weight off Pyle.

Pyle swung him around and, holding his rifle in his right hand while wrapping his left arm around Kenny's waist, began leading him toward the other side of the street.

Keeping a firm grip on the young ranger's cartridge belt, Pyle jerked frequent looks over his right shoulder, his spine crawling as he expected a bullet at any second. It seemed to take an hour to reach the narrow gap between a blacksmith shop and Herriman's Jewelers. He pa.s.sed the rain barrel at the mouth of the gap and kicked through dead leaves and rusty cans, heading for the rear of the blacksmith shop. His heart lifted slightly when the jewelry store shielded him and Danaher from the sporting house.

Danaher gave a long, raspy sigh, and his knees buckled. The kid's arm fell from around Pyle's neck, and he hit the alley hard on his knees, then plopped forward on his face.

"Kenny!"

Breathing hard, Pyle knelt beside the young ranger and turned him onto his back. Danaher's eyes were half open, staring gla.s.sily. His chest was still. An awful fetor rose from the wide, gut-leaking wound in his belly.

Pyle scrubbed his jaw, cursed, then ran his hand lightly over the dead ranger's face, closing his eyes. He stood heavily, squeezing his rifle as he stared down at Danaher, whose arms rested slack at his sides, his legs crossed at the ankles.

He took a deep breath, walked back to the mouth of the alley, and shouldering against the jewelry shop on his left, stared at the sporting house on the other side of the street. The west-falling sun gilded the porch posts and upper-story windows.

Pyle gritted his teeth as he jerked the Henry's hammer back. Holding the rifle at port arms, he strode into the street, his jaw hard, eyes boring holes into the house's front wall.

Halfway across the street he raised the Henry's stock to his cheek and glared down the barrel as he shouted, "Show yourselves, you G.o.dd.a.m.n butchers!"

A bullet tore into his right knee a half second before the rifle report reached his ears and he saw the smoke puff in the window right of the sporting house's open front door. The mocking laugh he'd heard before rose again, and a plump round face appeared in the window.

As Pyle's bullet-blasted knee buckled, the old ranger triggered a shot into the window casing to the right of the laughing face. His knee hit the ground, and he groaned as he shifted his weight to the other knee and rammed a fresh round into the Henry's breech. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain and feeling the blood drain into the street, he raised the Henry and swung the barrel toward the house.

Smoke puffed in the open front door. Searing pain lanced his left shoulder. His shot pulled wide as he screamed and jerked straight back, dropping the Henry.

His back hit the street, and he kicked both legs out before him, pain from the bullet-riddled knee setting his entire leg on fire, while the bullet in his shoulder did the same to his chest and left arm.

He lay faceup in the street, grunting and sighing and flailing around with his right hand, trying to locate his rifle. In the bottom periphery of his vision, figures moved. Boots thudded across floorboards, spurs rattled and tw.a.n.ged. A woman's evil chuckle mingled with men's laughter.

Pyle lifted his head. Two men and a woman filed out of the sporting house and into the street. The first man was a big black hombre with a mustache, a long tan duster, and a sombrero. The other man was an Apache in deerskin leggings, wolf coat, red sash, and matching bandanna, with a matching brace of .44's on his hips. He held a Sharps carbine down low in his right hand. He stopped to Pyle's left and deftly kicked the Winchester out of the ranger's reach. The black eyes bored into Pyle's, and he grinned with recognition, flashing a silver eyetooth.

"Old man, you should have quit while you still had some years left!"

"Yasi." Pyle grunted at the renegade Apache who had once scouted for General Crook in the Sierra Madre, before too much tizwin had driven him loco. Two years ago he'd been rumored to be running with the notorious Thunder Riders-mostly Yanqui rapists and murderers who raised h.e.l.l on both sides of the border. "You murderin' savage. I figured I'd run into you sooner or later."

The woman between him and the black man cracked a snaggletoothed grin and laughed. She appeared to be half Mexican with some Indian blood. Short and plump, she wore a heavy brown poncho, fringed deerskin leggings, and moccasins. She cackled delightedly, causing the dried-up flower in her hair to nod. "Sooner rather than later, eh, amigo?"

Pyle summoned all his remaining strength to his right arm, jerked his hand to his holstered .44. The woman laughed again, then leapt forward and, lifting one stubby leg, kicked the revolver into the air over the ranger's head. She stooped, pressing the barrel of her Spencer repeater against Pyle's temple. The desert rose in her hair sagged. Tin and bone amulets jostled on her poncho.

She stared down the rifle's forestock from four feet away. Her flat black eyes twinkled in the dying light.

Toots was her name. Her real handle was something long and Spanish.

Toots thumbed back the Spencer's hammer.

Pyle glared back at her. If Considine's bunch was in the country, all h.e.l.l was about to break loose. He was almost glad he wouldn't be here for it. "Go to h.e.l.l, puta puta b.i.t.c.h." b.i.t.c.h."

"Usted primero," cackled the round-faced, flat-eyed outlaw as she squeezed the trigger. cackled the round-faced, flat-eyed outlaw as she squeezed the trigger. You first. You first.