Ambush Valley

Book 4: Byrnes Family Ranch Novel

by Dusty Richards

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

"Dusty takes readers into the real west at full gallop." — New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas Ride into an unforgettable tale of valiant courage and bloody conflict from the Western Heritage and Spur award--winning author Dusty Richards. . . They've Crossed The Line. . . Chet Byrnes has his hands full taking care of his family and running his ranching operation in Arizona Territory. But he still takes his responsibilities as a deputy U.S. marshal very seriously. Bandits have been crossing the border, cutting a bloody swath of mayhem—stealing horses, robbing banks, and murdering innocent folk—then high-tailing it back to safety in Mexico. For The Last Time The chief U.S. marshal asks Chet to lead a secret task force to stop the raids and round up the border bandits—dead or alive. But the bandits fight back—putting a five-hundred-dollar bounty on Chet's head. Now he's got bushwhackers to deal with, and when he's led into an ambush, it's kill or be killed in a life-or-death showdown. . . "Dusty Richards writes. . .with the flavor of the real West." —Elmer Kelton

Release date: March 4, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

The too-bright West Texas sun shone off everything including the ground with a mirror’s blinding rays. Chet held on to the rope halter on his palomino stallion Barbarossa, leading him down the fresh-cut lumber chute. Barbarossa was his pride and joy. Once on the dirt, the frisky stud circled him on his lead and Chet laughed.

The tiring three-day-long train ride with some layovers ran from San Antonio to Fort Worth; then they switched lines to the new Fort Worth–Denver Railroad line and took it to the end of its tracks. They’d have to drive their wagons the next six hundred or more miles across the thirsty earth to get to their new home in the Arizona Territory.

Barb, as he called him, was being securely hitched to the stout hitching racks set up for tethering animals. He made loud challenges as Chet pulled the tie down tight. He clapped him on the neck. “Go easy big man. We’re half of the way there.”

The others were unloading the farm wagons with a team of Belgium mares to back up and ease the wagons down the steep ramps. Tents were going up and the Mexican boys hired by the railroad agent were helping them to get set up. Susie with her skirt in her hands was running about directing the unloading, in charge of that business. His sister-in-law May kept the young boys back from the wild operations while holding her upset baby daughter Donna in her arms.

The draft horses and then the saddle horses came out of the stock cars until they all were hitched at a long rack. His eighteen-year-old nephew JD had charge of that operation and with the drivers was busy harnessing the teams to hitch to wagons so they could unload the furniture and commodities out of the boxcars and not have to reload them later.

“How is it going?” Chet asked Susie, who looked distressed.

“It will work out somehow.”

He caught her shoulder and stopped her. “I have plenty of help hired here. Slow down. Tell me what’s wrong. I can get it under control.”

She swept the curls back from her face and her shoulders sagged. “I just want it to be right.”

“It will be.”

“Do we have to go on tomorrow?” She looked hard at him for an answer.

“Not necessarily. But it would be better if we did. From the standpoint that every day we waste, we don’t make twenty miles.”

“I understand, but the train ride has been very tiring on May and the children. I thought we needed to let our lives catch up. Your aunt is very tired and she hasn’t done a thing.”

He chuckled. He knew how good Louise was at that.

“No. No,” Susie spoke in Spanish to a boy with a wooden crate he carried around. “That goes in wagon numero three.”

“Oh, sí, señorita.”

“He don’t know three from four.”

She laughed. “I guess you’re right.”

“It will be a deal to get going. So I’ll tell the boys what we’re doing. Staying a day won’t kill us. You settle down. I’ll get a cowboy to run this Mexican help. You go sit down.”

She nodded.

He pointed to the number 3 on the box and directed the youth to find the carita marked 3. The youth agreed and acted surprised that a number and a wagon were the same thing.

The sun went down and the flat cars, stock cars, and boxcars of the railroad were at last unloaded. He shook the agent’s hand and wrote him a check for the amount of a thousand dollars. The man made him out a receipt in the campfire light and thanked him. JD told him the horses were all watered and fed. The crew and family formed a line where beef stew was being served with Dutch oven biscuits. Apple dumplings half filled another large Dutch oven for dessert.

Two young Texas rangers came by and visited with him. They were on duty, not only watching the track building, making sure no union problems occurred in the progress, but also doing peacekeeping as well.

Crane, a young ranger who hailed from close to where they lived, could hardly fathom why Chet had sold out. He said, “I’d’ve shot every one of them bastards.”

“You can’t kill everyone, they’ve got too large a family. Besides they shot my brother clear up in Kansas. No, it was time we found a new place to throw down our bedrolls.”

The other one’s name was Hamby and he agreed that a feud was hard to stop. “That sheriff should have asked for rangers.”

“He tried hard. Come eat, boys. My sister has plenty of food.”

They stood up and brushed the seat of their pants with their hats and thanked him. They all washed up at the start of the line and JD joined them.

“You get many law breakers over here?” he asked them.

“Quite a few,” Hamby said. “They’ve run out here ’cause there was so little law and we get several wanted ones and some new cases too.”

“Is it exciting?” JD asked.

“Naw, once in a while we have to buck up to arrest some guy. But most throw down their guns when we ride up.”

“You fellars must have a big rep,” JD said.

“Naw, we’s just rangers is all.”

Susie handed the first one a tin plate. “Don’t you men skimp none at eating. I’m glad you all are here. We have plenty.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Crane about swallowed his whole Adam’s apple at her words.

Chet was glad his outfit was going to stay over to check everything the next day. Maybe they’d all get a rest because by the next month they would be a long ways west of this spot.

He and JD rode over to look over Tascosa the next day. A town the rangers said was tough. When they got there, some men were having a shooting contest and the boy that won it was William Bonney. He hardly looked out of his teens. He dressed sloppy and had a Mexican puta that hung around his neck all the time. Someone told them he was an enforcer for John Chisum, the big rancher, and probably had some stolen horses he’d brought up there to sell.

Chet and JD both drank a beer and started back to camp, still unimpressed with what was labeled “the greatest town west of Fort Worth.” They also learned the railroad wanted ten thousand dollars to lay tracks to their city and no one there had that kind of money.

Bonney stopped them in the street. “I hear you’re moving to a big ranch over into Arizona.” His weathered felt hat off his head, he beat it with his left hand on his leg. He had to sweep back his uncut hair because of the wind. “Need a good hand or two?”

“Not today, we’ve got enough help thanks.”

Bonney nodded like he was thinking about it, then when they started again, he said, “Hold up, I know that road real good.”

“I imagine you do,” Chet said. “But we have our own help. Thanks.”

“Yeah, watch out for them damn Navajos, they’ll rob you blind.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. You guys ever want to have a shoot off, come see me. I’m the best in the West.”

“I believe you are,” Chet said and they rode off.

When they were far enough away, JD looked back then asked, “Was he wanting to have a gunfight?”

“I think so. I didn’t buy his bait.”

“Just so I didn’t miss the point.” JD shook his head warily. “He sure was a cocky bastard.”

“I have heard his name before.”

“Have you?” They were trotting their horses across the West Texas sagebrush and bunch grass.

“Yeah, they call him Billy the Kid.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

Things went uneventfully in camp, except three rangers this time came for supper that evening, and to meet his sister. Chet believed if any one of those lawmen stole her, he’d beat them up and drag her back.

That second morning, May had the baby in a cradle and looked rested when he came by the tables. The chubby widow of his brother came from a rich family who had shunned her when she married Dale. Chet always thought his brother married her to take care of his three sons and baby daughter. But she was sweet, worked hard, and never complained. The teenage older son of Dale, Heck, had been murdered by road agents. The boy and his stepmother had a struggle getting along. Which is why he took Heck to Arizona looking for a new ranch. He’d grown up so much on their trip—damn, he could hardly even imagine that boy was dead.

Their things were all loaded before the sun came up. Susie and May had a wagon to drive. He knew mules would have been better than the Belgium mares, but he felt even if they had to haul some forage and water for them, in the end he’d raise some great draft mule colts from them.

A Mexican boy named Rio herded the loose horse stock, the other brood mares, and saddle stock. His brother Juan led Barb, the stallion, from his horse, a tough, well-broke gelding. JD was the scout and Chet the trail boss.

Seven veteran ranch hands drove the other teams. They were all experienced cowboys that he knew and trusted. His Aunt Louise drove one of the wagons and Chet knew she would be his biggest pain in the rear of the entire outfit. May’s two younger stepsons had small horses to ride, but he made them ride in a wagon the first few days. They did lots of awing about that but he didn’t want them lost or separated.

They took four days to get to the New Mexico Territory line. A New Mexico rancher there with plenty of water welcomed them. Chet offered to pay him but he scoffed away his offer. “My wife will be proud for the company.”

A man in his thirties, Roy Arny said he’d fought for Texas in the war and was glad to hear someone who talked with a drawl. Chet’s outfit impressed him and Arny sent word for his wife to come meet the white women.

“So you’ve got a place in Arizona?” Arny asked.

“Yes. On the Verde River.”

“When I went out there in ’65 that was all Apache country. That was right at the end of the war. Indians around here weren’t mad, so I came back closer to Texas.”

His windmill was working hard pumping water and creaking in the strong wind. The drivers were watering their stock and had set up a tent for the ladies.

“Nice teams. The trip will be hard on them. I’d have used mules.”

“I can afford to baby them. I plan to raise mules with them when we get out there. They’ll have good mule colts.”

“They damn sure will. Might really bring some top money, too. You sell your place back there?”

“I did. An investor wanted it for his son-in-law. We sold him the cattle, mules, and lots more. Oh, and two colts out of my stallion. They paid for the railroad bill to get us up here.”

He and Chet leaned with their backs to the tall corral. Arny rolled a cigarette, lit it and puffed on it. He offered the makings to Chet. “You want a smoke?”

Chet shook his head.

“I seen that claybank hoss. Where did he come from?”

“Mexico. The Barbarousa Hacienda. I bought him as a colt. They seldom sell their stallions.”

“He looks like a helluva horse.”

“He really is.”

“You must have had a big outfit down there in Texas.”

“We did, but a family feud developed and I lost my brother. We were shot at and lots of bad things happened. Made up my mind I needed to find some new ground. I was lucky this ranch we have now was run down. The owner lived back East and I think he was afraid of the manager he had hired. I bought it—I think it’s worth the money.”

“You know that Arizona ain’t the Texas hill country?”

Chet nodded. “But you can’t live in a land where your life and your family is threatened every day.”

“No, I guess not. Which one of these ladies is your wife?” Arny asked as his own wife, carrying a child and followed by two more, came up the sandy driveway.

“My sis is the gal over there. Her name is Susie Byrnes. I don’t have a wife.”

“Would you introduce my wife Neddy to her?”

“Sure.”

After the women were introduced, Susie took her and the kids inside the tent. He and Arny talked more about ranching.

JD rode in and dismounted. Chet introduced his nephew to Arny. Then he asked JD how the next day looked.

“Fine. There’s some water about twenty miles west in a small dry wash.”

“Dead Man’s Creek,” Arny said. “The next water is thirty miles from there. Then it’s thirty more to a trading post.”

“We’ve got a water wagon to get us by.”

“Fill it up every chance you get.”

“We will,” Chet said. “The women must have coffee on by now. Join us.”

“Sure sounds good. We run out a couple weeks ago. Roasted barley won’t replace it. I need to go get some.”

“JD, go get his wife some Arbuckle coffee from the supply wagon.”

Arny frowned at him. “I never said that to get charity.”

“Ease off. We’re watering stock, filling our water wagon. A couple of pounds of coffee ain’t a high price to pay for all that.”

“Whatever you say. That coffee will damn sure make Neddy smile.” The two men walked to the tent.

They’d covered a hundred miles and had at least five hundred more to go.

The next few days some mountain would stick up way off, and it would take several days to reach its base. They found grass for their stock and water. Some of the water had so much alkali in it was hard to swallow. They tried to keep good water in the drinking barrels on the wagons but each mile the wheels turned, that task grew harder.

San Juan Mission had several small deep lakes of fresh water. The people were Hispanic and acted glad to see them. They took a day off, washed clothes, and bathed. Everyone needed a rest. A rancher sold them more hay. They had not used a lot of it, but Chet wanted to be certain so they added to the supply.

One of his drivers, Billy Cotton, has a bad boil rise on his butt that needed lancing. Blond-headed and hardly out of his teens, the lanky boy was operated on by a white doctor and told to lie flat down on his belly for the next few days while it healed. Chet drove his mares and Billy was on a bed in Susie’s wagon, red-faced most of the time as a boy could be about his condition, surrounded by the women.

Chet wasn’t sure who was the most glad when he healed enough to sit on a pillow and could drive his own wagon again. Flocks of sheep herded by mere boys roamed the country. They had several “guests” stop by at night and stagecoaches passed them in the daytime coming and going.

A few of the drop-ins were rough men who from behind their beards looked like cutthroat killers, but they acted polite and Susie shared her food with them like they were neighbors. Chet imagined that they were so damn glad to have a woman-cooked-meal, they’d act nice at any cost.

Most of their kind ate cross-legged on the ground outside the tent and were armed to the teeth with pistols and large knives, and wore buckskin clothes. Their horses, jaded mustangs, were ridden hard and put away wet. But they acted polite like their mothers had backhanded them often for any infractions to her code.

May complained that some of them made her shudder with how they gazed at her. Chet told her that outside of Indian women most white women were a treat for those men to simply look at.

She frowned at him. “If one of them ever asks you for me, tell them no.”

He’d hugged her shoulders and said, “Why they may be rich.”

“I don’t need them. If they can’t take a bath and shave once in a while, I want no part of them, rich or not.”

The closer they drew to the Rio Grande, which he considered a third or so of the way, they moved into more mountains and junipers. Even a few pine trees and cooler nights. So far they’d only lost one Belgium mare to colic and she had to be destroyed.

He had a brief talk with Susie how on the Rio Grande at Bernallio Crossing they would take some time to catch up and repair everything that needed their attention.

“Two days we will be there, but I understand that mountain road goes out off into there is real steep. We may have to double-team the wagons and use a log brake on the hind wheels going down there. We could’ve gone to Santa Fe, but I figure that would take almost a week longer.”

She bobbed her head in agreement. “We didn’t need any longer. I am just glad we had the money to take that train ride to Tascosa and the end of the tracks. But we made half that trip in three hard days. Here we’ve been over half a month just getting to the Rio Grande.”

“It’s a long ways out there. I only hope the barrier between us and the Reynolds is great enough.”

She agreed. “You look tired. Are you getting any sleep?”

“Enough. We’ll rest and wash up at the river.”

“Good. Step by step we’re getting there.” She reached over and squeezed his hands on the table. “No one said this would be easy. But I agree life back there was impossible.”

“Maybe I should have found a place closer?”

“No, when I heard you first describe the ranch you had bought, I knew it would be a grand place for all of us.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. “It will be. I promise.”

Bernallio Crossing on the Rio Grande River consisted of a mission, a small town on the banks of the river, a ferry, and several farmers on irrigated farms up and down the valley. He bought frijoles and shucked corn, some of which he had ground at the water mill into meal for the women to use. They loaded some good hay and the town had a fiesta for them. Chet knew the Hispanic people and they needed little reason to host such a firecracker-popping event with wine, dancing, and a good time to be had by all.

He danced half the night away with a dark-eyed woman in her twenties named Consuela. Her husband had been killed in a flood trying to save some of their stock. She spoke some English and he savvied enough Spanish so they had a great evening. They laughed and she talked about her village, her life, and him about moving.

Late in the night the music went on, and she invited him to her casa. He told her he must first check on his people and his camp. That he only had one horse with him.

“Oh, mi amigo, I can ride double if he don’t buck me off.”

“He won’t buck.”

“Good. Let’s go then.”

He mounted the stout bay, bent over, gave her his arm and she swung up like a feather behind him in a pile of slips and petticoats. She clung to him. The horse acted stiff legged the first block of dark street but then set into a running walk. At the camp, two of his rifle-armed cowboys came out and told him all was well.

He thanked them and from there she guided him to her casa. Leaning forward, she pointed out the way through the mesquite trees, barking dogs, and dark houses. Her arms around his waist, she squeezed him from time to time and laughed

“Will we wake anyone?” he asked.

“No, my children are at my mamacita’s.”

At her front door, he drew his spur-clad boot over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground. He caught her in his arms and kissed her. Then he carried her through the door.

She laughed easily. “Oh, hombre, you will be fun for me to entertain you.”

With a big smile, he agreed with her.

The mountain range in the west rose tall and hosted a long hard nine mile grade. Halfway up he looked back at the green farmland that lined the river. Good-bye, Consuela. On the grade he found one wagon stalled, so he tied his lariat on to the tongue of JD’s heavy wagon and made a dally on the horn. The bay horse helped the team dig in, going uphill over the worst grade of all. At last on flat ground, he went back to help the others. They were all soon on top. Near noon they all rested atop the flat country dotted with small farms. Parked beside the road they waved at a dust-stirring stage that passed them eastbound.

Chet’s wagon train drew its way westward. They found water and then used the tank wagon in dry stretches, refilling it at missions and small villages. He was so grateful his horses were shod and had everyone take great care crossing the volcanic fields with their sharp-edged glasslike rocks, which worried him for close to a day. On the western end they pulled off and made certain all the stock was safe.

“No problem,” JD reported.

“We all better offer a prayer,” Chet said, grateful for the safe passage. The ones close by gathered and he offered a short thank you to God for their delivery.

In another few days they reached Gallup and then the final fort in New Mexico. They took a day to rest and gather their wits. By his calculation they were within two weeks of their destination in Camp Verde. With no serious safety mistakes, besides being weary, they lounged around in camp and got some catch-up on their sleep.

His Aunt Louise complained she was no muleskinner and when would they reach this next hell he had picked out for them. Chet wanted to tell her he had offered her a place in town and a stipend to stay in Texas. An offer she scoffed away telling him she could drive any team he had. But he kept his tongue—there was no way to reach her at times when she was in her cranky stages.

Susie made a survey of her supplies and told him they would have plenty of everything. JD and the men told him things were going much smoother than they thought it would. He thanked them all for trying so hard. He was so pleased they had not driven their cattle as well. From his previous experience driving herds to Kansas, he’d found such treks to be bitter journeys.

The wagon train moved on the next day. There were fewer settlements in the region ahead and his written guide of the Captain Marcy Road that he and JD used indicated that water sources would be harder to find.

West of Gallup, an Indian woman wrapped in a trade blanket stood beside a small wagon with a dead horse in the shafts lying in the road. Chet rode up, dismounted, and removed his hat.

“How did he die?” he asked, motioning to the dead horse.

“He was fine until he stumbled and fell facedown,” she said with a shrug.

Amazed that she spoke English so well, he nodded. “How far are you from your home?”

“Two days.”

She looked to be in her late teens. A handsome young woman and very straight-backed.

“Is there anyone can take you home?”

“I have no idea. I hoped some of my people would be coming along.”

JD rode in and stepped off his horse. “What happened, Chet?”

“Her horse fell down dead.”

“What do we need to do?”

“She says she lives two days from here and hopes some of her people will come by.”

“What can we do?”

Chet turned to her. “Is your place west of here?”

She nodded.

“We can hook your wagon to one of ours and haul you in that direction. My name is Chet Byrnes. This is JD my scout.”

“Nice to meet both of you. My name is Judy Bell.”

He looked at the food and supplies that she must have brought in her wagon.

“Mrs. Bell, I think your supplies will ride in the wagon if we don’t go too fast when we pull it behind one of ours.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “My name is Judy. I have no husband.”

“Oh. All right. I am sorry.”

“No problem. I would appreciate that very much.”

“Good.” He stepped out and waved Frank, one of his drivers, over from the file, and JD began to unhook the harness. They stripped the dead animal out of his harness and the three men and she pushed the wagon back. The shafts were soon hooked and tied to Frank’s wagon. Her harness was removed and loaded. Next the dead horse was dragged off the road. Chet took her up the line to Susie’s parked wagon. Meanwhile JD and Frank made sure the wagon would follow.

“Susie, this is Judy Bell. That was her horse that died unexpected. She will be riding with us. She speaks good English.”

“Oh, so nice to meet you,” his sister said.

“No, I am so grateful to all of you for stopping for a poor Indian woman.”

“Come get in our wagon. I am certain we can move on.”

Chet nodded and he helped them both into the wagon. With a salute, he mounted up again, gave a shout, and the wagon train was on its way again across great sweeping grassland. The belly-tall grass fascinated him. These regions had never had buffalo like the central plains, so the grass was waving to any stockman who crossed it.

The day was uneventful, and that evening Chet spoke more to the Indian woman.

“Do you live with your family?”

“No, I live with an older woman, her name is Grandmother. We have sheep and goats. We weave rugs and blankets for sale.”

“Navajos don’t live in tepees?” he asked.

“No, we have hogans. Six-sided log cabins. The sun shines in our front door every day.”

“I have seen some that are abandoned.”

“If a person dies in one, we simply move out of it. No one will ever live in it again.”

“Where did you learn English?” He was looking at his hands so he did not make her too uncomfortable to talk to him.

“We had a mission school in my village.”

“Did you go to the prison camp?”

She nodded about the incarceration of her people down in New Mexico where they died in great numbers before finally the Navajos promised to fight no more. Then the government turned them loose and many more died on the walk back to their land from way down south in New Mexico.

“You have no husband?”

“No. Maybe I speak too much.”

He laughed.

She drew her spine up. “My people lost many leaders in our confinement down there. We need strong people to keep our nation strong. I must scare men away when I shout, ‘Stand up!’ They say be quiet Judy Bell, the white man may send us back to hell.”

She amused him with her strong ways. He was reminded of the woman Mary, who led the Yava-pais and who he helped so her people survived. This woman had the same strength.

That evening he told her about a horse they would give her from their saddle stock. “JD and the other drivers think we have a horse that will pull your wagon home. He will be our gift. He’s a saddle horse and very gentle. You can drive him tomorrow and see so when you have to leave us that he will work for you.”

“That is very generous of you and your family. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

“He’s a gift.”

“I know a gift. But I am also proud.”

“Unless you can magic-like make a horse, you’ll have to accept our horse.” He shook his head. “I am not being mean or bossy.”

He thought she would cry.

She dropped her chin. “I am grateful for all you and your family have done for me.”

“No need to be sad.”

She tried to smile. “You wondered why I have no man. I wonder why you have no wife. Your sister may be the reason. She is a great leader for you. She does much work.”

“Susie is a good person. But she’s pushed me at a woman in the past—it did not work out. The woman had to stay there and care for her folks in Texas.”

“Oh, I am sorry. We all must do things that are not our cause. I will drive your horse with pride and return him some day.”

“He is a gift for you to keep.”

“I may want to see yo. . .