Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Page 3

  As he drifted back toward the river valley wall and its rugged, rocky cliffs, Mobley saw several small indentations that might do, but he had to be sure. There would be no second chance.

  After two miles of hard galloping, Mobley saw what he was looking for. An eroded cut in the cliff wall some fifty yards across, lay directly ahead. Brush and reeds on the plain before it suggested the presence of moisture leaking from the heights. Boulders lay strewn about and an overhang of the cliff face provided shade, which might become an important factor later in the afternoon. It was as good a place as any, and better than most likely to be found on short notice.

  Having committed himself and out of immediate danger, Mobley relaxed long enough for fear and excitement to turn into anger. He could feel the change come, a slow building growl that issued from deep in his throat, just as it did when someone was openly contemptuous in his court, or who had chosen unwisely to taunt him for his great height. These swine had run him long enough. It was time for a Tennessee turn about, a little whittlin’ an’ whuppin’ of his own.

  Gradually slowing his horse, Mobley allowed the two lead riders to close on him. When they came within two hundred yards, he reined Meteor to a quick sliding stop and dismounted. The animal was blowing hard, but was well disciplined in this particular maneuver. Hooves spread wide, she stood stock still as he yanked his Winchester from the rear mounted saddle scabbard and laid it across the yellow rain gear rolled and tied above the saddle bags.

  He whispered softly as he snugged the rifle to his cheek. “Come on boys, you’ve a date with the Devil and he’s a knockin’ at the door.”

  The first round shattered the quiet of the valley as it sped on its way; the empty cartridge careening through the air as Mobley automatically chambered and carefully fired another. A flock of blackbirds rose from the river rushes in a wild flush as the shots echoed from cliff to cliff. Burned black powder smoke, acrid and strangely sweet, wafted into his nose. He knew he had not missed.

  Thank you, Angus. One rider lay dead in the grass, his legs twitching. The other’s boot had caught in a stirrup. His horse was now bouncing his mortally wounded body across the prairie as it chased the rider-less horse of his partner. Both men likely died thinking they were safe, a hundred yards away on fast moving horses.

  Two down, thirteen to go. Time to move. Back into the saddle, legs sweeping a wide arc, Mobley kept his rifle in hand and turned directly for the cliff face. The horse’s tension and desire to run vibrated through Mobley’s legs, but he held her to a gentle lope. If he could whittle the odds further, he might be able to try another run. Meteor must be allowed to work off some of her heat or she would tire too quickly when the time came. Looking back, Mobley could see the remaining riders, barely visible by their dust on the horizon, and judged they would not attempt to get close just yet. They knew as well as he that he could not run forever. If they could stay within reasonable range and keep some of their horses fresh, he must eventually face them and shoot it out.

  Arriving at the cliff face, Mobley saw with relief a trickle of crystal clear water running out of the draw. It was headed generally south toward the river, but he could not see where it made its entry into that larger body.

  He scanned the small canyon opening, looking for a place to make his fort, distracted for an instant by what he thought a wisp of smoke coming from the top. He studied the cliff for a moment, but saw nothing.

  Looking farther down the cliff face, he spotted a small recess at the base of the wall, boulders protecting it on three sides. The recess itself, some six feet in width, sloped generally upwards back into the draw. No problem with ricochets. But, if they decided to climb the cliff, he’d be in trouble from the far side.

  Mobley turned into the opening, dodged low salty smelling rushes and green moss covered rocks, leaped to the ground and secured the Appaloosa to a clump of brush behind a large boulder. He snatched his spare ammunition from the saddlebag, and then scrambled over the jumble of huge rocks to stand in front of the small recess.

  Satisfied he had chosen the best possible site for the coming battle, Mobley settled into the cover. He jerked his matched .45 caliber Colt’s pistols from the wide triple wrapped red cummerbund around his waist, checked to make sure the cartridges were flush with the cylinder and would not hang up, then returned them to his sash belt. He thumbed two more shells into the rifle and mentally calculated the shots he would have. Fifteen cartridges were in the special-order, 30 inch barreled Winchester, and twelve total in the two pistols. There would be no room for error if he did not have time to reload.

  Watching the riders approach, Mobley adjusted the folding sight on the stock of the rifle to its 200 yard gradient, close to maximum effective range for the new ‘73 Winchester. At such distance, the 44-40 bullet would drop slightly more than two feet. Beyond that, its trajectory would deteriorate so radically only the very best marksman could hope to make a killing shot.

  Resting the barrel comfortably on the boulder, he examined his enemies as they loped steadily toward his fort. The chill of impending doom inched up the back of his neck. A bitter metallic taste filled his mouth. Vicious and wild, these men looked as if they had never seen the kindness of a mother. Their clothes were outlandish combinations of weird looking striped pants, breechclouts, and fancy vests. Tall crowned hats bounced hilariously on several heads as they galloped. Some looked white, others dark-Indian or Mexican, he could not tell. Several had bandoliers stretched across partially bare chests. All held shiny new, “Yellow Boy,” model 1866 Winchesters and were exceptionally well mounted.

  The horses were unmistakably full-blooded Arabians. The distinctive, graceful and delicate form of the classic small headed black stallion lightly controlled by the leader of the bunch left no doubt. The horse did not just lope. It pranced its way forward, head high, tail cocked, straining at the bit as if it had been trained as a pacer. The other Arabians were of varying colors and shades. Whoever these men were, they were very well equipped. Few breeds could match the stamina of a well conditioned Arabian. Meteor might have had trouble keeping in front. Mobley knew then he’d made the right decision, to fort up.

  Mobley began the slow process of concentration, of mental cleansing that would allow him to focus all of his being on the sights of his rifle, the target held in slight blur. He tracked the leader, eye focus shifting subtly now between target and sight.

  There was something very strange about these men. They looked mostly Indian, Comanches probably, but the Mexican sombreros on some of them did not make sense. They were hundreds of miles from the nearest Mexican settlements and from what he’d heard, large groups of Mexicans were poorly received this far north.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, he allowed his breath to escape slowly. Whoever they were, if they were seriously stupid they would keep riding straight in, hoping to get him with a lucky shot.

  Come on, boys. Let’s see what you’ve got in them gourds, brains or prairie chips.

  It would take fifteen to twenty seconds at full gallop for the riders to cover the ground between his best range to point blank. In that time, he knew he could accurately fire most of the rifle’s full magazine. If they came straight at him, deflection would be minimal, his fire effective. If not, he was in big trouble.

  The riders neither slowed their approach nor spread out. Confident, whooping and hollering, they began to die as Mobley fired carefully and steadily using the boulder as a rest. There was nothing more dangerous; he recalled his grandfather say, than a good shot with a rifle who does not panic. It had been proven during the late Civil War, as studies revealed that in every battle, the most casualties were inflicted by the steady hand of the individual sharpshooter.

  Mobley aimed first at those lagging behind, so as not to alert the front riders to the real danger of his rifle until it was too late for them to take evasive action. Two fell hard, blood exploding from naked chests, legs akimbo as they hit the earth, before the leader looked back. He jerked his ho
rse to a sliding stop, then turned and circled away, whacking the black stallion with the barrel of his rifle. The rest began to check rein, but two more fell before they could scatter out of the killing zone.

  One of the fallen was mortally wounded but cried out for help as he struggled to get to his feet, blood pouring from the walnut sized hole in his chest. The leader, a pock-faced, dark haired fellow with feathers sprouting from his headband and red paint on his arms and cheeks, was clearly wild with anger. He circled recklessly back to his fallen comrade, casually took aim with a pistol and shot the pleading man through the head.

  Bile rose into Mobley’s throat, competing with the massive infusion of adrenaline and its immediate after effect for control of his stomach. As he stared at the furious, murderous leader, Mobley’s mood returned to anger. He could feel his teeth clench, jaw muscles flexing into tight knots. He would not let these rotten vermin win. His blood seemed to burn as his temper flared. He would fight to his last breath.

  Rising boldly from behind the protection of his rock, Mobley raised his arm and gave them his best imitation of a lewd Italian street gesture, arm bent and shoving upward. “HEY, WHAT’S THE MATTER YA ROTTEN PECKERNECKS? YA LOST YOUR TESTICULARS? COME ON BACK, LET’S PLAY SOME MORE.”

  Now the riders whooped and screamed. They galloped back and forth firing wildly, waving their arms, yelling at one another until the feather-haired leader managed to restore order. They gathered for a moment, and then two bare-chested Indians rode off in opposite directions along the cliff base. Obviously, they were looking for ways to get above and fire down on him.

  “WELL, FOOT!”

  Mobley was still blind with anger, but he could feel it fading away, as it usually did. When very angry, his grandmother, who could never have brought herself to use a profanity, created her own vocabulary. “Oh, FOOT!” she would say, and you knew, if you had a brain, to be somewhere else before she came out with a green hickory switch and striped your bottom. Mobley might have said something of a more colorful nature, had he thought hard about it, but he had long ago adopted grandmother Featherheart’s method, rather than be judged a nasty mouthed lout by his more prudish colleagues. Except of course, when someone insulted him or his court, then all pretense of following the rules disappeared.

  He dropped back behind the rock to replace the expended cartridges in his rifle. He’d pissed them good, but now they were starting to think. The next attack would be coordinated, with men in front and above. As his mind raced, there was only one thing he could think to do. Reduce the odds even more before they all got into position.

  Mobley quickly raised the sight on his rifle to 300 yards. The survivors of the first attack were milling around at about that distance, waving their arms and screaming at one another.

  “You boys’d better step back a teensy bit,” he whispered as he once again snugged his cheek tightly against the rifle stock. “It ain’t safe out here.”

  Carefully gauging the light breeze out of the southwest, he caressed the sensitive trigger of the brand new rifle, allowing the feel of the weapon and the gentle odors of polished wood and gun oil flow through his senses. Angus Meadows, also an accomplished gunsmith, had delicately filed the sear to reduce the rifle’s trigger pull to slightly less than three pounds. Not so light as to be unsafe, but enough to help an average shooter become a dangerous marksman.

  Mobley picked out the largest of the group, focused his attention on the man and the sight, and relaxed as best he could. The key to good shooting was to concentrate on the sight picture without thought as to when the weapon would fire. Just start squeezing and let it happen. Like as not, your target would drop like a stone.

  The large man stopped moving laterally long enough for Mobley to settle the sight on the center of his chest. A soft straight back stroke on the trigger, a firm recoil, a comforting, KA-POCK. It was a long shot, one easily missed, but this time on target. Dust flew from the rider’s shirt as the bullet impacted his chest and knocked him to the ground. Mobley levered a new round into the chamber and slipped another into the magazine to replace the one fired.

  The remaining riders bolted, like chickens scattering from a fox, running for the safety of greater distance. The leader stood in his stirrups yelling, waving wildly for them to come back. Eventually they did. Mobley began to line up on another, but they all started moving erratically. The leader had correctly judged if they kept moving, their chances of being hit were greatly diminished. Mobley elected to hold his fire until a more propitious moment.

  He slumped back behind his rock, knees up, the forestock of the rifle resting flush against his sharply straight nose and forehead. Stay calm. Exhaling slowly, he watched his breath turn to mist as it swept past the hot metal of the barrel, then spiral off into nothingness.

  Was that to be his fate, to simply disappear on the prairie as if he had never existed? An ephemeral wisp of what once was?

  WHACK! Mobley slapped himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. Concentrate! There had to be a way out. General Grant wouldn’t be thinking of ephemeral wisps of vapor. He’d be preparing to attack. That’s what he’d always done. But Grant had had the advantage of superior numbers. He ground his opposition down until they could fight no more. A grand strategist; but here, now, was a classic tactical situation. Mobley was outnumbered eight to one. The enemy held the high ground, about to attack from two different directions. He had three choices: stay where he was, try to run again, or like Grant, attack.

  Blast that man anyway, Mobley thought. He’d still be in Tennessee if not for Grant, doing real work for real people who appreciated his sense of justice. On the other hand, who could pass up a lifetime appointment? Even if it did come with a few strings? He was just returning a favor, after all, wasn’t he, not compromising his judicial position? But, somehow, he’d thought a man in Grant’s position could have come up with a better way to do what he needed to do.

  Mobley shucked off his buckskin jacket and laid it across the boulder, thinking it might keep the rifle stock from becoming scratched as it recoiled, then wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Once again he sighted down the barrel, then began to chuckle. A surprise attack? Take out as many as he could as they came, then charge them back. Like Chamberlain’s bayonet charge at Gettysburg when he ran out of ammunition. A desperation move. He’d probably not survive, but at least he’d go out in a blaze of glory.

  CHAPTER 2

  Juan Antonio Lopez was starving. He may have been number uno of bandidos, servant of no man, feared by all, but he was on his last legs, barely able to walk. Which was why he was sitting, knees hugged to his chest, eyes staring unfocused at the smoldering buffalo chip.

  Everything about Juan was dirty, skinny and ragged. His own self-image, that imaginary thing that kept old men looking at girls and old ladies admiring the tight pants of the vaquero, as if they could do anything about it, no longer matched his true state, and he knew it. His cheeks were sunken. He could feel them. His eyes were so hollow they hurt, even when shading them with his hand. And his blood, that precious thing that must be conserved at all costs, now leaked from his gums almost continuously. Worst of all, in his mind, the beautiful curly dark hair that so many women had adored and could not resist fingering, was now pulled back in a tail under a sombrero crawling with prairie lice.

  Staring between his closely held knees, Juan licked his lips and wiped his ragged mustache against the thinning wool fabric of his pantalones, the flared leather and wool trousers of a proud vaquero, silver conchos running down the stripe of each side.

  The rodent sizzled, sputtered, and popped like gunfire over the smoldering chip. Acrid white smoke swirled about, assaulting Juan’s eyes and stinging his nose. He closed his eyes, but did not turn away. Alone in his pain, Juan languished in a world far, far away. His own world, of his own making.

  He was miserable. Not melancholic. A whore in winter without a favorite man, a vaquero lamenting lost love in soulful
song; they, were melancholic. Juan was angry and past desperate. Hatred had become his only motivation, staying alive a moment by moment affair.

  Chased out of every prairie town he had come upon, uneasily fed and encouraged to leave by fellow Mexicans who saw him a threat to their precarious lives, Juan had struggled on. He was not welcome in Mexico, and a Mexican was tolerated in this part of Texas only so long as he found and stayed in his place. For a Mexican like Juan, who refused subservience and carried his guns in open defiance of bigots and their unwritten law, death waited in each new town. So far, a faster man had not appeared, and Juan had managed to escape the many posses out to avenge the drunken gringos who had mistaken him for easy prey. He’d lost count of the number, but not the feeling of anger satisfied as he’d watched them die.

  Stroking his bushy, unkempt mustache, Juan sensed a subtle shift in the prairie wind. He opened his eyes and slipped back into reality. The smoke moved away, irritated him no more, but he hated the wind. It never stopped, never left a man alone, at peace with himself. Worse, when it turned humid, as it had for several days, it foretold the coming of towering thunderstorms from which there would be no shelter.

  Hurry up, rat. In the last few days, Juan had been reduced to eating prairie grass, the rodent a windfall. When it was gone, he would have nothing but his anger. He’d considered the despicable and probably final act of shooting and eating his horse, but knew a man stranded on the prairie without a horse could not hope to survive.

  Hunched over the fire, smoke drifting back up again and around his destitute sombrero, Juan saw that the scrawny prairie dog was crisp, but found his enthusiasm for the meal waning. His thoughts drifted to the other rat in his life, the great General Santa Anna. Father. As his famished mind twisted the memory, the old general was responsible for most of his troubles. His anger toward Santa Anna knew no bounds. He savored it, tasted the bile of it, and took comfort in black thoughts of revenge, of gory murder most foul.