Free Blood on the Verde River by Dusty Richards Page B

slaver. He expected to be prosecuted and took the short way out.”
    â€œI understand. I appreciate you coming to me yesterday. He simply had many of us fooled.”
    â€œWe’re going to Mexico in the morning.”
    White looked taken aback. “If you three are going to Mexico, I’ll pray for your souls.”
    â€œGood,” Chet said. “We’ll need lots of prayers. Plenty of them and candles burning at the altar.”

C HAPTER 5
    Mexico wasn’t all blaring trumpets. Two days later, they were eighty miles of desert south of the U.S. border in a small village called Costa Something. All they could see was more Mexican thorny desert. There were lots of hip-shaking women in the cantina. Castanets were cracking and guitars were strumming like bumble bees in the background, then some would-be trumpet player would raise up and play the song Santa Anna had played for the Alamo defenders—“No Quarter Given.”
    Chet, JD, and Jesus drank red wine and watched the cantina activity as they ate fire-roasted chicken off the bones set in a big dish in the center of their table. The tortillas were hot and freshly made.
    â€œHow much farther to Baca’s Hacienda?” Chet asked the bartender after they’d finished eating.
    â€œAnother hot day’s long ride, señor.”
    â€œGood, we can finally get there.” Chet thanked him, paid his bill, and he and Jesus left. JD was in the doorway, kissing a lovely brown-skinned girl good-bye and promising her he’d be back for her one day.
    Halfway down the street, Chet and Jesus were laughing about him. They turned in the saddle when he shouted, “Wait, I’m coming.”
    In a small village named St. James, they found a small cantina and a bartender who told them how to find the Baca Hacienda. Sitting on homemade benches at tables, JD and Jesus drank a local-made, thick beer and Chet had a glass of red wine. From behind the one long board on top of barrels for a bar, the man talked to them about the three whores who were sleeping and how much beer cost him.
    â€œI can wake them up if you want to use one.”
    â€œNo, not today.” Chet waved his offer away.
    â€œBut they are beautiful, señor.”
    Chet shook his head. They needed to eat supper and find a place to camp for the night. In the morning, they’d make the ride out to Baca’s ranchero.
    They left the cantina and found a place to camp along the small running river and bought a burro load of firewood for a quarter. About sunset, three riders stopped by their camp. They weren’t ordinary vaqueros and Chet noted they were well armed.
    The one who appeared in charge, said, “Good evening señor. I hear you wish to speak to my patron, Don Baca.”
    â€œYes, if it’s no trouble. I wish to talk to him about a colt I have. I’d like to bargain with him.”
    The man shook his head. “Señor Baca does not need any gringo horses. He has some great stallions already of his own.”
    â€œMy colt is a Barbarossa bred horse.”
    â€œYou have such a horse?” The man with the thick mustache ran his finger under his nose and looked hard at him.
    â€œYes. I have a great stallion from that ranch.”
    The vaquero shook his heavy sombrero in disbelief. “No one has one of those outside that ranch. They geld all of them they sell.”
    â€œA boy on a mare once outran their best horse in a race, winning the horse for service to his mare. He sold me this horse, the only one outside of the hacienda. Will the señor talk to me?”
    Very serious-like the man nodded. “I will tell him you are coming. Your name, señor?”
    â€œChet Byrnes, Quarter Circle Z Ranch at Camp Verde, Arizona Territory.”
    The man swept off his sombrero and bowed. “Welcome to our hacienda, Señor Byrnes. I am sure the patron will talk to you in the morning at the main casa. My name is