Free Deadfall by Stephen Lodge Page B

thing. Fuerte, you will ride with me. Henry Ellis will go along with Rod and Kelly. Roscoe, you, Holliday, and Feather can partner up. Pennell, you and Sergeant Stone can ride together. Does that suit everyone?” he added.
    They all nodded, agreeing.
    â€œSo, everyone get some take-along grub from Roscoe,” Charley continued. “He’ll also supply you with extra ammunition in case you happen to run across Armendariz and his gang. If you find any clues that could possibly help lead us to them, then stop who you’re following in their tracks. But don’t kill them. Question them about where Armendariz is headed, and make sure you find out where they’re taking my daughter and her husband. By the time we all meet up again, just maybe we’ll know where they’re going.”
    â€œSo, where shall we meet?” asked Kelly.
    Fuerte answered for all to hear: “Upriver from Laredo about three miles, then inland around six miles, there’s an old, deserted Mexican army fort. It has not been in use since the 1860s. You can find it by following the river road, then turning inland at a small Indian village called Borrego Springs. The fort is six miles due east of that village.”
    â€œLet’s all plan on meeting at that fort in, let’s say, three days,” said Charley. “In the meantime we’ll just hope one of us can find out more information about where Armendariz is taking my daughter . . . my grandson’s parents,” he corrected himself. “For now, it’s getting too late to do anything but eat and get a good night’s rest. I want everyone up by dawn, packed and ready to travel.”

C HAPTER N INE
    Some days earlier, the same day Charley and his grandson had visited Rod and Kelly at their ranch, Holliday at his shooting range, plus nearby Fort Clark where they’d talked Sergeant Stone into joining the outfit, some of the local Mexican bandits who had been plaguing the south-Texas settlements along the border for what seemed like forever, decided to attack one of the isolated ranches on the outskirts of Laredo.
    These machete-wielding desperados had crossed the customarily peaceful river with the intention of robbing the unsuspecting local ranchers and their families. They chose a small, isolated ranch house with a swirl of smoke rising from its chimney.
    Elisabeth Hanna Rogers, the only Caucasian survivor of that bloody incident, it was thought, had been preparing breakfast for her husband, Newt, and their twelve-year-old son, Michael, when the three of them heard riders approaching outside their small ranch house, located east—by three-quarters of a mile—of the Rio Grande River.
    Newt Rogers told his wife to stay inside while he and the boy went out to check on just who it was had come a calling so early in the day. The two males took their hunting rifles with them so Mrs. Rogers would feel somewhat secure in their absence.
    Terrified upon hearing rough Spanish-speaking voices arguing with her husband several moments later, Mrs. Rogers found herself frozen, unable to draw the curtain so she might look out. The woman could only listen as she sat trembling at the kitchen table. All she could hear were the harsh Mexican voices, plus the calming words of her husband, Newt, protesting the foreigners’ presence on what he told them was private property and American soil.
    The arguing outside went on for about three minutes before the voices finally paled off. The group, both men and horses, had moved away from the front porch.
    Finally, Mrs. Rogers built up enough courage to go to the window and peek out. By then, she could only see the backsides of the heavily armed Mexican riders moving away down the entrance road. One thing caught her eye. It was a bright red neckerchief worn by one of the intruders.
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    Her husband and son walked along sullenly beside the Mexicans and their horses. There was another man also being nudged