Ride of the Comancheros [ShadowOfDesire & DeRe]

[ShadowOfDesire]

The small town of Candelaria sat on the north bank of the Rio Grande near the border between Texas and Mexico. Nestled in a meager river basin, the town was surrounded by towering plateaus and twisting canyons that comprised the striking landscape of the Chihuahuan Desert. It was a remote place, though neatly situated to serve as a point of respite for those traveling deeper into either territory.

The nearest railroad was several days ride to the north. The closest city worthy of the title was El Paso, over two hundred miles to the northeast. Despite the isolation, Candelaria boasted all of the major amenities one might need for rest. The central street held several shops, including the mercantile, a barber, trading post, a modest hotel, two saloons (complete with whores), a small cafe, the livery stable, and a blacksmith.

The jail was located one street over and had only two cells that primarily served as drunk tanks for carousing men that posed a danger to themselves or others. The sheriff was an older Mexican man with more interest in women than gunslinging, but his rifle and young deputy kept most in line. Other than the occasional brawl, there was little call for the law in the sleepy town. It held nothing of great value save the horses that were culled from the wild herds in Mexico.

Around four times a year, a few of the major outfits drove large herds of mustangs into town to meet their buyers. The town's population would swell to four times the normal size as folk flooded in from all corners to buy, sell, and trade. Men of the town would be temporarily deputized to handle the influx of hard drinkers and hired guns that spent time in the saloons and brothels. However, business usually concluded in only a few days time, the visitors would drift away, and life would return to the mundane.

During the days of the horse trading, Candelaria was the perfect place to visit and remain unnoticed. No one gave strangers a second look then, for everyone assumed that he or she was in town to buy or sell horses. The townsfolk profited from the events, so visitors were welcome so long as they didn't cause too much trouble. Morgan arrived the day before the horses were due to stake out a particular target and discovered that others of like mind were already gathered there. Someone had brought a gang of hardened killers to Candelaria.

They weren't all that easy to spot at first, but the longer one observed, the more the pattern began to emerge. They frequented the saloons, but didn't drink too much. They played cards, but not too often. They took their pleasures with the saloon girls, but never at the same time. They gambled, but never won more than they lost. They socialized with one another, but never more than a few at a time and always within the same groupings. Each group would casually ignore the others -- a bit too casually. They were being careful not to be too noticeable or cause any trouble. That uncharacteristic caution was what drew attention to them. Morgan had seen their type before and knew they were dangerous.

Plans had to be modified and tactics changed. Morgan had intended to wait for one of the outfits to sell their horses and then ambush them on their way back into Mexico. Very likely, the invading gang aimed to do the same. Deciding to not be ambushed while plotting an ambush, Morgan quickly left town.

Not all of the buyers had arrived. In fact, the largest of them, the one responsible for buying the bulk of the horses, was still on the trail. Morgan mounted up and started into Texas, hoping to catch them about half a day's ride from Candelaria. They traveled with a fair number of men and were well armed, so ambush wasn't an option, but... they might be convinced that an ambush threatened.

The sun was high in the sky when the dust cloud from their horses gave away their position. Morgan spurred onward, horse riding hard out of the canyon. Predictably, a shout went up from the group as they caught sight of the approaching rider.

"You! Boy! What's the hurry? Why you running scared?"

"Ambush, sir!" Morgan shouted breathlessly, voice cracking with panic. "I heard 'em talkin' 'bout setting up in the canyon to ambush you and steal all the money you was bringin'! They's gotta be least two dozen of 'em all hidin' in wait. If you take the western path, you could sneak up behind 'em and catch 'em unawares, but I'd be careful if I was you. They looked plenty mean!" It was almost too easy. Some men just couldn't let a challenge pass them by.

"Come on, men! Let's rid this canyon of bandits! Kid, stay with the wagon. You'll be safe enough." The men on horses broke away, leaving the wagon on the trail. One man stayed in the driver's seat, rifle resting on his lap, guarding the lockbox behind him. Another sat on his horse nearby, keeping watch.

After the others had disappeared from view, Morgan leaned on the saddle's pommel and casually pulled a gun. "I'll take that money now."

The driver snorted. "You, boy? All alone? Looks to me we've got you outnumbered two to one. I doubt you'd even have the guts to pull the trigger." The horseman took note and reached for his weapon. The sound of a hammer being cocked made him freeze.

Morgan smiled, eyes flitting between the men. "Care to make a wager? I'm fast. Too fast for either of you, I bet. Here. I'll make it fair." The hammer released and the gun slid back into the holster. One hand hovered over the polished wooden grip in wait.

The man on horseback hesitated only a heartbeat before jerking at his pistol. It barely cleared his belt before Morgan's shot rang out. He fell, crimson spreading across his shirt from the hole in the chest. The teamster's hands rose off his rifle in surrender as he glared. "You ain't gonna get far, boy."

"Farther than you, old man." The gun cracked again, smoke rising from the barrel, and the man slumped in his seat, light fading from his eyes. The shot startled the spooked wagon horses and they careened toward the canyon. Morgan snatched the strongbox from the cart as it passed and took off in the opposite direction, heading for the maze of hills and valleys between there and El Paso.

It would have been the perfect heist... if not for the Comancheros.

 

[DeRe]

El Desollador knew something was wrong, he could feel it in the desert air. Violent death was a silent birdsong, pitched at a level no human could hear. But El Desollador was not something who could be defined as human, being more akin to the things which lived and died in the desert. Preternatural instincts had been honed by a life in this sadistic stony world, like a scalping knife sharpened to the finest edge. For him the distant bloody betrayal played out as clearly as if it were on a stage before him, and a clear message hummed through his mind - the plan had been changed.

He and his band were on horseback, just cresting a yellow hill which gazed out over a dry and bright gulch. If all had been in order, then a fat coach should have rolled past soon, laden with enough plunder to keep his gang in great comfort. It took great effort - even for a charismatic and fearful figure like El Desollador - to hold a band of Comacheros in order. The incendiary mix of white renegades, Mexican bandits, runaway slaves and rogue Comanche result in constant fights and killings, with nothing more than a terrifying leader to keep them from total self-immolation. A massive payoff would not only fix his gang as the most powerful in the region, it would also provide El Desollador with the means to pave his way towards a victorious war of independence.

The half-breed son of a Scottish trader and Shoshone woman was no ordinary bandit leader. He intended to carve out a utopian realm for himself and any who cared to follow. Inspired by the stories of great leaders he had read in the missionary school, the rebellious and inexorable boy had escaped to the wilds at a young age, growing into infamous and near-mythical figure he now was. The grisly nickname his Mexican peers had given him attested to his skill in flaying prisoners alive, and he wore a flapping leathered cloak which had been stitched together from the stripped skins of several unfortunate prisoners. He cannily co-opted ancient half-remembered legends of the old Indian empires, who carved out hearts with blades of stone and controlled powerful spirits, using the superstiution to increase his own powers.

He turned his pale grey horse to face the gang and began issuing new orders. "It seems our prize has been stolen. The day has been made easier and more difficult." The Flayer's men were used to this kind of cryptic analysis, and followed it as best they could. "Seeker and three men, ride to town and retrieve our people there. Bring them back to the camp. Redeyes, follow the back trail down to valley, and see if you can find the coach we were seeking. The rest, with me." He led his ghostly mare down the hillslope as the band split three ways, hooves thumping in the sand.

These men knew every path through the uncompromising yellow land, and could find their way through it as easily as animals. Guided by the seemingly mystical gifts of their leader, they rode with speed and surety. Within no time they had reached a peculiar jagged row of hills that jutted out from the rock like teeth in a steer's skull. El Desollador silently signalled the party to split and take cover at either end of a narrow defile that had been formed between the fang-like hills. It was a natural ambush position, with the sun and shadow in their favour, and once their prey entered the trap their was no escape.

A short time thereafter a rider came clattering through the defile at urgency, seemingly headless of what lay ahead. Even if they had noticed the rope that was suddenly pulled across their path they had little time to avoid or jump it. Inside their house collapsed with a terrible whinny, hurling its rider across the broken rocks. Before their victim had a chance to recover, they rushed to surround the figure with arms drawn and ready.

 

[ShadowOfDesire]

The kid hadn't had any time to react before the bloody horse had balked and thrown its rider. A crumpled body, long and lanky with legs akimbo, lay within the scattered boulders near one rocky wall of the cliff. They saw mud-flecked pants, a faded brown poncho, and a tangle of long hair beneath a dusty, skewed hat. They closed in cautiously and for good reason.

The movement was slight, easily missed by even those closest, as the first shot came from beneath the poncho, hidden by the fabric. Gunfire echoed off the walls of the gorge, six shots in rapid succession, fanning the hammer with an experienced hand. Men fell screaming as bullets pierced various limbs and body parts. Counter fire was almost immediate and Morgan had to roll behind one of the larger rocks to keep from being riddled. Bullets whizzed past, shattering against shale and flinging stone projectiles in all directions.

In the midst of the chaos, gunfire and ricochets, those with the keenest of ears heard an all too familiar sound -- the hissing sizzle of a lit fuse.

Morgan chucked the first stick of dynamite into the crowd of men, curling into a tight ball behind cover as it landed at their feet. It was a gamble, one that might not pay off, but this was a dire situation. Escape might be possible in the resulting chaos. If not, then at least some of them would also die. It was a grim outlook, but the wilds of untamed the western landscape expected little else.

 

[DeRe]

In their eager hubris the band completely botched their attempted ambush. Within mere moments of unhorsing their quarry, the seemingly helpless figure dropped three of them before they even saw the revolver. The rest scattered like ants kicked from a nest, scurrying for cover. Their hands were cowardly and their aim poor, with their bullets flying everywhere except towards the lethal Kid. Cries and curses echoed hollow in the narrow stone defile, punctuated by the sharp report of wild bullets bouncing around like rubber balls.

Then came the angry hiss of the dynamite, like a crackling snake. Panic was immediate, and the bandits at one end of the ambush fled ingloriously back to the entrance, one of them brought down by the blast. In the tight confines the explosion was an ear-splitting crack, and the thick acrid smoke quickly began to obscure an already chaotic scene. At the other end the second group of bandits were reluctant to advance lest they wander into another facefull of bullets, but were too terrified of their chief to flee outright. It seemed now the hard-fighting Kid had a clear route of escape, through the smoke and carnage past the group of running Comancheros.

El Desollador watched the grisly, farcical scene with a remote disdain. These men were little more than bullet-catchers, but they failed at even that task. Nonetheless, their incompetence could at least work to his advantage. His attuned, vulpine instincts knew exactly how the Kid would escape from this, giving him the narrowest of edges. There was every possibility the ambush could be bungled, so he had prepared for an emergency revision. He kept his eagle gaze fixed on his quarry as they raced through the defile, moving with the speed and purpose of a wily coyote. As soon as they reached the southern entrance - and seemingly, their escape - he would descend upon them from a gallop, appearing practically at their heels. Then he would have them.

 

[ShadowOfDesire]

How Morgan found a horse was a mystery, but the chase was on and the Kid was riding hard out of the chaos. Another stick of dynamite exploded against the canyon wall, causing men to scream and horses to bolt, and the thief rode toward freedom at breakneck speeds. Heart thumping, Morgan didn't have time to pay any mind to the bruises and body aches from being thrown. This was a run for survival now, for the alternative would surely mean death.

The horse's hooves pounded in the dirt and Morgan chanced a glance behind, eyes widening as an Indian rider appeared a mere tail length behind. All six bullets had been spent. With no time to reload and little chance of accomplishing the task while riding hard, Morgan could only hunker down and hope to outrun the pursuer. Boots dug into the animal's side, kicking hard to spur it to faster speeds. The reins cracked against the beast's neck which was already flecked with sweat and froth. The wind was like hot claws that tore at clothes and hair, throwing dust and sand in the face, which made it difficult to see and to breathe. And still Morgan clung to the beast, gripping the saddle with white knuckles and clenched knees.