haze of powder smoke, of several Indians tumbling lifelessly from their ponies. The others hauled their mounts around, turned back by the withering hail of lead thrown out by Longarm.
On the other side of the cluster of boulders, Coffin was doing likewise. His shots weren’t quite as accurate as Longarm’s, but he dropped enough of the Yaquis to force them to retreat. The flanking maneuver had failed, and the stranger on the black horse was still wreaking havoc among the rest of the war party. Suddenly, all the surviving Yaquis broke and ran, riding hard toward the hills to the west, which were more rugged than those to the east or south. The riderless ponies followed them. Longarm and Coffin stood up in order to throw some final shots after them, and the stranger holstered his smoking Colts and drew his own Winchester from its sheath. He added his fire to that of Longarm and Coffin. The raking shots followed the Yaquis and kept them moving until they had disappeared over a distant crest.
“I don’t know, but I plan to reload as quick as I can anyway,” replied Longarm. He went over to the bay, which was waiting close by with reins trailing on the rocky ground, and took a box of cartridges from the saddlebags. He thumbed fresh ones into the loading gate of the rifle, and then picked up the empty brass that had scattered around his feet as he ejected the spent shells.
“Here comes that fella,” said Coffin. Longarm looked up and saw the stranger jogging easily toward them on the big black horse.
Only he wasn’t completely a stranger, Longarm realized with a surge of recognition. He had seen this man before.
“Howdy, fellas,” the rider said in a deep, resonant voice as he brought the black to a halt at the edge of the rocks. “Looked like you had a mess of trouble on your plates. Hope you don’t mind that I helped clean it up.”
“I don’t mind one damn bit, mister,” Coffin said fervently. “As far as I can see, you saved our bacon just now, and I’m mighty obliged.”
“Glad to help.” The man cuffed back his broad-brimmed hat, and the smile that played across his wide mouth relieved the grim cast of his features with their hawk-like nose, strong jaw, and cold eyes of pale gray. “Name’s Walt Scott.”
“I’m Lazarus Coffin, and this here’s Custis Long.” Coffin grinned. “What’re the odds we’d run into another gringo this far south of the border right when we needed help?”
Longarm wondered that too, and wondered as well just how much of a coincidence it was that this stranger who called himself Walt Scott had shown up at just the right moment to help them.
Because the last time Longarm had seen him, Scott had been in Kilroy’s Saloon in Del Rio several days earlier. He had even exchanged a few words with the man before Scott left the saloon. What was it the bartender had said about him? That he had the look of a gunfighting drifter, Longarm recalled.
That was sure enough true. And now here he was, coming to the rescue of Longarm and Coffin. It was enough to make a man curious.
But Scott had saved their bacon, just as Coffin had said, so it was only right that they share it with him.
“Can’t say as I have,” replied Scott. “In fact, my provisions are a mite low. But I do have some Arbuckle’s we can cook up.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Coffin. He rubbed his bearded jaw and frowned in thought. “Might even have a proposition for you, Scott.”
Longarm knew what Coffin meant by that comment. Three men would stand a better chance of freeing Sonia Guiterrez from El Aguila, especially when the third man was such a ring-tailed heller as Walt Scott seemed to be.
Scott swung down from the black stallion with a grin. “I’m always interested,” he said, “as long as the proposition’s a paying one.”
I’ll just bet you are, old son, thought Longarm. I’ll just bet you are.
Chapter 11
Under the circumstances, Longarm and Coffin couldn’t pause long for breakfast, but it didn’t take much time to build a small, almost smokeless fire to brew some coffee and fry a few strips of bacon for each of the three men. They also chewed on some biscuits Coffin had brought along from Del Rio.
“What brings you gents down here?” asked Walt Scott as he hunkered on his heels next to the fire.
“Might ask you the same thing,” said Longarm, “seeing as how you’re a norte american like we are. And you were in Del Rio a few days ago, just like us.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Longarm. “Say, you do look familiar. We ran into each other in Kilroy’s place, didn’t we?”
Longarm didn’t believe for a second that Scott had forgotten about their previous meeting until now. But if that was the way the man wanted to play it for the time being, Longarm was willing to go along with him. The marshal was a firm believer in the old saying about giving a man enough rope to hang himself.
“That’s right,” Longarm said with a nod. “You were drinking beer, I ordered Maryland rye.”
Scott returned the nod. “Yep, I recall now.”
“You fellas can discuss your drinkin’ habits another time,” Coffin put in. “Right now we got more important things to talk about. Scott, me and Long are lawmen, and we’re down here south of the border chasin’ a no- account bastard name of El Aguila. Ever heard of him?”
“The name’s vaguely familiar,” said Scott. “How come a couple of American badge-toters are operating in Mexico?”
Longarm might have preferred feeling Scott out a little more before bluntly admitting their identities like that, but Coffin didn’t have much subtlety about him. Anyway, there wasn’t really time to be subtle, Longarm reminded himself.
