The Bisbee Massacre (5 page)

“Yeah,” Clint said, as they started walking again, “I get one every now and then.”

Dodge introduced Clint to Heath, and then turned in with the rest of the men.

“We're gettin' started at first light,” Dodge said to Clint, “for real, this time.”

“I'll be ready.”

Clint poured himself a cup of coffee from the second fire, then poured one for Heath.

“Thanks.”

“Guess this wasn't exactly what you expected when you came to Bisbee, huh?”

“Whataya mean?”

John Heath was in his late thirties, had the soft-looking hands of a man who had never worked fence posts. Clint had noticed, however, that the man was a good rider.

“Oh, I heard that you run a saloon,” Clint said. “I was just thinking you didn't expect to find yourself as part of a posse.”

“Hey, if I live in a town, I pitch in,” Heath said. “That means volunteerin' for posses.”

“Well then,” Clint said, “I didn't mean any offense. There should be more town citizens like you.”

“You're damn right,” Heath said. “I'm gonna walk around a bit.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

“You might walk over some tracks in the dark, wipe them out,” Clint said. “Manuel's got to have something to read in the morning.”

“I know what I'm doin', Adams,” Heath said. “I ain't no tenderfoot.”

Heath walked off. Clint thought about following him, but it really didn't matter. There wouldn't be any tracks for him to trample. If there were, Manuel would have read them already.

Clint poured some more coffee and sat down by the first fire. When Heath came back he made a point of sitting at the second fire. Clint figured he wasn't going to get any conversation out of him.

But he felt that Dodge was right. There was something wrong with Heath, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He didn't talk like a saloon owner. His reason for being in Bisbee had nothing to do with whiskey and saloon girls.

 

They got through the night with no trouble. Dodge used the tip of his boot to shake Clint, who came awake immediately. He got up and accepted a cup of coffee from Dodge.

“We ain't got much for breakfast,” Dodge said, although Clint detected the smell of bacon in the air. “We're traveling light.”

Clint walked to the fire and accepted a few slices of bacon to go with his coffee. At the other fire the posse members were hunkered around the fire, having their breakfast. A couple of men were feeding the horses.

After their hasty meal, they all saddled their own mounts and got ready for the day.

Dodge gathered all the men and broke them into three groups. He, Manuel, and Clint would do the tracking, trying to find the robbers' trail again.

“We're looking for tracks with shoes in among the cattle tracks,” Dodge said. “So if anybody thinks they spotted somethin', sing out.”

They broke into their three groups. Heath rode with Sy Bryant and Manuel. Dodge told Bryant to keep a close watch on Heath, and at the first sign that he was trying to throw them off the trail, to arrest him and take him back to Tombstone.

Later in the day Manuel rode up on Dodge and told him Heath was trying to throw the trail.

Still later Bryant came by and told him the same thing.

“I think he was wiping out some tracks with his boots,” Bryant said.

“First time you can prove it, go ahead and make the arrest,” Dodge told him.

In the afternoon Clint's group crossed Dodge's group, and Dodge told him about Heath. At that moment they noticed Manuel's men collected in a group. Dodge pulled out his spyglass and watched as Bryant took John Heath's guns from him. Moments later, two men left to take Heath back to Tombstone.

The groups got together, and Bryant told them what had happened.

“I watched him,” he said. “Heath got off his horse and started to deliberately obliterate tracks with his boot. I throwed down on him and arrested him.”

“So did we find their trail again?” Dodge asked.

“Yeah,” Bryant said. “Manuel picked up a three of shod horse tracks.”

“Three men headin' north,” Manuel said, pointing.

“Then lead the way,” Dodge said.

They followed the three tracks until they crossed the tracks of two men heading south. Those two appeared to be headed for Sonora.

“Sy, you take your men and half of Manuel's and follow those two. I'll keep goin' north with Manuel, Clint, Bob and Charley Smith, and Bill Daniels,” Dodge said. “You catch up to somebody, take them right to Tombstone. We'll meet up there.”

“Okay,” Bryant said. “The trail is clear enough for me to follow.”

Bryant took his men north. Clint, Dodge, Smith, Hatch, Manuel, and Daniels headed north, with Manuel following the trail.

 

The next night Charley Smith became ill. It was an old wound he had collected in Texas. He'd been shot in the right side of the chest, just below his nipple, and he took cold that night. By morning he was shivering and feverish.

“I have friends who live near here, señor,” Manuel said. “If we bring him there they will care for him.”

“All right,” Dodge said, “let's do it.”

Once again Manuel led the way to a ranch house. It was well built and expensive. The people were obviously very well off. They were happy to see Manuel, and very willing to look after Charley, who spoke Spanish and was able to converse with them.

“I'm sorry, Fred,” Charley said, as the people took him inside.

“Don't worry about it, pard,” Dodge said. “You just get well and meet us in Tombstone.”

“I'll do it.”

They got back on the trail and then camped for the night. They were now down to five—Dodge, Daniels, Manuel, Hatch, and Clint.

They sat around the fire, shared bacon and coffee, rationing it out. Some of the supplies had gone south with Bryant's group.

“Our numbers are dwindling,” Bill Daniels said.

“We've still got enough to do the job,” Dodge said.

“Maybe the others are getting some names from Heath,” Clint said, “back in Tombstone.”

“Maybe we should've asked him before he left,” Daniels said.

“Names wouldn't help us track them,” Dodge said, although he realized it was a mistake not to have asked Heath the question before he was taken back.

“Can't argue with the decision now,” Clint said. “We just have to live with it.”

“I'll take the first watch,” Dodge said, standing up. “We'll go every two hours. Clint, you can go last tonight.”

“Suits me,” Clint said. He finished his coffee and retired to his bedroll.

 

It was Manuel who woke him with two hours to go before daylight.

“I have made a fresh pot of coffee, señor,” Manuel said.

“Good, thanks, Manuel,” Clint said.

“Señor?”

“Yes?”

“Señor Dodge should not be so hard on himself,
es verdad
?”

“Yes, it is true, Manuel,” Clint said. “He's done nothing wrong that I can see.”

“Sí, señor,” Manuel said. “That is what I was thinking. He is your amigo, no?”

“Yes, he is my very good amigo.”

“He is my amigo, too,” Manuel said, proudly. “He has been very good to me. He treats me—how do you say?—with respect.”

“Well, you have a talent, Manuel,” Clint said, “and he recognizes that.”

“Sí, señor,” Manuel said. “I am grateful to him.”

“You better get some sleep, Manuel,” Clint said. “You're going to have to put your talent to good use tomorrow.”

“Gracias, señor,” Manuel said. “I will see you in two hours.”

“Okay, Manuel,” Clint said.

As the tracker settled into his bedroll Clint hoped that Dodge wasn't second-guessing himself too much. The posse had been put together quickly, hoping the robbers would not get too far ahead. Stopping to question Heath would have given them more time. It was more important to stay on their trail.

He went to the fire, poured himself a cup of coffee, and watched the sky, waiting for first light.

Early the next day they came to a split in the trail. One man was heading for the Minas Prietas Mine and the other for the Sierra Madre Mountains.

“Bob, why don't you and Bill take the trail to the Minas Prietas. Clint, Manuel and me, we'll take the wandering trail toward the Sierra Madres.” They agreed to return to this point as soon as possible, and agreed upon a signal for each other. If the sign was not there, then those men would take the trail of the others, to give them help.

They followed the trail all day, camped, and took it up again the next day. Late that second day they lost the trail in a creek.

“Can you get it back?” Dodge asked Manuel.

“We will have to ride along the creek both ways to see where he came out, señor,” Manuel said.

“Okay,” Dodge said. “I'll go with you. Clint, you follow the creek upstream.”

“Right.”

They split up. Clint rode as far as he dared and never came upon tracks leading out of the creek. When he returned to where they had parted company Dodge and Manuel were already standing there, looking glum.

“No sign?” Dodge asked.

“No.”

“Damn it!” Dodge snapped. “We lost him!”

“Easy, Fred,” Clint said. “We'll just keep looking.”

“I am sorry, Señor Dodge,” Manuel said, very con-tritely.

Dodge put his hand on Manuel's arm and said, “It's not your fault, Manuel. Clint's right. Come on, we'll just keep looking.”

 

They kept looking for almost a week before they found some hope just over the border in Mexico.

Manuel had friends among the Mexican Indians in the Sierra Madres. They came upon a lone Mexican Indian who was able to give them a description of the man they were trailing. The man had come upon a number of Indians—including this one—and had asked for food. The Indians had helped him, and when he gave the description Dodge immediately knew that it was Jack Dowd.

“I knew it,” he said. “I can't figure it, but I knew it was him.”

Manuel told them that the Indian said Dowd had traded his worn horse for a fresh one.

“At least we know who we're lookin' for, now,” Dodge said, slapping Manuel on the back.

Dodge came down with a bad cold for three days that kept him out of the saddle. Manuel and Clint left him camped alone and continued to search for some sign of Jack Dowd. Manuel was still checking with the friendly Yaquis, and eventually came up with another vital piece of information. He and Clint rode back to where they'd left Dodge and found him doing much better.

“Damn cold had settled in my chest and I couldn't breathe,” Dodge said, “but I'm okay, now.” He handed them each a cup of coffee. “What'd you find out?”

“There is a mine about fifteen miles from here,” Manuel said.

“It's owned by Mexicans, and there are about twenty-five or thirty peons working there,” Clint said. “Manuel's friend said they've seen a gringo come in there for supplies a couple of times. The description matches Dowd.”

“So he's still in these mountains,” Dodge said. “Good. Manuel, we're headin' for that mine.”

They stopped outside the mine, which turned out to be more like a small town than a mine.

“Manuel,” Dodge said, “Clint and me'll wait up here while you go down and talk to your friend. See if you can find out where Dowd is. If not that, when he might be coming back. And find a place where we can hide.”

“Sí, señor.”

Manuel rode down into the small town that had been built up around the mine.

“If Dowd is holing up somewhere in these mountains then he's comin' here for supplies,” Dodge said. “If Manuel can find a place for us to hide out, we can wait for him to come in and then grab him.”

“Unless these people are helping him,” Clint said.

“If they are it's probably because he's payin' them,” Dodge said.

“That's a strong motive,” Clint said.

“We're the law,” Dodge said.

“Well, you are,” Clint said.

“I am, and they'll do what's right.”

“I hope you're right, Fred.”

“Relax,” Dodge said. “Manuel won't be back for a while.”