The Reinvention Of Rudd Carter. A Western Action Adventure Novel Read online

  The Reinvention of

  Rudd Carter

  R. L. Davis

  Copyright © 2010 Robert L. Davis

  All Rights Reserved

  eBook editions by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz

  Prologue

  August 20, 1923, Mexican Desert

  The sniper fell to his knees and eased forward onto his elbows, the rifle butt snug to his shoulder. The target was a hundred yards downrange. Carefully, he sighted through the scope until the crosshairs lined up on the back of the target’s head. There was just enough light to line up one good shot. He took a breath, held it, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet entered the target’s head at the base of the skull, exploded in the brain case, and exited through the front of the head, tearing away the face and leaving an unidentifiable mass of blood, flesh, and bone. The victim pitched forward and fell off the left side of his horse, landing face down in the sand. Frightened, the horse bolted and then stopped a few yards away, as if awaiting a command.

  After keeping his position for a few moments, the sniper rose to his feet and walked to where his victim lay. Studying the lifeless body for a moment, he kneeled to take a revolver from the dead man’s belt and replaced it with a semi-automatic Colt. 45. Reaching into his rear pocket, he pulled out a blue bandanna and tied it around the neck of the corpse. From his shirt pocket, he took a black onyx ring and placed it on the left ring finger of the body. Removing a wallet from the rear pocket of his victim, he replaced it with another. Once he looked the scene over carefully, he walked back to his horse and mounted it. “So long, Rudd,” he said and rode off into the twilight.

  In the pre-dawn hours of the next day, Matt and three of his men, Walt, Lefty, and Tex, stumbled upon the body of a dead man lying in a dry pool of blood-soaked sand. A horse stood several yards from the body, apparently the victim’s. The four men, after surveying the inert form on the ground for a few moments, formed a circle around the body and stood staring at the macabre sight of blood, brains, and mangled flesh covered in a blanket of flies.

  Matt spoke first. “Lefty, you and Tex give me a hand. Help me turn this poor fella over so we can get a better look at him.” Pointing at the victim’s horse, he ordered, “Walt, give that animal some water and make sure she’s all right.”

  The three of them turned the body face up, and to their horror saw that the victim had no face.

  “Jesus Christ,” Tex bellowed. “Only a dum-dum bullet could’a done that.”

  Matt locked eyes with Tex. “I can’t imagine some little Mexican farm kid, like the Federales sent out here, having the weapon and skill to do this kind of job.”

  “Let alone the balls to get close enough to set up a shot like this,” added Joe.

  Tex looked up from the body. “We had them on the run all evening. They never got to within a half mile of this spot,” he said, shaking his head. “No Mexican kid made this shot. Maybe the Federales have themselves a sharp shooter with a scope.”

  “Oh, yeah, and a couple of airplanes with bombs and a cannon or two, like they never showed up with,” jibed Walt.

  “They sure didn’t have much. Just a few hundred of the most scared Mexican kids I ever seen, runnin’ all over the desert tryin’ to get away from our fire,” offered Tex. “I don’t think they had two machine guns among the whole bunch of ‘em.”

  Matt studied the body carefully, and then bent over and pulled a weapon out of the dead man’s belt and waved it at the men. “This is Rudd‘s U.S. Army issue Colt. 45. He’s the only one of us who used one. That body’s wearin’ a blue bandanna, like Rudd always does, and there’s the onyx ring that he’s had on his finger ever since Juarez.”

  Lefty squinted down at the victim and wiped sweat from his brow. “If this man ain’t got no face, how can we be sure who it is?”

  “See if he’s got a wallet on him with some I. D.,” said Walt. “That’ll tell us for sure who he is.”

  Matt reached into the dead man’s rear pocket, took out a brown leather wallet and opened it. He held up a card for all to see. “Goddamn it, there it is!” he exclaimed. “It’s Rudd all right.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Tex said. “Back in nineteen eleven when we went into Juarez with him, there was no tougher man with more savvy to lead a crew like us. We ran Navarro’s army of clowns out of town in three days. The people loved us for what we done there.”

  “How ’bout them parades and all the tequila?” Walt yelled from over by the horse.

  “And don’t forget those fine, grateful señoritas,” said Tex.

  The men howled with laughter for a moment and then looked around nervously at each other, before falling silent again.

  They gazed down at the body. “I guess with the boss bein’ dead, we’re pretty much all through down here,” said Walt. “Maybe it’s time to start thinkin’ about the next fight, wherever that’ll be.”

  “Now, let’s not go off half-cocked, boys,” Matt said, raising his voice. “We’ve got the body of an old friend to put in the ground before the buzzards get him, and then we can go back and talk to the old man and see what he wants to do.”

  “We still ain’t been paid,” added Tex. “Probably not a good idea to be talkin’ about leavin’ until we know about the money. Besides, old Ben may not be done with us yet.”

  Matt pointed at the horses. “Tex, you and Lefty go over and pull some shovels outta your packs so we can get this poor soul buried before the heat sets in.”

  He looked down at the body again. “I know we’d all like to take Rudd back to town for a proper burial, but it’s at least three, four hours away, and he’s been dead, by my guess, ten, eleven hours. In this desert heat, how long do you think it’ll be before he starts smellin’ pretty bad?”

  The other three men nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Matt, best we bury him now,” Tex said.

  Walt walked the horse closer to the others and shook his head. “This poor animal’s got brains and blood all over her head and mane,” he said. “Must’a spooked her when her rider fell off. No doubt about it, this is Rudd’s gray. I can still see him astride that saddle there, directin’ fire yesterday. It just don‘t seem possible he’s gone!”

  Part One

  The Proposal

  Chapter One

  Saturday August 5, 1922, Mexicali, One Year Prior

  In the late sweltering afternoon, the Model T truck chugged up the empty street, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake to make a squeaky stop in front of El Coyote Cantina and Hotel.

  Rudd Carter stepped out of the passenger side of the truck, reached into the cargo bed, and pulled out a duffel bag. Handing the driver a silver dollar, he turned and started for the open door of the cantina. He had traveled for four days from San Francisco to this damnably hot, Mexican destination. Now he longed for the cool morning fog that oozed through the Golden Gate at this time of year.

  Entering the large smoke-filled bar, the smell of stale beer and liquor greeted his nostrils. Dropping his bag against the wall, he stood surveying the stark concrete floor and unpainted brick walls covered with bullfight posters. Every head in the room turned to scrutinize him.

  At six feet, three inches, he stood with a strong muscular build, a square-cut jaw, a straight narrow nose, and steel blue eyes. His ash-blond hair was tinged with gray. He was every inch the imposing figure. Approach with caution, his rugged, wind-burnt presence warned.

  He tipped his hat to the room and strode to the bar. Six Mexican ranch hands glared at him from the thirty-foot oak bar.

  Before he could take a s
eat, a young clean-shaven man appeared. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  Rudd eyed him for a moment. “I’m looking for Ben Mosier. Is he around?”

  The bartender pointed to the back of the room. “He’s in the back, the old gent with the big hat, chewing on a cigar. See, he’s waving you over to his table.” He paused. “You must be Rudd Carter. Pa’s been looking for you all afternoon.” The young man showed a friendly smile. “By the way, I’m Len Mosier, Ben’s son.” He thrust his right hand across the bar to receive a strong handshake. “You go on over and meet Pa, and if you need anything, just wave and I’ll be right over to take your order.”

  Rudd walked past several tables covered in green felt, surrounded with Mexican and American men playing cards, until he reached the man with the big hat sitting at a table with two other men. “Mr. Mosier, I’m Rudd Carter.”

  The man wearing a gray ten-gallon Stetson rose from his chair to greet him. Ben Mosier, a wiry man, around six feet tall, looking older than his fifty years, extended his hand for a polite handshake. “Well, Mr. Carter, at long last we meet,” he said with a well-chewed cigar clenched in his teeth. “Your reputation precedes you by many years.”

  Rudd noticed that Mosier had a disfiguring harelip that ran from the middle of his left nostril down through his upper lip. Covered with a mustache, the scar appeared less severe.

  He detected in Mosier’s speech a Georgia drawl. As he looked directly into his cold blue eyes, a little red warning light went on in his mind. Keep a close watch on this one.

  “Mr. Carter, I’d like you to meet two business associates from Imperial Valley, who will be part of our conversation this afternoon.” Mosier nodded toward the men sitting at the table. “Bill Crawford, owner and operator of one of the biggest cattle ranches in the area, and Don Hoff, owner of the Valley’s most successful bank.”

  The three men shook hands. Ben gestured toward an empty chair. Rudd sat down and studied the other two men. Bill Crawford was lean and muscular, like he imagined a rancher would look. On the other hand, Don Hoff appeared to be overweight and soft looking, a man who sat behind a desk all day, like a banker.

  Mosier cleared his throat, drawing Rudd’s attention. “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Carter. I called you to this meeting today to discuss—now hold on to your hat—starting a revolution and founding an independent country right here in Northern Baja.”

  Rudd laughed aloud and then shot a look at the other two men who sat poker-faced with no apparent reaction to what Ben had just said. He looked back at Mosier, who had a grin on his face. “I get the feeling that I’m the only one who hasn’t heard this before,” he said.

  “You are. These two gentlemen and I have been planning this desert revolt for the last three years,” Mosier said.

  “Up ‘til now, Mr. Carter,” Hoff, the heavier man, spoke up with a carefully paced, husky voice, “we haven’t felt the time was right. But with several insurrections going on and general unrest all over Mexico, we feel now is the time to make our move and snatch Northern Baja away from Mexico to create an independent state.”

  Rudd looked slowly around the table and scratched his chin. “Before I decide that all three of you are crazy and walk out of here, I suppose I should give you the opportunity to tell me just how you plan to do this, and where I fit in.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Carter.” Hoff nodded. “We know influential people who keep us informed about important political and economic happenings in key areas throughout Mexico. There appears to be an enormous political storm brewing in Monterey that has President Obregon and his staff very concerned.”

  “It has the potential of tying down thousands of Federal troops, if President Obregon makes the decision to move the Mexican army into Monterey,” Crawford, a seemingly self-confident, soft-spoken man, added. “If that happens, it would give us the opportunity to seize Northern Baja.”

  Impressed with the sophistication and ease with which Crawford spoke, Rudd listened carefully. I’m not dealing with country hicks here. Stay alert. “But don’t you have to have an army to seize an area the size of Northern Baja?”

  “There’s a garrison of five hundred soldiers here in Mexicali that we more or less control,” Crawford answered. “In fact, we have issued very generous courtesy cards to the entire officer staff that allows them privileges at our cantinas, hotels and casinos.”

  Rudd fired another quick glance around the table. “I can see where that can buy you a lot of loyalty down here. But aren’t the soldiers in the Mexicali garrison afraid of being charged with treason and shot if you call on them to do something for you?”

  Mosier took the chewed-up stub of cigar from between his teeth and dropped it in a spittoon at his feet. He reached for a new cigar, bit the tip off, struck a match on the underside of the table and lit it, all the while cackling to himself in response to Rudd’s remarks. “We buy everyone’s loyalty down here, as you say, Mr. Carter, with one thing or another.” He removed his hat, revealing a receding hairline, crossed his legs and carefully placed the hat on his knee. Sliding his chair back a few inches, he gazed at each of his companions. “Do you gentleman mind if we call each other by our first names?”

  Rudd and the other two nodded in agreement.

  Ben drew a long puff from his cigar, emitted a throaty “heh-heh” while attempting to chuckle, and exhaled. “All right, then, I think it’s time to let Rudd know just how we think he can help us with our little rebellion.”

  Rudd kept his eyes fixed on Ben. You’re really having a good time, aren’t you, old man?

  The late afternoon heat was almost unbearable as the evaporation coolers and overhead fans struggled to keep the air circulating in the stagnant barroom. Only the scores of flies hovering above seemed to be thriving as they rode the currents of air created by the fans, like squadrons of World War I fighter planes, landing first on one table and then the next.

  Beads of sweat formed on Rudd’s forehead. He thirsted for a cold beer, but he held back from ordering until these three men let him know just what part they wanted him to play in their desert revolution. They hadn’t ordered anything, or taken their eyes off him since he’d sat down. Out of instinct, he displayed his most professional poker face, not wanting them to see his reaction to anything they were saying until he was ready. You are schemers and manipulators who rely on men of action, like me, to do the unpleasant things, the violent things, to accomplish your aims. I have known men of your ilk only too well. I have dealt with and worked for your kind all over the world. Up until now, you’ve just been sniffing the air, feeling me out, trying to get a sense of me. Now the real dance begins. Pay attention.

  “I was in El Paso in nineteen-eleven when you and your El Squadron Del Diablo ran General Navarro’s troops out of Juarez in a rout,” Ben said. “It was very impressive. The newspapers wouldn’t stop writing about it for a week. The people of Juarez treated you as conquering heroes.”

  “That’s right.” Rudd grimaced. “The El Paso newspapers made a lot more out of the whole event than it really was, and that El Squadron Del Diablo handle they gave us… I still don’t know where that came from.”

  “As I remember,” Ben said, “it was Francisco Madero’s revolution to oust President Porfirio Diaz. Madero had Pancho Villa and Pasqual Orozco under his command. He knew they could get the job done, but not without a lot of people dying. Madero’s people wanted a quick, overwhelming, knockout blow that would scare the hell out of the federal troops under General Navarro and force President Diaz to resign. They hired you to come into the campaign with fifty of the meanest, most bloodthirsty mercenary killers in the world. They came up with that name, El Squadron Del Diablo and circulated fliers all over Juarez for two weeks before you actually went in.”

  Rudd chuckled. “They did scare the hell out of everyone in Juarez with those fliers. When we went in, there was hardly any resistance at all. I still can’t believe the battle was as easy as it was. Of course, it didn’t hurt that
we had Villa and Orozco’s men right behind us. There were few casualties on our side, just some superficial flesh wounds. They had told us that there was a well-armed garrison with a large number of troops. When it was all over, I counted thirty dead and about a hundred-twenty wounded, which we helped the locals get to the hospitals. We took around one hundred prisoners.” Rudd stopped and shook his head. “And then I got a memo from the great man himself, Villa, suggesting that I execute all the prisoners. What I did was let them go, on the promise that they would join the rebel army.” He shrugged. “They probably all went home. I hope so. We weren’t sent in there to satisfy some bloodlust of Pancho Villa’s. I don’t care how popular he became later on.”

  Ben nodded in approval. “The way you handled the fighting, the wounded and the prisoners, along with that Diablo moniker, made you and your men heroes to the people of Chihuahua.”

  “I appreciate your remarks, Ben, but that was eleven years ago. What’s that got to do with why we’re here today?” asked Rudd.

  Dropping his glasses down on his nose, Ben eyed Rudd and smiled sincerely for the first time. With his characteristic nasal laugh, he nodded his head. “In spite of the incredible reputation that precedes you, you are indeed a humble man, Mr. Carter—maybe the first I have ever encountered.”

  Up until this last statement, Rudd thought of the entire conversation as simple flattery intended to soften him into being receptive to the proposals he was about to hear. Maybe the old man has a heart after all, or maybe not. He focused his gaze directly on Ben. “Right at the moment, I sense that El Squadron Del Diablo is about to be resurrected as part of the taking of Mexicali for the first and perhaps only battle of this so-called revolt.”

  There followed an awkward moment of silence, and then Hoff spoke. “What we have in mind for you and your men is a short and decisive battle about fifty miles outside of Mexicali, in the desert, away from any civilian population. Bill has been in contact with our friends in Hermosillo who are in charge of the Federale army garrison there. Bill, will you explain to Rudd what you’ve been planning with our people in Hermosillo?”