Pecos Moon

By Tim Younkman

Deputy U.S. Marshal Johnny Madrid, a West Texas legend in bringing down outlaws and

cattle rustlers, is tracking the Fort Davis Butcher, a serial killer on the loose along the San

Antonio-El Paso Road. In his latest novel, “Pecos Moon,” crime writer Tim Younkman creates a

new kind of hero in Johnny Madrid, whose heritage of European Spanish, Louisiana Cajun

Creole, and San Antonio Mexican enhances his ability to chase down the Butcher. In the

process, Madrid encounters an even more prolific killer known as the Annihilator who has

terrorized young women in wealthy neighborhoods of Austin. The tension becomes intense as

Madrid unearths shocking evidence that the two killing sprees are linked requiring his own brand

of justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483535265

Tim Younkman

Raised along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, Tim Younkman is an author of both non-fiction and fiction works and an award-winning journalist for four decades. He has worked for the Clinton County News, the Muskegon Chronicles, the Bay City Times and mlive.com. Tim is a graduate of the Michigan State University School of Journalism and Muskegon Catholic Central High School. He has authored four novels as well as essays, commentaries and short stories and gives presentations on historic crime.

Book preview

9781483535265

PROLOGUE

His left arm burned as if he’d been jabbed him with a branding iron. He was grateful it wasn’t a direct hit but had ricocheted off a rock before ripping through his jacket, peeling back the skin, and tumbling out the other side. As injuries go, it was considered a flesh wound, but it stung like all hell.

Johnny Madrid wasn’t one to complain or even react to such an injury as he faced the enemy. He pulled back his vest, glancing down at the badge pinned to his shirt, just as a reminder he had the law with him no matter what he did next. He never wore the badge on the outside where it could be a shining target.

"Okay, amigos, he called out. You men have to surrender now or you will be dead inside ten minutes." They were pinned down behind fallen rocks in a small canyon created by an arroyo. He had tracked them north of Del Rio where they had planned to run the string of stolen horses across the river into Mexico. It was the fourth raid on Trans-Pecos ranches by the horse thieves in two months.

"Come and get us, cabrón," someone shouted at him. He couldn’t tell if it was Emiliano Vargas, the gang’s leader, but it was spoken with a definite accent.

Madrid yelled back in Spanish. "Hombres, you are dead men walking. If you surrender you will be treated fairly, but if you do not surrender, I will kill each of you with no regrets. You will never leave this place alive unless you give up now."

Overhead, two turkey vultures circled high in the hot wind, waiting for the gunfire to stop because it meant dinner.

He waited but there was only silence on the other end and suddenly more shots rang out, one buzzing past his right ear like a swarm of angry bees. Madrid holstered his .45 Colt and picked up his Winchester ’76 repeater. He cranked the lever, aimed steadily, and fired, picking off the hat of one of the men who foolishly had stuck out his head to see what was happening. In the meantime, he saw a blur behind them as one of the men was scrambling up the rocks away from the others. Two more vultures appeared in the sky.

He heard the men shouting and then the figure was gone before Madrid could get a good bead on him with the rifle. He guessed the one running away was Vargas himself. If it had been anyone else, Vargas would have shot him for deserting the fight. In the sudden calm, the sound of a dozen horses running off was clear and resonant.

"Your jefe left you high and dry just like the river bed you’re standing in, Madrid shouted. I believe you were left holding the bag because he has taken the horses and will keep the cash for himself."

After a brief silence one of the men shouted back. You won’t shoot us?

Not if you come out so I can see you. Throw your guns out ahead of you and hands up high.

He took off the blue bandana from his neck and wrapped it around the bleeding wound on his arm. He tightened it, holding one end with his teeth, hoping it would hold until he got to a doc in Del Rio.

We’re coming out, the voice shouted and Madrid heard the thud of guns dropping onto the rocky ground. He peeked out from the rocks and saw the men walking single file, hands shoulder high and empty. He ordered all three to kneel on the ground.

Where’s the fourth guy? Madrid asked. I know Vargas ran, but there were four of you left behind.

That’s Pedro Vasquez, one of the men said in Spanish as they all dropped onto their knees. "You got him with a lucky shot. Hit him right between the eyes. Never saw anything like it, señor."

Another of the men spoke up. "Si, he is the brother of Tiburdio Vasquez, the bandito hanged for attacking a small Americano town with his men."

Bad luck runs in his family, Madrid smiled. Now get down on your faces. When the three men were face down on the ground, he tied their hands, connected all three with the rope, and then had them stand.

Now we walk, he said. He held onto the rope and climbed up on his horse. "Correction, amigos he said. You walk, I ride."

Hey, our horses are back up beyond the arroyo, the third man said in Spanish.

"No, señor, Madrid grinned. Vargas took them, too. I am afraid you must rely on your trusty boots. Besides, Del Rio is only a few miles."

Already the four vultures had descended rapidly, landing on the rocks above the fallen horse thief. One of them flapped his broad wings excitedly and hopped down onto the ground beside the dead man. His comrades trudged past him eyeing the scene with disgust followed by Madrid who thought about shooting the vulture and then shrugged. Why should he spoil the banquet.

It was late afternoon and the sun was in their eyes as they shuffled westward towards the little border town with Madrid and his Palomino named Early, trailing them by a few yards, his rifle cradled in his wounded arm.

"You will go after Vargas, señor?" one of them asked.

First chance I get and he will be my sole mission in life, dead or alive. Any idea where he might try to hide?

North, one of them said quickly. He’ll go north.

ONE

John Alexander Madrid hadn’t heard about the murders until he rode into Langtry. He’d been tracking Sebastian Vargas for four days after he left his men, taking the string of horses they’d snatched from a ranch up on one of those snaky little tribs north of Del Rio.

Madrid found the challenges of riding out alone in the far expanses often included being outnumbered in a fight, but he never jawed on it much, relying on his instincts and experience of knowing what to do and when to do it.

Cowards, he was fond of saying, think too much before they shoot and angry men don’t think at all.

After leaving what was left of Vargas’ gang behind bars in the Del Rio jail, he knew Vargas probably had continued west across the river and disposed of the stolen horses as planned over in Coahuila, but he wasn’t likely to stay because he’d want to steal more and the best stock was on the Texas side. Madrid guessed Vargas’ angry amigos told him true, that the bandit was most likely to go further north figuring he wouldn’t be tracked.

Four nights later, Vargas sat humming a little cantina ballad stretched out alongside his campfire, a near-empty whisky bottle clutched in his hand, when Madrid cocked his .45, pressing the barrel firmly against the back of Vargas’ head.

"Buenos noches," Madrid smiled, reaching down to pull the pistol from Vargas’ belt.

Startled, the horse thief tried to stand but Madrid planted his dusty black leather boot down on his chest. Vargas struggled to see, twisting his head around, his dark eyes growing wide, and lips parting scruffy salt-and-pepper beard with a grin.

Johnny Madrid? he said reverently. Is that really you?

"It is, amigo, Madrid nodded. You have aged since that time I arrested you for rustling cattle out of Mexico.

"Si, time is an enemy, especially in prison, he answered. That cost me nearly three years over in Acuna. That is one nasty prison, señor, and I’ve seen a few."

Well, the good book says something about the wages of sin, Madrid said.

"It says death, señor. The wages of sin is death. Speaking of that, I heard you was muerto, up in Chihuaua or El Paso," he chuckled.

That might be true, Madrid smiled. In which case I could be the devil spirit come to take you to hell.

Vargas laughed at that, though rather uneasily, his eyes riveted on the lawman’s gun as Madrid circled in front of him. Fortunately for Madrid, Vargas had chosen a camping spot just a mile or so outside of Langtry and the sun had just set, so there was plenty of time to get him there to the judge.

Vargas frowned and waved a finger at Madrid. Why are you chasing me? You are no lawman no more. Hell, you quit the Rangers, back in ’78. You are a rancher, right?

Yes, in fact I am the foreman of the Diamond M, and the horses you stole were from the Diamond M. However, I also was appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal, which makes arresting you all legal and such. He peeled back his vest revealing the badge.

Somabitch, Vargas muttered.

Too bad for you, Vargas, Madrid said jabbing him with the gun to get him to stand. You kept taking so many horses that the ranchers decided to apply some political pressure to get a few of us foremen appointed marshals to take care of the problem. Now it’s time for you to pay.

Madrid lashed Vargas firmly to the saddle and held onto the reins, towing him alongside as they picked their way on a trail which was visible thanks to a full moon.

You plan on ridin’ all the way back to Del Rio tonight? Vargas whined.

That would be too far, Madrid said. Besides, I bet you have a few boys down that way just itchin’ to break you out even if I could get you there. Instead, we’re going in to Langtry to see the judge there. It won’t take us long.

Vargas was silent for a few minutes. Is that the crazy judge?

Madrid laughed. I do not know how crazy Roy Bean is, but he has been known to introduce a man to the netherworld at the end of a rope. You believe in Jesus Christ, Vargas?

"Oh, si. He is my compadre," Vargas grinned.

"I have a feeling you are going to say your howdy-dos to your compadre real soon."

Madrid remembered Roy Bean from a decade earlier in San Antonio, when Madrid was with a squad of Texas Rangers tracking two vicious gangs of outlaws plaguing the banks, railroads, and stages. Bean was living there, doing a bit of gambling at the poker table and dealing stolen firewood, among other nefarious projects. He also sported an underage wife and a passel of kids.

Madrid saw him often in the saloons, loud and entertaining, often winning enough hands to stay late into the night, but seldom went home a winner. It was Madrid who arrested him for dueling with another card player who actually was cheating the men at the table. Neither of the bullets hit their targets and the matter was dropped.

Bean was a stocky man in his late forties with a jovial face, thick white beard, dark eyebrows, and a mop of dark hair streaked with gray. He wore a dark brown suit with a watch and chain strung along the front of the vest, and sported a wide belt in which he tucked a revolver.

Roy Bean had operated his saloon, which doubled as a courtroom, a large railroad company tent near the Rio Grande, for several years since moving to Langtry, and then constructed a ranch-style building with expansive veranda. He called his place the Jersey Lilly, in honor of Lilly Langtry, an English actress and singer. Above the entrance was a long sign with large letters reading: Law West of the Pecos. He probably was the only jurist within a hundred miles of his saloon.

Madrid led his prisoner up to the front of the place, which was ablaze with oil lamps and a candle-lit chandelier. A handful of cowboys littered the wooden porch, some awake, others passed out, drooling and coughing. He marched Vargas past them and into the large smoky room.

Roy Bean was laughing at something one of the men said as they occupied a round table playing cards. Bean’s smile faded when he spotted Vargas, instinctively reaching down for his pistol until he saw Madrid emerge from the shadow behind the horse thief. Bean stood up, eyeing them as they walked deeper into the room.

Got a prisoner here needs arraigning, Madrid said. Charges are horse thievery, attempted murder of a lawman, and resisting arrest.

The din in the room quieted quickly as Madrid spoke, all craning their necks to hear more.

Bean squinted, studying Madrid’s face. I know ya, don’t I?

Madrid nodded. You should, your honor, he said. I pinched you back in San Antonio years ago. You did a bit of dueling.

Bean’s eyes brightened. Of course, you’re Johnny Madrid. You cut one helluva swath down there, boy. You was always arrestin’ somebody or other and they always seemed to sport a few welts and knots on their cabezas. So you’re still lawin’ I see.

I’m not with the Rangers, Madrid said. I’m a temporary deputy U.S. marshal. I’ve chased this dimwit across west Texas and here he is for your pleasure. Horse thievery’s still a hangin’ offense, right, your honor?

Bean grinned. Right as rain, marshal.

Now wait a goddam minute, Vargas shouted as two of the men sitting with the judge stood and grabbed him by his arms. This ain’t right.

The two men pulled and prodded Vargas across the room to a small closet at the far end of the bar. They shoved him inside and closed a makeshift cell door across the opening. One of them took down a large key on a metal ring from a hook on the wall and locked the gate.

It ain’t much of a cell, I’ll grant ya, Bean said looking up at Madrid. He won’t be in there long anyways. As soon as I finish this here game, we’ll commence with the trial. He signaled with his index finger for Madrid to bend down closer to hear him.

Now, you know Johnny, I’m goin’ ta find him a-guilty of horse thievin’ and I’ll sentence him to hang tomorrow noon.

That is very quick by any standard, your honor…

Bean cut him off with a wave of his hand. I ain’t hangin’ no one, Johnny boy. I sentence ‘em to hang’s what I do, and then if they manage to get away from me in the process, well there’s that judgment on the record so’s if they get caught elsewhere in Texas, someone else will hang ‘em fer me. Usually, though, they get over the border quick enough and then they become the federales’ problems. Horse thieves, cattle thieves, jewel thieves, they’re all the same and sooner or later they try to do their work over in Mexico and those Federales don’t fuck around—they just gun ‘em down.

I get it, Madrid nodded. You are going to let Vargas escape in the hopes he will jump across the river.

That’s the idea, although, he doesn’t know it, so he’ll be sweatin’ shit for a few hours until he figures out a way to run.

I take it you have done this quite a bit before, Madrid said standing up and walking to the bar. He signaled for a two-finger shot whiskey and downed it. Your beer really cold like it says on your sign outside?

He nodded. I get ice from a lake up in the mountains. They pack it in an ice-house full of sawdust so it actually stays solid for a long time. I trust you’ll be stayin’ until the hangin’ time tomorrow? He said it loud enough for Vargas to hear and chuckled at the idea.

I would not miss it, Madrid said. The bartender, a tall, slim, balding man with a gold-tooth in front, slid down a foaming beer mug. Madrid tested it and nodded approval. At least something is okay in this shithole, he muttered. Turning back to the judge, saluting him with the beer mug, he said he had a question.

Ask away, my boy.

Is there a telegraph open tonight?

Bean laughed and pointed to the bartender. He’s your man.

This is a smaller shithole than I thought, Madrid said. I’ve got to send a message to San Antonio and let them know I’ve got Vargas.

The bartender signaled for him to follow. He walked outside and down the dusty road to an adjacent building which doubled as a general store, livery, blacksmith, and telegraph office. He wrote out a message for the operator to send and waited to make sure it went out without a problem. He was about to leave when the man waved at him. Got one coming over for you.

The operator/bartender listened and jotted down the words. When he was done he signed it and handed Madrid the message. Guess you got your work cut out for you, marshal.

Madrid took the paper and studied it:

John Madrid—To Fort Davis immediate—two murders—request by commander Stop More later Stop.

He knew at once it couldn’t be good if the army wasn’t investigating itself and was willing to rely on an outside agency, albeit federal, to poke around.

I will be leaving at first light, Madrid said. I am going to need provisions and feed for Early…my horse.

The operator/bartender smiled revealing his gold tooth again and nodded. I’ve got a room in back of the store if you want to get some shuteye. I’ll gather up supplies for you and have them ready. I’ll get my helper to brush down your horse and feed him so both of you will be fit and fiddle come sunup.

Madrid was surprised at how quickly he could not give a crap about what was going to happen with Vargas. He had no illusions that Vargas would work his way across the border and someday return to Texas since he wasn’t going to be shitting himself while dangling at the business end of a noose. He’d eventually be back in his old business, most likely around Del Rio, although this time he’d have a sentence of death hanging over him, which actually might make him even more dangerous.

Still, Madrid was more worried about what he was going to find up in Fort Davis and having to deal with the army was going to be complicated. He’d rather tangle with a dozen Vargases than one disgruntled military officer bent on keeping his commission and future promotions.The other kicker was the question of who could possibly have been murdered that would require a non-military set of eyes? He was going to have to tackle this one alone for the time being which made him long for his days with the Rangers when at least he had a partner and could rely on a squad or two of comrades to help when the dust began to rise.

He sensed how unusual it was since the army had its own investigators who always liked to keep things in house out of the public eye and away from prying officials in Washington. To bring him in on this instead of the provost marshal’s office gave him pause.

What was he getting into?

TWO

Fort Davis was a huge complex backed into a horseshoe canyon formed by the aptly-named Davis Mountains, though they were more like giant rock piles than actual mountains. It was built before the Civil War to act as one of the staging areas and safe havens for the military along the San Antonio-El Paso Road which carried freight, mail, passengers, and news from one end of Trans-Pecos Texas to the other. Other forts were constructed at intervals all along the road’s 600-mile route.

Unlike the military forts on the Great Plains, Fort Davis had no stockade fence or gates that could keep out undesirables or slow down Indian attacks. The natural terrain surrounding the fort offered ample protection since it was virtually impossible for hostiles to mount an organized attack over the Davis Mountains, and if there was a frontal attack, it would be seen coming thirty miles away. The fort occupied ground on both sides of the San Antonio-El Paso Road, with the stables and supply depot on the east side and the trooper barracks, officers’ quarters, and other main buildings on the west.

One of the distinguishing aspects of Fort Davis after the war was the introduction of companies from the Ninth and Tenth U.S. Cavalry and Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Fifth Infantry regiments comprised of black enlisted men—some ex-slaves, some free men who fought in the conflict. The Apache called these men Buffalo Soldiers, partly because, so the story goes, they were very tough to kill like the buffalo and partly due to their thick hair which, to the warriors, resembled that of the buffalo. However it came about, the soldiers accepted the name and embraced it.

Most of that was in the past, as Madrid learned when taken on an early-morning walking tour of the fort by an aide to the commandant, Sergeant Oliver Williams. He was a wide-shouldered, barrel-chested man in his mid-twenties. He sported a bushy mustache and long sideburns, but no other facial hair. He had a wide, smiling mouth, while his dark eyes were harsh, almost unblinking. Despite the wind-blown dust that swirled down off the rocky hills, his uniform was an impeccable blue with a bright-yellow bandana tied neatly around his neck. He sported his dark, wide-brimmed cavalry hat, cocked slightly to the right, and pointed out items of interest with his hands tucked tightly into buckskin gloves. His black boots were tall and polished, no spurs.

There used to be more than 800 men here, more when trouble was brewing, Williams said as he marched alongside Madrid inspecting one of the long stables housing