Arizona Ranger

By Joe Pearce, as told to John W. Fitzgerald

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 2

SYNOPSIS OF PART I: One morning in July, 1912, undersheriff Joe Pearce, riding the line between New Mexico and Arizona, received word that rustlers had swooped down on the Xuni and Navajo reservations and were headed for the Mexican border with a band of stolen horses and mules. With Clay Hunter, prospector and cowboy, and with a posse of canny Indian trailers, “Lone Wolf,” as Pearce [who tells the story] was known to the In” dians, set out to recover the stock and, if possible, bring the outlaws to justice. Traveling fast and light, they followed the trail through rough black “malapai” hills — ambush country — where they found fresh signs of the rustlers: a notched six-gun lettered “Pat,” an abandoned camp but a day old, telltale boot prints. Near a deserted ranch house they encountered a Jack McDermott, suspected confederate of the gang, whom they forced to go with them. Shunning a butchered yearling found on the trail for fear of poisoning, the posse, though hungry and tired, pushed forward, dismounting at every incline, rifles in hand ready for use. Finally, within a stone’s throw of the Mogollon mining camp, they drew up on a small knoll overlooking two ranch houses — and the stolen herd. In an encircling move, the posse closed in. Joe Pearce, on the blind side of one of the houses, inched along prone on the ground to the very door. “Any word you want to send to your folks?” Clay Hunter whispered.

I pulled my .45. Clay held his rifle at full cock. With my six-gun in my right hand, also at full cock, I knocked on the door with my left hand.

The clank clank of heavy spurs and the scuffing of cowboy boots were heard coming.

The door opened. As it did, I saw in a flash that the man who had opened it had done so with his right hand, and that his gun was on his right side. That was lucky for me, let me tell you!

Before he could even step back to make a pass for his six-shooter, I jumped and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, near the throat, with my left hand, holding my gun on him with my right, and jerked him out the door.

“Grab his gun,” I yelled to Clay. Clay snatched his gun from its holster.

We pulled him around the corner, stood him against the wall and snapped at him, “Where are the others?”

He just stared for a second or two. I guess he was so flabbergasted he couldn’t talk. We looked straight at him, hard. He dropped his eyes. We had him, and he knew it.

“One went to a ranch, a mile or two away. He ought to be back in a few minutes. He went after a horse.”

“You’re — — lucky,” the outlaw went on; “we’ve just had a terrible row — almost a killin’ — over dividin’ the stolen stock. We’d been outa here but for that.”

I called Baltazar.

“Clay, you and Baltazar take charge of this man. I’m going to search the building. Watch careful.”

I hoped the outlaw had told the truth, but I couldn’t take chances, so I searched the building thoroughly, a ticklish job. No one else was there.

“Where’s the third man?” This to our captive.

“He left on horseback.”

I didn’t press him further but signaled to Beek and Clawson to bring the horses and McDermott.

We halted them out of sight of anyone that might come from the adjoining ranch. We talked a second or
two with the outlaw.

“What’s your name?”

He hesitated, “Diniscio Sanchez.”

“All right for now,” I said.

“We’ve got to get the other rustlers.” I was thinking aloud. We knew they had not been warned. I evolved a plan.

“Clay, you take charge here. Leopoldo, you and Clawson come with me.”

We walked along the trail toward the ranch from which one of the outlaws was sure to come. We hid ourselves near an opening in the brush where we could see anyone coming, but where the person riding toward us could see nothing.

I looked along the trail, using the field glasses.

“Here he comes at a gallop.” Leopoldo looked. “Riding my big pinto.”

Clawson verified this. “Your horse, all right, and leading another stolen horse.”

“Keep your guns on him. You two take that side of the trail. I’ll take this side. Use your rifles.”

The outlaw had not the slightest notion we were there. When he got between twenty and thirty yards away I stepped into the trail. All our guns were on him, hammers back, ready to fire.

His horse came to a pawing halt less than ten yards from us, surprise written all over the outlaw’s face.

“Throw up.” All our guns were on him. I stepped closer.

His six-shooter was in its holster, in front of him, near the saddle horn. He made a slight motion.

“Hold it!” I snapped. “Let that gun be!”

His hands went up, feeling for the stars. He stood in his stirrups, holding the reins over his head with one hand.

“Shoot him down, boys, if he makes a move. I’ll disarm him.” I took his .45 first, then his rifle, which was in a scabbard on his saddle. I threw the cartridges out and secured his double ammunition belt and a long double-edged knife that was in it.

“You’re well-heeled,” I said.

“Not now,” he replied.

It was getting dusk, and we returned to the ranch house, where I questioned him.

“Your name?”

“Pat Guiterrez.”

“You’re an old hand at this rustling business, eh?”

“Si.”

Then he made quite a speech for an outlaw.

“You’re the Lone Wolf, you’re the line-rider, the old Arizona Ranger, no?”

“Si, Senor,” I said, half mockingly”

‘Ranger Pearce,” he continued, “we’ve had sheriffs, U. S. marshalls, and special cattle detectives on our trail before this. Up to now we’ve never been caught. All I can think of now is looking through steel bars in a stone wall, but I guess I got it coming.”

I showed him the gun Baltazar had found.

“Yours?”

“Sir

“You won’t be using it for a while, quite a long while.”

He nodded.

“You and Maris and Sanchez quarrel?”

He looked at Sanchez. “Si. If we hadn’t, we’d a been together, and you’d never have captured us. You’re lucky.”

I nodded then.

“You wanted to make the Mogollon mining camp to sell a mule to buy chuck to get to the border, eh?”

It was now dark and beginning to rain. We went inside. A fire furnished sight enough to guard the prisoners. I sat by the door. The Indians took turns every hour riding around the 160-acre pasture the stolen stock was in. Clawson and Hunter guarded the corral and houses and our horses.

I didn’t dare close my eyes. The outlaws didn’t sleep either. Suddenly, about three a.m., we heard a wail that sounded like the cry of a baby, very faint.

After a thousand years of darkness and rain, the morning star finally came over the Mogollon Mountains.

We built a camp fire and all crowded around it. There was no food, not even “jerky.”

We all wondered where Maris was.

“He’s the leader and the worst rustler in these parts,” Clay said.

“I know,” I replied. “Patience may reward us.”

“Patience no fill my hungry belly,” complained Baltazar.

Just then a local goatherd came to water his goats and get salt for them. I bought a yearling goat for three dollars.

While the herd of goats was drinking, the Indians killed and dressed the goat I had purchased. I told the goatherd that we were waiting for a “friend.” I described Maris.

“We sure would like to know where he is; we can’t wait much longer.”

The goatherd never hesitated, wasn’t suspicious at all.

“Your friend at my camp, stayed with me last night.”

Clay Hunter, who had a nose for food, came from the house,

“Here’s tortillas to go with that goat,” he said.

Erachio knew Maris. He was worried. “Never catch Manuel Maris; him too smart,” he stated.

I took a chance. “We’ll all be eating goat meat together at noon. Maris and all.”

We had barely finished eating when we saw a man coming from the adjoining ranch. We knew he wasn’t Maris. When he pulled up and got off his horse, I asked him who he was.

“Teodoro Chavez.”

“Why have you come here?”

He looked at me kind of funny but answered, “I’ve come to see my daughter; she has a new baby. That’s her husband there.” He pointed to Sanchez.

I thought, “That explains the cry we heard early this morning.”

“Clay, take charge here.”

Chavez and I went toward the small house. As we walked along I said, “Sorry to hear about your daughter — we have Sanchez under arrest for rustling.”

Chavez stopped, looked at me, and then we went into the house. Chavez told his daughter what I had told him. She started to cry. I called Sanchez. When she saw him, she said, “I thought I’d married an honest man, a good cowboy, but you’re a rustler, an outlaw. What will your son think of you when he grows up?”

Sanchez couldn’t speak. He just went over and picked up his baby. Anyone could see he was close to breaking. Tears stood in his eyes. His wife still sobbed. Chavez just stood there. It wasn’t pleasant for me, either.

Finally Sanchez burst out, “For God’s sake, Mr. Pearce, isn’t there something I can do to redeem myself?” His voice broke, his eyes filled.

I said, “Can’t promise anything, but we might work out something.” I did some fast thinking.

“Chavez,” I inquired, “do you know Maris?”

“Si.”

“Well, if he escapes, your son-in-law and Guiterrez will receive the brunt of the punishment, savvy?”

“Si.”

“Will you and Sanchez bring in Maris?”

“If you do, I’ll intercede for Sanchez, but if you don’t or try any monkey business — ”

“Our word and honor.”

I nodded. We went out and I gave instructions. “Sanchez, you ride the big pinto of Leopoldo’s, Chavez the saddle mule. Both these animals were stolen, and Maris will not suspect.”

“Bueno,” said Chavez.

/^lawson, Baltazar and Erachio guarded Guiterrez and McDermott. Hunter and I took our rifles and followed three hundred yards behind Chavez and Sanchez. We hid about two hundred yards from the goatherd’s camp, and watched.

Sanchez and Chavez rode right into the camp. Maris was making coffee. He never suspected a thing. “Have some,” he invited. They got down and accepted coffee.

“Where’s Pat?” Maris asked.

“Back to the house. Indians have him, also the stolen stock.” Sanchez made that up on the spur of the moment.

Maris didn’t bat an eye. “Never mind, we’ll waylay ’em. Indians dumb.”

Maris, at this moment, lifted his cup of coffee with his right hand. He also wore his .45 on his right side.

“Reach,” said Sanchez and they both covered him.

“I refuse,” he said, half startled; he couldn’t go for his six-gun, but his rifle was a scant yard away leaning against a log. He made a dive for it.

Sanchez jumped at the same time and grabbed the barrel of the rifle. Maris had the stock of the gun. They went round and round, Sanchez holding the barrel toward the ground.

“Stop it, or I’ll blow your head off,” commanded Chavez.

Maris then realized he was done. He gave up. They disarmed him and put him on his horse. Sanchez led the horse that Maris was on, and Chavez rode behind him, rifle pointing at Maris’ back.

We went out to meet them. When we got to the ranch, Maris was fairly steaming mad.

“Let me down, let me down; I’m going to kill that traitorous — — — .” He pointed to Sanchez.

“Shut up and get down!” I barked.

Maris got down.

“Now walk straight ahead to the campfire,” I commanded. Instead he walked towards me.

I remembered never to let an outlaw get closer than three yards.

“Stand still.” I bit the words sharp. My hand was on the butt of my .45. He stopped. “Listen to me. I did this. Sanchez and Chavez were carrying out my orders. I could have killed you before they captured you.”

He seemed impressed, but hate was in his eyes as he glared at Sanchez. Then he turned to me.

“Now I know you. You’re the Lone Wolf. I’ve seen you a time or two, but you never saw me.”

We went to the fire. We searched him and found a dagger twelve inches long, wrapped in rag, inside his boot.

It was now near noon, and as we all ate some goat meat together, Erachio tapped me on the shoulder. “Yes, Ranger, you’re a prophet,” he said. I smiled.

We had been extremely lucky. We had captured the three rustlers one at a time, and the worst one, Maris, was taken by one of his pals and an acquaintance he never suspected. But our hardest task was ahead. To take three outlaws, two of them desperate men, clear to Springerville, Arizona, was a mean job. We had had very little sleep for three nights and faced at least another one when we wouldn’t get any. Some prospects.

The Indians and Clawson rounded up the horses and mules and left.

Those stolen animals were the cream of the stock of the reservation. One stallion alone was worth a thousand dollars.

We didn’t have any chuck at all. We hoped to get back to McDermott’s ranch by dark; we’d get food there.

To Chavez I gave Maris’ .45 and rifle. We had all the extra “artillery” we could carry. The six-guns we put in the saddle bags. The rifles we strapped to the outside of the packs on the pack horses. We also took an extra horse, in the event we needed him. He was a big sorrel. We had no handcuffs or leg irons so I had to line up the four prisoners: “Hunter will lead. Sanchez ride next to Hunter. McDermott behind Sanchez, Guiterrez next, and Maris right in front of me. We’re all headed for Springerville, Arizona, but if any of you make a break. I’m not sure we’ll all get there.” I tapped my guns for emphasis.

I had to keep Maris as far away from Sanchez as possible. He still swore vengeance. Maris was one of the hardest, coldest men I ever met — six feet two inches, thin but very wiry, black eyes, swarthy complexion, Roman nose and thin cruel lips.

It was a pretty glum bunch when we left, and it was to get glummer.

Well, I was glad Clay Hunter was along. He knew the country, had trapped and hunted through there more than once. He picked the best trail.

We did reach McDermott’s ranch at sundown. We guarded our prisoners in his house. He furnished us food. But as he was still technically under arrest, I searched his house and found a rifle and some ammunition. I kept both. I still didn’t exactly trust McDermott.

The other three prisoners we watched all night by the light of a tallow candle, though we were dead for sleep. Maris’ only thought was to kill Sanchez. “I’ll make coyote bait out of you,” he said more than once. Sanchez made no reply. I kept them in opposite corners of the room.

We were dead for sleep, and so were the outlaws. The night dragged on, and after what seemed a century of darkness, dawn came.

In the morning we mounted once more. “Where’s the sorrel horse?” I asked. We found it dead, shot between the eyes with a .32 calibre pistol.

“McDermott’s work, I’ll bet,” said Clay. “Probably did it to destroy the evidence. That horse was stolen, you know.” Later Sanchez confirmed Hunter’s belief.

Well, the evidence was dead and we couldn’t do anything about it. I was glad McDermott hadn’t shot us and freed the prisoners. We didn’t know he had the .32.

We left McDermott, but took his .45 and rifle with us. He could come and get them later.

That day was the longest, weariest day I ever spent. Hot? It was so cussed hot that the lizards almost asked us for a drink. (Real lizards, not the outlaws! ) Sleep seemed to be the main thought — good restful sleep, anywhere, even on a horse. But we couldn’t. We didn’t dare.

Just before we got to the Arizona border we stopped, took our saddles off to rest our horses, and let them graze a little. We couldn’t relax our vigilance a bit. After a thirty-minute rest, we saddled up. Sanchez and Guiterrez mounted. Maris balked. “You haven’t a warrant to take me into Arizona and I ain’t goin’, seel.”

My nerves were on edge. ” — it, we’re taking you anyway. Get on your horse.”

I was standing between Clay and Maris. Maris made no move to get on his horse. His eyes were desperate, I could see that.

Clay spoke, soft-like, but deadly, at the same time pulling his .45. “Joe,” he said, “just step aside; he’ll either get on his horse or he’ll be bait for the buzzards in five seconds.”

Clay leveled his gun on Maris, his trigger finger tightened. Maris looked at Hunter and — got on his horse.

Those last hours to Springerville were just plain unadulterated misery. The outlaws were so sleepy that they nodded and almost fell off their horses. And a time or two it was only Clay shouting to me that kept me on my horse. We struck an old road, made to haul wood to the towns of Eagar and Springerville, and got to Springerville without further mishap about four p.m. There’s no jail in either of these towns, so after sending wires to the U. S. Zuni Indian Agency at Black Rock, and the Navajo Indian Agency at Crown Point, New Mexico, we took our prisoners to our home and hired some neighboring cowboys, who had sawed-off shotguns, to guard them. The outlaws sprawled on the livingroom floor. I didn’t take off my clothes, just my boots, and was “dead to the world” in less than five minutes.

Came eight p.m. We took the outlaws upstairs. An hour later, Maris insisted on going outside and the man guarding him followed him down. I happened to be in the next room adjoining the one which they would pass through. Mrs. Pearce was rocking the baby in the room which Maris was entering from the stairway. She could see that he was going to make a break. She yelled, “Joe, come quick.”

I threw the door open with my left hand and jerked my .45 level on Maris in one motion, just as he reached for the doorknob.

“Stop!” I bit the word quickly.

Maris grabbed a baby chair to throw at the lamp on the table.

“Drop it!”

He did — slowly. I was to the limit of my endurance. One more second and I would have shot him sure.

“Now get up those stairs!”

He went back upstairs.

“Take this,” I told the guard. “And if any one of them moves toward you or the lamp or towards the door, shoot him down.”

The next day we took the outlaws to St. Johns, Arizona, and turned them over to Sheriff Peralta. A few days later Lt. John Collier, of the New Mexico mounted police, and one of his mounties came via Holbrook and took them to Gallup, New Mexico.

Maris was so bad that they had to take him to Santa Fe. One time he threw the hot coffee which Pat Gugan, the jailor, brought him, right back in Gugan’s face. He cooled off in the dark house, on bread and water, for two weeks after that.

Well, Maris got quite a stretch in prison. Guiterrez a shorter one, and I kept my promise to Sanchez. The judge released him with a warning:

“I trust this will be a lesson to you, Sanchez. I release you to go home and support your wife and child honorably and never get in with rustlers again.”

As far as I know, Sanchez took that advice and put it into practice. I met him a few times afterward and he was getting along fine.

Pat Guiterrez? When his time was up in Santa Fe, he drifted around here and there, came to our house a time or two and was very friendly. He held no grudge. “I guess I got my medicine right. It was coming to me though,” he said. He died about three years after getting out of prison.

Maris? When he had served his time, he returned to the Zuni mountains where his wife lived, and, without a word, shot her down, then turned the gun on himself.

This Maris gang was the last real rustling outfit along the Arizona-New Mexico border. Nothing as large after. I’m glad I had a hand in breaking it up.

(The End)