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CHAPTER 11
HERMOSILLO, 1872
Catlow's gang holed up in a friend's hacienda in Hermosillo and Miller, riding in under cover of darkness, found a room directly opposite and watched, and waited.
Miller did net know of Catlow's plan to steal the maverick gold shipment from the Mexican army. He was a silent watcher in the darkest shadows as the robbery took place. Catlow put the robbery into operation whilst the Mexicans, noblemen, soldiers and peasants were enjoying a fiesta and carnival night. In the shadows, Miller saw Cowan approaching, his suspicions that something was going on aroused. "Damn!" Miller thought. "The rough ride didn't kill him, then. Reckon I'll make sure of him, this time." He moved into Cowan's line of sight and led him into a dark alley, drawing away from the scene of the crime taking place. Hiding in a doorway, Miller pounced, clubbing Cowan viciously over the head with his handgun. Cowan fought back and the gun went off, alerting the Mexicans celebrating in the big hacienda. Realising this and not wanting to become involved in the robbery, Miller had no option but to leave Cowan, dazed and bleeding, in the alley. Jumping on his horse, he made his escape through the gates of Hermosillo amidst the confusion. The robbery successfully completed, Catlow and his gang also escaped with the gold consignment, covering their tracks by flooding an orchard on their escape route.
Catlow's gang headed south through the desert with their stolen gold. Ben Cowan tracked them, and Miller tracked Cowan. He watched, and waited, as the Seri Indians picked off Catlow's gang, one by one. He watched, and waited, hoping that the Indians would do the job for him, but also hoping that his opportunity would again arise and vengeance would at last be his. Miller was a very patient man. He watched from a high ridge as Cowan joined on to Catlow's gang in a last-ditch attempt to turn back the Indian tide, but the only life the Seris wanted was that of Catlow's Indian scout. When they had killed him, they left Catlow and Cowan to their own devices. Miller watched as Cowan finally arrested Catlow and, under guard of Mexican soldiers who had come to their assistance, they returned to Hermosillo Jail with the gold.
Miller recognised the Mexican detachment as those from the Hermosillo garrison and, realising that they would be returning there with their prisoners and their gold, he turned his horse. Riding alone, he was able to ride twice as fast and arrived back at Hermosillo a day before the captives, who were immediately interred in the prison awaiting extradition to America, where they would be charged and convicted for armed robbery.
Cowan had discovered from a friendly Mexican Generale that the gold was Confederate, stolen in a raid in 1862 by the Yankees. There was approximately $2 million in the hoard, and it had been hidden in a high cave near the Casas Grandes, where it had been found by Mexicans.
Miller realised that the gold, or any part of it, was beyond his reach. Frustrated, his obsession to kill Callow now being his sole reason for living, he awaited his opportunity. He made good use of the time he had before Catlow was to be moved North. He heard talk in the bars that the gringo Catlow was being taken back to America by Cowan the following morning. He realised that the only chance he would get at killing Catlow would be in the short time when Catlow walked out of the prison and onto the stagecoach which would take them back over the Border. He studied the movements of the guards and watched as provision wagons went through the gates of the Prison. Manned only by a driver, he saw his opportunity and, as the last wagon approached the prison, he jumped on the back and covered himself with the tarpaulin. The guard always flipped back the tarpaulin at the same place, Miller noticed, and he made sure he was at the opposite end of the wagon. He felt the jolting wagon stop inside Hermosillo Jail. His quarry was only a few feet away from him. But now was not the time. Not yet, not yet. Wait. The chance would come.
The wagons were left unattended. The Mexican attitude of 'manyana' prevailed - they would offload the wagons in the morning. Under cover of night, Miller slipped out from under the tarpaulin and up a flight of stairs. He found a room that was bare and unoccupied, and settled down to wait. He spent the time cleaning his Winchester, ready for action.
---oo0oo---
At dawn he heard the Jail come to life. From the room's window he saw a stagecoach arriving and he waited. He waited until, half an hour later, he heard Catlow's voice calling to his campadres, who were still incarcerated but in high spirits. He looked out to see Catlow, in chains, and Ben Cowan guarding him. "Now!" he thought, "Now is the time!"
Quickly, he left the room, Winchester in hand. There was a guard standing half -way up the steps, and he grabbed the unsuspecting Mexican, twisting the man's arm into a hammerlock and using him as a shield as he went down the steps to the forecourt. Catlow and Cowan saw him descending and froze. A Mexican guard ran to the aid of his compatriot, but Miller felled him with a single shot. The Mexican soldiers were ordered not to fire - this was a gringo fight. Tense and wary, Miller wavered as he decided whether to shoot Catlow or Cowan first. Catlow was unarmed.
Cowan saw his chance. "What's the matter, Miller, can't you decide who to kill first?" came Cowan's taunt.
Miller still hesitated.
"Look," continued Cowan, stalling for time, "you got no quarrel with the lady - why don't we just move away?"
For the first time Miller noticed a Mexican senorita sitting in the stagecoach, but his reply was to threaten them with his gun. He'd kill as many Mexicans as he could.
'Now," Miller thought, "they shall see what they did to me." His eyes burning hatred, he made a terrific effort and forced his ruined voice to speak. "Before - I - kill - you - both -know - why!" and he pulled away the bandana round his neck, revealing the ugly wound. Miller could see that one of the stagecoach guards who was riding shotgun was still armed and was pointing a gun at him. Catlow grabbed Cowan's gun and, dropping to one knee, opened fire on Miller. The guard who was shielding Miller jerked and fell dead from Miller's grasp. Miller shot at Cowan and saw him stagger and fall, a bullet in his shoulder, but Catlow was fanning Cowan's gun straight at him. A bullet smashed into Miller's left thigh, throwing him back onto a wall. He pushed off, shooting at Catlow, but the Mexican guards lifted their rifles and started firing at him, too. Miller fell, bullets thudding into his chest, head and back as he tried to crawl, ever nearer, to Catlow.
But Miller's wounds were mortal. Giving a final agonised shudder, his last breath escaped as a low moan and Orville Miller died in the dust by the hand, and at the feet, of his lifetime enemy, Jed Catlow.
---oo0oo---
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