I can see are pointy crocodile boots with silver toe tips as they pull back to kick, again and again. The cutout pattern is floral. Beautiful.
And a voice.
The kicking stops suddenly.
My eyes are closed. I hear myself groaning, bloody lips held wide, huffing in air. The pain is…
Wait. I hold my breath, grit my teeth, and listen. Someone’s coming.
Coming closer.
If it’s help, I need to move, roll, knock at least one down. Do something, anything.
“We have to escape,” I whisper. “They ain’t playin’.”
I don’t know how far away she is. No way to tell if she heard me.
9 Harley: Them
“It’s Blondie’s gal,” says Harley Kittridge, adjusting the flame on his carbide headlamp.
“Who?” asks Angus, sticking a fresh toothpick in his mouth.
The brothers have gone to the powder magazine to talk in private. Harley walks over to a stack of dynamite boxes and opens the top one, peering in.
“From the Mexican train,” says Harley. “With Blondie’s gang? The one I tole you about? You know, yore look alike.”
“The tall blond guy the authorities thought was me?” asks Angus, touching his yellow hair. “Arrested him and all?”
“Yep, almost strung the fucker up. Got the rope around his neck before his pals freed him.”
“You already done tole me about that. What’s it got to do with this?”
“Them two gals in the store room was part of the confrontation.”
“No way. Them same gals?”
“What I said,” says Harley.
“How in Hades did they end up here?”
“Dunno,” says Harley. “Only saw ‘em the once.”
“How can you be sure?”
“How many salt and pepper gals that damn tall you ever seen?”
“Okay,” says Angus, rolling a toothpick between his teeth. “None.”
“Right,” says Harley. “I looked down the barrels of their guns. Their faces is fixed in my brain. They was the ones.”
“The blonde guy who they tried to string up, thinkin’ he was me?”
“Yeah, I already told you, damn it.”
“Shit.” Angus spits out the toothpick and starts pacing.
“Shorty, Kit and me was in the middle of facin’ down Blondie’s gang, when that nigger gal snuck in behind us. She was pointin’ a gun at the blonde gal and all the rest of Blondie’s crew, threatenin’ to kill ‘em,” says Harley.
Angie looks at him. “They’re together now.”
“Looks like they partnered up. Shit, them gals ain’t like to be alone. The rest of Blondie’s bunch has gotta be around, too,” says Harley, taking a fresh dab of snoose out of the can and filling his cheek.
“Shit,” says Angus. “Shorty said they was gunsels. Mean sons a bitches. Best avoided at all costs.”
“Like you say, they was enemies,” says Harley. “That blonde gal we got trussed up in there?”
“Yeah?”
“Her pals had to talk her out of killin’ that there nigger bitch that day,” says Harley, pulling a stick of TNT out of the box and passing it from hand to hand. Never holding it in one hand long.
Nitroglycerin absorption makes for a staggering headache. He finds a burlap bag and carefully puts the stick in.
“Her finger was so tight on the damn trigger, I was sure that nigrah gal was a goner. Hell, I had to stare down that blonde hussy myself. She’s not to be crossed, lemme tell ya.”
“That’s history. Things is lookin’ good now,” says Angus. “We got ‘em all trussed up. Dead to rights.”
“What’s next?” asks Harley.
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” says Angus. “We’ll go check our stash. If it’s okay, you set up a few sticks and blast that hangin’ wall down. That’s what yore thinkin, ain’t it?”
Harley nods.
Angus says, “I’ll show you the spot I got in mind.”
“That crevice.”
“Exactly. You close it up good. It’ll keep ‘em from gettin’ to it from this end. We’ll take the gold the other way, out the north entrance.
“Next, you go tell the boys to find out what’s going on. Then, kill them two bitches. Y’all can go out the east adit after. We gotta meet up with Sal down the hill later.”
“Kill?” asks Harley.
“They know about us. You got a better idea?” asks Angus, shooting him a hard look.
Harley blasts out a lungful of air and shakes his head.
“The sooner we can get a wagon up here,” says Angus, “and get the gold loaded out, the better. Especially now that we got them jeezly bitches snoopin’ around. The rest of their gang can’t be far off. You watch yore back, Harley, that whole crew knows what you look like.”
“I know, damn it,” says Harley, gathering a few more sticks of dynamite.
Next, they get fuses and blasting caps from the separate cache. And fill a bucket with water from the piped seep in the back.
He follows Angus to the broken crevice in the bedrock contact. Angus points out the pivotal spots.
“Yep,” says Harley. “Same as I’d have picked.”
“Good, yore all set,” says Angus. “We’ll go check on the gold. They wasn’t carryin’ any, so it’s like to all still be there.
“After that, you come back and blast this right here. Once you get these charges tied onto these support timbers and mudded up, the blast will let loose a mountain of rock and seal off the whole damn tunnel.”
Leaving the blasting components there, they head onward, and verify that the stash of gold in the safe room is secure. All ten bags are undisturbed.
When Harley gets back to the crevice, he sets up the pattern, cuts fuse to length, crimps the blasting caps on and pokes the caps into the ends of the sticks of dynamite.
He shovels dirt into the bucket of water and stirs it up.
He covers each charge with the resulting mud and runs a long fuse back down the tunnel to the dynamo.
Ducking his head, he says a little prayer to his maker and pushes the plunger.
The blast is deafening. Rocks fly, and dust erupts outward in a miniature haboob.
He waits for it to settle enough that he can check the face, moves a few rocks into a hole near the ceiling and steps back to inspect his work.
A loose boulder falls on the spot where he was just working. The boulder would have killed him.
“Shit.” He shivers. “It’s sealed up tight enough.”
He heads back to help the boys finish the job on the girls.
Best results would be if they can find out where their cohorts are and what the hell they’re up to before the pair die. They’ve been too damn stubborn so far.
He starts back toward the store room, detouring up a ladder into a higher level to take a leak. Angus has a thing about pissing in the area they’re working. Persnickety bastard.
10 Táági: Lost
Táági left the castle in the dark, eager to get off for the honeymoon.
He’s at the Bar None now looking for her.
It’s getting late. The first rays of sunshine are emerging above the hills to the east.
“Hello, the house,” he yells.
The cabin is built of massive logs. Its stone fireplace emits a thin line of smoke from the morning warming fire.
No one answers. Táági stomps on up the steps and knocks on the door of the Bar None Ranch headquarters.
He waits. Nothing. Knocks again. Harder.
“Coming.”
He can hear the footsteps approaching. And the bolt being pulled back. Someone opens the door.
He touches his hat brim and says, “Is there a bloody Apache tracker about?”
“Plenty Apaches here, big guy,” says Ma’cho, favoring him with a wide grin. “Come in, coffee’s on.” His straight black hair is in two thick braids today.
Táági follows him into the kitchen. Güero is leaning
on the counter, coffee mug in hand. He raises it in greeting. “Mornin’, big guy.”
“Apache come in two colors,” says Ma'cho, gesturing toward his fraternal twin, who has blonde braids, then himself. “White or red. You pick.”
“Well, mate, you redskins all look alike to me, so no matter,” says Táági, smiling.
Güero grins back, and says, “What’s up?”
Ma'cho hands him a full mug.
The tall Viking warrior steps over to the counter to fix it up. He adds raw honey and fresh goat’s milk. Stirs, takes an experimental sip, then lowers the mug.
“I was supposed to meet Cha'a first thing this morning,” he says. “Head off on the long-awaited honeymoon. She tell you?”
The twins shake their heads, pretty much in unison.
Táági gets a kick out of it, starts to comment, but decides to keep his own counsel. The pair are unimpressed by twin comments. Probably heard too bloody many over the course of their young lives.
“She’s not here, then?” he asks.
“Nope,” says Güero.
“Off with Bigan?” Táági wiggles his eyebrows.
“Bigan went out to help the little kids. Get ‘em lined out with the sheep and goats. Maybe an hour ago. Rode out alone. He didn’t mention her,” says Güero. “Maybe she’s in his loft.”
“No, I knocked already,” says Táági.
He glances at Ma’cho. “Tried your teepee, too. No one’s bloody home.”
“Jogging?” asks Ma'cho.
“I didn’t see her tracks, but I’ll take a closer look,” says Táági. “I expected her to be with one of you.”
They nod in unison, once again.
“Stay, enjoy coffee. Ma'cho go look.” The Injin walks out.
“Honeymoon?” asks Güero, topping up their mugs.
“Long awaited,” says Táági.
“Guess I oughta line something like that up fer after you get back,” says Güero.
“Maybe,” says Táági. “She is excited about the idea.”
“That mean we should each do it with her?”
“Blimey,” says Táági, staring out the window. “I never thought.”
11 Kabósari: Surveillance
Kabósari’s patience pays off.
He follows the women’s’ tracks through the tunnel.
There’s a light ahead. And a lot of rough voices. More than just the girls.
He slows, treading lightly, until he’s close enough to see into a wide, room-sized area. Lots of shelves with drill steel, single and double jacks and the like. A tool room.
Men. Three of the bastards. The girls are on the ground, wrists and ankles bound. Two of the men are kicking his sister. The third is slapping the blonde girl’s cheeks. She seems to be unconscious.
There’s the sound of a distant blast down the tunnel beyond them.
The three turn away from their work to look. A dust cloud flows into the room.
He steps in, gun in hand, saying, “Hold it right there. Get your hands up.”
They run into the dust. The last one grabs a lantern as he sprints after his friends.
Kabó shoots, but a bend in the narrowing tunnel works to their advantage.
He runs around it, brazen.
They’re out of sight.
“Zing.”
They’ve stop around the next bend and are shooting back.
He returns fire and, eventually, hears them take off.
He goes back where the girls are and gets the other lantern. He heads after the men, more carefully this time.
He picks out five different sets of tracks. One of the three biggest sets of tracks has a pointed v-shaped slash in the left heel.
Two of the big men must have been out of sight from his vantage point.
He finally finds the three. He can see them in front of a pile of fresh fallen rock which is completely blocking the tunnel. They’re tossing rocks away frantically, but they don’t have a chance.
There’s still a pallor of dust in the air from the blast. Thicker here, obscuring everything.
He lays down, using his elbows for a nice, solid rest. He needs to be sure.
He makes a noise to get their attention.
They stop and turn toward the noise.
Perfect. Three quick shots do the job.
Hurried, he reloads his gun, empties their pockets and takes their cash. Also, a good pocket knife and a nice fighting blade. He slides the sheath onto his belt. None of their ammo fits his pistol.
One man’s boots are newer than his, but too small. The second pair is worn clean through in several places. The third pair is crocodile and new, with silver toe tips, but too damn big.
Traveling light, he has to abandon the rest.
The last two, the other big boot men, are nowhere to be found. From the looks of it, they left earlier and are beyond the blast. But he can’t be sure.
Looking it over, and weighing his options, he decides that the tumble of rock will take too long to clear.
“Bloody bad luck to miss them.”
He turns back to free his sister. He can’t afford to lose track of the girls.
12 Cha’a: Drop
I hear rustling, a gasp.
“Cha’a.” He’s murmuring to me.
“Ma’cho?” I ask.
I open my eyes. I don’t see anyone. Or anything. It’s pitch dark.
“Where are we?” I ask, groggy.
Dizzy. I roll over. My arms are asleep because my hands are still tied behind my back. My gut aches. My face feels shattered.
My feet tingle painfully as some blood flow returns past the ropes binding my ankles together. “Ma’cho, where are you?”
Nothing.
“Say something else.”
I have to stop. My whole body is wracked by a gut wrenching puke. I scramble, pushing with my heels, to get away from the stinking puddle.
I have to wait for the pain to fade. Breathing, huffing.
Discomfort is all I feel for a while. Then, hunger, thirst. And pain. Big time.
I hear his breathing.
“Ma’cho?”
Nothing.
“Do you remember how…what happened?” I prod. “Those guys?”
“My head hurts, my bloody body aches, my blasted belly feels like it took a sucker punch. I don’t bloody well give a shit where we are,” says Zastee.
“Oh,” I say, his shadow fades away. “Zastee.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she says, coughing harshly.
Another dream. It’s just us gals. Ma’cho isn’t here.
“You will,” I say. “Are yore eyes open?”
“No, damn it. They hurt, too. Some one of them’s punched me. Quite a lot.”
“Open ‘em anyway.”
“What do you bloody mean?” she asks.
I hear her clothes rustle.
There’s a smell of explosives in the air.
“See for yoreself,” I say.
More rustling, a foot scraping.
“Blimey. I can’t see a bloody thing in any direction.”
“Exactly.”
“We’re bloody well fucked,” she says.
“You got that right,” I say. “I was hoping you’d be able to see.”
She scoffs. “A few vague shadows. Bloody eyelids are swollen almost shut. What the blasted hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know.”
We’re quiet a while. I’m assessing my pain. The assessing only makes it hurt worse.
“They kept asking what we saw,” I say, trying to shake some sense into my head.
I can’t. It hurts too much. Am I being repetitive? So is the pain. The pain in my side and head, throbbing. The overall pain, constant.
“There was several of ‘em, they got us tied up quick. Then, yelling. They stomped our asses. They argued about whether they needed to kill us or not. Shots. A fight. A blast. I don’t know the fuck what we saw. Did we see anything?”
“I heard the dynamit
e go. Who were they?” she asks.
“Didn’t see ‘em or recognize any voices. Wait. One seemed familiar, but I can’t place it,” I say.
“Blast. My head,” she says. “I can’t think.”
I hear her puking.
“Yeah,” I say, when she’s done. “I ralphed, too.”
“Rather. The buggering smell of yours sparked mine.”
I shrug. She can’t see it. “I heard two names, Angus and Jig.”
“Yeah. Right. Me, too,” she says. “And Joe. Are your bloody hands tied?”
“That’s the heart of our dilemma,” I say, struggling to swallow the pain. “Were you ever a girl scout?”
I don’t know where that thought came from, I wasn’t.
She bursts out with a laugh, it turns to a groan two chuckles in.
“Bloody scouts? I’m wilderness raised, never needed a bloody troop. Given the chance I would have chosen the boys’ troop. They did real things.”
“Fuck, don’t make me laugh, I think my ribs are broken,” I say. “Every single one.”
“With luck, you’ve punctured a lung,” she says. “And will die a slow, agonizing death.”
“Back atcha, bitch.”
She breathes out; slow, raspy.
“Yore ribs?” I ask.
“Pretty much the same,” she says.
“Damn it’s dark,” I say. “I can’t even see a wall.”
“The bad news,” she says. “All we have is each other.”
“Fuck me. The last thing I need is you,” I say. “But, like it or not, it’s you I’m stuck with. And, I’m thinkin’, not.”
She scoffs, and says, “Up yours, bitch.”
She coughs more, gagging.
“Look, damn it,” I say. “We gotta work together or die. Can we agree to a temporary truce?”
“I’d rather not,” she says. “You can’t be trusted.”
“Me?”
“Too right.”
“Shit.”
She’s coughing again.
I say, “Damn it. Come here, I’ll twist, you turn. Truce or not, they’ve caught us both. Let’s get ourselves untied before someone comes.”
She scrapes around. I scramble in my socks. My boots are gone. The floor is well tamped dirt.
“The wall here is rock,” she says, touching me, at last. “Blasted, I’d say, from the rough feel of it, this could be a bloody mine tunnel.”
Hell of a Horse Page 4