“Your own son watches the woman when she is without clothes,” Lost His Thumb said.
“That is so, and thus he sees power. But do not forget that my son is trapped by the tree that has become one of his arms. That reduces the amount of power he can gain by looking at this naked woman.”
Killed A Skunk had another question.
“What, great medicine man, about the three other white-eyes?” He nodded toward the grove of juniper on the ridge off to the north. “They watch this woman, too. That means they grow stronger, too.”
Broken Buffalo Horn tilted his head back, waiting for the Great Spirit to help him solve that mystery. Yes, those white men did watch. They watched from afar, so the power they got would not be as strong . . . like the power he, Lost His Thumb, and Killed A Skunk got. It would be a slight percentage of the power received by those white-eyes in the camp with the wagon and the Comanche horses and the ugly man whose face was scarred and who always wore chains.
On the other hand, those white-eyes who watched from the hills or the top of an arroyo, and sometimes behind cactus, trees, or shrubs had see-far glasses. Broken Buffalo Horn had seen more than a few of such white-eye instruments of power. The glasses would bring the woman closer than could be seen with their naked eyes. Those three white-eyes who watched might grow stronger—not strong enough to wipe out three strong, smart Comanches, but—
“Who are those white-eyes?” Lost His Thumb asked.
“I believe they seek the scalps of Comanches and our other Indian brothers,” Broken Buffalo Horn said.
“They are bad, bad men,” Killed A Skunk said.
“They are bad, bad men,” Broken Buffalo Horn agreed, nodding while still considering what must be done. “Yes, and their power grows, too, from watching the white-eyed woman disrobe. It grows stronger because they look through the see-far glasses.”
He knew what he must do.
“We must smoke on this.” Broken Buffalo Horn
broke out his pipe, tamped the bowl with Comanche tobacco, lighted it, offered it to all directions, and passed it around.
The white-eyes with the powerful woman and his son would be moving away again with the stolen Comanche horses. It also meant the other white-eyes—the three men with the see-far glasses—would be leaving, too. Broken Buffalo Horn and his two good friends had fine Comanche ponies to ride. They would catch up. It was a decision that could not be reached without smoking.
It did not take long for the God of All Comanches to let his wisdom find Broken Buffalo Horn and tell him the truth that he must follow.
Lowering the pipe, he said, “I know what must be done.” His face turned grim. “The white-eyes with the see-far glasses grow stronger. We cannot let them continue to grow stronger. So . . . we must kill them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Don’t you pigheads get tired of this?” Charlotte Platte said as she shook the dirt off her shirt before pulling it over her chemise.
“We’re still alive,” Matt McCulloch said. “I aim to keep things that way.”
“Bastard.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He turned and looked off, trying to find Wooden Arm, but the Comanche teen was not back from his mission yet. “Get us breakfast as soon as you get your pants on.” He went to saddle his horse.
“But take your time,” Sean Keegan said and laughed.
“Pigs,” the poisoner of Arizona miners said.
“I’ve noticed a change in her,” Keegan said as he turned to Jed Breen, who had kicked the prisoner’s boots back toward her and moved to add fuel to the fire for another late breakfast.
“What’s that?” Breen said.
“She’s getting darker,” Keegan said. “Keep this up, she might look like a red devil herself by the time we reach Fort Wilmont. Red skin. Red hair.”
Breen shook his head, but turned back to see if Poison Platte was tanner than he remembered. Alas, he was too late. She was already pulling on her boots.
“Where’s the boy?” Breen said, looking around for the Comanche.
“I sent him off on an errand,” McCulloch answered, and threw the blanket on his horse’s back. Seeing that Platte had dressed, he barked, “Get breakfast going. We’re burning daylight.”
“Cook it yourself,” the widowmaker said.
“I wish the bloody hell he would,” Keegan whispered. “Don’t like living so recklessly all the damned time.”
“You cook,” McCulloch said. “That’s your job.”
“I’m not a bad hand around a skillet,” Breen offered.
“No,” McCulloch said. “She cooks.”
“She did poison fifteen men,” Keegan said.
“That’s why we search her. Keep an eye on her. But here’s why she cooks. I don’t want either of you holding a spoon. If we get attacked, I want you with your guns in your hands.”
“What about him?” Keegan pointed to Otto Kruger.
“You don’t want him without those bracelets on his wrists,” Breen said. “He killed a man by driving a spoon through the eyeball. Into the brain. No, as much as I dread coughing up a river a blood and dying that way, I sure don’t want a spoon sticking out of my head.”
“Nein,” the ugly man said. “Bruder. Me? Nein. No löffel. Hans.”
The bounty hunter shrugged and said to the man with the scarred face, “Says you.”
“What did he say?” McCulloch had the saddle on.
“Said it was his brother who drove the spoon into a man’s brains. Until Poison Platte gave him some coffee, you couldn’t tell the Kruger boys apart. I’m with you, Matt. I’ll take my chances with our current cook.” Grinning, he then shrugged and turned to the woman. “Sorry, Charlotte. I tried.”
“Thanks for nothing.” She was already rubbing grease into the skillet.
“Don’t take your eyes off either of them,” McCulloch pointed at the woman. “Especially her. I’m gonna ride around a bit, check our back trail.”
She rose then, took off her hat, and flung it at him. “You’re the poorest excuse for a man I’ve ever seen. And believe me, I’ve seen them all.”
“Like those you poisoned . . . not to mention the kids . . . the women, too.”
“That’s a damned lie,” she said.
“Tell it to the judge in Arizona. Or the marshal.”
“Right.” She let out a dry laugh. “The judge’s son was one of those I killed. The marshal’s brother was another.”
“So you admit you poisoned them.” McCulloch started to mount his horse.
“After they raped me,” she said.
He missed the stirrup and leaned against the horse, looking over the saddle as this vicious, cruel murderess dropped to her knees, shivering without control. She bent forward, stopped herself from falling into the dirt with her hands, and a moment later pushed herself to her knees.
“Peckerheads,” she said, sobbing without control. “Vermin.” Her head lifted to the blue sky. “Are you satisfied?” she screamed.
Breen and Keegan backed away from her.
“Fifteen men.” She laughed, spit, wiped her eyes. “Fifteen.” A moment later, she lay on the ground, curled up into a fetal position, and bawled.
* * *
Breen made the coffee that morning. Keegan offered Charlotte Platte his flask. They told Kruger to busy himself collecting dried dung for fires, to not go farther than a hundred yards from camp, but not to come back to camp until Breen waved him in. They also told him to watch out for rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, Gila monsters, and rabid coyotes.
They listened to Charlotte Platte tell her story. After which, none felt like eating. Breen even emptied his coffee cup onto the fire.
One man, the marshal’s brother, had taken her from the café where she worked as a cook and waitress. He said he was taking her to the dance. Instead he took her to the mine. Fourteen others waited for her.
One after the other. Over three days. Then the judge’s son took her back to the café, t
ossed her out of the buckboard, and with a laugh, told her they’d come back some other time for they couldn’t remember a better dance.
“Bloody hell,” Keegan said. “I’ve met some vermin in me day, but never, never have I heard anything so . . . Turns me stomach, and I’ve seen plenty of—” He drank from his flask.
“Did you tell anyone?” McCulloch asked.
“No.” She shuddered again, and reached for Keegan’s flask. “There was no one to tell. Judge’s son. Marshal’s brother. Thirteen other miners, including the mine owner, his partner, his foreman. Who’d believe a woman, first of all? Who’d believe a cook and waitress?” She shook without control and sobbed another minute.
“I quit my job,” she said after Keegan let her have more whiskey. “I wanted to die. Kill myself. Came close a time or two.” She let out another terrible laugh. “Then Marty—that’s the judge’s son—returned. By that time I was out of the boardinghouse where I’d been staying. I was basically living in the streets, too afraid to go to some madam’s brothel, too ashamed to go to a church, find a priest, even go to a doctor. It was . . . I just wanted to die.”
They let another wave of dry tears run its course.
“That’s what I planned on doing,” Charlotte Platte whispered. “Kill myself.” She shook her head, pushed the wet bangs out of her eyes, and looked at each of the three men for a moment. Then her head lifted to the sun. “There was a half-breed Apache woman in town. She’s the type women go to when . . . you know. Women who . . . well, it’s the type of person you go to when you don’t want anyone else to know what ails you. Or when you want to kill yourself.”
The half-breed showed Charlotte Platte the plants she could use, and how to suck venom from a rattlesnake’s fangs.
“Glory be,” Sean Keegan cried. “I don’t like snakes. Could never hold one of them slivering, bloody—” It was the old horse soldier who began shaking.
“You get used to it,” Charlotte said. “The half-breed took me under her wing, I guess. She said she could not make the poison herself, because that would be murder, but she would show me. So for a month, I learned. And I grew stronger. That’s when Marty came to call on me one more time.”
McCulloch cursed softly under his breath. “You poisoned them, instead of taking it yourself.”
Her head went up and down. Her tear-stained eyes looked into McCulloch’s hard, unblinking eyes. “I didn’t do that good of a job,” she whispered. “Some of them just got sick. But Marty died. Just like that rustler at our camp all those nights ago. They knew who did it, of course. Because Marty bragged. So did Marshal Timmerman’s brother. The judge knew. Timmerman knew. Half of the town knew. So I ran.” She smiled without any joy at Breen. “Almost made it. Thought I might get something close to a life back.”
McCulloch and Keegan looked at Breen.
“I’ll cook breakfast,” the bounty hunter said. “You were a lawman, Matt. That’s her story. I’m not saying that because there’s five thousand dollars if I bring her in. I’m saying that because they might be singing a different tune in Arizona.”
The widowmaker laughed. “I knew I never should have told you anything.” She climbed to her feet. “I’ll cook.”
“No need,” Keegan said. “I ain’t hungry. And Kruger, well, he can starve till tonight.”
Breen waved Kruger in as McCulloch walked away. Breen, Keegan, and Charlotte Platte saw the Indian coming out of the desert, appearing as though by magic. After a long conversation with hands, the Comanche kid and the former Texas Ranger walked back to camp.
“What did the kid see?” Keegan asked.
“Somebody watching us with binoculars. He spotted the reflection of the sun off the lenses.” McCulloch frowned. “Don’t look, but they were northwest of us, on that little ridge. Three men. White men. Riding horses that are about as tired as ours.”
“Following us?” Breen asked.
McCulloch nodded.
“Bandits?” Keegan asked.
“Could be. Or it could be just curious travelers, though Wooden Arm thinks they have been following us for a few days.”
“How can he tell?” Breen asked.
“Probably because he’s a Comanche,” McCulloch said.
“So what do we do?” Keegan asked.
McCulloch looked past them at Charlotte Platte, then at the mustangs, and finally back at the two men standing in front of him.
“I’m feeling generous right now.” Actually, he felt repelled by Charlotte Platte’s story. No matter what Jed Breen had said, McCulloch knew she had told them the truth. But that damned oath he had taken years ago when he enlisted with the Texas Rangers plagued him. Breen was right, in his own way. Maybe. If she wanted to be free, she would have to go to that town in Arizona, and convince a hostile population of her innocence.
Damned oaths men took.
He drew a breath, exhaled, and said, “We ride west. See if those curious people continue to trail us. Maybe they’ll part ways, go about their business, find their place in the world. If so, God be with them.”
“And if they keep following us?” Breen asked.
“Most likely, we kill them,” McCulloch replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The hovel looked older than the Earth.
“Likely there be whiskey there,” Sean Keegan said with a grin, and wet his chapped lips.
“More likely it would kill you,” Breen said.
“Many a bottle and many a keg have tried, Breen, me lad,” the Irishman said with a laugh. “But nary a one has been bad enough to finish off Sean Keegan.”
Under most circumstances, Matt McCulloch would have avoided the place. It had that feel about it, but the signs all said that the wayfarers had stopped there for a night. The man peering from the open doorway in this post of some sort likely had entertained one or more of the braver souls in the train.
That would not have meant anything to McCulloch either, but Wooden Arm had signed and spoken that whoever had been following the wagon train had ridden up to that miserable hut of mostly dirt, at least a day before the wagon train had arrived.
“Stay here,” McCulloch finally said, swung into his saddle, and began riding toward the post.
“Matt,” Keegan called. “I think you might need someone to back your—”
“Stay put. Don’t forget those men trailing us. I’ll be back.”
Keegan frowned and turned to Breen. “What the bloody hell has gotten into him? He must think he’s the guardian angel of those damned fool pilgrims making their way west.”
Breen grinned and shrugged. “Once a lawman . . .”
“Two days ago he said we’d kill those hombres trailing us, yet here we are, and they’re still somewhere behind us, waiting to make their play.”
“Matt’s conservative,” Breen said. “Takes him a while to make up his mind when it comes to doing something like that.” He started to tighten the cinch on his saddle. “I’d say that among us jackals, he has the least jackal in him.”
“And that’s his biggest failing,” Keegan said.
McCulloch had reached the trading post, so Keegan drew the Springfield from his scabbard, and began moving to where he could have a good view of the open doorway.
“Matt said . . .” Breen started.
“Aye,” Keegan said as he found a rock to brace the heavy rifle against, and aimed through the doorway. “But as ye pointed out, laddie, Matt ain’t the jackal that you and I be. He needs a guardian angel, even if it’s a jackal like me.”
* * *
The big brute of a man sat at a table, reading a newspaper with a cigarette burning in what passed for an ash tray and a stoneware jug, uncorked, at his right elbow.
“Hola,” McCulloch said.
The man’s dark eyes looked over the paper, then he turned a page.
“Looking for some information about that wagon train.”
Without looking at him this time, the man said, “No sabe.”
“You’
re reading an American newspaper. Printed in English. From”—McCulloch tilted his head for a better view—“Arkansas.”
“No sabe,” the man said again, let the paper drop to the table, and found his jug. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, he drank, burped, and set the jug down to take a few puffs on his cigarette.
McCulloch repeated his statement in Spanish.
That made the big man’s eyes harden. “¿Eres la policía?”
“I am justice,” McCulloch answered in English.
The man laughed and rose, revealing his towering height and muscular body. He was like the biggest strongman at a circus McCulloch had ever seen. Hell, he was bigger than some circuses McCulloch had ever seen.
“Amigo,” the man said, switching to English, “There is no law in this part of the territory except the law that Don Marion Wilkes establishes.” His heavy accent made it hard to understand, but McCulloch caught the gist of it. If the words were not clear, the big man made his point when he smashed the jug against a column post that helped keep the dirty roof from caving in on them. Then he turned the sharp edges of the busted vessel toward the former Ranger.
“Now you don’t want to do that, son,” McCulloch said with a smile. His hand rested on the handle of the Colt.
“I will kill you now,” the big monster said in broken English. “That will make Don Marion Wilkes very happy.”
McCulloch pulled the Colt, aimed it, cocked it. Less than three feet separated them.
“All I want is information. Like why were those men following that train? And who the hell is Don Marion Wilkes?”
“You will find your answers, amigo.” The man turned the table over.
Nothing separated the two men but the centipede that scurried across the floor, trying its best to get out of the way of the brawl that was about to start.
“In Hell,” the man lunged toward McCulloch.
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