“What is it?” Cano demanded.
“I…I got to get outta here.”
“Not before you tell me what I want to know.”
“I’m gonna be sick.”
“Then be sick,” Cano said.
Carlton staggered away and bent over, supporting himself with hands on his knees as he dry heaved. The spell lasted fifteen seconds, and when he straightened, his tanned complexion was gray. “I recognize the second one.”
“Who is he?”
“Seen him a couple times at the trading post. Apache. From up north.”
“And?”
“They got a reservation or something up there. Own the whole territory. Bad news.”
“Bad how?”
“You want to pass through, you got to pay a toll and use one of them. Frank – that’s the guy there – was a guide. Used to bring ammo and weapons to swap at the trading post.”
Cano digested the news. “How do you get in touch with them to arrange a guide?”
“They monitor the radio, I think. Never had to do it myself. Tucker may know.”
Outside, the men gulped the warm air, but the stench of death lingered in their noses no matter how many breaths they took. Cano retrieved the AKMs and handed them to Carlton, who inspected them with practiced hands and nodded as he slid them into his saddlebags.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said.
“You said maybe Tucker knew how to get in touch with the Apaches?”
“Yeah.”
“How long you been working for him?” Cano asked.
“Three years, off and on.”
“How much he pay you?”
Carlton looked away. “I get by. A slice of what we bring in.”
“Big slice or little?” Cano pressed.
“I’m not rich or nuthin’.”
“How’d you like to make some real money?”
“Doin’ what?”
“Helping us.”
Carlton held Cano’s stare. “Helping? How?”
“You know these Apaches?”
Carlton shrugged. “Some of them, I guess.”
“You ever been to Albuquerque?”
“Not since before…you know.”
“We’re headed that way. We’re gonna need some solid hands.”
“Already got a job.”
“Not much of one, judging by your clothes and horse, kid.” Cano mentioned a quantity of gold.
“You’re bullshitting,” Carlton blurted.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You got it on you?”
“Got some. But I’m going to radio for more. I’m with the Crew. You know who we are?”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Then you know we have a lot of resources. I’m good for it.”
“I…Tucker needs me.”
“How long you have to work for him to see that kind of take? A year? Two? You can make that in a few weeks with us.”
“I suppose I could tell him I gotta take a breather.”
They mounted up and rode back into town. Cano and Luis accompanied Carlton into the trading post and waited until Tucker was finished with a customer to ask about communicating with the Apaches. When he was free, Luis took the lead, his bedside manner better than Cano’s.
“Carlton was telling us that you may know how to contact the Apaches.”
“You headed to Albuquerque?” Tucker asked.
“Looks that way.”
“You have to put out a call on channel 19. They monitor it. But it ain’t cheap.”
“How much?”
“Depends on how many are going.”
“Figure…five.”
The trader named a figure in ammo. Luis frowned. “You serious?”
“They got a monopoly. Charge whatever they like.”
Luis went back to Cano while Carlton had his talk with the boss. Luis told him what he’d learned, and Cano’s scowl deepened.
“I’ve been thinking,” Cano said. “It’ll take four days, at least, for anyone to get here from Pecos. By then the trail will be cold.”
“There is no trail. The rain.”
Cano ignored him. “But we can assume they’re headed north, based on the general direction they’ve been traveling. I’m willing to bet they’re on their way to Albuquerque. If I’m right, I need to contact Magnus. He’s got enough contacts to find someone there we can hook up with.” Cano paused, thinking. “We’ll need a few mercenaries. See who you can round up. Offer them the same pay as the kid. But get hard cases. I want killers, not a bunch of pussies, understand?”
“How will we pay them?”
“I’ve got enough gold to give them half now and half in Albuquerque. I’ll let Magnus work out the rest.”
Luis stepped out onto the sidewalk to wait for Carlton. The sheriff was speaking with the pair of Crew gunmen, whose expressions were unreadable. When the lawman saw Luis, he disengaged and wandered over.
“Thought I made it clear you boys should move along,” he said.
“Yeah. We got that. You said by sunset, didn’t you?”
“Not much time left.”
“You see us after dark, then you maybe got a problem. Until then, chill. We’re just hanging out.”
The sheriff took a step toward Luis, hand on his gun. “Did you just tell me to ‘chill’?”
“That’s right. We aren’t doing anything but waiting for our boss and trading with Tucker. There a law against that?”
The sheriff’s eyes were slits. “I see you in the town limits one minute after dusk, you’re going to be chilling in a ditch. Capiche, homeboy?”
Luis mad dogged the man, but the sheriff didn’t flinch, his cobalt blue eyes hard as tungsten. Luis eventually looked away, reasoning that an escalation wasn’t worth it. The sheriff must have sensed his near miss, because he walked away without comment, leaving the Loco on the sidewalk, waiting for Carlton.
The young man emerged a minute later. Luis stepped into the street. “Need to hire a couple more men. You know anybody?”
“Might. What do you want?”
“Hardest mofos you know. Stone killers. Good with a gun and a knife; seen combat.”
“I know where to look.”
“Yeah?”
“Bar near the town center. Rowdies is the name.” Carlton nodded. “If anyone’s interested, we’ll find them there.”
“Rowdies, huh?” Luis turned to the Crew gunmen. “Tell Cano I’ll be back in a while. Let him know about the sheriff so we don’t get caught in town.”
Chapter 8
Lucas glanced up at the clouds overhead, a trailing remnant of the storm that had snuck up on them as they’d ridden east, and felt the first fine droplets of moisture land on his skin, the air charged with the electricity that presaged a cloudburst. The desert was still except for the hushed conversation of Ruby and Sierra. Colt was tending to the horses as Eve stood by. He wiped away the rain and stood.
“I’m going to look up ahead and see if there’s any other trails we can take. This one’s brutal,” he said to Colt.
“Knock yourself out. You find something better, I’m fine with that as long as it leads northwest.”
Lucas debated riding Tango but decided to let the stallion rest. He’d more than earned it, and Lucas could use the opportunity to stretch his legs. He shouldered his M4 sling and set off on a divergent path from the main trail, paying close attention to the terrain and any clues it could offer. After ten minutes of reconnaissance, he found a game trail that was every bit as bad as the one they were on, and was eyeing it skeptically when he heard a scream.
Colt.
Lucas broke into a run and sprinted back to the camp. Ruby was yelling instructions to Sierra, who was doing her best to calm Nugget. When Lucas arrived, Colt was lying on the ground in a ball, clutching his leg.
“What happened?” Lucas demanded.
“Rattler,” Colt managed through clenched teeth. “Got me in the calf.”
/>
“What? How?”
“He was going to use the bathroom,” Ruby said, pointing at a stand of bushes.
Lucas moved to Colt, pulling his belt free as he approached. He wrapped it around the bartender’s knee and pulled it tight, and then handed Colt the end. “Keep pressure on that so the venom doesn’t get a chance to circulate.”
Sierra leaned into Lucas, her face white. “What are you going to do?”
“We don’t have any antivenom. Let’s get a peek at how bad it is.”
Lucas unsheathed his Bowie knife and made short work of Colt’s jean leg. He sliced up the seam to the knee with the razor-sharp blade and inspected the bite already discoloring around the two bright red punctures from the fangs.
“Looks like he got you pretty good. How big a snake?”
“Maybe three feet.”
“That’s a little bit of luck. It’s the tiny ones that are the worst.”
“Are you going to suck the venom out?” Ruby asked.
Lucas shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t do any good and increases the infection risk. Same with cutting the punctures.”
“Then how do you treat it?”
“Afraid there isn’t much we can do.” He fingered the belt. “Even the tourniquet’s a bad idea for more than a few minutes. Don’t want you to lose the leg.”
“So we just wait for me to die?” Colt asked.
“Most rattler bites aren’t fatal,” Lucas said.
“Most?” Colt looked down at the belt. “How about this tourniquet?”
“Probably best to loosen it up some.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“You can vary the pressure, slow the amount of venom that hits your bloodstream all at once.” Lucas took another look at the bite. The discoloration was beginning to work its way up the veins toward Colt’s knee, and the area from his ankle up was almost twice the normal size. “It’s swelling pretty good.”
Colt grimaced and strained to see the wound. He regarded it without speaking for a moment and then nodded. “How long till I can ride?”
“Probably want to wait an hour or so, give your body a chance to process the venom.”
Colt looked up at the sky. “We’re losing the light.”
“An hour won’t kill us. We can ride harder later. Going to have to.” Lucas paused. “Just relax. Keep your leg below your heart, and pulse the belt every five minutes or so.”
Lucas stood and moved to Tango. Ruby followed him to the horse, glanced over at Colt, and then spoke softly to Lucas. “I don’t mean to jinx this, but doesn’t it seem like this trip is turning into a disaster?”
Lucas looked off at the endless desert. “Can’t argue that one. But if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“I’m worried, Lucas.”
He nodded. “Me too, Ruby, me too.”
Chapter 9
A column of riders crested the rise. The men’s faces were tanned the color of pecans beneath their cowboy hats, and rivulets of water from the tail end of the downpour streamed from the straw brims like tiny waterfalls. Eight in all, they toted assault rifles and wore flak jackets, their jeans faded from constant sun.
The Apache patrol worked its way west, one of many chartered with scouting the territory for interlopers trying to traverse the area without paying. The men were thin, with the rawboned look of men used to living hardscrabble off the land; the patrols operated in the field for weeks at a time before returning to the reservation headquarters for supplies and rest.
This patrol had been on the road for six days, entrusted with the southwestern boundary of the Indian nation. So far the trip had been uneventful, with no sign of life other than an occasional animal or bird of prey. The storm had made for unpleasant conditions, but the men rode without complaint, accustomed to anything nature could throw their way.
The lead rider slowed as he peered through the drizzle at a depression ahead in the wet sand. He raised a pair of ancient binoculars and scanned the area, and then stopped his horse and motioned to the rest of the party to do the same.
“One of the traps collapsed,” he said, his voice low.
His second-in-command urged his horse forward until he was even with the lead rider. “Could be the storm.”
The leader nodded. “Lot of water came down. Let’s take a look.”
The men rode to the trail and paused where the trap’s corner hung in the pit below. Three of the men dismounted and made their way to the edge and stared into the hole. The leader pointed to the area near the opening.
“It wasn’t the storm. You can see tracks – faint, but they’re there. We’re lucky they haven’t washed away. This is recent. See?”
The second-in-command nodded. “Looks like at least five or six horses.”
“But there’s nothing in the trap,” one of the men said.
“Could be it was a near miss.”
The leader unslung his assault rifle and gestured at the tracks leading north. “They can’t have gotten far. Mount up. We’ll fix the trap later.”
The men obeyed, and the patrol followed the hoofprints along the trail. The drizzle increased to a cloudburst and the tracks began to vanish as the rain scrubbed them clean. By the time the downpour lessoned to a mist again, the prints were gone.
The leader stopped again at a fork in the trail and scrutinized the ground. He signaled to one of his men to dismount and inspect the area up close. The man obliged and studied the trail, walking slowly for a dozen yards up each tributary before returning with a glum expression.
“Can’t tell which they took.”
The leader looked to his second-in-command with a resigned sigh. “Take half the men and follow the right fork. I’ll take the left. Turn on your radio, but keep the volume down.”
“I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
“Do that.”
The tracker was swinging back into the saddle when the leader cocked his head, listening intently. He turned to his men.
“Did you hear that?”
The second-in-command shook his head. “No. What?”
The leader frowned. “A scream.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction?”
“That way,” he said, indicating the left fork. “Ed, follow us with the horses. If they’re close by, we better do this on foot so they don’t see us coming.”
The leader lowered himself from the saddle and waited as his men followed suit. Thirty seconds later the leader began creeping along the trail, the men now in a single file procession behind him, guns in hand, faces drawn and earnest as the last of the storm blew past.
Chapter 10
Carlton seemed to know the men hanging around outside of Rowdies, who were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes that burned something other than tobacco. They looked Luis over, taking in his tattoos without comment. Carlton nodded to the nearest man.
“Busy today?”
The man shrugged. “Not much going on. Why?”
“Trading post’s slower than molasses. Thought I’d show my friend here around.”
“Friend, huh?” the man echoed, pointedly eyeing Luis. “You ain’t from around here, are you?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Luis softened his tone. “What’s that you’re smoking?”
The man laughed. “Little of this, little of that. You know.”
Luis smirked. “Yeah.”
“You want any, you know who to ask.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Carlton pushed through the swinging double doors and led Luis into a darkened room twice as deep as it was wide. A long wooden bar stretched along one side, and a collection of battered circular tables occupied the floor. The far wall boasted a dozen booths. Luis waited as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and followed Carlton to the bar.
A heavyset man with a leonine head of red hair regarded them from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“What can I get you fellers?” h
e asked, his voice a growl.
Carlton shrugged. “Whiskey.”
Luis took in the bottles behind the man, lined up like soldiers for inspection. “You got any tequila?”
The man nodded almost imperceptibly. “Got no-name rotgut and some El Jimador, from Mexico.”
“How much for the Jimador?”
The bartender named a figure in ammo. Luis nodded. “I’ll take a shot.”
The bartender took his time pouring the drinks into chipped glasses before setting them down in front of Luis, who slid several cartridges to him in trade. The bartender inspected the rounds and grunted affirmation, and Carlton and Luis raised their glasses.
“To the road!” Carlton said. Luis didn’t respond, too busy surveying the men in the room, some at the bar behind the young man, others seated at the tables. Carlton took a pull on his drink and coughed. Luis downed half his tequila in a swallow and didn’t blink, savoring the burn as the fiery liquid slid down his throat and warmed his stomach. He set down his glass and looked at Carlton.
“So what have we got here?”
Carlton twisted to appraise the patrons and nodded at a hulk of a man at one of the tables, his bulk barely fitting in his chair.
“That’s Quincy. He might fit the bill. Meaner than a pit viper. But he likes to drink.”
“That’s okay. No booze on the trail. Desert makes an honest man out of everyone. Let’s talk to him.”
“Sure.”
Carlton carried his drink over to the big man and pulled up a chair. Quincy peered at him with bearlike eyes, his untamed beard and scraggly long hair giving him the appearance of a vagrant, and nodded. “Carl.” He shifted his attention to Luis, and his expression clearly conveyed he didn’t like what he saw. “Who’s this?”
“Name’s Luis,” Luis said. “I’m looking for a few good men.”
Quincy’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t swing that way.”
Luis laughed and sat down across from the big man. “Didn’t figure you did.”
Carlton cut in. “He’s looking for gunmen.”
Quincy smiled, revealing rotting teeth. “That right? For what?”
“Heading north. Looking to put together some fighters.”
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