I opened the muddy blanket further. Her face is black-and-blue bruised, swollen. I hardly recognized her with lifeless half-closed eyes, her lips swelled up and peeled back baring her teeth. There’s sticky blood in her hair and purple choke marks. She could have been choked or beaten to death. Why? Is it my fault? My gut churned.
I carried her stiff body a ways from the trail and stacked rocks over her. I thought about her laughing, and her and Marta splashing suds. Nobody passing by would care, but I scratched “Inez” on a flat sandstone. I hoped she joined up with her mama.
As the sun edged down to the western hills, I swore over Inés’ grave I was going to get Marta out of this, and if there’s any way, I’d kill every one of them black-hearted bastards.
There’s a low place in the far line of hills, outlined by the weak sun. The trail headed for that pass as straight as the Dew’s north drift fence. I could keep going after nightfall, for a spell anyway. With the rolling ground, it’s hard to tell how far that pass was. It might be three miles; it might be nine.
It was more like nine. The temperature fell with the darkness. I could see the horses’ breath. Finding a wet arroyo, I watered them. They were played out. There was little for them to nibble along the trail. I was played out too, and my calf throbbed from the stirrup strap rubbing it.
The clip-clop of Cracker’s hooves on hard scrabble made a hollow sound in my head. It’s all I heard. It’s pure dark when I realized I was going uphill. Cracker blew out a breath. We crested the pass.
Two orange dots flickered ahead in the darkness.
Chapter Fifty-One
It took over an hour to close in on the camp. They were on the side of an east-west running ridge spoiling the north wind. I was close enough to tell when someone walked past a fire.
I sat shivering for a long spell figuring out what to do. There’s only so much one lone fella can do against seven. Two might be able to do more, with one distracting them, getting some to chase after him or something. That would only put the others on their toes, so maybe that wasn’t so grand after all. I figured they didn’t know they were being followed. They’d not have fires going if they did. Hopefully, they weren’t expecting one lone dumbass punch to take them on. I felt as lonesome as a hunted coyote.
Of course, their bushwhacker ain’t come back yet. It took this long for me to catch up with them so maybe they’re not expecting him tonight or the fires were for him to find them. If I was going to do something, I’d better do it tonight. They had to be getting close to Las Norias. Sure seemed like we’d come a long ways. Thought they’d be there by now. I couldn’t leave Marta with them any longer, after what happened to Inés. Her beaten face floated in front of me as I sat shivering.
I could only come up with one thing. I’d picket the horses far enough away they’d not be heard. I’d move in closer and wait until three, four o’clock, the hours of the dead. I’d have to guess, no other way to tell time. Those banditos were as played out, cold, and hungry as me. Some were wounded. They might have a sentry. If they didn’t think anybody was after them, he’d be likely to doze off like any nighthawk.
The fires would most likely burn down. It would be pitch-black. I’d have to move like a mouse, or a scorpion hunting at night. How would I be able to find Marta’s bedroll in the dark? I thought about that a spell, and then it came to me. They all had sombreros. Marta didn’t. Then a sickening thought came to me. What if she was in a bedroll with someone? Well, I had a knife for that.
I even thought about creeping around slitting throats. I’d heard stories of injuns doing that. Had to be bullshit. A man dying that way, there’d be a bunch of trashing around to wake everybody.
I could easily be caught creeping around in there. A hundred things could go wrong. I had my three pistols. If it came to that, I wouldn’t likely be coming out. Snap out of it. I didn’t need to be thinking like that.
I moved the horses to an arroyo two hundred yards downwind. There was a curve in the arroyo with piled up rocks and gravel on the outside rim. There was trickling water for the horses. Before leaving them, I ate what I could while they grained. The supply was getting low. I was too nervous to eat much cold, dry grub. I checked all their halters, cinched their saddles, and made sure all the gear was tied on good. I took off my spurs. The last thing I did was hang Marta’s shotgun on the horse she’d be—I’d hoped—she’d be riding. The pouch of shotshells was hanging where she could get to them. The canteens and water bags were full.
I was hoping that if I got Marta out, the banditos would just up and go home. Ol’ Pancho taught me not to hope for the best. I rode Cracker a few hundred yards down the winding arroyo to a narrow spot. Tying two lariats together, I strung them tight knee-high and tied them off to stout mesquites. I hung my bandana on the rope so our horses would see it.
Back at the horses, I checked my revolvers and taking a canteen and the Mex’s Winchester, I moved slowly toward the bandito camp. There was a rocky outcropping a hundred yards shy of the camp. That’s where I’d wait, and I’d leave a canteen, the Mex’s Winchester, and the two cartons of ammo. If we had to run for it, I’d leave it all there. My Winchester was still on Cracker.
I found a comfortable rock behind a mesquite and settled in for a long wait. I didn’t take a blanket. I was counting on the cold to wake me if…when…I dosed off.
One fire was out and the other dying. I didn’t see any shadows moving around. I waited. It was cold, the air still and misty. I was scared. I tried not to think. I was kidding myself I could pull this off. I thought a lot about Marta. It seemed so long ago since I’d seen her, touched her.
I’d doze off and jerk awake, then think about all kinds of things, thoughts that come to no good. One time I told myself to just get up and ride away. I even stood. But I couldn’t do that, not after all the dying it took to get me this close to her. This was the right thing to do even if it meant our end.
It was clear there’d be more dying before this was over. And for what? It was all greed. It all started with Maxwell wanting a stupid bull that weren’t his. Then he got El Xiuhcoatl into it, a rustler, kidnapper, murderer, and raper. I couldn’t even count up how many had died because of all this. So many that didn’t have to die. Ten Dew people now. Even those Rurales, they thought they were doing the right thing, doing their job. They’d been lied to and a bunch of them died for it. All this killing’s gnawing at my guts. How many more have to die just so things can be set right? How many do I got a right to kill only so I can stay alive? No, I’m of no matter. How many do I have a right to kill to keep Marta alive? All of them.
»»•««
I came awake shivering and just about couldn’t stop. It was blacker than a coal mine at midnight on a moonless night. I was wet with dew, and it was foggy. The wind had picked up blowing hard enough to shake the bushes. That’s good, it covered sounds. Today. Today I get Marta back! Nerves shot through me like the Musty’s coffee.
It must be three or four. There was no hint of a fire in the direction of the camp. It was so black that I wasn’t sure where the camp was. I was downwind, and I listened hard. Not a sound except the wind gusting through the mesquite. I waited a few minutes to clear cobwebs out of my head. I took off my hat and coat so I could move quick. After checking my pistols and knife, I shook myself, making sure I didn’t rattle.
Unstrapping both pistols, I started forward. Flaco’s Schofield was in my coat pocket. Ol’ Pancho had told me that when stalking, start off as quiet as when you were just about on top of them. I felt with my toe with each step. Then set my heel down soft like. The wet meant no dry leaves and twigs or rolling pebbles. With each step, I listened, then took another. A sound. I stopped. I heard it again. I eased into a crouch, listening. There it was again, but this time the wind eased. I almost laughed to myself. Some vato was snoring. Good.
There was more snoring, one vato was really loud, a couple others weren’t so loud or were only wheezing. I could even hear some regular breat
hing. I remembered Marta’s sometimes little snore. Maybe I’d hear her. There weren’t even embers in the used up fires.
I stayed in a crouch for a long spell. I looked and listened for any sign of a lookout. I fought between holding myself there and moving on. I had to be sure there wasn’t a lookout. Being spotted among the sleeping banditos would be like sticking your hand into a rattlesnake den. The longer I waited, though, meant someone might wake up to take a piss.
I thought I’d been moving real slow, but now there’s snoring right and left of me. I barely breathed, but my heart hammered so loud I’d wake the dead. I had to make myself stop shivering.
Now I was close enough to barely make out the darker shapes of bedrolls. I heard a horse snort. That was something I could have done if Flaco’d been here. I’d have sneaked in, found Marta, and if I’d been found out, he’d have stampeded the horses. No sense thinking on that now.
Something came out of the past. Ol’ Pancho had told me, “Eef joo walk een dee camp of dee enemy, walk like joo belong there, not sneaking ’round.” I did that; I walked upright, but still careful like.
There was a low snore right beside me. I crouched and made out a big sombrero. It looked like only one was in the bedroll. I moved on. The smoky smell told me one of the fire pits was near. Right past it was another bedroll. I had to get real close to hear the breathing and see the sombrero. Moving to the right, I found another bedroll and sombrero. I was confused and scart too. Moving around aimlessly in the camp, I couldn’t tell which way to go. I was fearing I’d be wandering in here checking the same bedrolls over and over. I looked over another snoring bed, sounded like a wood rasp on a dry corncob. Nothing. The next was one I’d already checked. This was not good. I couldn’t keep wandering around in a rattlesnake den without stepping on one. I remembered getting ant-bit a bunch because I was aggravating a red ant bed. My mama told me that if I played in pig shit I’d get some on me. She said that as she whaled the tar out of me with a trace chain strap. Why was I thinking of that crap now?
I’ve gotta get this moving along. I knelt beside another lumpy bedroll. It had a light-colored sombrero with a real tall crown, a yellow ribbon. I know this sombrero. It’s El Xiuhcoatl’s brother.
There was only the sound of the wind; there was no change in anything, but the feeling wrapped around me that someone or something was behind me. At the same time, I realized the bedroll was empty. The fear I’d been had ripped through me. There was a low cough. I just about pissed myself.
A hoarse voice whispered, “¿Qué?”—What?—something something. The brother.
As quiet as I could I said, “Miada.”—piss, hoping I sounded like a Mex. If I stood, he’d see I wasn’t one of his.
Shit, I’m gonna be had. Do something, dummy. Now!
I could smell his breath as he leaned curiously toward me. My knife was in my hand. I rose slow, then twisted into him, clapped my gloved hand over his mouth, and shoved my knife hard against his throat. He went stiff, stopped breathing even. He knew he was about one second from getting a here-to-here throat smile. I didn’t do anything for some seconds, only listened for anyone moving, getting curious.
Nothing. I tugged on him, and he knew exactly what I wanted. He stepped back keeping his hands to his sides. I kept pressing the six-inch blade against his throat, drawing some blood. We walked out backward so he’d be off balance. I wondered when he would start breathing. We were clear of the camp and faded back into the night quiet of the campero. I could smell him—stale sweat, wood smoke, and bean farts, feel his neck whiskers against my hand and could feel him swallow. I wanted to ask him where the girl was—¿Dónde niña?—but knew if I moved my hand he’d yell out.
I got him to the outcropping with no trouble, except he was barefoot, making it no fun for him. Hell, I ain’t got a thing to tie him up with. I shoved his face into the mud, cut the strap off the canteen and tied his hands behind his back. I stuffed his scarf in his mouth, after letting him spit out some mud and slapping some cooperation into him, and tied my bandana around his mouth. I felt around. He wasn’t carrying iron. Picking up the carbine and canteen we were moving again, back to the horses. It was surely hard on his feet—tough shit. One against six since I had him.
On the way back I worked out what I was going to do with this worthless puddle of pig shit. He might not be so worthless after all.
I led the string of horses back up to the outcropping while dragging the brother along. I tied his ankles with a cord and hog-tied him off to his wrists. Keeping quiet, I kicked him in the ribs a few times…well, a bunch of times.
I went back to my rock and took up my waiting position. While chewing on jerky, I figured they’d probably not find him missing until they were all up and it was light enough to see. Maybe at first they’d think he’s out taking a shit. When they started calling for him, I had something to say to them. I was figuring I could get the idea of what I wanted across to them without knowing much Mex. Then I knew my troubles would really start.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The sky lightened in the east, and I made out the lay of the ground between me and the camp. The first sign of life was one of the fires flaring up. I could see their picketed horses and moving shapes, and I heard voices.
There was more moving around and as it got lighter, I looked them over with the field glasses. I saw her—Marta! Standing beside the fire wrapped in a gray blanket, she just stared into the flames. My heart pounded. Don’t know how I missed her in my search.
Someone whistled, real shrill, followed by, “¡Federico! ¡Ándale!”
“¿Usted nombre es Federico?” I kicked him.
His one eye was wide, and he nodded rapidly. He was wearing his yellow shirt with a short green jacket.
“Well, I tell you what, Federico. I hope to hell you feel like going along with me on this deal, or you’ll be seeing el diablo today. ¿Usted comprendes, pendejo?”
He nodded. He got the gist.
“I hope so, ’cause I ain’t got no temper for bullshit today.” I sniffed the air. “You smell that? Café. Smell bien, don’t it? I tell you what, if you don’t cause no revuelta you’ll be having a cup of that café soon enough.” I looked down at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded real hard, blinking his one eye.
“Yeah, me too, but I don’t know when I’m gonna have time to boil up a pot. Long time, I suspect.”
There was another whistle, and someone shouted for Federico, probably telling him to break it off and get his butt up there. I figured they’d be looking for him soon so I might as well get ready. Can’t put this off. I was shaking, either from the cold or from expectation. I checked the horses and cinched them. They knew something was going on. I had my rifle and the Mex’s carbine laid out along with the shotgun loaded with slugs. I even set out that old Remington single-shot in its flour sack, just in case.
I heard “Federico” shouted again. One last thing I had to do before introducing myself. This piece of shit laying here had probably done Marta and the other girls. I stood and pissed on his face, to let him know his worth…and because I just didn’t like him.
I drank some water, slipped the straps off my revolvers, and dragged the still sputtering Federico to his cut-up feet. I had to take this head-on. I was trembling scart, but I knew I couldn’t show it. There was one person I was doing this for, and she looked awful lonesome standing there. I took one last look at her through the glasses. “Here we go, Federico. Ándale.”
Take it head-on. “Hey, y’all!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Look what I got here, you bunch of pepper bellies.” I shoved Federico in front of me. “Get up you sumbitch!”
It was awful quiet in the camp. I put the glasses to my eyes, and Marta had the biggest grin I ever seen. “Fine, we’re doing this.”
Setting the glasses down, I stuck my Remington into Federico’s ear. “Let’s make a deal here. Any y’all habla americano?”
I could tell it was E
l Xiuhcoatl in his red shirt that grabbed Marta and held a pistol to her head. That weren’t no surprise.
Someone hidden shouted, “Joo let him go or El Xiuhcoatl chute la niña.” I knew it was a bluff.
“No one’s shooting anyone. No one else has to get killed, muerto. You give me la niña, and I give you back your brother…hermano.” That let them know I knew his worth to them.
There was a long quiet spell. I knew they were talking. I raised my revolver and cracked off a shot. The horses and Federico jumped. “Hey! I ain’t got all damn day here! ¡Muy pronto!” That oughta get them moving. I shoved Federico down and reloaded.
“Joo come out. Bring…bandera blanca. We talk.”
I had to chew on that. Oh, a white flag.
“Yeah, I come out and y’all shoot me muerto. That ain’t happening. Let’s trade and we’ll all go to the hacienda.” I’ll stick it to them. “What do you want? To keep la niña or get your hermano back in una piece?”
It was another quiet spell. I figured they were talking about waiting me out or sneaking around behind me, but it wasn’t worth it. They could say they’d hurt Marta, but then I could do the same to Federico. If I needed to, I’d remind them he couldn’t spare an eye. The only smart thing to do was for them to make the trade.
“This your woman, the one with no name?”
“Yeah. Sí, mi mujer.” There, I’d said it. She’s my woman. “I want her back. Now!”
“Gringo, joo one vaquero duro.” That meant tough cowboy. It almost sounded like he said it with respect. “We trade joo dee niña.” It seemed like they knew it was only me alone.
“Start walking her across and I’ll start Federico.” They might be surprised I knew his name. “No fuego. If I hear a shot or see any funny business, Federico’s muerto.” I shoved Federico to the ground and cut the ties on his ankles and wrists. I thought about telling them to send Marta over with a cup of coffee, but they probably weren’t that hospitable today.
The Hardest Ride Page 24