El Xiuhcoatl hisself brought Marta out. He was the only one showing hisself. He said something to her, gave her a shove, and she started walking. They’d taken her blanket so she was only wearing that blue shirt, filthy long johns, and mud-caked socks. She didn’t look back.
I pulled Federico up and set him off stumbling along barefooted. His footprints were bloody. I thought, it’s back to one against seven.
These scoundrels are mean enough and stupid enough to start shooting just as Marta makes it here. They could drop her, maybe, and Federico could duck for cover in the rough ground. I’d be ready for that.
Marta was moving faster than the hobbling Federico so she’d be closer to here than only halfway when they passed. She saw that, I think, and started moving faster. El Xiuhcoatl saw it too and yelled something, I guess telling her to slow down. Being Marta, she paid him no mind.
As she got closer, I saw how bad she looks. It cut into me like barbed wire. But never mind, because I can see a glow on her face no matter how battered it is.
I kept my rifle on Federico as he closed on Marta. “No fuego,” I shouted again. “Don’t try pulling something estúpido, pendejo.” She was eyeing him too.
And the stupid sumbitch did. As they passed, even though Marta kept clear of him, he leaped at her. She was quicker, dodged to the side. My shot hit him in the leg, more by luck than anything. Marta dropped flat and the Mexes started shooting up a storm. At a hundred yards they were throwing bullets all over, so I stood ground and emptied my rifle as fast as I could; picked up the Mex’s carbine and emptied it. That was about twenty-five rounds in about thirty-five seconds.
I grabbed the single-shot pistol in its bag and threw it as hard as I could, “¡La pistola, Marta!” She scrambled a few yards to it and rolled behind a rock. She’d never fired it, but I judged she’d figure it out. I couldn’t see Federico as I reloaded my rifle. I emptied it again as gravel spurted up around me. They were getting closer with their shots. As I reloaded, Federico came to his feet and headed for Marta. I guess he figured to get that pistol and use her for a shield. Before I could do anything Marta rolled onto her side, pointed that hand-cannon, and almost lost it to the recoil. Padding blew out the back of Federico’s green jacket. He stumbled back, falling in a heap.
An unholy wail rose from the camp sending a chill up my back. It was followed by babbled shouting. The shots died off so I reloaded the Mex’s carbine.
A sudden barrage of bullets fell on my outcropping, and dirt and gravel kicked up all over. They were firing all at once and emptied at about the same time, creating a lull.
“Marta, run! ¡Ándale!”
I rose up and levered through my fourteen shots, snatched up the carbine, and let go with it as Marta leapt up. She fired a pistol shot over her shoulder for good measure and scrambled on hands and knees toward me. I was thinking it was now six to one since Federico had a bunghole though his chest—he ain’t even twitched. Marta dove over the rocks, saw the shotgun, grabbed it up, and let loose one barrel then the other. Make that six to two, I thought.
I was reloading and was knocked off my heels. Marta threw her arms around me and was smacking kisses all over my grubby face. She was laughing this weird hoarse laugh, kind of scary.
“Whoa, girl! We got work to do here.” I was trying to keep from laughing. She kept at it until I pushed her away. She was still laughing, but she took up the shotgun and reloaded.
I fired three quick shots and then turned to look at Marta. Marta, here she is, here with me. After nine days and nights of hell, I had her. I wrapped my arms around her as tight as I could. She’s here, she’s safe. I couldn’t even hear the shots from the camp, didn’t care. “I ain’t ever letting you go, girl.”
We had to get out of there, and we had a long ways to go.
Chapter Fifty-Three
“We gotta get, girl, pronto.”
She nodded, still smiling. Even with her smile, she looked bad beat-in. Her face was all bruised and puffy, her right eye half swollen shut, both eyes blacked, lips swelled and split, and a cut under her left eye. Even with all that, her smile and her eyes, it was my Marta. I brushed matted hair off her forehead. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be fine, but that was about as uncertain as which eye a buzzard would first pluck from a corpse.
We had to get. The outcropping would give us some cover when we started down the arroyo. By the time we’d be in their line of fire, we’d be two hundred yards from the camp. Not much chance of them hitting us partly hidden in an arroyo at full run. The main thing was to put as much distance behind us as we could. With Federico ventilated to death, there was no question what El Xiuhcoatl was going to do.
I pointed at the horses, “Di adios.”—Say good-bye.
Marta grabbed her shotgun and pistol and scrambled onto her horse. I started shooting, and she was off at a dead gallop, hugging the horse’s neck with both spares following.
I was right behind her. I could hear bullets snapping over. I felt pure joy; I felt untouchable. I was scart.
They’d have to saddle, and they’d need to take up their bedrolls and gear. They couldn’t afford to be without it. Every minute we could gain was gold. It might take us three, four days to reach the Rio. My feeling of joy ran off like water on a hillside. How much could we push ourselves and the horses? We were near rope’s end.
I had to get ahead of Marta because of the trip-rope across the arroyo. Holding up my hand to stop her, she saw it, and her horses jumped it without slowing. I hung off the saddle and grabbed my bandana and sped off trying to catch up with that girl.
I looked back to see two riders rounded the bend. One of them was El Xiuhcoatl. I hadn’t figured on that, some of them taking straight off and leaving the others to gather gear. I pulled the rifle and fired off three shots to distract them from the rope. It worked. El Xiuhcoatl’s horse went down hard with him rolling like a tumbleweed. The other went straight over the horse’s head, landing like a feed sack falling off a runaway wagon. If he ain’t broke his neck, I ain’t got a saddle-sore ass. I spurred Cracker. Marta hadn’t waited; she’s just a blue dot.
»»•««
I was heading for Flaco’s ravine where we’d been bushwhacked. I know one thing I wasn’t doing. I weren’t pulling no bushwhack stunt. But I was hoping they’d be fearing that and slow down. What else? If I’d had another lariat I’d put up another trip-rope. Didn’t have one, though. We could throw back together that Mex brushwood barricade. That would buy us a few minutes, and every minute counted. Then I remembered. There was a lariat on that bushwhacker’s dead horse. It was going to be a long day, but if we could stay ahead of them until dark, half the fight was won. It was going to be a hard-riding nine, ten hours.
We smelled the dead horse and Mex way before we got there. Some vultures flapped up. The birds and coyotes had had a feast. Marta climbed off her horse, pulled off the Mex’s boots, and pulled them on after stuffing rags in the toes. She spit on the Mex.
I got the lariat off the bloated horse, and we threw every limb and piece of wood onto the brush barricade. Further down the ravine I sent Marta on, and I tied the lariat around a rock and angled it up, tying it to a gnarled pinyon growing on a sidewall ledge. It might be harder to see it angled like that.
I thought Marta would be way ahead, but I came up on her standing over Flaco’s grave. I told her who it was. She looked bitter sad and crossed herself, I guess saying some words in her head.
Out of the ravine and finally stopping, I got Marta into a too big pair of jeans, another shirt—brown, blanket-lined tan duck coat, and a serape. She tied my bandana over her head. Taking out the scarf I’d found on her cot, I wrapped it around her neck and pulled her wool gloves on. She nodded recognizing them. I rolled us smokes, lit hers up, and she puffed on it closing her eyes. We rode hard through the afternoon, but the horses were slowing.
I could smell the coming storm. The rain would wipe out our tracks, but I worried about being cut off by flo
oded arroyos. It darkened; clouds boiled in from the north. The wind was steady hard and colder, singing bitter notes through the mesquite. I knew we were beat down, needed food and rest. I kept looking for a good camp, a place out of the wind and no worries of flooding. I found some places, but I kept pushing on, fearing just beyond us would be a wide arroyo that would trap us.
Finally, we had to stop. Thin sheets of rain washed across the land, and I knew the big storm was coming from the steady lightning flashes closing in. We crossed a wide arroyo, and hoping there wasn’t another right beyond, picked a camp. The dim glow of the sun squatted on the far hills behind us. I was hoping the storm would pass before dawn, and we’d be on our way before light, even if we had to walk the horses.
Marta fell more than slid off her horse. She stood swaying with an empty look, staring off into nothing. I didn’t catch her in time when she crumpled into the mud. I got her perched on a rock, and she started chewing the Mex jerky and drinking water. We needed hot food, but it was not to be. After hobbling the four horses, hoping they’d find something to eat, I laid out the bedroll and pitched the gum blankets anchoring them with rocks. As much as we needed food, we ate little. I kept watching Marta. She’d start smiling for no reason, then go all sad. She’d look at me sad-eyed, and then look away. Sometimes she’d start shaking her head for a long spell. I was worrying how balanced she was.
She commenced to shivering, and I got her into the bedroll. Marta was on her side, looking into my eyes, not pulling her gaze away. I tried to smile, touched her gummy and greasy hair. Her pretty face was plum beat up. I pulled out the bottle of Ashton Rye and tipped it to wet my bandana. “This is going to burn, Marta, caliente.”
She nodded, tightening her lips.
Putting my arm round her, I set her up and dabbed at the cuts on her lips and under her eye and chin, gentle as I could.
“I know it stings, girl. Usted valiente.”—You’re brave. She flinched, but toughed it out. It hurt me too. I took a belt of the firewater, and Marta did too with a shiver.
Fishing out my necklace, the one with beads for me and her, she kissed it before taking my hand and holding it to her cheek. Marta nestled up, and we wrapped our arms around each other. Her shivering went away. She gave that strange hoarse laugh again, pressing her face into my shoulder. I held her as tight as I could.
Marta started humming some little song, and then quieted down. I could feel our heartbeats, slow and steady. In the near darkness, I pushed her away a little and looked into her dark eyes. They were full of tears. “I know it was bad for you, Marta. Badder than anything I could ever think of. You ain’t gotta worry. That don’t make no matter to me. I want you with me.” I wished I knew the right Mex words.
She shook her head and pushed me onto my back. I thought she was playing, but her face was queer and hard-looking. So fast that I didn’t know what was happening, she was straddling me on her knees. She slapped me hard across the face, then again. A chill shot though me followed by sheer disgust as she started dry-humping me making the most sickening grunting noises. She kept at it, shaking her head wild-like from side to side. I couldn’t do anything to stop her. My stomach turned, and she slapped me again. Rolling off, she tried to crawl out. I grabbed onto her pulling her to me. “Marta, stay! ¡Quédate!” She strangled out a hysterical cry, struggled, but I’d not let her go. I saw it all then. She’d showed me a hint of what’d happened, what she felt, how she’d been used, and shamed. It was the only way she could tell me. She gasped hard, pushing away. I couldn’t breathe my throat was so choked.
“You ain’t going nowhere. You’re staying right here with me. ¡Quédate con mi!” I begged. She stopped struggling. I held her tighter and felt every one of her shaking sobs shudder through me. She squirmed closer. She nodded into my shoulder and after a spell, she was softly wheezing.
I laid awake for a while, but we finally slept long and warm.
Chapter Fifty-Four
We tromped and stumbled afoot over the mud-sticky ground, picking our way across the rocks and cactus. The rain had stopped; the wind turned. I’d no idea the time. There was no sign of sunlight in the eastern sky, the way we were heading. Some arroyos held water, but not deep or fast-moving enough to be a problem. The horses hadn’t much to eat. I was saving what grain was left for tomorrow.
We started riding when it got lighter. We ate what might be called breakfast in the saddle.
“I could sure use some café, how ’bout you?”
She nodded with one eye wide and wishful, the other swollen mostly shut.
“Maybe we can brew some café later.”
She nodded, licked her swollen lips. I had to get used to her again seeming to know what I was saying.
We plodded along. I musta looked back every two minutes. I tried to keep from crossing ridge crests, but we had to sometimes so we wouldn’t be winding like a snake and burning up time and strength. Every time we topped one of the low, barren ridges, I scanned the land behind us with the glasses. All morning and into the afternoon, the land behind was as empty of men on horses as it was in front. Had we lost them; had they quit? I wasn’t expecting that no more than a dust storm.
Late afternoon, we had to eat something hot. It had warmed up, so to speak—we couldn’t see our breath—and the drizzle had stopped. The clouds were higher. We stopped beside a wet arroyo. Marta gathered firewood, and I broke out the cooking gear after unsaddling. The horses had had them on too long. There wasn’t much to burn. I doused a little coal oil on the twigs and lit them up. Marta dumped a tin of beans into a pot, another of tomatoes, one more of peas, and set it on the fire. Next, she chopped up jerky and stirred it in. I’ve had queerer mixes on the trail. While it was cooking up, we got the coffee going and shared a can of peaches. When the pot of stuff was bubbling, she dumped some into two of the tins for herself, gave me the pot, and we commenced to spoon it down. The coffee was chewy with grounds and gritty water, but it was hot. That mess of grub and coffee got us warm, sorta.
I was saddling back up when I noticed Marta by the flowing water taking off her duck coat. When I turned again she was shucking her shirts and then, of all things, her long johns top—I swear to God, right before me. I almost tripped over my feets. She knelt beside the water and started cleaning up using my bandana. She was a mess. There were bruises on her arms and sides and some on her back. That hurt me, in a different way, as much as it hurt her. I stood gawking at her sil-lo-wet until she turned around. I was rooted there staring at her big ol’ eyes, and everything else. Marta looked back like she ain’t got a thing to hide after what she showed me last night in the bedroll.
She’s beautiful.
Marta pulled on the brown shirt and gave her filthy long johns top a quick splash and scrub, then tied it dripping to her saddle with latigos.
We’d been here too long. I trotted to the ridge crest behind us for a look-see. Two banditos were two hundred yards away, coming hard at us. I looked back and the damp wood fire was smoking more than I’d realized. Ducking, I raced down the slope loud-whispering to Marta, “¡Dos bandidos, ándale!”
She started to mount and I said, “No caballos,” and waved her to follow me. She grabbed her shotgun and shell bag running in a low crouch. I couldn’t get over her running around in only two pairs of socks, but I knew her feet were as tough as boot soles.
We scrambled into a brushy draw on the ridge side. I had sort of an idea. Working our way up the draw, I could hear their hoofbeats. We took it slow so the bushes wouldn’t wave around. Halfway up I motioned for Marta to stay where she was, to watch below, and cover my back. Below the ridge crest, only about thirty feet higher than where our horses stood, was a line of brush. I went on hands and knees until I overlooked the fire.
One bandito was still mounted, looking around with his carbine in hand. The other was on the ground at our horses. He was holding a carbine too. I had a clear shot at the mounted bandito, and I took it, putting a .44 slug through both lungs. He hit
the ground spewing blood and kicking. His horse took off like a birdshot-stung coyote. I raised the rifle at the second man, but he was behind our four tied horses, which were stirring after the gunshot. His horse just stood there waiting for whatever happened next, the way horses do.
I yelled, “Come on out and I won’t shoot you. Mi no fuego.” If he understood and stepped out, I’d shoot him anyway. The other vato was still kicking, but not much. The man behind the horses either didn’t understand or figured what would happen. He had five horses around him, and no matter where I moved he’d be hidden. I couldn’t come down the bare ridge side in the open. Going back to the draw would give him a chance to tear out of there taking our horses with him. So here we were, in a Mexican standoff.
In the end he made it easy. He came dashing out of the mob of horses levering shots up the ridge and vaulted over his horse’s rump, dropping his carbine. It was the too young bandidito I’d seen riding in front of Marta. He was so fast I didn’t get a shot off until he was in the saddle. I cracked off five rapid shots, staggering the horse, but missed the bandidito. He galloped down the arroyo with water spraying until there was a loud double boom, and he parted company with the horse. He smacked into the water, and the horse smartly kept going.
The kid was trying to sit up. I noticed he had a bandage on his leg, I guess from the ambush. Marta stomped out of the brushy draw snapping shut the scattergun with a purpose. He drew a pistol, but didn’t raise it, let it drop. Instead, he reached out a hand to her. They stared at each other a short spell—making me wonder. He actually smiled. She blew him back into the water, turning it rusty-colored.
All I said was, “¡Ándale!”
We both chugged down coffee straight from the pot. She took the coffeepot and cooking pot dipping them in the stream, threw the water on the fire, unluckily making it steam, and shoved them in their bag. I grabbed the banditos’ guns, sticking them wherever I could to dump later. The lung-shot bandito had stopped kicking. Marta spit on him as she rode past. She stared again at the dead bandidito and turned away. She didn’t spit on him.
The Hardest Ride Page 25