Nest of Vipers (9781101613283)

by Sherman, Jory

  “But,” Brad said, “when you cut a person’s throat, that ends it right there. One deep slice and there is no more life.”

  “Go hump yourself, Storm,” Curly snapped.

  “One quick slice and you take away a person’s life just like that.”

  “Go to hell, Storm,” Curly husked, the pain creeping into his voice like drifting sand.

  “Was that how it was with Felicity? You took your knife and cut across her tender throat and opened it up so that she could not breathe, could not scream, could not ever live another moment.”

  Curly did not reply. He cringed as Brad brought his blade up so that it floated right in front of Curly’s eyes.

  He could sense Curly’s eyes widen.

  Curly turned his head as if to escape the blade.

  “See how you like it, Curly,” Brad said.

  He brought the knife down and swiped the blade across Curly’s throat from his left ear, around to his right.

  Blood spurted from the wound. Curly gurgled on the blood as he released his last breath. His head dropped to the ledge and his body went limp.

  Brad sat there for a long time, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes and thought about that terrible moment when Felicity had her throat cut and the last thing she saw was that bald-headed bastard’s ugly face looming over her.

  “That was for you, Felicity,” Brad breathed. “Now maybe you can rest in peace, my darling.”

  Brad wiped his blood-soaked blade on Curly’s jacket and sheathed his knife. He stood up and walked to where his pistol lay. He picked it up and opened the gate to eject the empty shell with the sliding rod. He pushed another bullet into the cylinder and slid the pistol back in its holster.

  The moon finally rose above the mountains and shone down on the gory ledge with a pale, ghostly light. Curly’s corpse lay there, still in death, washed to a ghastly luminosity, the bright red blood turning black and shiny, frosting over in the moonlight.

  “Rot in hell, Curly,” Brad whispered and bowed his head in memory of Felicity.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Brad unbuckled Curly’s gun belt. He picked up his pistol and holstered it. Then he searched the cave. He lit matches to see what was inside. The cave was deep and had a high ceiling. There were dark smudges on the walls that told him the cave had been used by ancient peoples, Indians most likely. There was evidence of a very old fire on the cave floor, as well. He found what he was looking for, Curly’s Winchester, and he picked that up. He wrapped the gun belt into a ball and walked back down to where he had tied Ginger.

  The horse whickered when he walked up in his stockinged feet. He patted the horse’s withers and spoke soothing words to him. He put Curly’s pistol and gun belt into one of his saddlebags and attached his rifle behind the cantle with tightly knotted leather thongs that were used to hold his bedroll in place.

  Then he sat down and brushed all the sand and twigs and leaves off of his socks and slipped on his boots and spurs.

  He untied Ginger’s reins and mounted up. He had no idea what time it was, but he knew that the night had not yet seen midnight. He made his way slowly downward, using dead reckoning to find the game trail where he had first begun to track Curly. There were no landmarks, except for the rocky outcroppings and the big boulder in front of the rock where he had seen the glyphs. But it was easy going after that, with the moon high and beaming down light that bounced off his and Curly’s tracks.

  It was after midnight when he took his final bearings and then emerged on the rimrock above the valley. He could see the dark shapes of horses, some of them lying down, others nibbling grass or just huddled together against the brunt of the chill breeze that blew across the grassland.

  He rode back to the road and found his way to the lean-to where Joe was sleeping. He saw the bedrolls of Julio and Wil, lumpy blankets pewtered with moonlight, and his own bedroll, still laid out, inviting and dappled with leafy shadows and the tiny fingers of pine needles still on the trees.

  He unsaddled Ginger and hobbled him with the other horses and walked back to his bedroll with Curly’s rifle and gun belt. He laid them next to his blankets and sat down, suddenly tired and very sleepy.

  “Brad, that you?” Joe whispered from his shelter.

  “Yeah. Just got back.”

  “Bring Curly with you?” Joe climbed out of his bedroll and walked over to sit on the ground next to Brad’s bed.

  “Left him to the wolves,” Brad said. “That’s his rifle and pistol there.” He pointed to the dark lumps near where he had rolled up his saddle blanket to use for a pillow a few moments before.

  “Did you have to kill him, Brad?”

  “Yes. I had to kill him.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “For Felicity. For me.”

  “You couldn’t arrest him?”

  “I could have, maybe. But, his horse is dead. Broken neck. I would have had to ride back double, with Curly wrapped up like a Christmas turkey in rope and handcuffs.”

  Wil sat silently and Brad didn’t elaborate on what had happened up on the ledge in front of the cave.

  “Well, get some rest, Brad. We got the wagon set and the snake box is in it. Will they live long enough to do what you want ’em to do?”

  “I reckon. I don’t care. Good night, Joe.”

  “Good night, Brad.”

  Brad watched Joe tiptoe back to his shelter. He unbuckled his gun and knife, rolled the rig up, and set them next to him, within easy reach. He crawled into his bedroll and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

  He heard a soft snore from Julio’s blankets and then it stopped.

  He gazed up at the moon until his eyelids grew heavy. He closed his eyes and soon dropped off into a deep sleep.

  He had the swatch of cloth from Felicity’s nightgown in his hand. Slowly, his fist relaxed and he was gone from the world, locked into a dream of caves and horses, shadowy men with spears and lances, huge battle-axes. He saw strange symbols in the stars of the dreamscape and they made no sense to him, but he knew they were messages from another time, another existence.

  Beyond his hearing, a wolf howled mournfully and an owl flapped over the campsite on silent wings.

  Later, it perched on a limb and hooted. But nobody there heard it, and if they had, none would have understood its mysterious message.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Seven men rode hard toward Longview, Colorado. Their faces and their clothing were covered with dust and their faces, hands and wrists were tanned by the sun. At the head of the column rode Jordan Killdeer on a tall black horse. His saddle was studded with silver, and sun glinted off each strip, buckle, and reinforcement band that lined the cantle, horn, and stirrup.

  “We gonna stop in town?” Toby asked as he rode up alongside Jordan.

  “No, Toby. No towns. Not yet.”

  “We’re gonna stop somewhere, though, right?”

  “We’ll rest the horses and have a smoke by and by,” Jordan said.

  They did stop, on a lonely square of prairie just before they rode past Longview. Jordan led them well off the road. In the distance, coming from Denver, they could see the spools of dust kicked up by the Cheyenne stage with four horses pulling it.

  The men dismounted and relieved themselves. They gathered in a circle around Jordan who filled a pipe and lit it. It was a meerschaum, and he had bought it from Abercrombie & Fitch in New York out of a catalog. Some of the men rolled quirleys and a couple had ready-mades that they shook out of square packs.

  “How much further?” Terry Wheeler asked. “My butt’s plumb achin’ and I got saddle sores.”

  “Another day to Denver, maybe,” Jordan said. “Most of it anyway.”

  “We goin’ to Denver?” Jinglebob asked.

  Jordan gave him a withering look.

  “We’ll skirt Denver, ride along t
he foothills,” Jordan said. “Then we head into the mountains. Be most of another day getting up to the valley.”

  “So, two more days of blisterin’ sun and prairie winds,” Jake Fenimore said as he puffed on a store-bought.

  “We want to get there in daylight,” Jordan said. “It’s better’n a hundred miles from Cheyenne to Denver and the miles after that are all uphill.”

  “Your saddle sores will have saddle sores,” Cletus said. “Maybe we’ll find some horse liniment up in the valley we can swab on your butt.”

  The others laughed.

  “How many men we goin’ up against?” Terry asked.

  Jordan seemed to think for a moment before he answered.

  “Hard to tell,” he said. “Maybe only two or three. Or half a dozen. It don’t make no difference.”

  “It makes a hell of a lot of difference to me,” Terry said. “I want to know what I’m getting into up yonder.”

  Jordan fixed him a scornful look.

  “When we get there,” he said, “they may think we’re going to do some horse trading. But there ain’t a man up there right now what’s goin’ to get out alive.”

  “You aim to kill ’em all?” Jinglebob said.

  “Every last one of those bastards,” Jordan said.

  Cletus and Toby laughed. The others looked worried.

  “How come?” Terry asked. “How come we got to kill ’em all?”

  “We don’t want no detectives doggin’ us and we sure as hell don’t want no witnesses,” Jordan said.

  “That’s right,” Toby said. “There’s a man there what’s tryin’ to pull a fast one on us. We aim to snuff out his lamp.”

  “I guess we all knew that from the start,” Jinglebob said. “I mean, you boys told us there’d be gunplay.”

  “That’s right,” Cletus said. “You were hired to do a job. Your guns are on the payroll, too.”

  “I reckon we can handle it all right,” Jake said. “I don’t like detectives no way.”

  “Me, neither,” Lenny Holbrook said. He had a wad of tobacco in his mouth and a rolled cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “You got enough terbacky to last you, Lenny?” Clete said. “Seems like you’re burnin’ the candle at both ends.”

  “I likes to chew and I likes to smoke,” Lenny said. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothin’,” Clete said. “You just might die of terbacky pizenin’, that’s all.”

  All of the men laughed. Even Jordan.

  “When you finish your smokes and your chaws,” Jordan said, “let’s get back to it. I gave us three days to get to that valley and we’re burnin’ daylight without makin’ no progress.”

  There were grumblings among the hired men, but they all put out their smokes and mounted up.

  They passed through Longview and kept riding all afternoon. In the distance, toward late afternoon, they saw the outlines of Denver on the horizon. Some of the men licked their lips and a couple made motions of tipping a glass with their hands.

  Jordan kept on and they rode past Denver and into the dark of evening.

  “No use ridin’ up there at night,” Jordan said. “We’ll camp out below Lookout Mountain and get an early start in the morning.”

  “How early?” Terry asked.

  “Before sunup,” Jordan said.

  “So, sleep fast, Terry,” Toby said.

  Some of the men laughed as they rode a brown ribbon of road up to the nearest foothill. The lights of Denver looked inviting to some of them, but they stopped when Jordan stopped and started untying their bedrolls. They were well off the road and behind a small hill where they could not be seen from the road should anyone pass at that hour of the day.

  They kept their horses saddled, but hobbled them so that they wouldn’t stray. There was plenty of grass, but no water.

  “I can’t wait to get that sonofabitch Storm in my sights,” Jordan said to Toby as he pulled off his boots and laid them next to his bedroll.

  “You don’t even know what he looks like, Jordan,” Toby said.

  “He’ll be the one with his dirty hand out,” Jordan said.

  “He might be tricky. He makes a noise like a rattlesnake.”

  “Yeah, I know. A sidewinder.”

  “Well, there’s one sidewinder, Jordan, you got to admit that.”

  “Yeah, Toby. Brad Storm. But you know what we do with rattlesnakes, don’t you?”

  “Shoot ’em,” Toby said as Jordan crawled under his blanket.

  “We cut their heads off,” Jordan said and pulled the blanket over his head.

  Toby walked away.

  “That’d be a neat trick,” he said, more to himself than to Jordan. “But I sure like the idea.”

  They slept until just before first light and then took the hobbles off their horses and mounted up after finishing their calls to nature. It was still dark, but the road glistened under the moon. It snaked up the mountain like the track of a serpent. Gradually, as the eastern sky burst into a foamy cream, they began to see bushes and rocks. The horses were jittery and some of them fought their reins.

  Then they rode past the blunt top of Lookout Mountain, and the newly hired men looked up at the high peaks and at the phalanxes of pines rising in rows ahead of them and felt very small. They were nervous as they entered a strange and silent land where they had only their wits to rely on, and there were shadows around every rock and tree. Menacing shadows not yet burned away by the light of the sun.

  None of them knew what awaited them in Wild Horse Valley. It was the mystery that made them nervous and tense. Most of them had never faced down an armed man in daylight before.

  But all of them had killed men.

  Some were strangers, some were not.

  Their bellies quivered in anticipation, and their lips turned dry and cracked into open fissures that had the pink taint of blood.

  They rode in silence, following a half-breed Cherokee, whose veins ran with ice from what they’d seen of him.

  A damned half-breed, and he was looking to collect scalps.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Brad woke up before any of the others. His dreams had disturbed him, set him to thinking about Curly and the other men he had killed. It made him think about his character and how it would be changed by his actions.

  Revenge was not sweet, as they said, but bitter and cloying, like an unknown and unseen disease. The men he had killed were evil, but he wondered if his own actions were not equally as bad. Yes, those men would have killed him if he had not defended himself, but did that make it right?

  What would Felicity say if she were alive? What did Julio and the other men who worked for him think of him? Was he just another killer in a different guise? Was he justified in taking a life, even though his actions were in self-defense?

  He lay there in his bedroll, looking up at the silent stars, and felt humbled and small. Was he some Cain who had slain his brother Abel? Was he some kind of vigilante who disregarded the law, or took the law into his own hands? How would civilized society view him? How would the world see him after what he had done?

  Brad agonized over the questions and could not come up with any useful answers. Curly had tried to kill him. So had the others. But he had gone after them. He had forced them into corners where there was no escape. Was he really a hired detective, or just another hired killer?

  The sky began to lighten in the east. Brad crawled out of his bedroll. He slipped on his boots and spurs, strapped on his gun belt. He walked deeper into the timber and relieved himself. He rubbed the bristles on his face and walked back to camp. He picked up Curly’s rifle and gun belt, then strode to Wilbur’s bedroll.

  The man was still asleep. So were all the others. He walked back and dropped the rifle and rig on his blanket. Then he stepped to the fire ring and picked up
a stick that they were using for kindling. He stirred the coals and then started laying on squaw grass and small branches. He let the coals start the fire, then added light pine logs.

  Joe stirred in his lean-to, then cocked himself up on one elbow.

  “You’re up mighty early, Brad,” he said.

  “Sun’s coming up, Joe. Time to rise and shine.”

  Joe groaned. Every muscle in his body ached at that moment. He sat up and rubbed his arms and legs. Julio woke up and then Wilbur. Joe looked at them through rheumy, sleep-clogged eyes. He rubbed away the grit.

  “I’ll make us coffee,” he said. “After I heed nature’s call.”

  It was cold. Brad warmed his hands over the blazing fire. He watched Joe and the others walk away and stepped back from the fire as his pants began to heat his calves. The flames waved and lashed. Sparks flew up in a dizzying spiral, then winked out like fireflies.

  Joe put the coffeepot on. Wilbur and Julio returned and stood by the fire opposite Brad.

  Brad walked back to his bedroll and picked up the rifle and pistol rig. He carried them to the fire and held them out to Wilbur.

  “These are yours now, Wil,” he said.

  “I recognize that gun belt,” he said. “Curly’s?”

  “The rifle, too.”

  Wilbur took them and looked at Brad.

  “You trust me?” he asked.

  “You’ve earned the right to pack iron,” Brad said. “When Killdeer comes down, you might need them.”

  “I’m no gunfighter,” Wil said.

  “You know how to shoot, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I can shoot. I’m a pretty fair shot. At tin cans, stumps, and rocks.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” Brad said.

  “I don’t know if I could shoot a man, much less kill anybody.” Wilbur still held the gun belt in one hand, the rifle in the other.

  “Strap it on. It’ll need reloading, maybe. I’ll give you some cartridges for both the Colt and the Winchester.”

  Wil set the rifle down and unfurled the gun belt. He wrapped the gun belt around his waist, then buckled it. It slipped down from his waist.