To Hell and Back

by P. A. Bechko

  After the first startling moments Amanda realized her efforts were puny against the storm and leapt to her feet snatching their bedrolls from behind their saddles. She flipped the canvas ground cloths from their bedrolls and, working swiftly, tossed a blanket over Hollander, then stretched the canvas over him in a double layer. She tied the horses fast, then peeled the saddles off them one at a time, using the bulk to weigh the edges of the canvas creating a snug cave.

  When she crawled in, they were both pretty much drenched. The canvas stank and they sat hunched beneath its damp shelter listening to the rain fall above their heads for a long time. The silence between them was as heavy as the air they breathed. They had come too far to give up now. Amanda gave a deep sigh.

  “Santa Cruz,” she said simply.

  In the darkness Hollander’s head moved up and down in an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Santa Cruz.”

  The words fell into the space between them like lead weights.

  Chapter 17

  After five days at a grueling pace crossing the Sonoran desert, it was mid-afternoon on a hot and dusty, cloudless day when Hollander and Amanda rode into Santa Cruz. Hollander’s injury had been a worry during those first days on the trail, but it was healing now, the stiff shoulder loosening up.

  Their horses walked down the only street of the baking little Mexican town with leaden hoofs and drooping heads to a chorus of insects basking in the heat of the day.

  Amanda was coated in dust from head to foot, her mouth free of grit only when she took a swig of warm, metallic-tasting water from her canteen. Even that relief was short-lived. Exhausted, she looked around at the squat mud huts, broken fences and Spartan shade.

  “How do we tell this is Santa Cruz?”

  Hollander, riding at her side, gave her a cockeyed smile.

  “Been here before. But, if you’re in doubt,” he waved toward a broad, sandy-bottomed dry wash, “there’s the river.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last time it rained.”

  “You think Ben Miller was lying?”

  “Had no reason to. He was trying to save his own hide. Men like that don’t usually think too much about hides belonging to other folks.” He shrugged. “Trouble is, Rafael might have been here and gone.”

  Amanda nodded, hating to think of more long days on the trail, ended by cold camp with no coffee, and only jerked meat and hard biscuits to fill their gnawing bellies before even longer nights on watch. Nonetheless, she remained steadfastly resolute. They had to find the outlaw known as Rafael, and get him back to Phoenix; now even farther away than before.

  “We’ve cleared out of the territory,” Amanda remarked as her horse doggedly placed one foot in front of the other.

  “You entertaining thoughts of not going back?”

  “No.”

  Hollander sighed. “Either am I.”

  She smiled, remembering his initial advice. Get out of the Arizona territory and just keep going. Now, neither one of them would quit.

  With a portion of the money from the robbery recovered it was still only a fraction over the twenty thousand that had been in Hollander’s canvas sack alone the day hell had descended upon them. And that twenty thousand, Hollander was hell bent on returning to his former boss back in Texas, a small rancher who couldn’t afford such a staggering loss. Anything else they recovered would go back to the bank in Phoenix though both of them suspected a large share of that money was in John Berglund’s hands. He would have cut himself a slice of the pie and the way his mind worked, Amanda had no doubt he would have filched a good hunk of cash from the safe earlier in the day of the robbery leaving less for his men to steal, less to split, and more for him that could be blamed on the bank robbers. He wasn’t about to testify against himself and that left only Rafael.

  A scruffy looking little dog appeared from out of nowhere and ran yapping at the heels of their horses as they drew up in front of the cantina. Amanda gave the place another good looking over.

  “What now?”

  “We start looking. Wait here, I’ll see what I can find out inside.”

  Amanda nodded, coughing as the dust which had been thrown up behind them in their passage wafted over her on a change in the wind and caught in her throat.

  “Can we make this fast?” she asked with some humor.

  Hollander swung down out of the saddle, looping his horse’s reins through a metal ring on a post. He gave her a wry, twisted smile.

  “That sure is my intent.”

  He disappeared into the cantina’s dark interior, and Amanda envied him the relief of the shade and the adobe building’s coolness. She glanced at his tired horse, head drooping and took pity on her own, climbing down. Neither animal appeared to have any interest in anything other than standing quietly and swishing at flies with their tails. Their horses were tough, rugged little cowponies, but even such as they had their breaking point.

  The streets of the dust spot of a town were quiet. Even the dog that had plagued their entrance had dropped down in the shade of a water trough, panting and gazing up at her with inquisitive eyes. Amanda wondered where all the people were, then realized that only fools such as herself and Hollander would be out in the searing heat when they could be somewhere else. She was about to remedy the situation and follow Hollander inside, no matter what she might have to cope with once there when Hollander emerged.

  “Well?” Amanda asked expectantly.

  “Nothing.”

  Hollander took the reins from the post and led off toward the tumbled down local livery. A couple of small corrals and a tight adobe hut for storing tack and feed located at the edge of town did the job.

  Wordlessly, Amanda followed. When they reached the livery, a man, thin, and not very tall, dressed in dingy white pants and shirt met them with a broad smile. Hollander startled her by erupting into a fast give and take in the man’s native tongue, then turned the horses over to him after first removing their gear. She thought she’d heard Rafael’s name mentioned a couple of times in the brisk exchange, but the livery man continued to look blank and smile. Hollander turned away, striding purposefully up the dusty street, barely sparing her a glance.

  “You spoke to him in Spanish. What did he say?”

  Amanda strove to keep up with his long stride.

  “Something’s going on,” Hollander informed her in a low, rasping voice aggravated by the dust and his thirst. “They’re all too silent about this Rafael.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t been here, or maybe Miller was lying when he said Santa Cruz.”

  Hollander shook his head. “They know something. I can feel it. They just don’t want to talk to an outsider, a gringo. I think he’s here, all right.”

  Amanda allowed her breath to escape in a long, drawn-out hiss.

  “So, what’re we going to do?”

  “Find him,” Hollander snapped. “Look in every flophouse, back room, and storage shed until we find him. Santa Cruz is not a very big place.”

  “You think they’re covering for him?”

  He lifted his injured shoulder and rotated it, testing for soreness.

  “Not exactly. It’s more like they’re covering for someone else, and Rafael is involved.” Hollander gestured to a ladder that led to the roof of the flat-topped cantina. “Climb up there. Keep an eye peeled, and if you spot anyone going anywhere in a big hurry, signal me with a couple of shots.”

  Amanda gave him a hurried nod, crossing the street at a trot. His read on people was rarely wrong. Rafael was no doubt in town. And once he found someone was looking for him, bearing the marks such as Jake Hollander wore, he might make a run for it.

  She reached the ladder leading to the roof and climbed swiftly, toting with her only the canteen, small sack of hard tack and jerky, and her gun.

  She traversed the roof like a lizard skittering across hot stone. The town was hardly more than a dust mote in the desert, but it would take a lot to keep a watch on every doorway and w
indow.

  Amanda tried to conjure up an image of Rafael remembered from that fateful robbery at the bank. The mask he’d worn that day had covered most everything, but not the sharp, angular cheekbones.

  Her gaze moved up and down the length of the quiet street, then sought out the corners and nooks. Three quick shots would bring Hollander running. It would also alert the entire town something was amiss. She drew a deep breath, pulled her gun, and sat back to wait wondering whether the people of Santa Cruz would try to protect Rafael.

  Moving methodically from one building to another, Hollander executed a concentrated search. Tension made his shoulder, not yet completely healed, ache. The search was more a way to let the word get to Rafael there was someone searching who wasn’t likely to give up than to stumble on him hiding in a corner somewhere. He intended to flush his quarry and Amanda had damned well better be alert because he was hot, tired and hurting and his patience was about to run out.

  He sidled up alongside a storage shed behind the cantina, held his gun up and reached for the door. Surprisingly the latch gave freely, but the door swung in with a grating creak. The interior was dark, cool, and empty. Hollander moved on.

  Amanda brushed sweat from her eyes and watched as Hollander appeared a couple of times on the street, his gun drawn and ready. She decided he moved like a great cat with a gimp. All there certainly, but slightly off in his stride.

  The sun beat down on her head, and inside her clothes, the sweat was drying before the desert wind as fast as her body shed it. She uncorked the canteen and took a slug of water, glancing around. The warm water trickled down her throat as her eyes fell on the passageway a couple of buildings away. She caught sight of a man moving quickly between the adobe structures. He was slithering, like a snake. His clothes were like those of many of the villagers. Nothing about his costume drew her attention; nothing except the knife. He held it low along his side, broad blade flashing brilliantly in the sun.

  Rafael? Amanda wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She leveled her gun at him with steady hands, snapping off three quick shots. Their impact, one after the other, threw up little plumes of dust around his feet.

  “Hold it right there!” Amanda rapped out, exposing herself enough to be taken seriously, her gun aimed unwaveringly at him.

  Just as she commanded, the man below froze, but only for an instant, then he bolted and ran, disappearing into the building next door.

  Amanda fired again. The dust geyser erupted at his heels, but he was lost from view in an instant. She swore, something she’d learned from her partner, holstering her gun. She couldn’t wait for Hollander. There wasn’t time. She couldn’t risk losing him.

  She scrambled down the ladder, sliding down the last few rungs, and made a dash for the doorway into which her quarry had disappeared. She skidded to a stop just inside, drawing the door closed behind her. Then, gun again in hand, Amanda eased further into the cool, dim interior. Dust floated on stray sunbeams which found their way in through dirty, but open windows. A yellowish haze suffused the room brightened by those narrow shafts of light.

  Amanda’s eyes darted from one part of the room to another. It was plainly someone’s home. A couple of brightly colored rugs hung on the wall for decoration. A wash basin and shelves were placed neatly against one wall, a cot against the other. A square table and rickety chairs occupied the center of the room. Silence was leaden. Even her breathing was muted, undetectable. She inched forward, then tensely waited, dampness crowding the palm of her gun hand. All her senses were alert, skin at the back of her neck tingling.

  “Come on out, Rafael,” Amanda called softly. “This town is too small for you to escape.”

  From behind a huge wood pile a soft scraping reached her ears. She looked that way in time to catch sight of a flicker of movement before the man she was after traversed the dimness with the swiftness of a snake and the back door flew open with a bang. She jumped at the suddenness of it, whirling, and for an instant she tracked him, but the brilliance of the sun when the door burst opened momentarily blinded her.

  Amanda blinked furiously, fell to one knee, and snapped off another shot. He didn’t even hesitate. She didn’t want to kill him, and it almost seemed that he knew it. Footsteps were moving fast; headed back toward the cantina.

  Scrambling to her feet, Amanda dashed to the door, then pulled herself up short. She stuck her head out in time to see a flash of his white trousers as he hit the cantina’s rear door.

  Amanda threw another shot in his direction and muttered a few of the imprecations he’d heard Hollander use so often under her breath. Just where the hell was he? Things were happening too quickly. Well Goddamnit, she wasn’t going to lose this man. He was Rafael, or he could lead them to him.

  She didn’t even break stride this time as she darted through the cantina’s back door, following in the fleeing man’s wake. She burst into the room and fell into a crouch, gun leveled and ready. The cantina was even darker than the small adobe house they had just fled. Tensed, every muscle knotted, she was aware of the eyes in the cantina all turned in her direction. And, she spotted her quarry standing casually by the bar, gazing in her direction, a wicked smile playing about his lips.

  She licked her own to moisten them. The barkeeper stood behind the bar, unmoving, eyes hard as he glanced from Amanda and the muzzle of her pistol to the man with the knife.

  And it was a very big knife. Amanda kept her gun steady, feet braced, and waited.

  Three customers occupying a table near the front door stood up and uneasily moved to one side.

  Amanda steadied. She held a gun. The man facing her from a few feet away had only a knife.

  It was her play, but the leer never left her adversary’s face. Not Rafael, but one who could lead her to him. She could feel the itch in the air. This one knew something, and he looked at her with the eyes of a cornered rat.

  “There is something you have forgotten,” the knife man said very softly, and surprisingly, in English. “Your gun, it is empty.”

  The instant he said it, Amanda knew it for truth. She wanted to swear again, but she gave him an icy glare.

  “And if you counted wrong?”

  He grinned. Suddenly the blade he held looked twice the size as he came at her, his mustache quirked by the grim smile beneath. He flipped the knife blade back and forth in front of Amanda as he approached almost teasingly, but she had no doubt that he was deadly serious.

  The bartender and cantina patrons looked on with interest, none inclined to lend her a hand.

  Instinctively, Amanda faded back before the flashing knife. Warily, managed to put a table between herself and the knife. The gun was still in her hand, useless. The knife dipped and swayed hypnotically before her. Her eyes burned and her stomach rolled, but she could not give up her intense concentration for even a moment. Hollander had taught her much, but at the moment she could not think of a thing.

  “I did not count wrong. I never would make such a mistake. You are estupido! Why do you pursue me?” The gleaming point of the knife sketched a pattern in the air before her.

  She saw it coming, felt it in the heaviness of the atmosphere between them, and twisted away as he lunged around her fragile barricade. The tip of the knife caught a bit of her sleeve, tugging alarmingly as she jerked clear, spinning away to put another table between them.

  She was quick, but he was just playing with her and she knew it. How long did he intend to play?

  “You do not mess with me, woman! You thought because you had a gun you could do as you would? Eh?”

  He thrust at her again, nearly sliding across the table in his eagerness, overturning it with his weight. But he didn’t go down. He caught himself, staggered forward and reached for her with that long blade.

  Amanda brought her gun up with a swiftness which amazed even herself, blocked the wicked slash of his knife and caught it on the trigger guard. For an instant they locked, immobile, then she leapt back. The knife
followed in a broad arch. She felt the rip of chilled steel against her belly as she sucked it in, reeling backwards.

  She hit the floor, rolled, and came up near the end of the bar, putting its width between herself and her adversary.

  “I’m looking for Rafael,” Amanda said quickly, eyes never leaving the blade of the knife.

  The man before her gave a sardonic laugh, and he paused in his assault. A small part of Amanda’s attention focused on the sound of familiar footsteps scuffing across the earthen floor toward them. Her eyes remained fixed on the knife, afraid to glance away for even an instant.

  “You are but one of many,” the knife wielder told her.

  “And I found him.”

  Hollander made the announcement a split second before the hand holding the knife was jerked up and away. Another sharp wrench and the knife fell to the floor with a solid clink. Hollander held the man with ease, keeping the pressure on his arm, then spun him around, throwing him into a chair.

  “You all right?” He asked Amanda over his shoulder.

  She glanced down at the trickle of blood at the scratch on her stomach and answered “Yes,” on an expelled breath.

  She found herself a chair and dropped into it, hastily reloading her gun before holstering it.

  “You said you found Rafael. Where is he?”

  “In a little adobe across the street. Dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Amanda felt like a chunk of ice had been dropped through her body and settled in her moccasins.

  Hollander nodded. “Hasn’t been that way very long. I found a woman with his body, kind of distraught, babbling something about her husband killing him.” He gave a sharp, knowing glance at their prisoner. “Unless I miss my guess, this is her husband.”