The hoofbeats were almost on her.
Sobbing with terror now, she remembered the shotgun.
She spun on her heel and began a lumbering desperate run for the house, skirt swirling around her plump legs. If only she could get inside and grab hold of the gun. Then she might have a chance.
Creech frowned when she turned and ran, but he soon figured it out. A woman on her own in this country would have a weapon of some sort. Probably a rifle or shotgun. That had to be it. And a scattergun in her hands would be murderous. He dropped the pinto’s lead rein and dug in his spurs. The stallion leaped into a gallop.
His hand snaked down to the Colt.
She was almost at the porch when the horse overtook her. Creech leaned out from the saddle, looming over her. With the shadow of the horse thrown over the doorframe she stumbled in her haste, turning her face up. Creech fixed her expression in his mind. Wide eyes that carried terror now instead of rage, brown face streaked with dirt, mouth hanging open in trepidation.
Then he swung his arm.
The Colt whipped down to smash against the side of her head. For an instant the pistol barrel snagged in her wild hair then he jerked it free and she went down like a lung-shot buffalo.
He hauled back and the stallion’s hooves skidded on the baked earth. It stopped, belled nostrils only inches from the doorpost. Creech turned it away, avoiding Conchita’s motionless body and rode back to the center of the yard. With the Colt still in his hand, he dismounted, leaving the reins trailing as he went back to peer down at the Mexican woman.
Where the barrel had connected a raw gash graced her scalp. She was out cold, and she would stay that way for a long while. Time enough to do what he had come here to do.
Smiling, he led the stallion to the well where he wound up a bucket of fresh cold water. He offered it and the horse dipped its head gratefully. Creech left it, knowing it wouldn’t stray. He took the spare rope from the saddle and went back to the pinto packhorse. After patting its neck he caught up the lead rein then set off for the grove of trees beyond the corral.
Creech was no expert on trees, except when he wanted one for a specific purpose. As he had supposed, there were no sturdy oaks, the poor earth wouldn’t support one. But there were trees, and as long as there was a bough strong enough to bear a man’s weight and far enough from the ground so his boot heels wouldn’t touch, then that was good enough for him. He wandered through the grove seeking a suitable tree. He stopped and uncoiled the lariat, hefting it as he gauged its weight. Holding the slack in his left hand, he threw it so the loosening coils sailed over the branch, the loops falling out as the loose end dropped back to earth. He brought the two ends together then took hold just above his head and hauled until his feet were clear of the ground. Hanging and jerking his weight up and down, he looked up.
The branch barely quivered.
Smiling, he let go. He glanced at the Kid who was semi-conscious, groaning, tied head down over the pinto’s saddle. You won’t be in pain much longer, at least not on this earth, he thought as he began to fashion a loop and a slipknot that would pull the lariat tight about the Kid’s neck. He tested it carefully, nodding his satisfaction.
He left the noose dangling and loosened the rope that bound the Kid’s hands and feet below the pinto’s belly before lowering him to the ground. The Kid moaned as his shoulder bumped the hard earth, eyelids flickering. Creech frowned. This would be the first time he had hung an unconscious man and he didn’t care too much for the idea. Hard work hauling up deadweight too. He had always sat them horseback, set the rope, and just kicked the horse out from under.
This time would be different.
He took hold of the rope and put it around the Kid’s throat where he lay, easing it tight with the knot at the side, then led the packhorse to the far side of the tree, tugging the slack so the rope was tight over the branch. Leaving the loose end dangling, he made a couple of turns around the saddle horn, choosing a nearby tree that could provide an anchoring point.
He clucked his tongue and the horse started to walk. The lariat tightened then began to jerk the Kid’s head off the ground. His eyes opened, a gargling coming from his slack mouth. The horse took another step and his shoulders came up. Another and his buttocks were free of the ground. He writhed.
The rope went slack.
The Kid was perched on his knees, feet and hands still tied. But he was awake now, eyes wild and feverish. They switched from side to side, seeking escape. At once he saw the packhorse and the long rope taut over the branch above.
Creech began to smile.
“Bastardo!”
Creech didn’t need a translator for that one. He laughed and coaxed the pinto another step.
“You filthy gringo!”
Creech laughed again. “Your words don’t hurt me none. Not nearly as that rope’s going to hurt you.”
“I kill you for this!”
“You won’t get the chance, greaser.”
The horse moved another hoof forward. The Kid was pulled up onto his feet. Unable to balance because of his feet roped together, he swayed back and forth, always brought upright by the noose. He was coughing with its pressure. Creech held the horse back, sneering at his victim.
“I don’t hear you saying much now.”
The Kid gained a form of teetering balance. “I spit on you for this, white man “
“I don’t think you can reach me from there.”
“I trample your face in the dirt where it belongs! You are a crazy man!”
Creech’s eyes narrowed at the word crazy. How could it be he was the one who was crazy? Wasn’t he the one doing right, riding as an agent of the Lord, seeking recompense for the wrongs vermin like this committed?
“I don’t think I want to listen to you anymore.” He clucked his tongue and the pinto moved forward. The Kid’s toes were barely touching the ground. Creech stopped and looked back at him thoughtfully. “Unless you tell me where your friends are.”
The Kid coughed, pulling the rope as he tried to ease its pressure. “What friends? I have no friends.”
“The ones you robbed the train with.”
“Hey, I rob no train. I already tell you!”
“Floyd Benson. Jody Mackinaw. Emmett Green.”
The Kid scowled and Creech couldn’t tell if it was because of the pain from the rope or just the lies. “I know none of these men. Cut me down. You have seen my rancho. I am a farmer!”
“You lying greaser bastard,” the preacher muttered, urging the pinto forward. The Kid’s boots cleared the ground. Next to the anchoring point he stopped the horse and looked back. There was now four or five feet below the Kid’s swaying boot heels. Enough. Creech took the loose end of the rope and made a turn around the low branch, then tied a series of knots so there was no chance of it coming loose. When he was certain it would take the strain, he grasped the lariat above the saddle and took the strain of the Kid’s weight himself. Clenching his teeth with the effort, he let loose with his left hand and flicked the turns off the saddle horn.
Then he let go. The rope snapped tight, the Kid’s body dropping a foot or so, taking up the slack that had been wound on the saddle horn. He was jerking on the end of the rope, body thrashing uselessly. The noose was steadily tightening, and only a hoarse rattle escaped his throat.
Creech ignored the desperate dance of the Sonora Kid. He knew it would not take long. A few minutes at most. He felt in his pocket and withdrew the worn leather Bible.
“Oh Lord,” he intoned, eyes on the patch of sky visible through the canopy of branches overhead, “take this man, delivered to you by your servant’s hand as your instrument of justice. He is a lawbreaker, a thief, a murderer, and a fornicator…”
The Kid only heard him faintly. There was a thunderous rushing in his ears, the roaring of rivers in flood, a wall of seething water smashing everything in its path, tumbling down a narrow canyon towards him.
“Thou shalt not kill…”
&
nbsp; His chest was heaving, lungs screaming as they sought the dry desert air they craved so urgently.
“Thou shalt not steal…”
He couldn’t think clearly. Inside his head was a red mist that swirled persistently, denying him access to penetrate its frustrating vortex.
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, nor his wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything…”
Even the pain of the gunshot wound was as nothing compared to the burning in his chest, the pressure building as if an unseen hand of iron was closing slowly into a fist around his body, staving in his ribs one by one.
“Jesus Maria!” the Kid suddenly screamed.
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain…”
Suddenly, the Sonora Kid knew that there was nothing left. No future, no past, no longer any present. There was a moment of stark realization when clear images banished the swirling red mists in his mind and expelled the terror of dying that lurked like a crawling thing in the dark corners. There was no need to be afraid anymore. What did fear matter? What did it accomplish? What was fear? It was as if he suddenly had all the answers to questions that had puzzled him all his life, and now that he had glimpsed the answers nothing else mattered.
“Even the murderer shall throw himself on your mercy on that appointed day.” Creech paused to look at his victim.
The Kid’s body was still. His swollen tongue poked obscenely between the pale lips below his greasy black moustache. His face was purple, eyes bulging from their sockets as though he had fought the Grim Reaper even to the last breath of life, and were now fixed in a glassy stare, seeing nothing.
He was dead.
“Amen.” Creech closed the Bible firmly.
When the Sonora Kid had been lowered and tied across the pinto’s saddle again, Creech selected the appropriate wanted flyer from his collection and pinned it to the Kid’s shirt before he covered him with a tarp and lashed it down. He recoiled the rope then led the laden horse back to the heat of the open yard. At the well where the black stallion was patiently waiting, he drew another bucket of water, this time offering it to the pinto. As the animal dipped its head he patted its neck affectionately.
There was only the woman now.
Across the yard by the porch, Conchita still lay unconscious. Creech left the two horses and paced over to her. She lay sprawled as though reaching to the door, her black dress torn and rumpled from the struggle. He knelt to examine her face. Where it was free of dust, black bruises shadowed the coffee brown skin, face serene as she lay in a coma. The blood from the gash on the side of her head had congealed. He lifted an outflung arm and carefully turned her over. As she rolled limply onto her back he saw her dress was ripped, probably where the black stallion had caught his teeth and pulled. Now, where a row of pearly buttons had been, there was only one left holding the material together.
Curiously, Creech freed that one last button and let the dress fall open. A fat breast showed the sleepy eye of its charcoal nipple. He stared at it for a moment then slowly stretched his fingertips to it. The skin was soft, giving, richly textured, warm.
He withdrew his hand. It was happening again. He rocked back on his heels, eyes to the burning sky. “Oh Lord,” he said miserably, “Why does the devil always show his hand and send temptation to divert me from my service to You and doing Your works? Help me, Lord, help me.”
There was no answer from the heavens. Creech’s eyes were again drawn to Conchita’s breast. He clasped both hands together to stop himself, while inside his emotions seethed and churned as he fought to keep down the heat of his lust. He began to shake. Why? Why did this always have to happen?
No matter how he tried, he couldn’t tear away his eyes. Hand trembling, he reached out again to caress the pliant flesh. He could feel his resistance draining away to be replaced by a voracious hunger, a hunger that had to be fed, no matter what the cost. As he ceased to struggle against the inevitable he began to make promises for his straying. He would say a special prayer each morning to make amends. No, he would make two, one admitting his mental failing, and one to seek mercy for the weakness of his flesh. If that was not enough, he would pray in the evening too, to ask for strength…
He looked on her again. Oh God, he could not leave her, the need raging unsatisfied. He pushed the dress farther apart and the other breast was bared to his hungry gaze. Oh yes, no matter how many prayers it would take, he had to have her. Not here though. His eyes swung to the house. He would take her inside. It would be cooler and there would be a cot, but most of all there would be darkness to hide his sin from the rest of the world.
He squeezed both hands under the bulk of her slack body.
It was then he heard the whoop.
He froze, eyes darting to the horizon in the west. A dust cloud, and moving his way. Horses. And they would find him like this. No man should see his weakness. In a panic, he dropped the still unconscious Conchita. Quickly, he was on his feet, gun in hand.
A whole bunch of them. And coming fast.
He cursed and looked down at the woman’s lush body. Only a few minutes was all he would have needed. With regret he raised the revolver. He eared back the hammer, sadness making the task all the more difficult. He glanced again at the cloud, hoping the riders had changed course.
They hadn’t.
So he pulled the trigger.
Conchita’s head was blasted apart. The bullet smashed into the right-hand side of her temple like an iron bolt thrown through glass, exploding her brain into a gray paste that sprayed out of the broken shell of her head into the dusty earth where she lay. The closeness of the Colt’s barrel peppered her brown cheeks and the bridge of her nose with ugly black powder burns. He was glad her eyes had been closed. He would not have been able to bear carrying the memory of accusation written there.
Creech’s mouth turned down as he looked at her. Although her head was mangled almost beyond recognition, her body was still untouched between the two halves of the torn dress. But without the completeness of her coma-softened face, the lure of her fat breasts was dispelled. He almost smiled as he realized his lust had been exorcised. He looked away then, back to the dust cloud.
It was nearer now, perhaps half a dozen riders.
He had a feeling it was the Sonora Kid’s outlaw friends, and although he had pledged himself to hunt them down, he did not want to meet them face-to-face, all at once. He whirled and ran for his horse. Both the stallion and the pinto had raised their heads at his gunshot, uneasy. He caught up the lead rein and mounted the big black. Neither needed much encouragement to run.
He raked the stallion’s ribs with his spurs and it leapt into a gallop. The packhorse followed, the Sonora Kid’s corpse bouncing up and down across the saddle.
***
“All right, let’s ride!” Sophie yelled, urging her tired horse into a canter. The others, sensing their journey was almost at an end, responded. Even Jody, thinking of some shade by a wall where he could sit in peace and let his head get back together, let out a rebel yell, whooping like he was saddle breaking a bronco.
Floyd was just settling into the new rolling rhythm of his weary horse when he heard the gunshot. “Aw, shit,” he murmured to himself.
Sophie twisted in her saddle, shooting Floyd an inquiring glance to verify he had heard it too. He made a face and her expression hardened. “Let’s ride!” she screamed, laying herself along the sorrel’s neck and using the loose end of the reins to whip the animal’s shoulders.
Behind her, Emmett pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and jacked a shell into the chamber.
Just in case.
***
Creech took a line that skirted the small grove where he had hung the Kid then circled back towards Las Cruces. The trail wound behind the rising ground that the riders coming to the rancho had to skirt. He slowed the big black, wonder
ing who the strangers were. He had to know.
Behind the rise, where his horses would be hidden from any watching eyes, he hauled the stallion to a stop. For a moment he sat to regain his breath as he checked his back trail. No pursuit yet. Good. Behind his saddle cantle there was a shaped leather case he now unbuckled, fetching out the Bausch & Lamb 20 x 40 power telescope he had bought in the Army Quartermasters surplus store at Fort Stanton in Lincoln County on the ride down through New Mexico. He had already used it to good effect when watching the Sonora Kid hanging around the rancho, and it had been worth every cent it had cost.
He swung down out of the saddle, pulling his Sharps rifle from its scabbard. Leaving the reins trailing and carrying the glass, he climbed the hillock, picking his way between the cactus and saw grass. Near the top he went belly down, crawling like a snake so he wouldn’t be sky lined. He laid the rifle down taking care the muzzle wouldn’t get blocked, and then rested. It had been a tough climb, boots sliding in the loose sand and now his breath was rasping in the back of his throat. He glanced down at the figures moving in the rancho’s yard before rolling onto his back and lying for a moment until his chest stopped heaving. He used the time to clean the lenses of the eyeglass with his handkerchief.
When he was ready, he rolled back over, carefully removed his hat, then rested on his elbows, bringing the glass to his eye. The figures in the yard two hundred yards below sprang into focus as he moved the lens from one to another. He frowned in concentration as he counted them. Five. Four men and a woman, slim and wearing trousers. There was something familiar about her he couldn’t place and he didn’t try, switching his attention back to the men. He knew them.
Still focusing the glass he pulled the bundle of wanted flyers from his pocket, irritably sorting through them in his haste.
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