by Abe Dancer
‘He’ll be out there considering his options, taking advantage of the night,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll wager that new mount wasn’t too bedded down, either.’ He pushed the .44 Colt into his holster, knew even a sharpshooter wouldn’t be able to hit Cayne if and when he went by on his ride out of town. If I wasn’t before, I really am into bushwhack territory now, he was thinking.
CHAPTER 2
A flat stretch of land dotted with desert willow and paintbrush gradually gave way to more rocky, boulder-strewn country.
Jack dismounted. Not wanting to be diverted by any ground shadows or night movements, he closed his eyes to concentrate. He heard the sound he was likely chasing, but it was too far away, getting even fainter as it made higher ground, the foothills of the Magdalenas. He sensed that his quarry had now become the hunter, drawing him onwards for the ambush.
Jack’s stemwinder watch said it was a quarter-hour past midnight. Wispy clouds started to thicken across the sky and, when moonlight faded altogether, he made coldharbour camp beside a big, silvery smoketree. He tethered his mare, put down his saddle and bedroll.
‘Cayne won’t be going anywhere either,’ he muttered. Unable to sleep, he got to thinking, wondering what it was that he, Bean and Will could have done to make Cayne kill. Jack had only been about ten years old, so it wasn’t for playing truant or feeding strips of hog fat to the sheriff’s geese.
The sky lightened, but the temperature dropped nearly thirty degrees before the sun broke across the peaks of the distant mountain ranges.
Jack pulled a pair of leather gloves over his chilled hands, risked a small fire from a few handfuls of tumbleweed. Ten minutes later, cursing at the protest growls from his empty belly, he repacked his light traps and saddled up.
Ahead of him, a high, sharp ridge of sandstone drew his attention. There’d be a fair view of the badlands from up there, he thought. ‘For a goddamn goat,’ he added quietly, and turned his mount towards a ridge that sloped more gradually up from the arid ground.
A mile on, and he ground-hitched the bay and drew his rifle, scrambled on to the slope that led up to the lookout. He knelt a hundred feet above his mare, his breath hanging in fine clouds, his eyes sweeping the barren country for any sign of movement. He watched a big turkey vulture soaring above a distant ridge. The bird was on patrol, waiting for the day’s first rise of warming air.
‘You’re not dead yet, then, wherever you are,’ he breathed quietly of Cayne’s situation.
His attention shifted to a sudden disturbance on a narrow outcrop ten feet or so below him. He saw a definite movement, looked like curling ribbons of shadow. He flattened himself and wriggled close to the edge of the ridge, bit off the glove of his right hand and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He lowered the elevation of the rifle, squinted along its barrel down at the nest of rattlesnakes.
No one’s disturbed you. You’re getting ready for the sun, he thought and shivered with revulsion. He tensed his finger against the rifle’s trigger and twisted around for a nervy look behind him.
The sun rose higher, the night’s chill started to get burned off. Jack squinted, searching for any sign of movement out on the sandy wasteland.
Either you’re well gone or you’re holed up behind one of those smoketree brakes, he thought. Aren’t you? He drew in his knees, pushed himself up into a crouch. There was no doubting the bang of a big bore rifle, the loud smack as the bullet hit the stock of his Winchester.
Jack cursed as his rifle left his grip, bouncing once before tumbling to the rattlers below him. He gasped as a second bullet whined and fizzed close overhead. He took a deep breath, quickly pulled his Colt as he twisted and turned to face the other way. He made himself as flat as he could, tried to estimate where the shots came from. It was somewhere behind him and to his left, the direction he’d ridden from, and he knew the shooter.
‘Twice, so it’s my fault,’ he muttered anxiously as reverberations of the gunshots continued to whirl around him. ‘You’ve gone and got behind me again.’
He rolled on to his left shoulder, wincing at the pain. He rolled back, saw the dark stain in the dirt. A shard of rock had sliced upward into the fleshy part of his forearm and it hurt. It didn’t disable him, but bright blood was running freely on to his wrist, across the back of his hand. He drew in his shoulders and hunched up a few inches, cursed as bullets spat and ricocheted around his body. There was a brief pause, then more firing kept him pinned down.
‘Hell! I wasn’t born to this goddamn work. I wanted a quick kill,’ he rasped, the words gumming in his parched mouth.
Jack thought for a moment, guessed that Cayne, had somehow managed to climb above him. That meant he was perched high on the sandstone ridge that Jack had earlier decided was too steep to climb.
If I sit up real quick, watch closely, perhaps I’ll get a glimpse of him as he breaks his cover, he thought. If he gets to see me to shoot, I’ll get to see him. And a fat load of good that’ll do me.
As fast as he could, and in one continuous movement, Jack rolled on to his back and bent up from the waist. He looked to the south, close to where he estimated Cayne was in cover. He saw what he wanted, the dark, shifting shape of the man. Then he saw the flash, felt the bullet as it burned and snatched its way across the side of his neck.
Yeah, it’s you all right. All I’ve got to do now is slip down into the nest of rattlers, ask for my gun back, then give as good as I’m getting, he was thinking before everything closed down to black.
The pungent smells of wood smoke and roasting meat drew Jack from the darkness.
‘D’you think he’ll get up?’ a voice asked.
‘Yeah, sometime. They’re not much more’n flesh bites,’ came the reply.
Jack stirred, blinked some focus and feeling back, cursed at the pains in his head, shoulders, arms and legs.
‘Flesh bites to you, mister, whoever the hell you are,’ he said, not too forcefully.
Beyond and way above the fire stars peppered the deep sky. On the ground low flames were licking at a piece of spiked meat. Three men were close in to the firelight, heavy shadows playing across their features. One of them was the young drunk Jack had last seen in the cantina, the one who wore jingle-bob spurs. Jack allowed himself to slip back into the tranquillity of nothingness again, the dark, warm place where he seemed to be safe and secure.
When his senses stirred again pains and a rasping thirst brought him back to near full consciousness.
‘Our lucky friend’s comin’ back to us,’ one of the men said.
Wincing at the chew of pain, Jack raised his head.
‘Water . . . please,’ he croaked out. ‘Something to drink.’
Someone held Jack’s head while he sucked at the lip of a tin mug. The coffee tasted almost as bad as the cantina’s whiskey. He struggled against the pain of swallowing as it burned its way down his throat.
‘Easy, amigo. Ha! He’s just like a new calf on the teat,’ the man said.
The young Texan stepped closer, kneeling to speak.
‘We patched you up best we could. We all thought you were dead meat when we found you up there.’
The recollection of getting shot quickly filtered into Jack’s mind.
‘Did you see him – any sign?’ he asked.
‘You talkin’ of the man who did this? The fusilero?’ The Texan shook his head. ‘No, amigo. He must’ve heard us comin’, been well gone. We heard the shots though. Found your horse an’ figured out where you were. Who is he, this person who’s not an obvious friend?’
He probably heard your goddamn jingle-bobs, Jack thought.
‘He calls himself Cayne . . . don’t know if that’s his real name or not . . . or what the hell he wants,’ Jack muttered, the emotions of frustration and fear making his vitals shiver. ‘But he’s out there still. I know that.’ He gazed concernedly into the darkness and gritted his teeth. ‘Have you any water?’
The Mexican pushed the saddle further up against Jack’s back.
‘Drink some more coffee, amigo, then tell me . . . tell us, about this man.’
‘I just told you all I know. He’s name’s Cayne. And right now he’s bearing some sort of grudge against me.’
‘Sí, a real powerful one. So, we can take you to a town near the border. There’s a doctor, even a one-horse hospital the Arizona Raiders used to use.’
‘Thanks.’ Jack relaxed his head into the saddle. ‘I saw you in the cantina at Cerro Cubacho,’ he said, fixing his eyes on the young Mexican. ‘About three, four days ago, a tall, big-shouldered Anglo was there too. Corn hair. Do you recall?’
‘It sounds like I would if I’d been there. But no, amigo. I don’t.’
Jack gave a weak, single nod. ‘Yeah. Apparently everyone says more or less that.’
The youngster produced a flat bottle of tequila and drew the cork.
‘We got no white man’s physic, but this might help.’
Jack took the bottle and tipped a measure into his mouth. The drink was strong and warming, brought some life forces back. He looked to the roasting meat.
‘I wouldn’t say no to a cut of whatever you got cooking,’ he said.
Grinning, the other Mexican used a thin-bladed skinner to slice off a portion of dark meat.
‘You must be on the mend to want this,’ the man said, extending a morsel to Jack. ‘Got a name we can use?’
‘Jack Finch,’ Jack replied. ‘I was obviously never that broke, just had the goddamn stuffing knocked from me. I feel like hell though. What is this stuff?’ he asked.
‘Dog, snake, skunk. Roasted for long enough, it don’t really matter.’
The meat and cactus juice proved a little rich and fifteen minutes later Jack had gut spasms as well as the shakes. He started shivering again, even though they draped another blanket over him.
‘When did you reckon on making that infirmary?’ he groaned.
‘Early tomorrow. With lots o’ things on our side, no later than noon.’
Jack was in pain. He was losing the feeling of his left arm and fingers. Thinking he could find the dark, warm comforts of oblivion again, he closed his eyes, but nothing came. The other men appeared to be snuggled down, sniffing and snoring. Jack remained awake, seeing the fire collapse to white-and-grey ash.
It seemed he had been given a second chance to get away, although his wounds might yet fester and kill him. He listened to a coyote barking mournfully. It was from many miles away up on a rock, and he thought he knew how the lone animal felt.
‘Yeah, you an’ me both,’ he muttered. ‘What’s it all about?’
As he lay very still the pain in Jack’s body eased a little, but not enough to let him sleep. His distressed mind took him back to the wheatfield, the bright sun, the barn door swinging eerily in the wind, the flutter of Annie’s calico dress. He hadn’t wanted to look at her, but he had to know. A single bullet had blown away half of her small face. To anybody other than Jack she was unrrecognizable. It was the start of what had set him on the ride to Cerro Cubacho.
‘I’ve heard of the man you’re looking for,’ the man had told him. ‘He was tall . . . taller than most. A mess o’ yellow hair.’
It was the connection that brought Jack from his reverie. The barkeep hadn’t got it wrong, as Jack thought he might have done.
‘Hell! The man’s name is Cayne,’ he hissed on full waking. ‘And his first name is Dawson.’
Jack now recalled a straggly, fair-haired kid who had dogged an older brother, whose name was Lew. To Jack, Lew had been a sort of childhood hero, a figure of near-rapscallion repute. For some reason Jack was thinking of Tucson, but that had been twenty-five years ago. Whatever it was with Cayne must have happened before then. It was something from when they lived in San Simon, because that’s where Jack knew Dawson and Lew from.
Jack recalled young, hazy faces, one or two incidents of junior skylarking. Images of his dead parents broke in again, then Annie, and the reality of Dawson Cayne returned.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ he muttered in a low voice for the umpteenth time. He looked around to see if anyone had heard him.
When the coyote finally stopped howling Jack grew tense at the massive silence. It was close to dawn. There was no colour yet, but the top line of the distant sierras grew visible in the east.
One of the Mexicans yawned loudly. He kicked off his blanket and stood up, looking curiously toward a fluttering disturbance in the brush.
‘Goddamn bobwhites!’ Jack breathed. ‘We’re all here, so what the hell’s set ’em off?’
The Mexican froze. They saw nothing but in the half-light they heard the dull thrum of departing hoofbeats.
‘Devil’s nightmare,’ Jack mouthed, sitting up stiffly. ‘He’s been right here and he knows I’m still kicking.’
CHAPTER 3
The big rising sun made Jack feel bad as they rode for the Arizona border. They had tied him on to his mare so that he couldn’t fall.
‘We got your rifle back,’ said the young Mexican who had introduced himself as Carlos Rebo. ‘It’s lost some of its good looks, but it’ll still shoot.’ Rebo was riding alongside because of Jack’s unsteadiness. ‘Something else wrong, amigo?’ he queried.
‘I’m thinking he’s riding one of those ridges,’ Jack said. ‘For another hour he’s got the sun high and behind him. Where else is he going to be?’
Rebo squinted at a distant parallel ridge.
‘I guess it’s where any of us would be if we were trailin’ you,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘But don’t worry, amigo. He’s got to be some crazy hombre to tackle four of us. You should be safe enough.’
‘He’s already shot close enough for me to worry. I reckon that’s a big ol’ Henry he’s carrying, so, maybe we should make some distance . . . raise more dust.’
‘It’s up to you, amigo. You think you can ride like that?’
‘I’d prefer to die trying,’ Jack replied with a wit he didn’t feel. ‘Vamonos.’
Rebo considered for a moment before heading his sorrel in a more northerly direction across the huge sand basin. It was a move intended to give Dawson Cayne less of a vantage point if he wanted another shot at Jack.
Line abreast, the four riders stayed in open ground. Rebo knew that the shimmering heat off the desert floor would make moving figures an almost impossible target for a distant hunter.
Jack clenched his teeth against the hurt when he twisted in the saddle. He constantly thought he saw figures rising from the haze, wobbling for a moment before disappearing again. He cursed when he noticed he was falling behind the others and heeled the bayo mare for more speed. His neck wound was bleeding again and his left arm was sending pain up to join it. His strength was fading fast by the time he saw his Mexican rescuers grouping around him.
Strong fingers untied the rope that stopped Jack falling to the ground. They eased him from the saddle, carried him to the shadier side of an old sotol. Most of his shirt was soaked dark from fevery sweat and the blood from his neck and arm.
‘That looks bad,’ the older Mexican said. ‘Maybe I can stop the bleeding.’
‘Make it quick. If there is a shooter out there we’ve all become sittin’ targets,’ Rebo said, the concern clear in his voice. ‘Here,’ he went on, putting the tequila bottle close to Jack’s mouth. ‘You can die tryin’ to get roostered.’
When Jack regained consciousness he was lying under a neatly tucked clean sheet. A bottle of water and a drinking-glass were standing on a side table. His neck and right arm were bandaged, the smell in his nostrils was pungent and carbolicky. The pain in his body had subsided to a dull throb, and he moved his right arm to try and push himself into a sitting position.
‘No need. You’re not going anywhere,’ a feminine voice said firmly.
Jack was surprised to see a young woman in a nurse’s uniform rise from a chair cater-corner to the foot of the bed. She moved towards him, shaking her head.
‘We had trouble stopping yo
u bleeding, Mr Jack. Give some respect to those who have saved you.’
He lay back on the pillow, offered a feeble, contrite smile.
‘Sorry. It doesn’t happen that often.’
The nurse had an olive-skinned, brown-eyed face, but it was her hair that held Jack’s attention. It was glossy black, plaited like the tarred rope of a Rio Grande steamboat. Jack thought of Annie, felt an immediate grip of guilt.
He cleared his throat.
‘The men who brought me here?’ he said. ‘Do you know where they are?’
‘They didn’t say. Only that they will wait to find out how you are. You are lucky they brought you here.’
‘Yeah.’ Jack looked at the drawn-curtained windows, not for the first time, wondered what indication they suggested as to his predicament.
‘Is it night?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Whitewater. The Whitewater Sanatorium.’
‘Not New Mexico?’
‘Not quite. Arizona.’
Jack blinked, held his eyes shut for a long moment.
‘How long have I been here?’ he asked.
‘Four hours. You were brought in at three o’clock.’
Jack looked around to see where his clothes were.
‘They are in the laundry room,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.
Looking to see if I’ve got the dollars to pay, he thought.
‘I hope you’re not running a bar of soap over my Colt,’ he offered instead. She gave a tolerant smile.
‘That’s safe. There is no need for a gun in here.’
‘I’d like to be the judge of that,’ Jack said. ‘The man who did this won’t be too concerned with your hospital etiquette. How many armed guards you got outside?’ he added facetiously.
‘No patient is allowed firearms. It’s our way. I’ll ask someone to come and see you.’
‘Someone? What does that mean?’
‘Someone senior . . . the director. But if you are in some sort of danger it’s the concern of everyone here. When Doctor Cooper has taken care of your neck and your arm we will get you sorted out.’