The Savage Curse

by Jory Sherman

  “I don’t want Ollie to get away. I don’t want to keep chasing him to the ends of the earth. I want him to die here, in this desolate but beautiful land. I want his blood to soak into the earth, right here, and bloom pretty flowers in the spring. I want all who ride with him to die, too, before the sun sets tomorrow night.”

  There was steel in his voice and his eyes had narrowed to black slits. His jaw had tightened until it appeared to have been sculpted with an ax. His face was dark, in shadow, yet he radiated an inner fire that smoldered like a mighty volcano.

  “In the morning,” John said, “I will reveal my plan to both of you, and to everyone. Just promise me this.”

  “What’s that, John?

  “That you will do my bidding without protest or question. ”

  Jake and Gale both nodded. They could feel the heat within him, feel its banked rage just behind the iron door of a furnace.

  29

  JOHN BLEW WARM AIR ON HIS COLD FINGERS.

  He shivered in the spiny chill that crept into his clothes, into his flesh, into his bones.

  He lay in a shallow ditch, his body covered with brush he had cut and pulled over him.

  He could see the faint outline of the road, just barely, and, out of the corners of both eyes, little pinpoints of light through the black tapestry of night. The moon was setting and Venus stood near the horizon, a watery vision of shimmery silver, the brightest object in the sky.

  Above him, two hundred yards or so, he knew Ben was shivering in a similar hollow, his body covered with brush, and on the other side of the road, Jake lay in his trench, concealed under dirt and branches he and Ben had laid over him.

  The three had not walked on the road, so they left no boot tracks for Mano Rojo to read. They had clambered off the mesa in the dark, making their way through rocks and cactus to their hideouts. After getting Jake positioned, John and Ben had climbed back up and come down on the opposite side of the road, stepping carefully to avoid dislodging rocks, leaving telltale signs of their passing for any keen eye to see.

  A light breeze jostled the brush and John flexed his fingers to make sure his blood was circulating in them.

  Dawn was at least a half hour or so away, and it seemed to him that the darkness was deepening, reluctant to give up its cloak to the light of day.

  Gale had asked him if he wanted to eat before he had ventured out of the laboratory.

  “No,” he told her. “I always hunt on an empty stomach.”

  Gale and her sheepherders were not in the lab anymore. She and Romero were in the mine, near the entrance, huddled behind the wagon that they had pulled up in front of it the evening before. The other herders were behind the tailings, with orders not to show themselves unless some of Ollie’s men rode up on the mesa.

  John meant to see that this wouldn’t happen.

  He had given specific orders to Ben and Jake.

  “Shoot their horses out from under them. I’ll do the same. Then make sure you knock down Red Hand. I’ll take on Ollie once he’s on foot.”

  “What if he ain’t?” Ben had asked.

  “Then I’ll get him on horseback.”

  Simple orders. A simple plan.

  If it worked.

  The smell of earth assailed John’s nostrils. Dry, fragrant earth that might become his grave. He waited for the dawn, listening in the hushed night for any alien sound. Listening for the sound of horses approaching. Would he hear them? He put his ear to the ground and held it there, listening. He might hear them. Or he might not.

  He watched the stars wink out, one by one, and then Venus vanish along with the pale ghost of the moon. A deep royal blue painted the sky and light appeared in the east like flowing cream, pale as his mother’s bread pudding. Distant battens of clouds took on the hues of fishes, salmon and trout, their backs gray as dove wings. The threnodic sound of insects coming to life lent an insistent undertone to the sky’s unfurling of banners as the sun rose, creeping up to gaze on the sleeping land like some giant flaming god.

  The rider caught John by surprise. He had thought to see a half dozen, either riding in a pack or spread out or single file. But no, there was just one rider, turning onto the road that led to the mesa. A black silhouette on a horse of no color, coming out of the shadowy valley, picking its way slowly up the road, as unhurried as an aimless snail.

  John’s blood quickened. His temple throbbed with the furious beating of his heart. The sun crept higher, rising so slow he had not yet felt its heat.

  Then John’s stomach knotted as the rider drifted into the light. It was a lone Navajo, and he was leaning over, studying the tracks in the road. He made a guess who that Navajo was.

  Mano Rojo. Red Hand.

  “Don’t shoot, you men,” he said to himself. “Let him go.” He prayed. He held his breath. A rock beneath him dug into his upper calf, yet he dared not move. Dared not make a sound. He let his breath out slow, through his nostrils so that no vapor would escape.

  The Navajo rode up all the way to the overhanging lip of the tabletop. He halted for a few moments, turning his head one way, then the other.

  John’s breath caught in his throat, burned hot in his chest.

  Red Hand turned his horse and raised one hand as if he were signaling someone. Then he rode slowly back down the road, not gazing downward this time, but looking on both sides of the road, staring at the solemn landscape with the keen eyes of a hunting hawk. As John would have expected him to do.

  Don’t move, Ben, he thought. Jake, don’t give it away.

  Moments later, John saw the other riders. There were five of them. In the lead was a man with the stature and build of Ollie Hobart, riding a steeldust gray. The horse’s coat looked like moonbeams on a shadowy pond in the uncertain light of that tenuous dawn.

  John drew in a deep, slow breath to steady himself. His rifle lay beside him, ready to bring up when it was time. There was a cartridge in the chamber. He rubbed his thumb on the crosshatching of the hammer.

  He waited.

  Red Hand stopped and Hobart stopped. His men bunched up behind him. They all carried rifles pointing skyward, the butts resting on their thighs.

  Red Hand spoke and made hand signs. He pointed up the road, pointed to his ear, sailed the flat of his hand across an invisible plane to show that the way was clear and all was quiet.

  The riders all came within range. Hobart drew his rifle from its scabbard. John heard the sound of him jacking a cartridge into the chamber. Red Hand left his rifle in its scabbard, leading the way up the road.

  John measured the distance with his gaze, noted the progress of the horses. Ben and Jake were not supposed to shoot until they heard the sound of his rifle. He hoped they held to that order.

  John eased his rifle up to his shoulder. He placed the barrel gently on a rock and took aim at the steeldust gray. He calculated the horse’s speed and eased the barrel over, waiting for Hobart’s horse to come into his sights.

  John gave the trigger of his Winchester a slight squeeze, depressing it so that the mechanism would not be heard. He thumbed back the hammer and there was no sound. He released the trigger. Finally, when Hobart was directly opposite, John started his slow steady swing. He held his breath, led the horse a fraction of an inch, kept the barrel moving, took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. He was aiming for the steeldust’s heart.

  The thunder in his ears deafened him momentarily as the rifle bucked against his shoulder, spat out smoke and sparks, the deadly projectile. He saw the horse stagger and fall to its right side.

  “Damn,” Hobart yelled as his horse collapsed beneath him. His rifle went flying out of his hands and clattered some yards away as it struck a pile of rocks.

  Then Ben and Jake opened up and horses began tumbling like dominoes on a table. Men screamed and men yelled. Hobart flung himself to the side of the road, flattened like a cat on a tree limb. John levered another cartridge into the chamber. The ejected shell clanged on a rock. He picked out
a running man, led him, squeezed the trigger, and saw the man fling up his arms and go down in a heap. Other men dashed back and forth. Ben’s rifle accounted for one, Jake’s another.

  Red Hand was still on horseback. John saw him race up the hill. He tried to draw a bead on him and before he could fire, the Navajo’s horse clambered up on the mesa and disappeared.

  John’s heart stuck in his throat.

  He heard more firing from both Ben’s rifle and Jake’s.

  Where was Hobart?

  John couldn’t see him.

  The guns went quiet and there was a long silence.

  John laid his rifle aside and rose from his hiding place and started walking toward the road. His right hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

  “Hobart,” he called.

  There was a loud grunt and Hobart stood up. His right hand was cocked like a frozen bird above his pistol.

  “That you, Savage?” Hobart said.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, Ollie,” John said. “Isn’t that the way you wanted it?”

  “Damned right, Savage. You been breathin’ my air too long.”

  “Didn’t Red Hand tell you, Ollie?”

  “Tell me what?” Hobart snarled his words. The two men were very close, within ten paces of each other. Hobart stood his ground, while John took one more step and then stopped.

  “That this is the end of the road for you.”

  “Why, you sonofa . . .”

  That was as far as Hobart got. His hand dove for his pistol as he went into a fighting crouch.

  John stood straight, his right hand like magic as it jerked his pistol from its holster. His thumb pulled the hammer back to full cock and when the pistol came level, a split second before Hobart could aim his own, John squeezed the trigger, the hair trigger that took just a touch, and his pistol barked and spat out lead and fire and brimstone from waist high.

  In the distance, John heard the sharp report of a rifle. It sounded as if it came from somewhere near the mine.

  He saw a flower, a crimson flower, blossom on Hobart’s chest. Blood spouted from a hole right where his heart should have been. Hobart gagged and choked, pitched forward. His fingers turned limp as boiled noodles and his pistol fell to the road with a thud.

  John walked over to him, stood over the dying man.

  “End of the road, Hobart,” John said softly.

  Hobart’s eyes glazed over with the icy frost of death and then fixed on the blue sky above him. A last gasp escaped his lips and his body convulsed into a rigid contorted corpse.

  Ben and Jake approached cautiously, their rifles ranging from one fallen man to another.

  “They’re all dead,” John said.

  “You get Hobart?” Ben asked.

  “There he lies, Ben. See for yourself.”

  And the three men walked toward the mine.

  RED HAND LAY SPRAWLED ON THE GROUND THIRTY YARDS FROM the mine entrance.

  “You can come out now, Gale,” John called. “All of you can come out.”

  Men rose from behind the tailings. Gale and Romero emerged from the mine, walked around the parked wagon.

  “I got the bastard,” Gale said. “I got the bastard what killed Clarence.”

  “You sure did,” Ben said, and the pride in his voice was as strong as Gale’s had been.

  “Did you get Hobart?” Gale asked.

  “He sure did,” Ben said. “Right in his black heart.”

  “I guess that pistol knew what to do,” Gale said, looking at John.

  John looked down. He still had the Colt in his hand. The sun glinted off the silver, off the words etched there so long ago by his father.

  “I guess it knew, and I guess it had reason to do what it did.”

  He smiled, thinking of the legend inscribed on the barrel.

  No me saques sin razón, ni me guardes sin honor.