Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “Quickly, follow me,” Umberto said to his son. Realizing the pistol had once again been emptied in a wild, mindless shooting spree, he jerked the machete from his waist.

  “No, Papa, wait!” said Julio, reaching for his father’s arm. But he was too late.

  Umberto stepped into sight from the front corner of the house and stood facing Hodding Siebert with his machete hanging at his side.

  “Who the hell are you?” Siebert said, the Dance Brothers revolver lying empty, open and smoking, in the palm of his left hand. His right hand was full of bullets, ready to reload.

  “Do not load that gun, hombre,” Umberto warned.

  Now that his father had made the unwise move, all Julio could do was follow suit. He stepped out from the corner of the house and stood beside his father, his bare feet spread apart, the machete in hand.

  “The hell you say!” Siebert shouted, sticking bullet after bullet into the Dance as quickly as he could, some of them falling to the ground in his efforts.

  Father and son charged forward, wielding the big glistening blades above their heads. But Siebert fell back three steps hurriedly, managing to get four bullets into the gun, then raise and fire it as the two made it dangerously close.

  “Close, but no prize for second best!” Siebert shouted as four shots erupted almost as one. At his feet, the young Mexican writhed in pain, the machete gripped tightly, blood pumping hard from two bullet holes in his chest. Six feet behind the boy, his father lay dead, a brutal exit wound gaping on the back of his head, another on the back of his neck.

  “Here, give me that,” Siebert said. Clamping his boot down on Julio’s wrist, he jerked the machete from his hand. “This might sting a little,” he warned, raising the big blade high above his head.

  Julio screamed, but he was silenced when the sharp blade came down and did its job.

  Siebert turned loose of the sunken blade and walked away to the barn without a second look.

  “If a man needs some practice, he can do worse than come here for it,” he chuckled. He snatched up the reins to the black mare he’d hitched to a half-collapsed fence rail.

  But his cheerfulness ended when he led the mare into the barn and saw a big liver-colored dun gelding lying dead on the floor.

  “What the hell…?” Siebert walked closer and looked down at the wide puddle of dark blood beneath the dun’s neck; then his puzzled eyes went to the rays of sharp sunlight shining through several bullet holes in the barn wall. “I’ve shot the son of a bitch.”

  Beside him the mare scraped a hoof and chuffed.

  “I dare you to say a damned word,” Siebert warned her, giving a yank on her reins. He paused in consideration, and then a grin spread across his face. A worn California-style saddle was draped over a stall rail. “All right,” he said, “at least I get a good saddle out of the deal.”

  Cursing his luck, Siebert carried the saddle over and dropped it at the mare’s hooves. He removed the sidesaddle, then pitched the California saddle atop the mare. But before he could fasten the cinch, the mare reached her head around, grabbed the saddle between her teeth and flung it to the floor.

  Siebert bit his lip. He picked up the saddle, shook if off and pitched it back up on the mare. Almost before it landed on her back, the mare grabbed it, yanked it and threw it to the floor in a puff of dust once again.

  Siebert drew the Colt Pocket from his waist, cocked it and pointed it at the mare as he picked up the saddle and shook it off.

  “Do it again, see if don’t stick a bullet through your brain.”

  The mare stood still as stone as he saddled her, gun in hand, cocked and pointed, and swung up onto the big comfortable saddle. Without a tap of Siebert’s heels, the big mare walked out the door and milled, awaiting its rider’s command.

  “That’s more like it,” Siebert said. “Now show me some more of that speed.” He nailed his single boot heel to the mare’s side, the cocked Colt still in hand. But instead of running straight, the mare bunched up beneath him and cantered sideways a full thirty yards before Siebert could right her and finally turn her back toward the barn.

  “I know I’m going to kill you,” he hissed. “I just don’t know when.”

  The mare chuffed and blew and shook her bowed head. Siebert almost lost his seat. But near the open barn door he managed to sit up straight, seeing the young Mexican stagger toward him, his whole front covered with blood, the machete blade sunken deep in the side of his neck.

  “Why’s this stuff always happening to me?” Siebert queried any and all universal sources. He raised the Colt with difficulty as the mare leaned dangerously to one side and bounced stiffly on to the barn.

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  Throughout the preceding afternoon the Ranger had traveled with the feeling of being watched—or being followed. Something like that, he’d told himself. But the fresh hoofprints he tracked ran clear and straight ahead of him on the dust-coated trail. There was no way the man he followed could have circled back on him, and there was no good reason for him to have done so. The man was on the run. His best interest was in pushing forward, not circling back, Sam reminded himself. Still, the feeling had been there, nesting somewhere between his mind and his gut.

  Get rid of it, he’d told himself, making camp for the night, and he’d managed to push the feeling away. Yet, when his coffee had boiled and he’d eaten his food warmed over the flames of a small campfire, he had taken his blanket and rifle away from the firelight. He’d lightly slept the night in the cover of rock, one ear to the campsite, one to the trail behind him.

  He’d risen before daylight and walked the trail back a hundred yards in the silver grainy birth of dawn. Nothing, he’d told himself, warily examining the dirt at his feet and the rocky land surrounding him.

  Let that be the end of it.

  At the campsite he’d attended to and inspected Black Pot and the silvery gray dun, finding the dun’s foreleg to be mending sufficiently without the weight of a rider on it. Then he’d cleared the campsite, stepped into his saddle and given another look along his back trail before tapping the stallion forward and riding on.

  At midmorning he had followed the tracks down to the narrow canyon floor and stopped at the sight of the dead man and the two dead dogs lying in the stretch of wild grass. His eyes had searched around and seen no guns on the dead man or on the ground surrounding him. He’d stood breathing a sigh of regret in the hot, dry wind and looked off at the house in the distance.

  He’d levered a round into his rifle chamber.

  “Let’s go,” he said, taking the reins to both animals in hand and leading them forward, dreading what he might find waiting for him in the silent, windblown house.

  When he neared the house, he crouched and moved to the cover of a broken wagon sitting on three wheels and a stack of rock. From there he watched, rifle ready in hand, as the creaking front door swung back and forth on the wind. After a moment he hitched the animals to the wagon and ventured forward.

  “Hello, the house,” he called out, standing at a hitch rail in front of the plank porch. He waited. After a moment he repeated in Spanish, “Hola, la casa.”

  Satisfied that no reply was coming, he stepped onto the porch and stood to one side of the open doorway. On the floor he saw a wet, bloody cloth and a spilled pan of water. Scrapes, seeming to come from a table’s legs, traveled across the floor and out the door at his feet. His eyes followed the scrapes down from the porch, off across the dirt and around the front corner of the house.

  Sam looked around the house’s interior one more time before following the long marks in the dirt. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the body of the dead Mexican lying sprawled in a dried puddle of dark blood, a machete only inches from his outstretched hand.

  “It’s only the start,” he said, preparing himself.

  Walking on, he saw the body of yet another man, this one lying ten yards away, also in a dried pool of blood. His head was missing. A few
yards ahead, in the rear of the rock yard, he saw the table standing upended in the dirt, a naked, bullet-riddled body tied to it.

  Hodding Siebert…, he concluded, seeing the grizzly handiwork of a monster.

  “Aces, on his own,” he added aloud, walking on closer to the dead woman hanging tied by her wrists to the table, as if crucified. He raised her bowed head with the tip of his rifle barrel and saw two gaping holes where her eyes had been. He shook his head slowly and let the woman’s head sag over onto her shoulder.

  Taking off his sombrero, letting it hang at his side, he looked all around and walked toward the barn. Again, he would need a shovel. Tracking a madman like Hodding Siebert, it might be wise to always carry a shovel.

  Good idea.

  He walked into the barn, looked around at the dead horse and the discarded saddle and the countless bullet holes in the wall. He shook his head again. Spotting a short-handled shovel lying in the dirt, he leaned his rifle against the wall and picked the shovel up to inspect it. It’ll do.

  Shovel in hand, he’d reached for the rifle when he heard a hammer cock from the direction of the open door behind him. He turned toward it, his hand going to the butt of his holstered Colt.

  “No, señor,” a tall Mexican said, standing in the doorway, his boots planted shoulder-width apart. He wore a long black riding duster and a dusty black sombrero, a faded red bandanna tied around his neck. In his right hand, a big Walker Colt was cocked and leveled at the Ranger. “For your own sake, keep both hands on the shovel.”

  Sam noted the stance. A familiar stance—a fighting stance, he reminded himself. He didn’t put his right hand back on the shovel. Instead he froze it where it was, an inch away from grabbing his Colt if he needed to. But even as he readied himself for making such a move, he realized that if this man had wanted him dead, he would have been dead already. Nobody intent on killing him would have stepped in, caught him cold, then cocked the big Walker. Huh-uh. That wasn’t how killing was done.

  Cocking the big Walker gun in the open doorway was a warning, he decided, gazing squarely at the man.

  “Quién es usted? Qué desea usted?” Sam said quickly, still poised and ready even though this man had already taken the upper hand.

  “Speak English,” the tall Mexican said. “I am Juan Lupo.” He gestured a sidelong nod toward the dead lying strew in the yard beyond the barn walls. “What I want is to know that you are not going to turn and start shooting.”

  Sam uncoiled a little, but only a little.

  “You can’t think I had anything to do with this,” he said, hoping that the Territorial Ranger badge was visible on his chest behind the open lapel of his own black riding duster.

  “No,” said the Mexican, “I want to make sure you know that I had nothing to do with it.”

  Sam weighed his words, wanting to check, see is his instincts the night before had been right.

  “I know you didn’t do it, Juan Lupo,” he said. “You were too busy dogging my trail last night. Besides, I would have heard you shooting, this close.”

  The Mexican gave him a curious look. “You knew I was following you? How?” he asked.

  Sam saw the big Walker lower an inch.

  “I have my ways,” he said. Part of the tension had left the air. Now it was time to push a little. He calmly laid his hand on the butt of his Colt, not in a threatening way. “Just to keep this conversation civil, either you need to holster that six-shooter or I need to draw mine.” He stared at the Mexican.

  Juan Lupo nodded and lowered the big Walker to his side. But he made no attempt to slide the big saddle pistol into the belly holster strapped across his middle.

  Fair enough.

  Sam eased his Colt out of its holster and let it hang at his side in the same manner. All is even, he told himself.

  The Mexican noted the Ranger’s move but let it go.

  “You’re Ranger Samuel Burrack, the Americano lawman who’s hunting outlaws along the hill country,” said the Mexican.

  The Ranger gave a wry half smile.

  “I already knew that,” he said. “The question is, what are you doing here, Juan Lupo?”

  “Call me Juan, or call me Lupo, if you please, Ranger,” the Mexican said. “As a bounty hunter I am also known as Juan Fácil.”

  “Easy John Lupo,” said the Ranger, translating the name to English.

  “Yes, Easy John,” the tall Mexican said.

  “A bounty hunter, huh?” the Ranger said, eyeing him up and down.

  “Yes,” said Juan Lupo. “Does that make us enemies?”

  “No,” said the Ranger. “But it does make me wonder why you were following me instead of tracking the man you’re after.”

  “Because you have two horses, and I have none,” Lupo said bluntly. He raised his big Walker Colt and slid it into his belly holster, a show of peace.

  Sam just stared at him.

  “Mine went in the hole last evening,” said Lupo. “This hill country eats horses.” He gave a half shrug. Then seeing the Ranger’s flat stare, he said, “Don’t think it, Ranger. Had I wanted to steal one of your horses, I would have done so and been gone.”

  Sam continued to stare evenly at him. “I have no horse for sale,” he said.

  “That works out well,” said Easy John Lupo, “because I have no money—it was in my saddlebags and went over the edge with my horse.”

  “Go on,” Sam encouraged him, letting him know there was more he needed to explain.

  “I could tell you were after Siebert, probably Bellibar too,” he said. “I came to offer an alliance—see if I can lend a hand in exchange for the loan of a horse.”

  “I usually work alone,” Sam said.

  “So do I,” said Lupo. “But from the looks of this, the quicker we stop Siebert, the more lives we save.”

  Sam considered it.

  “I know where he is going, Bellibar too,” said Lupo. “It will save you much time.”

  “I know where they’re headed,” Sam said. “They’re going to Barranca del Cobre—Copper Gully.”

  “No,” said Lupo, shaking his head. “They will only go there as a place to rest and gather fresh horses. Then they will go on to Colina de Mirador.”

  “Lookout Hill,” Sam translated. “I’ve heard of the place.” He considered the bounty hunter’s words for a moment longer, then asked him, “What is the price for a maniac like Hot Aces Siebert?”

  “Two thousand five hundred in American dollars,” Lupo said. “I’ll share it. That’s not to say fifty-fifty, but I’m willing to consider—”

  “Save your dickering,” Sam said, cutting him short. “I don’t draw bounty.”

  “You mean…?” Lupo’s words trailed.

  “I mean the bounty’s all yours, far as I’m concerned,” said Sam.

  Lupo stopped and let that sink in.

  “And I can use one of your horses?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Sam said. “You get the dun—Bellibar’s horse. It’s got a crooked front hoof. It’s risky, but we’ve got no other choice.”

  “Risky?” Lupo just looked at him.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam said. “It should be rested enough to get you to Copper Gully without hurting itself. You can change horses there.”

  “I didn’t expect you be this agreeable,” Lupo said, eyeing him almost with suspicion. “What are you asking in return?”

  “Nothing.” Sam tossed the short-handled shovel over onto the ground at Lupo’s feet. “How’s your digging?” he asked.

  While Easy John Lupo dug graves in the hard ground, Sam reached out with a boot knife and cut the ropes holding Daphne Bryant’s bullet-riddled remains to the tabletop. He carried her body out of the sun and wrapped it in one of three well-worn blankets he’d found inside the house. He laid the other two blankets over Black Pot’s saddle and led the big stallion out to carry the bodies of Dudley Bryant and the two dead dogs to the rocky yard for burial.

  Sam walked the big stallion over to
the graves and laid the old man and both dogs down beside the woman. Lupo stood in a shallow grave, sipping tepid water from a canteen. He’d removed his duster and his black sombrero and draped them over the California saddle he’d taken from the barn. He’d tied the red bandanna around his sweaty forehead.

  “I was close behind you when you buried the old Mexican and young girl at the healing woman’s hacienda,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh?” Sam looked at him and took the canteen when Lupo offered it up to him. “Any sign of the healing woman after I left there?” he asked.

  “No,” said Lupo, “only the blood on the ground.” He reflected for a moment. “The peasants call her Sens Priscilla. She always told them that she could not be killed, only changed into some other form.”

  “From all the blood I saw on the ground, I hope she’s right,” Sam said. “Sens Priscilla, huh?” He took a swig of water.

  “Here she was Sens Priscilla,” said Lupo. “But on your side of the border she is known as the Princess—to some she was Witch Annie.” He took the canteen as the Ranger wiped his hand across his lips and handed it to him. “She was a Roma,” he said, “a Gypsy.”

  “A Gypsy princess?” said Sam.

  Lupo shrugged and said, “Who knows what she is, or was? She did more good than bad. What better can be said of anyone?”

  “I agree,” Sam said.

  He wanted to ask Lupo more on the matter, but before had the opportunity, gunshots exploded from a stand of brush ten yards away. He dived to the ground and scrambled for cover as bullets whistled past him. Lupo ducked down, taking cover in the shallow grave, instinctively drawing the big Colt from his belly holster.

  “Drop your rifle, gringo,” one of the men called out before either the Ranger or Lupo could return fire, “or we will shoot you both.”