DEATH HEAD CROSSING
JAMES REASONER
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Copyright Page
For Gary Goldstein, a hell of an editor.
Prologue
Luther Berryhill was drunk. Pleasantly drunk. Happily drunk. Gloriously drunk!
He had a smart horse, and that was good. Luther had spent the evening celebrating; now his horse would take him home. He didn’t have to worry about being so far gone that he couldn’t see straight. That old four-legged bastard would take care of him and get him back to the ranch.
The night was as dark as a moonless night can be. The stars scattered some light over the plains, but not enough for anybody who didn’t know where he was going. Luther swayed in the saddle and sang the praises of his mount as he rode. What a world it was! He didn’t know who had invented whiskey, but he sure was grateful to the man, whoever he was.
Luther slumped forward and caught himself just before he toppled out of the saddle. “Careful there, boy,” he muttered to himself.
He knew damn well that he was going to get a good ass-chewing from the boss when he got back to the ranch. Young Mr. Benjamin Tillman didn’t hold with his hands going into town and getting drunk. Luther didn’t care what the little bastard thought, though, not when he was this happy. Not when he was this dizzy.
Thinking about Tillman put a solemn expression on Luther’s face after a minute. Things sure hadn’t been the same since the boy came out from the East to take over. He should have stayed where he was, back there in Philadelphia, where he could be a fancy sissy and not hurt nothing. Boy sure as hell wasn’t cut out to run a ranch, nor to boss real men around and tell ’em they shouldn’t drink whiskey, or cuss, or go visit the whores at Mama Lupe’s.
Luther told himself to stop thinking about Tillman. He was just tormenting himself. Instead, he launched into song.
Tillman wouldn’t fire him just for going off on a little toot, would he? The thought pushed into Luther’s dazed brain and made him fall silent. Surely the boss couldn’t be that mean. Hell, summer in this part of Texas always made a man thirsty, and he had to do something to quench that thirst.
Lost in worry about his job, Luther didn’t notice the lights until several minutes after they first appeared.
Floating and dancing in the darkness, the lights twinkled in the hills in front of him. They were a merry sight as they winked and bobbed, and when Luther finally became aware of them, his eyes slowly widened and he pulled back on the horse’s reins.
What the devil . . . ? Fireflies maybe? Luther frowned. He couldn’t tell how far off the lights were, and so he couldn’t make a guess as to their size. They didn’t appear to be very big, though, and they surely didn’t look threatening.
The horse saw them too, or maybe smelled them. He shifted his feet uneasily and started to back up.
“Hold on!” Luther hissed. “Nothin’ to be scared of. Not like it’s a damn snake or somethin’.”
But the horse was acting like he had just spotted a rattler coiled in the path up ahead. Luther drew the bit tighter and held his mount still. The lights looked like they were coming closer now.
Luther thought about it and decided that these were ghost lights, like he had heard about over around Marfa. Nobody knew what those lights were, but they had never hurt anybody. Luther Berryhill wasn’t afraid of some little bitty ol’ lights.
He spurred the horse and urged him forward. When he hesitated, Luther raked the animal’s flanks cruelly. The horse snorted and then reluctantly started toward the floating lights, nostrils distended in fear.
There was a smile on Luther’s face. Maybe the little dancing motes of brightness were angels, he thought. Angels from heaven, come down to bestow some blessing on Luther Berryhill’s head . . . Demons. That was more like it.
Luther cried out in sudden panic as a big hand grabbed him around the middle and jerked him backward in the saddle. He grabbed for the pommel to hold himself upright, but his grasping fingers slipped off the worn leather. He slid from the saddle and fell heavily. Dust puffed up around him.
Luther rolled from side to side as he tried to free himself. Vaguely, he realized that it wasn’t a hand that had hold of him, but rather a couple of ropes. Still, they seemed to have dropped out of thin air. And they were too tight for him to tug free of them, almost too tight for him to breath.
He had lost his hat when he fell off the horse. Night breezes riffled his thinning hair. Luther struggled with the ropes as his horse galloped back past him and took off for parts unknown. “You damn jackass!” Luther screamed after him. “Come back here!”
A man on foot was a dead man. Luther knew that old saying and he knew the truth of it.
He was watching the retreating shadow that was the horse when something, some instinct, warned him. He jerked his head around. Shapes loomed around him, blotting out the stars. Luther couldn’t tell what they were, only that he felt more scared than he ever had in forty-one years of hardscrabble living.
“Wh-who the hell are you?” he quavered. He wished it wasn’t so dark tonight; then he could at least tell if these menacing shadows were men or animals or . . . something else.
There was no answer. No sound except the keening of the night wind.
Luther stopped fighting the ropes. He wet his lips and tried to remember a prayer.
“Vengeance is mine,” a deep, sonorous voice intoned.
Light exploded in Luther’s face.
The light was brighter and hotter than the sun, and as quickly as it came, it was gone.
So was Luther Berryhill’s life.
Face blasted away, he sprawled on the sand, felt nothing, knew nothing. He wouldn’t have to worry about that ass-chewing by Mr. Tillman. Shapes moved around him in the gloom, then faded away in the night. Far away, the sound of the runaway horse’s hooves could still be heard for a few minutes; then it was gone too.
Luther never should have gone into Death Head Crossing for that drink....
Chapter 1
The old man was going to keep screaming until Jackson rode down there and put a stop to it.
Three of them, and they had the old man staked out in the sun in the bottom of a dry wash. Only one of the men was working on him now. The other two were sitting in what little shade the banks of the wash afforded and sipping from a bottle they passed back and forth. The midafternoon sun glittered off the knife in the third man’s hand as he bent over the helpless victim.
Jackson sat motionless on his horse atop a ridge a hundred yards away. They hadn’t seen him yet, and he doubted th
at they would stop what they were doing even if they knew he was there. The shrieks of agony were what had drawn him. A town lay a few miles away, and that had been his destination until the old man’s cries had sidetracked him.
Jackson had no way of knowing how long the old man had been undergoing torture, but even from this distance he could see the blood that flecked the long white hair and beard. The old man had been stripped so that the sun could get at him better, his clothes carelessly tossed aside, and now his three captors were probably taking turns with their blades. They would work their way down the leathery body, making cut after shallow cut until all the wounds added up to one terrifying, soul-numbing pain. They had learned the trick from seeing the victims of Apache raids, Jackson supposed. It wasn’t any nicer when being done by white men, though.
Jackson sat his saddle easily, a man in dusty whipcord pants and a work shirt whose sleeves were rolled up over tanned forearms. His hat had seen better days, but pulled low over his forehead, its slightly rolled brim shaded a lean face that was mostly flat planes and angles. Carelessly trimmed dark hair fell on his neck. His boots and his saddle were scuffed and worn, but the leather of the holster he wore on his right hip was supple, well oiled, well cared for.
Just like the gun that rode in the holster.
His belly was growling and grumbling. He had been looking forward to a hot meal in town after several days on the trail and several nights’ worth of cold camps. But as the old man let out another wail, Jackson sighed and knew that his meal was going to be postponed. His face was still and enigmatic, but showing deep in his light blue eyes was the knowledge that he couldn’t ride away from this.
He kicked the horse into an easy walk. No point in galloping up. The old man was probably too far gone to save. All Jackson could do was lessen his suffering. But if he came tearing down into the wash, the three men might just start shooting and wait until later to find out what he wanted. Instead, he rode slowly, his shoulders slumping like those of a man who’s been in the saddle for a long time. That was true enough.
Several minutes passed while he covered the distance between the ridge and the wash. They knew he was coming now. He slitted his eyes and glanced out from under the brim of his hat. The one using the knife had stopped, and had even flung the blade aside. Its point dug into the sandy ground and the knife stood upright, hilt quivering slightly. The other two men joined the third one, and they made an uneven line in front of the old man as Jackson’s horse stepped carefully down a path into the wash. He reined in about thirty feet from them.
Jackson put a smile on his sun-blistered lips but didn’t say anything. His eyes swept over the scene.
The three men were typical hardcases. They wore range clothes and each of them carried a gun. Their horses, tied to a mesquite growing out of the bank a few feet away, looked tired and hard-ridden. Two of the men were bearded and older; the other was a youngster, already gone bad.
Jackson had seen hundreds like them. They could work as ranch hands when they had to, but they preferred easier wages than forty a month and found. They fancied themselves desperadoes, and even though they were almost nothing compared to some who rode the outlaw trail, they could kill you just as dead. Jackson knew them for what they were with only a brief look; then his gaze moved on to their victim.
Surprise made a muscle in his cheek twitch. The old man was an Indio, and it took a lot to make someone like him scream like a woman. They must have been at him for a long time. There were cuts all over him, and Jackson knew now that they had already finished one go-round and were starting another.
None of the three had spoken, and even the old man had fallen silent. His head rolled to one side, but his bloody chest kept rising and falling in a jerky rhythm. Quiet spread out and settled down over the wash.
“Must be one stubborn old man,” Jackson said.
“Must be,” one of the men agreed. “What’s it to you?”
Jackson shook his head. “Nothing. Just heard the yelling and wondered what was going on.”
“You’ve seen it.” The invitation to keep moving was plain in the man’s voice.
“True enough.” Jackson was still smiling. His hands were resting on the pommel of his saddle, a long way from the butt of his gun. A Winchester was shoved into a saddle boot, but at least a couple of seconds would be needed to get it out, so it was no threat. All in all, Jackson didn’t look too dangerous, especially facing three men.
“There a town around here?” he went on. He knew the answer to that question already.
The youngest of the three jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Over yonder about four miles. They got good whiskey and bad women, friend. Why don’t you go sample ’em?”
“Might do that,” Jackson nodded. “Soon’s you tell me why you’re killing that old man and taking so long about it.”
One of them spat. “You ain’t related to the old bastard, are you?”
“Not likely.”
“Then get out of here and stop frettin’ about it. It’s none of your damn business, friend.”
“You’re right about that. It’s none of my business.” Jackson held up his left hand in a deprecating gesture.
The old man turned his head and opened his eyes, blinking away the blood until he could see. From his position on the bottom of the wash, all he could make against the glare of the sun were the silhouettes of his captors. But he had heard Jackson’s voice and knew that someone else was there.
“Help me, Señor,” he gasped, the words obviously painful in his parched throat. “Please . . . you must help me.”
“Was I you, I wouldn’t listen to him, friend. That’d be a good way to get hold of more trouble than you can handle.”
The young one turned and launched a kick that thudded against the old man’s scrawny ribs. “Keep your mouth shut, you old buzzard, less’n you want to tell us where to find that treasure you got hid.”
Jackson saw the other two wince. The boy had a big mouth, and he had just told Jackson what he wanted to know.
“Treasure, eh?” Jackson said, his smile slowly widening. “That’s mighty interesting.”
“Dammit, Hector!” one of the older men exploded. “If that old man was as talkative as you, we’d’ve been out of this sun a long time ago.” He cut his eyes back to Jackson. “This still ain’t none of your affair, mister. Just ride on and there won’t be no trouble.”
Jackson shook his head. “I think I’ll take a hand in this, just to see how it plays.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Jackson’s hand was still a long way from his gun. The other three men, though, were poised to draw. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
He saw their fingers dip toward gun butts, and his shoulder moved. The .45 slipped smoothly into his hand, the draw so quick they never saw it. He squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times.
It was over in an instant. Gun blasts boomed against the banks of the wash and went rocketing away into the hot, still air. Jackson’s first bullet caught one of the older men in the chest and slammed him backward. The second one made a mess of a bearded throat. The third one ripped through the youngster’s lungs as he turned and clawed at his pistol.
Jackson holstered his gun and looked down at the three sprawled bodies. His horse had stood still during the battle, jerking only slightly as the gun exploded. The animal was used to noises like that.
None of them had gotten off a shot. The boy had cleared leather, but he was the only one. Jackson swung down from his horse and prodded all three with a booted toe. Nothing.
He turned to the old man and knelt beside him. Reaching behind him, Jackson slipped a knife from a sheath behind his holster and cut the thongs binding the tortured man.
“Gracias, señor,” the Indio whispered. “They were bad men. They wanted to . . . to rob me.”
“I know,” Jackson said. He hunkered back on his heels. “Your treasure. Where is it?”
Something like reproach showed in t
he old man’s eyes. “Señor,” he said.
“I don’t want to steal it from you, old man. I just want to see that it gets where you want it to go.”
The Indio nodded in understanding, then spasms shook him. When he had controlled the pain, he said, “I think I can trust you, amigo. You do not lie to me and tell me that I will be fine. Yes. I trust you.” He paused to gather more of his waning strength. After a moment, he went on. “I have a . . . a granddaughter. You must take the treasure to her. Tell her . . . tell her that her grandfather loved her.”
He lifted a bloody hand and clutched at Jackson’s arm. A film settled over his eyes, and Jackson realized that the old man could no longer see him. “I have a cabin . . . in the hills, by a creek not far from here. Look there . . . under the floor. I am a foolish old man.”
The fingers on Jackson’s arm clenched tighter.
“An old man . . . full of too much mescal . . . talking too much in a cantina . . . foolish, foolish old man . . .”
He sighed, and the sigh became a death rattle. The old eyes kept staring sightlessly into the high sky. The fingers fell away from Jackson’s arm.
Jackson stood up, took off his hat, wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Another delay. But then, he wasn’t really in a hurry. It wouldn’t take him long to find the old man’s cabin. The town could wait a few more hours. Once he had the treasure, whatever it was, surely someone could tell him where to find the granddaughter.
He didn’t have a shovel. The bodies would have to stay where they were for now. Jackson turned away and walked toward his horse. A tiny sound warned him.
He spun, the pistol leaping into his hand once more, and saw the youngest of the trio struggling to lift his fallen gun. The boy wasn’t dead after all. He had somehow found the strength to get his hand on the gun butt, but now the pistol was too heavy for him. The barrel shook, then tilted down and buried itself in the sand as the boy dropped the weapon.
He looked up at Jackson, the fiery pain inside him distending his eyes, and gasped, “Who . . . who the hell are you?”
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