They’d ridden off the edge of the map the moment they’d set out; by now they could have ridden off the edge of the world, or wakened this morning to discover they were on another planet, given the alienness of the land around them.
But by now no one gave so much as a thought to the forces of nature that had etched the broken land into fangs of upthrust rock, or gouged it into deep, twisting arroyos and canyons. Every one of them was too preoccupied with memories of last night, with keeping on the trail of the demon, or simply making certain their horses didn’t pull up lame or thrown a shoe on the stony, treacherous ground.
Jake rode alone again, keeping watch from the canyon’s rim, staying away from the others, who followed Nat’s tracking along the base of the canyon wall. The demon was clinging to the shade of any sheltering rocks or low ground it could find; and most of the hunters following it were glad enough to stay out of the sun when they could.
Jake preferred the solitary position, even if it gave him no relief from the heat. He wasn’t sure, after last night, whether he still kept to the high ground because it kept him away from the others, or because it let him see more of what lay ahead. It felt familiar to him, which in a way was a comfort, and reason enough, given the mood he was in today.
After a few hours, he became aware that he was not the only rider who preferred the high ground. Searching the far rim of the canyon, he suddenly noticed three men . . . three Apaches . . . on horseback, holding the same pace, observing the progress of the group below . . . and no doubt him, too.
This had all been Apache land once; they preferred the mountains, but they knew the desert too, and how to live off it. They’d had the place all to themselves, until settlers from Mexico, and then the States, had come and tried to take it away from them, mainly because even this godforsaken ground had enough gold in it to make it worth their while.
In the end, the big bugs in Washington had had their way—they’d had the money, the guns and ammunition, plenty of time, and all the patience in the world, as long as other people were doing the fighting and dying for them.
The United States had taken this territory and the states around it in the war with Mexico, finishing off that deal with a hefty bribe called the Gadsden Purchase. Then they’d focused their attention on finishing the dirty business of wiping out the Apaches.
Now most Apaches in this part of the territories were on reservations, or they were dead—except for a few renegades like these, who were still too angry to give in and too savvy to get caught . . . still wanted, dead or alive.
The U.S. government claimed its victories were “Manifest Destiny”—that God loved the United States so much He’d wanted its people to go on killing Indians and Mexicans until they got richer than anybody else.
Jake wondered who’d first scooped them into that pile of horseshit. Not that most people really needed convincing . . . just good excuses, when the only word they actually understood was “rich.”
Nobody ever really owned the land, Jake thought, any more than they ever really had claim to another person’s soul. . . . But he knew that was just his opinion, and for any person he could find who’d agree with him, there were a hundred others waiting to hang him for it, right now. The whole damned United States had nearly killed itself over the right to own someone else’s life, back in the War.
And now demons were trying to claim this piece of Hell. It made as much sense to him as anything else. Maybe more.
Life wasn’t one damn thing after another . . . it was one damn thing over and over. He wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, glancing across at the Apaches again as he did.
Right now he felt like he had more in common with them than he did with his own people. But that didn’t mean the Apaches wouldn’t kill him just as dead—and everyone with him—if they got the chance. And it would likely take a lot longer, and be a lot more painful, than a bullet or a noose.
At last Jake saw the end of the canyon up ahead. He took a drink from his canteen, shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, and scanned the lay of the land beyond the canyon’s mouth. Then he turned his horse’s head, as if he’d simply spotted a place where he could get down off the rim, and went to tell the others the news.
DOWN BELOW, NAT called out to Dolarhyde, “I got him.” The terrain had grown so rocky by the time they’d entered this canyon that they’d been going partly on guesswork, following the demon’s general direction of travel.
Dolarhyde rode up to the spot where Nat had dismounted and was crouched down beside an imprint in a spot of sand. “Tracks are getting closer together. He’s slowing down and heading for that canyon.” Nat pointed across the rock-strewn plain ahead of them toward a gap in the wall of the mesa on the other side.
The plain in between was only the floor of a larger canyon . . . one of dozens, or more likely hundreds, that had carved the tablelands around them into a patternless maze. This small canyon, and the one waiting for them—and hundreds on hundreds of others—fed into the larger ones like funnels, waiting to draw the unwary into a labyrinth most travelers probably never get out of alive. “Good job,” Dolarhyde said, relief easing his face just a little. “I thought we lost him.”
Nat straightened up from his crouch. Out of habit his eyes scanned the heights around them; he spotted Jake riding down from the canyon rim . . . and the three warriors who had stopped their horses on the other side, waiting and watching. Nat murmured one more word. “Apache.”
Dolarhyde gave him a brief nod. “I know. Been back there a while.” He glanced out across the plain again, at the place they were headed for now. “They won’t follow us into that canyon.” It had once been a favorite trick of the Apaches to lure cavalry or troops into a canyon, using two or three of their own, on fast horses, for bait. They’d trap the poor fools in a crossfire and pick off every last man, if they could.
The army he had once belonged to hadn’t been fighting Apaches for very long before the scouts, and even any officer who didn’t have shit for brains, learned that trick, and then began to turn the tables on the Apaches. The Apaches didn’t like that any more than the troops had; and Apaches caught on real fast. “Best not to mention it to the others,” he said.
Nat nodded in silent agreement and remounted his horse, just as Ella rode forward to join them.
“I think we’re being followed.” Her voice was quiet and calm; she didn’t glance back at the rest of the party.
Dolarhyde’s frown deepened. He wondered again who this strange woman was, where she’d come from . . . how she seemed to know everything, and why she intruded on his personal territory in a way no sane man had ever dared to do. Most of all, he wondered why he didn’t have the nerve to ask her for the answers. . . . He only said, sourly, “We know.”
Jake reached the spot where the three of them sat on their horses, as the rest of the group began to catch up, ready to ride across the open plain. “Apaches,” he said. “Best bet is that canyon.” He pointed toward the exact place where Dolarhyde intended to go.
“What the hell do you know?” Dolarhyde dug in his spurs, riding on ahead as if Jake had deliberately insulted him.
Jake glared at his retreating back, wondering what the hell had put a burr under the old rip’s saddle this time.
Ella moved into his line of sight and gave him a brief smile of pained empathy, and suddenly he thought he understood.
He looked back as the rest of the group caught up, not saying anything to anyone as he stole a last glance at the canyon’s rim, where the three Apaches had stopped their horses.
11
The canyon on the far side of the plain was a box canyon, just like Jake had figured, seeing it from a height. He could see clear to the end of it from the entrance. He didn’t see any obvious demons’ nest, and they’d be safe enough from the Apaches.
He told himself there was nothing to worry about—at least until they found the demons. After spending much of last night thinking about what had happened to Meach
am, and almost had happened to the kid, he figured the people the demons had taken were likely dead by now. Being realistic, he figured the demons would probably kill him, and everyone with him, too.
If that didn’t bother the others, it didn’t bother him. From everything he’d heard, he should have been dead a long time ago . . . at least, long before he’d left Alice to demons. If the others had come here wanting justice but willing to settle for revenge, then they must all have come to the same decision, no matter how they’d arrived at it. All he wanted now was a chance to send a few demons back to Hell personally, before he died—just to let the Devil know he was coming.
But a box canyon was a box canyon: a natural trap. He felt the odd prickling run up his spine, the sixth sense that kept telling him things he didn’t want to hear. The fact that Dolarhyde kept searching the canyon rim just as intently as he was only increased his bad feeling.
Nat dismounted again, kneeling down by another demon track. “That way.” He began to raise his arm.
Rifle shots echoed from the canyon walls; bullets fired from above pocked the ground all around them. The horses spooked, and so did most of the riders who suddenly were trying to control them; a couple had to pull leather just to keep from falling off.
Jake looked up at the men with rifles trained on them, who’d appeared out of nowhere to pin them in a perfect crossfire. Not Apaches. And there was only one other thing men like these could be.
One of the men up above shouted, “Hands in the air!”
Shit, Jake thought, slowly raising his hands with the rest.
Two riders were entering the canyon mouth now, holding their rifles trained on the group. The perfect trap. Jake stared at the two men riding toward him. One of them was Mexican, the other Anglo, both as hard-looking as the land itself.
His own expression felt stuck somewhere between frustration and disgust . . . disgust at himself, for not trusting his instincts; frustration because they’d been so close to finding the demons—
The two outlaws reined in, sizing up their catch. The Mexican said, “I say we just shoot ‘em, and take their—” He broke off as he met Jake’s stare. “Boss?” he said, incredulous.
Jake realized that both men were staring straight at him. They lowered their guns, their hostility turning to complete surprise. The Mexican who’d called him “boss” actually dismounted, looking nervous.
“What the hell you doin’ back here, Lonergan?” the other man said. He stayed on his horse, only looking suspicious as he started toward Jake.
“Jesus, boss, Dolan’s gonna shit when he sees you,” the Mexican said. Looking past Jake at Dolarhyde and the rest, he added, “And who the hell are they?”
Now everybody was staring at him. Oh, Christ. . . . He could swear he’d never seen either of these men before, let alone been their leader. He had no idea what their names were. But they sure knew him: Jake Lonergan—the Scourge of the Territories.
The man still on his horse rode up alongside Jake, looking even more suspicious when Jake didn’t say anything. “What’s the matter, Lonergan? Cat got your—?”
Jake dropped his hands and smacked the man across the mouth, as hard as he could, knocking the words back down his throat. “Shut up!” he snarled, because it felt right. If Jake Lonergan was wanted, dead or alive, then nobody from his gang—nobody at all—talked to him like that. He was off the map for good, now. His instincts were all he had left to follow.
Now Ella and the others were staring at him. Dolarhyde looked at him with more disbelief than anyone; his eyes held a question that demanded an answer, one Jake couldn’t give him out loud.
Jake gave him an urgent look, willing him to understand: Just go with it. He glanced back at the outlaws who’d confronted them. They were both looking at him like he was the Jake Lonergan they remembered, now. The man on the horse beside him mumbled, “Christ, Jake . . . you broke my tooth.” He put a hand over his bleeding mouth.
“Then keep your mouth shut,” Jake said. “How many boys we got left?”
“’Bout the same.” The man shrugged.
Jake glanced at the sky, at the men still covering them from the ridge. “Still about, uh . . .”
“Thirty,” the man said.
“That’s right. Thirty. Good.” Jake ransacked his empty brain for more questions, stalling for time and information. “Where’s my stuff?”
The two men traded confused looks. “You took it with you,” the man he’d smacked in the mouth mumbled.
Oh. “Damn right I did.” Jake frowned at one and then the other. “Bring me to the camp. Time to get things straight.”
The two men nodded, and the Mexican mounted up again. “Lonergan’s back!” he shouted to the men on the cliffs. “Meet us at the camp!” The bushwhackers disappeared, as quickly as they’d showed. The two outlaws in the canyon rode off toward its mouth without looking back.
“This is your gang?” Dolarhyde finally asked, as if he had to confirm what he’d seen with his own eyes.
“So it seems,” Jake said.
Doc leaned forward in his saddle, with a look that made Jake think of a possum trying to pass for a coyote. Jake swallowed a laugh, keeping a straight face as Doc muttered, “Listen, these guys look a bit lonely to me. I think it’s time to call it a noche.”
Jake glanced at Ella, back at Doc as he realized Doc was more likely thinking about death than dishonor.
But it was his gang. “We need every gun we can get,” he said. He spurred his horse and rode away, leaving the rest of them to follow him, whether they liked it or not.
BACK IN CAMP, the rest of Jake’s gang were getting ready to ride out, moving in and out of tents, rummaging in piles of boxes for supplies. Horses were being saddled, weapons from their full stockpile chosen, checked, loaded. Men filled gun belts with cartridges, and canteens with water from the seepage-fed pool at the foot of the canyon wall. A few rounds of extra ammunition for shotguns and rifles went into their saddlebags, or bandoliers.
Pat Dolan slung a rifle at his back, and turned impatiently to check on the progress of the others. “The coach is on its way and we best be sober for it.” He strode through the camp, making sure everybody was prepared, and nobody who was riding out with him smelled too much like alcohol.
He paused by the man they all called Red, even though the color of his grizzled hair and beard was halfway to a memory at this point. Red had been a miner once, before most of the mines in the area had gone bust; he sat now on a crate of dynamite, surrounded by more of the same, as he rummaged in a barrel of rocks that gleamed with streaks of gold. “How’s the haul, Red?”
“Gold from the Vulture Mine looks pretty rich.” Red held out a chunk for his inspection.
Dolan nodded, glad to hear it, even though “rich” wasn’t what it used to be. They’d had a long ride just to reach two mines that weren’t played out or abandoned. It was the dynamite they’d been after; but the gold ore hadn’t hurt anybody’s morale. “How much dynamite we get?”
“ ’Bout fifty sticks.” Red nodded at the crates.
Dolan figured that should be more than enough to drop a good-sized rockslide in front of the overland mail coach, and blow open an ironbound Wells Fargo treasure box, if they had to . . . enough for two or three jobs, in fact. With this much dynamite, they could waylay a train, if the boys were of a mind to travel as far as the railroad line.
Times were hard; it might be worth the hard traveling. There wasn’t a bank in Absolution with a vault worth robbing, anymore. The only man in the area who still had enough money to put in a bank was Woodrow Dolarhyde, the owner of the only real ranch for a hundred miles. And he’d put all his money on the bullion coach, the one they’d robbed about a month ago . . . right before Jake up and left, taking most of Dolarhyde’s gold with him, that no-good bastard.
Dolan glanced up the hill toward the only point of entry into their well-hidden camp, searching again for the men who’d gone to check out some strangers passing throu
gh. He wondered what in hell was taking them so—
“Dolan!”
He looked up again as he heard a familiar voice call out his name, and started toward the crest of the hill, where Bronc and Hunt were just now riding through the gap in an outcrop of sandstone so weathered it looked like bad teeth.
“’Bout time you got back!” Dolan said angrily. He saw blood and a bruise on Hunt’s face. “What the hell happened to you—?”
Hunt nodded over his shoulder. “He did.”
The rest of the gang behind him parted ranks, letting Jake Lonergan ride through. Dolan stared. He’d never expected to see Lonergan again, if they both lived as long as Methuselah. And following behind Jake was the damnedest ragtag bunch of. . . . What the hell was that—his entire bloody clan?
Dolan put his hands on his hips, near his gun belt, as he took it all in. “Well, shit,” he said, an opinion that could’ve been an observation.
THE ENTIRE CAMP had fallen quiet around Dolan, every man in it staring at Jake.
Jake’s eyes ran the gauntlet of accusing stares, realizing that the reaction to his return wasn’t exactly the welcome he’d expected. At least the people with him kept their mouths shut; even Dolarhyde was smart enough for that.
Jake knew he’d heard Dolan’s name before today—which meant either yesterday or the day before. He looked hard at Dolan, a black-haired Irishman in a derby that had seen better days. Dolan didn’t look any more familiar than any of the others. But beside Dolan was a bearded man who stood nearly seven feet tall.
Suddenly Jake heard Taggart’s voice in his mind, reading off the charges from his wanted poster. . . . There’d been two other names: Pat Dolan, and Bull McCade. The poster said they’d robbed the bullion coach with Jake Lonergan just last month.
He still couldn’t recall a damn thing about robbing a coach. But face to face with his own gang, the circumstantial evidence had finally got so deep he had to admit he was up to his neck in it, or drown: He was Jake Lonergan . . . and now he was going to have to live up to his reputation.
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