by Ralph Cotton
But Summers’ warning came too late.
Already preparing to make a move on Little Ted, Ezra shouted as he slapped Ted’s Colt away and snatched his own from its holster. Collard jumped back, ready to make the same play. But dropping his Colt, Little Ted clamped his hand down over Ezra’s gun, hand and all, and did exactly what he’d practiced ever since Summers had shown him the flip.
The small ranch hand moved like a streak of lightning. Ezra let out a squall as he sailed high in a full circle and landed hard, flat on his back, his gun now in Little Ted’s hand. Collard, stunned, backed up a step, his hands springing back to chest high.
“I’m done!” Collard said quickly, seeing his brother writhing in pain on the ground.
“My arm’s broke!” Ezra groaned, clutching his shoulder in pain.
Little Ted gave Summers a sidelong grin.
“You’re lucky I didn’t break them both,” he said to Ezra. He asked Summers, “How was that, Will?” As he spoke he took a step back away from the gunmen and motioned for Collard to help his brother to his feet.
“Risky, that’s how it was,” said Summers. He considered it and added, “Otherwise, nicely done.” They both looked toward the hill trail as the wagon rolled into sight. “Keep an eye on those two while I attend to Rena.” He reached out and gently raised the corner of the bandage covering a nasty bullet graze on the side on her head.
“The collectors . . . Dallas Tate . . . they killed my papa,” Rena murmured. “Papa stabbed . . . one of them to death.”
“Take it easy, Rena,” Summers whispered. He could see she was fighting to remain conscious. He laid the bandage back into place on the side of her head. He pulled back another bloodstained bandage on her side where she’d been stabbed. “We’re going to get you to town, get you taken care of.”
• • •
When the wagon had rolled up and stopped, Bailey Swann stepped down and looked at Little Ted, who stood holding a gun on the Belltraes. Lonnie stepped down from the wagon and stood beside it. Little Ted motioned Bailey toward Summers and the wounded woman.
“It’s Rena, ma’am,” he said. “She’s taken a bullet graze to her head. It looks bad.”
“Oh no,” said Bailey. Her eyes went to the Belltraes as she turned to hurry to Rena’s side.
“It weren’t us who harmed her, ma’am,” Collard called out behind her.
“No, indeed,” Ezra called out, kneading his injured shoulder. “It was us who found her. Good thing we happened along. A head wound ain’t nothing to fool with. She’ll be an idiot from now on, she ain’t careful.”
At Rena’s side, Bailey kneeled beside Summers. Finding Rena had slipped into unconsciousness, she reached out to hold the woman to her. Summers stopped her.
“The less moving around, the better,” he said. “She’s been shot, stabbed, beaten pretty bad. She said they killed Bedos.”
“This poor darling,” Bailey said, almost sobbing. Then she caught herself. “Who did she mean, they?” She glared around at the Belltraes.
“She said Dallas Tate and some collectors,” said Summers. “She said Bedos stabbed one of them.”
“Oh, this poor, wonderful angel,” Bailey sobbed softly. “Of course we’re going to do everything we can to save her.” She saw the canteen lying beside Summers and snatched it up. She quickly untied her trail bandanna from around her throat and held it down to the uncapped canteen. She wet the bandanna and began wiping Rena’s bruised and battered face with it.
“Don’t you worry about anything, Rena, darling,” she said to the unconscious woman. “We’re going to take good care of you, see to it you have everything you need—”
“Ma’am,” Summers said, taking Bailey’s wrist, stopping her, “you can do that in the wagon as soon as we get it unloaded and get under way.”
Bailey stopped suddenly and gave him a stunned, bemused look.
“Unloaded? Under way?” she said, the wet bandanna in hand. “Will, what are you talking about?”
“We’ve got to get her to a doctor,” Summers said. “Head wounds are serious business.” He looked around at Lonnie and said, “Start unloading, Lonnie. We’re headed for Dark Horses.”
“Whoa, now!” said Ezra Belltrae, holding his injured shoulder. “You can’t be taking brother and me to Dark Horses. They’ll hang us sure as the world.”
“We’re not taking you anywhere, Ezra,” Summers said. “You two didn’t do this. She told me so.” He gestured at Rena.
Ezra gave Little Ted a hard stare.
“It’d been nice if she’d said something before this fool broke my arm,” he said.
“It’s not broken if you can round it,” Summers said. “Keep working it. The soreness will go away.” He said to Ted, “Unload their guns and let them go.” Ezra stood rounding his arm and flexing his sore shoulder.
“Will,” said Bailey in a lowered voice, “we can’t take her to Dark Horses. I’m taking this wagon back to the mines. I’m taking the rest of the gold to Don Manuel’s as quick as I can.”
Summers stared at her.
“She can die if she doesn’t get to a doctor,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Will,” Bailey said stiffly. “If you feel you must, you can take her to Dark Horses on horseback. This wagon is going back to the mines.”
“It could kill her traveling by horseback,” Summers said.
“Oh?” Bailey pointed out the roan standing nearby. “And how did she get here?”
“You want to take a chance on killing this woman, after all she and her father have done for you and your husband?”
“You don’t understand people like these, Will,” Bailey said. “She and her father are strong people—Guatemalans. Ansil made arrangements for them to be sent through the church, to be our servants. We’ve given them everything, work, a place to live.” She paused, then said, “My God, I am sorry for what’s happened to her and Bedos. But what about me? Don’t I deserve something? With all that gold I can bring many more servants like her here. That’s how we help these people—they become domestic servants. Clean her up, get her on a horse—”
“We’ll take her,” Collard Belltrae cut in. “We’ll see she gets looked after somewhere. That’s what we was discussing when you rode in on us.”
Summers looked back and forth from Bailey to the Belltraes as if seeing something of the same fabric in common between them.
“There, you see,” Bailey said, “the problem’s solved. They’ll take her and see she gets cared for. I’ll give her some money to get south back to her people—”
“I have . . . no people,” Rena murmured, drifting in and out of consciousness. “Only mi padre. . . .”
“All the more reason for me to give her some money,” Bailey cut in. “She won’t be able to work. She’ll need a way to live—”
“We’re going to Dark Horses,” Summers said with finality, cutting her off. He looked at the Belltraes. “Unless you’re going there with us, you’d best skin out of here.”
“We’re gone,” said Collard, taking his and Ezra’s unloaded guns as Little Ted held them out to him. “Last you saw of us, we were hanging on to a log floating down the Río Azul.”
“I’ve got it,” Summers said. “Now get out of here. You come back around me again, I’ll shoot you.”
The Belltraes looked surprised.
“Shoot us? Why?” said Collard, reaching for his horse’s reins.
“Because I just don’t like you,” Summers said flatly. He turned to Lonnie as the Belltraes hurriedly mounted and rode away. “Lonnie, you and Ted get the wagon unloaded, make room for her.” He gave a look toward the Belltraes riding out of sight. “We’ll hide the money at the hacienda on our way. Make sure those two horse thieves can’t get to it.” He gestured toward the Belltraes.
Lonnie started to make a move toward the rear
of the wagon.
“Stay where you are, Lonnie!” Bailey said, springing to her feet. “In case either of you has forgotten, you’re hired hands. You both work for me. Your jobs are to see to my husband’s and my interests and well-being.”
Lonnie and Ted looked at Summers, then back to Bailey.
“Ma’am,” Lonnie said, “this is the first I’ve heard your husband’s interest and well-being mentioned since we got here. You didn’t even ask if he’s still alive. If he’s alive when we get there, maybe we can keep him that way. We know he can’t lift a finger for himself.”
Bailey stared back and forth between the two ranch hands. “Well, I’m—I’m certain he is all right. That is, I mean—”
“Will,” said Lonnie, cutting Bailey off, “are we stopping by the ranch to see about Ansil? It’s right on our way.”
“You know we are, Lonnie,” Will said. “I figured that goes without saying.”
Bailey started to say more on the matter, but Lonnie gave her a firm stare.
“Ma’am, either get on your horse or get back in the wagon. We’re unloading here and headed for Dark Horses.”
Chapter 20
Rodney Gaines lay trembling on the ground, muttering incoherently on a pallet of blankets Rena had made for him beneath a cottonwood tree, after cleaning his wounds and patching his face together as best she could. Empty whiskey bottles lay strewn about the yard. Full bottles stood on the wooden table.
Dallas Tate lay with his face down on the wooden table beneath a gray cloud of flies. His shoulder wound had been dressed; his arm lay cradled in a sling Rena had made for him out of torn strips of bedsheet. Both wounded men had benefited from Ansil Swann’s office liquor cabinet. So had Gil Rizale.
Rizale sat on the ground, leaning against the cottonwood beside Gaines’ pallet, his bandanna tied around the graze on his right leg. A bottle of expensive bourbon stood between his thighs.
“Where’s . . . the woman?” he asked anybody listening. “I need this leg cleaned and bandaged.”
“She’s gone,” Tate said, raising his face a little, looking all around, then dropping his head with a thump. “She left yesterday sometime . . . I think,” he said, his voice muffled, speaking down into the tabletop. “You beat her up . . . He stabbed her while she tried to bandage him, remember?” He gestured at Gaines, who muttered and whined in pain.
“If I remembered . . . I wouldn’t have asked,” said Rizale.
“You shot at her some when she ran away,” Tate said. He raised his head and this time managed to hold it up. “It’s all been like a bad dream.”
“Where’s old man Swann?” Rizale asked.
“The woman carried him upstairs,” said Tate, “stuck him back in his chair. Cleaned him, fed him, threw a blanket over his shoulders. Then she lit out of here. I expect he’s still up there. He can’t go nowhere.”
“Why didn’t you try to stop her?” Rizale asked.
“Stop her?” Tate stared at him through red-rimmed eyes. He gestured at his bloody shoulder bandage.
Rizale shook his head. He stuck the bottle inside his shirt and pushed himself up the cottonwood tree with his palms. He staggered there for a moment.
“That old turd knows his whiskey,” he said with a groan. “I’ll give him that.” He looked down at Gaines, who lay shuddering, muttering and reaching his trembling hands around aimlessly above his bloody chest. His face was a thick bundle of bloody bandages. Dark blood covered the pallet beneath his head. A large part of his eye lay a few feet away, dark and dried in the overnight air, like some withering grape.
“He had a terrible night,” Tate said, “calling out to his ma, his pa, crying, screaming under his breath. That Mexican sliced him up like a Mississippi watermelon.”
“He ain’t going to live,” said Rizale. He paused for a moment looking down at Gaines, then said to him, “Hear me, Rodney? I told Tate here you ain’t going to live.”
Gaines rocked his head back and forth, muttering, whining, his senses gone, given over to pain. Whiskey vomit showed through the bandaging covering his sliced lips.
“To hell with this,” said Rizale. He raised his short-barreled Colt from its holster, cocked it and fired a bullet down between Gaines’ eyes. Gaines’ body bucked once, then seemed to melt inside.
“Jesus!” said Tate, jumping at the sudden break of silence in the big side yard.
“I don’t want to hear nothing about this,” Rizale warned. “He’d’ve done the same for me.”
“I know it, the poor sumbitch,” said Tate. “He carried on all night.”
“I should have shot him sooner,” said Rizale, with a look of regret. “But better late than never, I expect.” He lowered his Colt into its holster. “Things sure went bad here in a hurry,” he added, looking all around, at Bedos’ body, at Gaines.
Tate pushed himself up from the table with one hand, his wounded shoulder throbbing in pain.
“What now?” he said. “There’s nobody left here to clean this mess up.”
Rizale looked around again, kicked an empty blood-splattered bottle away and gave a dark grin.
“What mess?” he said. On the cold chimenea grill a large sand rat sat chewing on leftover beef. “Let’s get our horses and clear out of here.” He picked up a blood-splattered bottle and hurled it at the rat. The bottle crashed on the chimenea. The rat screeched and vanished off the stone edge, its tail whipping the air behind it.
Tate stood staring after the rat, blurry-eyed. So did Rizale.
“Dad Crayley’s going to want to hear about this place being picked over, missing furniture and all,” said Rizale. “Another few days it’ll be an empty hull sitting here.”
“What about him up there?” Tate asked, nodding toward the upper floor of the hacienda.
“What about him, son?” said Rizale. “I didn’t take him to raise, did you?”
“No.” Tate shrugged his good shoulder. “It’s just, having worked for him and all . . .” His words trailed.
Rizale chuckled.
“Son, wake up,” he said. “You were stiff-legging the man’s wife. What do you think he’d do to you if he could?” He spread his thick hands.
“I hate leaving anybody in that shape,” said Tate. “How long before the rats and coyotes get in, start chewing on him?”
“I left that cocked Colt lying in reach,” said Rizale. “That’s all he gets from me.” He stepped over and grabbed two more whiskey bottles by their necks.
“The gun won’t fire— it’s froze up,” said Tate. “Anyways, I don’t think he’s able to move a muscle.”
“There’re two things he’ll need to work on, moving a muscle and firing a gun,” said Rizale, swinging the bottles up under his arm and reaching for two more. “Are you riding with me, or what?”
Rizale limped on his bullet-grazed leg to where the horses had stood at a hitch rail all night. Dallas Tate quickly stuffed two full bottles into the sling around his arm. He looked over at the upstairs windows of the hacienda. What the hell? Then he grabbed a third bottle and hurried along behind him.
• • •
Summers had heard the shot echoing out from the direction of the Swann hacienda. But it was another two hours’ ride before he and Little Ted Ford stopped their horses and looked out at the hacienda from the low rise. They saw afternoon sunlight glisten off the empty whiskey bottles lying strewn about. They saw buzzards overhead, circling low—never a good sign. A coyote who’d given up the shelter of his den in the glaring light of day sat staring at something lying under the cottonwood tree.
“Easy-like, Ted,” Summers cautioned. “You wait here till I wave you in. I need you to wave in the wagon.”
“All right, if you say so,” Ted said with reluctance, “but you watch your backside. I’m going to keep you beaded.” He drew his Winchester from its boot, checked it and
held it ready across his chest with both hands.
“Obliged,” Summers said. He nodded and put his dapple gray forward at an easy gallop, his rifle in hand. When he got close enough to see the two bodies lying on the ground, he slowed the gray a little and kept an eye on the gun ports on the hacienda’s second floor. Ten yards from the cottonwood, he stopped his horse, stepped down from his saddle and slipped his Winchester into its boot. He drew his Colt and walked forward, leading the gray by its reins.
A buzzard standing on the wooden table lifted on its thrashing wings and batted away into the sky. Summers stopped again when he stood over Rodney Gaines’ body on the dark bloody pallet of blankets. He looked at the thick bandages covering Gaines’ mangled face, the bullet hole between his eyes, the dried, shriveled half of an eye lying in the dirt. He winced and looked at Bedos Reyes’ body, lying where Rizale’s bullet had left him, hands still tied together at the wrists. Flies circled the blackened blood on the old houseman’s face. Summers fanned away the flies and stooped and closed Bedos’ eyes.
He walked through strewn whiskey bottles, dried blood, bits of bone and brain matter to the hacienda. Inside the front door, his eyes searched upward along the stairs, the upper landing. Then, climbing the stairs, he walked down the hallway and through the open doorway into Ansil Swann’s office. In his wheelchair behind his wide desk, Ansil Swann sat slumped, staring lifeless at him through blank unblinking eyes. Chafe from dried streams of tears stained the old man cheeks. A fly stood on his nose.
My God. . . .
Summers walked past the desk and fanned the fly away on his way to the windows. He opened the shutters, let fresh air into the baking-hot room and leaned half out the window and waved at Little Ted.
Seeing Summers’ signal, Little Ted turned in his saddle and waved the wagon forward. Summers went downstairs and met the wagon as it rolled into the side yard. Lonnie stopped ten yards back from the cottonwood tree.
“My goodness,” Lonnie said as if in awe, stepping down from the wagon seat and looking around the yard. Little Ted, down from his saddle, helped Bailey climb down from the wagon seat. The three stood beside Summers for a moment looking at the dead, the strewn bottles, the buzzards flying low overhead.