The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Leah’s face stiffened. Had she come to beg?

  The smile on Melissa’s face was sad. “I know I’ve lost him. I didn’t come with any false hopes. But if you would only talk to me…”

  Leah said, “Certainly,” and stretched out her hand to her. She thought she understood this now, and her sympathy ran deep. She had seen men tear at their wounds, even though it increased their agony. The second pain was an antidote for the first.

  She fell into step with Melissa, and she wanted to put her arms about her.

  * * * *

  Sepúlveda said in a hushed voice, “So long we have waited. They are not coming.” The trees cast evil shadows, hiding many things that could happen to a man. This was not good. Why had he said he would help Jarmon in this?

  Jarmon growled, “Shut up.” His nerves were on edge. This silence was too much. It smothered a man until he wanted to scream against it… Jarmon stifled the impulse to glance behind him. He took a long pull at the bottle. He knew there was no one there. Hadn’t he looked all the way from town? But the feeling of eyes watching him persisted. He swore thickly and drank again. He would be glad when this night was over. When Leah came, he would take her to Sepúlveda’s shed. Then in the morning they would be gone. His eyes glittered at the thought of the night before him, and his breath was hot and sticky in his throat.

  Sepúlveda hissed, “Someone comes.” His hand was tense on Jarmon’s arm. “It is women. Two of them.”

  Jarmon’s sigh was long and relieved. Everything was going as planned. A man worried unnecessarily.

  He said, “Remember. Grab her feet. I’ll grab her head. No noise. We’re too damned close.”

  Sepúlveda said, “Sí,” in a weak voice. They were too close to too many things. He shrank into the shadows.

  * * * *

  Leah asked uneasily, “Hadn’t we better turn back?” They were quite a distance from camp, and Nelson would not like her leaving it.

  Melissa said, “Just to those trees. Then we’ll turn back. I’ve been so lonely.”

  Leah said, “Yes, Melissa,” and moved toward the trees. The night was thick. The blackness seemed to be intensified under the trees. She wished she were wise, she wished the right words would come to her tongue.

  She said, “Melissa,” and stopped as she heard the rustle behind her. She had no time to identify the sound before a vile-smelling hand was clamped over her mouth. Other hands seized her ankles and swept her off her feet. She tried to bite the hand over her mouth, but it was too tightly pressed for her teeth to find a purchase. Fear lashed her like a whip, and she twisted and arched her body. A hand pressed against her throat, and a voice growled in her ear, “Be quiet.”

  The horrible pressure shut off her breathing. The black of the night changed to a virulent red. Her lungs burned, and it was not possible for her head to contain the roaring inside it.

  The pressure eased, and the voice said, “Next time it’ll be worse.”

  She greedily sucked in air, and the sob welling up into her throat choked her.

  Another voice said, “We can’t stay here.”

  She was being carried, and she did not know where. She could not see her captors other than as huge, bulking shadows. Fear was strangling her almost as badly as the hand had done.

  “Hold it a minute,” the first voice said.

  She was set on her feet, but the hands never released her. She recognized Jarmon then, and fear melted her bones. She wanted to scream, she tried to scream, and her tongue was thick and paralyzed, filling a dry mouth.

  Her lips parted, but before sound could come out, a wadded-up handkerchief was thrust into her mouth. She put all of her strength into one convulsive effort, trying to jerk away, and a brutal slap rocked her head back and brought stinging tears into her eyes. She moaned against the gag and had it partially worked out with her tongue when Jarmon roughly shoved it back.

  “You’ll get more of that, too,” he promised. He placed another twisted handkerchief over her lips and knotted it behind her head. He jerked her hands behind her and bound them, then stooped and hoisted her on his shoulder. Her senses were fading, and she hung like a sack of grain. She did not know the man who trotted beside Jarmon. Nelson! Nelson! Over and over she screamed the name silently. The terror was too much. It was bringing with it a wave of blackness. It washed swiftly over her, blotting out everything.

  * * * *

  Neither Jarmon nor Sepúlveda saw the fat, dumpy figure come cautiously out from under the shadows of the trees. Goedeke grinned with wicked delight as he watched Melissa slip away. So that was what she was up to. O’Shaughnessy would be a maniac when he learned this woman was gone. He would pay someone for her return. Goedeke’s eyes gleamed. Yes, he would pay someone. He followed the hurrying figures ahead of him, keeping a good distance behind. All he needed to do was to keep them in sight.

  * * * *

  Nelson’s voice was frantic as he asked, “But where would she be, Chauncey? I’ve been all over the camp asking about her. No one saw her leave.”

  Stevens said, “I wouldn’t know.”

  Nelson scowled at the lack of feeling in Stevens’ voice. It was always like this whenever Leah’s name was mentioned.

  “I told her never to leave the enclosure at night.” He beat a fist into his palm.

  “Maybe she went to the office.”

  Nelson muttered, “Maybe.” But why? He could think of no reason, but he had to look someplace.

  “Need me?”

  Nelson shook his head. He needed someone sympathetic, not this man, his face and body stiff with disapproval.

  He hurried toward town, his thoughts poking into dark crevices, then pulling back with horror. Panic was uncalled for at the moment. He would look for her at the office, and if she was not there, then he would search a few other places she might visit. If he did not find her, then it would be time to turn out the camp. Then it would be time to tear down this dirty, stinking town, building by building.

  She was not in the office. The building was deserted and dark. He came outside, the sickening hollow in his stomach growing. He glanced up and down the street. Which way, which way? He had the feeling of time running against him in a strong tide, and he wanted to yell with his wish to hold it back.

  A figure came out of the night and almost brushed against him before he recognized Goedeke.

  Goedeke purred, “Nelson. Good. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Nelson knocked down the hand stretched to detain him. He had neither the inclination nor the time to talk to him.

  Goedeke’s eyes became malicious. “Go on, worry,” he said spitefully. “When you’ve worried enough, maybe you’ll have time to talk to me.”

  Nelson whirled, his eyes alert. He caught Goedeke’s coat lapels and jerked him to him. “What are you talking about, Forrest?”

  Goedeke tried to pull away. “I wasn’t talking about anything, Nelson,” he whined. “I just made a remark. I was just mad at you.” He swallowed and said, “I guessed you were worried. Your face shows—”

  Nelson said in a dispassionate voice, “It’s too dark to see a face clearly. I can hardly see yours. Yet you see worry on mine. You know something about Leah, Forrest. What is it?” He twisted Goedeke’s coat until it cut into his throat.

  “Nelson, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he wheezed. His hands pawed futilely at Nelson’s wrist.

  Nelson cuffed him across the face, a hard, deliberate slap.

  “Don’t,” Goedeke squalled, trying to raise his arms before his face to ward off another blow.

  “I’ll slap you to death, Forrest,” Nelson promised. The lack of emotion in his tone made the words more frightening, more deadly.

  The hand raised again, and Goedeke said with frantic haste, “Jarmon and Sepúlveda took her.”

  “Where did they take her?” Nelson could not keep the trembling out of his voice.

  “I saw them carry her into the shed at the edge of town
where Sepúlveda lives.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  “I—I don’t think so, Nelson. I’m sure she wasn’t.”

  Nelson shoved him from him, shoved him so hard that Goedeke fell. “If she’s not there, Forrest, I’m coming back to find you. I’m coming back and ask how it is that you know so much about it.”

  Nelson’s stride took him quickly to the shed. Some sort of sacking was nailed over the window, but he could see the faint glow of light coming through the material. Someone was in there. He moved with stealthy steps to the door. He drew a deep breath as he reached for the latch. If the door was locked, he would tear it off its hinges.

  * * * *

  Sepúlveda watched Jarmon with wide-eyed apprehension. The man had done nothing but drink since they entered the shed. His head must be very heavy, the way it kept lolling forward on his chest.

  He looked at the corner where Jarmon had thrown the girl. Her hands were tied, and the gag was still in her mouth. In the fall her dress had ridden up, exposing an expanse of white thigh. She had tried to rearrange her skirts, but with her bound hands had found it impossible. Her eyes were big and shadowed with fear.

  Sepúlveda found no delight in the sight of that white flesh. A man could find many such sights, and without the danger this involved.

  He said, “I will get the horses now, no?”

  Jarmon waved an expansive hand. “Sit down, José, ole hoss. Couldn’t have done it without you. Have a drink on me.” He splashed a glass half full and shoved it toward Sepúlveda.

  Sepúlveda accepted the glass with bitter resignation. For over an hour Jarmon had been treating him with José Sepúlveda’s whisky. He did not want this liquor. He only wanted Jarmon and this woman out of here.

  Jarmon leered in Leah’s direction. Fifty, a hundred times his eyes had devoured her. “Ain’t she a tasty morsel, José? And it’s all mine.” He scowled at Sepúlveda’s lack of enthusiasm. “What are you sweating about?” he growled. “No one saw us. We kept to the shadows and the alleys.”

  Sepúlveda sighed. He hoped Jarmon was right. Still, the funny feeling would not go away. The night was very black. No one knew how many eyes it hid.

  His eyes went wide with horror. The door was exploding in his face. He had time to jump to his feet before the crazy American reached him. He had time to see the madness in the eyes, eyes that kept getting bigger and wilder. Then the fist crashed against his jaw, and he thought the top of his head was coming off. The blow flung him against a wall, and his head rapped against it. He did not feel the second pain in the magnitude of the first. He wanted to scream out against the battering hurt of it, and his tongue would not move. His bones had turned to water; not even a single finger could he lift. The redness was everywhere, a dripping, swirling redness. Madre de Dios, make the pain go away from my head….

  * * * *

  Nelson reached Jarmon as the man was bending forward, trying to come out of his chair. Those bulging eyes and slack lips were his target, and he kicked the toe of his boot into them.

  Jarmon’s cry was strangled by the rush of blood into his mouth. The force of the kick slammed him and the chair over backward, and even as he fell he clawed at his ruined face, trying to restore sight to his eyes.

  Nelson dived on top of him. He did not feel the few feeble blows Jarmon threw at him, he did not feel his hands become slippery and wet with blood.

  How long he tore and beat at Jarmon after he was unmoving he did not know. Consciousness finally penetrated the red haze that filled his head, and he realized that this bulk beneath him would never bother anyone again. He looked at his hands, and they were red and trembling. He shuddered and wiped them on Jarmon’s undershirt, then put his palms against Jarmon’s chest and pushed to his feet. He stood on widely braced legs, and he breathed with the racking sound of a man who has been running too long.

  He looked at Leah and stumbled toward her. “Leah,” he said brokenly, and dropped to his knees beside her. His fingers fumbled long with the knots before he could untie her and remove the handkerchief from her mouth. He stood up and lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She clung to him, her crying shaking her body. “It was awful, Nelson,” she finally managed to say.

  He thought she referred to Jarmon’s death, and he said in an unsteady voice, “I only wanted to kill him. I could think of nothing else.”

  She shook her head, dismissing Jarmon. “No. It was the things he said to me. The way he looked at me. Oh, Nelson, take me out of here.”

  One arm went behind her knees, and he lifted her. He held her tight against his chest, and the security of his nearness started her tears again.

  He said, “This one is still alive.”

  She lifted her head and saw Sepúlveda, lying in the corner. The man’s lips moved in soundless appeal.

  She saw the terrible intention in Nelson’s face, and her fingers bit into his neck. “Nelson,” she said faintly, “I couldn’t stand any more tonight.”

  He strode toward the door, and his voice was harsh with prophecy. “I’m coming back in the morning and run Payne and all his kind out. I’ve waited too long.” He moved out into the night, his arms tight about her.

  * * * *

  Sepúlveda lifted his head when the last echo of the steps was gone. He cried out at the pain the effort cost him. He staggered to the door and gulped in air. He had to get away from this place. Eyes could not look upon much more of the things he had seen tonight.

  He went down the street at a staggering run, and terror lent him strength. The American could come back after he put her down. He could come back and find José Sepúlveda.

  He hammered on the door of the cabin that had once been his, then without waiting for an answer threw open the door. He slobbered sounds of relief as he saw Payne and Tribble. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, shutting out what walked in the night.

  Payne looked at the swollen face and said, “What horse kicked you?”

  Tribble grinned with open enjoyment.

  “No horse,” Sepúlveda gasped. “It was that devil O’Shaughnessy.”

  Payne moved to him and clutched his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  “He came after her. Like an animal, he tore out Jarmon’s throat. I watched it all.”

  Payne’s fingers bit deeper, and Sepúlveda tried to pull away from this new hurt. These were crazy eyes, too.

  “Did Jarmon try to take Leah?” Payne snarled.

  Sepúlveda violently bobbed his head. The rage in those eyes was directed at Jarmon, not at him. “He made me help him. I did not want to go. Then O’Shaughnessy burst in and killed him. He would have killed me, too. If I had not pretended unconsciousness, he would have killed me.”

  “What else?” Payne’s voice softened. It was almost friendly, and Sepúlveda found courage in the tone.

  “He carried her out. I heard him say that in the morning he would return and drive all of us out.” Sepúlveda’s voice was awed. “He was very crazy. I think he meant it.”

  “Goddamn it!” Payne raged. His fingers opened, and Sepúlveda shrank from him. But it was not at him that Payne’s fury was directed, and he thanked the saints for that.

  “I think he will come,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Payne’s voice was gentle. “So you think he will come, José. Yes, I think he will come, too. Jarmon forced him into action we’re not ready for. You didn’t come to me, José. You helped Jarmon instead.”

  “But, señor—” Sepúlveda started to protest. His eyes went round in terror at the flashing movement of Payne’s hand. He had time for the beginning of a shriek before the knife was driven home under his breastbone. The terror in the shriek changed to agony, and as he fell his hands closed around the haft of the knife, trying to pluck out the great tooth that gnawed at his vitals. His body arched in convulsion after convulsion, and his heels drummed against the floor. Against the ringing in his ears he heard Payne’
s voice say:

  “He was no good to us any more. Get word to all the boys in town. Tell them to get out. We’re not ready for an open fight yet. Meet me in that ravine, twenty miles south of here.”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “Saucedo sure isn’t going to like O’Shaughnessy killing one of his people like that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nelson gazed soberly at the forty mounted and armed men. It was a grave responsibility, unleashing these men, and some of those saddles would be empty by dark.

  The women knew it. They were gathered in a group off to one side, their faces taut and white. They felt it, Nelson thought, and their suffering would be the hardest, for it was the suffering of waiting without the release of violent action.

  Stevens shifted impatiently in his saddle and said, “When do we start?”

  “I’m waiting for Conger and Brenner to come back,” Nelson replied. “I’d like to get a general idea of what we’re going up against.” He lifted his head and said, “They’re coming now.”

  He frowned at their leisurely approach. How long did they think he could hold fifty men? He watched them as they dismounted. If they had found anything alarming in town, it did not show on their faces.

  “Hell,” Conger said as he came to Nelson. “The town’s empty.”

  Brenner nodded assent. “The rough ones have cleared out, Nelson. The few remaining were on the fence. Now they’ve decided they’d better stick with you.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “No one knows,” Brenner drawled. “People told me horsemen kept riding out all night. They’ve sure skedaddled, all right.”

  Nelson said, “They’ll gather someplace. But how did they know?”

  Conger said, “We found Sepúlveda dead in his old cabin. Knifed. Maybe he warned Payne before he died.”

  That was the answer. It had to be. Sepúlveda had heard Nelson’s threat last night and had warned Payne. Nelson spent little time wondering why the man had been killed. His thoughts went back to Payne. The man’s forces had not been destroyed, only scattered. They would regroup and wait for a favorable time for their strike. Nelson did not intend to give them that time.