The Edge of Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  And John wouldn’t want her to. She could almost sense his presence beside her, hear him whispering in her ear as he told her to stay strong and fight back against her captors if she got the chance.

  Belinda needed something to jolt her out of her despair. Viola sensed that encouraging words wouldn’t do a bit of good. But anger might, she decided, so she said, “How in the world did you wind up having a dirty little affair with your own stepson?”

  Belinda jerked as if she’d been struck. She stiffened and rolled over on the bunk so she could look at Viola again. As she propped herself up on an elbow, she glared at Viola and snapped, “Don’t talk about it like that. What’s between Santiago and me isn’t a dirty little affair. We love each other.”

  Viola folded her arms over her chest and said coldly, “Yet you married Don Eduardo.”

  “I love him, too.”

  “Of course you do,” Viola said with obvious disbelief.

  Belinda sat up and pushed herself to her feet. Her chin jutted out defiantly as she said, “It’s none of your business, but it happens to be true. Don Eduardo is like a father to me. When he asked me to marry him, he made it clear that I wouldn’t have to . . . fulfill any wifely duties . . . with him. He said he wanted a beautiful young woman to be the mistress of his hacienda and to brighten his days for the time he had left. That’s all.”

  What Belinda was saying took Viola by surprise. She couldn’t comprehend a marriage where husband and wife didn’t share everything there was to be shared. Her union with John Slaughter had never been that way, that was for sure.

  Belinda looked and sounded as if she were being completely sincere, though.

  “So the two of you have never . . .”

  “That’s right.” Belinda’s face was flushed. “And it’s not proper to talk about such things.”

  “But you and Santiago . . .”

  “Santiago and I love each other. Someday we’ll be married. But I haven’t been unfaithful to my husband. You can believe that or not. I don’t really care.”

  Viola didn’t know what to believe anymore. She had jumped to a conclusion, and maybe she’d been wrong. A part of her was a little ashamed that she had been so quick to rush to judgment. Yet logically she knew that most people would have thought the same thing if they had seen Belinda and Santiago together under that water tank.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What about Don Eduardo? Does he know?”

  “About Santiago and me, you mean?” Belinda shrugged. “We haven’t told him. I think he suspects, though. He’s never given me any indication that he’s upset about it. Maybe he’s just glad that once he’s gone, Santiago will have someone.”

  Viola supposed a person could look at it like that. The whole thing still seemed rather incomprehensible to her, but not everyone lived their lives the same way. She reminded herself that plenty of people had believed she was loco to marry someone so much older than herself.

  The conversation between her and Belinda might have continued, but at that moment both women gasped and jumped a little as an unexpected sound cut through the morning air.

  Somewhere nearby in Barranca Sangre, someone had just unleashed a bloodcurdling scream.

  Chapter 25

  All the horses Slaughter and his men had taken in pursuit of the rustlers were worn out, so they had to get fresh mounts from the remuda. While that was going on the servants put together bags of provisions in case the men were gone for several days.

  Slaughter hoped that wouldn’t be the case. According to the map Hermosa had drawn, along with the things the vaquero had to say, the canyon known as Barranca Sangre was less than a twelve-hour ride across the border into Mexico.

  That meant if luck was on their side, they might have Viola home safely by nightfall the next day.

  If it took longer than that, there was a chance they wouldn’t be coming back at all.

  Slaughter sat down with Stonewall in the dining room to go over the plan. He spread out the map on the table and said, “You’re sure you can find the place?”

  “I think so, John,” the young man said.

  “You can’t just think so. Your sister’s life may well be riding on this.”

  “I’ll find it,” Stonewall declared.

  “If you have any doubts about your health or your mental condition, Jess can lead the rescue party. You’ve been knocked out twice in the past few hours.”

  Stonewall grinned and said, “I told you, this skull of mine is too thick for that to be a problem. It’s not even dented.”

  Slaughter didn’t doubt that, but it was the brain underneath the skull he was worried about. Stonewall appeared to be fine, but getting hit in the head was a tricky thing. Slaughter had known men to seem fine after an injury like that, only to drop dead a few days later. Other men had been knocked out, even once, and although they lived they were never the same afterward.

  “All right,” Slaughter said, “but if you feel like you can’t handle it, you turn things over to Jess. Viola’s safety is more important than anything else, at least as far as I’m concerned. Although I want to rescue Don Eduardo and his wife, too, of course.”

  Stonewall nodded and leaned forward.

  “Let me take another look at that map,” he said. “I know I’ll have it with me, but I want to be sure where I’m going.”

  They had to hope, as well, that Hermosa had known what he was doing when he drew the map. The vaquero was gravely wounded, more dead than alive, according to Dr. Fredericks, and there was no way of knowing if his directions were accurate—or if his so-called knowledge of Barranca Sangre was just a product of a fevered imagination.

  “There is a little box canyon just off Barranca Sangre with a spring in it,” Hermosa had told them, fortifying himself with sips of tequila. “For several years a band of Apache lived there, until the Rurales almost wiped them out. After that some prospectors came to look for gold and silver in the mountains and built jacales there by the spring to use as their camp. When no one saw them again for almost a year, relatives bribed the Rurales to look for the men. They were all still there in Barranca Sangre—or their bones were, anyway. The rumors I heard said that terrible things had been done to them, probably while they were still alive. Since then no one has dared to go there.”

  “How do you know about it?” Slaughter had asked.

  “As a young man I was restless. I explored across northern Sonora whenever I had the chance. And I always listened to the stories told in hushed tones in cantinas.”

  “If it’s true the place is, well, cursed,” Stonewall had said, “how is it that Becker gets away with usin’ it for his hideout?”

  “There is no curse, not in the way you mean. There is only a survivor from that band of Apache, driven mad by hate and the need for revenge.”

  “The Apache who’s workin’ with Becker,” Stonewall had exclaimed. “It’s got to be him.”

  Hermosa had nodded, and even that much movement seemed to tire him greatly.

  All of it made sense as far as Slaughter could tell. Anyway, he had no choice but to accept the vaquero’s story. Hermosa offered the only possible chance of turning the tables on the outlaws and rescuing the captives.

  Slaughter’s finger traced a path on the map as he and Stonewall bent over it.

  “You’ll need to take this way in,” he said. “According to Hermosa it splits off from the regular trail, the route that Becker is most likely to use because he’ll want to get back to his stronghold as quickly as he can. This little trail is rougher, and you’ll have to be careful getting up to some of the passes along the way. But you can approach the canyon from the north instead of the west, the way the main trail does. That’ll put you above the spring and those huts around it. That’s bound to be where Becker will be keeping the prisoners.”

  Stonewall nodded and said, “We’ll be able to ambush ’em. Maybe wipe out the whole bunch in one volley.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Slaughter cautioned.
“But you should be able to even the odds enough that Santiago and I will have a chance to get to the prisoners. If we can do that, we’ll keep them safe.”

  “How are you gonna put up a fight? Becker won’t let you carry any guns in there, I’ll bet.”

  “No, I’m sure he won’t,” Slaughter said. “But he and his men will have guns, and I’m counting on the chance that Santiago and I can get our hands on some of them.”

  Stonewall nodded solemnly and said, “It’s gonna be mighty dangerous, especially for the two of you. You’ll be ridin’ right into a hornet’s nest.”

  “That’s why we’ll be counting on you and Jess and the other men to do some stinging of your own,” Slaughter replied with a grim smile.

  * * *

  A short time later, everyone was ready to leave. Stonewall and his group would ride out first, since the plan called for them to be in position above Barranca Sangre before Becker’s emissary, whoever it was, brought Slaughter and Santiago to the hideout.

  Once the men were mounted, Slaughter reached up, gripped his brother-in-law’s hand, and said, “Good luck, son.”

  “You, too, John,” Stonewall replied. He was riding the big roan Pacer, who’d had the day to rest after one of the hands rode him to Douglas to fetch Dr. Fredericks.

  Santiago was there and shook hands with Stonewall as well. Then the riders, sixteen in all, left the ranch and headed south into Mexico.

  “Will they be able to find the right trail in the dark?” Santiago asked as he and Slaughter watched the men ride away.

  “It’ll be close to sunup by the time they get to the place it branches off,” Slaughter said. “We’ll have to hope they can find it.” He chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “If they don’t, you and I are going to be in a bad spot.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll dare anything to save my father and Belinda.”

  Slaughter thought it a little odd that the young man didn’t refer to his father’s wife as his stepmother or Doña Belinda, but at the moment that wasn’t worth worrying about. They went back into the ranch house, where Slaughter conferred with Neal Fredericks.

  “We’re keeping you away from your practice in town, doctor,” Slaughter said.

  “I have patients here,” Fredericks said. “There are a couple of midwives in Douglas who can take care of any birthing that needs to be done, and everything else will have to wait.”

  Santiago said, “I hope you can keep Hermosa alive, doctor. We owe him a great deal.”

  “I’m afraid that’s almost out of my hands. Whatever has kept him alive this long is a higher power than any I can muster. But I’ll do everything I can for him, I give you my word on that, young man.”

  As Slaughter was gathering up more ammunition, one of the maids approached him and said, “Señor Slaughter?”

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked, then recognized her. “What can I do for you, Yolanda?”

  “I know you go to rescue Señora Slaughter, and all my prayers for her safety go with you, señor. But is it a terrible thing if I pray that you deliver justice to the murderer of my Hector as well?”

  Slaughter smiled, shook his head, and said gently, “No, Yolanda, it’s not a terrible thing. Hector was a fine young man, and his death should be avenged.”

  “But can I pray for a man to die, even a very bad man like the one who killed Hector?”

  “Just pray that Señora Slaughter and the rest of us return home safely,” Slaughter told her as he patted her shoulder. “That’s the best thing you can do.”

  If they did that, there was a very good chance that the murder of Hector Alvarez—and all the other crimes committed by Ned Becker and his friends—would be avenged.

  * * *

  Santiago led the big black horse called El Halcón out of the corral. The stallion was saddled and ready to ride.

  Slaughter nodded in approval, but he qualified it by saying, “I know that horse is fast and we’re certainly liable to need that speed, but does he have the stamina?”

  “He has the heart of a champion, Señor Slaughter. El Halcón will never falter.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Slaughter said. “Well, with any luck we won’t need to make a run for it.”

  He had picked a big, rangy lineback dun for his mount. He had ridden the horse many times and knew that while the dun wasn’t much for looks, it was strong and fast and would run all day if necessary.

  Slaughter and Santiago swung up into their saddles and lifted hands in farewell to Dr. Fredericks, who stood on the porch watching them ride out, leading three saddled, riderless horses for the captives they hoped to rescue and bring back safely.

  “Are you all right, Señor Slaughter?” Santiago asked as they left the ranch behind. “You have been going for a very long time without any rest.”

  “I’m a little tired,” Slaughter admitted, “but that doesn’t mean anything as long as my wife is in danger. I’ll keep going for however long is necessary. I will say, though . . . when this is over a nice long nap will be most welcome.”

  “When our loved ones are threatened, our own comfort means nothing.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to rescue your father, Santiago.”

  “And Belinda,” the young man added.

  There was that odd note in his voice again, Slaughter thought. He indulged his curiosity enough to comment, “No offense, but during the party the other night I got the impression you don’t really care much for your stepmother.”

  “Certainly I care about her,” Santiago said. “My father loves her. She is part of our family now.”

  “A lot of fellas don’t like to see their mothers replaced.”

  Santiago laughed and said, “Believe me, Señor Slaughter, the very last thing Belinda has done is replace my mother.”

  Slaughter sensed that Santiago wanted to drop this line of conversation, so he didn’t say anything else about Doña Belinda.

  They had ridden past the border marker by now and continued south into Mexico. The moon and stars provided plenty of light for them to see where they were going, and Slaughter had no trouble letting those stars guide him in the right direction.

  They talked only sporadically as they rode. Slaughter’s mind was full of worry for Viola and, to a lesser extent, Don Eduardo and Doña Belinda. They had been guests in his house when they were kidnapped, and Slaughter considered the don a friend as well. Both of those things fueled the anger Slaughter felt at what Ned Becker had done.

  Time had little meaning in a situation such as this. The eastern sky began to turn gray above the mountains that loomed in that direction. Slaughter knew that morning was only an hour or so away. He and Santiago had been riding most of the night.

  “You’re sure we are going the right way?” Santiago asked. “I thought perhaps Becker’s man would have intercepted us by now.”

  “We’re following the directions in Becker’s note,” Slaughter said. He patted his shirt pocket where he had put the folded paper. “There aren’t many landmarks around here, but we’ve been going almost due south, the way he said.” Slaughter eased back on the reins. “Let’s stop and let the horses rest for a little while.”

  “I can keep riding,” Santiago said.

  “I know you can, but we don’t want to wear out these animals.” Slaughter patted the dun’s shoulder. “They may wind up being more important than we are.”

  The two men dismounted. Slaughter had brought along several full canteens—nobody went anywhere in this arid country without carrying water—and used his hat to give the horses a drink. Then they let the animals graze a little on the sparse grass.

  Santiago paced back and forth impatiently, ready to be on the move again. Slaughter just stood there breathing slowly, taking advantage of this opportunity to rest even though he couldn’t sleep yet. After a while he poured a little water into the palm of his hand and used it to wash away the grit in his eyes.

  The eastern sky had gone orange and gold. The sun wo
uld rise above the mountains soon. Santiago stopped his pacing, stared in that direction, and said, “Can we go now?”

  “I reckon the horses have rested long enough,” Slaughter said. He took hold of the horn and swung up into the saddle.

  They had only gone another mile or so when Slaughter spotted a rider coming toward them from the mountains.

  He pointed out the man to Santiago and said, “Looks like there’s our escort.”

  “It’s about time,” the young man said. “I will try not to shoot him, but it will be difficult, knowing what he was a part of.”

  “Maybe,” Slaughter said, “but we need him, so keep a tight rein on your temper.”

  As the gap between them closed, Slaughter studied their guide. The man was a stocky hardcase wearing a broad-brimmed brown hat with a round crown. A serape was draped over his ax-handle shoulders. A spade beard the color of rust jutted from his slab of a jaw.

  Slaughter and Santiago reined in when about twenty feet separated them from the outlaw. The man brought his mount to a halt as well and gave them what almost seemed like a friendly nod.

  “Mornin’,” he greeted them. “You’re the fellas I’ve been waitin’ for.”

  He didn’t phrase it like a question, but Slaughter said, “That’s right. I’m John Slaughter, and this is Santiago Rubriz.”

  “You’re alone, the way you’re supposed to be?”

  “You already know that,” Slaughter said. “You’ve been watching us with a spyglass from up in those hills, haven’t you?”

  That brought a grin to the man’s bearded face. “I’ve heard tell that you’re pretty smart, Slaughter. I reckon that’s right. Yeah, the boss said not to take any chances with you. He figured you’d do like you were told because you want to see that pretty little wife of yours again, but there was always a chance you’d try to pull some sort of trick.”

  “No tricks,” Slaughter lied. “I’m just interested in getting my wife back safely.”

  “How about you, boy?” the outlaw addressed Santiago. “Your boss gave me no choice,” he snapped. “You have my father and stepmother. I will do everything I can to keep them alive.”