“Safe.”
“You buried it back in the wash, didn’t you?”
Sugar smiled and nodded. “Sure. With Tony’s eyes. Since he’s the only one who saw exactly where it’s buried, we’d all best hope he doesn’t expire.”
Louisa glanced at Lazzaro riding hunched and bleeding in his saddle and sighed.
Prophet, riding at the head of the pack with Chacin, glanced over his shoulder, inspecting each of the men behind him. They’d agreed before riding up from the canyon mouth that no one would touch a gun unless the Indians were spotted on their back trail. So far, so good on both counts, he saw now as he lifted his gaze over Lazzaro’s head and along the meandering course of the canyon.
A hot, dry wind had come up, shuffling dust and blowing the horse’s tails, but through the grit he could see no sign of the Indians. They’d likely follow at a distance, with the intention of waiting for reinforcements then attacking later. They obviously wanted to rid the area of all white men, and Prophet doubted they had anything better to do. This was their land, so they certainly had nowhere else to go.
They rode up the canyon, which widened as the walls fell away, and Prophet found himself on a broad, flat, rocky bench, the wind swirling the dust and caking his eyes with sharp grit. He tugged his hat down lower on his head and turned his attention to his own unlikely group.
The way he saw it, there were three factions—him and Louisa, Chacin and the other Rurales, and the desperadoes. Of course, there was Senor Bocangel, who was riding behind him in shocked, pensive silence, but the old Mexican had no dog in this fight. Prophet and Chacin were after the desperadoes and the stolen loot, which shouldn’t be too hard to confiscate once they’d gotten clear of the Indians and could arrest or kill Lazzaro and the others, including Sugar Delphi, without getting themselves shot to hell.
Once Prophet and Louisa and the Rurales had the money, however, there would still be one more battle. Prophet had no intention of turning over even part of the loot to Chacin, whose intentions concerning the money were far less than noble. The money had been stolen from the Bank of Nogales, and that’s where he aimed to take it in return for a hefty reward on both the money and on the bandits who’d stolen it.
Not that the stolen money didn’t have its allure to the big, Confederate bounty hunter whose sole aim in life was to have as many tail-stomping good times as he could find. But he’d long ago promised himself that he’d go about said stomping on the right side of the straight and narrow. Never let it be said that the son of Ma and Pa Prophet of Ringgold, Georgia, had raised a boy who strayed.
The wind blew a gust of sandpaper-like grit against Prophet’s face, and he lowered his head and narrowed his eyes against it. He turned a little to one side. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Chacin had his own head lowered. The captain’s eyes met Prophet’s and, as though he were reading the bounty hunter’s mind, he gave a grimly devilish half smile.
Prophet returned the look in kind, then blinked the grit from his lashes and peered straight ahead over Mean’s indignantly twitching ears. Prophet blinked again and just as he began to hear the squawks of what sounded like a rusty chain he saw several crude corrals and buildings rise up out of the desert. The wood and weathered adobe bricks were the same color as the tan rocks, and they appeared to be a natural part of this stark, barren land.
But they were not, Prophet saw as Mean continued to clomp along, kicking stones, a couple of dilapidated stock pens appearing on both sides of the trail. The buildings were part of a town that stretched across the bench at an angle from Prophet’s left to right. Higher up on the bench stretched a mantle of solid rock, like a massive eyebrow. It paralleled the town’s scattered, falling-down buildings before breaking off abruptly on the town’s far side.
Prophet and the others were following a worn wagon trail into the town, the trail widening and becoming the town’s main street, which was a good fifty or even sixty yards wide. The buildings and pens on both sides were truly dilapidated, with windows gaping and shutters hanging and boards and bricks missing from the false façades. Porches hung askew.
Behind the buildings of the business district, the village’s original Mexican adobes hunched in the weeds and rocks, looking like large stones in a long-abandoned graveyard. The wind whistled between them and the stone ovens and through the shacks’ gaping windows.
The squawking, Prophet realized now, was from a shingle flopping in the wind beneath a gallery running the length of a broad, two-story building about halfway down on the left side of the street. Large, green, sun-faded letters identified the place as G.W. TODD GENERAL MERCHANDISE DRY GOODS. There was no door on the other side of the gallery, which was missing much of its floor. Obviously Todd’s was as defunct as the rest of the town.
Only it wasn’t completely defunct, or at least not completely abandoned, Prophet saw a minute later when he and the others reined up before a large, two-story adobe brick building that also boasted a gallery. A sign hanging down beneath the gallery’s front eave announced THE OASIS SALOON AND DANCE HALL.
Prophet gave a grim smile. The place didn’t look like much of an oasis these days. But he remembered the place from a previous visit, when the town was hopping with ore wagons and drunken miners. Then, a man could find an adequate if overpriced shot of rye in the Oasis. He wondered if he still could.
The town’s well stood in the middle of the street and a little to one side of the saloon—its sides built up with mortared stones and covered with a shake-shingled roof. It had a winch and a bucket. Prophet glanced over the coping and into the gaping, black hole to see the dark silvery sheen of water, and relief washed over him.
On the saloon’s gallery someone was sweeping the dust and tumbleweeds that the wind continued to blow around on it, causing the two wicker rockers on the gallery to rock wildly, as though agitated ghosts were sitting in them.
The sweeper was a woman with a slender, comely shape. She turned to the newcomers now, holding the broom in front of her and sweeping her thick, curly black hair away from her eyes as she studied the gang warily.
She was a black woman in her mid- to late twenties. She wore what appeared a once fine silk blouse, the sleeves rolled up her arms, the tails sticking out over the pleated, gray skirt that blew about her long, slender legs. The silk blouse looked worn, tattered and frayed at the elbows and collar.
“Ma’am, can you direct us to a sawbones?” Prophet called above the howling wind and the banging of a nearby shutter. “We got a couple of wounded men in our party.”
The black woman, whose face was strong and fine, with lustrous black eyes, shook her head slowly. Her expression was deeply vexed. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible above the wind. “You can’t be here. No strangers welcome in San Gezo!”
“Goddamnit, woman!” shouted Roy Kiljoy, his voice sounding weird because of the hole in both cheeks and because of the moaning wind. “Can’t you see I’m leakin’ blood like a damn sieve! I need these holes patched!”
Lazzaro grabbed his reins away from Sugar Delphi and rode up to the bottom of the gallery, slipping the long-barreled Smith & Wesson from its holster and thumbing the hammer back. “You ain’t got no choice, Negra!” he fairly howled, scrunched low in his saddle. “We’re here and we’re gonna stay here till—”
He’d put his horse two steps up the gallery when he stopped suddenly and glanced over his right shoulder. Prophet had heard what Lazzaro must have heard—a ratcheting squawk like that of a rusty hinge.
Prophet glanced over his own shoulder and let his lower jaw hang when he saw one of the two doors in the loft of the barn on the other side of the street open. The wind caught the door and slammed it against the barn’s front wall, revealing the wicked, brass barrel of a Gatling gun. A round, wizened face appeared above and behind the gun’s six bristling maws, beneath the brim of a floppy hat.
Prophet slapped his hand to his Colt’s holster but held it there when the canister dipped slightly and began to
turn, spouting smoke and flames and belching wickedly above the wind. The .45-caliber rounds plunked into the dust of the street between Prophet’s gang and the barn. It was a short spate of bullets, and then the canister rose, bearing down on Prophet and the others, all tightening their hands on the reins of the prancing horses. Lazzaro’s horse lurched on up the gallery steps and curveted, rearing and nearly unseating its wounded rider.
Another short blast of Gatling fire tore up splinters from the gallery’s steps beneath Lazzaro and his lurching mount.
“We don’t cotton to strangers here in San Gezo!” shouted the old man tending the Gatling gun. Prophet could see a pair of blue eyes blazing beneath the brim of the floppy hat. “Ride on out o’ here now, and maybe I won’t blast you outta your saddles!”
“You crazy old coot!” shouted Red Snake Corbin.
Prophet swung Mean toward the barn and rammed his spurred heels against the horse’s flanks. “Hyahh!”
The horse crossed the street in three strides, Prophet hearing the old man yell in the loft above him. There was another short burst of Gatling fire, the slugs tearing into the dust several yards off Mean’s rear hooves. Then horses and rider were in the purple shade beside the barn, and out of view from the loft.
Prophet leaped off Mean’s back and, swinging his double-barrel ten-gauge around to his chest, wrapped his right hand around the neck of the wicked gun, and hooked his index finger through the trigger guard, gently caressing both eyelash triggers. He ran to the back of the barn, edged a careful look around the corner, then hurried to the back door.
He stepped back as the small door scraped open. A rifle barrel angled up from behind the door as the unseen rifleman stepped out of the barn.
Prophet lurched forward, ramming his right shoulder against the door. He heard an indignant yowl as the rifle barked, and he felt the body on the other side of the door yield to his shove. He pulled the door back against the barn wall and saw the old codger who’d been manning the Gatling gun writhing on the ground in front of the opening. The rifle lay several feet away. The oldster, who wore a coarse silver mustache and goatee, was on his right shoulder and hip, groaning and squeezing his eyes closed.
“Damn you to hell, you big, ugly lummox!” he shouted, lifting his head from the dirt and turning those fiery blue eyes on the bounty hunter. “This is our town—not yours! Skedaddle and take your pack of curly wolves with ya!”
“How do you know we’re curly wolves?” Prophet picked up the rifle and set the stock against his shell belt, scowling down at the crotchety gent.
“’Cause you’re the only ones that ever come to San Gezo these days.” The old man grunted and spat a curse as he climbed to his knees. He wore a wool shirt and duck trousers. Straw and dirt clung to his shirtsleeves and back, and a snakeskin suspender hung down to his bony right hip. “You or others just like you. And we got no time for Rurales, neither!”
He spat again then winced as he tried to push off a knee. Prophet grabbed his arm to help him up, but the old man jerked his hand free of the bounty hunter’s grasp. “Unhand me, you devil!”
“Dad! Dad! Are you all right, Dad?”
Prophet turned to see the black woman running around the rear corner of the barn. Louisa was a few steps behind her, cradling her Winchester carbine in her arm and looking incredulous. The woman gave Prophet a dirty look as she pushed past him and dropped to a knee beside the oldster. “Dad, are you hurt?”
“Certainly wouldn’t want the old goat to be hurt,” Prophet offered wryly, still indignant over the Gatling gun. The only place he liked such a weapon was in front of him. Never behind.
“I’m all right, Ivy,” the old man said. “No thanks to him!”
“It was Dad’s shift to mind the gun,” the black woman, Ivy, said, looking up at Prophet. “One of us keeps it manned at all times.”
“Mojaves?” Louisa said.
“Mojaves and banditos like yourselfs!” growled the old goat, letting the black woman help him to his feet and spitting grit from his lips.
“Didn’t know there’d still be anyone here,” Prophet said. “Figured on some original Mescins. You two’re Americans, I take it. . . .”
Ivy said, “You take it right. Most of the Mexicans left years ago. The Mojaves have always been bad in these parts, and I wouldn’t doubt it if you’ve led a passel of them back to San Gezo.” To the oldster, she said, “Come on over to the saloon, Dad. I’ll get you cleaned up and send Angel out to tend the Gatling gun.”
The black woman started to lead the old man toward the corner of the barn. He stopped and gave his rifle a tug, but Prophet held fast.
“Uh-uh,” Prophet said.
“What’re you gonna do?” Ivy said. “Kill us all?”
“We ain’t gonna kill nobody,” Louisa said. “We just want some shelter from the Mojave storm out yonder.” She glanced uncertainly at Prophet. “And . . . to get our bearings.” Prophet knew she was trying to figure out, as he was, how they were going to bring down Lazzaro and confiscate the loot while keeping it away from Chacin. And not get themselves caught in a whipsaw.
“You likely just brought that storm to our doorstep!” rasped the old man as he let Ivy lead him around the barn corner.
Prophet and Louisa followed the pair into the main street, where the others in their mismatched gang had dismounted. They were now yelling at two men bearing down on them with a rifle and a shotgun from out front of a dilapidated gun shop. One was young and tall, the other old and thick-waisted and wearing blue coveralls and thick-soled boots.
“You fellas don’t drop them guns right here and now,” Red Snake Corbin was yelling at them, standing about ten yards in front of them and holding his own rifle straight out from his right hip, “you’re gonna look mighty funny with third eyes drilled through your noggins!”
“Like we done said,” shouted Kiljoy, “we’re just lookin’ for a damn sawbones!” He wheeled suddenly and grabbed the shoulder of Sergeant Frieri, who’d been standing directly behind him, a Schofield pistol in his hand. “You keep that goddamn pistol out of my back, you greaser bastard!”
Ivy led the old man she’d called “Dad” through the crowd. At the base of the saloon’s broad veranda steps, she yelled at the two townsmen wielding the rifle and the shotgun, “Angel, LeBeouf, put your guns away. LeBeouf, fetch the doc. Angel, you get up and tend the Gatling gun and keep your eyes skinned for Injuns!”
The thick man reluctantly lowered his shotgun and began backing down the street. The younger one, who had short dark hair on his hatless head, long muttonchop whiskers, and a soup-strainer mustache mantling his pendulous lower lip, kept his rifle aimed on the gang while angling cautiously across the street toward the barn. He was tall and bony and sunburned, and he walked with a slight hitch in his step. His dark eyes owned the menacing, probing dullness of a stalking grizzly.
As Ivy led Dad up the saloon’s veranda, Prophet looked around at the street. Chacin was conferring with his own men while Lazzaro was talking to Kiljoy, Red Snake, and Sugar—both factions huddled in groups on either side of the well amongst the milling horses. Chacin’s men were filling their canteens from a bucket sitting beside the well coping.
Prophet continued to look around. Senor Bocangel was nowhere in sight.
At least there were no Mojaves in sight, either. Not yet. But Prophet didn’t doubt he’d see El Lightning and his passel of angry Mojaves again real soon. Ivy had been right when she’d accused him of leading the Mojaves to her doorstep.
But what the hell else could he and the others have done?
He appraised the horses of Lazzaro’s bunch, frowning.
Louisa sidled up to him as she squinted against the wind blowing grit and tumbleweeds against the buildings on the street’s north side. She stared west along their back trail.
“If you’re looking for the loot, Lou—forget it.”
Prophet looked at her and kicked a tumbleweed that had brushed up against his shin. “Where the hell
is it?”
“Only Lazzaro knows.”
Prophet looked at the outlaw, who had just turned to the bounty hunter, curling a painful little grin and showing several of his silver teeth.
“Now what?” Louisa said tensely.
“Reckon I’ll fill my canteen and tend this ole hay burner,” Prophet said, leading Mean toward the livery barn. “Then I’m going to get me a tall drink and kick my heels up.”
15
CAPTAIN CHACIN WALKED his big Arab into the livery barn, dropped the horse’s reins, and went back and closed the heavy door behind him. The windows provided a murky, gray light. The wind swept grit against the building with blasting ticking sounds, making the unsturdy walls creak.
Prophet was unsaddling his horse beside Louisa. Sergeant Frieri and two other Rurales were in the barn, also tending their mounts. Of the outlaws, there were only Red Snake Corbin and Kiljoy. Sugar had helped Lazzaro into the saloon to which LaBeouf had summoned the San Gezo medico.
Prophet knew something was coming, because Chacin was grinning under his ridiculously upswept albeit dust-rimed mustache. Sure enough, as Prophet set his saddle on a rotting stall partition, the captain slid his Colt Navy from his black leather holster, clicked the hammer back, and rammed the barrel into the small of Red Snake’s back.
“You have come far enough, you moaning sows!” Chacin growled.
As if on cue, though a bit awkwardly, the three other Rurales grabbed their rifles and brought them to bear, some swinging them toward Prophet and Louisa, not sure just exactly who Chacin intended to bring down. Frieri grinned with menace at the blond bounty hunter.
Red Snake had just pulled his saddle and blanket off his horse’s back, and now, with Chacin’s pistol kissing his spine, he stiffened, then slowly turned toward Kiljoy. The bull-like desperado had already unsaddled his own mount and was slumped against a covered feed bin, weak with the pain and misery of his two perforated cheeks.
“Both of you drop your pistol belts, or I will blow you to El Diablo!” Chacin said, louder.
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