“Well, it feels like it’s still there. I…I ain’t sure I can ride that far.”
Fortunato rubbed his chin. “I suppose we could allow you to remain here for a few days to recuperate…”
“That’d be mighty good, Count,” Braddock said eagerly. “I’ll be right as rain in no time, you’ll see. I just need to rest up a mite.”
“Of course, the rest of us will have to push on and take the wagon with us, as well as all the supplies and the water.”
Braddock’s face fell. “But…but you can’t do that! You can’t leave me out here with nothin’!”
“Those things belong to me, Braddock,” Fortunato said in a chilly voice. “I plan to take them with me when I set out after my quarry.”
“All right, all right.” Braddock muttered something under his breath. Fortunato assumed that it was an obscenity, even though he didn’t hear it clearly. “I’ll head for El Paso first thing in the mornin’.”
“Dawn is less than an hour away. You might as well start getting ready to depart now.”
“Yeah, I reckon so.”
“You won’t have any trouble finding more men?”
Braddock shook his head. “If there’s one thing that ain’t in short supply along the border, it’s men who’re good with their guns and willin’ to use ’em if the price is right. How many fellas you want me to send to you?”
“Well, three wasn’t enough, obviously. Suppose we double it to six?”
Braddock’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir. Six it is. And what about me?”
“You can consider your employment concluded once you’ve performed this task for me. You’ll be free to remain in El Paso or move on or whatever else strikes your fancy.”
“Find me a whorehouse and lay up for a few weeks while this bullet hole in my side heals up,” the gunman said. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Fortunato took a coin from his pocket and held it out. It was a fifty-dollar gold piece.
“Perhaps this will help.” He wasn’t frugal when it came to spending what was necessary to get what he wanted in life. Even though he was loathe to reward failure, this bonus would help insure that Braddock would carry out the mission Fortunato had given him.
Braddock took the coin and rubbed it between his fingers. In the gray light of pre dawn, a sly, greedy smile appeared on his lips.
“And in case you’re thinking of taking my money and failing to perform the task I’ve given you,” Fortunato went on, “remember our two Yaqui friends. If the men you’re supposed to send to me do not show up within, let us say, four days, then you can be sure that some dark night, those two will pay you a visit…and they will be the last visitors you ever have, Braddock.”
“You can’t hold me to that.” The whining tone was back in the gunman’s voice. “I ain’t responsible for what other hombres do.”
“Then I suggest you choose wisely. Pick men who can be trusted to do what they say they will do.” Fortunato’s voice dropped to a soft, dangerous purr. “Because I assure you, I always do what I say I will do.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Braddock tucked the coin away in his pocket. “Is that all, Count?”
Fortunato nodded and made a gesture of dismissal. Braddock turned away and said, “Hey, Arturo, how’s about gettin’ some coffee on to boil?”
Fortunato strolled back to his tent. He was tired—he never slept well under primitive conditions—but his brain was full of activity.
He thought about the Konigsberg Candlestick and how valuable it was supposed to be. In truth, however, its monetary value meant little or nothing to Fortunato. He had inherited more wealth than he could ever spend. He wanted the artifact because it was reputed to be very beautiful, and after being lost for two hundred years, it was a real rarity as well. Nothing pleased Fortunato more than possessing something the likes of which no other man on earth possessed. Whether it was a painting, a piece of sculpture, or a beautiful woman, as long as he was the only one who had it, that was what really mattered to him.
He wondered briefly if Dr. Annabelle Dare was a virgin.
Then there was the secret of the Twelve Pearls. To this day, no one knew exactly what it was, but Albrecht Konigsberg had taken it with him when he fled Spain for the New World. This was known because Konigsberg himself had boasted of it and traded on its supposed worth to get what he wanted. Of course, the German could have been lying…but with the instincts of a born hunter, Fortunato did not believe that to be the case.
Now, after years of searching, he was on the trail of both the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls. Rather, he was on the trail of Dr. Dare and the priest, and from the information Fortunato had bought in Mexico City, he was convinced they knew where to look. He could not allow the Church to beat him to the treasure. He would never get his hands on it if that happened. Because of that, he planned to make Dr. Dare and Father Jardine his prisoners, so he could force them to lead him to what he sought.
In a moment of rage over having what he wanted almost in the palm of his hand, only to have it snatched away, he had taken one of his rifles from its case that afternoon and loosed a shot at the man who had interfered. That shot had missed its target and wounded Dr. Dare instead, and in that moment as he watched through the telescopic sight, Fortunato realized that he had almost made a terrible mistake. He wanted the woman and the priest to live…for now.
But as for the stranger who had dared to interfere in his plans…that man would die, and Fortunato would take great pleasure in his death.
Chapter 9
The hills ran north and south, so The Kid kept them on his left as he led the wagon northward that day. By mid-morning, he spotted a blue-gray line on the horizon ahead of them that marked the location of more hills angling from the southeast to the northwest. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that beyond those hills, they would come to the valley of the Rio Grande. They would have to cross the river somewhere, because they were west of it and the Jornada del Muerto lay to the east.
He dropped back alongside the wagon. Annabelle had had a spare hat among their supplies and she wore it to protect her head from the scorching sun. She wore a fresh shirt, as well, since the one she’d had on the day before had been ruined by the bloodstain and the fact that The Kid had ripped the left sleeve off to treat her wound. He had changed the dressing on the injury that morning before they broke camp and was pleased with the way it looked. There didn’t seem to be any infection around it.
“Why didn’t you just take the train from El Paso to Las Cruces?” The Kid asked. “It’s not far from there to the Jornada.”
“We didn’t come through El Paso,” Annabelle replied. “We bought this wagon and outfit in Chihuahua and then swung around El Paso because we were afraid Fortunato might have spies there waiting for us. We were trying to give him the slip, in case he was already on our trail.” She made a face. “Clearly, we were unsuccessful. We spotted him following us a couple of days ago and hoped that we could stay ahead of him until we found the treasure, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to be the case.”
“You don’t know that,” The Kid said. “In hot, dry country like this, if he has a wagon he can’t move much faster than you can. There’s only so much a team of horses or mules can do under these conditions. If he pushes his animals too hard, he’ll find himself stuck.”
“I’m sure he has a wagon. I can’t imagine Count Eduardo Fortunato traveling without his creature comforts, even in a godforsaken wasteland like this one.”
Father Jardine said, “No land can be godforsaken, my child. Only those unfortunates who choose to forsake Him.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still a wasteland out here.” Annabelle looked around. “Why would anyone choose to live in such a place?”
“You may have noticed, it’s not real crowded,” The Kid said with a smile. “But don’t sell it short. Every place has its charms, I guess. Even the desert can be beautiful under the right conditions.”
The Kid didn’t really have one of those anymore, not since Rebel died, but he didn’t bother explaining that to Annabelle. It was none of her business, and he didn’t know if she would understand, anyway. Most of the time, he wasn’t sure that he understood.
In the middle of the day, The Kid found a spot under the overhang of some rocks that provided shade from the sun. He watered the horses from one of the barrels lashed to the wagon, which they had topped off before leaving the spring that morning. Then he called Annabelle over and showed her how to make a tiny fire from dried mesquite branches that gave off almost no smoke. He boiled coffee and fried some bacon, since they had plenty of supplies and could replenish them in Las Cruces tomorrow or the next day.
“Who taught you how to build a fire like that, Mr. Morgan?” Annabelle asked. “I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t mind,” The Kid said. “My father taught me.”
“When you were a boy?”
“When I was younger than I am now,” The Kid said. As a matter of fact, he had been almost a grown man before he ever met Frank Morgan or knew that the notorious gunfighter called The Drifter was really his father. But Annabelle didn’t need to know that, and these days, The Kid made it a habit to keep private as much as he could about himself. The less folks knew about you, the more difficult it was for them to hurt you.
“Is your father the one who taught you all these things you know about getting along in the wilderness?”
“Pretty much,” The Kid admitted.
“I suppose it’s good, that a father can pass along such things to his children.”
He looked up at her from where he hunkered next to the fire, tending to the bacon. “What about your pa? He ever teach you anything?”
Annabelle sniffed. “My father was too busy being a professor of antiquities and ancient languages. He didn’t have time for his children, especially his daughters. They couldn’t follow in his footsteps, you see.”
“But you did, anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t make him change his mind about you, though, did it?” The Kid guessed.
“I wouldn’t know. He passed away a month before I received my doctorate.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
She shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”
Couldn’t have been that long, he thought, since she was only about twenty-five or twenty-six. But despite the momentary lapse he’d just made, he tried not to pry in other people’s lives, just as he didn’t want them prying into his.
He could be thankful, though, that Frank had always had faith in him, even when he didn’t deserve it. And probably the last thing in the world that Frank had wanted was for his son to follow in his footsteps.
That was what had happened, though. The world was a funny old place.
After the three of them had eaten, The Kid drank the last of the coffee in his tin cup and then said, “Why don’t we see just what you can do with that gun, Doctor?”
Annabelle frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
The Kid stood up and pointed. “See that little rock over there, sitting on that bigger rock? Let’s see how many shots it takes you to hit it.”
Annabelle squinted. “What rock? That little-bitty one? It must be fifty feet away! Handguns aren’t that accurate.”
The Colt flickered into The Kid’s hand in a draw so swift that the eye couldn’t follow it. The gun roared, and the rock he had pointed out to her flew into the air, splitting into two pieces under the impact of the bullet.
“Just a matter of knowing your weapon,” The Kid drawled as he pouched the iron.
For a moment, Annabelle stared at the spot where the small rock had been, then turned her head and glared at The Kid. “You’re just showing off,” she accused.
“Showing you what can be done,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
Father Jardine pursed his lips. “I’m not sure you should be doing this, Doctor. This isn’t just…target practice. Mr. Morgan wants to teach you how to be a more efficient killer.”
“Again, no offense, padre,” The Kid said, “but getting your hands on that artifact you’re after might depend on how good Dr. Dare is with her gun. Both of your lives might depend on it, as well.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” Annabelle said. “If it’s Mr. Morgan’s goal to turn me into a gunfighter, he’s going to be disappointed. When this is over and we have the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls, I’m going straight back to Yale.”
The priest sighed. “Very well. I suppose that if you’re going to carry a gun, it’s best to be proficient in its use.”
“Amen, Father,” The Kid said. He held up both hands, palms out. “Didn’t mean anything by that.”
Annabelle pointed to the spot where the smaller rock had been balanced on the bigger one and asked, “What am I supposed to shoot at now? You ruined the target.”
“Hang on. I’ll find something else.”
The Kid walked over to the rocks and found another one about the size of his fist. He placed it on top of the bigger rock.
“There,” he told Annabelle. “Shoot at that. Just let me get out of the way first.”
She waited until he came back to her side, then drew the Smith & Wesson .38 and held it out in front of her as far as she could reach. Her arm was as stiff and straight as a board.
“See, there’s your first mistake,” The Kid said before she could pull the trigger. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up a little. Bend your elbow. Not much, just slightly.”
“Like this?”
“No, that’s too much.” The Kid took hold of her arm to position it and show her what he meant. “Like that.”
He realized after a second that he still had hold of her arm and could feel the warmth of her flesh through the shirt sleeve. He let go and stepped back.
Annabelle peered over the barrel of the gun with her right eye and screwed her left eye shut as tightly as it would go.
“No, that’s going to throw your aim off,” The Kid said. “Keep both eyes open.”
She bared her teeth at him. “Are you going to let me shoot or not? This was your idea, you know.”
He stepped back and spread his hands, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead.”
“Fine.” Annabelle turned her attention back to the target, and a second later, she pulled the trigger. A shot blasted from the .38.
The rock didn’t budge. There was no sign that the bullet hit anything else, either.
Annabelle lowered the gun and frowned. “Where did it go? I didn’t see it hit anything.”
The Kid waved a hand toward the flat. “It landed a few hundred yards out yonder. You were way high. That’s because you jerked the trigger too hard, and you were aiming too high to start with.” He nodded toward the rocks. “Want to try again?”
“Yes, I most certainly do.” Annabelle aimed and fired again. This time the slug plowed into the ground about halfway between where she stood and the rock she was aiming at. “Oh!”
“You corrected too much. Try this. Don’t aim.”
“Don’t aim?” she repeated. “How can I hit anything if I don’t aim at it?”
“You’re not hitting it when you do aim at it,” The Kid said. “Point the gun. Just point it, like the barrel was your index finger. And then squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”
“I don’t think it’ll work, but…all right.”
Annabelle did like he told her, taking a casual stance as she pointed the gun and fired. The bullet hit the big rock about a foot and a half below the target and whined off.
“Oh, my goodness!” Annabelle cried as her eyes widened. “I almost hit it!”
“Almost will usually get you killed out here,” The Kid said. “Try again.”
She frowned at him. “You could tell me that I did a good job, you know. It would
n’t hurt you.”
“When you were back there at Yale, did your teachers tell you you did a good job every time you answered one question on an examination?” The Kid pointed at the rock. His meaning was clear. The target was still there.
Annabelle muttered something under her breath, shook her head, and pointed the Smith & Wesson at the rocks again. This time her shot was a foot low and a little off to the right.
“Turn your body,” The Kid suggested. “Again, not much. All these adjustments need to be slight, because the gun will magnify them.”
“Fine.” She shifted her stance.
“Take a deep breath and hold it,” The Kid said. “Not long, just for a second while you pull the trigger.”
“All right.” She pointed the gun, took a breath, held it, squeezed the trigger.
The little rock leaped in the air.
“I hit it!” Annabelle cried. She turned to The Kid and smiled. “I hit it! Did you see that?”
“Yep. Get to where you can do that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and you might survive your next gunfight. Assuming, of course, that there is a next one.”
Her face grew serious. “With Fortunato after us, I’d wager that there will be.”
“You’d bet a hat.”
“What?”
“That’s what folks out here sometimes say when they’re sure of something. I’ll bet a hat.”
“Well, I’m not betting this hat,” Annabelle said. “It’s the only one I have left, and I don’t like the sun on my head.”
The Kid laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Want me to find you another rock to shoot at?”
“Yes, please.”
He glanced over at Father Jardine, who was sitting on the lowered tailgate of the wagon. The priest still wore a look of disapproval on his lined and weathered face. The Kid could tell that he was just aching to quote some Scripture, probably “Thou shalt not kill.”
The Kid remembered some words from the Good Book, too, about the Lord helping those who helped themselves. Out there on the frontier, helping yourself usually involved gunsmoke.
The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold Page 6