Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne)

by Robert Isenberg

  Elizabeth eased back into her blanket. Comfortable and content, she lay her head atop her folded arms. “Yes. Let’s make good on this one.”

  Chapter 17

  Holly watched the steam swirl from her tin cup as she strolled the pebbled grounds. Her eyes had adjusted to the pre-dawn darkness, and she easily stepped around the occasional prickly pear. She sipped, but the tea served more as a prop—a thing to occupy her hands. Always have something to hold onto, her father used to say. Never look idle, even if you are.

  The sky had turned sea-blue above the ridges, but there was no sound to beckon the impending sun. No roosters, no chirping birds. Critters that only stirred at night had retreated to their nests and grottos. Holly was alone. A peaceful moment. Every morning, while her brothers still snored, Holly rose from her bed and gave herself this solitary hour.

  In three months, Holly had learned this area well. She knew nooks and crannies that only a seasoned explorer could. She knew where every snake resided; she knew which cacti drew hummingbirds to their flowers. The summer had been merciful in these higher climes, where the desert offered cool nights, and roving monsoons scrubbed the soil clean.

  Most important of all—she knew where to find the chili grove. Only a half-hour hike from this very spot. She had memorized the rocky way, walked it dozens of times. There was no trail, no sign. But she could still find it, even in the dark.

  Holly stopped. Before her lay two small mounds. Many months had passed, and the discolored dirt had blended into surrounding topsoil. The holes had been hard to dig, and they had broken a pick on the solid clay. The two graves were shallow, yet still deep enough to conceal that pair of bodies. Now and again, Holly wondered who it was they had killed. The executions had been quick and painless. No time for weeping and forced prayers. The two men were dead before they knew what was happening. Even the bloodstained floors had been covered up with rugs.

  Well dressed, she remembered. Not outdoorsmen. She doubted they’d shot the deer mounted over their hearth. One bed, too. Their only gun was a .22 rifle, useless for anything but varmints. They were probably Easterners. They’d probably come here to escape the judgment of other men. In which case, at least they’d died together, poor sinners.

  Leave it how you found it. That was the old man’s motto. He lived by this advice, right until his final night. He never slaughtered one heifer without buying another first. He grazed them until the pasture was bald, and then he herded the cattle to another spot until the grass grew back. No farmer was more careful with his acres.

  When Indians came, Old Man Haynes welcomed them cautiously. He’d met a lot of Indians, in those days. He spoke to them in a mix of English and their own language. He let traveling braves camp on the fringes of his land. He traded food and beads, just to keep things neighborly. When visitors were kind, he shared his whiskey, and he’d even join their campfire. They talked long into the night. They told him things. The spirits loosened their tongues. Some stories made no sense. But other stories were told in hushed tones, ancient secrets no white man had ever heard.

  Fire fruit. Sacred crystals. Doorways in the rock. Passages to other worlds.

  Every time the Indians moved on, they left without a trace. Old Man Haynes always admired this. See that? No rubbish left behind, he’d say. Just the ashes of their campfire, and hardly that. Them folks know how to leave it how they found it.

  Holly’s heart pounded behind her ribs. The memory tore through her like a rip-cut saw. And what good did it do him? she thought. All that care? All that kindness? Decades of working the land, mourning his wife, raising five children—where did it all lead? Did any of it matter, when those railroad men battered him with clubs? What was the point, when they tied his hands behind his back, tossed a noose over his neck, and raised him into the branches? What were his final thoughts, as he heard his screaming sons and daughter, as he watched the flames devour his house? He spent his final moments writhing in mid-air, listening to the laughter of his killers. Only when his body started to sway, stiff with death, did they use his corpse for target practice.

  There was no need to remind herself of these events. Day or night, Holly saw him there, the mangled face, the broken body, his never-idle hands bound behind his back, slaughtered without anything to replace him. All these years later, the memory was fresh. Leave it as you found it? Does that ever truly happen?

  Holly looked up. She could tell the sun was coming. She poured the lukewarm tea over the graves and turned her back to them. It was time to return to the cottage. It was time to wake the boys.

  When Maude awoke, she wondered where she was. She blinked at the dark ceiling, then sat up on her mattress, looking around. She saw the rows of other beds. She massaged her forehead and thought, Of course, the hospital. How easily you forget!

  Maude touched her hand. The bandages were still wound tight, but the skin no longer prickled like it had. The pain was still there, but it had dulled overnight. Her hand would keep its scars, but the disfigurement would be minor. She realized how fortunate she’d been to wash the chili powder off in the rain. She was lucky to be alive at all.

  Impulsively, Maude slipped off the mattress. The hospital was still dark; the walls were colored pale blue, and Maude guessed that dawn would soon break. She wanted to flee this grim ward. She wanted the privacy of her hotel room. She stuffed her small feet into her boots, then gathered her bag and prepared to tiptoe away. The hospital looked dormant; a handful of patients were asleep, and even the nurses had made themselves scarce.

  Just as she was about to sneak away, she heard a gargled voice.

  “Hey! Hey there!”

  Maude turned around slowly. Two beds away, a man was lying under his sheets. It took Maude a groggy moment to recognize his dark form as Sheriff MacAuley. She moved toward him, her feet sliding gingerly across the cement floor.

  “Mr. MacAuley?” she whispered back.

  “You’re not a nurse, are you?”

  “No,” said Maude. “I’m a patient. But—I’m just going—”

  “Help me,” he begged. “Please—help me.”

  Maude looked both ways, wondering whether their conversation was overheard. But the room looked as inanimate as ever.

  “What can I do?” Maude murmured.

  “Morphine,” rasped the Sheriff. “I need morphine.”

  Maude cringed. She saw the vials on the nearby tray, but she had no idea how to administer them. Even if she could find a hypodermic needle, she’d never used one in her life. She seemed to remember tapping the needle with a finger, then smacking the forearm to find a healthy vein, whatever that meant. But never in her life had she thought to inject someone, especially in a dim room, without the nurses noticing.

  “What—that is—how much do you need?” Maude asked.

  “All of it.”

  The Sheriff’s breaths came hard and fast. His chest vibrated with the urge to sob, and Maude wondered if he even had tear ducts left, given the wreckage of his face.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please!” MacAuley crowed. “Have mercy! For God’s sakes, have mercy…”

  “Mr. MacAuley, I—”

  “No!” he panted. “Please, just let me go. What—what’s left? What can I even do? What good is the world if you can’t see it? What good is being a man if—if your hands are useless to you? Why…” He whimpered into the gauze, and his arms went limp over the bed frame. “Why won’t they just let me die? Why won’t them bitches just let me die?”

  Maude wasn’t sure what to say. Her eyes were downcast, even though she knew the Sheriff would never see her. Then she reached for the bed sheet and touched MacAuley’s ankle. It was an awkward gesture, but that small patch of skin was still smooth, unburned.

  “My mother used to say, ‘Hope is a tricky thing. It always seems silliest when you need it most. And no matter how much you doubt it, it’s always the last thing you give up.’”

  MacAuley’s sternum rose and fell. He was
quiet for a long time. Maude just stood there, her hand resting on his lower leg, letting the words sink in.

  Finally MacAuley said, “I’d forgot about hope.”

  “Well,” said Maude, “I doubt it forgot about you.”

  And there Maude stayed, for immeasurable minutes, as the sun peaked through the windows, and the Sheriff went gradually back to sleep.

  “But I can see just fine!” wailed Chester. “You can’t just leave me! Not like this!”

  The gang stood outside the cabin, in the gray light of morning. The air was still, and the only sound was the restless swish of the horses’ tails. Breakfast was eaten. Their gear was packed. All preparations had been made. Only one thing was left—to give Chester the bad news.

  Holly frowned. A part of her wanted to laugh in his reddened face. Chester looked terrible—his brows and cheeks were chapped and peeling, which was bad enough. But his eyes were the worst, a sickening web of veins and spots. A greenish slime oozed along the edges, and his lashes were sticky with discharge.

  And it was his own damned fault. When that girl attacked them, the twins had managed to hide their faces before the powder could fully scorch them; Chester had been too slow. He’d taken the brunt of the attack.

  Holly wanted to laugh at him, but she couldn’t, no matter how ridiculous her brother looked. Chester might be twenty-eight, but he would always be the baby of the family. His skin would heal, she knew, and his sight would return, for the most part. Yet she couldn’t drag him into danger, not like this. Chester’s aim would be useless. He’d see an attacker too late. A Paddington man could sneak up behind him with a knife, and he’d never be the wiser. Holly had planned this heist for months. They were too close to get sloppy now.

  “Chester,” said Holly in a sturdy tone. “Don’t I always know what’s best?”

  Chest looked away. “Yes’m.”

  “Then let’s be clear. You’ll head down to Phoenix, and you’ll find our usual room at the Fairbanks Hotel. And there you’ll stay put. You drink and play cards and do what you will, long as you don’t make a scene. And when you get a telegram from me, you heed them directions. You keep our location in your memory and don’t tell a soul, and then you burn the paper it’s printed on, you hear me?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “And look on the bright side,” added Holly with a grin. She smacked his elbow, and the boy flinched. “Now you can keep Fireball. No need to put a bullet in her head. You can ride that filly to your heart’s content.”

  Chester reached out a booted foot and toyed with a stone. “You was really gonna make me shoot her, Holly?”

  Holly darkened. “Ain’t no place for pets, where we’re going. Take the twins’ horses, too. Ride ’em into Phoenix. Find that stable we like, and fetch a good price. That should tide you over till we send word.”

  Holly turned to the twins. They both leaned against the cabin’s front wall, thumbs stuck in their belt loops. As usual, they stared blankly, their mouths slightly agape. Two bundles lay at their feet, their belongings rolled tightly in wool blankets.

  “Let’s get a move on,” Holly mustered. “We’ve got a hike ahead of us.”

  The twins said nothing, only bent over and grabbed their loads. They both marched wordlessly away from the building, toward the empty hills.

  Holly tipped her hat at Chester. “Be good,” she said, and followed her brothers into the wilderness. She gazed straight ahead. She knew better than to look back.

  Elizabeth swished water in her mouth and spat into the dust. She put away her toothbrush, then carried the bedrolls away from the railroad tracks. Every scrap of their camp must be cleared away.

  About thirty paces from the rails stood three boulders. They were round and obese, and they leaned against each other drunkenly. No one would have noticed them from a passing train; they would have blended into the lifeless outback. But those rocks were just the right size to hide behind. Outmanned, outgunned, and outmaneuvered, Elizabeth and Robins had one paltry advantage—surprise.

  Elizabeth saw a shadow flit across the ground. She looked up and smiled. A bird flew high above them, circling the morning azure on its outstretched wings. She took out her binoculars and examined the dark shape.

  “Red-tailed hawk,” she declared. “One of my favorites.”

  Robins slipped a second shell into his shotgun. He clicked the gun shut, then looked up, following Elizabeth’s gaze. He sniffed at the predatory bird.

  “If he’s hungry,” Robins said morosely, “here’s hoping he finds some other bones to pick.”

  The Haynes Gang stood before the wall. Holly unrolled her bundle on the ground, as did the twins. They tucked their pant-legs into their boots. They drew leather gloves over their hands. They prepped themselves in practiced silence; the only noise was the tinkle of metal, the rustle of fabric.

  The wall rose two hundred feet above them, a vast mural of orange rock. The surface had the fine grain of watercolor paper. Except for a few ruffles and folds, the bottom of the rock face was smooth and straight. But one feature stood out—ring after ring of concentric circles, emblazoned in the stone like a great target. The imprint was vast, covering most of the escarpment. When the sun was high, Holly could spot the circle from a mile away. Its circumference was so perfectly carved that it appeared manmade; but inspected closely, those striations were as natural as the veins in a leaf.

  Over the years, Holly had seen fourteen doorways in all. She had traveled through every one, carrying her crystal with her, just as the Indians had instructed. Each doorway was different—oblong or wide, egg-shaped or perfectly round—but they all bore this shape in common, that elegant curve, as perfectly crafted as a seashell or tornado. Only one doorway had no rock; instead, a bowed old tree signaled its existence—the way to Mine Number One.

  The sight of these doorways always stirred something in her. Holly was not a spiritual woman. She had long given up on gods and saints. The desert was a tool to use, not a promised land to worship. Yet the doorways had always filled her with awe. She turned quiet before them, these swirling monoliths. To pass through the doorways, as she had done hundreds of times, was to feel a surge of joy; transcendence.

  We’re here, she thought, dusting off her denim-clad knees. The time has come.

  Holly nodded to the twins. In perfect unison, the three siblings lifted the masks from their blankets. The twins pulled the straps over their thick heads, adjusting the goggles to their eyes.

  But Holly lingered a moment; she gazed at the gas mask, at the skeletal face emblazoned on its rubber surface. The skull. She remembered the first time she dabbed that white paint, composing these elaborate patterns. She remembered feeling inspired, as that death’s head came to fruition. Fearsome but beautiful, she had thought. Just the way the Mexicans paint them. Just the way death should come to us all. For an instant she wished she had become an artist instead, or a beautician, or a leather worker, or anything else. She sighed at the thought of that other life, the things she could have done in the absence of revenge.

  “Give us this day,” she murmured. And then she pulled the mask over her head.

  Their faces were gone, replaced with the ghostly masks. They stuck their black hats to their heads and pulled at the brims. Holly’s face and scalp grew hot; she felt the suction of the mask with every breath. The goggles’ lenses fogged, and Holly noticed the minuscule scratches in the glass.

  She dug a watch out of her pocket and flipped it open. 7:18.

  Holly replaced the timepiece and turned around. She stole one final look at the jagged skyline. They were high up, now, and the landscape was a jigsaw puzzle of mesas and promontories, boulders and bushes. For months, they had quartered themselves in this lonely wasteland. It was as much a home as anywhere. Holly doubted they would ever see that cottage again. They would leave this place, just as they had left scores of shelters before it. Their only true home was a pile of ashes, a distant memory. There was nowhere to go but forward.

>   Holly faced the rock. She clenched her jaw. Her hand found the curled grip of her pistol. She dragged the weapon from its holster and aimed its muzzle at the sky.

  The time had come. All they could do was wait.

  Chapter 18

  Sylvester watched the land pass by. There wasn’t much to see; the window was a narrow slit. The train cut through a wide ravine, and its slopes were an endless repetition of rocks and cacti.

  The train car was full of crates, which were stacked waist-high along the walls. But Sylvester knew the crates weren’t worth much. The real prize wasn’t stored within these cheap pine boxes. The real prize was the safe.

  Sylvester stole a glance at the back of the train. He couldn’t help himself.

  The safe was propped against the rear wall of the boxcar. It was a gray cube the size of an icebox, bolted to the floor. In the center of the steel door, there was a numbered dial, and Sylvester studied it with wild eyes. He would never know the combination; this fact titillated him most of all. That impassable door provoked so much longing. Inside lay a stack of gold bricks that he would never possess, never even see. He would never consummate his love. It was maddening.

  Another man stood in the car. Jeffrey, the scruffy whippersnapper from the warehouse. He leaned limpidly against the opposite wall. He wore work gloves and suspenders. One hand was stuffed into his pocket; the other rested on the barrel of a machine gun. He gazed outside with meditative eyes. A revolver jutted from his belt; a fully stuffed gunny sack lay at his feet. The car was already boiling, and both men had stained their shirts with sweat. Those little whiffs of fresh air through the openings were as soothing as a dip in the water hole.