Logan considered mounting and riding down the maddened horses, but that could wait.
They would not run far with the body dragging. When he came back south Logan could pick up the horses as spares.
The girl would need clothing. The dead smoker had not fouled his pants so Logan dragged them from the body. The ambusher wore braided hemp sandals. Better than bare feet, they would do. The man had rested on a thickly woven serape. It too could cover the woman's nakedness. Logan tied the garments to the horse and mounted.
Diego Garcia heard the first shot with chagrin. He had been sure that he would be the one to bring down the mountain devil. Punto Negra had believed the same, and there had been pride in being chosen for the most difficult task of all. Perhaps Manuel would share with him. Even a few dollars would be welcome because Diego, the rat, had lost nearly all at the accursed cards.
Diego did not move because their leader had made him swear and repeat that he would not budge until the night had passed or the girl had wandered beyond shooting range. The day was still early, and the girl had only shifted about. He had believed the devil would appear at any moment, and he would win one hundred Yankee dollars. Then came the shot from Manuel's place. Diego the rat had no luck.
He had been ordered to remain without moving until Manuel came for him, so he would do that, but his spirit was low, and his physical misery became barely tolerable.
Then the second shot, also from Manuel's hiding place. Diego became alert. Something was happening, and the fight had not been finished. Had Manuel missed the first time, perhaps even the second? Diego hoped so. One hundred dollars loomed as a treasure, and if Manuel died, the devil would be his because Diego the rat would not miss. He listened, senses straining for approaching horses, but even with his ear tight to the ground he heard nothing.
Punto Negra's plan had been special, and he, Diego the rat, had been chosen as the one to disappear into the closest hiding. While the mountain devil's attention was on the naked girl being fired at by one of their band, Diego slipped from his horse and was lost in the milling of other ridden animals and the dust raised by the tramplings of the remuda. A dummy disguised as a burden was quickly raised on another animal so that if the distant enemy counted, everyone would still be there.
Punto's snarling anxiety hurried his efforts, and before the shooting around the girl was finished, Diego had dug himself into the earth at a low spot and was flinging handfuls of dust over his body.
Punto had already made certain that Diego's fine rifle was wrapped in rags so that nothing could shine and give him away. The leader had even taken his spurs lest their glint be seen. The riders milled while he finished covering himself. Then Punto declared it perfect and again warned against movement before the following sun. The devil might be slow in coming, and he might choose night cover. Diego would wait, and he would win the great reward.
Manuel had been placed at a distance where he could shoot anyone coming from behind. That would not happen because if anyone approached, Diego would hear their horse and be up and firing.
His rifle was a Winchester repeater. It was not the new model once possessed by his friend Jose Perido, but it was a dependable model of 1866 that shot twelve times without reloading. Diego's too was a .44 caliber, although not as powerful as Jose's fine rifle. The mountain devil probably had Jose's rifle, and perhaps when he killed the devil the rifle would become Diego's. That would be a prize almost as fine as the one hundred dollars.
Diego the rat's task was of the simplest. When he believed the devil was close enough he would rise from the ground like a cursed Apache and shoot into the devil until his gun was empty. The range would be only ten steps, and he could not miss.
The devil would stop beside the girl. Diego decided he would give their enemy an extra moment to dismount and move away from his horse. If any of his bullets hit the girl he would not care. Selling the girl in Caliente would profit only the leader, and Diego believed Punto had already won enough from his men.
Logan left the smoker's body where it had fallen. He could collect the other body, the horses and the rifles and valuables later. Now the girl was his objective.
Shaken by his misjudgment of Punto's plan, and the unexpected appearance of the horse holder, Josh took time to glass the surrounding country. He saw no dust rising, and he detected no movement. He mounted and had to step down to adjust the stirrups. Most Mexicans were small and riding their saddles was uncomfortable.
Logan rode to the girl slowly. Still far out he began calling her name. The woman had gone through hell, and he was relieved when her head rose to look at him. He lifted a hand from the Spencer lying across his thighs to wave, but he did not rush forward. The girl would already be at the edge of collapse. A few moments for her to gather herself could help later on.
He saw Julie Smith rise and clutch her ragged blanket around her. She seemed to attempt to speak, but no words came. Logan said, "It's me Josh Logan, Julie. I've come to take you home."
To his astonishment, the girl began flailing an arm pointing off into the desert somewhere. Her throat still closed, she struggled for words, but none came. Her frantic motions became even more desperate, and Josh's hackles rose. Still riding, he sent his eyes searching, but there was nothing.
Then Josh Logan remembered. His mind flew back to a time long gone when a group of scouts had been attacked by a party of silently charging Apaches who had risen from the earth like ghosts from graves. The Apaches had buried themselves along the trail until the scouts were inside their trap. Scouts had died that day before the Indians had disappeared as suddenly as they had risen.
Logan stopped his horse. His eyes sharpened, and he half raised the Spencer and cocked the hammer. Still he saw nothing, and as suddenly Julie Smith regained her voice. Her scream cut like a saw along Josh's straining nerves, but she kept pointing, and Logan kept looking.
There it was, the earth flew, and a form heaved into view. Logan saw a rifle, and without hesitation he shot into the moving and heaving earth behind it.
Diego the rat cursed as the woman screamed. He had been listening closely, his ear to the earth, feeling the trembles of the horse's feet striking. As tight as a coiled snake he waited. Only a few yards more he believed.
The horse stopped, Diego gathered himself, and the woman screeched like a scalded panther. He rose like a creature from a world below, and saw the devil still astride. He also saw the rifle pointing at him and was amazed by the age of the face behind it. Perhaps this was the real devil after all.
As a bullet hit his body his own gun fired, and Diego wondered if he had killed the devil. His wound let him operate his rifle's action, but he was somehow slowed, and another mighty blow stuck him near the middle.
His mind cursed because the Gringo devil was shooting him into rags. His rifle's lever clicked closed, and he fought the weapon to his shoulder. Strange, he could not see his enemy. Then, he was hit again, and he knew his rifle barrel was pointing into the dirt. He fought to raise it, but the weapon had become heavy. Diego, the rat, felt himself sliding into his hole and realized with fading awareness that his hiding place would also be his grave.
Logan lowered the Spencer, his own pain making him clumsy. He had been hit in the hip. He feared to look because any hip wound was a crippler, and here deep in Mexico it was more likely to be a killer.
The small Mexican had been tougher and quicker than Logan could have imagined. They had fired almost together, and Logan believed his shot should have killed anyone, but the Mexican only jerked a little. The bandit's bullet had sledged him as if it had been a cannon, but there had been only pain without the expected instantaneous numbing that often allowed temporary functioning.
He had worked the Spencer's action, mentally swearing at the need to haul back the hammer for each shot. At under fifty feet he dumped a second shot into the ambusher's chest, but still the man worked at his rifle. A third time, Logan fired and through his cloud of powder smoke he saw the .56 calibe
r slug come out of the raider's back and plow up dirt.
Finally the bandit sagged, his rifle fell away and he slid halfway into his burrow. Logan made his eyes move, but no other figures rose from their graves.
Now, Logan dared a look at his wounded hip. His heart leaped and his courage soared. He would have a monstrous bruise, but there was no blood. He had not been wounded. The Mexican's bullet had struck the wooden box storing his Spencer loading tubes, and Logan remembered how tempted he had been to leave the clumsy thing behind.
He examined the box. Ruined, but one ammunition tube still serviceable he judged, and some cartridges in the others still usable. Sometimes impact exploded cartridges, but not this time. He would find something to tie the box back together. Josh Logan would have a damned sore leg and hip, but the injury was temporary.
When he spoke his voice was sharper than he intended. "Are there any more of them?"
The girl's body shuddered uncontrollably, as if a freezing cold had struck her. She swung her head in a decisive no, but seemed unable to speak again.
Still watching the desert around them, Logan dismounted. He recognized the girl. He had paid no particular attention to her or other young women of the village, but he recalled this one. He tried to place her family but was unsure. For the moment it did not matter. What was important now was for this girl, now a woman in all ways, to reach into her soul and find the strength to carry on.
As a moral Mormon woman, all that she held dear had been violated beyond repair. What had been torn from her could never be replaced, and for as long as she lived she would remember and others would know about what had happened to Julie Smith. Logan gathered his own wits to do what he could.
Concentrating on the Smith girl was not as easy as it could have been at another time. Josh Logan, too old to even be this woman's grandfather, had within the last two days killed so many men he was losing count, and a portion of his mind insisted on remaining aware that he was not yet finished, and that the desert around them might still hold unknown dangers.
He had ridden too far, slept too poorly, and strained too totally to possess the gentleness Julie Smith probably needed. What Josh Logan might provide was backbone.
He limped to the slender figure huddled within her skimpy blanket. His hip ached with bone deep pain that stretched his patience, but he fought his voice calm and mellowed it with slow spoken words, as if speaking to a child still learning the ways of life.
Holding his arms wide for enfolding, Josh said, "You are safe now, Julie. They won't hurt you again. I am here to make sure that they do not."
When he came closer, Julie Smith let him wrap her within his long arms and hold her tight to his chest. Her body was taut and radiated a fever-like heat. Josh could hear her breathing rasp, and recognized that this woman had been pushed almost beyond toleration. The hell of it was that he could not take the time to see her safely home, and could spend only hours comforting her, not the days of slow travel and long sleeping that she really needed.
God, how Logan hated what he had to do, but other awarenesses were also his. He remembered burned cabins with women raped and tortured with their men and children dead around them. He had sometimes held them as he now comforted Julie Smith, and the incredible fact was that despite the horrors inflicted on their bodies and their minds, most recovered. Most married again, and nearly all that remarried again had children and loving families.
Humans were resilient, and women appeared more able to cope with atrocities than were men who seized their axes, swords, or Spencers and went off to slay whomever had assaulted them.
If he could raise this girl's spirit enough for her to get home, she too would probably recover to live a full and meaningful life. Mormons cared for each other, and Julie Smith would be enveloped within her church's loving community.
Josh hoped he could summon the right words to make her hungry to return to whatever life held for her.
9
Punto headed his band south. His goal was Caliente where Juan of one eye could have his wound treated. The Indian rode at his leader’s hip, his features stoic, his wound held from his body to minimize jolting. Punto’s soul cringed with awareness of the agony that must be eating the Yaqui. There would also be the Indian’s recognition that unless he had dramatic treatment, his wound would kill him.
Even the best doctor would be lucky to save the life of anyone suffering a hand blown away with jagged bone protruding, and Caliente would not have a doctor of renown, if they had a doctor at all. Punto needed his tracker and foreman, so he would try.
Punto gave only occasional thought to the enemy who had hunted them. His plan was as sure as sunrise, and the long shooter would die. Hither Manuel or Diego the rat would shoot the devil dead. Punto expected it would be Diego, who had ridden with him on every raid since the first.
Like Juan of one eye, Diego was a Yaqui, and every Yaqui Indian that Punto had encountered possessed exceptional patience and exacting concentration. Told what to do, Diego’s mind would focus on his task, and nothing would turn him aside. The rat would rise from his shallow grave and shoot the gringo hunter to death.
As Punto had ordered, Diego would cut a pole from the Zapata woods and mount the devil’s severed head on it. He and Manuel would bring the girl and the head to him in Caliente. The story would travel widely, and all that heard would respect and fear the memory of Punto Negra.
The swift pace was too much for one of Punto’s wounded who collapsed and rolled from his saddle. His companions paused only long enough to make certain that the fallen man was truly dying before they stripped him of all they wanted and rode away trailing his horse.
At dark, Punto camped, and his men rolled into their blankets to sleep until morning light allowed travel. In late afternoon, the band reached Caliente and tied their weary animals at the sign of the rooster.
Punto slammed through the half door that barred entrance to village pigs and dogs and bellowed for the proprietor. What a wallow. The ceiling was so low his tall hat brushed it and left cleaned marks against the soot coating. The bar was built for Mexicans and was uncomfortable for taller gringos. Punto chose a table, and Juan sat with him. The Indian was stupefied with pain, and his movements were slow and poorly coordinated. Punto pounded the table and again called for the owner.
The man hustled in still fastening his single pants suspender. The keeper’s bow was groveling. He had known Punto, the raider, for many seasons, and the cantina owner remembered that Punto paid in silver and saw that his men paid as well.
"My man needs a doctor. Have whoever is available get over here."
The proprietor’s eyes rolled in anxiety, and his shrug was eloquent. "There is no doctor, Senor Punto Negra. We have only Maria to tend our sicknesses."
"Then send for Maria." Punto’s patience was ragged.
Again the most obsequious bow possible. "Maria will not come, Senor. All must go to Maria." A dirty finger pointed. "She is there, Senor Punto, only a few houses along the calle."
Punto was tempted to have the woman dragged to him, but he needed her best efforts, and smashing her face was not likely to help Juan of one eye.
He ordered pulque because Juan preferred it, gripped the bottle by the neck and slammed out the door. Juan and the two remaining men from Senor Wesley Seer’s distant hacienda followed behind.
Maria was to Punto’s eyes a slatternly old squaw who existed in a single room hovel so small they could not all enter. The woman examined Juan’s wound without flinching, and Punto supposed that she had seen far worse in her years in Caliente.
When she spoke her voice lacked emotion, and her words were uncompromising. "This man cannot live with his bones showing as they do." She pointed to the wound. "See, the red worms already start up the arm. The lines bring death."
Punto controlled his impatience. "So, what can you do?"
Without asking, Maria took the pulque bottle from Punto’s hand and swallowed from it. Then she handed it to Juan who
drank deeply.
Her shrug was coldly fatalistic. "Perhaps nothing will save this man. Most become fevered and die, but sometimes one lives. If this man wishes, we can try."
Punto felt hair rising on his neck. "What do you do?"
The woman turned to her fire and brought into a view a heavy wood ax. "First we cut off the damaged end. Then I place fire against the new wound to seal the bleeding and make a crust. I also pour whiskey over the wound." She shrugged. "Some believe it helps kill the red worms."
Punto was sickened. He spoke only to Juan. "Damn, amigo. What do you say?"
Juan of the one eye used English. "It must be done. If I live, I will reward the woman. If I do not, I want you to kill her."
Punto nodded acceptance. He shared Juan’s feelings.
The woman Maria remained all business. She held forth a palm. "Forty gringo dollars is the price."
Punto swore and laid the money in her hand. Juan said, "Do not sorrow, Senor, we can take it back."
The ax was handed to a man who carried it to the blacksmith who had a large sharpening stone. Maria placed a frying pan on her fire for heating and withdrew a small bottle from hiding.
"This drink will help with the pain."
Punto was dubious, but Indians did have remedies, and they could have a potent pain-killer.
"What is it?"
The woman had no give. "If it works, Senor, you do not care."
Punto’s grin was a snarl. "Give it to him."
"The drink is extra, Senor."
Punto slammed a silver dollar on Maria’s table. "The drink had better be good."
Maria did not bother to answer.
When she was ready, the woman ordered them all from her home, but Punto retreated only to the doorway where he could watch the procedure.
Dark Shadow Page 10