The statue of Santo Muerte dropped at his feet, McKenzie cut a forlorn figure as he stood on the riverbank alone. Then he lifted his head as a dozen lancers led by a resplendent officer splashed across the Rio Grande shallows on high-stepping horses. The officer halted the detail and then kneed his mount closer to McKenzie. In perfect English he said, “I should have you shot. The people were starving, those who believed your lies.”
McKenzie moved to untie his bandage but the officer said, “There is no need for that. You told the peons that you would lead them north where there was land and cattle for the taking. And you used the statue to make them believe you were an hombre santo, a holy man. Is that not so?”
McKenzie nodded, but his black eyes were defiant.
“The land north of here is owned by the Señora Kate Kerrigan,” the officer said. “Had you taken the people there, the State of Texas would have considered it a Mexican invasion, and we would have a war on our hands. Our nation is still recovering from the corrupt rule of Benito Juárez, and the last thing we need is a war. Do you understand?”
McKenzie nodded, his swollen face surly. But unwilling to remain silent, he untied the wrapping around his jaw and said, slowly and painfully, “That’s all a pack of lies, General. I never promised them anything.”
“Hiram H. Clay of the Texas Cattleman’s Association is a man of integrity, and it was he who alerted President Díaz by wire of the situation here on the river. It was no lie, as I’ve seen for myself.” The officer beckoned to a lancer and said something to him. The soldier kneed his horse forward, lowered his lance, and placed its steel point against McKenzie’s throat.
The officer said, “I am Colonel Martin Rios and my orders were not to kill you, McKenzie. But after this if I see you again on either side of the Rio Grande I will have you shot.”
Rios swung his horse away, and the lancer followed him, but the soldier left his calling card, a glistening ruby on McKenzie’s scrawny throat.
* * *
Unwilling to suffer the pain from his unbound jaw when he tried to talk, Slide McKenzie decided to write his words. He didn’t like talking to the Boswell boys anyway. He stepped into the saddle and then took a tally book and a stub of pencil from his shirt pocket. He scribbled a note and handed it to Bat.
KEEP KERRIGAN ALIVE UNTIL I GET BACK
The gunman grinned and touched his hat. “Sure will, Slide. Pity you lost so much of your bargaining power. All them Mexicans have gone with the army.”
Flushed with anger, McKenzie wrote again.
* * *
I STILL HAVE KERRIGAN
Then, after Boswell read the note, McKenzie dashed off another.
I PLAN TO BREAK HIS JAW AND THEN GUN HIM
Bat Boswell nodded. “A laudable ambition, Slide. Make him suffer as you are suffering, poor thing, huh?”
McKenzie nodded.
“One more little item, Slide,” Boswell said. “I mean, it’s hardly worth mentioning.”
McKenzie scowled his question and Bat said, “Don’t come back here empty handed.”
A quick scribble.
I’LL GET THE MONEY.
Sky Boswell looked up at McKenzie, his eyes icy. “And don’t even think about not coming back at all.”
McKenzie wrote again.
SO LONG AS KERRIGAN STILL BREATHES I’LL BE BACK.
Bat Boswell said, “Don’t worry, Slide, he’ll be here when you return with the money. We’ll fatten him up for you.”
Sky looked at his brother. “Fatten him? There’s barely enough grub left for us.”
Bat shrugged. “Hell, we’ll feed him his horse.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Cloud Passing jogged north through the brightening morning, heading for the only place he felt safe, the grove of oaks where he and Josiah Mosely had repaired the balloon. The morning sun slanted through the tree canopies, pinyon jays quarreled among the branches, and insects made their small music in the grass, but there was no sign of Josiah Mosely.
Cloud Passing grunted, stepped into the middle of a clearing, and hunkered down to wait. He was sure that sooner or later Mosely would show, and maybe he would bring grub.
But at that moment, his taped-up hand hidden behind his back, Josiah Mosely perched uncomfortably on the edge of a chair in Kate Kerrigan’s parlor, balancing a cup of tea on his lap as he said his farewells. Kate sat in silence as her lady’s maid brushed her shining, luxuriant mane, and her green eyes never left Mosely’s face. His lopsided glasses and unruly hair gave him the look of a slightly deranged college professor.
Mosely spoke with a lump in his throat. “I have enjoyed my stay, Mrs. Kerrigan, but I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough, and I have to be moving on.”
Not long from bed, Kate’s magnificent body was still warm, and Mosely fancied that he could feel its perfumed heat.
“You have not imposed on me in the least,” Kate said. “In fact I have enjoyed your company and my wonderful balloon flights.”
Mosely blushed and stammered, “I’m sorry about your ankle, Mrs. Kerrigan.”
The horrified maid momentarily paused in her brushing since any mention by a gentleman of a lady’s body part was a serious breach of etiquette, but Kate merely smiled and said, “A sprained ankle is a small price to pay for touching the sky, Mr. Mosely. Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay for just a while longer?”
“No, ma’am, my bags are packed, and I’m leaving today,” Mosely said.
“Then your mind is made up. You’ve made many friends here, Mr. Mosely,” Kate said, a small lie. “Do come back and see us.” She extended her hand, and Mosely took it in his and bowed. “Will you make it rain somewhere?” Kate said. “In your red balloon?”
“Yes,” Mosely said. “And I will bring the thunder and the lightning.”
He and Kate stared into each other’s eyes for long moments, and finally Kate said, “May God go with you, Mr. Mosely.”
* * *
The balloon was tethered about a mile north of the Kerrigan mansion and tugged on its rope anchors like a Thoroughbred eager for the track. Mosely tossed his carpetbags inside and then climbed into the basket. After the straw and alcohol spirits in the burner were alight and the hydrogen heated, the envelope swelled, and he hauled in the sandbag anchors. Once aloft it was Mosely’s intention to catch a south wind, but the breeze, such as it was, pushed him north at barely treetop height. About a mile ahead of him he saw something run out of the oaks. A man? Or was it a deer? The wind dropped, and the balloon scudded across the flat, the basket only five or six feet above the ground. Mosely’s eyesight was not of the best, but he made out the figure of a man. Whoever he was, the man waved his arms, trying to catch Mosely’s attention, and he ran back and forth, obviously trying to anticipate the balloon’s errant path. The basket bounced across the grass, sometimes bounding ten feet into the air before dropping again. With his good hand Mosely held on to the basket for dear life and saw the male figure run toward him. The man wore buckskins, and his long hair streamed as he sprinted, for the basket. Now Mosely recognized him as Cloud Passing.
“No! Go away!” Mosely yelled, frantically waving his hand. “Bad Indian!”
He knew he was going to his death, but Cloud Passing had no need to die with him. It was a moral dilemma, but two events resolved it for Josiah Mosely. The first was that Cloud Passing jumped for the basket and held on to the rim, his feet dangling. The second was the arrival of a cowboy posse that was all too delighted to take potshots at the balloon and its occupants.
Mosely left the balloon to its own devices and grabbed Cloud Passing’s wrists. The Cheyenne was a big man and heavy, but between Mosely’s hauling and the Indian’s scrambling, Cloud Passing managed to tumble into the basket. Bullets ripped into the wicker, and Mosely figured they were done for, but then the fickle prairie wind finally decided to cooperate. A random gust hurtled the balloon skyward, and when Mosely looked down the posse had shrunk into insignificance, like so man
y scurrying ants. Now and then he saw a puff of smoke from a rifle, but the soaring balloon was well out of range.
Cloud Passing, normally a stone-faced man, stared at Mosely and grinned from ear to ear.
“That was fun, huh?” Mosely said, irritated. “You almost got me killed, and those rannies were shooting at you, not me.”
“Where we go, Mose-ly?” Cloud Passing said.
“South, if I can catch an upper-level wind.”
“Then I go with you,” the Cheyenne said.
Mosely shook his head. “I need to go alone. I have something I must do.”
“I go,” Cloud Passing said. “I no want to stay here and get hung.”
“You could die, understand? I mean kick the bucket, perish, expire, turn up your toes, get your suspenders cut. Die. Catch my drift?”
“I go with you,” the Indian said. Then, after a while, “Cheyenne already dead. Gone. Swept away by the wind.” He smiled. “Bill Cody say that . . . the Red Man was swept away by the wind.”
Mosely straightened his glasses and looked into Cloud Passing’s black eyes and to his surprise he saw ancient pain. “Then we’re both doomed, you and I,” he said.
Cloud Passing made a gesture with his hand. “Swept away by the wind, Mose-ly.”
“Then we’ll hope it’s one that will sweep us south,” Mosely said.
CHAPTER FORTY
His hat pulled low over his eyes to shade him from the relentless sun, Slide McKenzie did not see the hot-air balloon that passed over his head as it was thrown around the sky by a fitful wind. Had he noticed, he probably wouldn’t have given the craft a second thought, wrapped up as he was in a cocoon of pain, fury, and greed.
It was his third day on the trail north and he held his bony mustang to a walk, his mind working.
His first thought was to pick up the ransom money and keep on riding. Now that the Mexicans were back across the Rio Grande, it was a viable option, since he wouldn’t need to share with the Boswell brothers. But that meant forgoing his revenge on Trace Kerrigan and leaving angry Boswells on his back trail, a bad move. Slide forced his mouth open and spat over the side of his horse, and strands of saliva dripped from his chin. No, it was out of the question. His throbbing jaw had helped him make up his mind. Among the finds he’d discovered at the mission was an old leather glove reinforced with metal plates and spiked studs across the knuckles. It was a fearsome weapon that could shatter a man’s jaw with one punch. Trace Kerrigan’s jaw. He’d let the pretty boy suffer until his jaw suppurated and then he’d kill him. Slowly. The mental picture that formed in McKenzie’s brain thrilled him, and suddenly the day seemed brighter and he looked forward to soon acquiring his newfound wealth.
McKenzie drew rein and tested the level of the water in his canteen. It was low, but he was on Kerrigan range and was not far from the ranch house. He tilted the canteen to his mouth and drank through clenched teeth, water running down his cheeks and chin. When he finished he rubbed his sleeve across his wet mouth then looked up and saw riders coming toward him out of the heat haze. Two of them, taking their time.
McKenzie slid a Winchester from the boot and carried it upright, the butt on his right thigh. He watched the riders come.
They were two young men, riding blood horses. McKenzie figured that one could be a Kerrigan. The other older rider had the hard-eyed, ready look of a seasoned draw fighter. That man was tense, dangerous, and he’d be almighty sudden.
Slide McKenzie nodded. And then Frank Cobb stared at his bound-up chin and said, “What the hell are you?”
“Jaw’s broke,” McKenzie said, tightly.
“Are you Slide McKenzie?” This from the younger man.
McKenzie nodded.
“I’m Quinn Kerrigan, Trace’s brother.”
McKenzie realized that he was treading on eggshells. Both these men had reason to kill him. He decided to brass it out. Removing his hat, he untied the jaw band, and said, painfully, “Mrs. Kerrigan is expecting me.” He quickly retied the bandage and some of the pain eased.
“You’re a sorry piece of trash, McKenzie,” Frank said.
“I know what I am,” the man said, forcing out each word from his shattered jaw.
“Boot the rifle, now, or I’ll kill you,” Frank said.
McKenzie managed an insolent smile and then slid the Winchester back into the scabbard.
“You come with us,” Quinn said. “And on the way give us an excuse to gun you.”
“Not likely, Mary Ann,” McKenzie said, his strangled voice thin as a wire.
* * *
Kate Kerrigan would not meet Slide McKenzie in her home. Helped by a couple of her maids, she made her way downstairs and managed to hobble outside, where a chair was provided for her. Bill Cody had been visiting and stayed close by. Kate had told him about McKenzie’s extortion, and he vowed to shoot the man dead “instanter.”
Facing a sea of hostile faces including Frank Cobb, Quinn, and Kate’s domestic staff, McKenzie seemed less sure of himself. Jazmin Salas’s husband Marco, the KK blacksmith, carried a huge hammer and growled threats against McKenzie under his breath.
Slide badly wanted away from there but he couldn’t talk his way out of this situation. He took out his tally book, scribbled some words, tore out the page, and handed it to Kate.
WHERE IS MY MONEY
Kate threw the paper aside and said, “If you harm my son in any way I’ll hang you, McKenzie.”
Writing was too slow. McKenzie said, “I want my money.” He sounded like a wounded animal.
“Frank, give this trash the money sack,” Kate said.
Frank Cobb picked up a stuffed flour sack and threw it into McKenzie’s chest. The man grinned and nodded. Then he opened the sack and shrieked. McKenzie pulled out a handful of torn-up newspapers and waved it at Kate. Pain or no, he opened his mouth and yelled, “You’ll regret this, you lying, cheating bitch!”
“It’s the only money you’ll get from me, you piece of human dirt,” Kate said, her eyes full of green fire.
“Your son is a dead man, you hear? He’s a dead man,” McKenzie screamed. He groaned, clutched his martyred jaw, and sank slowly to the ground.
Kate looked at the whimpering man without pity and then said, “Mr. Cody, do you have a zoo cage for this animal?”
“I certainly have, dear lady, a coyote cage that hasn’t been cleaned out in weeks,” Bill said.
Kate smiled and clapped her hands, “Capital, Mr. Cody!” she said. “What crackerjack accommodation.”
“Before you do I’ll need his clothes,” Frank Cobb said. He made a face. “But they look mighty disgusting.”
Quinn grinned and said, “I’m glad it’s you, Frank, and not me.”
“You’re my helper, remember?” Frank said. “You’ll need to find some rags to wear yourself.”
McKenzie’s swollen face purpled with anger. His fist closed on a rock that he threw at Frank Cobb’s head. Frank dodged the missile, grinned, and said, “Try that again, Slide, and we’ll hang you sooner rather than later.”
“Draw fighter? Damned back shooter more like,” McKenzie said, every word its own separate little agony.
“You’re sure a sore loser, ain’t you, Slide?” Frank said.
“I haven’t lost . . . not yet,” McKenzie said. “I always win in the end.”
By nature Slide McKenzie was a talking man and to find himself unable to string words together was a trial to him. He decided that his talking was done, at least for now.
Bill Cody stepped into the clothing breach. “Mr. Cobb, I am unaware of your reason for wishing to borrow McKenzie’s sartorial splendor, but my show’s seamstress can duplicate his duds. I can assure you that in consideration of a small remuneration, she’ll do a first-rate job and do it quickly.”
“We’ll pay the lady, Mr. Cody,” Kate said. “And if you care to join me later for an aperitif I can disclose my son’s plan to you. It is, to say the least, fraught with danger and uncertainty, but again
st my better judgment I’ve decided to take the gamble.”
“It will be my pleasure to join you later, Kate,” Bill said, giving his customary bow. “And I’m sure your son Trace would want you to roll the dice rather than pay extortion money.”
“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” Kate said. “I’m putting a lot of faith on the speed of Frank Cobb’s gun and Quinn’s bravery.”
“I won’t let you down, Kate,” Frank said. “And I won’t let Trace down, either.”
“I know you won’t, Frank. And now I must be out of this sun,” Kate said. She pointed at McKenzie. “It’s time this monster was locked up where he belongs.”
For his part McKenzie had been listening intently to this exchange and he realized he’d lost his ability to bargain, at least for now. But another ace in the hole might just have presented itself . . . a face in the crowd . . . perhaps someone he could intimidate into helping him.
* * *
The next morning Moses Rice was preparing young Pete Letting’s breakfast when Kate hobbled into the kitchen, supported by a cane and her lady’s maid. “Moses, have you seen my son and Frank Cobb?” she said. “I can’t find them anywhere.”
Before Moses could answer, the boy said, “They rode out already, told me not to tell anybody.”
Kate frowned, accepted a chair from Flossie, and gratefully sat down. “Did you know about this, Moses?”
The old black man looked guilty. “Mr. Quinn told me that you’d get cold feet at the last minute and try to stop him, and so I wasn’t to tell you until they was two hours gone.”
“And are they, Moses? Are they two hours gone?” Kate said.
“They pulled out at first light, Miz Kate,” Moses said. “I’m real sorry.”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 18