“An hour won’t kill us. We can ride harder later. Going to have to.” Lucas paused. “Just relax. Keep your leg below your heart, and pulse the belt every five minutes or so.”
Lucas stood and moved to Tango. Ruby followed him to the horse, glanced over at Colt, and then spoke softly to Lucas. “I don’t mean to jinx this, but doesn’t it seem like this trip is turning into a disaster?”
Lucas looked off at the endless desert. “Can’t argue that one. But if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“I’m worried, Lucas.”
He nodded. “Me too, Ruby, me too.”
Chapter 9
A column of riders crested the rise. The men’s faces were tanned the color of pecans beneath their cowboy hats, and rivulets of water from the tail end of the downpour streamed from the straw brims like tiny waterfalls. Eight in all, they toted assault rifles and wore flak jackets, their jeans faded from constant sun.
The Apache patrol worked its way west, one of many chartered with scouting the territory for interlopers trying to traverse the area without paying. The men were thin, with the rawboned look of men used to living hardscrabble off the land; the patrols operated in the field for weeks at a time before returning to the reservation headquarters for supplies and rest.
This patrol had been on the road for six days, entrusted with the southwestern boundary of the Indian nation. So far the trip had been uneventful, with no sign of life other than an occasional animal or bird of prey. The storm had made for unpleasant conditions, but the men rode without complaint, accustomed to anything nature could throw their way.
The lead rider slowed as he peered through the drizzle at a depression ahead in the wet sand. He raised a pair of ancient binoculars and scanned the area, and then stopped his horse and motioned to the rest of the party to do the same.
“One of the traps collapsed,” he said, his voice low.
His second-in-command urged his horse forward until he was even with the lead rider. “Could be the storm.”
The leader nodded. “Lot of water came down. Let’s take a look.”
The men rode to the trail and paused where the trap’s corner hung in the pit below. Three of the men dismounted and made their way to the edge and stared into the hole. The leader pointed to the area near the opening.
“It wasn’t the storm. You can see tracks – faint, but they’re there. We’re lucky they haven’t washed away. This is recent. See?”
The second-in-command nodded. “Looks like at least five or six horses.”
“But there’s nothing in the trap,” one of the men said.
“Could be it was a near miss.”
The leader unslung his assault rifle and gestured at the tracks leading north. “They can’t have gotten far. Mount up. We’ll fix the trap later.”
The men obeyed, and the patrol followed the hoofprints along the trail. The drizzle increased to a cloudburst and the tracks began to vanish as the rain scrubbed them clean. By the time the downpour lessoned to a mist again, the prints were gone.
The leader stopped again at a fork in the trail and scrutinized the ground. He signaled to one of his men to dismount and inspect the area up close. The man obliged and studied the trail, walking slowly for a dozen yards up each tributary before returning with a glum expression.
“Can’t tell which they took.”
The leader looked to his second-in-command with a resigned sigh. “Take half the men and follow the right fork. I’ll take the left. Turn on your radio, but keep the volume down.”
“I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
“Do that.”
The tracker was swinging back into the saddle when the leader cocked his head, listening intently. He turned to his men.
“Did you hear that?”
The second-in-command shook his head. “No. What?”
The leader frowned. “A scream.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction?”
“That way,” he said, indicating the left fork. “Ed, follow us with the horses. If they’re close by, we better do this on foot so they don’t see us coming.”
The leader lowered himself from the saddle and waited as his men followed suit. Thirty seconds later the leader began creeping along the trail, the men now in a single file procession behind him, guns in hand, faces drawn and earnest as the last of the storm blew past.
Chapter 10
Carlton seemed to know the men hanging around outside of Rowdies, who were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes that burned something other than tobacco. They looked Luis over, taking in his tattoos without comment. Carlton nodded to the nearest man.
“Busy today?”
The man shrugged. “Not much going on. Why?”
“Trading post’s slower than molasses. Thought I’d show my friend here around.”
“Friend, huh?” the man echoed, pointedly eyeing Luis. “You ain’t from around here, are you?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Luis softened his tone. “What’s that you’re smoking?”
The man laughed. “Little of this, little of that. You know.”
Luis smirked. “Yeah.”
“You want any, you know who to ask.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Carlton pushed through the swinging double doors and led Luis into a darkened room twice as deep as it was wide. A long wooden bar stretched along one side, and a collection of battered circular tables occupied the floor. The far wall boasted a dozen booths. Luis waited as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and followed Carlton to the bar.
A heavyset man with a leonine head of red hair regarded them from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“What can I get you fellers?” he asked, his voice a growl.
Carlton shrugged. “Whiskey.”
Luis took in the bottles behind the man, lined up like soldiers for inspection. “You got any tequila?”
The man nodded almost imperceptibly. “Got no-name rotgut and some El Jimador, from Mexico.”
“How much for the Jimador?”
The bartender named a figure in ammo. Luis nodded. “I’ll take a shot.”
The bartender took his time pouring the drinks into chipped glasses before setting them down in front of Luis, who slid several cartridges to him in trade. The bartender inspected the rounds and grunted affirmation, and Carlton and Luis raised their glasses.
“To the road!” Carlton said. Luis didn’t respond, too busy surveying the men in the room, some at the bar behind the young man, others seated at the tables. Carlton took a pull on his drink and coughed. Luis downed half his tequila in a swallow and didn’t blink, savoring the burn as the fiery liquid slid down his throat and warmed his stomach. He set down his glass and looked at Carlton.
“So what have we got here?”
Carlton twisted to appraise the patrons and nodded at a hulk of a man at one of the tables, his bulk barely fitting in his chair.
“That’s Quincy. He might fit the bill. Meaner than a pit viper. But he likes to drink.”
“That’s okay. No booze on the trail. Desert makes an honest man out of everyone. Let’s talk to him.”
“Sure.”
Carlton carried his drink over to the big man and pulled up a chair. Quincy peered at him with bearlike eyes, his untamed beard and scraggly long hair giving him the appearance of a vagrant, and nodded. “Carl.” He shifted his attention to Luis, and his expression clearly conveyed he didn’t like what he saw. “Who’s this?”
“Name’s Luis,” Luis said. “I’m looking for a few good men.”
Quincy’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t swing that way.”
Luis laughed and sat down across from the big man. “Didn’t figure you did.”
Carlton cut in. “He’s looking for gunmen.”
Quincy smiled, revealing rotting teeth. “That right? For what?”
“Heading north. Looking to put together some fighters.”
&nbs
p; “Who you planning to fight?”
“Whoever we have to. We’re looking for some folks that stole some property from us.”
“Who’s us?”
Luis looked around to ensure nobody was eavesdropping. “You hear of the Crew?”
Quincy’s eyes widened. “Course. You Crew?”
“That’s right.”
“Long ways from home, aren’t you?”
“That’s why we’re hiring. We don’t want to wait around for backup.”
“How far you headed?”
“Far as necessary. You have any tracking experience?”
“Sure. You pick it up pretty quick out in the wild.” The big man frowned. “What’s the pay?”
Luis told him. Quincy drained his glass and burped before setting it down and leaning forward. “You’re shitting me.”
“No. I’m serious.”
“Who do I have to kill?”
The corner of Luis’s mouth twitched slightly. “Whoever we tell you to.”
Quincy shrugged. “Works for me.”
“I thought it might. Half in advance; half at the end of the job.”
“Done. When do we ride?”
“Soon.” Luis studied Quincy’s face, which looked like he’d been beaten with a meat hammer. “You know anyone else might be interested in the deal?”
“That pair,” Quincy said, indicating two men in the back of the bar at the last booth. “Rodriguez brothers. Got quite a rep. You heard of ’em?”
Luis shook his head. “No.”
“I have,” Carlton said. “Nothing good, either.”
“They know their way around a gun, and they ain’t shy,” Quincy said. “Just got to keep an eye on ’em, is all.” He coughed. “Spent some time in the joint. Murder’s the rumor.”
Luis nodded. “I’ll be back in a few.” Luis swiveled toward Carlton. “Stay here.”
Luis approached the men, who watched him as he neared with the dead stare of the prison yard. Both were whippet thin, with wisps of black facial hair on their upper lips and chins. The taller of them sported tattooed teardrops beneath his left eye and barbwire inked around his neck. The other had a scar running down the side of his face from his ear to his nose, the one eye sagging slightly either from the injury or the stitching.
Luis inclined his head to the men. “Got a minute?”
“Depends,” the older of the pair answered.
“Got a proposition.”
“If it don’t involve pay, good way to get yourself hurt.”
“It does.”
The older man gave him an oily smile. “Then have a seat.”
Luis did and tossed back the rest of his tequila. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you’re buying.”
Luis waved for the bartender, pointed at his glass, and held up three fingers. The man nodded and went to work. Luis sat back in his chair and studied the two men. Both had junkie pallors, their faces pockmarked and cruel, and their eyes periodically darted around the room with animal cunning.
“You spend a long time inside?” Luis asked.
“Some,” the one with the tattooed tears replied.
“Where?”
“PNM in Santa Fe. Four years.”
“Level Five?”
The man shook his head. “Six.”
“Brutal.”
“It was okay.”
The bartender arrived with the drinks and Luis counted out more ammo for him. When he was done, he raised his glass.
“I’m Len. That’s Marco,” the older one said.
They threw back the tequila. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Len said appreciatively.
“I have a job for two guys who don’t mind a fight.”
Len nodded. “I’m listening.”
“I’m after some people who stole from my group. The Crew. I have to get them back. You don’t steal from us.”
Len nodded again. “Magnus’s outfit. Houston, right?”
“Almost all of Texas now. Clear to Pecos.”
“How much, and for how long?”
“Probably a week or so.” He told them what Cano had offered. They exchanged a glance.
“That’s for a week or two?” Len asked.
“It could get snotty.”
“Hell, I’d walk through boiling lava for that. Where do we sign up?” Marco said.
“Guy running the show has to approve you. Name’s Cano.”
“Sounds good. When and where?”
“You got horses?”
“Of course.”
“What kind of shape are they in?”
“Good enough.”
“Any problem following orders? Cano doesn’t put up with crap.”
Marco shrugged. “He’s the boss. We do what he says.”
“And what I say.”
“Right.”
Luis stood. “You know the breakfast joint down by the trading post?”
“Sure.”
“Meet me there in an hour.”
Len threw a glance at Quincy. “You thinking of hiring him?”
“Already did. Why?”
“Dumb as a stump.”
“Not asking him to think.”
“It’s your money.”
“You have a problem working with him? Any bad blood between you?”
Len shook his head. “Nah. Just sizing up the competition, is all.”
“We’re going to be riding hard. No booze or dope.”
“Fair enough. When do we get paid?”
Luis explained the deal to them and told the pair where they were headed.
Marco’s eyes fixed on his. “You got a guide?”
“No.”
“Bad idea.”
“We’re working on it. That a problem?”
Len tilted his glass to his mouth to get the last few drops and then tossed it on the table with a clatter. “If you say it ain’t, then it ain’t.”
Luis allowed himself a small smile. “Right answer.”
Carlton and Quincy looked at him quizzically when he returned to the table and sat down heavily.
“They’re on board,” Luis said, and checked the time. “Damn. Going to be dark in a couple hours. We need to get back.” He told Quincy to meet them at the diner, and he rose. Carlton joined him, and they stepped out into the sunlight, blinking from the bright contrast to the dim bar interior.
The sheriff was standing across the street, now with two more men. He held out his index finger and pointed it at Luis, and then moved his thumb down, simulating shooting. Luis ignored him and they made for the trading post. Luis was more than anxious to be rid of the town, even if it meant the hostile wasteland stretching north.
Chapter 11
The rain abated as Lucas and Ruby prepared Colt to ride with his makeshift tourniquet. He gritted his teeth at the pain tracing up his leg, which he described as liquid fire in his veins. But he was still breathing, his vision was clear, and other than clammy sweat on his forehead, he seemed to be in reasonable shape, considering. He insisted on continuing their trek, reasoning that his horse hadn’t been bitten and that he could sit upright in the saddle as well as he could on the ground.
Sierra dressed the wound with antibiotic ointment and placed a pressure bandage on it, which relieved at least some of the localized pain. Lucas supported him under one arm and Ruby under the other, and he hopped toward his horse with a determined expression.
The sun broke through the overcast and Colt tried a smile, which turned sickly at the end. “See? An omen. I’ll be fine.”
Lucas nodded in agreement, even though he didn’t share the bartender’s optimism. Colt’s skin felt clammy to the touch, and Lucas suspected he was in low-grade shock from the bite.
They were preparing to boost Colt up into the saddle when Sierra cried out from behind them.
“Lucas!”
Lucas turned to see Sierra facing seven gunmen who’d materialized on the trail, all with assault rifles leveled at the
m. He cursed his M4 being slung on his shoulder and debated going for his Kimber, but stopped when the tall man at the front of the group spoke.
“Don’t move a muscle,” the man ordered. He angled his head at the nearest man on his right. “Collect their weapons. Shoot them if they so much as twitch.”
“Who are you?” Colt asked, his voice a rasp.
“We own this land. You’re trespassing.”
“You Apache?” Lucas asked.
The man nodded. “That’s right. And if you know that, then you know that to ride through our land without paying the price is a death sentence.”
“We…we had a guide,” Colt said. “Frank.”
The man’s expression remained stony. “Where is he?”
“He…he’s dead.”
“How?”
“A fight back at Roswell,” Colt managed.
“Frank? Bullshit. I knew him. He was level-headed.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do to him?”
“We didn’t do anything. He was attacked. We were supposed to meet him at the truck stop north of town. We got there, and he was dead. Gut shot, but he took the other guy with him.”
The Apache who was disarming them reached Lucas and removed his Kimber from its holster, gave it an admiring glance, and then tossed it on the ground with the rest of the weapons. Next came the M4, and he whistled when he hefted the gun.
“Serious artillery,” he said. Lucas didn’t comment.
When they were unarmed, the leader eyed Colt. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Snakebit. Rattler,” Lucas said.
“That’s some bad luck.”
“You have any tricks for treating a bite?”
“Tricks? Keep breathing as long as you can.”
Lucas nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
The man studied Lucas for another moment and then looked to Colt. “You say Frank was supposed to guide you?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you talk to headquarters about him getting shot?”
“No. We were on our way out of town. No radio. But we already paid. Talk to your people.”
“I will. Or you will.” The leader looked at the sky. “Tomorrow.” He turned to his men. “We’ll camp here tonight. Spot’s as good as any.”
The Day After Never - Covenant (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 3) Page 5