by Jory Sherman
He was a military man, but he knew he didn’t stand much of a chance against Trask and Ferguson with the men he had under his command.
But that was a bridge he’d cross when he came to it.
And, he knew, he might have some help by the time they got to the last stage stop.
The old stage road led straight into Indian territory, home of the Chiricahua Apaches. And Cochise.
Chapter 17
Trask stood in a corner, his arms folded, his eyes closed. He had dozed like that for two hours or more. Ferguson had rescued a chair and was sitting in it, leaning against the north wall of the adobe. The Mexicans had taken turns sleeping in wet bunks. One of them, Fidel Gonzalez, stood guard at a window, his eyelids at half mast as he looked out over the crumbled wall. The land was a mystery of darkness, flooded over, earthy smells hanging in the air like a nightmarish odor borne of dead animals.
“You wake me when it’s daylight, Fidel,” Trask had told the sentry. “Or just before first light. Savvy?”
Fidel had not replied, but nodded that he understood.
Now he approached Trask and put a hand on his elbow. Trask jerked awake, startled, wide-eyed, caught for a moment in that confusing state between sleep and wakefulness.
“Yeah?”
“Es la madrugada,” Fidel said. “The dawn. It comes.”
“All right,” Trask said. He walked over and put the toe of his boot in Ferguson’s shin, rousing him from his shallow reverie.
“Wh-Wha…?” Ferguson said as his chair rocked away from the wall and he had to struggle to maintain his balance.
“Time to get crackin’, Hiram,” Trask said. “See if our horses washed away during the night.”
The rest of the men came out of their collective stupor, groaning, yawning, stretching, as if they had been roused from the dead.
“Lou, you and the Gonzalez brothers go check on the horses real quick,” Ferguson said as he rose to his feet, kicked the chair away.
“Willy,” Trask said to Rawlins, “you check around outside.”
“Yeah, boss,” Rawlins said. He knew what Trask meant. The man wanted to know if Cody was anywhere to be seen. He hefted his rifle and strode out of the adobe in the wake of the Gonzalez brothers, mud sucking at his boots with every step. Lou Grissom got up off one of the bunks.
“I’ll go with you, Willy,” he said, grabbing his rifle and falling in behind Rawlins. “Anything to get out of this damned shithouse.”
Trask walked to the opening in the wall, looked out at a bleak world overhung with gray, elephantine clouds. He adjusted his eyes to the faint light, stared at the washed-out roadway.
“At least the damned rain’s stopped,” Ferguson said, walking up beside him.
“It stopped an hour ago, Hiram,” Trask said.
“Hell, I musta been asleep. I can still hear it, seems like.”
“That’s the roof leaking. Let’s get the hell out of here. Lou was right. This is a shithouse.”
“Men are pretty tired, Ben. Me, too.”
Trask turned on Ferguson.
“You keep that to yourself, Hiram. I don’t want to hear no whinin’. We lost time because of that storm. Time we got to make up, wearin’ out horseflesh. I don’t want no slackers today.”
“Hell, Ben, I was just—”
“I know what you were doin’, Hiram. Best to keep your mouth shut about such around the men.”
“I get you,” Ferguson said, and started for the door.
Trask laughed and stepped over the broken wall and outside. Men were such damned sheep, he thought. If all the walls had been down and a door frame the only thing left standing, they would all walk through that empty doorway. Habit, stupidity, he didn’t know which. He met a sheepish Ferguson and they walked up the rise, barely able to see the ground. The rains had washed the slope clean, pretty much, and dead vegetation was strewn everywhere. Little piles of rocks stood at the end of now barren rivulets where streams of water had rushed down to join the flood.
Trask heard the horses nickering up on the rise. Rawlins and Grissom stood a few yards up the slope, both looking to the west.
“See anything, Willy?”
“Nope,” Rawlins said. “Can’t see far, but it’s mighty quiet.”
“You keep an eye out until we all get mounted. I’ll bring your horse down to you.”
“Lou, you come on with me,” Ferguson said. “See can we get some grain into our horses.”
“Don’t give ’em much,” Trask said. “A handful, maybe.”
“You got any heart at all, Ben?” Ferguson said as he puffed while climbing up the slope.
“I got the heart of a bull,” Trask said, as if taking Ferguson seriously. “I just don’t want them horses to founder. We got some ridin’ to do.”
“Welch will wait for us if we’re not there on time.” Ferguson was still short on breath, but he gamely trudged on up the slope.
“You know that for certain, Hiram?”
“We got maybe five or six days leeway. Hell, I just sent word to him yesterday. My rider probably won’t reach the fort for a couple more days.”
“You forget. I got Cody on my trail. Him and no tellin’ how many others.”
“I ain’t forgettin’. You plan to outrun him? Maybe wear out our horses? We ain’t got no spares.”
“You can’t outrun a man like Zak Cody, Hiram.”
Ferguson was puffing so hard by then he could hardly muster enough breath to speak. He stopped and drew in breath through his nostrils. Trask didn’t wait for him. He continued on toward the horses, counting heads as he walked.
Ferguson started walking again, but his lungs were burning.
“Too damned much gut,” he said to himself, every breath a draught of fire.
“Don’t give ’em too much fodder, boys,” Trask said as he reached the men. “They’ll have plenty of water to drink once we get goin’.”
Ferguson caught up with Trask. He leaned over, hands just above his knees, struggling to quench the flames in his lungs. His belly sagged below him like an extra hundred-pound sack of oats. He wheezed like a blacksmith’s bellows, and all the men looked at him with something like pity in their eyes.
“Jesus,” Ferguson breathed, and stood up straight, hands on his hips.
“You better pray, Hiram,” Trask said, a smear of sarcasm coating his tone. “That belly of yours is goin’ to be the death of you.”
“I know it,” Ferguson said, still panting. “That old lady of mine feeds me too many frijole beans and beefsteak.”
“It ain’t the beans and beef, Hiram, it’s the damn beer. You got to cut out all the B’s in your grub.”
The men all laughed, enjoying that moment of levity after a nightmare night and at the start of a grim gray day.
Trask looked back down at Rawlins, beckoned to him. Rawlins turned and started up the slope, Grissom following a few steps behind.
“What plan you got for gettin’ rid of Cody?” Ferguson asked as he walked to his horse and patted the animal on the neck.
“I’m chewin’ on it,” Trask said.
“Well, when you got it all chawed, you let me know, eh?”
“Which one of your men is the best shot with a rifle?” Trask pulled the makings out of his pocket, felt the sack to see if it was still dry. It was. He fished out a packet of papers, which was also dry, took one out and began rolling a cigarette.
Ferguson looked at his men. One of them widened his eyes. Ferguson nodded.
“Pablo Medina there. He’s a right good sharpshooter. Seen him take down a antelope once’t at better’n five hundred yards.”
Trask looked at Medina. He was young, wiry, with high cheekbones, almond eyes black as tar, a stylus-thin moustache, square-cut sideburns. His cheeks bore the faint roses of Indian blood running in his veins.
“Medina, huh? He don’t look like much,” Trask said. “Could have been a lucky shot.”
“He takes down deer, runnin’ deer, all the
time at better’n two hunnert yards, Ben. The man’s got a feel for a rifle, any rifle. But that’s a new Winchester in his boot. He bore-sighted hisself and he shoots one-and two-inch groups on targets real regular. Sometimes, I think Pablo cut his teeth on a rifle barrel. Comes real natural to him.”
“All right. I’ll take your word for it,” Trask said.
“Want me to call him over?”
“Not yet. What about Grissom? Can he shoot?”
“He’s a fair shot, all right. But Pablo, he’s the best I ever seed.”
Rawlins and Grissom came up.
“Didn’t see nothin’, Ben,” Rawlins said. “Lou didn’t see ner hear nothin’, either.”
“All right, Willy. See to your horses, you and Lou.”
In the gauzy light of a gray morning, a lone hawk soared overhead. A sign of life after a deluge, Trask thought. He watched the hawk float over a desolate land, some parts of it still invisible, for the sun had not yet risen. He heard the far-off yelp of a coyote, and the horses twisted stiffened ears to locate the sound, their rubbery nostrils sniffing the still, cool air.
Trask turned to Ferguson, who was just reaching for his saddle horn to pull himself aboard his horse.
“How far you reckon to the next old station, Hiram?”
“A long day’s ride, Ben. On muddy ground, maybe longer.”
“Cody will surely follow the road, same as us. If that ’dobe is still standing, maybe I’ll leave that Mex sure-shot there to bushwhack Cody.”
Ferguson pulled his arm down, turned toward Trask.
“You might be committing Pablo to a death sentence. Cody’s got O’Hara with him. That’s two against one right there. And you think this Cody ain’t by hisself. Might be Pablo would have to go up against a dozen or so rifles.”
“Might be. But he drops Cody, he’s got a good chance to make his getaway. If he can shoot and kill as far away as you say, he’d have a good chance to outrun O’Hara or them others. A man drops in a bunch, the rest all gawk and hightail it for cover until they figure out what the hell happened.”
“That’s so,” Ferguson said. He scratched the back of his head, tipping his hat forward. “I don’t know. I’d hate to lose Medina. He’s a good man. Got him a family, two little kids.”
“All the more reason he’d watch after his own hide after he kills Cody.”
“You make it sound real easy, Ben.”
They were whispering, almost, speaking in low tones, but the other men were looking at them. They were all on horseback, just waiting for Ben’s or Hiram’s orders. The horses switched their tails and tamped the ground with their forefeet, pawing dirt with their hooves.
“I’ll talk to Pablo on the ride to the next station, Hiram. Feel him out, see what he thinks about the whole idea. That good enough? If he don’t want to do me this favor, no hard feelings. I’ll get Willy to stake out that ’dobe and put some lead in Cody. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, I reckon. Seems to me, though, that you put a lot of your chips down on rubbing out one man. He must have really got under your hide, Ben.”
“It goes back a long way,” Trask said.
He walked to his horse and hauled himself into the saddle. Ferguson mounted his horse. All of the men were still wearing their slickers. Trask made a face and took off his raincoat.
“Pack them slickers away,” he said to the others. “You look like a bunch of yaller flowers. Anybody trailin’ us could spot you ten miles away.”
The men all removed their soogans and tied them to the backs of their saddles.
“Lead the way, Hiram,” Trask said. “I’ll ride with Medina. Gus and Willy can take up the rear. We’ll go two by two. Pick your man to side you.”
Ferguson motioned to Fidel Gonzalez, who rode up alongside him. Trask beckoned to Medina.
“You ride with me, Pablo,” he said. “We got some fat to chew.”
“Huh?” Medina said.
“Want to talk to you. Some palaver.”
“Yes. We ride together. You talk. I listen.”
Trask smiled. This was going to be easier than he thought. Medina might be just the man to get Cody off his back forever.
A thin line of pale light appeared on the eastern horizon. The sun was just edging up out of the darkness, casting an eerie glow over the land, tingeing the far clouds with cream and the faintest glimmer of gold.
Ferguson set a good pace, one that the horses might keep up for a good long stretch, Trask thought.
Trask smiled and looked over at Medina.
“So,” he said, “ever kill a man, Pablo?”
Chapter 18
Al Deets was going to be a problem. He already was, Zak thought. The man was doubled over, puking onto the ground, while Rivers and Scofield stood on either side of him, averting their eyes so they didn’t have to look at the vomit. They could avoid looking at the puke, but they couldn’t escape its smell. Deets’s face was florid, then drained of color as he finished retching. He stood up and sucked air into his lungs.
Colleen watched all this with a mingled look of compassion and disdain on her face. Zak shifted his gaze to her. She must have caught the movement of his head because she turned and looked at him from a few yards away. Her brother Ted was checking the cinches on her saddle, making sure they were snug but not too tight.
“You all finished throwing up, Deets?” Zak asked.
“I reckon.” Deets wiped a sleeve across his mouth.
“Should I put another bandage on that wound, Mr. Cody?” Scofield asked.
“No, he’ll be fine,” Zak said. He held out his black slicker to Scofield. “Put this on him, Corporal.”
“You want him to wear your slicker, Mr. Cody?”
“That’s what I said.”
Scofield took the slicker and helped Deets put his arms through the sleeves.
“Button it up good,” Zak said, taking off his hat. He removed the hat from Deets’s head and put it on his own. They were about the same size. Then he put his hat on Deets’s head, squared it up, made it fit tight.
“What’s all that for?” Colleen asked.
“We want him to look nice, don’t we?”
Then Zak turned to the two soldiers.
“Put him up on my horse,” he said. He walked to his horse and pulled his rifle out of its scabbard. The two soldiers stood there, looking puzzled.
“You want him to ride that fine black horse of yours?” Scofield said.
“And I’ll ride his.”
Deets looked pale, bewildered. The soldiers still stood there, as if uncertain that they had heard right. Rivers looked at Scofield, then back at Zak. Deets made some ugly sounds in his throat. Scofield stepped away from him. So did Rivers. But Deets didn’t throw up again. He swallowed and his eyes watered, but he stood there, looking forlorn and lost in that black slicker and under Zak’s black hat.
“Get Deets up on that horse, now,” Zak told Scofield. “Then tie his hands. Loop the rope through that hole between the horn and the seat.”
“Yes, sir,” Scofield said. “Soon as he gets through bein’ sick.”
“He’s through,” Zak said. He stood, holding Nox’s reins, avoiding Colleen’s penetrating gaze. He looked to the eastern sky, saw the horizon brim with a pale light, a light tangled up in blankets of gray clouds. Some of the clouds began to brighten, with thin rims of gold that flickered and paled to yellow rust as they drifted toward the horizon, swallowing up some of the scraps of that feeble light.
“Zak,” Colleen said, striding toward him, “I want to talk to you.”
“Not now,” he said.
“Now, Zak.”
He saw that she was determined, and she looked as if she had something in her craw, all right. He shrugged.
“Make it quick.”
“Privately,” she said, taking his arm and leading him away from the others.
“You got some push in you,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
“Maybe it’s time someb
ody did push you, Zak Cody.”
“Uh-oh. When you use both my names, I know you’re mad.”
“Damned right I’m mad.”
He could see the flare of anger in her blue eyes. There was an ocean in her, and he knew he was seeing only a small part of its surface. He felt drawn to her by those sparkling eyes, mesmerized by the clarity he saw in them. She was like a striking serpent at that moment, and he felt impaled on an invisible thorn.
When the two were well out of earshot of the others, Colleen released her grip on his arm.
Again she skewered him with her piercing gaze.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“With me? Zak Cody, I didn’t take you for a cruel man. Not once, since I met you. But the way you treat that man—that Deets—is just deplorable. Now you are going to have him tied to his horse like a—a trophy—or something you’ve shot.”
“I did shoot him. But that’s not why I’m having him tied to his horse. Deets is a dangerous man.”
“And you tortured him. You know the man is wounded, so you deliberately touched his wound to make him talk. That’s torture.”
“Ma’am, I think you missed your calling.”
“My calling?”
“Yes, you ought to be a missionary, going out and saving the miscreants of this world from the likes of me.”
“Don’t try to make light of this, Zak Cody. You’re a cruel man, after all.”
“That man, Deets, had important information. Vital information. His boss, a man named Ben Trask, is joining up with a military detachment to stir up a war with the Chiricahua Apaches. Now that’s cruel, little lady. Not what I did to Deets. I just touched him on a sore spot.”
“Don’t you call me ‘little lady,’ you—you scalawag. Oh, what an arrogant, self-righteous man you are. I could…”
“Could what?”
“I…I don’t know. Scratch your eyes out, maybe.”
Zak laughed, but it was a mirthless and wry laugh that was not without a touch of scorn.
“Now, scratching a man’s eyes out,” he said, “that would be cruelty. To a high degree.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, miffed by his logic.