by Jeff Guinn
Mounting was hard; it was excruciating just lifting one foot up into the stirrup. Brautigan could have helped but didn’t; she understood that he wanted her to suffer without assistance. When she was up in the saddle he remounted too. Before they continued riding he pushed a canteen toward her face.
“Drink,” he said.
She shook her head. It made her very afraid to have his hand so near her.
“I said, drink. I don’t want you dropping from dehydration.”
Gabrielle gulped some of the water. It was warm and not at all refreshing.
“Indicate to me when you want to stop and piss again,” Brautigan said. He gathered her horse’s reins and they rode on, still going south.
—
WHEN THE SUN was about midway across the sky Brautigan halted again. Gabrielle saw a mountain range to her right. She didn’t know its name; she’d never gone this way before and was completely lost. Where could they possibly be going?
“Pee if you need,” Brautigan said, and Gabrielle did there in front of him. She no longer concerned herself with modesty. Her body hurt too much from the beating to squat. She relieved herself standing up, trying to keep her skirts and underthings dry and only partially succeeding.
Brautigan fished a can out of a pack and used a knife to open it. He handed it to Gabrielle.
“Peaches,” he said. “Eat what you can and drink the juice.”
She tried; the sweetness of the fruit and juice was cloying, especially in the heat. After a few mouthfuls she handed the can back to him. He tipped the can to his mouth and emptied it.
“Wait there while I attend to the animals,” Brautigan said. He got water from a cask, using his hat as a pail, and gave both horses and the mule some water. One at a time, he undid their bridles and let them eat some grain that he also offered them in his hat. That done, he wiped bits of grain from the hat and put it back on his head. On another man it might have seemed ludicrous, but nothing was ever humorous about Brautigan.
Gabrielle didn’t dare move while he performed these chores. She stood still until he said, “Back on the horse,” and she obeyed. Now she rode in a mental daze. It seemed too hard to think of anything beyond not being struck again. In late afternoon they crossed a creek—the animals drank, and Brautigan refilled canteens. They rode on, and the ground broke up somewhat, so they had to go slower. Gabrielle wondered if they would stop when it turned dark, and they did.
“No fire,” Brautigan said. “We don’t want company.” They ate canned peas and drank canteen water. The horses and mule were tethered nearby; Brautigan gave them more grain because they had no grass or plants to feed on.
“Tomorrow you may see some people you know,” he told Gabrielle. “Afterward, you’ll never name them to another soul. Do you agree?” She nodded. “Sleep on this,” he told her, and handed her a blanket. “No, don’t lay down yet. Hands out in front of you.” He bound her wrists with a length of rope. “Now down on the blanket.”
For a terrible moment, she thought he meant to rape her. But instead he said, “Legs straight out. Keep them together.” He used more rope to bind her ankles. “Don’t try to undo the knots and sneak away in the night. I’ll catch you, and you know what will happen.” She soon fell into a fitful sleep because she was so emotionally and physically exhausted. She woke several times during the night. Each time, Brautigan was seated nearby, watching her. Did he not need to sleep? How could he not be tired after the long, hot ride? She thought of Cash and wondered how this terrible man intended to use her to catch him. Then she remembered her father—who was caring for him? Events were entirely out of her control. She was at Brautigan’s mercy, and he had none.
—
STU VINCENT was a happy young man as he rode through the early morning, heading for a small camp he and some pards had going a few more miles east. Plenty of ore had been found up in Mountain View near the Pinals and down New Mexico way around Silver City. Stu and his friends, hearing about it while working their parents’ spreads out near Tucson, decided to turn their own hands to prospecting. There had to be more silver somewhere in that great middle distance between Mountain View and Silver City, just had to be. A family named Clanton staked out a town right about where the Tucson boys wanted to prospect, so Stu told the others he’d scout out other possible places to the north and west. He’d ridden hard for two days and finally paused near Table Mountain. The creeks along its base had some promising float, bits of eroded rock that Stu believed bore the faint black lines indicating silver. He had some in his saddlebag. Another three, four hours and he’d be back in camp. If the other boys saw what he did, they’d all head back to the mountain and stake a claim. Riches all around, and sweet little Patty Pressley back in Tucson would pay Stu a considerable amount more attention. Stu’s life was about to change in precipitous ways—he felt certain of it.
The terrain was alternately flat and lumpy with rock formations. Stu mostly concentrated on guiding his horse through when he saw movement ahead and to his left. Maybe a half mile away, two riders headed south, one of them leading a pack mule. Stu’s first inclination was to leave them alone. He wanted to get back to camp fast so he and the boys could get their claim staked. But another look at the riders baffled him. One was a big man, maybe the biggest Stu had ever seen, and the other was a woman. She was wearing a dress, not at all suited for this rough country, and even less so for riding. Stu had sisters and he knew they’d never venture out in such unsuitable garb. Maybe there’d been some accident, and these two were needing help. Stu had been raised right; he prodded his horse with a light nudge of his heels and galloped over to intercept the pair.
The closer Stu got, the odder things seemed. He expected these people to wave when they saw him, greet him in some way—it wasn’t a usual thing to encounter other riders in this portion of the territory. Maybe they feared he was a bandit. Stu made sure to keep his right hand well away from the butt of his Peacemaker.
“Hello,” he called out as he neared them. “Are you folks all right? Is there any assistance I can provide?”
The big man pulled his mount to a halt; Stu saw that he also had the reins of the woman’s horse, and wondered why. “We’re fine,” the man said. “Just riding through. No need for you to stop.”
That was fine with Stu. This man looked scary. Stu was about to nod and ride on when he took a closer look at the woman. Her dress was dirty; surely she hadn’t intended to ride out dressed like that. And though she didn’t look directly at Stu, he sensed that she was afraid—of the big man, obviously. Something here was wrong.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, still didn’t look at him. The big man said again, “We’re fine. You go on.”
Stu maneuvered his mount in front of them. He dismounted and walked toward the woman, reaching down slightly with his right hand so it was close to his gun.
“Stay on that horse, mister,” he said. “Miss, it appears to me—”
Something happened, a blurry motion from the direction of the big man. How had he gotten off that horse so fast? Then Stu’s world turned black.
—
BRAUTIGAN STOOD over the body, its face caved in from the force of his kick. Gabrielle sat trembling on her horse. She uttered a thin, horrified wail.
“None of that,” Brautigan said. He looked at Gabrielle, then down at the corpse. “Off your horse. Get over here.”
Gabrielle had trouble dismounting. Her foot shook so much she couldn’t use the stirrup and had to slide down. Because her horse was so small it wasn’t much of a drop, but even the slight jarring elicited a knifelike pain in her ribs.
Brautigan knelt and stripped the body of its shirt and trousers. He tossed his victim’s gun into a patch of cacti. “Get out of that dress. He wasn’t very big. His clothes ought to fit you, at least well enough not to fall off.” Gabrielle looked at him
. “You heard me. Put on his clothes. If you don’t do it yourself, I’ll do it for you. It was you riding in a dress that attracted his attention. That won’t happen again.”
Silently, she stripped, leaving on only her pantaloons, and dressed in the dead man’s clothing. The trousers fit reasonably well, but the shirt was much too large and flapped around her body. Brautigan watched without any indication of carnal interest.
“Don’t forget the boots. You can stuff some grass in the toes if they’re too big.” They were too big, but Gabrielle put them on anyway without grass padding. Her feet slid about inside, but what did it matter?
When she had the shoes on, Brautigan handed her Stu’s hat. It was stained with blood; she shuddered as she touched it, and let it drop to the ground.
“Your choice, but you’ll regret this squeamishness,” Brautigan warned. “It’ll be the sun that makes you pay, not I.”
They rode away, leaving Gabrielle’s gray dress and chemise on the ground by Stu Vincent’s naked corpse. Overhead, buzzards croaked and circled.
—
FOR THE FIRST TIME since he’d taken her in the street by Joe Saint’s house, Gabrielle sensed that Brautigan was worried. He looked intently ahead of them now, scanning the horizon, clearly looking for something.
“Maybe some to the west,” he said aloud to himself. “We’ve drifted too far south.” They rode a while longer. Soon, Gabrielle knew, she’d need to stop and relieve herself again. Just when she was about to tap Brautigan’s arm, he said, “There, that tall cactus. That’s the one,” and kicked his horse into a trot. Gabrielle’s creaky mount and the mule labored to keep up. In a while they came to the rim of a valley. Looking ahead, Gabrielle saw some scattered buildings and squares of green.
“Found it,” Brautigan said, and they rode down into the valley.
14
Just before seven on Thursday, McLendon came downstairs for breakfast in the hotel kitchen. Gabrielle was always there ahead of him, but not today.
“Perhaps her father’s doing poorly and it’s taking extra time to get him shaved and dressed,” he said to Major Mulkins. “I’ll go inquire.”
“More likely she’s just moving a little slower than usual, worn out from her talk last night with Joe Saint,” Mulkins said. “I’d let her come down in her own time, were I you.”
“That’s likely it,” McLendon agreed. He helped himself to oatmeal and eggs, and lingered over a second cup of coffee while he waited for Gabrielle. By eight, he wondered again if there was something wrong with her father. He decided to wait until eight-thirty. If Gabrielle wasn’t downstairs by then, he would go up.
Eight-thirty, and no Gabrielle. McLendon went upstairs and knocked on the door of the room she shared with her father.
“Gabrielle?” he called. There was no response. He knocked again and pressed his ear against the door. He thought he heard a faint groan on the other side. McLendon tried to open the door, but it was locked. He rushed downstairs and found Major Mulkins.
“Something’s wrong with Gabrielle, and her door’s locked. Bring the master key.”
They raced back up and Mulkins unlocked the door. Inside, they found Salvatore Tirrito struggling to sit up in his bed.
“Chamber pot,” the old man croaked. Mulkins fetched it from a corner and held Tirrito steady as he stood and relieved himself.
“She wasn’t here at all last night,” McLendon said, gesturing toward Gabrielle’s bed.
“You don’t know that,” Mulkins said. “She might have risen extra early, made her bed, and gone out for a walk or on some errand.”
McLendon shook his head. “She’d never have left her father like this. His care is always her first concern. No, she never got back from seeing Saint last night. I’ve got to get over there—the bastard may have done something to her.” He helped the old man button the fly on his long johns and asked, “Mr. Tirrito, where is Gabrielle?” But Tirrito seemed too confused to reply.
Mulkins eased Tirrito back on his bed and caught McLendon’s arm. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. You know Joe’d never do anything untoward, especially where Gabrielle’s concerned. Let me fetch one of the staff to stay with her daddy here, and I’ll go with you. Chances are we’ll encounter Gabrielle on her way back, and won’t you feel foolish then?”
—
THE MAIN STREETS of Mountain View were crowded with people on the way to mine shifts or jobs in shops or breakfast in a town restaurant. McLendon and Mulkins tried to hurry without pushing others aside. Just before they left Main Street, they saw youngsters crowded around the front door of the schoolhouse.
“Why aren’t you in class?” Mulkins asked.
One of the older girls said, “Mr. Saint ain’t here yet. We don’t know whether to go in or go home.”
McLendon panicked. “He’s done something, I know it,” he blurted out, and ran for Saint’s street.
“You all go ahead on home,” Mulkins told the girl, and tore after his friend.
They dashed to Saint’s house. McLendon pounded on the door until it finally creaked open. Joe Saint, bleary-eyed and unshaven, peered out and croaked, “What?”
“Where’s Gabrielle, you bastard?” McLendon shouted.
“What? Gabrielle?” Saint mumbled. “What about her?”
Mulkins placed a restraining hand against McLendon’s chest and said gently, “Joe, it looks like Gabrielle didn’t get back to the White Horse last night, and we’re concerned. She told C.M. before she left that she was coming here to see you. Did she?”
Saint squinted in the morning glare. “I guess. Jesus, what’s the time?”
“Where is she?” McLendon demanded.
“That won’t do, C.M.,” Mulkins said. “I believe Joe here has a morning-after head. Joe, may we come in?”
“Is it already school time?” Saint asked.
“Don’t fret on that, Joe,” Mulkins said. “I told the youngsters to go on home. Guess even a teacher’s allowed the occasional sick day. Now, with your permission we’ll just enter your home.” They did, and gasped. It was a wreck, with chairs overturned and books thrown everywhere. The sour stench of vomit clogged the air.
“A struggle,” McLendon exclaimed. He grabbed the scrawny schoolteacher and began shaking him. “What did you do to her? Where is she?”
Mulkins dragged Saint from McLendon’s grasp. “This gets us nowhere, C.M. Joe, look at me. What happened here?”
Saint pulled a chair upright and slumped down on it. “I guess I got drunk.”
“While Gabrielle was here?” Mulkins suggested in a coaxing tone. McLendon hovered behind Saint’s chair.
“No, I opened the door and I think we talked a minute, but she never came in. Hard to remember. My head really hurts.”
“No doubt,” Mulkins said, gesturing toward an empty liquor bottle on the floor. “Are you sure she never came inside, Joe?”
Saint nodded gingerly. “She wanted to talk and I told her no. Told her to go away. Then I shut the door.”
McLendon leaned down and pushed his face directly in front of Saint’s. “If that’s true, then where is she now?”
“I’ve got no idea. I just kept drinking and I guess I passed out.”
“I think you hurt her. She fought you—I know she did. That’s when things got strewn around in here.”
Saint exhaled. His breath was a vile combination of whiskey fumes and vomit. “No, I did that myself. You’re the one who hurts Gabrielle, not me. She never came inside.” He hung his head for a moment, trying to concentrate. Then he said, “So she’s missing? You say she never got back? Hell—have you told the sheriff?”
“Not yet, Joe,” Mulkins said. “We wanted to look around ourselves, first. When you and she talked last night—briefly, by your account, and she never came inside—did she say anything else, mention any other place she might go,
someone else she might see?”
Saint rubbed his face hard with both hands. “No, I’m sure she didn’t. She wanted to talk about what she was doing, why she was doing it”—he raised his head to glare at McLendon—“and I wouldn’t. And I closed the door and that was all.”
Mulkins said to McLendon, “C.M., I believe it’s time to visit Sheriff Hove.”
“Give me just a minute to wash and change clothes,” Saint said. “I’ll come along.”
“Don’t bother,” McLendon said. “Stay here and nurse your hangover.”
Saint stood up. “I’m coming, and I don’t care if you like it.”
—
JACK HOVE was concerned but not alarmed by the news of Gabrielle’s disappearance.
“In times of stress, people often go off, do some odd things,” he told the men in his office. “You three need to settle down a bit.” McLendon frantically paced back and forth, Saint visibly quivered with hangover, and only Major Mulkins seemed even slightly composed. “Gabrielle’s fixing to pack up, get on a stage with her sick daddy and soon-to-be husband; that’s a lot to handle even for a woman as sensible as she ordinarily is. You tell me that she had some unpleasantness last night with Joe, here. Possibly she needed some time afterward to gather herself.”
“She would never have left her father to wake up alone and confused,” McLendon snapped. “She’s not like that, she takes her responsibilities seriously.”
“C.M., there’s a lot of good people at the hotel and in town who’ve lent Gabrielle an occasional hand with Mr. Tirrito,” Hove said. “For all you know, she asked someone to look in on him during her absence, and that person got delayed this morning or else forgot. Such things happen all the time. It seems unlikely she came to any kind of grief. None of my night deputies reported disturbances beyond a few drunks in the lower-end saloons. Anyone assaulting a lady, well, it surely would have been noticed.”