by Jeff Guinn
Joe said, “If Brautigan had taken me instead of McLendon, you’d hurry on home.”
“No. I’d do this for you too. For anyone dear to me.”
“But you’re going after Brautigan,” Joe pleaded. “He’s strong and smart. You can’t save McLendon. Brautigan’s too much for you, too much for anyone.”
“He has been so far,” Gabrielle agreed. “But for the entire time, he’s always held the advantage. Perhaps he’s vulnerable if taken by surprise. I don’t think he’ll expect us to follow him now. That’s my hope.”
“I’m not going with you,” Joe said.
“All right. Major, you can certainly return to Mountain View with Joe. I feel I must tell you, while I was with Brautigan he threatened to kill you, and Joe, and my father and others, should I disobey him in the slightest way. He’ll be quite displeased with anyone joining me in pursuit.”
The Major smiled. “I always enjoy visiting New Mexico.”
Gabrielle said, “Then I’ll welcome the company. We should be going. All right, Joe, why don’t you take a canteen and some provisions for your ride home? Whatever you think you might need. The Major and I will manage on what remains.”
“You’re really doing this,” Joe said.
“I am. Rather, we are, the Major and me.”
Joe heaved a great sigh. “You’re making a tragic mistake. But I’m going with you too.”
Gabrielle was overcome with gratitude. She limped over to Joe and hugged him, ignoring the pain in her ribs.
“I’m doing this for you, not McLendon,” Joe said.
“But you’re doing it. Thank you.”
“We’re going to fail.”
“But at least we’ll try. Shall we ride?”
Ike Clanton, lying on his side in the dirt, hands tied behind his back, hollered, “What about me?”
“Oh, yes,” Gabrielle said. “Major, would you untie him? Ike, you may as well ride home. We both know where that is.”
“What do you mean, Gabrielle?” Joe asked.
“Just something shared between myself and Ike. And Ike, don’t think of following us or trying to ride ahead and warn Brautigan. Because if you do and he doesn’t kill you, then we will.”
“Cruel words,” Clanton said sullenly. “You about knocked my eyeballs crossways. Give me back my gun.”
“I believe I’ll keep it,” Gabrielle said. “As a peaceful, honest man, you should have no need of a weapon. Go on now.”
Ike mounted carefully. His head ached, and although there was no blood he still thought that the girl might have split his skull. He rode a little way off and looked back to where the other three were getting up on their horses. “You’ve not seen the last of Ike Clanton,” he bellowed, and the act of shouting made his head hurt even more. Instead of acknowledging his threat, they rode southeast.
“Bastards,” Clanton muttered, and then, “Bitch.” What would Pa say when Ike showed up in Clantonville all battered and without his gun? Though the more Ike thought about it, the surer he became that he was likely to get a hero’s welcome instead of a scolding. Thanks to Ike, Pa had made money, a good deal of it. Brautigan was going to kill McLendon, and also the bitch and her two companions if they caught up with him on the way to Silver City. And if that didn’t happen, then the three of them would undoubtedly die of thirst or exposure. The country they were attempting to cross was too harsh. So, all witnesses silenced, and profit for the Clantons. Pa might even raise Ike to the deserved position of his second-in-command.
Ike consoled himself with these happy thoughts on his entire three-hour ride back to Clantonville. But when he arrived, his pa gave him a brutal beating for involving the family with Brautigan at all.
PART
THREE
21
As Gabrielle rode north across the valley and then up the slope, Brautigan, mounted alongside McLendon, said nothing and allowed him to watch. She was halfway up when two figures rushed down to meet her—Mulkins and Saint, McLendon knew. They led Gabrielle up to the crest, and disappeared behind it.
The moment Gabrielle was out of sight, Brautigan said, “There. You can see she’s safe.”
“Yes,” McLendon said, and added reflexively, “Thank you.”
“Look at me,” Brautigan ordered, and McLendon did. Up close, his relentless pursuer seemed exactly the same as McLendon remembered, especially his opaque eyes, which were as expressionless as a reptile’s. “Here’s what you’re thinking, or what you’re about to think,” the giant said. “Your girl is with your friends, she’s on her way home, and now you can turn your attention to your own escape. Don’t try. If you do, you’ll fail, and do you know what will happen then?”
It was broiling hot on the valley floor. Sweat ran down McLendon’s face and body. He thought he could feel perspiration pooling in his boots.
“Of course I know,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “You’ll kill me on the spot.”
“Yes, that, but one more thing besides,” Brautigan said. “After I finish you, I’ll go back to that town Mountain View or wherever she might be and I’ll kill the girl, too, in the worst of ways. I’ll take my time. She’ll suffer beyond anything you can imagine. You don’t want that.”
“No,” McLendon said, choking on the word.
“This is how it will be. All right, now we’ll ride southeast to a certain town. This will take several days, four or five. It’s unlikely we’ll encounter anyone else. If we do, you’ll pretend you’re with a friend. You can do it—you’re good at pretending. When we get to the town, I’ll pick up some papers and we’ll make our way back to St. Louis, first by stage and then by train. In each instance, there will be people around us. No one must suspect anything. The slightest wrong gesture and the girl dies as well as you.”
“And in St. Louis, Rupert Douglass watches you kill me.”
“Yes. But the girl will live.” Brautigan looked up at the hill. “Take the mule’s halter and hold it snug. The beast carries most of our water and food. You’ll ride just a bit in front of me, never more than a few feet between us. Move out now, south for the time being.”
“Where exactly are we going?”
“I’ve no patience with questions, or with idle talk of any kind. Speak only when spoken to, and then briefly.”
—
THEY RODE out of the valley, climbing a southern hill and descending down the other side. Almost immediately, McLendon saw that his new mount was laboring, even though the slopes were not particularly steep.
“Brautigan,” he said.
“I specified no conversation.”
“It’s this horse. I think it may collapse.”
“So long as we keep a moderate pace, it should do fine. Now keep quiet and ride.”
The land was flat, but not for long. An extended mountain range loomed ahead. After a few hours they were at its northern base. Brautigan told McLendon to stop and dismount.
“Water and piss break,” he said, handing McLendon a canteen. “One swallow only. Then do your business.”
McLendon did. Afterward, he was surprised when Brautigan walked a few steps away and even turned his back on his prisoner while he relieved himself. Brautigan darted a look at the giant’s horse. A Winchester hung in a scabbard from the saddle. Maybe, just maybe . . .
“Don’t even think of it,” Brautigan said. He buttoned his pants and walked over to McLendon. “My warning about escape wasn’t enough, I see. So there must be this.” Suddenly, savagely, he punched McLendon in the side. McLendon’s breath whooshed out, but that paled in comparison to the absolute agony that flared through his entire body. He dropped to the ground and writhed there, trying simultaneously to drag air into his lungs and not pass out.
Brautigan stood over him. “That’s a strike to the liver,” the giant said. “Doesn’t it hurt considerably? But there c
an always be more pain.” He reached out, grasped McLendon’s right wrist, pulled his arm straight out, and stomped with his heavy boot directly on the crook of McLendon’s elbow. There was a muted crunch. McLendon tried to shriek but couldn’t. He didn’t have sufficient oxygen in his body. He twisted in agony, rolling in the dirt. Brautigan walked a few paces away and watched. Gradually, torturously, McLendon sucked in air.
“All right,” Brautigan said after a bit. “Get up. We need to be moving.” He walked over, grasped McLendon by his shirt collar, and hauled him to his feet. McLendon managed to stand, but not straight. He was bent at the waist, and his right arm flopped uselessly by his side.
“The body ache will subside in time,” Brautigan said. “No organs are ruptured—this time. Don’t try me again. As to the arm, nothing’s broken there either. But it will hurt to bend and there’ll be little strength in it for some time. This will remind you not to be reaching for the rifle. Have you anything to say?”
McLendon wheezed and said, “I don’t think I can ride.”
“Oh, you can. Now get up on the horse.”
It took McLendon several attempts. Brautigan did nothing to help. With only one arm and a body that was still stiff with pain, McLendon tried and failed swinging a leg up and over the saddle. Finally he managed to drag himself halfway up, then reach across his body with his left hand to drag his right leg on the other side of the horse. He felt about with his right boot until he finally found the stirrup.
“With your arm that way, I’ll have to lead the mule,” Brautigan said. “That was meant to be your job.”
—
NAVIGATING THE FIRST PART of the mountain range proved difficult. Every step his horse took caused pain to shoot through McLendon’s body. It was all he could do not to fall from the saddle. For the first time, Brautigan rode level with him and even sometimes a little ahead. He seemed to be looking for something—McLendon couldn’t tell what. Twice he called a short break while he looked ahead to both the right and left, and checked the angle of the sun.
“Here, I think,” he finally said, more to himself than McLendon. “South and east now.” There were occasional notches between the mountain slopes, and they took one that provided blessed shade. Surreptitiously, praying the giant wouldn’t see and hurt him further, McLendon tried flexing the fingers of his right hand. He could, barely. But the arm wouldn’t bend at the elbow.
Around dusk they stopped in a small canyon. Brautigan dismounted and watched as McLendon clumsily got down from his horse. “We’ll make camp,” the big man said. Because of McLendon’s injured arm, his captor had to do most of the work. Brautigan unsaddled the horses and took the cask and heavy packs off the mule. He fed the animals oats from a pack and gave them water from his hat. Then he ground-hitched them and spread two blankets on the ground.
“Sit,” he ordered McLendon. Brautigan used a knife to open a tin can, which he handed to McLendon. “Cold meals are all we’ll have. No fires at night. You can have the contents of that, but no more.”
There were peas in the can. The round green vegetables and the juice they were packed in were warm from the sun. McLendon took the can in his left hand and tipped it to his mouth. The peas were mushy and bland. He ate them all, thinking as he did that this was a waste, he was going to die anyway. But if Brautigan thought he was trying to starve himself to avoid execution in front of Rupert Douglass, then he might return to Mountain View and murder Gabrielle too. That couldn’t be risked.
When the peas were gone, he dropped the can in the dirt and waited while Brautigan emptied his own can. It was getting dark fast. The stars overhead seemed closer and brighter than they ever had back in St. Louis. McLendon thought it was ironic that he might spend his last days feeling nostalgic for the frontier, since he’d mostly hated the West ever since he’d come there.
“Last piss break,” Brautigan said. McLendon tottered a short distance away. His body still ached. He fumbled at his trouser buttons. It was awkward using his left hand for things he always did with his right. Brautigan watched him but didn’t seem particularly concerned about attempted escape. “Over here on this blanket,” he said when McLendon was done. Obediently, he lay down. Brautigan produced a length of rope and hog-tied McLendon’s ankles.
“Since the one arm’s not much use to you, this will be the extent of your binding so long as you stay still,” Brautigan said. “If I detect the slightest unnecessary movement, you’ll have rope snugged around every extremity.”
McLendon was uncomfortable. Besides the pain in his body and arm, there were hard lumps under the blanket. Brautigan had spread it without concern for rocks. From the corner of his eye, McLendon saw that Brautigan sat rather than lay down on his own blanket—keeping watch, apparently. McLendon thought, Does the man never tire?
Since he couldn’t sleep, McLendon thought at first about the most unpleasant of things. After more than two years on the run, he was in Patrick Brautigan’s clutches. He’d had nightmares about it, and it had finally come true. There was no sense contemplating escape. The giant was too fast and strong to escape out here in the open, and once they were in a town, on a stage or a train—might it be possible to yell for help, to shout for the assistance of strangers? Brautigan couldn’t kill a dozen people at a time. Well, he probably could, but then at least he’d be arrested, brought to trial . . . and then McLendon remembered how Rupert Douglass routinely bribed lawmen and judges. He’d find some way to set Brautigan free and afterward, McLendon knew beyond any doubt, the giant would come for Gabrielle exactly as promised. That couldn’t happen, so Cash McLendon was a dead man.
After a while he made himself think about Gabrielle instead. She and Major Mulkins and Joe Saint were probably making their own night camp a day’s ride from Mountain View. During the exchange in Devil’s Valley, McLendon saw the ravages of captivity in Gabrielle’s appearance and movements. She’d moved as stiffly as he did now—had Brautigan delivered a body beating to her as well? Gabrielle’s face was dirty, her hair tangled. The men’s clothing she wore was stained with dirt and perspiration. But there was something in her expression, not an absence of fear—anyone would be afraid of Patrick Brautigan—but some additional glint of resolution, even defiance. Whatever he’d done to Gabrielle, Brautigan hadn’t broken her spirit. She would recover from the experience, move on with her life. That was worth McLendon’s dying for.
Then he imagined how she would move on. Not alone—Joe Saint would see to that. The sheriff turned schoolteacher would delight in McLendon’s death. Saint was a clever man. He wouldn’t immediately act on new opportunity. He’d take his time, always being there for Gabrielle, comforting and encouraging her to get over McLendon, and then, in six months or a year, he’d again insinuate himself with her romantically, and McLendon had no doubt he’d succeed. The only reason Gabrielle hadn’t married Saint before was that McLendon was still alive, still a possibility in her life. With him gone, she’d see Saint as her best remaining alternative. McLendon wanted Gabrielle to be happy—but with Joe Saint? Nothing could be worse.
Except his own death, which would be as drawn out and terrible as Patrick Brautigan could make it. McLendon’s bruised liver and damaged elbow were insignificant compared to what awaited in St. Louis. Where would Rupert Douglass want to watch? One of his factories, no doubt, some deep dark place where screams couldn’t penetrate thick walls and be heard outside. He’d savor McLendon’s agony like fine wine, and afterward stroll home to his mansion, smiling, vengeance achieved at last.
McLendon began speculating how he might ignite Douglass’s hair-trigger temper, something he might say or do to goad his former employer into ordering Brautigan to kill McLendon with a single blow. With death a certainty, at least extended agony might be avoided. But as he thought, he was startled to hear a snore. Cautiously raising his head, he saw that Patrick Brautigan had fallen asleep sitting up. The giant’s chin rested on his massive chest
. His snores weren’t loud, but steady, the rumbling of a weary man gaining much-needed rest. This was something new to McLendon, the thought that Patrick Brautigan was in some way human. If he had to sleep, might there be other weaknesses? Perhaps if McLendon stayed constantly alert, he might yet survive. The big man had said they’d be traveling four or five days to get to an unnamed town. Plenty of time for Brautigan to wear down further. Now, how could McLendon bring that about?
He lay still, watching the giant through slitted eyes. There was a little light from the moon. Brautigan snored a while longer, then snorted and abruptly sat upright. He bent over McLendon, who willed himself to lie still, breathing light and evenly. After a few moments Brautigan, satisfied, sat back. Soon, he was snoring again. It was a light sleep—the giant wasn’t anywhere near exhaustion. He’d wake instantly at McLendon’s slightest movement. But maybe tomorrow night? The next one? Cross-country travel in the West was arduous under the best of circumstances, and McLendon and Brautigan were traversing some of the wildest frontier territory on horseback.
McLendon’s arm ached; he stealthily flexed it as best he could. There was little strength or movement in the elbow joint. Not right away, then. He had to give every appearance of submission, had to let Brautigan believe that he’d given up hope. There was very little chance of taking the giant by surprise—his aching arm and body were proof of that—and, even if he did get away, he’d then have to race Brautigan back to Mountain View and Gabrielle. Would she be willing to flee with him? What about her father? Too much to think about. It was enough for now that he had just a glimmer of hope.
Brautigan continued snoring, and McLendon slept.
22
Gabrielle wanted to ride straight across the valley floor and up its southernmost hill in direct pursuit of McLendon and Brautigan, but Major Mulkins convinced her otherwise.