‘I’m grateful, Ike,’ said Crow. ‘But cut out the big smile, huh?’
‘Just like to see someone caught with their pants down. She give you a hard time? Or did you give her a hard time?’
‘Little of both, brother,’ replied Crow. ‘She still in the tent?’
‘Yeah. She’ll stay there until about noon from what we’ve seen of her.’
‘I could use some water and somethin’ to eat.’
‘I just bet you could, Crow.’ The big man stood up, gritting his teeth at a creaking from his right knee as he straightened. ‘Arapaho knife back in sixty-eight. Clean in and out but it hurts like a bastard early morning. I’ll get you some water and some grits and corn dodgers. Don’t tell the lady.’
Crow shook his head. ‘What about Abe?’
‘Hell, no. More than this job’s worth. She’d know. Guess the poor son of a bitch hangs there until he up and dies.’
The man in black was puzzled. ‘What about the ransom? He dies and . . .’
‘Me and the boys been doin’ us some thinkin’ and talkin’ during last night. Before you and- the lady got so close and lovin’.’
‘Close, maybe. Loving? I guess not, Ike.’
‘She’ll give her husband some water when she gets out of the tent. Leastways, I surely hope it’s water. I can’t swear to there bein’ nothin’ else in it. He drinks it down, whatever it is.’
Crow tried to wriggle himself into a more comfortable position while he waited for Holton to go over to the cooking fire. Wondering just what was going down in the isolated canyon. Wondering what Martha Verity was going to do. And what Holton and the other seven of his gang had decided to do.
And whether he had come to the end of his own particular trail.
A whole mess of questions.
And not a single answer in sight.
One of the hands brought him the food. A thin metal pan and a filthy spoon, bent at the handle. A charred heap of grits and some stale dodgers. But it was the mug of brackish stream water that was most welcome. He gulped it down and wolfed the food while Ike watched the man feed him. Shoving the meal at him.
‘Sight better?’
‘Surely thank you.’
Crow knew from long experience that he could survive for more than ‘a week without any food. But in the heat of the Southwest it was impossible to be out in the sun for , even a single day with no water. Liquid evaporated from your body so fast that you became completely dehydrated. You overheated and died. Very quick and very final.
‘You were saying something about you and the boys making a decision? Ike looked round and tugged at his beard. Waiting until the man with the plate and mug had moved back to join the others..
‘Yeah. .Just looked in on the little lady. Sleepin’ like a hog in muck. Won’t waken for hours yet.’
‘So?’
‘So you do us a favor. On account of us letting you live.’
‘Go on.’
‘You go to Verity’s brother. Tell him things have changed. If he gives you ten thousand in gold he can have the Mayor back.’
Crow thought about it. Not surprised that this kind of deal was being proposed. Martha had been clever enough to get this scheme oil the ground. Then she’d never stopped to think about carrying it through. Ike Holton had been around too long. He’d seen through her revenge plot.
And how he could best use it. That was why he’d saved Crow in the first place.
‘Martha?’
Ike shook his head. ‘From what I hear she ain’t no value to nobody.’
Crow nodded his agreement. ‘You hear right.’
‘You’ll do it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Take you . . . ?’
‘Two days there and back. Might not have that kind of money lying around.’
Ike spat in the dirt. ‘I figure that could be so. If’n he can get it in a couple of days then you wait. I’ll send two men with you. Hairy Schuster and Dave Simon. Keep a kind of eye on things.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as you like, Crow.’
‘Cut me loose. Get my guns and horse. I’ll be gone in a half hour.’
‘Best before Martha wakes.’
‘What about the husband?’
Ike Holton grinned down at him from his towering height. ‘You make your own mind up on `that, Crow. Seems to me the poor son of a bitch’s far gone already. We went along with what his wife did as long as there seemed a maybe for a lot of money. Now I guess it’s too late.’
Crow looked at the hanging figure. Bound limp by the wrists...Only a weak fluttering of the chest showing that he was still alive.
‘Cut him down after I’ve gone, Ike. If you get paid, then I can take back what’s left to Dead Hawk. Make them feel they’re not making `such a bad bargain.’
‘Sure. Turn around and I’ll cut you free? An open, spring-blade knife clicked into his fingers and he reached around the back of Crow, starting to slice through the tight rawhide bonds. .‘No hard feelings, Crow?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘We’re the same kind of man, Ike. I gave you my word. I’ll ride out with your boys. Head back to town. Get some money. Come on back. Try and deliver them the head of their family.’
Only he didn’t actually say precisely that was the order he was going to do it.
Harry Schuster was a youngish man. A dipped shoulder where a horse had fallen on him as a boy. And a heavy moustache.
Dave Simon was older. A taciturn man with a badly scarred upper lip that made it difficult to understand him even when he did say anything.
They both saddled up and were waiting ready further down the canyon when Ike Holton walked to join them with Crow. His own stallion was there, ready for him. all of his weapons were back with him. The saber at his left hip. The sawn-down scatter-gun in the right holster. And the Colt at the back of his belt.
The Winchester Seventy-three was bucketed at the side of his saddle. He automatically checked all of the guns to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with. All were just as he’d left them. All fully loaded.
Crow swung himself up into the saddle on the black, hissing through his teeth as the wound in his left side tugged at him. But it was tightly bound with clean strips of cotton and he figured it would soon heal.
If he lived long enough for it to heal.
‘Woman’s still sleeping, Crow,’ said Ike, reaching up to shake his hand. ‘Take care. Remember you gave you’re word to me.’
‘I remember, Ike,’ replied Crow. Returning the big man’s firm grip.
‘See you in a few days.’ The shootist slapped the black stallion on the rump, the horse responding to such undue familiarity with a vicious kick backwards that came close to taking out Ike’s jaw.
A light wind followed them as they cantered along through the spring morning. Within a half mile Crow knew that it would be sufficient to hide any noise that they might be making from the men at the camp. .
The two men with him hadn’t spoken a single word since they’d left, riding a professional few paces behind him. Keeping spaced out in case Crow decided to break his word and make a try at getting away. But the trail became too narrow and winding for them to safely stay that far back.
Unfortunately for Schuster and Simon, neither of them was quick enough to realize the danger. And they kept their distance.
It was easy.
All Crow had to do was suddenly wheel the stallion when he was momentarily out of sight around a blind corner, reining it in. Drawing the Purdey from its deep holster and thumbing back the twin hammers.
Easy.
Dave Simon was first. Pushing on after the skinny man in black. His mind locked into thoughts of what he’d like to do to the woman, Martha. Fighting with a desire to get his hands on the money.
Harry Schuster was just thinking about the money. He and Simon had already held a whispered conversation about what they’d do once Crow had got the dollars from Dead Hawk. And th
eir plans didn’t quite run along the same lines as Ike Holton. More along the lines of back-shooting Crow and making a run for the Rio Grande where the pretty little girls would forget about a man’s scarred lip or crooked shoulder if you rubbed their skin with gold first.
Neither of them even got their hands to their guns before Crow blasted them from their saddles. The ten-gauge shot wiping them away in a blur of flesh and torn bone at a range of barely eight feet. First Simon with the right barrel and then Schuster with the left. Both men falling soaked in a crimson mixture of their own blood and their friend’s blood.
As soon as he saw them falling, Crow holstered the Purdey and drew the Colt. The biggest risk to his scheme was the horses wild back to the canyon and warning Ike what had happened.
Crow was never cruel to animals. Never cruel to men.
Or women.
Only when he had a good reason.
He put two bullets in the head of Simon’s rearing bay mare and two more in the skull of Schuster’s black gelding. Putting both animals down kicking on top of the twitching corpses of their masters.
The noise and movement went on for three or four minutes before silence came creeping back to the trampled and bloody trail. Crow used the waiting time to reload the Peacemaker and the shotgun.
Not in any hurry. Knowing the high walls of orange stone and the wind would have combined to take the noise of the killings away from Ike Holton and the rest of the gang.
Ike and five more.
He heeled his own stallion forwards, kicking it hard in the ribs when it checked at the scarlet mud and the stench of death,. Forcing it on through the shambles. Heading back towards the box canyon beneath Buzzard Rock.
So far, it was going well.
He tethered the black a hundred yards or so back along the trail from the camp, avoiding his previous mistake of coming in too low and getting caught with no cover by the stream. This time Crow climbed higher. Winchester slung across his shoulders. Spare ammunition in his pockets. Scrambling up the rocky face until he found himself a good position. About a hundred feet up, overlooking the arena of the camp. With an eagle’s-eye view of the pool and the tents.
Nestling himself down behind a convenient boulder, resting until his breath was back to normal. Nobody could climb like that and then immediately hope to achieve the sort of accuracy he needed.
After five minutes his breathing was relaxed and he was ready for the next stage in his plans. Cautiously lifting his head over the rocks and raking the camp with his eyes.
Making most of the men. Seeing that the flaps were still drawn across the woman’s tent, showing that she was still sleeping. Unless she was entertaining one of the gang with her special pleasures. But a count showed that she wasn’t.
They were all there.
Three sitting along the edge of the stream, idly flicking pebbles into the water. Backs to Crow. Two more were near the smoldering fire. Cross-legged, still playing poker on a blanket. Ike Holton was partly obscured, near the pool beyond the tents. Standing leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar, the smoke trailing away from his mouth and disappearing.
And where was the head of the Verity clan?
No longer tied to the dead tree. There seemed to be a figure lying among the bushes. Hardly visible. That could be him.
‘Damn it,’ muttered Crow, without any real anger in his voice. It would have been so much better if he could have killed Holton with a first shot. There was no doubt that he was the strong man of the party of kidnappers and his. death would have weakened the resolve of the survivors. But it wasn’t worth chancing a shot and missing.
The horses were still tied in a line to a wooden stake. Crow wondered whether he might do best if he butchered the animals, first. Deciding against it. Guessing that it might give the men too much time to wriggle away from him into better defensive positions.
So, who first?
‘Two by the tents,’ he said to himself.
They were the ones closest to good cover and therefore the most potentially dangerous. He had already levered a bullet into the breech of the rifle before. beginning the climb. All he had to do now was check the sights. Wetting a finger to test the breeze. Lowering the back sight by a single notch. Putting another dab of spittle on the front sight to make it stand out more clearly.
Easing himself down so that he could rest the barrel of the Winchester on the boulder. Thumb pulling back the broad, ridged hammer. Cradling the brass-bound stock tight into his shoulder.
Like all first-class shots Crow didn’t close one eye. Firing two-eyed. Staring straight down the barrel, centering the sights on the card player on the left. Drawing in his breath.
Slowly.
Holding it.
Index finger tightening on the trigger.
Squeezing.
The gun kicking back against him. A burst of powder smoke blinding him for a moment. Not even looking at the target. Knowing from experience that the man he’d aimed at would be down. Either dead or dying.
Crow levered the Winchester, using the last three fingers the right hand. The left hand still gripping the barrel.
Index finger of the right hand slipping immediately back on the trigger, the ejecting mechanism also cocking the rifle.
It all took considerably less than a second and he was ready to fire the second shot. Before he’d even begun to shoot, the tall man had rehearsed the movements. The first card player. Then the second. Moving onto the men by the stream.
Ike Holton had been relaxing. Wondering whether he’d done the right thing in trusting that skinny bastard, Crow. But he’d given his word and shaken on it.
The fusillade of shots from somewhere in the rocks above took him by surprise. His first thought was that they were under attack from the local Apaches. But he quickly changed his mind.
After throwing himself flat among the bushes he saw both Billy-Joe and Will lying motionless by the embers of the fire. Both with blood pouring from their shattered skulls. No Indian could shoot that well.
That meant it had to be . . .
‘Crow . . .’ he snarled, bitterly.
By then another of his gang was on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the blue morning. Fingers convulsively curling and straightening in the reflex of death.
‘Three, Crow whispered, seeing the last two of the gang by the river scuttling down into what they hoped was cover. Both drawing their pistols, heads turning as they tried to see where the shots were coming from.
Crow was just too fast and too good for them. Never even giving them time to pick up the puffs of smoke from the rifle. If they’d seen it, they’d have realized that they had only a shadow of chance. The hidden man with the gun commanded most of the camp, high enough to be able to see over the edge, clear to the tumbling water. That meant there was no cover there. And by lying flat and still they just made it easier. If they’d moved fast and dodged to hide right beneath the cliffs, then they might have lived a while longer.
But they didn’t run.
And they both died.
Crow had killed five men in less than two minutes using only six bullets.
The last man had been turning to talk to his comrade at the moment that a Winchester bullet lifted off most of the top of his friend’s head. Splattering him with warm blood and brains. Making him suddenly roll to one side to throw up in the pebbled slopes above the stream. That movement saved his life for another few seconds as Crow had fired at him at precisely that moment. The bullet hitting him in the shoulder instead of the skull. Pitching him into the river with a scream of terror and agony. Struggling to standup. Crow hitting him between the eyes with the sixth and last bullet. Leaving him with his life-blood reddening the water.
That was better than Crow had feared. But he still regretted not having finished off Ike Holton. He’d seen the massive figure crash down behind the bushes out of sight, near the shadowed pool. Not far from the horses. Near the tents.
That left only the leader. And Martha
Verity. And, if he was still alive, the man he was there to rescue. Abe Verity.
Crow leaned back, holding the warm gun in his hands, fumbling for more ammunition. Considering what his next move was going to be.
So far he’d gotten himself three hundred and fifty dollars for the kidnappers he’d killed. That was something. But he wanted the big money for saving the head of the family.
In the quiet of the morning, Crow sat and waited.
Chapter Fifteen
Nothing moved.
The corpses gradually became attractive to the hordes of small flies, and each body disappeared under a shimmering veil of insects. Apart from the one in the stream that swayed backwards and forwards with the current, the right arm waving gently as if it was trying to catch the tiny fishes from the pool.
Ike Holton stayed where he was. Safe in the shade, and in no great danger so long as he didn’t do anything foolish. His mind locked into anger against Crow’s betrayal. Trying to keep the room closed at the back of his mind that admitted that he was frightened. There hadn’t been many things that terrified Ike Holton. Not for more years than he could remember.
But this man, Crow. .
Without once exposing himself to any danger, and with a bullet wound in his own ribs, Crow had calmly butchered seven men in one spring morning. With an economy of effort that was appalling to someone like Ike Holton. He’d never met anyone who was that good.
Never even heard about anyone who was that damned good.
Martha Verity had been woken by the shooting. Hearing the crackling of the shots and the yells of the wounded men. The loud scream of the one by the stream.
Then the silence.
It was the silence that made her sweat with terror. Panting in the oppressive stillness of her tent. Part of her wanting to go out and see what was happening. The main part of her mind breaking with panic. Knowing that something had happened out in the morning quiet. That some of the gang were killed.
But who by?
Indians?
Or a posse raised from Dead Hawk?
Tears of Blood Page 10