Renegade Moon (CupidKey)

by Rigley, Karen E.

  “Hey, little brother,” Martin said without glancing up from his magazine. “What’s with this Glen King fellow who came around this afternoon?”

  Eric stopped reading and his black eyes fastened on Martin. “I knew him in the army. Why?”

  Martin shrugged. “Just wondering. I saw him that night at the Wagon Wheel hanging with a couple of ex-convict types.”

  “I have no control over Glen’s associates.” Eric’s voice frosted over and that remote, carved stone expression cloaked his face.

  Martin held up a placating hand. “Cool it, don’t get mad. Forget I mentioned it. Forget I’m here. Forget it all.”

  Destiny closed her notebook, said goodnight, and retreated to her room. She’d either have to get away from the ranch or wait until the men left to play that recording. The sound of his own voice would bring Eric on the run, and she couldn’t find her ear bud. Somehow she felt it had to be very important for Glen King to come out here to see Eric for only a few minutes.

  And Glen King’s innocent pretense when he’d arrived that he didn’t know who she was. What games were they playing? She pounded her pillow in frustration, unsure if she really wanted to know.

  Glen King stood impassively before Miles Jard’s massive desk in his adobe house that overlooked the canyon, while Jard tapped a pencil thoughtfully on the desk. Stoker sat, arms folded, in a nearby chair.

  “King, the local yokels are getting on my nerves,” Jard said in that dead voice of his. “One wants out and the other wants more money. I’ll take care of my charge. But you must make yours understand that nothing will change in the immediate future. The first in that series is scheduled to go, and I want it to do so without a hitch. I also want each of the following operations to go smoothly. A lot depends on the success of this. Such as, our future finances and our future state of health. Tell your little helper that if all goes well, there will be a bonus. If things go wrong, Stoker will deliver the bonus. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I understand,” Glen replied. “I’ll pass along the message.” With that, he turned and went out, got into his Jeep, and drove down the hill toward the highway. He wished he’d never approached Eric. The other one didn’t matter. That recruitment had been Jard’s. But, he, Glen, had involved Eric. It seemed the logical thing to do at first, to get his old army buddy in on the action. But personal matters complicated Eric’s life right now and he’d made it plain that he wanted to end his participation. Glen wasn’t sure how much longer he could stall his friend, and at the moment there was no way out.

  Another complication affecting the entire operation, not just Eric, was a certain pretty photojournalist with an uncanny knack of seeing things she shouldn’t, and pushing to see more.

  Destiny arrived at the breakfast table the next morning just as Eric announced, “I’ve had some welding done on my horse trailer and it’s ready. Want to go with me to pick it up, hermano?”

  “Yeah, I’ll go with you, little brother.”

  Eric grinned at Destiny. “Want to go? It’s real excitement to pick up a horse trailer.”

  “I’m sure the expression ‘pick up’ means ‘to hitch onto and pull home,’ right?” She gave him a smile.

  “You translate well. You’ll be speaking New Mexican yet.”

  “Well, I think I’ll forego the excitement. I might ride Muffin a bit.”

  “Sure. Domingo will saddle her for you. Right, amigo?”

  “Sí. You betcha.” Domingo grinned at Destiny.

  After what seemed like endless fooling around, Eric and Martin finally left in the pickup to go get the trailer. Destiny rushed to her recorder. She had to sit there a few moments with it ready to play before she could summon the courage to click the button, scared of what she might hear. Shaken as she listened, she wanted to cry when the recording finished. This conversation between Eric and Glen King cinched Eric’s involvement. How could he allow himself to get mixed up in something illegal? Oh sure, they were good friends. Few could tease Eric that way, calling him Tonto, without a sharp set-down. Could she do something before Eric got in deeper?

  The only shack by the airstrip belonged to old Will. What was stashed there? She recalled the Rampton Foundation crates from her airstrip photos. Were they smuggling artifacts? That didn’t make sense, as Eric had notified both the university and the historical society when he first discovered the site. Well, they were smuggling something. And she intended to find out what.

  Her thoughts ran in circles so she forced herself to settle down, put away the recorder, and get organized. She needed to help Eric and she needed to get proof for her article. Okay, get the proof first. Later she could call her editor and the authorities. At the moment, she couldn’t risk confiding in anyone. She really didn’t know Joe Baker, the local deputy. If Eric was involved, why not the local authorities, too? Half of the state could be tangled up in this! Get proof, then go to the Feds.

  She gathered up her camera and canvas shoulder bag, and realized she couldn’t zoom out to Will’s in her very visible blue Mustang, especially since they’d spotted it that time from the airplane. Why, all they’d need is a glimpse of it and they’d be all over her. So she’d take Muffin. Domingo was expecting her to ride, and if she didn’t return before Eric and Martin, they wouldn’t be surprised that she’d gone riding, either.

  Dressing in jeans and boots, she hurried out to the corral. She declined Domingo’s offer for a boost and led Muffin around to the front of the house where she’d parked her Mustang. After her initial encounter with Will, she’d bought a bottle of bourbon just in case she ran across him again. She withdrew the bottle from its hiding place in the trunk, and, with a sigh of relief that she actually had bought it, slid the whiskey into her shoulder bag. Slinging her camera case and shoulder bag straps over the saddlehorn, she led Muffin over to the porch, walked up onto it, stuck her boot in the stirrup, and swung aboard.

  Glancing back, she saw Domingo watching. She waved gaily. He responded in turn. Soon she left the house behind and followed the road to the turnoff that led to Will’s shack.

  The trip took much longer on horseback than in a car. She didn’t intend to gallop pell-mell and run up on somebody she didn’t want to see. Nearing the shack, she left the road and paralleled it, bringing her to the rear and out of sight. Much to her delight, she discovered a stock tank in a protected little hollow. She knew it contained water, because if was overgrown with bushes and grass, and even a couple of twisted mesquite trees and a desert willow. Probably Will’s water source. No need to urge the thirsty Muffin. She trotted right for it. How handy having it out of sight of the shack.

  Destiny slid off Muffin’s back and let the horse drink, then tied her where she could reach water and forage. Taking her camera and bag, Destiny set out for the shack.

  “Hello,” she called out, her knees practically knocking. “Is anyone home?”

  The tumbled-down shack simmered in the sun. Destiny continued calling out as she approached, with no results. She walked up to the doorway and peeked inside. The contrast with the bright sunlight turned the interior into a black hole, and she had to allow her eyes to adjust before she could see. Things began coming into focus.

  A small area, perhaps eight-by-ten feet, apparently served as Will’s living quarters. An old bedstead stood in one corner covered with filthy rags. A woodstove occupied the other corner. The place reeked. Her nose protested and she was tempted to run back out. An unpainted bench, holding a chipped enameled wash pan piled with dirty utensils and dishes, flanked by empty whisky bottles, stood against the wall. A rickety table and three chairs sat in the middle of the room. Destiny took a cautious step inside.

  Crates filled the rest of the structure, some bearing the Rampton Corporation logo. She walked over to investigate. If she could just get one open . . .

  The unmistakable sound of a
vehicle drew her immediate attention. Jard’s black and silver Escalade! Her heart racing like a trip hammer, she wove between the stacked crates as far back as she could go and crouched down in a corner. With great physical effort she forced herself to breathe quietly and to stay perfectly still. Surely they could hear the thundering of her heart echoing in her own ears like drums of doom!

  Peeking through a crack, she saw Jard and Stoker come inside. Will was with them. She heard his gravelly voice. She recognized Jard’s odd flat tone, too. Though she’d never heard Stoker speak before, she knew the third voice must be his.

  Briefly, they discussed the shipment. Something else was being flown in at the time they were flying this out. They shuffled around and Destiny thought for a moment they were going to leave. Instead, they approached her hiding place.

  Terrified, she drew herself into the smallest possible ball and clamped her trembling hands over her mouth. Mere feet away, they pried off the top of a crate, peered inside, and pounded the lid back down. They were so close Destiny could smell Will’s sour odor, could see flashes of their legs as they moved around, and once even saw Jard’s head. He turned, surveying the room, concentrating directly on her hiding spot. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow. Nothing.

  Instead they all moved back to the front of the shack. “Yes, here. You’ve done okay,” Jard replied to Will’s whining request for a bottle. “Just be around tomorrow when the exchange comes in, understand?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Jard. I unnerstand. I’ll be here. You can count on ol’ Will.”

  The Escalade started and drove away. Destiny didn’t move. She couldn’t pop out now like a girl out of a cake. Will wasn’t harmless as long as he had that rifle, no matter what Eric claimed.

  Eric. They hadn’t mentioned Eric. But then, they hadn’t mentioned names at all. They’d merely discussed the shipment, examined it, evidently given Will a bottle, and left. So the lack of a mention certainly didn’t clear Eric, no matter how desperately Destiny wanted him to be innocent.

  What should she do? She couldn’t simply march out and say, “Hi.” The bottle clinked as if touching against a glass. Was Will drinking his reward? Perhaps he’d get drunk. Then she could leave! And if he passed out, she could peek at the shipment before sneaking away. She waited.

  Will muttered and talked to himself. The sun lowered into the west, darkening the dim shack even more. Still the clinking, the muttering. How much had they given him, ten gallons?

  Destiny, cramped and exhausted, tried to stretch a bit, but didn’t want to risk making any noise. Finally she heard him saying “. . . poor ol’ Will never gits enough to drink . . .” and decided to make her move. After crouching for hours, she could barely straighten her legs when she stood. She maneuvered softly between the stacked crates and reached Will slumped over the table. He held an empty glass in one hand and the empty bottle in the other.

  Darn! She couldn’t just walk out without her proof. Quietly, she moved back to the crate they’d opened and ran a hand over it. Placing her fingers under the loosened spot, she gave a tug. Nothing. She gave a mighty jerk. Creaking, it yielded. Another mighty jerk popped the top loose. She took out her camera, checked to make sure the flash responded to the low light, and peered into the box.

  Guns!

  Stacks of what appeared to be automatic rifles!

  She didn’t know much about firearms, but these weren’t children’s toys. She took several shots, then forced the lid back down. She replaced her camera in its case and walked swiftly to the front of the shack. As she crossed to the door, Will raised his head and blinked at her.

  “Hey, girlie!”

  Destiny froze. “Hello, Will,” she said impulsively. “I-I brought you a present.”

  He shook his head and gave her a bleary-eyed glare. “A present?”

  “Yes. See?” She held up her purchase.

  “He-e-e-e-ey.” Rotted teeth showed in a snaggled smile. “Lookie what the little lady brought to ol’ Will.” Then a suspicious glimmer. “Why?”

  She approached the table, setting the full bottle down beside him. “Because you let me take photos of your place, remember?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded slowly, his eyes fastened on the bottle. “You was here with Eric George. Sit down, girlie.”

  “I really must be going.”

  He rested his hand on his rifle standing beside his chair. “Ya too good ta have a drink with ol’ Will?”

  “Oh, certainly not. I’d be delighted.” She perched tentatively on the edge of a chair across from him. Reaching back on the bench behind him, he picked up another glass.

  “Gettin’ dark,” he muttered. Digging a pack of matches from his pocket, he lit the lantern sitting on the table. Then he poured a dollop of whiskey into each glass. Pushing one over to Destiny, he said, “Drink up, girlie.”

  She eyed the grimy glass. This was not the time to inform him of her personal likes and dislikes. He watched her keenly as he took a swallow of his own, and she knew she must at least raise it to her lips. Would the alcohol kill any germs? She held her breath, allowing the potent brew to touch her lips.

  “Don’t have company often,” he said. “Nobody comes ‘round to see ol’ Will . . . ‘cept Eric George. Ol’ Eric George, he comes ‘round, mebbe brings me a little somethin’ ta eat, mebbe a little money. These others? Huh!” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Jist good fer whiskey. Hey, girlie. How’d ya git here? Walk?”

  “I rode my horse. And I really must go.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “You ain’t finished yore drink.”

  Again she raised the glass, faking it. Okay, so she’d ask questions. She asked about Jard and Stoker and what they did here. Another wave of dismissal, then he mumbled something about them storing things in the shack from time to time.

  “An’ it’s okay. Eric George says it’s okay. You know ol’ Eric George is Injun. Apache Injun. They say some of th’ Injuns that use ta live in these parts was Apaches. Er, their ancestors anyways. Long ago. Maybe Eric George’s ancestors came from them Injuns, eh?”

  “Could be.”

  “Yeah, I knowed him since he was a kid.” Will poured himself another drink, offered her one, but she showed him that some remained in her glass so he set the bottle down again. “His brother and sister, even his folks, they all left. But not Eric George. Went into the army, but he came back. Some cain’t get away from this country fer good, y’know. If ya ain’t keerful, these mountains will steal yer soul right out through yer eyes.” He shook his head. “Yore never ag’in free of this land. Yep, stole my soul.”

  He leaned forward. “They was other Injuns here. Renegades from a bunch of tribes, holed up on th’ ridge, always raidin’ and killin’ here and thar, but one year, jist about this time, durin’ the full moon it was, they all came ridin’ down from the ridge, lootin’ and killin’ and stealin’ wimmin. Injuns didn’t raid much at night, but that big full moon must’a set ‘em off.” He took another swallow.

  “Cause they shore raided that moonlit night, and they kilt Injuns and whites both. Then they skedaddled. Took off some said, to Mexico, never ta be seen or heerd tell of ag’in. This year thar’s thet full moon jist like then. Some say when th’ moon gits full this time o’ year, they can hear them renegades ridin’ down from the ridge whoopin’ and hollerin’ like they done long ago.” Hand shaking, he poured yet another shot. “It’s the bad time. The dangerous time. It’s the time of the Renegade Moon. Right now!”

  Destiny shivered. A ghostly atmosphere settled over the horrid little shack as she listened to this pitiful, disgusting man rant about bygone Indian raids in the flickering lamplight.

  “Truly, Will. I must be going. It’s nearly dark.”

  “You ain’t finished yore drink!”

  With a big sigh, Destiny put the glass to her lips,
closed her eyes, and tossed her head back. The Bourbon burned its way down her throat and ignited in her stomach. She sat there a moment swallowing convulsively to keep it from bouncing right back up again, and smiled a teary smile at Will.

  “Delicious,” she croaked. Vile, her insides protested.

  Satisfied, Will poured himself another shot. “Shore appreciate ya bein’ so thoughty. Ya come ‘round ag’in, hear, girlie?”

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” she said, skittering out the door.

  The moon—the Renegade Moon—shed brilliant silver beams like a giant searchlight. In that earlier century, the renegades would be on their way down the warpath. Maybe those renegades were gone now, but Jard and Stoker and their like came here to raid and plunder in their own way. And just perhaps Destiny could have a hand in stopping them.

  Chapter 12

  Her heart cried out, What about Eric? But she ignored its painful wail, picking her way carefully down the hill to Muffin. She hadn’t brought a flashlight, not dreaming she’d be out after dark, but the full moon lighted their way. Muffin plodded along the road to the ranch house. They topped the rise to see figures with flashlights moving back and forth on the porch. There were horses, too, and Muffin nickered at them. The dogs bounded out in greeting.

  Destiny rode up, slid from Muffin’s back and waited as Eric walked up to her and stood there, tall as a mountain, wide as the western sky.

  “Where have you been?” His voice sounded very quiet and very dangerous.

  “I went riding. I got lost.”

  “We’ve been looking for you,” he grated through clenched teeth. “And we were going out again. We’ve been searching for hours.”

  He appeared frightening in that moment and she took a step back. “I’m sorry.”