The Man from Misery

by David C. Noonan

  CHAPTER 20 THE RANSOM MEETING

  Kingston entered Salazar’s estate escorted by two guards, who motioned him with their gun muzzles towards the big house. The hacienda looked even grander than it had from the lookout. Kingston could see the fine details of the woodwork and the designs etched into the fountain. As the guards frisked him, he observed Garza and Salazar slouched in wicker chairs on the veranda sipping from coffee mugs and smoking long-nines. A third man hung back in the shadows leaning against a wall, chewing on a matchstick. Kingston strolled through the front yard until he reached the bottom step of the veranda.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kingston,” Salazar said.

  “Morning,” Kingston replied. “Thanks for meeting with me.” He noticed there were no extra chairs. “May I sit, or do you prefer I stand?”

  “I don’t think this will take long,” Salazar said, “so there’s no point in you getting too comfortable.”

  “I’ve come to ransom my niece.”

  “You mean Faith?” Garza said, and then he smirked at Salazar.

  “Yes,” Kingston said.

  Salazar studied the glowing end of his cigar. “She’s not for sale.”

  “What do you mean? You’re planning to sell her to one of your bidders. All I’m asking is to give me first consideration, and I’ll pay you a premium.”

  “How do you know about the bidders?” Salazar asked. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “The people of Santa Sabino know what you’re up to. And so do I.”

  “And even with that knowledge, you still have the courage to approach me?”

  “I don’t approach you with courage—but with money.” Kingston angled his boot against the edge of the starter step. “Isn’t that what this is all about?”

  Salazar took a huge puff from the cigar and blew out a thick, silvery cloud. “Maybe. Maybe not. Since you know so much about our business, tell me how much you would be willing to pay.”

  “Whatever you think she’ll bring at your auction . . . plus two thousand dollars.”

  “What these men will be willing to pay is anybody’s guess. One of them could take an incredible shine to her and drive the price up.”

  “This isn’t the first girl you’ve sold. You know what she’s worth.”

  Salazar pointed at Kingston with his index and middle fingers, the cigar wedged between them. “I don’t like your tone.”

  Kingston regretted his words at once and backed off, because they weren’t helping his cause. “Look, you and I are businessmen,” he said. “Let’s do some business. I’ll give you four thousand dollars.”

  Salazar turned to Garza, “Seems low, no?”

  “Six thousand dollars,” Kingston said before Garza could answer.

  Garza pressed his left boot against the flute of one of the carved columns and tipped his chair back a few inches. “You say she’s different from the others, Enrique.”

  “Eight thousand,” Kingston said.

  Salazar shifted in the chair and stroked his beard with his free hand. “That’s quite a sum. I don’t see you holding any sacks of money, though. Or maybe you’re thinking of paying us with Confederate shinplasters?”

  “The money is nearby. You’ll have it later today.”

  Salazar snorted.

  “You scoff,” Kingston said, “but I’d be a fool to come here with the money. What’s to prevent you from stealing it and killing me?”

  “There’s that tone again, Enrique,” Garza said. His long-nine was out, so he lit a match against his boot and fired up the smoke, taking time to make sure it was glowing red hot.

  Kingston swallowed hard, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and tried again. “Faith is the only family I have left. I’ve made you an incredible offer. May I see her?”

  Salazar held the cigar to his lips for several seconds, puffing as he mulled over the offer and request, then shook his head. “No, she’s not for sale; not to you, not to the bidders, not to any man. She’s special, and I’m crafting my own plans for her. And, no, you may not see her. Anything else?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “No,” Salazar said.

  Kingston felt the situation slipping through his fingers like sand. “I’m begging you to make this deal.”

  The man leaning against the post finally emerged from the shadows and spoke. “Or what?”

  “This is Tito,” Salazar said. “He helps us watch over Santa Sabino. He brought me all kinds of information this morning, about you and your friends.”

  Tito was a tall, spare man with scowling eyes and a bright-yellow sash tied around his waist. He stepped towards Kingston and said, “Or what? You’ll sic your gang on us?”

  “What gang?”

  Salazar grinned and said, “I don’t know, maybe a gang that includes a man named Emmet Honeycut. That’s his name, isn’t it Tito?”

  Tito nodded.

  “He’s . . . we fought in the war together,” Kingston said.

  Salazar glanced at Garza. “And he just happens to be in Santa Sabino the same time as you?” he said, faking amazement.

  “How about Abe and Zack Thompson?” Tito said.

  Kingston felt blood draining from his face and sweat creasing his brow; he sensed a black net being drawn around him.

  Tito twirled the matchstick in his mouth and said, “Did you really think a tall stranger and a pair of red-headed bookends wouldn’t be noticed in Santa Sabino, especially after they shot up a cantina?”

  Kingston shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I wasn’t there.”

  Salazar’s nostrils flared. “When is Soapy Waters arriving? And how many men is he bringing?”

  Kingston’s stomach soured, and his legs jellied, because at that instant, he realized he had a traitor in his ranks.

  Tito rose, stepped off the porch, and drew his Colt Dragoon as he swaggered over to Kingston. “He asked you a question,” he said, and then he brought the side of the revolver crashing down on the major’s skull. The blow shot a bolt of lightning through Kingston’s head, dropping him to the ground.

  Salazar leaned forward in his chair. “Know what I think? I think you’re planning some surprises for us, Mr. Kingston. I think you’re here for more than your niece. I think you’re here to take all our girls.”

  Kingston felt blood, warm and sticky, dripping down his forehead. His head wavered side to side as he tried to lift it up. “Trust me. Make this deal, and I’ll head back to Texas tonight.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Salazar said. “When are the other men due?”

  At this point, Kingston realized it was best to stay silent. He eased his head back on the ground and stared up at the bright blue sky.

  Tito stared down at Kingston. “When do they arrive?” he said with a withering snarl.

  The next flash of pain Kingston felt came from a powerful kick in the ribs, which made him roll on his side. He moaned as fire flooded his abdomen.

  Tito squatted on his heels. “How many more, and when are they coming?”

  Kingston curled up like a pill bug. He had failed, and that knowledge was more hurtful than Tito’s body blows. All the successful business strategies and war campaigns of his life mattered little now. He had failed Faith, his family, his army buddies. Salazar and Garza would keep him alive only until they found out what they wanted. He knew that. He also knew that Emmet was watching from up in the hills and was now Faith’s last hope.

  “For the last time, how many and when?” Tito said.

  Each breath hurt and made Kingston’s body shudder. Battling the relentless ache, he beckoned Tito closer with his right hand. When Tito leaned in, Kingston flung a fistful of sand into his face with his left hand. Tito screamed and scrubbed his eyelids with his knuckles. With eyes red with rage, he cocked his pistol and lowered it into Kingston’s face.

  “Don’t!” Salazar shouted. “You’re a fool if you don’t think some of his men are up in those hills watching us right now.”
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  Now Garza spoke. “So let’s send them a message.”

  “No, Yago. We’ll let him live and draw them in.”

  Kingston exhaled as Tito slammed his gun into the holster and turned towards Salazar. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s have some fun with him,” Salazar said. “Give him to the ants. They have a way of making people talk.”

  “Ponce, Bartoli,” Garza barked. Two guards rushed over. “Stake him out. Try not to let him die. Let us know if he tells you anything.”

  “We’ll give him all the care he deserves,” Bartoli said.

  “When will we know how many men are coming?” Garza asked Tito.

  “Tonight,” he replied, tossing the matchstick away. “Diego and Paco will be back with that information no later than tonight. The brothers are also bringing the tenth girl in.”

  Kingston battled to remain conscious as Ponce and Bartoli hoisted him to his feet. They dragged him along the wall of the estate and out the rear gate, each step shooting racking spasms through his stomach. Ten feet outside the wall, Kingston eyed a large mound of loose dirt sprinkled with blades of dead grass bulging from the flat earth. He slung his head to the right and saw a huddle of vaqueros dawdling by the corral. The guards let go of him, and he dropped to the ground next to the anthill. Kingston felt them stripping off his shirt and pants. The hot stones on his bare back felt like prickling thorns of flame.

  Looking up, Kingston saw Bartoli unsheathe the knife in his belt, cut four strips of rope, and toss two to Ponce. They bound Kingston’s hands and feet and girt the ropes to four railroad spikes jutting out of the ground.

  Through his good eye, Kingston watched a wiry vaquero shuffle over from the bunkhouse sporting a crazed grin and clutching a jar of molasses. He handed the jar to Ponce, who glared at Kingston splayed on his back in the searing sun.

  “If today’s heat don’t kill you, tonight’s cold just might,” he said with a derisive laugh. “Either way, we’ll make sure you have plenty of company.” And then he drizzled molasses over Kingston’s legs, torso, and face. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to show our hospitality.”

  The molasses stung Kingston’s eyes, so he squeezed his eyelids shut. He smelled the sweetness of the syrup, felt it oozing down his ears, heard the vaqueros’ mocking laughter above him. He was lying flat, but his head was whirling like a windmill blade. Eventually the spinning stopped, the voices quieted, and the gray light behind his eyelids faded to black.

  CHAPTER 21 CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  Emmet watched with rage as Salazar’s goons beat his former commander and dragged him behind the back wall of the hacienda out of sight. He remembered the man in the yellow sash from the day he and the twins first arrived in town. Emmet figured Salazar was on to them, and it was critical to warn the others. He scrambled from the overlook and down to Ruby Red. Spurring the horse, he hurtled down the southern trail at a spanking speed.

  After four miles of hard riding, Emmet canted Ruby Red onto the Black Angel Trail. The route was more popular and an hour shorter than the remote one he and Kingston had taken earlier that morning. After twenty minutes of level riding, Emmet noted the path descended for two hundred yards before rising again. The tree canopy thinned out, affording more views along the trail. Emmet swallowed hard when he saw four riders approaching from the second rise. He pulled up with a sharp tug on the reins, causing Ruby Red’s forelegs to spray dirt and stones in a wide circle. After reining the horse towards a small draw, he dismounted and tied her up behind a copse of scrub pine.

  He slid Big Betty from her sling, snatched the spyglass from the saddlebag, and positioned himself behind a large granite boulder. He focused the small telescope on each of the riders in turn. Leading the pack was a Mexican soldier riding an Appaloosa. Behind him was a young Mexican girl in ragged clothing. Two more men brought up the rear, and Emmet’s blood began to simmer. He recognized them as Diego and Paco—the brothers he had saved from the Comanches that moonlit night on his way to Sabo Canyon. He whispered to himself, “Ah, hermanos, we meet again.”

  Emmet crept along the draw until the trail flattened out. No time to gain higher ground; a level plane was the best he could do. He curled his long frame behind an enormous pine. Holding Big Betty under his arm, he laid the spyglass on the ground and unsheathed the sidearm from its holster—and waited.

  The clopping of hooves grew louder, as did the riders’ voices, so that now Emmet could make out what they were saying.

  “We can deliver your message and save you the time,” Diego said. “We have our own information to relay to him.”

  “My orders are to speak with Señor Salazar personally and tell him Captain Ortega will arrive a day early,” the soldier said.

  “How many men does Ortega have?”

  “Two dozen,” the soldier replied.

  “How many bidders?”

  “Seven.”

  Paco cackled and looked at the girl. “Hear that, Princess? You might end up with any one of seven different men.”

  Emmet waited until they all had passed and then slipped onto the trail behind them. “Stop. Don’t move,” he commanded. “I’ve got two guns on you.”

  The group halted.

  “Hold your hands high, and don’t turn around,” Emmet said.

  The men complied.

  “What’s your name, Señorita?” Emmet asked.

  “Lucita.”

  “Where are you going, Lucita?”

  “They said they are taking me to Señor Salazar’s hacienda.”

  Emmet had both weapons balanced in his hands, fingers on the triggers, barrels pointed at the brothers. “Turn around, Lucita.”

  She reined the small pinto around to face Emmet.

  “Do you want to go to Señor Salazar’s house?” he asked.

  She looked down at the saddle horn and shook her head.

  “I’m your friend,” Emmet said. “I won’t hurt you. Here’s what I need you to do. Go back the same trail you just came down. Wait for me at the fork. I’ll join you shortly. Do you understand?”

  She nodded again, set her pony at an easy gait, and rode back up the trail.

  “Now, you three can turn around,” Emmet said. “Real slow.”

  The men shunted their horses to face Emmet.

  “Remember me, Diego?” Emmet asked.

  Recognition blazed in Diego’s eyes, and he smirked. “Well if it isn’t Emmet Honeycut,” he said.

  “I never told you my name.”

  “Oh, lots of people around here know who you are. I’m surprised you remembered mine.”

  “A face as ugly as yours is powerful hard to forget,” Emmet said.

  Diego’s face showed nothing.

  “I see you and Paco are still in the orphanage business,” Emmet said, “and tomorrow the army will visit. This certainly is—what did you call it—a new day.”

  The soldier sneered and said, “What do you want? I have business to tend to.”

  “What do I want? I want you to throw down your weapons and climb off those horses.”

  Paco flashed a jagged grin. “I don’t think so. You’ve got two guns and there are three of us.”

  Emmet smiled back. “I just need to decide which one of you is slowest on the draw and kill him last.”

  “You won’t have enough time to figure that out,” Paco said.

  “I already know who it is,” Emmet said.

  Paco laughed. “Who?”

  “That ain’t a question that needs an answer right now.” Emmet figured on the soldier, given he was military-trained and not a gunslinger. “So you gonna throw down, or is dying time here?”

  The riders grabbed for steel, and Emmet opened fire, dispatching Paco to oblivion with a pistol shot, while Big Betty pitched Diego backwards from the horse. Emmet dove for the underbrush, but the soldier’s first shot sliced through his boot; his second hit a tree and sprayed pine bark into the air.

  Emmet rolled over on the gr
ound twice and came up firing, but the soldier had jerked his horse to the side of the trail, cutting Emmet’s angle. The Mexican rapid-fired, forcing Emmet to duck behind a snarl of deadfall. After emptying his breech, the soldier turned the Appaloosa and dashed down the road, keeping his head down and his body low against the animal.

  Emmet jumped up, his left leg sizzling with pain, the heel of his boot pooling with blood. He sighted on the shrinking blue and yellow target, breathed in, out, waited for the calming breath, fired. The soldier’s upper body torqued forty-five degrees to the left, his face turned to the sun, and the shako fell from his head, but he remained atop the horse as it disappeared over the crest.

  Emmet knew time was critical and decided against chasing the soldier down. If he was still alive he wouldn’t be for long given the clean hit. He dragged the bodies of the two brothers into the underbrush and then spooked their horses into the woods. He hobbled over to Ruby Red, mounted up from the right side because of his wounded leg, and bolted down the road.

  Emmet caught up to Lucita ten minutes later. He could tell she was an inexperienced rider by the way she was locking her knees around the animal to keep from falling. The girl jerked her head backwards when she heard Ruby Red’s hoofbeats, but her frightened look turned to a smile when she recognized Emmet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled up next to her. She nodded.

  “You did good today, Lucita. Do you know how to ride?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, we need to make tracks, so I need you to hop up here,” Emmet said, patting the cantle. He scooted his body further up the seat rise closer to the horn, and the girl climbed up behind him. Emmet grabbed the reins, told her to hold on, and spurred Ruby Red to full gallop, the girl clinging to him like bark on a tree.

  As they galloped along the trail, Emmet glanced down at Lucita’s young hands gripping the saddle horn and felt her heated arms wrapped around his waist, and it conjured up a memory, warm and shadowed, of a sunny spring day when the trees and flowers were in full bloom, their perfume filling the air.