Crack in the Sky (25 page)

As if he had been unaware of the wound, John touched his bloody brow where the gaping skin had been split with a club of some sort. Rowland said, “Ain’t nothing can keep me from killing my share of those red sonsabitches.”

“It’s gonna be a long ride—”

“You ain’t leaving me!” he shrieked, balling up a fist and daring to shake it right under Hatcher’s chin. “I can find my own way just as good as I can ride with the rest of you.”

Hatcher dropped his reins and with that empty hand gripped Rowland’s defiant fist. “Ye ain’t goin’ on yer own, Johnny. Ye’re gonna ride with yer friends. We aim to all go after yer Maria with ye—together.”

Bass watched those simple words shake that wounded, grieving man right down to the soles of his moccasins. He stood there trembling, tears gushing from his
eyes as he tried to control the sobbing, tried his best not to show his grief in front of these hardened, bloodied veterans of mountain winters and Indian warfare.

“It’s awright, Johnny,” Solomon reminded him quietly as the wild shrieks of the mob faded behind them. “A man what lost his wife got him a right to get broke up just like you.”

Jack reminded, “Ain’t a one of us wouldn’t cry too.”

“Been you got rubbed out, Johnny,” Isaac admitted, “I’d be broke up like that my own self.”

Rowland suddenly dragged in a deep breath, slowly pulling his fist from Hatcher’s grip as he gathered himself together with a trembling shudder of emotion. Biting his lower lip a moment, the trapper blinked his eyes clear, swallowed hard, and said, “Lemme find a horse—just gimme chance to find me a horse … they got mine … run off with mine—”

“Get you a horse,” Jack agreed. “We’ll fetch us up some saddles and food out’n the houses here first whack—something for the trail. We’ll set off after ye’ve got a horse.”

“How ’bout the soldiers here?” Workman asked. “What we tell them?”

“Tell ’em … tell ’em go get their horses pronto, Willy. Tell Guerrero we’re gonna lead ’em to them Comanche.”

“Sun’s coming up,” Graham pointed out as Workman turned aside to speak to the Mexican officer.

The trappers turned to gaze east just as that loud cathedral bell pealed its last and the brassy horn’s final note drifted into the cold dawn. The top edge of the bright orb was just emerging over the Sangre de Cristos, every bit as red as blood. The blood of Christ, Scratch was reminded as some of them gasped at this vivid portent written there between the mountaintops and the early-winter skies—the underbellies of the cold, bluish clouds suddenly aflame with savage streaks of crimson.

“That’s a sign, by God,” Isaac whispered while the soldiers turned on their heels and double-timed it back down the rutted street toward their stables.

“Damn right,” Elbridge grumbled in agreement. “Gonna be a bloody day for them Comanche.”

Bass figured it would be a long and bloody day for them all.

That first night the Comanche didn’t stop.

Neither did the Americans and the Mexican soldiers strung out behind them on the backtrail.

Scratch thought Hatcher’s bunch was about as prepared for this endurance ride as they could have been even if they had been given an hour to make ready. The only thing that might have been better was to have themselves some more guns. The villagers dug up enough blankets and saddles for the Americans, a few gourd canteens, and some poor cloth bags filled with meager offerings of food. It touched Bass’s heart to see how these simple people, who had so little, expressed their gratitude for what risk the trappers were about to take.

As it was, the Americans made good time that day, stopping for a few minutes every couple of hours as the afternoon aged and the winter light waned and night was sucked down out of the eternal sky all around them.

Then they were alone with the land, and the black gut of night, alone with one another once more. Somewhere behind them in the dark the Mexican officer and his men were struggling to force their tired horses into the cold night. They were making a lot of noise, every clatter and voice sounding all the louder here in the dark. At first their clumsy bumbling had angered Titus, but over the long, cold hours in the saddle, he gradually figured that they just might have a chance to turn that bumbling into an advantage, one that might somehow pay off in a big way.

If the Comanche believed they were being followed by soldiers who had no real chance to catch up to them, and even if the Mexicans did catch up, there would be no way in hell Guerrero’s men could beat the warriors…. Then the trappers might just have a shot at rigging a surprise for the raiders.

There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot said among Hatcher’s men as they loped their horses north toward the
foot of the hills that winter dawn, then found the wide trail of Indian ponies driving along stolen horses, cattle, and a noisy, bleating herd of sheep sweeping around to the south against the upland. The Comanche were doubling back toward the high country, turning east into the difficult terrain of the Sangre de Cristos, striking the narrow valley of Fernandez Creek itself.

Near midmorning Hatcher had called a short halt, turned around, and faced the rest of them, discovering Kinkead catching up to them on their backtrail, the Mexicans strung out down the slope behind him.

“Yonder comes Matthew,” Jack quietly told the rest as they came out of their saddles. “We’ll let the ponies blow till he gets up—then we’ll go on.”

Scratch asked, “You figger them greasers gonna stay up with us, we keep humping like this, Jack?”

“They’ll stay up.”

Then Workman added, “Any soldiers what bring in the governor’s wife and daughter—they’ll be heroes, don’t you know. That Guerrero’s gonna damn well make sure his men stay up the best they can, even if he’s gotta stick ’em with that fancy sword of his.”

For a moment they all fell quiet as the horses snorted and blew, some tearing noisily at the dry grass. A few of the men watched Kinkead approaching, others stared higher into the foothills rumpled against the high mountains.

“Those red sonsabitches going up there, ain’t they, Jack?” Caleb said it more than he asked it, for it was as plain as pewter where the Comanche were heading.

“It’s for damned sure they ain’t tried one lick to blind their trail,” Bass declared.

Elbridge agreed, “Not with all them cows and sheep they been driving with ’em.”

“Red bastards,” Hatcher growled almost under his breath. “They don’t figger no one to try following ’em.”

“Leastways no white man,” Rowland said as he eyed the ragtag formation of more than fifty soldiers struggling up the slope behind them.

Hatcher nodded in agreement as Kinkead came up,
hauling back on his reins and letting out a long sigh himself. His eyes landed on Rowland, and he urged his horse over, holding out his hand.

“Johnny.”

“Matthew.”

Kinkead dragged a hand under his nose. “Damn, but it’s good to see your face.”

“The others,” Rowland started, his voice already cracking with emotion once more, “they tol’t me you figgered me for d-dead.”

Kinkead touched his own brow below the blanket cap he had pulled down over his bushy hair. “Half-dead anyway, from the looks of you. We ought’n sew that up—”

“M-maybe later,” Rowland argued. “After … after …”

Kinkead’s eyes moistened. “I’m glad … glad you’re with us to go get your Maria.”

Hatcher watched Rowland turn away, blinking his eyes. Clearing his throat, Jack used his rifle to point up the creek into the timber and rugged slopes that stood over them. “Looks like they’re run off for the highlands, Matthew.”

Kinkead squinted, peering into the hazy distance that softened the clarity of those high peaks. “A good escape.”

“Them dram-med Injuns knowed just how to make a good getaway, wasn’t they?” Isaac said.

“Damn right,” Caleb agreed, glancing back at the distant soldiers. “They knew no greaser was gonna foller ’em up there.”

“Not when most of them greasers sore afraid of a ambush,” Solomon declared.

“But we ain’t greasers,” Bass argued.

“And we ain’t afraid of them Comanche neither,” Caleb stated.

Jack nodded. “Them sumbitches ain’t counting on no one coming after ’em once they make it into the tough going, do they, boys?”

They all grumbled in solidarity.

Hatcher continued. “Way I see it, only men who can stand any chance at all going after ’em is a bunch of plew
niggers like us what can ride the ass end out of Comanche pony in mountain country any day of the week. Any season of the year.”

The way he said it made Bass shudder. They hadn’t brought along bedrolls, only what poor blankets the villagers had pulled from their mud hovels, donating what little they possessed to the gringos…. Then he consoled himself: wasn’t a one of Hatcher’s men didn’t really figure on this chase lasting all that long to begin with. And right then he had the feeling they really wouldn’t be sleeping much at all until it was over, one way or the other.

For a fleeting moment Scratch felt the whimper well up inside him, feeling sorry for himself over the sleep he had lost last night by staying up to drink so damned much of Workman’s brew—that and the sleep he was bound to lose until this chase was settled, one way or the other.

But, then, a man could always catch up on his sleep, he figured, still as young as he was, what with closing in on his thirty-fifth winter. Besides, if he was given a choice, going without any shut-eye for a few days was far preferable to sleeping out eternity like the dead. Like the men he himself had rubbed out were sleeping right then. Men who did their best to put him under.

These ten were alone with their thoughts while that day grew old and the light began to muddy, then to fade beneath the bony fingers of lengthening shadows. The Mexicans were struggling along behind them, still out of sight behind the last ridge or back beyond that last bend in the canyon. And the Comanche were still somewhere ahead of them, above—where they could likely look down and see the Americans dogging their backtrail. Titus figured the chances were better than good they were watched from time to time throughout that cold day as the clouds hovered among the peaks overhead. Black-cherry eyes peering back now and again to survey the distant, snaking movement of ten horsemen leading those half a hundred soldiers.

No telling what might happen to those white women and children once the Comanche believed their pursuers had halted for the night, no longer pushing the chase …
when those raiders were free to halt, light their fires, and take a good, close look at the women they’d thrown up on horses and whipped out of the village. Women like Rowland’s wife.

It made Scratch shudder.

“We ain’t stopping here for long, ye understand,” Hatcher declared brusquely at twilight when the sun had receded from the flat land far below them, gone beyond the western hills on the far side of the Taos valley.

“Ain’t we gonna rest none?” Graham asked wearily, his face liver-colored with fatigue like the rest of them. Then Rufus noticed at the way the sudden pinch of pain crossed Rowland’s face and said, “Hell, forget it, Jack…. I s’pose we ought’n keep on long as we can see far ’nough in front of us for the horses.”

“Just what I was figuring myself, Rufus,” Jack replied. “It’s for damn sure them Injuns gonna be stopping somewhere up ahead once it gets dark enough—but they’ll keep on climbing long as they can.”

“I’ll wager them bastards get a mite spooked in these here mountains at night,” Caleb observed.

Isaac said, “For sartin the Comanch’ ain’t used to no mountains, that’s for sure.”

“They’re flatlanders, by whip,” Solomon agreed.

“Maybeso we can turn that back on ’em,” Bass declared.

“What ye mean?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowing in interest.

“Like you boys said: they ain’t on their own ground,” Scratch explained. “Even if they ain’t spooked by the mountains or the night, leastwise we know they ain’t on their home ground where they’re used to fighting.”

“Bass is right,” Workman said enthusiastically. “This is home ground for you fellers. That’s gotta count for something.”

Hatcher nodded, thoughts clearly spinning round in his head, and he growled, “We’ll make it count for something, boys. Willy, turn back down-trail and go talk to that Guerrero soldier. Get him to hurry up his men now that it’s getting dark.”

“I’ll bet they’re the sort to stop for the night,” Simms grumbled.

“They cain’t this night,” Hatcher argued. “Tell ’em in Mexican that we gotta use these hours of darkness to close the gap on the Comanche the most we can.”

“Right.” And Workman began to turn his horse around.

Jack continued, “Ye stay with ’em, Willy—till I send one of the boys back for you.”

The whiskey maker sawed back on his reins. “Stay with them soldiers?”

“Yep,” Jack advised. “Till tomorrow sometime.”

Concern knitted Workman’s brow. “Why tomorrow I gotta wait to join back up with you?”

“We eat up enough of the ground atween us and the Comanch’ tonight,” Hatcher explained, “we’ll have us a chance to lay a trap for them sumbitches afore tomorrow night.”

The whiskey maker nodded. “You want me to tell Guerrero you’re gonna lay a trap for the Comanche?”

“Ye tell ’em we got a chance at getting the women back, only if them soldiers ain’t afraid to keep on comin’.”

“All right, Jack. I’ll wait back with ’em. Wait till you send one of the boys to come fetch me up.”

“When I do,” Hatcher said quietly, “it’ll be time to bring them soldiers up on the run. Time for us to open up the dance on them Comanche.”

Workman didn’t utter another word, only nodding at two of the men as he reined his horse about and set it off down their backtrail into the mountain twilight. In moments he was gone from view, engulfed by the growing gloom, along with the fading muffle of his horse’s hooves, that last vestige of him swallowed by the trees and the boulders, become a part of the night coming down around them.

“Caleb, I want you and Bass to hang back ahind the rest of us.” Hatcher waited till the two of them nodded. “Keep yer eyes on the downslope so them red sumbitches don’t double back and pull a grizz on us. Let’s move out.”