Death Rattle (29 page)

“That nigger’s gotta go down afore we leave here,” Kersey observed as he peered at Adair and Purcell.

“I give you one of the women,” the blacksmith offered with a shrug. “Go, whore!” and he shoved the muzzle of his pistol against the back of her head.

She stumbled forward a step and froze, her eyes wide with terror as she turned slightly to gaze at the Mexican.

“We are leaving with both of them,” Bass warned, just as he spotted the Indian guide going into a crouch. “Frederico—don’t move! This one, he is mean. If you do anything stupid, he will kill your sister.”

“S-sister?” the blacksmith echoed.

Titus’s gut sank with the realization he’d made a terrible mistake.

The Mexican asked again, “This one I will keep is the Indian’s sister?”

Titus shook his head. “We’re taking both—”

“No, gringo. I give you the sister and we keep the other whore.”

“Both.”

“Maybe … they are both sisters, eh?” The big Mexican’s eyes squinted cruelly.

“You give us both, or we kill you,” Titus said. “There’s many more whores at the mission. You can have them to keep—”

“Si,
there are so many Indian whores at the mission,” the blacksmith interrupted. “Why don’t you gringos get some whores from the padres there—just the way the holy friars give us women for our beds. And when we need more women, the friars give us all we need, the ones do not work hard enough in the vineyards.”

Scratch took a tentative step forward. “Why do you need other women when you already have—”

With a loud, harsh gush of laughter, the blacksmith rocked his head back quickly, then said, “Women do not always last. Some get hurt very bad when our play with them is too rough. Then we can no longer use whores who are hurt so bad. And,” he shrugged, “some of the whores, they kill themselves if they get the chance—grab a gun or knife to hurt themselves badly. Ah, the holy fathers know not to ask any questions when we go to them to ask for more Indian whores from the mission!”

Sure as hell those men of God didn’t ask, Titus brooded. This was nothing short of a deal made between the devil and his evil minions themselves. At every California mission the soldiers kept hundreds of Indian slaves terrorized and docile for those self-righteous Franciscan friars, while the padres repeatedly turned over an array of the youngest, prettiest Indian girls to the army posts. Appeared that the friars and the soldiers both had something the other needed badly. And with their most unholy bargain, a peaceful colonial order was struck in this new world.

“When the soldiers come back,” Titus said, “go get
some others. Can’t you see how you’ve used these women up?”

“What?” roared the blacksmith. “They are not dead yet! Go away before I have to kill them just for fun while I have myself poked inside one. A
geniazo
whore is bound to die sooner or later anyway!”

In a frightening blur, Frederico dove forward, tackling Celita, both of them spilling to the side at the Mexican’s feet. At this moment Mayanez twisted in the blacksmith’s grip and planted the fingers of both hands into his face, unmindful of the slashing he did along her forearms with his knife. She screamed in pain—but dug her claws into his face even more fiercely as she kicked and thrashed with her tiny bare feet. The Mexican shrieked in his own torment.

Backwards he stumbled as Kersey and Bass lunged forward.

“Stay down!” Titus yelled at Frederico as he rushed toward the blacksmith. “Get her out of here!”

Another step backward the blacksmith stumbled, desperately attempting to hack the shrieking woman from his flesh. Up and down his face, neck, and across his chest she scratched, ripping ribbons of crimson on his brown skin. With the two Americans closing in the big Mexican roared in pain and desperation, seizing a handful of Mayanez’s black hair. He yanked her head back and shoved the pistol into her face.

“NO!”

But just as Titus reached the blacksmith, the Mexican pulled the trigger.

The back of the woman’s head exploded, bright blood splattering the Mexican, Titus, and even Elias Kersey too.

With a shriek of horror, Celita tried to grab for her brother, but an enraged Frederico sprang to his feet and flung himself on the blacksmith at the moment Bass was diving under that huge hand gripping the knife. Together they thrust the Mexican back against the adobe wall with a loud grunt.

Back and forth Titus raked his skinning knife across the soldier’s gut, slicing deeper and deeper with each
heave of the bone-handled weapon. Gut spilled at their feet, the two trappers slipping, stumbling in the blood and greasy coil as the Mexican slowly, slowly slid downward, his back pressed against the wall.

The stench was heavy and foul, nothing new to Bass. Both trappers inched back. Kersey knelt to pull Mayanez’s body away from the blacksmith as the Mexican’s half-lidded eyes gazed up at Titus.

For a moment he stared down at his riven belly, the pile of dirty intestine between his legs, blood flooding his uniform breeches; then his glazing eyes fought to focus on Scratch.

“Chaguanoso,
eh—I think women only bring the trouble for a man. See how it is with me? The women, they only bring big, big trouble for a man.…”

With a rush the air escaped the Mexican’s chest, making that distinct and unmistakable rattle Titus had heard more times than he dared count. Years and years, surrounded by sudden, capricious death.

Behind him, Frederico and Celita crouched over Mayanez’s body.

Scratch turned to Kersey. “Get me a blanket, Elias.”

With the gray soldier blanket, Frederico and Celita wrapped up their dead sister while Bass and Kersey went over to join Corn and Coltrane by the wounded Adair and Purcell.

“Gonna use your belt, Silas,” Scratch said as his fingers worked at the buckle.

When Roscoe had his friend Adair propped up, Titus dragged the scabbard and a small pouch from the belt, then stuffed the wide strap under Silas’s thigh, a few inches above the dark smear of blood. Once the end of the belt was back through the round buckle, Titus tugged it tight, then half-hitched the strap under itself to secure the tourniquet.

“I lost lotta blood,” Adair groaned in a weakened whisper, his head sinking back against Coltrane’s chest.

“You ain’t gonna die here,” Scratch said. “Less’n you want me to leave you.”

“Silas? Die here? With a bunch of dead Mex’can
soldiers?” Kersey chortled, his s’s whistling as he clearly did what he could to cheer up Adair. “Now that’d be a yank on the devil’s short-hairs!”

Bass turned to give his attention to Purcell. “How’s Rube?”

With Jake Corn’s help, the skinny man pulled the tail of his shirt up even farther so Titus could see for himself. “Well, damn-me, Scratch, if that ball didn’t go right on through. An’ that’s the preacher’s truth.”

“The man’s nothing but bone and sinew-strap anyway,” Corn declared. “If a ball don’t hit him in a bone, you ain’t gonna hurt this nigger none.”

“That’s the narrow truth of it,” Purcell said.

Scratch nodded. When he stood, Titus flexed his back, suddenly aware of his own raw flesh wound once more. “Wrap him up, Jake. Me and Roscoe gonna boost Silas into the saddle. We best be making tracks for the hills.”

On his own, Elias cleared out the long, low-roofed stables, driving what few horses and mules remained in their stalls out to the central
placita.
Celita and Frederico tied their sister over one of the soldier horses while Bass and Coltrane got Adair hoisted into his saddle and settled with a startled grunt of agony. Titus studied the thigh one last time, not finding any new blood dampening the crusty buckskin around the bullet hole.

“Damn,” he said quietly as he gazed up at Adair.

“W-what?”

He grinned. “Looks like you’re gonna live, nigger.”

“I’d kick you with that bum leg if’n I could, Titus Bass,” Silas grumbled as Scratch turned away.

Jake Corn handed Titus his reins, and Bass rose to the saddle as the late-afternoon light was stretching shadows to their fullest.

“Rube!” he called. “You start out the gate, make tracks for the hills. We’ll start these animals moving behind you.”

Corn asked, “Taking ’em all?”

“What critters don’t run off from us between here and that big herd the others is driving up to the pass,” Scratch replied. “Like Bill Williams said, we aren’t gonna leave
any of these here
Californios
a way to come ridin’ after us. Not if I can help it.”

Damn if just about sundown they didn’t run into a herd of wild horses. A large band of them, roaming the hills, free as you please.

Bass decided that if the fourteen riderless soldier horses were going to drift off and mix in with those rangy mustangs, then he’d let them wander. No sense in the trappers laboring their own saddle mounts so hard just to keep the army horses together. They already had their work carved out for them in just getting up to the pass itself. But to Scratch’s surprise, rather than enticing the soldier horses away from the raiders, the curious leader of the wild herd instead loped along beside the trappers’ procession as it wound into the foothills.

“Looks to be we’re dragging even more horses outta California,” Kersey observed with a wry smile. His mark of distinction was a once shiny, now worn, black beaver-felt top hat, its stylish ash-gray ribbon and bow greasy from much handling. Although much tattered, the top hat gave Elias a very proper air at times.

“I’ll wager this bunch don’t stick around with us for long,” Titus countered.

But for a second time that day Scratch was proved wrong. It was almost enough to make a man take stock of his hunches! Time was, he was pretty damn trail savvy about most anything he came across. Oh, there were occasions when he’d get things wrong—like with a drunk or especially when it came to women. Never could callate what either of those would do when they put their minds to something. But guessing wrong on what those horses would do was a matter quite unsettling to him.

For many years now, Titus Bass had believed he understood horses and mules better than he understood a lot of folks. But maybe he had gotten old and a little soft in the brain. Or, maybe times had changed everything around him. That might account for the strange behavior of these wild, four-legged critters. Or … maybe
everything had been turned cattywhampus out here in California—nothing the way it was back in his mountain world.

At least now his nose was pointed for home. But that only made him yearn for her all the stronger.

Jake Corn rode drag, bringing up the rear of their small cavvyard. Roscoe Coltrane stayed even farther back from the rest, riding just out of sight of the others, training his constant attention down their back trail. He was to fire a warning shot if he spotted any
soldados
or vaqueros chasing their tail roots. The plan was to put the wounded Adair and Purcell, along with the two Indians, ahead on the trail with as many horses as would join the four to provide them some cover, while the other four turned and waited for Coltrane to come up.

Plan was, if they ended up being tailed by a small bunch of Mexicans, then the trappers could spring an ambush along the way. But if it turned out to be a large force of soldiers, like that outfit they had watched ride away from the fort earlier
that
day—then there would be no waiting around. They’d whip and lather their horses, climbing hard for the pass, hoping to catch up to the others driving the herd they had just yanked out from under the noses of the
Californios.
They could slip over the mountains and down to the desert—on their way back home without any more trouble … if the vaqueros and the
soldados
didn’t end up joining forces in the pursuit.

In his own way, Titus prayed he wouldn’t have to hear Roscoe Coltrane’s warning shot. Then all they’d have to worry about was the possibility that big swarm of soldiers they’d watched ride out of the fort earlier in the day was somewhere between them and Peg-Leg’s bunch.

Twilight lingered long enough for them to wrangle their horses through that last patch of low, wind-stunted scrub timber nestled across the pass. While the west slope behind them remained sunny, night was already seeping over the hillside before them. The way the shadows had disappeared and twilight hovered around them, Bass wasn’t certain when he called a halt to wait for Coltrane
to catch up. At first he thought his eye might be playing tricks with him; he decided he had to trust in his ears. That dark mass far down the slopes below them had to be the noisiest gathering for several hundred square miles.

Inching his small herd forward at a walk now, he watched a pair of riders take shape at the tail end of the crawling procession, heard their voices too as those human sounds mingled with thousands of snorting weary animals having started their way down the eastern slopes.

Elias Kersey whooped and whistled, causing the pair to turn in their saddles, spotting the small band of horses approaching from behind, down out of the wide, rolling saddle. Both of them called out to the raiders ahead in the march.

In minutes Bill Williams and Tom Smith were loping back along the edges of that huge herd.

“You lose anyone?” Peg-Leg asked as he pulled up.

Kersey waited till Bass came to a halt beside him. Elias explained, “No dead. But we got shot up at the fort.”

Williams asked, “Them bastards was laying for you?”

Shrugging, Bass replied, “Maybeso. Purcell’s gonna pull through. Ball passed right through him. Adair an’ his leg ain’t doing near so good.”

“Silas gonna make it?” Smith asked.

“Next day or two gonna tell,” Kersey responded.

Titus looked at Williams. “You gonna put some more country between us and them Mexicans afore we rest, Bill? Maybe drive the herd all night?”

With a shake of his head, Williams said, “We recollect a spring down below a ways—saw it back when we was coming up. Me and Tom figgered to take the herd on down there for to camp a few hours.”

Smith agreed. “These horses likely to smell that water anyway and go on down there on their own. We’ll bed ’em down there for the night and push on when there’s enough light to see.”