Gun for Revenge (5 page)

He awoke some time in the night, disturbed by something moving behind the cabin. At first he thought it might be the stallion – though he knew the Morgan seldom left the barn at night – or maybe a coyote on the prowl. Then he heard it again, recognized the familiar crunching sound made by human beings creeping along in boots and knew instinctively that the bounty hunters had returned.

He pulled on his boots, took down the Winchester and quietly levered a shell into the chamber. He then waited, motionless, ears straining to pinpoint where each of his attackers were.

One – no, two were approaching the door. He couldn’t place the third man and wondered whether he was after the stallion or hiding in the darkness somewhere, rifle trained on the door in case Gabriel got past his
companions
.

Deciding that caution was the way, Gabriel crouched behind the table, ready to gun down anyone who tried to enter. It wouldn’t be easy for them. Stout blocks of wood, slid each night into place, kept the door and the window shutters barred. Nothing short of dynamite or a battering ram could break them open.

Suddenly a lamp smashed against the door. Gabriel
heard glass shatter, smelled kerosene and realized they intended to burn him out.

Not waiting for the inevitable, he grabbed the blanket off his bed, dunked it in the bucket of water by the stove and wrapped it around himself. By now the door was aflame and he could hear the stallion neighing shrilly in the barn.

He unbarred the door, jerked it open and threw the chair out first, drawing the bounty hunters’ fire. He then dived outside, hitting the ground and rolling over, firing at the two human silhouettes he saw outlined against the crackling blaze.

One man gave a yelp and limped off into the darkness; the other took cover behind the corral fence. Gabriel jumped up and, keeping low, ran for the barn.

A shot fired from a higher angle nicked Gabriel on his left arm, forcing him to hit the dirt. He knew now that the third man was among the rocks atop the slope, and rolling over he squeezed off two quick rounds. The bullets
ricocheted
off the rocks, making the sniper duck his head. Gabriel took a chance, jumped up, and dove into the barn.

Bullets plunked into the door dangerously near his head. He returned fire, aiming directly at the flashes, and heard a grunt of pain.

Men’s voices whispered to each other in the darkness. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but a few moments later he heard horses galloping away.

He waited, hearing the stallion stirring restlessly behind him. When he was satisfied the bounty hunters weren’t returning, he sat up and faced the Morgan. The horse was glaring at him over the side of the stall. Its eyes were two fiery red glints. Gabriel laughed softly to himself. The
goddamn brute was more angry than scared!

Then he smelled smoke and remembered the fire. He jumped up, ran out into the moonlight and saw that the flames were licking up onto the roof. Gabriel ran to the water barrel, filled a bucket and tried to douse them.

He made numerous trips but eventually he had to face it: the cabin was ablaze and there was no saving it. Lungs choked with smoke, he stood back and bitterly watched the last two years of his life burn to a blackened skeleton.

He didn’t hear the stallion trot up beside him. Nor did he bother to look at it as he said grimly:

‘Horse, it’s time you an’ me rode north.’

At dawn the next morning, before the rooster stopped crowing, Gabriel left the barn where he’d slept and
breakfasted
on four raw eggs and a gourd of goat’s milk. He then released the pigs and goats so they could fend for themselves, and left the barn door open so the chickens could wander in and out.

Next he walked halfway down the slope to a pile of rocks and rolled one aside. Beneath it was a bundle wrapped in an old slicker. He unfolded it and took out the contents: a bedroll, canteen, a box of 44-40 cartridges. He’d buried everything right after he’d taken possession of the abandoned cabin for the very reason he was now going to need them: survival.

Only this time he wouldn’t be battling just lawmen or bounty hunters; this time he’d be up against a far more powerful enemy, a man everyone feared, a man he’d once admired, even thought of as a surrogate father: Stillman J. Stadtlander.

Gabriel pocketed the cartridges, filled the canteen from the stream, walked back up the slope to the Morgan and tied the bedroll behind his saddle. Then he mounted and rode off without once looking back at the smoldering remains of the cabin.

His arm ached where the bullet had nicked him, but the bleeding had stopped shortly after he’d poured the last of the whiskey on it and now, except for some stiffness, it worked fine.

He rode out across the flat scrubland, the stallion’s easy lope giving him the sense of being in a rocking-chair. In the cool dry air the Morgan was capable of keeping the pace steady for mile after mile. But Gabriel, sensing he hadn’t seen the last of the bounty hunters, reined the horse in as soon as they reached the end of the valley.

Ahead, the trail climbed through several big rocky outcrops, then sloped down into a vast desert of
greasewood
and
cholla
. The latter, a cactus that grew in strange, twisty shapes, was covered with sharp clingy spines that stuck to boots and clothing and were painful as hell to dig out once they got under the skin.

It was getting hot and Gabriel slowed the Morgan to a walk. To cross the desert in summer heat was dangerous, often fatal. Known as
Viaje del Muerto
, or Dead Man’s Journey, the land seemed harmless enough until one noticed the numerous bleached-white bones poking up through the reddish dirt. Rider and horse had to be
especially
careful where they trod, as stones and ruts and
pockets
of quicksand could cause a broken leg or a twisted ankle – dooming the victim, man or beast, to eventually die of dehydration.

But today Gabriel knew he had more to worry about than the desert. As he rode slowly across the wasteland he rested the Winchester across his arm, ready to fire at anything threatening.

After an hour or so he approached a mile-long gully walled on both sides by boulders. His intuition honed by a life on the run, he knew this was where the bushwhacking
would take place. Glancing up at the sun he saw that it glared down on his left side. Now he knew where the bounty hunters would be hiding. But from high up and at so steep an angle, it wouldn’t be an easy shot.

Making a run for it was out of the question: even if they missed him with every shot they might still hit the horse. And once he was on foot they could wait him out until he died of thirst.

It was then that he remembered a coyote he’d once hunted. The wily creature had kept exposing itself for a second before ducking out of sight. Each time Gabriel fired at it and missed. It was a daring ruse but it worked. After a dozen shots, Gabriel decided to look for easier game and gave up. The coyote’s mocking yip-yipping had rung in his ears as he rode off.

Now, hoping that the bounty hunters were watching, he dismounted and examined the stallion’s left foreleg. Then pretending the horse had gone lame, he switched the rifle to his right hand, grasped the reins with his left and started walking.

To make himself less of a target he kept changing his pace from fast to slow, slow to fast, now and then weaving and stumbling as if fatigued by the heat.

He’d covered about fifty yards when a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his shoulder, and before there was time for another shot Gabriel whacked the Morgan with the rifle butt and dived behind the nearest rock. The startled horse galloped off along the gully before the bounty hunters could shoot it.

Relieved, Gabriel kept ducked down as a steady hail of bullets chipped the rock near his head. Eventually, when the firing stopped, he poked his head up for a second, then ducked down again, drawing another volley of rifle
fire. He repeated the maneuver several times, each time getting a glimpse of where the three men were hiding.

When the next lull came he had his target already marked. Quickly resting the Winchester atop the rock, he took aim and fired three rounds.

There was a sharp cry and a body tumbled down, bouncing from rock to rock until it landed in a heap on the dirt. It was the youngest of the three bounty hunters, and his enraged father jumped up and pumped round after round at Gabriel.

Gabriel eased over behind the next rock, took careful aim and dropped the older man. He then stood up, and blazed away at the remaining son. Panicking, the bounty hunter scrambled over the rocks until a bullet in the head cut him down.

Gabriel watched him stagger and fall. His body slid limply down the steep rocky slope and landed in a heap in the gully. Feeling no remorse, Gabriel left the three bodies for the buzzards, shouldered his rifle and plodded on down the gully.

He found the stallion waiting about a hundred yards off. It snorted and gave him a look that showed how pissed off it was that he had whacked it. Gabriel knew that look and kept his rifle ready in case the Morgan tried to bite him. It didn’t. Gabriel swung up into the saddle, gripped the horn and spurred the horse forward – expecting it to buck. Again, nothing happened.

‘Don’t think you’re foolin’ me,’ Gabriel told the stallion as they rode off. ‘ ’Cause I’ll be burning in the fires of hell ’fore I believe you’ve gone soft.’

Every summer San Dimas, a remote sun-baked pueblo in north-west Chihuahua, earned its nickname
El horno del diablo
, the devil’s furnace. Trapped between the Sierra Madre and the towering, sheer walls of the
Cañon Solo
, the town was plagued by searing winds off the desert that kept the air so stifling hot it burned the lungs. If that wasn’t enough, temperatures regularly soared above a hundred degrees and often stayed that way for weeks at a time.

Today was no exception. As Gabriel rode in from the desert, the sun hammered down on him, making
breathing
an effort.

On the outskirts he passed an old man, face hidden beneath a tattered straw hat, leading a
burro
loaded down with firewood. The man acknowledged him with a
courteous
nod and plodded on. On both sides of him
white-shirted
campesinos
toiled in the bean fields, their heads shielded from the merciless sun by huge straw sombreros. Gabriel returned their waves and rode on, thinking how much he respected these gentle, compassionate people.

Ahead, women with bright-colored shawls over their heads sat in the doorways of hovels, grinding corn to make tortillas. They watched stoically as Gabriel rode past.

Their grubby, half-naked children weren’t so reserved.
As soon as he approached they stopped playing in the dirt and came running up, hands outstretched to him,
pleading
for pesos.

Gabriel knew if he gave them money they would follow him everywhere. But he couldn’t resist their insistent pleas and tossed them a few coins. As they scrambled in the dirt for them, he spat out the dead cigar he’d been chewing, licked his parched lips for the umpteenth time and spurred the stallion into a canter, leaving the children behind.

He followed a narrow dirt street lined with old adobe dwellings into the plaza. A spear of welcome shade cast by the church bell tower temporarily soothed Gabriel’s squinted eyes. But moments later he was back in the sunlight, the glare doubly bright now, making him pull his hat lower over his eyes.

He rode on, skirting a pigeon-stained statue of President Porfirio Diaz, and crossed the plaza. Ever wary when among strangers, he noticed that the shops around him were open but the intense heat was preventing anyone from using them.

Neither could he see anybody working inside the office of the local
Rurales
, or any saddled horses tied up outside. In fact, other than a young woman nursing her baby beside a vegetable stand and two bare-footed children carrying urns full of water, the sun-scorched square was deserted.

Gabriel reined up at the livery stable and told the hostler to ‘Grain him.’ Then he pulled his Winchester from its boot and asked the sleepy youth if he’d seen a gringo woman, dressed all in black, with an old Mexican driving a wagon. ‘They would’ve ridden in some time the day before yesterday,’ he added, ‘most likely late in the afternoon.’

The hostler shook his head. He’d seen no one like that. And he would have remembered them, he said, because he’d seen them earlier in the week when they drove in from the border.

Puzzled, Gabriel asked him if he’d heard anyone talking about them. The hostler shook his head again, yawned and led the Morgan away to feed it.

Concerned for Ellen’s and Escalero’s safety, Gabriel left the stable and crossed over to
El Tecolote
.

Inside, the cantina was not much cooler. A small boy with enormous black eyes sat in the corner under an old stuffed owl, tugging on a string tied to a ceiling fan. Its creaking, slow-turning blades brought the smell of greasy cooking from the kitchen in back.

Gabriel leaned on the bar and waited to be served. There were several other customers, all of them Mexicans. Gabriel recognized them from previous visits and knew they meant him no harm. He asked them the same
question
he’d asked the hostler. They all shook their heads and went on talking.

Just then the owner, Ramon Salazar, emerged from the kitchen with plates of tortillas, eggs and refried beans. After serving them to the men, along with bowls of chili sauce, he waddled fatly up to Gabriel. Without being asked, he poured Gabriel a whiskey and asked him what he wanted to eat.

‘Same as them,’ Gabriel said, thumbing at the other customers. He then questioned Salazar about Ellen and Escalero. But the owner hadn’t seen them either, and he waddled back into the kitchen.

Gabriel gulped his drink, poured himself another and tried to reassure himself that Ellie was safe. But since this was the only direct route to the border, and an easy trail to
follow, he couldn’t convince himself that no harm had come to her.

He was halfway through his meal and still trying to decide what to do next when he heard horses reining up outside. Turning to the window, he saw it was the local
Rurales
– six enlisted men and an officious, mustachioed captain named Plaxido Morales. They all looked hot and weary from their long, hard ride. Their faces were
sweat-caked
, and their distinctive gray, silver-braided uniforms, red ties and big fancy sombreros were coated with dust.

Before Gabriel could figure out what they were up to, Captain Morales and his men burst into the cantina and aimed their rifles at him.

‘
Espere! Sostenga su fuego
!’ Gabriel yelled and quickly raised his hands. ‘
Qué pasa
?’ he then asked Captain Morales. ‘What’s goin’ on?’

‘You are under arrest, gringo!’

‘For what?’

Lights exploded before his eyes as Captain Morales struck him in the face with his pistol. Stunned, Gabriel dropped his Winchester and collapsed to his knees. As if from a distance he heard Captain Morales ordering his men to take him to jail.