Haxan (21 page)

I wanted to give the impression I might be gone for days. Perhaps an entire week.

After I went through my play-acting, I walked my horse to the Haxan Hotel. I dismounted and looped the reins over a pine hitch rail.

I kicked sand from my boots before stepping inside the big lobby. Alma Jean Clay was a stickler for people tracking mud and sand on her expensive carpets.

Hew Clay leaned over the reception desk, his weight resting on one thin elbow.

“Morning, Clay.”

He glanced up and his eyes flew open in stark surprise. “Oh hello, Marshal. Say, what are you doing back home?”

“What do you mean, Clay?” My voice was strangled.

Hew Clay flinched at my words. “Magra got your message, Marshal. She went to meet you at her father’s place.”

“Hew, what are you saying?” My voice bounced off the walls, which felt as if they were closing in.

His quizzical eyes picked out my lone horse standing idly at the hitch rail. “Where is she, Marshal?” he asked with deep confusion. “Did you leave her all alone in the desert?”

I realized all my play-acting had been exactly that. Rand had not waited for me to ride out of town. He had made his move while I was busy at the inquest. With me giving testimony there was nothing to stop him from moving against Magra.

He had had been playing chess while I was playing with marbles.

I
mounted my blue roan, reined him around, and headed north out of Haxan. The sun was high overhead and beat down on the side of my face.

As I passed the livery Piebald waved jauntily from the blue shadow of a gnarled mesquite tree. He was sitting cross-legged at its base, eating a slice of melon. The sticky juices dripped off his chin onto his bare chest.

“You going after a man, Marshal?”

“That’s right.”

“Guess you’re going to bring him in alive.”

I didn’t say anything. Piebald’s smile slowly faded. I kept on riding, keeping my cold and bitter thoughts to myself.

I hurriedly crossed the railroad tracks and rode through the holding grounds where cattle were waiting to be loaded onto boxcars. I skirted a large herd and swung north.

Out of the desert haze I could see Cottonwood Butte rising in the distance. Grey and black, it shimmered against the blue sky like a nightmare.

Rand and his gang had a good three- or four-hour head start on me. The only lead I had was the line shack. I hoped I could pick up their real tracks along the way. That story about the line shack had to be a dodge as well.

Rand hadn’t made many missteps up to now. If he told Bertha he had a hideout south of Cottonwood Butte he did it for a reason. The only one I could think of was he wanted to draw me along in that direction and dry gulch me somewhere.

I touched the wooden stock of my Sharps rifle. I was willing to oblige him the opportunity, if it meant I could get within shooting yardage.

My first stop was Shiner Larsen’s place. I had no other choice. It would make sense if they brought Magra here. But there was nothing to see but our old tracks from days ago. I spent ten minutes kicking through the burned wreckage, searching for blood drops or anything else that might tell me where Magra was, or her fate. There was nothing.

I mounted up and rode on.

I kept a slow but steady pace. My instinct was to kick hell for leather. But my horse wouldn’t last the day and I would fall farther behind Rand.

While I rode I tried to convince myself three horses and a buckboard shouldn’t be hard to find in 4,000 square miles of desert country. Sure. Very simple. Do it in my sleep. But I was a lone man. That wagon would slow them down. Not much, but some. And it couldn’t go where a single horse could step. When I was with White Hawk we perforce stayed on the trails a wagon could negotiate. Which is why we were able to find Morning Star with the odds stacked against us.

If Rand kept the wagon there were only so many places he could drive it. Southwest was out of the question. That pushed him against the San Andres Mountains, unless he went through the pass and whipped on down to Las Cruces or Mesilla. There was no reason to suspect he would do that, however. It wasn’t likely he would go into another town—not with a kidnapped woman on his hands—which meant he either headed north or broke across White Sands. Maybe, just maybe, he turned off east between Fort Providence and Coldwater. Lots of empty country that way and he could sneak right through. Though this, too, was less likely in my mind because there was little in the way of water out that way.

It made sense Rand would stay as far away from civilization as he could. Leastways, as long he had Magra on his hands. Once he killed her she would be less of a handicap.

If all they wanted was to kill her they could have escorted her out of town, murdered her, tossed the body in an arroyo, and ridden for any part of the compass they wished.

Face it, Marwood. If that’s what they wanted she was already dead and there is nothing you can do.

But if that’s all they wanted, I argued, why didn’t they shoot her soon as they got her out of town? Perhaps they had. Perhaps I rode past her and never saw. Maybe she heard my horse clop past while she lay in the bottom of a dry wash and couldn’t call out because she was hurt. No. I would have noticed the tracks. That didn’t happen.

Though it might have. People get lost in the desert all the time. It could have happened.

Or maybe they decided to bring her to the line shack and torture her like her father. Or they might keep her as a camp slut before selling her off to other
comancheros
. I’d never find her if that was their plan. Not ever. They didn’t find that Parker girl for years.

If. If. If.

After many hours of this mental anguish I spotted the hazy block outline of a buggy with yellow wheels rolling toward me. Looked like a single horse in shaft. I only caught a glimpse before it dipped behind a dune.

I spurred my horse forward. He was blowing hard when I reached the buggy. I pulled abreast from behind, my pistol drawn and the hammer thumbed back.

“Hey, there,” I called. “Hold that wagon or I’ll shoot.”

The driver turned in surprise, not expecting anyone to come up from behind at a right angle. It was a woman. I reined in, causing the head of my horse to whip, and stared in disbelief.

“Alma Jean Clay, what the hell are you doing out here?”

She heaved back on the lines. The buggy creaked to a stop. I had given her a fright when I emerged from behind ocotillo and cat’s claw, my gun out and leaning over the neck of my horse.

“Marshal Marwood,” she gasped. Her gloved hands clutched the reins close to her body. She wore black crinoline with a high collar and a dark bonnet that shaded her face.

“You gave me a dreadful fright,” she chided. “Skeered ten years off me. I thought for sure you were a road agent.”

I held the bridle of her horse. Alma Jean looked like she wanted to take off in a clatter. She had gotten over her initial fright and now she nervously fingered the buggy whip.

“Alma Jean, what are you doing way out here by yourself? Don’t you know this is dangerous country? Here now, look at me. Does Hew know you’re out here?”

She blinked at this. “Well, of course he does. What kind of husband do you think I have? One who doesn’t know where his wife got to all night long?”

She stopped, realizing she had revealed too much.

“Alma Jean, you’d best tell me what you were doing. All night, you say? I can’t believe that.”

“I reckon a body has the right to go for a buggy ride in this country if she wants. Even at night.” She had gotten over her initial fluster. Now she was back to her normal, combative self.

I frowned back at her. “Look here, Alma Jean. Despite what you think I am not your enemy. Like it or not your safety is my responsibility. Now, for the last time, what where you doing out here all night long?”

She looked like she had been up all night. That much was certain. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face washed out, both emotionally and physically. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have as much fight as usual inside her.

“I will tell you, Marshal,” she yielded. “I was camped on top of Cottonwood Butte.”

“I can’t believe that.” Alma Jean did not strike me as the type of person who would night camp by herself.

“It’s true,” she insisted. “I brought a mess of mesquite wood and made myself a fire. I had water and warm blankets, too.”

Something in her voice warned me we had entered very deep waters. This was an Alma Jean I had never confronted before. Vulnerable.

“What were you doing?” I asked, gentle.

She considered the plaited leather reins in her bony hands. “I was putting flowers on a grave.” Her voice was small.

I recalled her buying Indian paintbrushes from that old blind woman in the plaza.

She looked up. “My boy Tommy would be twelve years old today, Marshal. That’s near enough a man’s age.”

She waited for me to disagree with her.

“It sure is,” I said. “Right enough a man’s age.”

She gave an abrupt nod of appreciation. Then she stared into the distance, occasionally glancing my way to gauge my reaction as she spoke.

“It was during the war,” she said. “Tommy died of scarlet fever. I got it, too. It did something inside me so I can’t have any more children. Hew and me, we had a nice little farm with green trees and cold crik water. We buried Tommy there. Hew dug the hole and I laid Tommy down wrapped in a blanket I had knitted.”

The thin grass around us waved back and forth as the wind rippled across.

“I’m sorry, Alma Jean.”

“When the railroad came through they bought us out. The surveyors laid a line right over Tommy’s grave and cut down all the trees. So one night, before they started laying track, I dug my son up and wrapped his skeleton in a brand new blanket I had knitted. Then I rode to the top of Cottonwood Butte and I buried him under the stars.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. Was this the same Alma Jean Clay I had known?

“Hew know about all this?” I asked in disbelief.

She nodded. “He couldn’t stop me. No one could, though folks tried. They said it wasn’t right. I knew Tommy wouldn’t be happy with a train rattling over his grave. Those rich, ignorant folk riding their spanking new carriages and not knowing a good boy like Tommy lay under them. I wanted to bring him someplace quiet where he could rest proper and see the sun and sky, and feel the cool wind on his little face.”

It was a long time before I spoke. “So you brought him to Cottonwood Butte. Why there?”

She reached for a canteen and drew a mouthful of water. “It’s because I wanted my child buried nearer to heaven, Marshal. Because Haxan is too close to hell.”

She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and touched her eyes.

“Why didn’t Hew come with you last night, Alma Jean?”

She tucked the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “This is a mother’s burden. I’m not saying anything against you, Marshal. Being a man maybe you wouldn’t understand why this is something I must do every year.”

She capped the canteen and placed it on the seat beside her. “Last night was Tommy’s twelfth birthday,” she said. “He deserved to have his momma with him on a special day like that.”

“I think you’re right, Alma Jean.”

A flicker of a smile lightened her face a degree. “I’m glad you understand, Marshal. Most people don’t want to.”

“How did you reach the top of the butte?”

“Oh, that’s not difficult,” she answered. “There’s an old switchback the Army used before the telegraph came through. They had an old adobe station up there where they raised these big signal flags. They don’t use it anymore. The station is all deserted and vacated and it doesn’t have a roof. It’s not liveable except for a night camp.”

“You didn’t see anyone else around?”

She shook her head. “I make this trip at night, Marshal. Slow going, but it’s easier to avoid people. I don’t want to have to explain myself you see. But no, I didn’t see anyone at all.”

“I heard there’s a line shack on the southern base of the butte.”

“I seen that.”

“Anyone there?” I asked.

“Not that I saw.”

“No horses, nothing?”

“I rode right by it, Marshal. Not so much as a light from a single candle. Why do you keep asking me about that shack?”

“Magra Snowberry’s been kidnapped. The men who killed her father have her.”

Alma Jean’s eyes became round. “Oh, dear Lord, no. The same men who hurt Piebald that day?”

“I heard a rumour they were holed up in this line shack we’re talking about. I suppose I have to check it out, even though you claim it’s empty. I just hope I can cut their tracks before then. Otherwise, I’ll never find them. Or Magra.”

“I wish I could help you, Marshal,” she put forth. She looked at the reins in her hands. “I know we’ve had cross words. But that don’t mean I want anyone to be hurt.”

I put my hand on hers. “It’s all right, Alma Jean. I appreciate your offer and your confidence in me. And I won’t tell anyone what you were doing on the butte.”

She looked relieved at this. “When I get back to Haxan do you want the men to get a posse together?” she asked. “They can catch up to you quick.”

“No. I just came from town. I want you to ride on, Alma Jean. Go straight home and don’t stop. With these
comancheros
loose it’s very dangerous for any woman to be out here alone. If you want, I’ll escort you back to Haxan.”

“No, Marshal, I’m fine, I promise. I will go straight home like you said.” She hesitated. “Marshal.”

“Yeah?”

“I sure hope you find Magra. I do.”

“Thanks, Alma Jean. You get going now.”

“Yes, sir, I surely will.” She whipped up the horse and clattered off in a flurry of dust.

I turned for Cottonwood Butte.

I came upon the line shack as the sun was about to dip below the mountains. It was a low-roofed adobe hut with shuttered windows. The bricks had not been properly cured. They sagged on one side, making the hut lopsided. The single door hung ajar. I dismounted and used ground cover to steal up on the shack.

I went through the door ready to kill anything that jumped. The narrow, cramped room was empty of human habitation. There was a broken cook stove. Ragged linen and old animal bones littered the floor. I kicked through the accumulation of leaves and trash. I didn’t find anything that looked like bloodstains or evidence of recent occupants. I tried to tell myself this was good news.

It meant Magra was alive. Maybe.

It was musty inside and hot as an oven. I stepped outside and stood in the open air, my anger smouldering like the dying flames of the sun.

Rand had me in irons. I rode all this way on a wild goose chase and came up short. No sign of Rand. No Magra. Nothing.

They had her and they could do anything they wanted to her. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

I angrily grabbed the reins of my horse and walked along the ground. The shadows were long, but the acute angle of the sun revealed each and every depression.

Think, Marwood. If Rand kept the wagon there were only so many places he could go. Even over hard ground like this. He was certainly intent on keeping the wagon. He could have gotten rid of it long before now and had not.

I found the old switchback Alma Jean had described to me. I picked out her buggy tracks right enough. Naught else.

It was certain. No one beside her was here last night.

I kept walking, using the slanting sun shadows to find imperfections in the stone-hard ground. I made a half-circle about a quarter mile in radius and found absolutely nothing. I was feeling panic starting to come on. I mounted and rode south in an attempt to back-slot them. I saddled down into a little canyon with high, rocky walls rising on either side. It was half a mile long and quite narrow in places. Any wagon would have to ride straight down the middle, if it passed this way at all.