Power in the Blood (49 page)

“Bones,” said Taynton, “I figure the time has come. We can just go the other way and disappear, and if any of those brave sons of bitches make it back to Mobley, they’ll say we were most likely killed by whoever did that to Dobson.”

“And whoever did it most likely will, don’t you think? And what about Fannin?”

“I never liked him anyway, the little weasel. I’m not passing up a chance to do what we planned, just on account of Fannin. Now, are you with me or not?”

“I’m with you, but I can’t leave him the way he is.”

Drew went to Fannin and lightly slapped his face until his eyes opened and he suddenly sat up. The first thing Fannin saw was Dobson again, and he screamed. Drew slapped him again, harder. “Hush up, Fannin, and listen. They all lit out back the way we came, even your friend Osgood. Do you want to go that way too, or come with Taynton and me? We think it’s best to split up. Whoever did it to Dobson can’t track us all. What’s your choice?”

Fannin scrambled on hands and knees for a short distance, then wrapped both arms around his head and began a catlike mewling, his body curled into as tight a ball as was possible. Drew approached him again. “Fannin, you have to choose.”

“He can’t,” Taynton said. “He’s lost his mind, most likely can’t even hear you.”

“Fannin, we’re leaving here. Are you coming or not? Quit that stupid noise!”

But Fannin could not. Drew stood over him, unable to decide himself what he should do.

“Time’s a-wasting, Bones. Now or never.”

Drew nodded. “Fannin, we’re going now. Get up.”

Fannin continued to mew, hiding his face from the terrible end he now knew had been waiting for him all his life. The thing that had happened to Dobson would happen to him, he had no doubt, and whoever kept droning words into his ear was simply coming between Fannin and that end, and so had to be ignored. If all noise stopped, the end would come, and be mercifully brief. He heard further buzzings of conversation, then the shuffle of hooves, then nothing, blessed nothing. He was aware of being very hot and thirsty, but these discomforts were without meaning. He simply had to blanket his eyes with darkness and await the end. It had been a poor kind of life in any case. He hadn’t even slept with a woman, or found a friend worthy of his trust, hadn’t made his mark on the world in any fashion whatsoever. This was what he had been born for, this blind huddling in the company of a mutilated man. It was horrible, but Fannin knew things could have ended for him no other way. That was why he had been dreaming his dreams of death. He felt almost calm now, having accepted that the farce called life was almost done for him. He even made an effort to stop uttering the sound that had been humming in his head and throat, and succeeded, but when the silence came, he felt something replace it, something that made no sound as it came nearer. Fannin found the courage within himself to look up at the devils sent from hell to drag him down among the darkling caverns within the earth.

Drew was not proud to have abandoned a man to whatever had killed Dobson. He felt that even a crazy person he had never liked when sane deserved forcible extraction from the immediate area of danger. Then again, there were not enough mules. If he and Taynton intended reaching civilization, two mules shared among three men would have been a considerable handicap, given the heat and distance involved. He had asked Fannin to choose, and could tell himself Fannin’s choice had been to ignore him, but still Drew felt guilty as he rode alongside Taynton, his carbine held ready across the saddle. It had been an unheroic retreat, and might not in fact be a retreat at all, but an advance into worse horrors. Fannin’s fate became less a matter of moral concern and more a needless distraction with every mile.

They rode north at a pace calculated not to tire the mules, when both men wanted to sprout wings and lift themselves beyond the desert. They rode in silence, each holding tight to his fear, neither willing to discuss their chances. By late afternoon it was still possible to locate the approximate position of Dobson by the distant spiraling of vultures, and their tininess was comfort of a kind. Drew preferred to think that if he and Taynton were to be targets for Dobson’s killer or killers, it would already have happened. It had been wise to separate themselves from the rest of the search party, which presumably had then become the focus for attack, in that they possessed more mules and guns for the taking.

“We need to be heading for high ground for the night,” advised Taynton, “somewhere we can see for a little ways around us at least. I reckon we can both forget about sleep.”

Such a spot was found as the westering sun painted the landscape around them a bloody red. Drew led the way up a narrow defile to an isolated shelf of rock some fifty feet across, with sheer sides falling away around almost three quarters of its perimeter. Unless they were attacked by monkeys, they could reasonably expect to defend the point of access to their redoubt.

As the sky dimmed and darkness seemed to rise from the twisted rocks like mist, Drew and Taynton took up positions that would enable them to decimate an enemy attempting to close in. The mules were hobbled away from any potential line of fire, and were noticeable only by the occasional chinking of their bridles once the light was gone completely. The moonless sky was like spangled velvet, a curtain for whatever might be approaching. It was the darkness that created fear, and Drew wished for morning before night had truly begun. It was a worry to the nerves, being obliged to squat behind the cover of a small boulder and fix one’s attention on the only pathway danger might approach by, a pathway barely visible, made even less so by constant staring. Drew had to close his eyes sometimes in order to see again. The world of shadows around him was formless, depthless, a funnel of gloom hiding even his friend from him.

“Taynton … Taynton, are you all right?”

“Don’t talk,” came a low murmur. “Don’t even breathe loud.”

Chastened, Drew concentrated on remaining quiet. He was forced to rest his eyes more often as physical tiredness and the strain of staring into darkness wearied them, and twice found himself waking from brief snatches of sleep. The second time he did this, Drew was ashamed to have betrayed Taynton’s trust. He had no watch, and could not be sure what time it was. The moon had risen at last, a sullen curve low on the horizon, shedding little light. The mules stirred for a moment, then were still. Drew wanted more than anything else to hold a whispered conversation, but resisted, knowing Taynton would only hiss at him to shut up and watch the defile for signs of movement. He stayed silent, and watched, until sleep overcame his guilt and fear again.

The third time Drew awoke, traces of dawn were evident in the sky. He was appalled at his own weakness, his personal treachery in allowing his friend to shoulder all responsibility for their safety. He could never admit what he had done to Taynton. Drew stared around himself with an intensity born of remorse. It was a good thing nothing had happened in the night because of his lack of alertness. He watched sunlight begin washing the air with a limpid brightness that quickly became harsh and clear. There was no point now in remaining silent, and in any case, he needed to stand and piss.

“Taynton …?”

There was no reply. Drew called his name several times more, his voice low, then realized Taynton had also succumbed to tiredness and strain, and fallen asleep, as Drew had. It was almost a relief to know his weakness was shared. Drew pulled himself upright from behind his boulder and emptied his bladder. His entire body ached from the chill of the retreating night and the unyielding rock that had been his bed of unease. Adjusting his galluses, Drew approached the cleft he knew Taynton was hidden in, but Taynton was not there, having presumably gone to check the mules. Yet such a move would have been seen by Drew, who had been awake for some time now.

Alarmed, Drew hurried to the spot where he had heard the mules’ bridles clinking in the night, and found that place also empty of life, although Taynton was indeed there. His throat had been sliced open, and he lay on his back, both boots neatly standing on his chest, his stockinged feet pointing at the sky. There was no mutilation other than the gaping throat, which already was attracting the attention of flies. Taynton’s canteen, carbine and ammunition pouch were gone, along with both mules. Drew sank to his knees and vomited the scant remnants of yesterday’s food.

He could not bring himself to delay his escape by burying Taynton’s body. As he had the day before, Drew abandoned moral precept in favor of flight, but this time his terror allowed no shade of guilt to intrude. He could only assume the killers had not known he was there, and were content to have murdered one man and stolen his belongings.

He walked north, through country wild and waterless, his canteen almost empty, the sweat ring around the band of his hat drying fast in the air. As the hours passed, Drew began to stumble, and several times fell. He was as sorry for himself as he could remember having been since childhood, and wished fervently for belief in any god that might deliver him from the result of his own foolishness and inferiority.

By noon, even these mental exertions were no longer indulged in, there being room inside Drew’s skull for nothing but awareness of his thirst. His tongue had the texture of a rolled-up sock, filling his mouth with its swollen presence. His feet ached inside their tight cavalry boots, each toe registering its own exquisite pain at the chafing given by its fellows, and Drew felt the beginnings of a blister on his left heel. The temptation to throw down his heavy Springfield carbine was strong, but Drew fought the impulse; if he had truly been overlooked by the fiends that had stalked himself and Taynton to the rock shelf, then his gun might serve to bring down game to feed upon. His stomach now hurt with almost as much insistence as his feet, and Drew could do nothing for either but stagger on in hopes of coming across salvation.

At last, and with little resistance, he fell onto his face and remained there, telling himself he needed the rest, and would presently rise to resume his wayward march north. It was greatly comforting, this new mode of nonmovement, and Drew briefly contemplated allowing himself to sleep, if that was possible under such a furnace as the sun. He decided he would allow himself to rest until nightfall, when the cooler air would make progress less difficult. It would have been better to lie down in shade, but he knew he could not lift himself just yet; maybe later.

“I think he sleeps,” said a faintly mocking voice.

“Yes, he has no strength inside him now,” came another.

“Better to let him sleep forever, do you think?”

“I think we must do this for him.”

Drew raised his head, then levered his chest from the ground; he could do no more than that. Two slender Indians stood nearby, their coppery skins seeming to glow in the sunlight. They wore the long breechclout and tall moccasins and untamed hair of Apaches. Both carried government-issue Springfields, and their hips were heavily laden with ammunition. Their heads were bound in ragged cloth bands, and they wore doleful smiles on their handsome faces. They did not resemble bloodthirsty savages, were more like graceful desert spirits of some kind. Drew found it hard to credit their deeds, or to accept that these apparitions would presently do to him what they had done to Dobson and Taynton.

He brought himself to his knees by concentrating mightily, and surprised himself by croaking, “Water …”

“To drink?” said the first Apache, coming nearer. “But that would be a waste.”

“Soon now you will need no water,” said the other.

“Water …,” Drew repeated, if only to delay his dying.

The first Apache shook his head. “No,” he said, “we can give you none.”

“We do not wish to,” added the second. “You do not listen.”

“White people are deaf people,” agreed the first.

“A man who cannot hear, what good is he?”

“Or a woman.”

“Yes, a woman too. Is this one a woman?”

“That may be. It has the feebleness of a woman.”

They stood over Drew, cradling their rifles, a mild gloating in their features. Drew could smell their sweat and see clearly the many small scars etched into the skin of their muscular thighs. A rifle bore suddenly appeared inches from his nose.

“Should we play with this one?”

“I think I am too tired.”

“I am not tired. Be at ease, I will play with him.”

“If you wish.”

“Jesus …,” said Drew.

“He calls for his savior,” said the Apache who was not tired.

“Jesus …,” Drew said again. “Nail …”

“What does he say?”

“He says our names that were.”

“How can he know them?”

“You, soldier, how do you know to call us by these names? They are not good names!”

“No, they are not! Now we will both play with you for a long time.”

“It’s me … Bones.”

“Bones?”

The Apaches looked at each other.

“John Bones …,” Drew reminded them, “at San … San Bartolomeo … John Bones, dammit …”

“Is it?” asked Nail in His Feet, peering closer.

Bleeding Heart of Jesus flipped Drew’s hat off with the barrel of his gun. “It is, my brother. It is him, John Bones.”

“How can he be a soldier, our friend John Bones? This can not be him!”

“It is him. He has made a bad choosing.”

“Give him water.”

An army canteen was offered to Drew. He unscrewed the cap and sipped, as he had been taught, then lost control and gulped greedily at the warm liquid, aware as he did so that his reunion with the mission boys of long ago was not yet a success. They stared at him with looks of consternation.

“He has good fortune. We would not have seen his face in the night.”

“No, it would have been a bad thing to kill our friend without knowing.”

“Why are you a soldier, John Bones?”

“I made a promise to a man. He gave me my life.”

“That was a bad promise,” said Bleeding Heart of Jesus.

“For my life, I would do the same,” said Nail in His Feet, his tone sympathetic.