The Breeders (14 page)

The landscape falls deadly silent as we wait. From where I lie in the Jeep trunk, I can see boulders, shrubs, and buttes off in the distance. Who is shooting? We wait, barely breathing.

Someone begins shuffling quietly through the dirt. We turn to see Bennett and his father backing up. If they wanted to make a quiet break for it, they’re too late.

“The Good Mother will destroy those that harm her people,” Bear Paws says in a low rumbling voice. Bennett raises his hands and starts to explain while his pop pulls his rifle around. Bear Paws is faster on the draw. He aims his antique rifle.

A gun explodes. I throw myself to the Jeep floor. Bullets ping the side of the Jeep and rattle over us. I curl myself around Ethan until the firing stops. There’s a watery moan. Then silence.

I raise my head until I can see the bodies. Bennett and his father lie on the ground. The dust beneath them puddles with blood. Before I can process this, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I swivel toward it and see our unknown shooter. Clay, his cowboy hat tucked so low that his face is all shadow, pads toward us. The silver revolvers in his hands glint in the sun. His face is a mask of deadly calm.

I’ve never been so happy to see him.

He steps into the clearing between the vehicles, completely uncovered. What is he doing? They’ll see him and he got nowhere to hide. The Riders are busy turning out Bennett’s pockets, but they’ll look up soon enough. Clay doesn’t wait for them to turn. He calls out.

“Heard you slimy bastards like making boys cry.” He thumbs down his safeties with a decisive click. “Let’s see how you like me.”

Three Riders snap around, raising their weapons, but their movements are slow like they were moving underwater. Clay fires so fast, his hands are a silver blur. The dual shots crack through the canyon like twin smacks of a bullwhip.

A bullet sinks into the taller twin’s neck with a thud. He lurches back, eyes wide. He gurgles, clutches his throat and falls to his knees. His clawing hands can’t stop the blood pouring through his fingers, splattering the side of our Jeep, coating his chest. He falls into the sand, in a red, muddy puddle.

So much blood. My breathing hitches and my hands tremble. But Clay’s here. For a moment, I think it’ll be all right. Then Bear Paws raises his rifle to his shoulder and fires at Clay.

Everything seems to happen at the same time. My hands fly up to my mouth to stifle the scream. The bullet zings toward Clay, who snaps toward the sound, his eyes narrow, his revolvers gleaming. The sleeve of Clay’s shirt ripples as the bullet zips past, fraying the fabric. Clay dives toward an outcropping of rock and disappears behind it. Bear Paws drops behind our Jeep and issues a sting of foreign curse words below me. One of the twins gurgles his dying breath. Then silence descends, heavy like a blanket.

The only sound is my hot breath in and out in quick succession. No one moves. One of the Riders, the smaller twin perhaps, whines below. I slip a quick peek over the side of the Jeep and peer down on my enemies. Bear Paws hunches against a tire, his rifle clutched to his chest. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. His tongue darts out and licks at his lip in nervous pulses. The smaller twin sponges clots of blood off his dead brother’s neck with part of his loincloth. He begins praying in a language I can’t understand. No one pays me any mind.

Clay’s crouched behind the boulder, still and silent. Why doesn’t he shoot? Maybe he’s worried he’ll hit us. Or maybe he only had two bullets.

Bear Paws takes a deep breath, heaves up and aims, squinting with one eye over the stock. The gun cracks. Clay’s rock cover explodes, sending pebbles and dust in all directions. No response from Clay. Bear Paws drops back down and reloads.

Silence. A crow caws from the ridge. Why won’t Clay fire?

Someone’s shuffling around at the base of the Jeep. My eyes flick to the ground where the smaller twin crawls forward on his hands and knees. Something in his hands glints in the sun— truck keys. His eyes flick between Clay’s rock cover and the truck. He’s going to run. I’m elated, but then it dawns on me—he knows my secret. If he leaves now, he’ll just be back with more guns and ammo.

With one more glance to his dead brother, he scrambles up and sprints to the truck. He throws his arms over his head like that one gesture will keep him from being shot up. I can’t let him escape, but I can’t run into the open without catching a bullet in the back.

Bear Paws yells after him. “Juto, you bastard! Get back here.” But Juto isn’t stopping. He’ll soon be kicking up dust as he peels away.

I can’t think. I just act. I hurtle over the Jeep tailgate and jump into the dust. Bear Paws sees me and levels his gun in my direction. I scramble, choking on the dust I kick up. Behind me, a gun fires. I wait for the bullet that will punch through my guts, but nothing. Patting my body for holes, I look back over my shoulder.

It wasn’t Bear Paws’s rifle that went off. He clutches his shoulder, his mouth dropped open in surprise as blood blossoms under his hand. Clay stands behind his rock, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. There’s a devilish gleam in his eye.

Bear Paws shrieks and shakes a fist at Clay. “You will be punished! No one harms the Mother’s children!” He drops down behind the Jeep again.

Twenty yards away the truck starts up with a grumble. I got to go.

I run up to the rust-eaten truck with no back windshield and mismatched panels welded together in lopsided squares. Juto sits on the cracked leather driver’s seat, looking small and out of place in his blood-splattered loincloth and smeared body paint. He’s swearing at the gearshift he grinds into first. The truck sputters and jumps forward. He doesn’t see me.

You have no weapon and this man has at least thirty pounds on you!
It’s too late for plans. I yank the door open and stare up into Juto’s very surprised face.

“Wha—”

I grab his arm and drag him out.

Without time to brace himself, Juto tumbles out of the cab. I slide over as he falls with an
oomph
into the dust. The truck lurches forward. I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door. It’s warped and won’t close properly.

Hands claw at my door. “Let me in, you dirty bitch,” Juto says, pulling at me through the open window.

I fight off his fingers and reach for the button to roll the window up, but it’s long gone. Juto leans through the open window, his dirt-flecked upper lip curling in rage. His fingers dig into the collar of my shirt and drag me toward him. I claw his face, racking my nails through the paint on his cheek. Lines of blood bubble up where I’ve scratched him. He shrieks, high-pitched and feminine, and pulls away. The truck bounces forward on its own while I dig around the cab for a weapon.

Juto yanks the door open with a loud screech. He’ll drag me out and kill me. My hands scramble over the dash, into the glove compartment. Nothing. His hand cinches over my bicep hard enough to bring a cry of pain to my lips.

“I’m going to take what you did to my face out on your body. Good Mother will hear you howl and be much pleased.” He grins. Some of his front teeth have been whittled into points. His eyes are feral black pools.

The truck chugs over a pothole and we bounce back and forth. Juto’s grip on my arm loosens. He wobbles backward. This is my chance. I lean back and kick him squarely between the ribs. Juto claws the air as he falls out of the cab and into the dust with a thud. I jam my foot to the gas.

The trunk rocks wildly as if I’ve run over a boulder. But a boulder doesn’t crunch like that. I step on the brake and lurch to a stop, my face banging into the steering wheel. Squinting in the rearview, I see the crumpled mess of blood and mangled bones. I’ve run him over. I slam the truck into park and jump out. I walk to my enemy, smelling blood and burnt rubber.

I’ve seen roadkill before, flattened rabbits, blown-apart coyotes, lizards that are sizzled lumps on the pavement, their eyes pools of jelly around their bloody mouths. It doesn’t prepare me for this. Thick ropes of dark red blood pool out both sides of Juto’s mouth and ears. His chest is a concave bowl and there’s tire tread running the length of his stomach. A bloody rib angles through the war paint on his chest, stark white against the mess of red and brown. His hands clench and unclench once. Then they settle on the hard pan.

He’s dead. I killed him.

My ears ring and my mouth tastes like blood. I killed a man. I look at the blood streaming from his ear and pooling under this neck. There’s a dark stain on his loincloth. I killed him. I gotta look away. I can’t stop looking.

Slowly, I remember the shootout behind me. Clay and Ethan. I run sloppily back, my brain feeling loose.

The Mexican standoff is still going on, neither shooter willing to break cover. Now the men are taunting each other.

“Infidels’ howls will please the Good Mother,” Bear Paws shouts from behind the Jeep. “Come, let me please her.”

Clay’s voice floats up from behind his rock. “Still so holy, you sick sonovabitch? I can shoot all day. Come try me.” I want to believe him, but how many bullets can he have?

Bear Paws wipes his forearm across his brow and hugs the rifle to his chest. “I think I remember you, infidel. Didn’t we buy a pretty pet from you a while back?”

There’s a long pause. “No.”

“Yes, yes.” Bear Paws smiles wickedly. “Last month. You had the boy who wet himself—”

“Shut up!” Clay yells from behind the rock. “Shut your mouth!”

Bear Paws smiles vilely. “Good Mother was much pleased with him. His cries were long and loud. All the way to the end.”

“I said,” Clay shouts, standing, “SHUT UP!” He strides around the rock, lifting his revolvers.

I clutch my face. Is he crazy?

Bear Paws stands, fumbling to raise his rifle with his injured arm. He lunges for the hood of the Jeep to steady his shot. Clay strides forward, his face contorted in rage. Bear Paws squints one eye and curls his finger over the trigger.

“Clay!” My voice is drowned out by the sound of a rifle discharging.

The bullet wings out, the hot lead zipping close enough to ruffle Clay’s collar. Clay doesn’t flinch. He strides forward, his teeth bared.

Bear Paws’s eyes widen. He scrambles to reload, his right hand useless and blood-crusted. Clay runs the last few steps and springs around the Jeep. Bear Paws slips a bullet in the chamber, but Clay kicks the rifle away. It whirls end over end into the dust. He tackles Bear Paws. They roll, a tangle of arms and legs and grunts and I can’t see what’s happening. I run over. Can I help?

Bear Paws throws a few wild punches that do nothing to stop Clay. He grabs Bear Paws by the shoulders, hefts him up and throws him against our Jeep. There’s a loud
thunk
and the Jeep rocks back and forth. Bear Paws slides weakly to the ground with a moan.

Clay straddles the crumpled man, his lean shadow trailing out behind. He presses the muzzle of his revolver to the Rider’s forehead.

“Don’t! Don’t!” Bear Paws throws up his shaking palms. “I say sorry. You can have whatever you want.”

“Not enough,” Clay growls. His eyebrows angle down dangerously. “No goddamn Mother to hear your cries today. You’re going straight to hell. And I’m the one to send you there.” He thumbs down the safety on his gun with a sharp click.

Bear Paws clutches his hands together beneath his throat and looks up at Clay with wet eyes. He begins to mutter a prayer.

Clay’s lip curls back from sharp white teeth. “How dare you pray after what you done.” He narrows his eyes. “This is for Kody.”

When the gunshot crackles over the desert, I close my eyes. When I open them, there’s nothing but the Jeep and Clay and a bloody mess of bodies on either side of the dusty crossroads. It’s over.

Somehow I make it back to the Jeep, though my head’s thrumming like an engine and everything’s doubling in my vision. I walk past Bennett and his father. Both lie in muddy red pools. Their lifeless faces stare up at the sky. I can’t look. I keep my watering eyes on the Jeep. Ethan’s in there. I gotta get back to him.

Clay stands above the Rider, a bloody mess against the side of our Jeep. I don’t look. I can’t take any more blood. I climb back in the Jeep next to Ethan (who’s completely undisturbed, thank God or the Good Mother or whoever) and tuck my head in my arms. The urge to throw up returns. I breathe through my nose and try to sort through what just happened.

Clay was amazing. And scary. The way he dispatched Bear Paws … I’d hate to have that directed at me. And who is Kody?

When I look up, Clay stands at the edge of the tailgate. His face is pale and distant. His voice rolls out of his throat as if he were just coming out of a dream. “The little man? He alright?” His hat’s down low over his face so that his features are covered in shadow again, but his hands tremble slightly as he rubs a revolver on his shirt and tucks it in the holster.

I put my hand on Ethan’s chest. “He’s still out.”

He tucks both guns into their holsters. He looks at me, his face tight. “You okay? You look really pale.”

I nod, though I feel anything but okay. “All in one piece.” I look up at him and note the tremble of his hands, the paleness of his cheeks. “What was that back there? The Rider said something about—”

“Nothing,” he says sharply. Then his tone softens. “He’s a lying, thieving sonovabitch, but he won’t hurt anyone again.”

I bite my lip. I don’t believe that was nothing.

Clay’s eyes stray to Bennett and his father. He walks over, crouches and lays two fingers on their necks. Each time he shakes his head sadly. Despite all they’ve put us through, he’s sad they’re dead. I can’t feel sad. They would’ve sold us into torture and death.

Clay frowns, his hand on Bennett’s arm. “We have to bury them.” He stands up and brushes the dust off his pants. “He was my friend.”

“Your friend kidnapped us and almost killed us.” Yet, I think of Arn drug out for the coyotes. It’s no way to go, even for someone as low as Bennett. I scoot to the edge of the Jeep and stand. My legs tremble, but I steady them. “Let’s get this over with.”

Clay nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. It fades as he picks up his lifeless friend.