The Graves at Seven Devils (18 page)

“Got that girl wrapped around my little finger.” He switched his sparkling gaze to the Flute brothers regarding him distaste-fully. “Yessir, boys, I purely do!”

PROPHET, LOUISA, AND Big Hans were mounted up and heading south well before the sun had risen. Hans straddled a stout, surly claybank with white, shotgun-patterned spots on its muscular rump. He had his Big Fifty snugged in a saddle boot. The clay and Mean and Ugly eyed each other testily, obviously not liking each other, and Louisa tried to keep her pinto between them as much as possible.

As soon as the stars faded, the sun rose quickly—a giant rose blossoming above the eastern horizon and quickly throwing down a searing heat. Prophet was relieved when the brassy orb had vaulted high enough so that his hat shaded his face.

Ahead along the flour-white, well-used horse trail ribboning through the dusty, lemon-colored chaparral, the seven sandstone spires of the Seven Devils Range—complete with what looked like horns and forked tails—loomed a thousand feet atop bald, boulder-strewn slopes, heat waves giving them a liquid, illusory air.

The only sounds were cicadas, the rustle of jackrabbits or kangaroo rats bounding through the scrub, and the occasional screech of a hunting eagle.

When the trail pinched out or disappeared in boulder snags, Big Hans took the lead, guiding Prophet and Louisa toward a formation called the Devil's Tail. It was a narrow, vertical opening in a near-solid rock wall.

The entrance to the deeper range bypassed the more Apache-populated areas of the Seven Devils, as well as several known outlaw lairs. Big Hans guessed aloud that there probably were a good hundred hard cases at any one time scattered across the devil's playground of pedestal rocks, mesas, caves, and deep barrancas cut eons ago by ancient rivers.

Customarily skeptical, Louisa said, “So, Hans, how is it you know your way around so well in these mountains? You said you were just a shaver when you and your uncle prospected out here.”

“I was a shaver, all right—but a damn curious one,” Big Hans said over his shoulder, flashing a toothy grin. “Uncle Alphonse used to make cactus wine, and every few weeks he'd go on a bender and leave me to my own devices. I'd take a knife and croaker sack of salted javelina and head out into the canyons, exploring.

“Seen all kinds of things—all different kinds of outlaw bands. Some were Mexicans mixed with Injuns. Some were white men dressed in Confederate gray mixed with Injuns and Mexicans. I run across dead men, too—some hangin', some half buried in the sand. Outlaws, most like, lockin' horns—you know, double-crossin' each other and such.”

Hans spat to one side and continued with barely a pause. “I even run across an old wooden chest filled with gold and silver crosses. Even had a sword in it. Solid gold. No, really—that's bond! But when I went back to fetch it with Uncle Alphonse, I couldn't remember where it was! All those arroyos and gullies and caverns look the same. Jesus, did that piss-burn Uncle Alphonse. I reckon I should've marked the trail. We looked for it for nigh on a month, but do you think we found it? No!

“You hear things out here, too. Weird things I can't even describe, and I used to think it was the wind, but you know, I sometimes wonder if it isn't the spirits of all these murdered men haunting the Seven Devils, maybe lookin' for justice.”

Big Hans hipped around in his saddle to shift his blue-eyed gaze between Prophet and Louisa. “You think that might be? Do you believe in ghosts? I never used to, but . . .” He turned forward and let his voice trail off for only about two seconds before continuing.

“The Injuns, you know, they're the ones that named the range the Seven Devils. Legend has it—and I got this from an old Apache just sittin' out waitin' to die in a cave some years ago—the Apache gods cast seven devils out of Apache heaven or whatever they call it, and this is the range where them ogres decided to live and raise all kinds of Cain.

“You know, turn evil spirits loose to roam the earth, an' such. Each one o' them peaks, close up, looks like a devil's head complete with horns and pitchfork, and all sorts of weird storms kick up around there. You don't wanna get too close. Wind and lightnin', dust flying about.”

Big Hans shook his head and sighed. “Wouldn't wanna be out here alone—I'll tell you that right now.”

Louisa turned to Prophet as the kid continued riding, his broad back swaying with the clay's fleet stride, and chattering as though he hadn't spoken in months. She twisted a wry grin at Prophet. “You should feel right at home here, Lou. Might even wanna stay and shovel a little coal for those ogres.”

Prophet uncorked his canteen as Mean and Ugly clomped up a low rise. He curled his lip wryly as he lifted the canteen to his mouth, only half listening to the kid's incessant chatter ahead of him. “Might enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“Hey, Hans,” Louisa said, raising her voice slightly, “can't you prod a little more speed out of that beast?”

“Don't get your drawers in a curl, girl,” Prophet grumbled. “These're the only horses we got, and we blow 'em out, it's a long walk to anywhere.”

Louisa glanced at Prophet, her exquisite upper lip curled, the flat brim of her black hat hanging low over her vivid, hazel eyes. “At this pace, we won't reach even the Devil's Tail until it's time to cut our Christmas tree.” Back straight and chin lifted defiantly, she gigged the pinto ahead with a frustrated chuff, passing Hans and disappearing over a hogback, the clay-colored dust riding behind her.

“If you get lost out here, you crazy polecat,” Prophet hissed, gigging Mean and Ugly up to Hans's right stirrup, “I'll leave you out here for the Apaches to tickle to death!”

Prophet cursed and shook his head.

“That's a strong-willed girl there,” Hans observed. “Kinda reminds me of my sister, Ruth. Why, if it was rainin', she'd say it was snowin' just to argue! I remember one time . . .”

Prophet groaned at the prospect of another big windy blowing up and tipped his hat brim low.

 

Louisa didn't run ahead for long.

The deeper they rode into the hills and bluffs and arroyos of that great, scarred country flanking the mountains, the more she seemed to realize she needed Big Hans to show her the way. The trail they followed, meandering through the creosote and saguaros, disappeared for long stretches under fallen rocks or eroded shale or arroyos that had flooded in the last hard rain.

From time to time, when the trail grew doubtful, she let Prophet and Big Hans catch up to her. Prophet sensed her tension, the impatience that made her chuff and nibble her lips and balk every time they stopped to give the horses a blow or to let them drink from the rare rock tank or spring.

Prophet would let her push her horse only so long as the pinto didn't show signs of strain. If he had to, for Louisa's sake as well as the pinto's, he'd hogtie her, lash her belly down across her saddle, and lead her into the mountains behind Mean and Ugly.

Late in the day, Prophet and Big Hans crested a low, sandy bluff to find Louisa waiting in the shaded wash below, staring up at a steep jumble of adobe-colored rocks and boulders stippled with saguaros, organ-pipe cactus, and spindly mesquites. On both sides rose the steep, rocky walls of twin mesas.

Prophet and the kid headed down the bluff toward Louisa holding the pinto's reins in one hand while shading her eyes with the other. Prophet's and the kid's dust rose around them, copper-colored in the late-afternoon light.

“We best walk the horses over this,” Big Hans said, swinging heavily down from the claybank. “It's the only way between these mesas. We could go around, but this is a shortcut to the Devil's Tail. Takes a good half day off the trip. Uncle Alphonse figured an earth tremor probably sealed this gap.” Sweating and breathing hard, the kid grinned at Prophet, showing his big horse teeth. “There's a cantina on the other side.”

Prophet chuffed skeptically. He wasn't sure how much to believe about the kid's far-fetched tales of his experiences in the Seven Devils country, but surely now he was pulling the bounty hunter's leg. “Cantina?”

“An old adobe that a rancher turned into a watering hole. It's on an east-west smuggling road that ain't used anymore, but it was still open last time I was here. Mostly used by banditos and prospectors an' such.” The kid wagged his big, blond head, whistling. “Boy, Uncle Alphonse spent some time there, I tell ya!”

Prophet heard the ring of shod hooves on stone and turned to see Louisa leading her pinto up the rubble mound. “Louisa, hold on, damnit!” He'd been letting Mean and Ugly draw water from his hat. “Give your horse some water and a rest, you crazy minx.”

“My pinto is better conditioned than that ugly cayuse of yours,” she called without turning around. The pinto slipped and stumbled on the rocks that had apparently fallen from the ridge of the southern-looming mesa.

Prophet cursed and snugged his hat back down on his head, letting the last of the water dribble down his hot face streaked with sweat mud. He started leading Mean forward. “Rest your clay,” he grumbled at Big Hans. “Looks like I gotta babysit that wooden-headed wildcat, try to keep her from pulling that pinto out of its shoes.”

Prophet followed Louisa's path up the perilous slope, meandering around the steepest snags and brush clumps and around the saguaros stretching their forked shadows. She was moving faster than he was, however, so he was a good forty yards behind her when he spied a shadow moving among the rocks just above her and right.

He'd just glimpsed the movement out the corner of his eye, and he thought he'd seen a streak of red mixed with the shadow, like the red calico shirts Apaches often wore.

He'd just started reaching toward his rifle scabbard when he saw the Indian leap up onto a flat-topped boulder so close to Louisa that he could have spit on her. Prophet's heart thumped. It was too late for the rifle.

He shouted, “Louisa, down!” and jerked his Colt from its holster.

Crouching and fanning the hammer, he emptied the cylinder in what sounded like one thundering explosion, the sour-smelling smoke rising up around his face. Forty yards uphill was a tough shot for a revolver, and Prophet saw a couple of slugs bark into the rocks, but two hit home with audible plunks. One ground into the Indian's knee while the other puffed dust from his shirt.

The Apache screamed as he loosed the arrow toward Louisa. The girl dove forward, and the arrow clattered into the rocks behind her.

At the same time, the brave dropped his bow and stumbled back against another boulder behind him, grabbing at his chest as if to dislodge a knife, stretching his lips back from his teeth.

His knees bent and he fell forward off the rock, turning a somersault, limbs akimbo. Hitting the slope, he rolled toward Louisa and the whinnying pinto, and Prophet could hear the thumps and the sharp rattling cracks of his breaking bones.

Prophet holstered his Colt, grabbed his Winchester, and racked a shell into the chamber as he bolted up the slope, hop-scotching boulders, breathing hard. He swung his gaze from left to right as he ran, expecting arrows to suddenly start raining down from the ridges on both sides of the rubble pile. The pinto ran awkwardly upslope, stumbling on the precarious terrain, whinnying and snorting. Prophet dropped to a knee and, holding the Winchester to his shoulder, cast quick, edgy looks along both ridges.

No flying arrows. No flitting shadows of braves scurrying about for killing positions.

Could the dead brave have been alone?

He lowered the rifle and glanced toward Louisa. Only the brave was there, lying facedown, his bloody back humped slightly.

Prophet rose and continued upslope, frowning and looking for the girl while flicking cautious looks all around.

He called softly, “Louisa?”

In the corner of his right eye, the brave moved. Prophet swung around, angling his Winchester down and pressing his finger against the trigger.

The brave wobbled from side to side, then turned onto his shoulder to reveal Louisa lying on her back atop a large, slanting boulder. She blinked dazedly, grunting with the effort of trying to heave the Indian's big body off her. A long red line had been slashed across her right cheek—by the Indian's arrow, no doubt.

“Christ!” Prophet reached down and pulled the Indian's limp carcass off Louisa's diminutive frame. She rose onto her elbows, her eyes rolling around, blood dribbling from her cut cheek. Blood from the Indian's chest wound had stained the cream shirt she wore, trimmed with green piping in the shapes of prancing horses.

Prophet knelt before her, bunching his lips and shaking his head with fury. Normally she would have smelled the Indian before she'd even started up the slope. She'd gone kill-crazy, and that's how bounty hunters ended up six feet under.

She glanced at the Indian now lying belly up beside her, the dead man's half-open eyes staring at the sky. Sleeving blood from her cheek, she glanced at Prophet with a self-righteous sneer. “Well . . . at least I wasn't distracted by a gaggle of naked women!”

LOUISA KNEW SHE'D made a mistake, scrambling carelessly across the rubble pile in hostile country—she was too good a bounty hunter
not
to know—but she didn't admit it.

She'd looked over the pinto thoroughly, though, with a worried expression, as the horse might have been seriously injured when it had thrashed about the rocks to escape the Chiricahua arrow as well as Prophet's crashing pistol shots.

Her mistake was no less a mistake because Prophet had made one similar. But she merely watered the frightened horse while the bounty hunter and Big Hans scouted around. She rubbed the blood from the shallow burn across her cheek, then scooped up the pinto's reins. “Well, we've wasted enough time—don't you think, boys? Let's get a move on.”