The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold (11 page)

“Eduardo,” she repeated. “I adore European names. And European men.”

If she felt that way, she would probably be so excited she’d wet herself if he told her he was a count. Later, he thought. When they were alone.

He had no doubt that they would be. She was a prostitute, he made no mistake about that, but at least she had a certain amount of elegance and breeding about her, not to mention the fact that she was quite attractive. He missed his mistress back in Venice and the special ways she had of easing the melancholies that gripped him from time to time. He had even considered bringing her with him when he started to America but ultimately had decided against it. He had regretted that decision more than once since then.

But he might have found an acceptable substitute in this woman who called herself Jess. As they sat together at one of the tables and enjoyed the bottle of cognac the bartender brought to them, Fortunato told himself that she might be a pleasant way of passing the time until those new gunmen Braddock was sending to him arrived in Las Cruces. He had nothing else to do. The Yaquis were trailing Dr. Dare and the priest and the stranger. When the time came, they would find him and lead him right to his prey.

Until then, he looked forward to getting to know Jess better.

The clerk from the desk in the lobby came into the bar. He approached the table respectfully and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Fortunato—I mean, Count Fortunato—your suite is ready now. Your servant has already taken up all your bags.”

Jess looked across the table at Fortunato and said, “Count?”

He inclined his head. So she learned the truth about him a little earlier than he had planned. It didn’t matter.

“A family title.”

“Count Fortunato,” she repeated in a voice that was almost a purr. “And you have a suite? I didn’t know they even had any suites in this hotel, except for the owner’s living quarters.”

“They didn’t,” Fortunato said, “until I arrived.” He picked up the snifter on the table in front of him and downed the last of the cognac in it, enjoying the warmth that the fiery liquor kindled in his belly. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes, I would,” Jess said. “Very much.”

Fortunato nodded. In his mind her answer had never been in doubt. He looked at the clerk and said, “Have some food sent up in an hour, along with another bottle of this cognac.”

“The, uh, dining room is closed, Count…” The clerk’s voice trailed away as Fortunato gave him a chilly stare. “But I’ll see what I can do,” he went on hurriedly. “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it. You can count on that.” The clerk paused. “Say—”

Fortunato lifted a hand to forestall the inevitable feeble witticism. He got to his feet, reached across the table, and took Jess’s hand. She stood and came to his side. He linked his arm with hers, and they left the bar walking through the lobby, trailed by the clerk, who stopped at the desk with a sigh of envy.

Fortunato knew what the young man was thinking. This stranger to Las Cruces had it all—wealth, breeding, the prettiest whore in town.

Soon he would have even more, thought Fortunato. He would have the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls…and the lives of Dr. Dare and the priest and the young gunman, all in the palm of his hand, waiting for him to close it and crush them, whenever the whim struck him.

No one bothered the camp that night. The Kid and Annabelle took turns standing guard, as usual. Father Jardine didn’t even ask to take a turn, since The Kid had made it clear that he didn’t think it was a good idea. The Father just crawled under the wagon and went to sleep instead.

The Kid never lost the uneasy feeling that nagged at him, despite the quiet, peaceful night. It remained with him the next morning as they continued northward.

From time to time he reined the buckskin to a halt and turned the horse around so that he could study the landscape behind them. He even pulled his field glasses from his saddlebags and raised them to his eyes. Looking through the lenses didn’t tell him any more than his naked eyes did. If somebody was trailing them, they were damned good at it.

Of course, following them at a distance wouldn’t be that difficult, he told himself. The wagon’s wheels left distinct impressions in the sandy dirt. A fella would have to be half blind not to be able to trail them. He began keeping his eyes open for something they could do about that.

“What’s the matter?” Annabelle asked him one of the times when he stopped to check their backtrail. “Do you see anyone following us?”

The Kid shook his head. “Nope. But that doesn’t mean they’re not back there. I never met the man, but from what you told me about Count Fortunato, he doesn’t sound like the sort of hombre who would give up easily.”

Annabelle hauled back on the reins and brought the team to a stop as well. Their plan was to continue resting the horses frequently.

“He’s not going to give up,” she stated flatly. “Not until he’s dead. And if I were the superstitious sort, I wouldn’t even be too sure of that.”

“What do you think, padre?” The Kid asked with a grin. “If I kill Fortunato, is his ghost going to haunt us?”

Father Jardine frowned in disapproval. “Don’t make jokes like that, my son.”

“Yes, let’s not tempt fate,” Annabelle added. She slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and started them plodding forward again.

The landscape was as barren and boring as it had been the day before. The Caballo Mountains still seemed to be receding ever northward. Around the middle of the day The Kid spotted something else up ahead, to the right of the trail. It was just a dark hump on the horizon, some sort of knob that stuck up from the flat land all around it.

He pointed the shape out to Annabelle and asked, “Was that on the old maps you studied?”

She frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “I believe it’s a landmark called Point of Rocks. A group of Spanish soldiers led by a conquistador named Oñate camped there on an early expedition through the Jornada. The waterhole at Paraje Perillo is near there.”

The Kid nodded. “So that’s the last water for, what did you say, eighty miles?”

“That’s right.” Annabelle glanced at him. “Thinking about turning back?”

“Not hardly,” The Kid said.

They pushed on, and Point of Rocks, if that’s what it was, exhibited the same sort of behavior as the Caballo Mountains—it didn’t seem to ever get any closer.

The Kid knew, that that was just an illusion. If what Annabelle said about the old maps she’d studied was correct, Point of Rocks and Paraje Perillo were about ten miles north of where they had camped the night before, which meant they ought to reach those landmarks by nightfall.

As the afternoon wore on, he began to be able to discern that they were closer to the knob. It even took on a greenish tinge, telling him that there was vegetation growing on it, maybe even trees. If that proved to be the case, it would be a good idea to stock up on firewood while they were stopped there. There wasn’t much fuel in the desert, only the scrubby, gnarled mesquites.

The Kid continued checking their backtrail. Late in the afternoon, when he could tell that Point of Rocks was only about a mile away, he said, “I’m going to ride ahead and climb up there. From the top, I ought to be able to see for miles around.”

“So you can see if there’s anyone following us,” Annabelle said.

The Kid nodded. “That’s the idea.”

He heeled the buckskin into a trot. The long days and the heat and arid conditions were wearing down the horse a little, but the buckskin had always had plenty of grit and stamina to spare. He even seemed to enjoy stretching his legs and moving a little faster.

As The Kid drew closer, he saw that the sides of the knob were dotted with pine trees, some of them pretty good size. He could definitely chop some firewood. The coarse grass was thicker around the knob, too. That fact, along with the presence of the trees, combined to tell him that any underground water in the area must be closer to the surface there than in the surrounding desert. That boded well for the spring at Paraje Perillo not being dry.

When he reached the base of the slope, he paused to let the buckskin rest for a couple of minutes before starting up the hill. Point of Rocks rose to a considerable height above him, at least for that mostly flat country, and it took another ten minutes or so for him to ride to the top.

The landmark got its name from its rocky nature and the fact that it narrowed to a rather small point as it ascended. It gave that appearance, anyway. When The Kid reached its flat top, he found that there was actually considerable area up there. He dismounted, took the field glasses from his saddlebags, and used them to scan the countryside to the south, behind the slowly moving wagon.

He stiffened less than a minute later when he spotted a black dot against the rust and tan of the desert about a mile behind the wagon, maybe a little more. It was moving slowly northward and as The Kid squinted through the lenses, the shape gradually resolved itself into that of a man on horseback.

The hombre was alone, and he wasn’t in any hurry, just moseying along. The Kid couldn’t make out enough details to recognize him. One of Fortunato’s men, he wondered, trailing them so that he could report back to the count?

That was the most likely explanation, but it wasn’t the only one. It was even possible that the rider didn’t have anything to do with Annabelle and Father Jardine at all, that he was just some stranger heading north through the Jornada del Muerto.

Would anybody be foolish enough to start out alone across this hellish land? The Kid supposed it was possible. No matter how foolish a thing was, there would always be somebody, somewhere, who would attempt it. One thing was certain, though, he thought as he lowered the field glasses. He had to find out who that hombre was, or he wouldn’t sleep well that night. Not well at all.

It bothered The Kid to see the rider following the wagon, but he didn’t waste the opportunity to take a good look everywhere else around Point of Rocks. He saw another area where the vegetation was thicker and greener, about five hundred yards to the west. As he focused the glasses on it, he even caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting on water. That would be Paraje Perillo, he thought, and the waterhole wasn’t dry. That was good news.

By the time he rode back down to the base of the knob, the wagon was less than a quarter mile away. They could refill the water barrels in the morning before they started, he decided. For the night, he wanted them to camp there at Point of Rocks.

He dismounted and stood holding the buckskin’s reins while Annabelle drove the wagon closer. The Kid’s eyes narrowed as he looked past the vehicle, but from there he couldn’t see the rider who was behind them. The fella was too far back. Whether that was deliberate or an accident, The Kid couldn’t say, but he intended to find out.

“This is it,” Annabelle said as she brought the team to a halt. “Point of Rocks. I recognize it from Oñate’s account. Paraje Perillo is over there.” She pointed toward the green spot to the west.

The Kid explained his plan about topping off the water barrels in the morning, then said, “We’ll make camp here tonight. We can unhitch the team and lead them to the top of the hill. You’ll sleep up there, too.”

“Why would we want to do that?” Annabelle asked.

“This may be the last high ground we see for quite a while,” The Kid said. “I reckon we ought to take advantage of it. If anybody tries to sneak up on us during the night, they’ll have a tougher time of it if we’re on top of that knob.”

Annabelle shrugged, set the brake, and climbed down from the box. “That’ll leave the wagon undefended, you know,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, but nobody’s after the wagon. It’s you and the padre they want.”

She couldn’t argue with that logic. For the next half hour, Annabelle carried the things they would need for the night to the top of the hill while The Kid unhitched the team and led the horses up the slope. When he got to the top with them, he picketed them where they would have some decent graze.

He was a little surprised that Annabelle was able to get a small, almost smokeless fire going. She had been paying attention after all, he decided. The sun was nearing the western horizon as she hunkered next to the fire to fry bacon and heat up some beans and biscuits.

“The conquistadors thought they were going to die of thirst when they got here,” she said. “They were coming from the north, and it had been a long, thirsty trip. They had a little dog with them, and after they made camp, it wandered off. When it came back, its paws were muddy. They backtracked along the trail the dog had left and found the waterhole. It didn’t have much water in it, but there was enough to keep them alive and let them make it out of the Jornada. They named the waterhole after the little dog that found it.”

The Kid enjoyed listening to her talk. He said, “Did you read that story in those old documents in Mexico City?”

“That’s right. There are several accounts of the Oñate expedition. All of them mention Point of Rocks and Paraje Perillo.”

“
Paraje
means spot, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

The Kid grinned. “Maybe it was a little spotted dog.”

Annabelle shook her head at him, then chuckled in spite of herself.

Father Jardine was sitting on a rock, listening to the conversation. Without warning, he said, “You saw something from up here earlier, didn’t you, Mr. Morgan?”

The Kid glanced up at him in surprise. “What do you mean, Father?”

“You saw something through those field glasses of yours,” the priest said. “Something that worried you enough you decided we needed to camp up here where it would be more difficult for our enemies to get to us.”

The old-timer was sharp, The Kid thought. Annabelle hadn’t put that together, but Father Jardine had. Quietly, he said, “There was a rider about a mile back.”

With a note of alarm in her voice, Annabelle said, “Following us?”

The Kid shrugged. “
Quien sabe?
He might be just another pilgrim.”

“Out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“People have been using this desert as a shortcut for a long time,” The Kid pointed out. “Like that old German, Albrecht Konigsberg. It’s risky, but if people didn’t travel through here, it wouldn’t have gotten the reputation it has.”

Annabelle gave him a level stare and said, “But you don’t believe it, do you?”

“That the hombre just happens to be back there?” The Kid shook his head. “Nope. I don’t.”

“It was just one man, you said?”

“That’s right.”

Father Jardine said, “A scout for Count Fortunato, perhaps.”

Annabelle nodded. “I don’t know who else it could be. If he knows that we’re camping here, he’s liable to go back to the count with the news, and then Fortunato will attack us.”

“We don’t know that he’s close enough to do that,” The Kid said. “Besides, this hill would be pretty easily defended. I reckon it’s more likely that he’s just keeping an eye on us. I intend to find out for sure.”

“How are you going to do that?” Annabelle demanded.

The coffee was ready. The Kid picked up the pot using a thick piece of leather to protect his hand and poured some of the strong, black brew into his tin cup. He blew on it to cool it, then said, “When it gets good and dark, I’m gonna go do a little visiting.”