The Quantro Story (7 page)

He might be wrong, but he had a strong hunch that the occupants of the box canyon were Cole and his friends. If he was wrong he would have wasted his time, but a box canyon with a concealed entrance would be a perfect place to hide a gathering herd of stolen beef. He would find out when he used the narrow trail in. If they had driven cattle through, then the ground would bear the proof. No amount of brushing over with a branch would hide that.

Quantro decided the odds were pretty good. He didn't much like the idea of taking on three men at once, especially as Cole's friends would probably be tolerable gunmen, but if he had to take on the other two to get at Cole, then he would.

When he was happy with the guns he opened his saddlebags and took out the
kabuns
, soft buckskin moccasins he had made during the winter up on the mountains. Tom had taught him that too. The
kabuns
, in the Apache style, held a soft fold that could he rolled up the legs to just below the knees. He tucked in his jeans to prevent them flapping or catching on the undergrowth.

The
kabuns
were soft and silent, and he walked about on the grass, taking pleasure in the comfort of them. The thinness of the soles helped him to feel all the contours of the ground he walked over. Smiling to himself, he packed his boots in the saddlebags, then sat down for another smoke.

A twinge ran down his leg and he cursed silently. Trust his leg to start bothering him now, of all times. He began to massage the ache away, alternately swearing and spitting out slivers of tobacco.

When night fell he was ready.

***

The flames from the fire danced orange. Zeb Cole rubbed a hand over his greasy lips and laughed. It was a deep throated, rumbling belly laugh that indicated he thought he was on to something good. The calling of the cattle out in the dark made him feel like the rich man he would very soon certainly be. His strong white teeth plucked the cork from the bottle and he spat it away into the darkness that threatened to encroach on the meager light that the fire provided.

Across the flames from Zeb, lolled Ike Jones. Jones was a white man, the only pure white of the three. He was of medium height, his thick body running slightly to fat. His fair hair was thinning, as though it was slowly being blown away by the breeze off the prairie, and he rarely took off his hat nowadays. He was fair with a gun, but his real talent lay in his knowledge of cattle. A glimpse and he could pick out the best beef in a herd, and at the same time guess its weight to the nearest ten pounds. Otherwise, he was none too bright, and didn't mind the company he kept. In fact, the tougher his companions were, the better he liked it, for their toughness made him feel harder, and it added an extra swagger to his walk.

Jones's lack of intelligence suited Zeb Cole. He considered he had more than enough brains for the two of them. Even the three of them, come to that. It would make it so much easier when they collected the payment for this last herd of cattle. Ike's work would be done then and he would just be deadweight. With Ike's share added to his own, Zeb would have enough to get to California where he could spend his days basking in the sunshine under the peach trees. Just to be able to reach out and pluck the ripe fruit. He could almost taste the succulent juice and feel it running down his chin. And the
senoritas
! They would flock round him. Especially if he had Ramone's share too…

“Hey, Zeb. Where's Ramone got to?”

Speak of the devil. Cole lifted his eyes from the flickering firelight, leaving his fantasies fading in the flames.

“S'all right,
muchacho
, he's checking the horses. We must have a good
remuda
for when we drive these thick-headed cows.” He gulped from the bottle, listening with a lazy ear to the horses snickering out in the night. A steer lowed, a disgruntled moan aimed at a stomach ache brought on from eating too much rich grass.

“When do we ride, anyways?” Ike asked, looking up from the tobacco he was fashioning into a cigarette. He couldn't afford cigarillos like Zeb.

“Soon.” The half-breed took another hit from the whiskey bottle and belched. “Soon's we get enough cows to keep us all in tequila and
senoritas
for a long time.” He laughed and his eyes glittered in the firelight. Then his smile faded as he thought of the time when he would have to kill this foolish
gringo
, Ike Jones. “Soon,
Americano
, very soon.”

Ramone smiled as he patted his horse's neck affectionately. He was very fond of the big black stallion he called
Blanco.
Soon, he would ride him proudly back to his village in Mexico, and everybody would know what a fine man Ramone Soto was. He would be sitting straight and tall in a beautiful
caballero
saddle that he would have made by the best craftsman in all Mexico, on the best horse they'd ever seen, and his pockets would jingle with gold coins. The
chicas
with their nubile bodies and dark sparkling eyes would fight each other to take him to their beds. “Ramone,” they would whisper, breathing his name with reverence, and he would be able to pick among them as he chose. Except that bitch, Nadina. She had been too good to take him when he had no money, so now she would have to stand and glare enviously while he stared haughtily over her head. It would be as if she didn't exist. She could eat her heart out for him, the lousy bitch.

His smile grew into a broad grin as he visualized the future. He whispered the words he would say to that stuck-up
puta
of a woman.
Blanco
, the big black stallion, listened without comment. Other than a twitch of his ears.

They were the last words Ramone Soto ever said to anybody.

Quantro glided from the covering of the trees. He had been careful to approach the picket line from downwind so the horse would not catch his scent. The first inkling the black stallion had of his presence was when he was close enough to its flanks for it to feel the air disturbance.

The black horse snorted and jerked his head.

Ramone frowned and swung round, raising his rifle, instantly alert.

The Mexican's eyes widened only briefly as the blade of the bowie knife sank hilt-deep into his stomach. Quantro stepped back and ripped the knife upwards. Ramone's stomach tore as easily as the material of his shirt. The scream that rose in his throat came out into the night as a gurgle, the blood from his ruptured lungs flecking his lips. As the tip of the razor sharp blade left his flesh, Ramone's stomach fell out all over the ground. His dreams of riches and women died with him as he crumpled to the earth.

The lush green grass he died on would be all the richer for his passing.

The black stallion shied and whinnied, but Quantro placed a bloodstained hand on its neck to soothe away the fear, talking in a low voice until the horse quieted.

He knelt down over the Mexican to make sure he would remain silent. He had heard of men who had lived for hours without any stomachs. He did not believe it, but he was sure a man without any throat would be going no place at all. He completed his task then cleaned the bowie knife. He stripped the dead man of his gun belt and rifle, then disappeared on silent moccasins back into the night.

It was coal-black in the trees and Quantro utilized every ounce of his skill as he picked a path back towards the fire. He had already seen Cole and the other man before he trailed the Mexican out to the horses. Cautiously, he swept aside branches and slowly allowed them to return to place. He took his time, feeling the ground ahead through the soles of his
kabuns
before he allowed his full weight to touch the ground. One twig cracking would give him away.

The thud of his heartbeat seemed to be deafening in the night, and he found himself unconsciously trying to hold his breath to still even that. Thankfully, the shifting and moaning of the cattle covered the silence left by the departure of the wildlife from the timber.

He was closing in slowly. Now, he could make out the sparks of light from the fire's flames through the trees, and again he heard the coarse laugh of the half-breed. How he hated Cole. His hate made him want to stand up and shout out loud he had come to kill him, and kill him, oh, so slowly. But he didn't. He fought back the almost overwhelming desire as he thought through the reasons he was here. There was the need to repay the agony of the broken leg Cole had inflicted upon him. Then there was the needless death of his father, and the malicious torture he had endured. But most of all the degradation forced upon his mother. The way they had treated her, like a cheap saloon whore, leaving her not even a shred of pride, even allowing her son to see her in that moment of her final humiliation. The loss of the ranch was the final debt.

If a man could repay debts of torture and death and rape with the pain of his own worthless flesh, then Cole would. Every last cent of it.

Quantro's eyes blazed with icy fire in the dark as he glowered at Zeb Cole's profile, back-lit by the fire. He could see the other rustler too, but his face meant nothing to Quantro.

It was a shame it hadn't been Jack Kilhern. Then he could have finished them both together. If the stranger didn't cut and run when he started the action, then Quantro would have to kill him too. It wasn't worth the risk of letting him escape alive. That would just allow him to sneak up behind him some unforeseen night in the future to avenge Cole's death. Quantro decided he had enough ghosts trailing him already.

He hung the dead Mexican's gun belt on a handy bush and gently propped the captured Winchester against the trunk of a cottonwood. At the moment he did not need the rifle. His own Winchester, the One of a Thousand, would take care of this debt.

He inched closer until he could hear the conversation around the campfire. The
Americano
was talking, with Cole barking an occasional laugh.

“Yes, Zeb. I'm gonna get me a little ranch in Mexico and a cute little
senorita
. One with a nice plump body, y'know, the kind with enough flesh to keep you warm at night, and who cooks the sweetest
tortillas
and
tacos
you've ever tasted. Then I'll buy me a few head of cattle. Better'n them out there.” He waved a bottle towards the night where the stolen steers lowed. “A few good horses and then I'll breed the best goddamn critters south of the border.”

“
Si, Amigo
,” Cole nodded. “Everybody will come from miles around to buy your fine horses, the very finest in the land. No tough
caballos
for the
Vaqueros
, only the very best in stallions and brood mares. Only the
Padrones
and the nobility will be able to afford them, they will be so magnificent.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Ike Jones smirked, pleased at the picture Cole had drawn for him. “What about you, Zeb? What you gonna do with your money? You coming on down to Mexico too?”

“No,
señor
. I do not think so.” Cole shook his head and pursed his lips. “Many bad things I have done in Mexico. They could not be helped, you understand.” He shrugged and gestured vaguely. “They were things I had to do at the time. Being as handsome as I am, I was forced into them.”

“Ha ! You mean the
señoritas
?”

“
Si
, the
chicas
.” Cole smiled at his prowess. “Now I am wanted from Sonora to Durango. Many angry fathers and husbands. They would like to,” he cackled, “take a shotgun to me.”

Jones laughed. “So, no Mexico, right?”

“
Si
. Myself, I go to California. They say she is the most beautiful country, and the sunshine, she shines all the year round and it is never cold.
Si
, I think I will try my luck with the
señoritas
there.”

He was about to laugh again when a cold voice spoke from beyond the fire.

“I don't think so, Cole. You ain't going nowhere.”

The half-breed froze for an instant, then dropped the whiskey bottle and rolled fast, away from the firelight. Quantro's Winchester barked from the darkness and dug a hole in the earth where Cole's leg had been a moment before. As Cole drew his pistol from its holster, the rifle barked again. But this time the bullet was not aimed at him.

It whanged past him to where Jones was flinging himself out of the lighted circle. Jones's hat spun away into the night and he crumpled to the ground, his feet pointed toward the fire.

Cole was out of the light, circling to reach Jones. He loosed a couple of shots into the trees where he had seen muzzle flashes, but heard no reaction. He crabbed across the grass and reached out to touch Jones.

Then he found out why the
Americano's
hat had blown off.

The rifle bullet had smashed into the back of his head and splintered the skull as easily as an eggshell. There was nothing anybody could do for him.

Cole spat. It was nothing.
De nada
. The odds were still good.

Cole knew Ramone would have heard the shots while he was checking on the horses and come quickly. Cole grinned evilly. He and Ramone had fought together often, and one of their specialties was combining to take on one man in country such as this. There were few things more pleasing to him than hunting human game. It brought a lecherous smile of anticipation that peeled back the thin lips from his flashing white teeth. Whoever was out there, he would certainly get what he deserved.

And each moment would be a pleasure.

After Quantro had fired his first shot he had quickly decided to take the white man out of the game. Cole, alone now, would be enough trouble to handle in the trees. He'd hoped for a hit with the second shot and had seen his target go down, the Stetson flung across the grass. Maybe he'd got a head shot, or at worst, a burn across his scalp. If so, then he would be out cold for a while. Hopefully long enough for him to get Cole.