The Savage Curse (22 page)

“John, how many men has Ollie got with him?”

“Five or six, counting Mano Rojo.”

“The numbers sound okay, but Ollie sure as hell ain't goin' to ride straight up the road right into our guns.”

“No,” John said, “I don't expect he will. I'll tell you my plan when you get back. See if you can't find that grassy place where we can quarter the horses.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben said.

“Take Fidel with you,” Gale said. “I think he's been there before.”

Ben and Fidel rode off toward the far end of the tailings and disappeared over the side of the mesa. John walked to the edge of the tabletop and surveyed the road and the surrounding terrain. The guard, whose name was Benito Porres, spoke to him.

“What you look for?” he said.

“Places to hide men on both sides of that road.”

“Like the
Indios
, eh?”

John nodded and walked the length of the escarpment from one side to the other.

He stood at the south end for several minutes, scanning the road, the rocky terrain that sloped away from the mesa. There were plenty of places where a man might conceal himself. But there were other considerations, as well. If they flanked the road, he would have to place rifles in close range to the road, but in such a way that those on the opposite flank would not be in the line of fire. He was not a military man, but he knew he had to think like one now. Their lives depended on his judgment. And he wanted to make sure that Ollie could not get away.

What would Ollie think when he came to this place?

He wasn't a stupid man. In fact, he was very smart and very clever. He was also very wary. He was like a wise old fox. If, when he rode up, he saw the slightest movement, heard a cough, or saw sunlight bouncing off a rifle barrel, he would elude any trap set for him.

Gale and Jake finally walked over and stood just behind John. They didn't speak or make a sound, for they surmised that he was thinking. John knew they were there, but he kept looking down at the south road and the road leading to the mesa and the mine.

There was another matter he had to work out, too. What would draw Ollie up the road? The man wasn't a fool. He would be thinking of ways to approach that were well away from the road. He would have a commanding view of the road, the mesa, and everything surrounding his path. And, too, he would have the eagle-eyed Mano Rojo with him, a Navajo warrior who could probably spot a sitting bird at a thousand yards.

Finally, John turned around and looked at Gale and Jake.

He gazed into Jake's eyes, then into Gale's.

“Two questions,” he said.

They both looked at him in silence, waiting.

“Jake, are you a good shot?”

“I am. So I've been told.”

“Gale, how good can your men shoot?”

“Not very good, I'm afraid,” she said.

“So there's Jake, Ben, you, Gale, and me. Four good shots. We'll be facing five or six killers, men who seldom miss, probably.

“You worried, John?” Jake said.

“No. I don't want anyone here to get shot. I don't want any of you to die.”

“That sounds like worry to me,” Gale said.

“Just figuring the odds,” John said.

“And?” Gale said before Jake could say the same thing.

“In our favor, maybe,” John said.

“Look, John,” Jake said, “I might not have gotten Ollie, but I want him as bad as you do. He killed my brother and I can't rest until he's paid for that. Just like you want him to pay for what he did to your family.”

“I'm not questioning your courage, Jake.

“Then, what?”

“I'll tell you both. You have a right to know.”

“Tell us,” Gale said, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes.

A breeze had sprung up as the sun settled on the far peaks to the west, throwing much of the land into pools of shadow and sunlight, gentling the valley below, painting it a soft purple, while the clouds blazed on the horizon, their underbellies gilded with copper and gold, their sides turning salmon and silver.

“I don't want Ollie to get away. I don't want to keep chasing him to the ends of the earth. I want him to die here, in this desolate but beautiful land. I want his blood to soak into the earth, right here, and bloom pretty flowers in the spring. I want all who ride with him to die, too, before the sun sets tomorrow night.”

There was steel in his voice and his eyes had narrowed to black slits. His jaw had tightened until it appeared to have been sculpted with an ax. His face was dark, in shadow, yet he radiated an inner fire that smoldered like a mighty volcano.

“In the morning,” John said, “I will reveal my plan to both of you, and to everyone. Just promise me this.”

“What's that, John?

“That you will do my bidding without protest or question. ”

Jake and Gale both nodded. They could feel the heat within him, feel its banked rage just behind the iron door of a furnace.

29

JOHN BLEW WARM AIR ON HIS COLD FINGERS.

He shivered in the spiny chill that crept into his clothes, into his flesh, into his bones.

He lay in a shallow ditch, his body covered with brush he had cut and pulled over him.

He could see the faint outline of the road, just barely, and, out of the corners of both eyes, little pinpoints of light through the black tapestry of night. The moon was setting and Venus stood near the horizon, a watery vision of shimmery silver, the brightest object in the sky.

Above him, two hundred yards or so, he knew Ben was shivering in a similar hollow, his body covered with brush, and on the other side of the road, Jake lay in his trench, concealed under dirt and branches he and Ben had laid over him.

The three had not walked on the road, so they left no boot tracks for Mano Rojo to read. They had clambered off the mesa in the dark, making their way through rocks and cactus to their hideouts. After getting Jake positioned, John and Ben had climbed back up and come down on the opposite side of the road, stepping carefully to avoid dislodging rocks, leaving telltale signs of their passing for any keen eye to see.

A light breeze jostled the brush and John flexed his fingers to make sure his blood was circulating in them.

Dawn was at least a half hour or so away, and it seemed to him that the darkness was deepening, reluctant to give up its cloak to the light of day.

Gale had asked him if he wanted to eat before he had ventured out of the laboratory.

“No,” he told her. “I always hunt on an empty stomach.”

Gale and her sheepherders were not in the lab anymore. She and Romero were in the mine, near the entrance, huddled behind the wagon that they had pulled up in front of it the evening before. The other herders were behind the tailings, with orders not to show themselves unless some of Ollie's men rode up on the mesa.

John meant to see that this wouldn't happen.

He had given specific orders to Ben and Jake.

“Shoot their horses out from under them. I'll do the same. Then make sure you knock down Red Hand. I'll take on Ollie once he's on foot.”

“What if he ain't?” Ben had asked.

“Then I'll get him on horseback.”

Simple orders. A simple plan.

If it worked.

The smell of earth assailed John's nostrils. Dry, fragrant earth that might become his grave. He waited for the dawn, listening in the hushed night for any alien sound. Listening for the sound of horses approaching. Would he hear them? He put his ear to the ground and held it there, listening. He might hear them. Or he might not.

He watched the stars wink out, one by one, and then Venus vanish along with the pale ghost of the moon. A deep royal blue painted the sky and light appeared in the east like flowing cream, pale as his mother's bread pudding. Distant battens of clouds took on the hues of fishes, salmon and trout, their backs gray as dove wings. The threnodic sound of insects coming to life lent an insistent undertone to the sky's unfurling of banners as the sun rose, creeping up to gaze on the sleeping land like some giant flaming god.

The rider caught John by surprise. He had thought to see a half dozen, either riding in a pack or spread out or single file. But no, there was just one rider, turning onto the road that led to the mesa. A black silhouette on a horse of no color, coming out of the shadowy valley, picking its way slowly up the road, as unhurried as an aimless snail.

John's blood quickened. His temple throbbed with the furious beating of his heart. The sun crept higher, rising so slow he had not yet felt its heat.

Then John's stomach knotted as the rider drifted into the light. It was a lone Navajo, and he was leaning over, studying the tracks in the road. He made a guess who that Navajo was.

Mano Rojo. Red Hand.

“Don't shoot, you men,” he said to himself. “Let him go.” He prayed. He held his breath. A rock beneath him dug into his upper calf, yet he dared not move. Dared not make a sound. He let his breath out slow, through his nostrils so that no vapor would escape.

The Navajo rode up all the way to the overhanging lip of the tabletop. He halted for a few moments, turning his head one way, then the other.

John's breath caught in his throat, burned hot in his chest.

Red Hand turned his horse and raised one hand as if he were signaling someone. Then he rode slowly back down the road, not gazing downward this time, but looking on both sides of the road, staring at the solemn landscape with the keen eyes of a hunting hawk. As John would have expected him to do.

Don't move, Ben,
he thought.
Jake, don't give it away.

Moments later, John saw the other riders. There were five of them. In the lead was a man with the stature and build of Ollie Hobart, riding a steeldust gray. The horse's coat looked like moonbeams on a shadowy pond in the uncertain light of that tenuous dawn.

John drew in a deep, slow breath to steady himself. His rifle lay beside him, ready to bring up when it was time. There was a cartridge in the chamber. He rubbed his thumb on the crosshatching of the hammer.

He waited.

Red Hand stopped and Hobart stopped. His men bunched up behind him. They all carried rifles pointing skyward, the butts resting on their thighs.

Red Hand spoke and made hand signs. He pointed up the road, pointed to his ear, sailed the flat of his hand across an invisible plane to show that the way was clear and all was quiet.

The riders all came within range. Hobart drew his rifle from its scabbard. John heard the sound of him jacking a cartridge into the chamber. Red Hand left his rifle in its scabbard, leading the way up the road.

John measured the distance with his gaze, noted the progress of the horses. Ben and Jake were not supposed to shoot until they heard the sound of his rifle. He hoped they held to that order.

John eased his rifle up to his shoulder. He placed the barrel gently on a rock and took aim at the steeldust gray. He calculated the horse's speed and eased the barrel over, waiting for Hobart's horse to come into his sights.

John gave the trigger of his Winchester a slight squeeze, depressing it so that the mechanism would not be heard. He thumbed back the hammer and there was no sound. He released the trigger. Finally, when Hobart was directly opposite, John started his slow steady swing. He held his breath, led the horse a fraction of an inch, kept the barrel moving, took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. He was aiming for the steeldust's heart.

The thunder in his ears deafened him momentarily as the rifle bucked against his shoulder, spat out smoke and sparks, the deadly projectile. He saw the horse stagger and fall to its right side.

“Damn,” Hobart yelled as his horse collapsed beneath him. His rifle went flying out of his hands and clattered some yards away as it struck a pile of rocks.

Then Ben and Jake opened up and horses began tumbling like dominoes on a table. Men screamed and men yelled. Hobart flung himself to the side of the road, flattened like a cat on a tree limb. John levered another cartridge into the chamber. The ejected shell clanged on a rock. He picked out a running man, led him, squeezed the trigger, and saw the man fling up his arms and go down in a heap. Other men dashed back and forth. Ben's rifle accounted for one, Jake's another.

Red Hand was still on horseback. John saw him race up the hill. He tried to draw a bead on him and before he could fire, the Navajo's horse clambered up on the mesa and disappeared.

John's heart stuck in his throat.

He heard more firing from both Ben's rifle and Jake's.

Where was Hobart?

John couldn't see him.

The guns went quiet and there was a long silence.

John laid his rifle aside and rose from his hiding place and started walking toward the road. His right hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

“Hobart,” he called.

There was a loud grunt and Hobart stood up. His right hand was cocked like a frozen bird above his pistol.

“That you, Savage?” Hobart said.

“Looks like it's just you and me, Ollie,” John said. “Isn't that the way you wanted it?”

“Damned right, Savage. You been breathin' my air too long.”

“Didn't Red Hand tell you, Ollie?”

“Tell me what?” Hobart snarled his words. The two men were very close, within ten paces of each other. Hobart stood his ground, while John took one more step and then stopped.

“That this is the end of the road for you.”

“Why, you sonofa . . .”

That was as far as Hobart got. His hand dove for his pistol as he went into a fighting crouch.