Twisted Hills (11 page)

Sam stared up as a tall, broad-shouldered man in a silvery gray suit and polished Mexican boots moved around and stared down at him from behind a cigar.

“Well, well, Joe,” said Segert. “You don't look near as tough as I'm told you are.”

Sam didn't answer. He wondered why Segert called him Joe.

“I found this on him, boss,” said Dolan. He handed Segert the pouch. Segert turned it in his hand with interest. “Curtis Rudabell's tobacco pouch,” Segert said down to Sam. “Curtis would never give this up.”

“I took it off a dead man,” Sam said bluntly. “He wasn't going to be needing it.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” said Segert. He studied the pouch, then sighed and said to Sam, “You come up here, shoot a couple of scalp hunters and bang a few heads at the cantina. You figured bouncing drunks at the Fair Deal was going to get you a job offer? All you did was cost me money, me and Madson both. Now, what did you figure that would get you?” He chuckled to himself.

Sam started to talk. “From what I've seen, you or Madson either one could use—” But Dolan's boot jammed down harder on Sam's chest, stopping him.

“We've got nothing to talk about, Jones,” Segert said to Sam, gripping the pouch. He took a step back and said, “Dolan, show our pal around these Twisted Hills some, see if this Blood Mountain Range is a place where he truly wants to be.”

“What about that bull's bag?” Dolan asked, nodding at the scrotum in Segert's hand.

Segert hefted the bag in his hand and said, “I know who to ask about this. Get our pal up and out of here,” he said, realizing that calling him Joe had been a mistake.

Sam watched Segert step back out of sight. He felt a pair of strong hands behind him pull him to his feet. The hands reached down and loosened the lariat from around his boots, and Sam stepped out of it.

Standing in front of him, the Winchester still aimed and cocked, Dolan said with a thin, crooked grin, “Here we go, Jones. Looks like you're going to ride with us after all.” He called out, “You ready to show him the countryside, Mick?”

“Damn right, I am,” said the deep, nasal voice of Mickey Galla.

Sam glanced around and saw the muscle-bound Galla step up onto one of the horses the Mexicans had been riding. Galla's nose was still crooked and purple, matching his dark-ringed eyes.

Dolan chuckled at Sam's surprise.

“You see, Jones, we're all just one big happy family when a stranger comes busting in uninvited.” He gave a sharp nod. Sam almost flew from his feet as the lariat drew tight and yanked him, forcing him to turn around and stagger along, struggling to stay afoot, knowing what falling would mean.

“Enjoy your ride,” Dolan called out to him as Sam ran awkwardly, his hands tied, his arms tied down his sides. “I'll tell Graft you won't be needing your table any longer.”

Sitting atop a trail that led down to the desert floor, the Hooke brothers and Preston Kelso looked down the trail behind them. Their attention had been drawn to the sound of horses' looping hooves, and as they sat cocked half around in their saddles, they saw the four riders come into sight.

“I'll be doubly damned,” said Kelso in a gruff tone, seeing Sam on the end of a rope staggering along at a trot behind the approaching riders. “Looks like Dolan and Galla have joined up.”

“Yeah,” said Hazerat. “Looks like they've mistook Jones for a stray calf.”

“We'd better move along before they recognize us—” said Charlie Ray, cutting himself short. “Damn it, too late,” he added, ducking his head a little and starting to turn his horse away from the riders.

“Sit still,” Kelso growled at him. “They've seen us. Don't slink away like a sheep-killing dog. We ain't done nothing.”

“Hell, I know it,” said Charlie Ray, trying to recover. “I'm just ready to get going.”

“Well, settle down,” said Kelso. “I want to hear what our pal Jones has done to curdle their milk so bad.”

“Yeah, me too,” Hazerat said. He chuckled. “It's awful damn hot to be traveling afoot.”

As they watched the riders draw closer, they saw Sam go down and tumble and roll a few yards along the rocky trail until he managed to raise himself back to his feet.

“Now, you know that had to hurt,” Charlie Ray said with a cruel grin.

The three sat staring until Dolan, Galla and the two Mexican vaqueros
rode up and stopped a few feet in front of them. Kelso touched the brim of his oversized sombrero toward Dolan and Galla. Then he leaned sidelong in his saddle and looked at Sam.

“Howdy, Jones,” he said, giving a mocking wave of his hand. “What brings you out running on such a day as this?”

Galla handed the rope over to one of the vaqueros. He raised his hat and wiped a bandanna across his sweaty forehead.

Dolan grinned and gave a nod back toward Sam.

“Segert asked us to air him out a little. Must've thought he was spending too much time indoors. Ain't that right, Jones?” He looked back at Sam, who stood bowed at the waist, trying to catch his breath. His hat was gone, his clothes ragged. His tied hands were bleeding from stone cuts. He didn't lift his head.

Dolan gave the Mexican a nod; the Mexican yanked on Sam's rope, forcing him to look up.

Sam's face was covered with welts, cuts, bruises and dried blood. His blackened eyes had swollen almost shut.

“I said,
Ain't that right
, Jones?” Dolan repeated.

Sam still didn't reply. He stood swaying in place, but with his shoulders level in spite of his ordeal.

“Guess he didn't feel like stopping,” Dolan said to Kelso. He gave a shrug. “What brings you three out this way?”

“Tired of sitting in town so long,” said Kelso. “After two weeks of feeding worms, I thought I best get to moving around some. Any word from Segert on when he might need some gun hands?” he asked.

“No,” said Dolan. “But it won't be long. So don't wander off too far.”

“We won't,” said Kelso. He looked at Mickey Galla and said, “Mick, what brings you over from Madson's bunch? Wasn't they feeding you well enough?”

Galla looked him up and down, and gave him a bored half smile. “Don't you suppose if I thought it was any of your business, I would have written you a letter about it?”

“No offense intended,” said Kelso.

“Preston, the only time you
don't offend
is when you keep your yapping mouth shut,” said Galla. He sat staring hard at Kelso.

Kelso ignored the muscle-bound gunman's insult and turned to Dolan to change the subject. He nodded toward Sam.

“Jones there had Rudabell's bull bag on him earlier today,” he said.

“I know,” said Dolan. He sat staring, offering no more on the matter.

Uncomfortable with Dolan's silence, Kelso felt he had to say more.

“Told me he found ol' Curtis dead, and took it off him,” he said, hoping for more of a response.

“So I heard,” said Dolan. He sat staring again.

Damn it to hell. . . .
Kelso fidgeted and looked all around.

“All right, then, we'll be seeing you,” he said. He jerked his horse's reins and veered over to the edge of the trail and started around the four. Passing Mickey Galla, he saw him give a smug grin as he observed Kelso's large sombrero.

“If you run across any Apaches, keep your britches up, Preston,” he said. “You've got nothing left to lose on top.”

“Smart son of a bitch,” Kelso grumbled under his breath.

Galla chuckled, watching the three leave. Then he turned to Dolan and said, “How much farther to that water basin?”

“Two miles, maybe less. Why?” said Dolan. He started to turn his horse back up the steepening trail. But he stopped, seeing Galla bounce down from his saddle and walk back to where Sam stood bowed and panting.

“Hear him, Jones?” Galla said. “Two more miles to water.” He patted Sam's sweat-drenched shoulder. “Hell, there's no need in you having to walk that far.” He bent quickly, picked Sam up by his knee and his throat and raised him high over his head.

Dolan sat watching the feat of strength in awe.

Just as quickly as Galla had grabbed and lifted Sam, he slammed the Ranger down flat on his back in an upswirl of dust. What little breath Sam had left burst from his lungs.

“Jesus, Mick,” Dolan said at the sound of Sam hitting the trail and lying limp. He gigged his horse forward to where Galla stood brushing dust from his shirtsleeves.

“All right, vaqueros, pull him these last miles,” Galla said to the two Mexicans. “It's too damn hot for a white man to walk.”

“Check yourself down, Mick,” Dolan cautioned him. “We got to do this thing the way Segert wants it done.”

“I know that,” said Galla. He looked up at Dolan. “But have you ever had somebody slam a rifle butt into your nose?”

“No, I haven't, but—”

“It hurts like hell—I can tell you that much,” Galla said, cutting him off. He adjusted his raised shirttails back into his britches and turned to his waiting horse. “So, there's that,” he concluded.

•   •   •

For a mile and a half the Ranger tried to force himself back into consciousness, but he was too battered and exhausted to collect himself and struggle back up to his feet. Realizing that the horses dragging him were now at a walk, he struggled instead to keep his head up off the rocky trail and bore the impact of the ride on his left shoulder, which he kept tucked in a way to protect his chin.

The last few minutes of the ride, he began hearing the sound of rushing water to his right, but he dared not shift his shoulder and head around to see where the sound came from for fear he would not manage to regain his protective position. Most of the pain he had felt earlier from the dragging had turned to a dark numbness that he was grateful for. Yet there was still enough pain from the dirt and grit in his eyes and his mouth to make up for it.

Outlast it. . . . Outlast it. . . . Outlast it . . . ,
he repeated over and over to himself. At length a soothing darkness fell over him and he turned loose of the trail and let it disappear from beneath him.

After what felt like no more than a few seconds, a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder and shook him roughly.

“Has the son of a bitch died on us?” Sam heard Dolan ask Mickey Galla.

Sam gave no response. Instead he kept his swollen eyes shut, listening, needing to gather enough strength to make one last attempt to save himself should the opportunity arise.

“Naw, he's alive,” Galla replied. “Damn shame too,” he said, drawing Sam's Colt from behind his gun belt, where he'd stuck it earlier. “Now I'll have to waste two bullets on him.”

“Two?” said Galla.

“Yeah,” said Dolan. “One to kill him, another to keep him that way.” He cocked Sam's Colt.

“Killing him with his own gun,” Galla remarked. “You must be cold as ice.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise,” said Dolan. But as he spoke, he uncocked Sam's Colt and let it hang in his hand. “First, let's get some water and let him simmer awhile. I hate killing a man, him not even knowing it.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Galla as the two turned and walked away. “It just ain't the same as seeing their eyes get real big and scared looking.”

“I bet this one don't look that way when the time comes,” said Dolan.

“Yeah, how much?” said Galla.

“How much what?” said Dolan.

“You said you bet,” said Galla. “I say, how much?” He grinned.

“Five dollars,” Dolan said. Then he chuckled. “And you said
I'm
cold as ice. . . .”

Sam lay listening to their footsteps move away from him, across the rocky trail. No sooner had he thought them out of sight than he began to test his ropes. First the one around his hands, then the one around his bloody wrists.

Tight . . . too tight . . .

Struggling against his returning pain, he cocked his boot around until he could see his spurs, the big rowel broken off one and only a stub sticking out. With all of his waning strength, he cocked his boot around at what he would otherwise consider to be an impossible angle and began picking at the rope around his waist with the sharp stub.

Even in his half-addled state, his mind flashed on the young Apache warrior who had done much this same thing to escape the scalp hunters. Same circumstances, same desperation. But the thought was gone as quickly as it came to him. Right now, his own survival was all that mattered. When the picking and cutting caused the rope to come apart, he looked through swollen, bleary eyes in the direction of the two gunmen and the two vaqueros—the sound of them through a sparse stand of young pine saplings, their voices mingling among the sounds of the rushing stream.

As soon as he had freed his bruised and cut hands, he untied the lariat knot at his waist, loosened it and wiggled out of it. As quickly as he could, he belly-crawled off the trail toward the sound of the stream just beyond a rocky edge. Reaching the edge, he looked down, seeing the water swirling and thrashing along twenty feet below.

“The son of a bitch is getting away!” he heard Galla's voice cry out behind him. A gunshot erupted from the trail, and a bullet struck a rock four feet from Sam.

“Shoot him!” Dolan's voice shouted. Another gunshot erupted. But now the Ranger had pushed himself over the rocky edge.

Luckily the water was deep enough. But just barely, he noted to himself, holding his breath, sinking, and at the same time feeling the current roll him along, sweeping him downstream. He heard more gunshots resounding in the distance, from that world moving away behind him. Bullets streaked down though the water in looping half circles and fell away to the rocky bottom.

To stop himself from tumbling along forever, he spread his arms and grabbed at stones his size and larger, his battered hands pulling him ever upward through the cool swirling pool. When he had laddered himself up the rocks, his face came up above the surface so suddenly that it caught him by surprise. He let out his remaining breath, but with his boots filled with water, he dropped back under before he managed to recatch it.

The water had him. He dragged himself with his hands, back up the stones, strangling on water, swallowing it, coughing it out, his oxygen gone, only more water with which to replace it. Yet he felt himself moving upward again, only this time taking forever.

This is drowning. . . . This is drowning. . . .

Then, as suddenly as before, just as the world started growing dark and silent around him, he plunged upward into the world of air, his boots seeming to weigh more than he himself. He bounced along now in the swift water, his heavy boots serving to at least keep him upright, like a human buoy.

But it was water much more shallow now.
Thank God. . . .
He bounced and bobbed along, seeing a sandy, gravelly bank to his right, knowing that above it lay the trail—the same trail that would bring the gunmen down on him any minute. He knew he had to work his way to that gravelly bank and get up out of there.

Even as he told himself what he had to do, he had already begun scrambling against the current and the rocky bottom, pushing himself shoreward with hands and feet, scrambling through chest-high water that pushed with the force of a raging beast. But as he struggled, coughing, strangling, heaving up water, he began to feel that raging beast lessen its hold on him. The water was soon at his waist, then lower, and lower.

Finally he found himself splashing through water at his calves, then at his ankles. Stumbling forward in his heavy boots, staggering unsteadily, he reached the shoreline and dropped to his knees and swayed back and forth for a moment.
Huh-uh, can't stop now,
he warned himself.
Get up, get moving!

He tried. He pushed himself halfway to his feet. But that was as far as he could go. He had forced himself as hard and as far as he could. He had lost all of his strength, his energy; he had become a spinal creature, operating strictly on the pulsing remnants of nerve signals between mind and body. And now even that left him.

He stopped there in the dirt like a run-down clock, his arms outstretched slightly to the side, and pitched face forward onto the cool wet gravel. A looming blackness moved in around him and swallowed up his senses. He couldn't even struggle against it. He moved along in the blackness much the same as he had moved along in the swirling current, except this was by far more peaceful. In this blackness, he lost all sense of time.

He only realized he'd lost consciousness when the voice of the gunmen standing above him forced him to regain it.

“I don't know how he made it this far,” he heard Galla say, standing over him. “But this is as good a place as any, I expect.”