Twisted Hills (2 page)

Kelso turned and stared, feeling a dark, sharp burning across the top of his exposed head. He caught a glimpse of his hat brim fluttering to the ground a few feet away.

“Oh . . . my God,” he said, his gun hand falling to his side, dropping the Colt to the ground. “I've been ruint.” He stared in disbelief at the young warrior whooping and shouting, waving the crown of Kelso's hat back and forth in his hand—Kelso's hair and bloody skin hanging beneath it. Staring at his own stringy hair clasped in the warrior's hand, Kelso sank straight down to his knees; then he flopped forward onto his face in the hot, sandy dirt.

As the Apache sat their horses above Kelso, the older warrior, Gomez, saw one of the young warriors raise a battered French Gruen rifle to his shoulder and take aim on the center of Kelso's bloody back. He held up a hand toward the warrior, stopping him.

“Let this fool's shots be the last ones heard,” he said. He shook his head in disgust. “Even his horse deserts him.” He looked all around as he turned his horse and gestured for the others to do the same. The young warrior, Luka, held Kelso's bloody scalp and stringy hair out for the others to see.

“A good day for one of us is a good day for all of us,” he said proudly. The warriors and their horses fell in alongside Gomez and rode away abreast, out across the flatlands.

In the ensuing silence, two hours passed before Kelso opened his bleary eyes at the feel of the horse's hot, wet muzzle nudging the side of his neck. A layer of dust had gathered on the top of his raw, bloody skull. In a weakened state, as he tried to push himself up from the ground, he felt the dried blood and the points of the two ground-stuck arrows reluctant to turn him loose. Yet, as his memory returned to him through a fiery painful haze, he managed to struggle upward onto his haunches and look at the bay, who stood staring at him.

“I'll kill you . . . for this . . . ,” he said painfully, reaching all around on the dirt for his Colt.

The bay only chuffed and blew and shook out its mane, as if taunting the man for the sudden loss of his hair. Kelso, realizing the Apaches had taken both his handgun and rifle, gave a deep sigh and pulled himself up on the bay's front leg and leaned against its side. The horse stood quietly.

“I don't know . . . what else can . . . befall a man . . . ,” he groaned, seeing the brim of his hat and its sliced-off crown lying in the dirt at his feet. He stooped, picked up the brim and pulled it carefully down over his raw-scalped head, drawing the string taut under his chin. He crawled up the horse's side. “I'm killing you . . . first chance I get,” he whispered to the bay. Righting himself in his saddle as best he could with arrows still sticking through him, he managed to turn the horse and ride away.

The Hooke Brothers, Charlie Ray and Hazerat, sat atop their horses looking down on the flatlands from a high rock ledge in the direction of the gunfire they had heard an hour earlier. Shadows of cactus and rock spurs stretched in the evening sunlight. With a long brass-trimmed naval telescope to his eye, Hazerat Hooke studied the single horse trudging along at a slow pace on the distant desert floor. The worn-out animal walked half-hidden by a low mound of rock that had spilled off the hillside over the years and formed up like a jetty in an ocean of sand.

“Whatever all the shooting was, looks like it only left one survivor,” he said sidelong to his brother seated beside him.

Charlie Ray Hooke sat slumped in his saddle, his wrists crossed on his saddle horn. He gazed off down at his gloved hands, not attempting to see through the wavering desert heat.

“One survivor . . . ,” he said in a tone of disgust. “What is he, an Injun or a beaner?” he asked with disinterest.

“Neither one,” said Hazerat with a half sigh. “All we got coming here is a horse—a half-dead one at that.” He lowered the telescope from his eye and handed it sidelong to his brother.

“A horse, huh?” Charlie said, taking the telescope, raising it to his eye. “All that shooting, I expect the rider is somewhere back there, dead in the dirt.” He paused, then said idly, watching the tired horse trudge along, the rock wall growing shorter as it neared the end of it, “Wonder what the shooting was over.”

“Nothing worth riding back to look at,” said Hazerat.

“Hard as it is crossing this furnace, I ain't taking a step backward for nothing or nobody,” said Charlie. “We're close enough to Agua Fría, I want to ride on in tonight. Come morning I hope to be drunker than a blind rooster.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Hazerat, reconsidering the matter. “I've seen enough Mexican desert to last me a good while—”

“Uh-oh, we've got more,” Charlie interrupted, seeing the lone horse walk past the end of the rock wall. Behind the tired horse, he saw a rider being dragged along in the rocky dirt, his boot stuck inside the horse's stirrup. The unconscious man slid easily over the rocky floor like a limp rag.

Hazerat tilted his head back and squinted into the evening sun glare.

“What have we got?” he asked, tapping his brother's side, holding his hand for the telescope, which Charlie made no effort to give him.

“He's dragging some poor pilgrim behind him,” Charlie said.

“Hey, let me see, damn it,” said Hazerat, tapping his brother's side a little harder. “Is he dead or what?”

Charlie studied the man being dragged, seeing the short arrow stubs sticking out of his chest. Black dried blood covered the hapless man's chest. More black dried blood covered his face below the sliced-off hat brim still held in place by its taut drawstring.

“If he ain't dead, he's wishing he was,” said Charlie. He lowered the telescope and passed it to Hazerat. “Looks like he's been kilt and scalped.”

“Tough knuckles,” Hazerat replied, taking the telescope and raising it to his eye again. He studied the horse and body behind it closer. “But better him than us.”

“I'm guessing that whatever is in this fool's pocket ain't worth riding down for,” said Charlie Hooke. “But since we're riding down anyway . . .” He let his words trail, turned his horse away and nudged it toward the narrow path leading down to the flatlands.

“Didn't you just say you wasn't taking a step back for nothing or nobody?” said Hazerat.

“I'm not,” said Charlie, his horse walking on down the narrow trail.

Hazerat cursed under his breath. He collapsed the telescope and shoved it inside his buckskin shirt. Turning his horse behind his brother, he caught up with him ten yards down the trail.

“Still,” Charlie said as Hazerat drew up behind him, “I hate thinking he might be carrying a few coins, and we missed a chance at closing our hands around them.”

“You might have a point, Brother Charlie,” said Hazerat. He gazed off in the direction of the lone horse.

“We're not riding back, but I expect we can draw up, rest in some shade down there,” said Charlie.

“And riffle this fool's pockets when he gets here.” Hazerat finished his older brother's words for him. He gave a stiff, parched grin.

“Watch out for whoever stuck the arrows through him,” Charlie cautioned, the two looking in the direction of the rising stir of dust on the desert floor.

At the base of the steep hill trail, the two gunmen nudged their tired horses into the long evening shade behind a goliath land-stuck boulder and stepped down from their saddles. They seated themselves on two smaller rocks and sat sipping warm water from their canteens until at length the lone horse trudged into sight. After a few more minutes, they stood up and dusted the seats of their trousers as the horse continued trudging past them.

“Right on time,” Hazerat said, capping his canteen.

The two moved out of the shade and stepped in front of the laboring horse.

“Whoa, now. . . .” Charlie took the dust-covered animal by its bridle and raised its dangling reins from the dirt as it came to a staggering halt.

Hazerat stepped back to the body trailing from the horse's stirrup. He cocked his head curiously and walked alongside as Charlie led the horse into the shade of the boulder.

“This fool looks familiar, don't you think?” he commented.

Charlie turned loose of the horse's bridle and shoved its probing dust-caked muzzle away from his canteen. He stepped back and stood beside his brother, looking down.

“I'll say he does,” said Charlie. “That's ol' Preston Kelso—it
was
anyway,” he added.

“Jesus, I nearly didn't recognize him, his topknot skinned to the bone,” said Hazerat. He swallowed a tightness in his throat. He looked up from the battered, blood-caked face and gazed back into the wavering heat, as if expecting trouble to be not far behind a man like Preston Kelso. “What do you suppose he was doing out here?”

Charlie stared flatly at his younger brother.

“He's a thief, Hazerat, just like us,” he said.

“I know
that,
Charlie Ray,” Hazerat said. He looked the tired horse over, seeing no saddlebags. “Whatever he was doing, it looks like there was no money in it.”

The two stooped down over Kelso. They studied the black blood at the base of the arrows sticking up from his chest.

“Maybe he took to hunting the 'paches,” Hazerat further speculated.

“That would
explain his hairstyle,” Charlie offered. He cocked his head back and forth, looking at Kelso from varied angles. As he spoke, he took a hold of one of the broken arrow shafts and started to pull it up from Kelso's chest.

“Poor bastard,” Hazerat said with a wince. He reached out and squeezed each of Kelso's trouser pockets, feeling for any money or valuables. “We're lucky we didn't run into the same bunch.”

As the arrow shaft began to pull free of the congealed blood, a shriek came from Kelso's dust-caked lips, and his body jerked and trembled like a man stricken by a sharp bolt of lightning. Both gunmen reeled back on their haunches, startled by the sudden outburst. Hazerat's hands jerked away from Kelso's trouser pockets.

“He's
alive
!” said Charlie, stunned. His hands sprang away from the arrow shaft.

The two stared as Kelso slowly took in a thin breath and opened his dust-coated eyes.

“Preston,” Charlie ventured, “can you hear me?”

“Who's . . . there?” Kelso asked weakly, as if answering a door.

“It's the Hookes,” said Charlie. “Hazerat and Charlie Ray. We didn't do this to you.”

“Water . . . ,” said Kelso. His eyes skimmed over the canteen in Charlie's hand.

But Charlie tightened his grip on his canteen. He looked at Hazerat and said to Kelso, “I'm nearly out, Preston. Hazerat here will oblige you, though.”

“Me?”
said Hazerat. He clutched his canteen to his chest. “Hell, I've got less than you, Charlie.”

“Water . . . ,” Kelso repeated.

“I apologize for my brother Hazerat's
uncouthness
,” said Charlie, giving Hazerat a dark stare. “If I had water to spare, I'd give you some right off. But I'm down myself.” He pushed up his hat brim. “Truth of it is, you're looking none too spry. And this is no country to be wasting water on a dying man.”

“I understand . . . ,” Kelso groaned. He closed his eyes as if in resignation to his fate. “I was . . . headed for Agua Fría. . . .”

“So are we, as fate would have it,” said Charlie. “We aim to go to work for Raymond Segert. Hope to go to work for him, that is.”

Kelso fell silent for a moment, then reopened his eyes and took a deeper breath.

“Tell . . . Segert I hid the money . . . before they killed me,” he whispered. His eyes closed again.

“We'll tell him for you, Preston,” Hazerat put in. “We'll tell whatever you want us to—”

Hazerat shut up as Charlie stiff-armed him on his shoulder.

“We'll need to tell him
where
you hid it, Preston,” Charlie cut in. “Knowing ol'
Segar
, he'll be asking
where,
sure enough. Don't you think?” He and Hazerat gave each other a look.

“Too dry . . . to talk,” Kelso murmured. He closed his eyes and fell silent.

The Hookes stared at each other, Charlie with a harsh cold expression toward his younger brother.

“You heard him, Hazerat,” he said. “Give him some water.”

Hazerat hugged his canteen to his chest. “Damn it, Charlie, you've got as much to spare as I have. Why am I the one on the spot here?”

“Give the man some water, Hazerat,” Charlie demanded. “What kind of selfish turd are you?”

Hazerat bit his lip in anger. But he uncapped his canteen as he did so.

“All right, there,” he growled. He poured a measured trickle of warm water into his cupped hand and held it down to Kelso's parched, cracked lips. “I'm giving him a little of mine. Now you give him some of yours. That's as fair as I know how to cut it.”

Without taking his hard stare off Hazerat, Charlie uncapped his canteen, leaned close to his brother and whispered near his ear.

“Stop being an ass about this, Hazerat,” he said. “Didn't you hear him say he hid some money back there?” He gestured a nod toward the endless desert hills.

“Yeah, I heard him,” Hazerat replied grudgingly.

“Okay, then, help me out here, brother Hazerat,” said Charlie under his breath.

Hazerat made a sour expression, but he reached over, raised Kelso's scalped head and held the canteen over to his lips.

“Come on, Preston, drink up, ol' pard. What's mine is yours,” he said.

“Atta boy,” Charlie said. “When you get through watering him, free his foot out of that stirrup.” He reached over and gave his brother a slap on his shoulder.

“Free his foot?” said Hazerat.

“Yeah, free his foot,” said Charlie, “unless you're planning on dragging him all over the desert that way.”

“I wonder why it is you can't free his foot, Charlie,” Hazerat said, “since I'm doing all the rest here.”

Charlie shook his head, but he stepped over, untangled Kelso's boot from the stirrup and let his leg fall to the ground with a thump.

“There,” said Charlie in a put-out tone. “Now get him watered and let's clear out of here before the 'paches stick a few arrows in us too. We're sitting ducks out here.” He nodded toward a hill line standing obscured by the wavering heat in the southwest. “There's a water hole no more than seventeen, eighteen miles. If we ride the night we can be there come morning. Take cover in the rocks.”

“I'm game,” said Hazerat. He gazed warily back and forth across the desert floor. “What about sticking him in the saddle?” He nodded down at Kelso. “Like as not, it'll kill him.”

“We have to stick him in the saddle anyway,” Charlie said. “I don't see as we have much choice.” He stared at Kelso's scalped head, his arrow-punctured chest. “Anybody lives through all this, I can't see a saddle killing him.”

“They should have left him a gun and a bullet to kill himself with,” said Hazerat. “Damn 'paches. . . .”

•   •   •

At the first streak of dawn in the eastern sky, the Hooke brothers had stepped down from their saddles, their canteen straps over their shoulders. They had eased Kelso down between them. Instead of his falling like deadweight as they had expected him too, both Charlie and Hazerat were surprised that the scalped and wounded man staggered on his feet, trying to support himself.

“Watch . . . my arrows, boys,” Kelso murmured. The arrow stubs looked black and sore sticking out from his chest.

“Holy Joseph! You're still alive, Preston!” said Hazerat, one of Kelso's limp arms looped over his shoulder, his other arm looped over Charlie's.

“Hell yes . . . I'm alive . . . ,” Kelso snarled weakly. “Help me . . . over to the water.”

Charlie and Hazerat looked at each other, but did as they were told. At the water's edge, they seated him on a rock. Kelso motioned at the canteen hanging from Hazerat's shoulder. Hazerat stepped over to the water, uncapped the canteen and sank it and watched it gurgle and fill.

Stopping beside Kelso, Charlie studied Kelso's raw, bloody skull.

“We both thought you'd be gone off to hell by now, Preston, truth be told,” he said.

“Truth be told . . . I could give . . . a blue damn less what you thought,” Kelso replied. He reached for the canteen as Hazerat brought it to him. Helping him hold it, Hazerat raised it to Kelso's parched, cracked lips and let him drink. Beside them the three horses lined up along the water's edge and lowered their muzzles into water cooled by the passing night. Charlie reached over, cupped some water into his hand and wiped it onto his dust-caked face.