Twisted Hills (5 page)

Roden stopped what he was doing and stared, his hand wanting to go for his holstered black-handled Colt, but stopping under the Ranger's cold gaze.

“Touch it, I'll kill you,” Sam said to Roden. He held the Winchester one-handed as he shoved McCool's pistol behind his gun belt. McCool groaned and grunted with his hands clasped to his sternum.

Roden raised his hand away from his gun butt. Sam stayed fixed in place, ready to squeeze the Winchester's trigger.

“I—I can't breathe,” McCool rasped in the sand.

“Then don't,” Sam said sharply. To Roden he said, “Get your man bandaged and get out of here. This one is bent on making me kill him.” He gestured toward McCool on the ground.

“He's an ass. I could have told you as much,” said Roden. “We're leaving. Just give me a minute to finish here.”

“Damn it to hell, Roden!” McCool said, suddenly catching his breath, staring at ground level beneath the wagon. “The Injun's gone!” He began struggling to his feet, still clasping his sternum.

“The hell . . . ?” said Roden, standing quickly, hurrying around the wagon to where they had tied their horses and the young Apache on the other side. “He's gone! Horses, rifles and all!” He turned a complete circle, enraged, bewildered, his arms spread wide. “I knew better than to leave him out of sight!” He stooped and picked up the rope that had bound the Apache's wrists behind him. The rope was chewed through.

McCool said in a strained voice, “He slipped the rope under him, got it in front and gnawed through it like a rat. Damn rope-chewing varmint.” He flung the short length of rope away.

The Ranger stood in silence, staring out across the desert flatland, seeing hoofprints of the three horses leading out toward a stand of rocky hills without so much as a rise of dust. While the two scalp hunters stood a few feet in front of him staring out across the desert floor, Sam stepped forward, lifted Roden's pistol from his holster and stepped back. He was ready when Roden and McCool turned to face him.

“He's even got our bounty scalps we've been collecting!” Roden said, staring at Sam. “You've got to give us loan of these horses to catch him! We'll bring them back.”

“Not a chance,” Sam said.

“I ain't
asking.
We're taking the horses,” Roden said. He started to turn surly, his gun hand ready to draw until he spotted his revolver in Sam's hand, McCool's gun shoved down behind his belt.

“You're not taking anything,” Sam said. “You are unarmed and afoot. Better watch your manners.”

“Mister, you've got to help us,” Roden said, his attitude softening quickly as Sam's words sank in. “We'll pay you, soon as we get them scalps back and get them turned in for bounty.”

“Your scalps and horses are long gone,” Sam said. “You can forget about them.”

“All because you gave that sneaking bastard some water,” said Ollie McCool. “Caused him to get his strength back.”

“Shut up, Ollie,” said Roden, realizing that sticking close to the wagon was their only way out of here. To Sam he said, “Mister, we made a mistake stopping here. We should have let Alvin there die and left him baking in the sun.” He spread his hands. “What can you do to help us out?”

“You can walk on the shaded side of the wagon. I've got water enough for us to all make it to Agua Fría. If that don't suit you, you can start walking out on your own.”

The two men looked at each other, then back at Sam.

“That's all I've got for you . . . ,” Sam said. “Take it or leave it.”

“We'll take it, mister,” Roden said. He let out a breath in resolve. “And we're obliged to you.”

As the three spoke, the rear wagon door opened slowly and Lilith stepped down and pitched two shovels to the ground.

The two only glanced at the shovels. Then their eyes went to the woman and seemed to stick there. Without a word, Lilith stepped back into the wagon and shut the door quietly.

“Lord God Almighty . . . ,” whispered McCool. The two stared at the closed wagon door.

Sam wasn't about to let their interest dwell on the woman. “Pick up a shovel and start digging a grave. The sooner this one's underground, the sooner we'll get the wagon loaded and head for Agua Fría.”

When the dead was buried and the peddler's wagon reloaded, the group followed a low, worn trail across the flatlands toward a distant hill line that rolled upward and spread layer upon layer until it vanished from sight. The Ranger drove the wagon, the woman sitting beside him, his dun hitched to the rear. To make up for lost daylight, they traveled on after dark and made no camp until well past midnight. Seeing Roden and McCool scouring around in the purple moonlight for scraps of wood, Sam walked over to them, his rifle in the crook of his arm, their guns still stuck down behind his belt.

“You're not starting a fire,” he said. “We don't need to show your escaped prisoner where we are. He might decide to come back for these other two horses.”

“I wish he would try,” Roden said. “It would give us a chance to get back our scalps and supplies.”

“If I thought it would bring him back, I'd build a fire that would light the whole desert,” McCool said with a dark chuckle. “You don't know the 'pache, fellow—leastwise not like Roden and I do. Right, Roden?”

“Right,” said Roden. “The Injun is long gone. We don't need to worry about him.”

Seeing no use in trying to reason with either of the scalp hunters, Sam simply repeated, “No fires,” and started to walk back to the wagon where he had hitched the two horses to the side out of the moonlight and laid his blanket down between them.

The two men groused back and forth under their breath. Finally Roden called out, “Can we at least smoke some tobacco? I've got some curly cigars I've been carrying for over two weeks. You're welcome to one yourself.”

Sam shook his head and sighed to himself.

“No smoking either,” he said. “Unless you want to get far enough away from here that nobody will see your fire and follow it to the wagon.”

“If anybody wanted to find the wagon, there's a long set of wheel tracks all the way from the hillside where you damn near turned it over,” said McCool, defiantly.

Sam wasn't going to bother telling them it wasn't him who had almost toppled the wagon.

“I want no fire of no kind,” he said, sliding down between the two horses. Inside the wagon the woman had spread a blanket on the bunk bed and gone to sleep.

“I'm smoking me a damn cigar before I turn in, and that's the long and short of it,” said McCool. He fumbled through his clothes for a tin of matches.

In the moonlight the sound of Sam's Winchester cocking broke the quiet night. McCool froze with a match in his hand ready to strike.

“All right, damn it!” Roden called out to Sam. He snatched the match out of McCool's hand. “We'll walk off a ways and smoke. Surely you have no objections to that.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam said, “but your guns are staying here for safekeeping.”

“We need those guns,” Roden said. “What if something comes out upon us in the night?”

“That's a good question,” Sam said. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen my ass,” Roden cursed. He snatched up one of the two spare moth-eaten blankets the woman had rummaged from inside the wagon for them. “Come on, Ollie. Let's take these blankets and make our own camp.”

“We leave an hour before daylight,” Sam called out quietly as the two turned and walked away.

•   •   •

Seventy yards from the wagon, Roden and McCool sat down side by side on a low flat rock in the purple moonlight. McCool struck one of the long wooden matches along the side of the tin, held the flame to his black cigar and puffed on it as he spoke.

“For two Mexican pesos I'd kill this greenhorn in his sleep,” he said. “What kind of man fears a half-starved Injun? Especially one who's seen what we done to his pals.” He blew a stream of smoke as he held the flaring match sidelong for Roden to use. “Making us walk all this way just to smoke a cigar . . . ,” he grumbled.

Roden puffed his cigar to life and blew out the match.

“I'm glad we did, though,” he said. “This gives us some time to talk about how we're going to do it.”

“Do what?” said McCool.

“Kill this man in his sleep, Ollie, like you just said,” Roden replied.

“That was just talk,” said McCool. “He's got our guns, don't forget.” He puffed on the cigar and blew a stream of smoke up at the starlit sky.

“I ain't forgot, Ollie,” said Roden. “But I ain't forgot all the trade goods we loaded into the peddler's wagon either.” He puffed on his cigar. “I did sort of a running count on how much all that stuff would be worth if a man hauled it somewhere and sold it.”

“Yeah . . . ?” McCool stopped smoking and turned his attention to his partner. “What did you make it to be?”

“I'd say a hundred dollars, easy enough,” he said. “That's not counting the wagon itself, and that skinny horse.” He blew on the end of his cigar as he speculated. “I figure it helps make up what scalp money we lost—puts us back in the game, so to speak.”

“Just how do you figure we'd do it without any weapons?” McCool asked.

“Catch him dozing off guard in the night and beat him into the ground,” said Roden. “Once he's down, we'll take his rifle. We'll take our guns from his belt and finish him off.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds while McCool worked it out in his mind.

“What about the woman?” he asked.

“I knew you'd get around to her,” Roden said with a dark chuckle.

“Ever since I smelled her I ain't been able to think of nothing else,” said McCool. “So, what about her?”

“We'll have to kill her too, Ollie,” said Roden. “She'd tell the
federales
what we done, first thing, you can bet on it.”

Ollie studied the matter, staring at the haze of cigar smoke streaking up across the purple sky.

“We wouldn't have to kill her right away, though, would we?” he asked finally.

“No . . .
hell
no,” said Roden. “We can put it off some—kill her later, before we ride into Agua Fría. There's no need in being uncivilized about this.” He shrugged and drew on his cigar. “We can take our time.”

“Then I'm all for it,” said McCool, “the sooner, the better.” He puffed on his cigar, then gave a little cough and a grunt and fell silent.

“How about this, then?” said Roden after a quiet moment of contemplation. “You take the woman all to yourself . . . I get the man's dun.”

After a moment when McCool didn't answer, Roden looked at him in the moonlight.

“If that don't suit you, how about this?” he said. He started to unveil another option, but before he could he saw McCool lean forward and collapse onto his face.

“What the . . . ?” He started to stand up, but a strong bare arm crooked around his face from behind. The arm twisted his face in one direction while a long blade sliced deep in the opposite direction across his exposed throat.

From behind the rock where the scalp hunters had sat, two dark wispy figures stepped around as silent as ghosts and stood looking down at the bodies.

The older warrior, Wallace Gomez, stooped down and picked up Roden's cigar. He examined it in the moonlight, then took a puff. As he puffed, he held his head lowered and shielded the cigar's glowing tip toward his chest with his cupped hand.

The young warrior, Luka, stooped and picked up the other cigar and puffed on it in the same manner.

Gomez said in a whisper, “By killing these two you have saved the life of the man who gave you water.”

“Yes, I heard them,” Luka whispered. “They were going to kill him.”

“Him
and
the peddler woman,” Gomez pointed out.

“Yes, I heard this,” said Luka. He gazed off in the direction of the wagon.

“Does this make you and the white man
pony for pony
?” Gomez asked.

Luka didn't answer right away.

“We have killed the scalp takers,” Gomez said. “Will that be enough for you?”

Still no answer from Luka.

“You have killed the men who killed our warriors, and you have saved the life of the man who gave you water,” Gomez said. “You have made a good day.”

“I know,” said Luka. “But I can never kill enough white men to fill me.” He stood gazing off in the direction toward the wagon.

“I know that hunger all too well,” Gomez said. “Only in the long passing of time have I been able to step back from killing them.”

“I will call him out onto the desert floor,” said Luka. “If he comes out, I will kill him.”

“A test, eh?” said Gomez.

“Yes, I will test him,” said Luka. He looked down at the cigar glowing softly in his hand. “I'll let the night decide if this man's courage will get him killed, or if his wisdom will keep him alive.”

•   •   •

The Ranger only allowed himself to doze a few minutes at a time. At some point, when he felt he was going too far, he managed to catch himself and pull himself back from the deeper edge of sleep before getting too close. With the wagon horse on one side and the dun on the other, he liked to think he was borrowing their keener senses. Under these circumstances he could think of nothing on two legs or four that was going to catch him unaware. Yet, while he lay leaning back against the wagon wheel, it was he rather than the animals who spotted the glow of the cigars moving across the desert floor toward him in the night.

His first impulse was to call out, quietly but firmly, and tell the scalp hunters to stub out the cigars. But something stopped him. Instead he raised himself into a crouch and sat huddled between the horses, his Winchester up, ready to press it to his shoulder and take aim if need be. And he froze in place, silent, watching, as he saw the cigars stop in the night. The two fiery red glows stood there, suspended in the dark night air, as if searching for him—wanting him to see them? They wanted him to call out to them—to rise from his spot beside the wagon and come to them . . . ?

Not a chance. . . .

But why?
he asked himself. What sort of trick did the scalp hunters have planned for him? He had expected them to make a move on him at any moment. Was this it? If it was, he had news for them. He wasn't falling for it. Silently he lowered himself onto his belly and lay prone on his blanket, staring at the glowing cigars down his rifle sights. He would stay right here—keep them in his sights until dawn if need be.

But he didn't have to wait long. Before the Winchester grew heavy in his poised grip, he lowered the rifle in front of him and kept it resting on the ground, near his shoulder. After only a moment the cigars went black in the night.

What now?
he asked himself.

On either side of him the horses stood sleeping. He lay in complete silence, waiting out the remainder of the night until the purple veil of darkness turned silvery and a mantle of sunlight seeped up over the eastern horizon.

Soon he heard the woman's footsteps in the wagon behind him; then a thin sliver of lantern light spread out flat from a crack along the edge of a shuttered window. Sam moved out of the sliver of light and stood up beside the dun, whose eyes were open and who inched away in order to give him room.

Sam patted the dun's rump and walked to the rear door of the wagon. With a soft knock, he stood waiting, looking back over his shoulder across the changing darkness of the desert floor until the woman raised the iron bolt and opened the door quietly from inside.

He slipped into the soft light and closed the door behind him. The woman stood staring at him, holding a kindling hatchet down her side, pressed against her thigh in the folds of her cotton nightgown.

“The hunters have been gone most of the night,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Maybe they've left, on their own?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

“Maybe,” Sam said, doubting it. “But I best go see for sure. He glanced at the hatchet. “We'll be leaving when I get back.” Then he looked back at her in the shadowy light.

She only nodded. Her dark hair draped her cheeks; she faced him as if peeping out from inside a small tent.

“Drop the bolt on the door,” he said in afterthought, although he knew he wouldn't have had to say it.

Again she only nodded. And she moved forward as he opened the door just enough to slip through it, as if to keep the lantern light from escaping.

Sam heard the iron bolt lower into place as he stepped away from the wagon. With his rifle cocked and ready in hand, he walked away quietly in the sand. Ten yards from the wagon he crouched and touched his fingertips to the boot prints left by the scalp hunters as they had walked away from the camp. Once he'd found their prints, he had no difficulty following them in the grainy morning light.

When he came to the point where the boot prints continued on, but the faintest print of moccasins appeared in their midst coming from the opposite direction, he froze. For a moment he crouched and looked all around in the deathlike silence of the desert floor. When he stood up warily, he backtracked the moccasins a few yards and found hoofprints standing in the sand where the animals had been left while the two moccasin wearers had slipped forward.

He stood for a moment, reconstructing through the tracks of both man and animal what sudden and decisive fate might have been held in store for him had he come out from his hiding place between the two horses to investigate the cigars burning in the night.

Straightening, rifle in hand, he moved forward, stepping diagonally away from the prints and following them upward onto a low rise of sand, preparing himself for what he might find there. Yet, accustomed as he was to the violent death he had witnessed man bestow upon man, he also knew that preparation for such a finding was always inadequate. When the Apache had a hand in it, and it was orchestrated out of vengeance, well . . .

As he neared the top of the low rise in the first ray of sunlight, he pictured the young warrior, the look on his face as he'd raised the canteen with his tied hands. Sam found another set of moccasin tracks that led up behind a low flat rock. With a look back and forth in the grainy morning light, he moved forward, stepped up onto the rock and stopped suddenly with a jolt, like that of a man who had walked into an unseen wall.