Twisted Hills (6 page)

“Holy God . . . ,” he whispered to himself, staring down at the maimed and mangled bodies of the two scalp hunters—
or what's left of them,
he told himself.

He cradled his Winchester across his knee and stooped down and looked away from the carnage, out across the waking desert floor. At least Roden and McCool had died first, he reasoned, or else he would have heard their screams throughout the night. So much for the scalp hunters. What about him and the woman? Why had they been spared?

The water . . . ?
he asked himself. Had a simple act of humanity spared his life? Yet, as he pondered the matter, he thought about the cigars burning in the night. He couldn't rule that out. But whatever that was about last night, they hadn't been luring him out to talk about the weather.

He stood and took a deep breath of morning air. They were gone now, he decided, but their handiwork of the night before left a warning that only a fool would refuse to heed. This was a reminder, a staggering reminder. No matter the game at hand, no matter what flag waved above this hot, desolate inferno, this was
their
land. Here at the blood level, he knew it always would be.

Above him in the thin grainy light, he saw the first of what he knew would soon be an army of buzzards coming to claim what the violent night had bequeathed to them. The large scavenger swept into sight out of a silvery mist in a wide lowering circle.

They're all yours. . . .

Turning, he stepped off the rock and walked back along the last tracks the scalp hunters would ever make on the face of this dry, merciless land.

Agua Fría
The Twisted Hills, Blood Mountain Range

The Hooke brothers gazed out their second-floor hotel room window overlooking the tile streets below. The main street of Agua Fría rose from the desert floor, wound through rock and canyon, crossed a swift, narrow river and came to a halt at the front porch of Banco Nacional
.
The bank, a large white adobe, stone and timber structure, displayed a Mexican flag hanging above its polished double doors. On either side of the doors stood a canon aimed out along the street as if confronting the world at large.

“I'd feel a lot better if we were fixing to rob ol' Banco Nacional down there,” Charlie said. He stared at the flag, and at the bank respectively, malice a-brew in his dark bloodshot eyes as he dunked a boiled egg halfway into a bowl of fiery red pepper sauce. He continued to stare at the bank as he bit the egg in half. He washed the fiery egg down with a long swig of mescal from a huge earthen jug cloaked in basket-woven corn husks. He raised the jug with both hands. His face turned red-blue before he let out a hiss, caught his breath and spoke in a stiff tone.

“Segert would kill us pine-box dead if we robbed that bank,” Hazerat said, standing beside him. “He made it clear to keep our hands off it.”

“If this was a free country, he couldn't tell a man what to rob and what not to,” said Charlie. “That's what makes a fellow long for America in spite of all her faults.”

Hazerat gave him a strange, confused look.

“I guess,” he said.

“Besides, he's apt to kill us anyway,” said Charlie. “The way I make it, we've been made fools of by that hairless maggot-headed Kelso.” With that he took another swig of mescal and let out a tightened breath.

Hazerat nodded a drunken acknowledgment. He looked back and forth along the street below and spat a tough piece of goat gristle down onto the brim of a wide straw sombrero passing on the stone sidewalk below. When the sombrero's owner looked up at the hotel window, Hazerat gave him a threatening sneer and hurled a rib bone down at him.

“What are you looking at?” he growled down like a vicious dog. The Mexican diverted his gaze and hurried on along the street.

“Are you listening to me here, Hazerat?” Charlie asked, giving his brother a gig with his elbow.

“Yeah, what did you say?” Hazerat said sidelong, still staring down at the passing Mexican.

Charlie just looked at him.

“
What did I say?
Damn it, I'm talking about how Kelso lied to us and led us on,” he said.

“I know that,” Hazerat said. He reached over for the jug of mescal. “But there ain't much we can do about it now. We've stepped out and lied for him too. Now if Segert finds out we lied about seeing Injuns ride off with the money bag, he'll kill us, no two ways about it.”

Charlie handed him the jug, then grimaced thinking about the spot they were in.

“We shouldn't have lied for him,” Hazerat offered.

“Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't,” said Charlie. “It's too late for all that. We done the deed.” He shook his head in regret. “What's bad is we don't even know if there ever was any damn money bag to begin with,” he added. “Now we've gone and told Segert we saw Injuns take it.” He shook his head in regret. “What the hell was we thinking doing that?”

“I don't know,” said Hazerat. “Looking back, we should have forced him to take us to it first.”

“He wasn't giving it up,” said Charlie. “He knew as well as a dog has whiskers that we would have killed him and taken the money.”

“Looking back,” said Hazerat, “we should have stuck something sharp in his ear and wiggled it around some—made him take us to the money first.”

Charlie considered it as he turned from the window and picked up his gun belt from a chair back. He strapped it around his waist and tied the holster down to his thigh.

“We might yet do that,” he said. “A sharp stick in the ear might be just what it takes to pull this thing around for us.”

“I say just kill him and stop fooling around,” said Hazerat, also strapping on his gun belt. “As long as he's alive, there's a risk of him telling Segert we lied.”

“What would he do that for?” Charlie asked. He picked up his hat and set it atop his head.

“I do not know,” said Hazerat, feeling his mescal. “I do not know why anybody does anything they do.” He turned, picked up the earthen jug, took a deep swig and shivered all over as the fiery liquid went down. “I do know that whatever they do, it all stops once you put enough bullets in them.”

The two walked out of the hotel room and down the hall to the rickety stairs.

Lowering his voice on their way down the stairs to the small lobby, Charlie said, “We don't want to rush to kill him, though, just in case there is money hidden out there.”

Hazerat nodded.

“I'm going along with whatever you say, Charlie,” he said from behind a hot belch of mescal.

Leaving the hotel, the two walked in a half-drunken silence down the clay-tiled sidewalk to an ancient church sitting back off the main street behind a low adobe wall. Inside the wall, on the path to the side door of an infirmary, a big skinny hound stood up and started to bark. Yet, looking the pair of gunman up and down, the dog appeared to change his mind and slunk away into the shadows.

As the two walked into the infirmary, a young priest stood up from where he'd sat on a wooden stool fanning Preston Kelso's pain-wrenched face. His jaw tightened as he took note of the huge jug hanging in Charlie's hand by its woven husk handle. Yet, without a word, he set the fan on the stool and excused himself with a silent nod.

“How's our pard feeling today?” Charlie Hooke asked Kelso, the two stopping at the foot of Kelso's bed.

“How the hell do you think I feel today?” Kelso growled. “Look at me.” He gestured his eyes upward toward a cloth headband circling his skull above his ears. “I've got worms eating me alive.” Inside the bandage, a bed of writhing gray-white fly maggots were feeding on puss and dead putrid skin.

The Hookes looked at the grisly scene and managed to keep themselves from wincing.

“Jesus,” Hazerat whispered under his breath.

“I brought you some fresh agave squeezings. Maybe it'll help take your mind off it a little,” said Charlie, holding the huge jug out of sight behind him. He swung it around and held it up with both hands for Kelso to see.

“
Mescal!
Thank you,
Jesus
,” Kelso said gratefully as the two moved around from the foot to the side of his bed. His eyes softened a little.

Charlie said, “We figured if you had this—”

“Get it open,” Kelso growled, cutting him off. He reached out for the jug before Charlie had it uncapped.

Charlie looked around at a wicker nightstand beside the bed.

“Where's your cup?” he asked.

“Damn a cup. I don't have one,” said Kelso. “Give it here,” he demanded.

Charlie handed him the huge jug and the two watched him turn it up with both hands and take a long guzzling drink. When he lowered the jug an inch and wheezed and choked, Charlie reached out to help him set it down. But Kelso gave a warning growl, pulled it away from Charlie's hands and raised it to his lips again.

As Kelso took another drink, Charlie cautioned him, saying, “You might want to go a little slower on that jug, Preston. I had the ol' fellow who makes that stuff punch it up with an extra bag of peyote cactus powder.”

“I don't give a damn if he punched it up with a bag of snake droppings,” Kelso said in a strained voice. “I've got a head full of worms I'm dealing with here.” He held the jug away from Charlie and rested it on his mattress beside him.

“We brought it to share with you, Preston,” said Charlie. “You don't want to drink the whole thing by yourself.”

“The hell I don't,” said Kelso. “Reach your fingers out for it again, you'll pull back some stubs.” His left hand went under the pillow behind his shoulders and came back wielding a big rusty Colt Dragoon he'd talked the young priest, Father Octavia, into bringing him.

“Whoa! Hang on, Preston,” said Hazerat. “It's yours, the whole jug of it!”

“I
know
it is,” Kelso said with certainty. “Now clear out of here. I'm not telling you nothing, if that's what you thought.”

“Easy, Preston,” Charlie said. “The truth is, we did hope maybe you'd tell us about the
you know what
.” He glanced around as if to make sure they weren't being overheard.

“I'm not telling you a damn thing today,” Preston said, his red-rimmed eyes already taking on the swirling effect of the strong peyote-laced mescal. “You come back tomorrow, bring me some more of this stuff. Soon as these worms quit eating my head, maybe I'll tell you. Maybe I'll even send you to get it and bring it back here, if you can do it without Segert finding out.” He paused for a second, seeing if they fell for his ruse. “Well, can you?” he demanded.

The Hooke brothers looked at each other.

“We can, Preston,” said Charlie. “You can count on it.”

Kelso nodded his bandaged head.

“I'm going to keep that in mind,” he said. He let the big Dragoon fall to the bed at his side. He looked at the jug of mescal with admiration. “This stuff has got the strangest bite to it I've ever seen.” His eyes were already a-swirl. He turned them back to the Hookes. “Bring me another jug tomorrow. Now get the hell out of here.”

The Hookes looked at each other again. Charlie gestured toward the jug and said to Kelso, “Preston, you need to show some caution drinking this stuff—”

“Let's go, Charlie,” said Hazerat, cutting his brother off. “He knows how to drink without you telling him.” He pulled Charlie away by his arm.

“Damn right I do,” said Kelso as the two turned and left the infirmary.

The young priest reappeared and gave them a sour look as they passed him on the stone sidewalk leading toward the front wall. As soon as the priest was out of listening range, Hazerat spoke to his brother in a lowered voice.

“You didn't tell me about the peyote powder,” he said.

“I meant to,” said Charlie.

“
Meant to
ain't going to help a damn bit while I'm howling at the moon and grinding my teeth down,” said Hazerat. “I'm already feeling it take on a strange turn.” He squeezed his cheeks and twisted his lips back and forth. There's parts of me I can no long feel.”

“You're letting it spook you, Hazerat,” said Charlie. “I've drank as much of it as you have. Look at me, I'm good as gold.”

“You think you are, but you're not,” Hazerat said, his own voice sounding distant and strange, like the twang of a plucked guitar string. “Why did you do something like that anyway, and me not knowing?” he asked, still feeling himself over here and there for numbness.

“I only intended him to drink a cupful,” said Charlie, “just to loosen him up, get him talking freely. I never counted on him taking the whole damn jug from us.”

“Well, he's done it,” said Hazerat. “Now there's no telling what he's apt to do. Let's hope all that punched-up mescal don't turn him wilder than a rat on a hot griddle.”

“Speaking of rats,” said Charlie, “look who's coming here.” The two stood in a deepening mescal stupor, watching a gunman walk toward them from the direction of the hotel.

“Look how long his legs are,” said Hazerat in amazement, watching the gunman's boots appear to rise unusually high in the air with each approaching step.

“You two come with me,” said the gunman, spotting the Hooke brothers leering at him. “Segert said bring you to see him most quick.”

The two stood staring.

“Is he speaking Chinese?” Hazerat asked.

“He could be, far as I can tell,” Charlie speculated.

•   •   •

The half-Chinese gunman, Jon Ho, stood off to the side in Raymond Segert's office. Having delivered the Hooke brothers as he'd been instructed, he stood quietly, listening without appearing to be listening—something he was good at. As he stood
not
appearing to listen, his dark sharp eyes remained fixed and blank, staring straight ahead as the Hookes stood in front of the powerfully built former Arkansan rebel leader.

“So, the two of you were on your way here when you came upon Kelso under attack,” Segert said, having heard their concocted story three days earlier.

“That's the gist of it, Mr. Segert,” Charlie Ray said, the mescal making his tongue feel too large for his mouth. His words sounded clipped and awkward.

Jon Ho stood as still as a statue. He knew the Hookes had scrambled their brains on mescal earlier. He'd smelled it on them. When they had gone to the hitch rail before riding out here, Charlie Ray had stepped up onto the wrong horse, twice. Hazerat had fumbled around like a blind man until he'd gotten his reins sorted out. Maybe the five-mile ride here had sobered them a little, Ho thought.

But what did he care? he reminded himself. Gunmen like the Hooke brothers were a dime a dozen—Preston Kelso too, for that matter.

“You saved Kelso's life,” Segert said to the Hookes. “I can't see him living through all this if you hadn't found him when you did and brought him to Agua Fría.”

The Hookes just stared.

“And now you're here, you've rested a few days,” he added, “and you want to ride for me. . . .” His eyes drifted from Charlie Ray to Hazerat.

“We'd be pleased,” Hazerat said thickly.

Segert nodded and lifted a cigar from an ornate silver Mexican ashtray on his desk. He put it in his mouth and reflected for a moment.

“We talked some the other day, but let me make sure I understand how this went,” he said. “You heard gunshots. You rode toward the sound, found Kelso shot full of arrows, scalped, fighting for his life. . . .” He drew on the cigar and blew out a stream. “Helped him chase those motherless savages off, and saw them ride away with saddlebags full of money—
my money
,” he added with a dark, heated look. “And that's about it?”