Twisted Hills (7 page)

“Except . . . ,” said Charlie Ray. His words trailed.

“Except what?” said Segert.

“Except we didn't know it was money in the bags,” he finished.

“Of course not,” said Segert. “How would you have known?”

“We didn't,” Hazerat put in.

Segert just looked at him.

“He knows that, Hazerat,” Charlie reminded his brother.

Segert looked back and forth between the two as he drew on his cigar again.

“It happens I am short of men right now,” he said. “I can use a couple of men who aren't afraid to take what they want from this life, and not afraid to cross the border to get it.”

“You know us,” Charlie said, implying friendship with a man he had only met twice before in his life and then merely in passing. “The border's just a line in the sand to us.”

“Yeah, I know it is,” Segert said, letting Charlie's implication stand. “I'm putting the two of you with Jon Ho here.” He gestured a nod toward Ho. “How does that sound to you, Ho?”

Ho gave an ever so slight nod. The Hooke brothers stood staring at him.

“Ho here takes some getting used to, fellows,” Segert said as he leaned back and propped a well-shined boot on the desktop. “Any problem taking orders from a half-breed?”

The Hookes shook their heads no
.

“Ho is not all that big, but he's wiry, fast and deadly as a rattlesnake,” said Segert. “You have never seen a man fight like he does. Knife, gun, fists, you name it.” He paused, then raised his cigar in his scissored fingers for emphasis. “Do not cross him. He'll kill you quicker than the plague. Right, Ho?” he said.

“Damn right,” Ho said flatly. He stared coldly at the Hookes through black shiny eyes.

Looking back at the Hookes, Segert said, “We're getting ready to make a big run. So be ready to do some killing when the time comes. Meanwhile, if Ho tells you to jump, don't even ask
how high
, just jump as high as you can and figure that's what he meant.” As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of a peddler's wagon roll into sight along the trail past his sprawling hacienda. “Any questions?” he asked the Hookes. Before they could respond, he said, “Good. Now go with Ho. He'll take you around, help you meet some of our men
.
”

“Yes, sir,” the Hookes said as one.

But as they started to turn and walk away, Segert stopped them.

“Be advised, if I find out anything you or Kelso is telling is a lie, Ho here is going to kill all three of you,” he said matter-of-factly. He gave them a short, tight grin and a brush of his hand, dismissing them.

At a trail fork along the final stretch of miles to Agua Fría, Sam stopped beside the peddler's wagon as Lilith reined the rig over to the side and sat staring ahead. Lilith appeared to be deciding something. Seeing the seriousness in her dark eyes, the Ranger sat quietly for a moment.

“Is everything all right, ma'am?” he asked after her hesitant silence.

“We are in
Colinas Torcidas
—the Twisted Hills. I will be turning off here,” she said, still not facing him. “I live up this trail on the other side of the Agua Fría.” She nodded along the fork in the trail.

“If you're afraid of Apaches, I can accompany you on home,” he offered. “I don't have to be in Aqua Fria any particular time.”

“No, please go, Joe,” she said, still staring away from him. “You have been a great help to me, and I thank you for your kindness. But now you must go on to Agua Fría, and I must go home.”

“If that's what you want,” Sam said, not about to impose himself. He had to admit, it would be easier showing up in Aqua Fria on his own—just a hill country drifter like any other gunman on the run.

“Yes, it is what I want,” she said. Then her demeanor seemed to soften and she turned his eyes to him. “I know the kind of men who go to Agua Fría these days. I know that you are an outlaw, perhaps a man wanted by the law—”

“Whoa, Lilith,” Sam said, cutting her off. “You don't know anything about me. As far as me going to Agua Fría is concerned, it's a business matter, nothing else.” He had to be careful. He didn't like her having a bad opinion of him. But he certainly wasn't going to tell her what he was and why he was really here.

“A business matter?” She stared at him skeptically. “And what business are you in, Joe?” she asked.

Sam gave a shrug.

“I'm a speculator,” he said. “You know . . . tools, hardware, this and that.” He offered her a smile, knowing she wasn't buying his answer.

Her look said she wasn't going to swap questions with him.

“Anyway, what's wrong with Agua Fría?” Sam asked, searching for any information she might have.

She continued her critical gaze. Finally she let out a breath and shook her head slightly.

“It has been overrun by outlaws, Joe,” she said, still looking dubiously at him. “As if you didn't already know.”

“No, ma'am, I had no idea,” Sam said. “Overrun how?”

“Are you trying to make a fool of me, Joe?” she asked him tightly, her hands clenched on the wagon reins.

“No, ma'am, I had no idea about any of this,” Sam said in a serious tone. “I really do want to know.” He paused, then said, “If you want to tell me, that is.”

Lilith sighed as if reaching a resolve with herself.

“Even though I think you are an outlaw, I have seen good in you, the way you helped me, the way you buried my father and were careful and kind to Andre.”

Sam only watched her expectantly, neither confirming nor denying himself as an outlaw.

Lilith looked around the rocky land surrounding them, as if making sure no one was in listening range.

“There are two gangs of outlaws fighting to see who's going to run Agua Fría,” she said quietly. “There's Bell Madson and his cutthroats, and there's the Segerts. The Segerts are run by a Southern rebel leader named Raymond Segert. Madson and Segert are leaders of dangerous men. Decent people fear and avoid them. Maybe you've heard of these men?”

Sam shrugged, his wrists crossed on his saddle horn.

“The names aren't familiar,” he said, even though he recognized them both. “But I'll remember them, and try not to cross their paths while I'm here.”

She gazed coolly at him.

“Even if you are not an outlaw, I don't think you are the kind of man who will avoid these men,” she said.

“I'll do my best to,” Sam said flatly.

“I hope you do,” Lilith said. “And I hope I am wrong about you. It is hard to have faith in anyone in times such as these.”

Sam watched her lift the wagon reins in her hands, preparing to turn Andre onto the narrow fork trail.

“I understand,” he said sincerely as she gave a deft touch of the reins to the roan's back, putting him forward. He wished he had something more to offer her, something to restore her faith. But he had nothing, not now at least, he reminded himself, watching the wagon make its turn and sway gently back and forth. He sat watching until the rig rolled out of sight around a turn in the trail.

All right, that was as good as he could've played it, he told himself, turning the dun toward Agua Fría. It was best that she went on home. He'd done what any man should do, he'd helped her. Something even an outlaw, even a hardcase like himself, might've done. He was back on the job now. He didn't want to show up with a woman and a peddler's wagon in tow.

•   •   •

On the outskirts of Agua Fría, Sam rode the dun at a walk along a rutted dirt street littered with bottles, empty cartridge cases and other debris. On one side of the street, a sow lay in a thick puddle of muddy water, three piglets sleeping at her teats. Flies danced and hovered. A sour stench lay above the street like a heavy blanket. Nearby, a thin goat standing at the corner of an alleyway bleated at the dun until horse and rider had passed by. Then it tweaked its ears and turned its attention to the sow and piglets.

Out in front of a sagging half-tent, half-adobe cantina, Sam veered the dun to a hitch rail and stepped down under the gaze of three desert-bitten gunmen leaning against the front of the cantina. One of the men, a tall, lanky Mexican, held a big bone-handled bowie knife. As Sam carried his rifle and headed for the dirt-striped curtain that served as a front door, the Mexican stared at him blankly and jammed the knife deep into the adobe, leaving it standing there.

Beside the tall Mexican, one of the gunmen gigged him a little with his elbow as Sam walked past them into the cantina.

“Did you see what I just saw, Carlos?”

“Maybe so,” said the Mexican, Carlos Montoya, staring after Sam into the dark shade of the cantina. “What did you see?” Even in the shadowy cantina, Montoya saw men at the bar make room for the stranger and his Winchester.

“I saw a man carrying Bo Roden's black Colt in his waist,” said the gunman, a swarthy Texan scalp hunter named Hugh Petty. “I saw all the notches along the butt.”

“You sure enough did,” said the third man, Vincent Fain. “I saw Ollie McCool's big shiny Russian too. Ollie worshipped that Smith and Wesson more than I thought was natural.”

“There's a lot about Ollie I never thought was natural,” said Petty, staring into the shadowy cantina. “What do you suppose happened?”

The three stood looking in, Fain holding the dirty curtain to one side.

“For some stranger to be carrying Ollie's revolver, I'd have to say Ollie is dead. Most likely Roden too.”

“This is what I say as well,” said Montoya. “They are not men who give up their guns easily. Especially not Roden's Colt.”

“Being dead would explain why they haven't shown up,” Fain added quietly.

The other two just looked at him.

“Well,
it does
,” Fain said defensively. He turned the curtain loose and let it fall back in place. “All's I'm saying is we've been waiting here for them going on a week, and they haven't shown up yet.”

“That doesn't mean they're dead,” said Petty.

“It doesn't mean they're not,” said Montoya.

“Follow me, amigos,” said Fain, sounding annoyed by the two. He fanned the dusty curtain aside, walked into the cantina and went straight to where Sam stood at a makeshift plank and barrel bar, a mug of frothing beer standing in front of him.

Sam saw the drinkers along the bar move away as light came in from the open curtain. In a brand-new mirror that four Mexicans were in the midst of hanging behind the bar, he saw the three men enter and walk toward him. He raised the frothy mug to his lips and took a drink. He turned quickly, facing the three as they stopped less than six feet from him.

“Close enough, hombres,” he said flatly, bringing the three to a sudden halt. “What can I do for you?” His big Colt had streaked up out of his holster as he'd turned. He held it cocked and aimed at Fain's chest.

Fain's eyes widened at the sight. Montoya and Petty froze. Their hands stopped near their holstered sidearms, but made no attempt to grab them.

Fain found the courage to speak, but his boldness had subsided under the gaze of the open gun bore.

“Those shooting irons in your belt belong to a couple of associates of ours, stranger,” he said. “I want to know why you're carrying them.”

“These two guns?” Sam said, deliberately putting the demanding gunman off. He placed his free hand atop the butts of the two guns in his belt.

“Yeah, those two guns,” said Fain, impatient, getting bolder again. “What other guns would I mean?”

Sam shrugged. The two dead scalp hunters' guns standing behind his belt had drawn just the sort of attention he'd thought they would.

“I have no idea,” he replied casually. Lowering his Colt an inch, he said, “You want them?” He hadn't intended to ride in meek and unnoticed. He'd come here to shake things up. This was a good way to start.

Seeing Sam's Colt lower, Fain noted the other two gunmen stepping up on either side of him. Growing even bolder, he gave them a sidelong glance and a smug grin.

“Stranger,” he said to Sam, “if we want them, we'll take them. First I want to know what you're doing with them.”

Drinkers who had shied away from the bar stood listening, watching intently. Behind the bar the Mexican workers had stopped hanging the new mirror. Metal wall hooks were in place, but the long mirror leaned against the wall, resting atop four tall stools.

“Your friends had no more use for them,” Sam said calmly, letting the three take it any way they wanted to.

“Mister,” said Petty, “we're getting tired of your attitude. We've been waiting for Bo Roden and Ollie McCool for over a week. Don't give us short answers when we ask—”

“They're not coming,” Sam said with finality. He just stared at the three.

“Meaning what, ‘They're not coming'?” said Fain. “That somebody killed them?”

“Yep,” Sam said.

The three looked surprised, but only for a second.

“Another of his damn short answers,” said Petty with an angry expression. “For two cents I'd—”

“Apaches killed them,” Sam said, cutting Petty off. “They were running a young warrior, betting how far he could go before he dropped. He managed to get away, stole their horses, rifles, everything they had. They camped with me overnight. The Apaches came back and killed them both before morning.”

“Why didn't they kill you?” said Fain.

“Because I have a pleasant disposition,” Sam said wryly.

“The hell you say,” said Petty, cutting him off. “No damn Apache born could catch those hombres unawares. I don't believe you.”

“So you're calling me a liar,” Sam said quietly.

“I might be at that,” said Petty, poised like a dog with its hackles up.

“All right, then,” Sam said flatly. “I killed them. You like that better?”

“No, I don't. I don't believe that either,” Petty said. “Leastwise, you didn't kill them in a fair fight.”

“Both of them?” Fain said to Sam, sounding impressed in spite of trying hard not to.

“Yep, both of them,” said Sam. He laid his free palm on Roden's black-handled Colt. “First this one.” He placed his hand on the Colt. “And then this one.” He moved his hand to the nickel-plated Russian Smith & Wesson. “One shot each . . .
in the heart
,” he said, taking his time, letting it sink in.

“I don't know that I believe him either, Petty,” said Fain. To Sam he said, “Those ol' boys were pretty damn fast, stranger. I've seen them both handle some damn tough hombres—”

“One shot each . . .
in the heart
,” Sam repeated, slowly, deliberately. He held his gaze fixed ironlike on Fain's eyes. “Ready to take them now?” he asked, running his free palm back and forth across the two gun butts.

Wanting a way out, Fain looked at the other two gunmen. The expressions on their faces told him they weren't backing down. He took some courage from knowing the odds were on his side.

“Oh, we'll take them, sure enough,” said Fain with a scowl. His eyes widened. “You don't carry our friends' guns in here and tell lies, saying you killed them, whe-ther you did or not—”

His words stopped short as McCool's big Russian Smith & Wesson came up from Sam's waist and made a vicious swipe across the outlaw's jaw. Fain flew backward to the floor. Montoya and Petty wasted no time snatching their guns from their holsters. But it did them no good. Before either gun aimed or fired, both the Russian Smith & Wesson and Sam's own Colt fired at once.

A blast of orange-blue gunfire streaked in the shadowy cantina. Both gunmen took a bullet. Petty, a smaller man, caught a deadly shot in his chest. He flipped backward and smacked the dirty clay-tiled floor facedown. The tall Mexican only staggered backward two steps and got off one wild shot. A third bullet, this one from Sam's Colt, slammed Montoya hard in his shoulder before he could get his footing steadied. He went backward to the floor as his gun made another shot. This time his bullet flew wildly into the ceiling rafters, struck a nail head, sang out with a large spark and ricocheted.

Behind the bar the big mirror cracked loudly, shattered into a large spiderweb around the bullet hole and fell in shards as the Mexican workers fled for cover.

Seeing that both gunmen were out of the fight, Sam kicked Montoya's gun across the tile floor. He stepped over to Fain, who had struggled onto his knees and reached for his gun while blood trickled from the bloody welt Sam had laid across his cheek.