Vengeance Road (7 page)

Course, there's nowhere to hide if we sensed trouble.

Maybe that's what's got him riled.

Behind us, clouds are starting to pocket the sky. A storm, maybe. It would explain the strengthening winds, though I'm still stumped by the odds. June don't bring much rain in Prescott, and if we don't get much there, I doubt these desert plains do neither.

We carry on, Jesse scouting through his binoculars every few minutes. A few hours later the mountain range's not looking so tiny as it had. But it ain't what's caught my focus.

There's a dark lump not more than a mile ahead. At first I figure it's a boulder sitting proud amid the flat earth, but it's smoking. Like campfire coals.

“You see that?” Jesse says, lowering the binoculars.

Me and Will nod.

We kick the horses into a faster clip and close in on the strange shape. Soon, it ain't much of a mystery.

The body of the carriage is black and smoking, its door facing the heavens as the charred wheels spin in the breeze. The scent of burnt leather mingles with wood; thorough braces running 'cross the exposed belly of the coach are cracked and split, the heavy leather curtains used to keep out dust in a similar condition. A set of reins hangs limp from the driver box, but there ain't a horse in sight.

Meaning someone cut 'em free. Someone walked away.

The wind shifts and a new scent reaches me. Flesh. Singed hair. As sure as I am that someone walked away from this inferno, I'm sure another soul—or more—didn't.

And that's when I spot the body, sprawled out round the back of the carriage: a man round Pa's age, shot clear through the skull. The driver, I'd wager, only he ain't burned like I expect. That fate musta been reserved for the unlucky bastards inside the carriage. A knife's been taken to the driver's forehead, carving out a shallow coiling shape, like an onion bloom. Or flower petals.

There ain't even a rose burned into these saddles. Ain't that their mark?

I know who did this. Like the roses on their saddles, like the very same carving they left on Pa—it's their symbol.

This is the Rose Riders' work.

I draw rein and swing off Silver. The coach dumped its luggage when it tipped, and trunks lay scattered near the roof, clothing, books, and other worldly possessions spilling free. One of the smaller trunks is empty, and I'd bet it were filled with money before the Riders got their hands on it. A hunt for gold, the trek that comes with it . . . that ain't cheap. I doubt Rose went out of his way to rob this coach, but if'n he crossed it while traveling, he likely regarded it a lucky find.

The heat coming off the still-smoking carriage becomes too much. I stagger away. My eyes catch something pale and small among the disheveled clothes. A child's dress. Then I spot a rag doll.

I gag on the singed hair filling my nostrils, the smell of burned flesh.

This weren't a freighter running goods, or a Pinkerton moving money. This was a family. I hold my breath and move closer, cringing 'gainst the heat. The drawn leather curtains are parched from the fire, 'bout ready to crack, so I use the barrel of my Colt to punch through the weak material.

There ain't nothing but charred corpses inside the coach, so black and flame eaten, they look more skeleton than flesh. One of 'em's small. No bigger than Jake.

I stumble away and vomit on the dust-caked earth.

“We gotta bury the driver,” I says. I take another swig from my canteen and spit the bile from my mouth.

“It'll take all day to dig a grave here.” Will stomps his heel into the desert.

“We gotta do something.”

Jesse just keeps squinting at the carnage, like if he stares hard enough, the coach might right itself and the people walk out.

“This is what they do!” I says, practically screeching. “The Rose Riders don't care for nothing but money and riches. They burned a family alive, prolly right after shooting the driver.” I point at the man spread-eagled near the luggage. “And I reckon they're wretched enough to have carved that symbol in his forehead long before he took his last breath. They did the same to my pa.”

Jesse's face snaps toward mine. His lips are pressed in a thin line, but he don't say nothing.

Growling, I stride to the driver. Maybe I can't bury the man, but he deserves more than being food for vultures. I can add him to the still-smoldering carriage, set him free by flame.

When I grab the fella by his wrists and tug, his weight suddenly gets lighter. I glance up. Jesse's got the man by the ankles. He don't say nothing as we move the driver. Not even after he's kicked in the carriage door or helped haul the body inside and light it by match.

As the flames begin to devour the poor soul, Jesse looks east. “We been still too long,” he says.

Like the rage brewing in my core, the wind roars as we ride out. The sky is angry with clouds. Nobody talks. We don't look back. We keep our gaze set on the horizon and the mountain range ahead.

The silence gives my mind too much time to wander. My thoughts keep drifting back to the coach, even as we put distance between us and it. I bet there weren't even much money to be earned from that robbery. It was prolly an honest, hardworking family, and still it hadn't mattered to the Rose Riders. Same as weary a homesteader like Pa hadn't mattered neither. I reckon nothing's too low for Waylan Rose.

Another strong wind whips, nearly lifting my Stetson off. I turn my head to avoid losing it, and catch something back the way we came that makes my stomach drop.

“Jesse?”

To the west, and crawling over the plains like it's chasing us, is dust. And not a plume caused by riders or coaches, but a whole rotten wall. It stretches wider than it is tall—nearly as wide as the mountains ahead—and it's moving unnaturally fast.

“Stay on my tail!” Jesse shouts, kicking Rebel into a gallop.

I don't need to be told twice.

We fly east, pushing the horses hard. Silver's moving faster than I's ever made her run, and I ain't sure how long she can hold the pace. Still, I urge her harder, faster, more, more, more. Mutt's lucky he were already exploring far ahead, 'cus we're catching up to him quick.

Every time I look over my shoulder, the dust's getting closer, easily moving twice the speed we are. I can hear it, a roar of a monster. Feel it on my neck, too, the heat and the wind.

The land's getting rougher. Cactuses I gotta weave between. Uneven dips in the dirt as shrubs sprout up again. But I don't let Silver slow. Not even when the wind starts screaming in my ears.

We ain't gonna make it.

We're at the base of the mountains but ain't got time to climb 'em. We're gonna be swallowed whole.

Ahead of me, Jesse passes Mutt and makes a sharp turn to the right, drilling into a narrow canyon you wouldn't spot 'less you knew it were there. Will follows, the dog right on his heels.

I tug Silver's reins, urging her to follow, but she's midleap, clearing a small batch of boulders, and my twitchy hands startle her. She whinnies and lands uneven. I nearly fall from the saddle.

We dart into the canyon just as the dust goes roaring by, but my balance is so off, I tip sideways. My shoulder slams into the rough rock wall, and pain rockets through me.

Silver pulls up, panting, and I press my hand to her neck. “That a girl, Silv,” I tell her. “That a girl.”

Jesse and Will are waiting just ahead, looking flushed atop their horses.

“What the devil was that?” I says, looking back at the mouth of the narrow canyon. The dust is still raging by, spreading only a small amount of dirt into our little haven.

“Dust storm,” Jesse says. “Somewhere behind all that dirt there's rain and wind, and it kicked up the earth as it traveled.”

“We ain't got those in Prescott.”

“Nor in Wickenburg, but I seen one or two in the stretch between Phoenix and Tucson. Never one quite so big up this way, though. We got lucky. If we weren't nearing these mountains, it wouldn't've been pretty.”

“Good thing yer so vigilant with those binoculars,” Will says to Jesse. “Woulda been a shame if Nate's naked eyes were the only thing we could count on to save us.”

“Shut it, Will.”

I manage to crack a smile. In the wake of all that's happened it feels like a small miracle.

“So now what?” I ask.

“Now we hang fire, wait for the storm to pass,” Jesse says. “Might as well go for a dip while we're here too.”

“I thought only Will dipped.”

“I mean a bath, dunce. Come on. I'm gonna show you the prettiest tub you'll ever clean in.”

Jesse turns Rebel round
and leads. The canyon path widens and slopes up the side of one of the peaks, where we're still sheltered from the dust raging on the other side.

We gain elevation, and even get a quick rainstorm bearing down on us—likely the rain that stirred up all that blasted dust. It ain't more than a few minutes long, not even enough to thoroughly clean the dirt from my limbs or wet my hair through.

After a bit of a trek, we come upon a sight I can't hardly believe. Right smack in the middle of this rugged, mountainy land is a pool of water. It's being filled by rainwater from the storm, which streams down the steep, bone-white rock surrounding us to fill a shallow basin. In its deepest parts—right 'long the back wall—I'd say the water might be up to my knees.

Mutt prances in and laps some up, then comes out with his undercarriage dripping. He shakes, sprinkling us.

“Welcome to White Tank, Nate,” Jesse says, waving an arm at the scene.

“How'd you two ever find a place like this?”

“Prospector by the name of Dee. Before he arrived in Wickenburg, he'd tried these mountains for gold and said he found nothing but a trickling waterfall and a series of ‘white tanks' holding water. Then some Indians ran him out.”

I immediately look over my shoulder.

“We've spent the night here a few times and ain't seen nobody,” Will says, reading my unease. “Might be the tribe's moved elsewhere.”

“Might be,” I says, uncertain.

“Well I ain't getting any cleaner talking.” Jesse hops from Rebel and kicks off his boots. “Last one in does dinner.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt before I truly realize what's happening. I blink, and Jesse and Will are down to their drawers. I turn away and a moment later hear 'em splashing into the water.

Dear Lord, I gotta find something else to do. I gotta bolt.

“Nate's cooking,” Will says with a laugh.

I risk a glance. They're reclining with their backs 'gainst the far rock wall, water up past their navels. The waterfall splashes between 'em, rippling the surface so I can't see nothing else, thank God.

“I'm what?” I says, pretending I don't follow, and trying not to stare.

“Making dinner, you loaf. Didn't you hear us naming terms?”

“No, guess not.”

“I think he really might be deaf,” Will says to Jesse.

Jesse just smiles. They both got broad shoulders, and muscles I ain't seen when they were wearing them shirts. God, I'm staring.

Stop staring.

Jesse sinks into the water like he's trying to lie on the bottom of the pool. He's swallowed up, and when he reemerges, he shakes his hair out like Mutt. Something coils in my stomach that's got nothing to do with dinner or wanting food.

“Well,” Jesse says, squinting my way, “are you gonna stand there sweating, or are you coming in?”

“I, uh . . . I ain't feeling well,” I says, backing away. “I think I'm gonna walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yeah,” I says, tripping over a rock and barely managing to stay on my feet. “And maybe start that dinner I owe yous.”

“Suit yerself,” he says.

I don't go far, 'cus I ain't fond of being in these mountains alone, but I drift enough that I can relieve myself in private. Once light starts slipping from the sky and I spot tribal markings on a couple rock faces, I turn round and head for camp. I'll take an awkward exchange with the Colton brothers over Apache arrowheads.