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BOOK: William W. Johnstone
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The mission took Sam and the rest of the squad into the Mississippi backwater swamps. The swamp was a deadlier enemy than Rebel guns. The scouts waded through waist-high stagnant water and muck, assaulted by decay, distemper and rot.
It was like being slowly simmered night and day in a steaming, sweltering hellbroth. Black water—hissing cottonmouths—’gators brawling and bawling, ever ready to batten on the unwary to pull them under and away, never to rise again—by night, hordes of mosquitoes, stinging, biting, maddening—
Sam survived the mission. A few months later, he went along as an observer on a gunboat that was part of a flotilla making a sortie against the ironclad CSS
Arkansas
to tempt it to come out from under the murderously efficient batteries of cannon that protected it and the city of Vicksburg.
Sam was no sailor; he was a fighting man. It was not in his nature to just go along for the ride. He pitched in and helped out, shoveling coal in the gunboat’s engine room.
Steam boilers seethed, pressure mounting so that needles on the gauges swung into the red danger zone. The open doors of the firebox were gates to hell.
Sam labored along with the black gang of coaltenders, bodies ebony-black from head to toe with powdered coal dust, heaving shovel after shovel of coal into the flames. The temperature below decks rose to 120 degrees; strong men fainted and were carried out on deck to recover and return to the inferno below . . .
 
 
March 1865, penultimate month of the war. Sam Heller by then had long been a Secret Service operative, attached to an elite squad of Lafayette Baker’s National Detective Police. Baker reported direct to President Lincoln himself.
Sam was on undercover assignment with a half-dozen of the finest men—and women—he’d ever had the honor of serving with. Beloved friends and comrades-in-arms. They were probing a sabotage and arson plot similar to the Confederates’ earlier abortive attempt to burn down New York City.
An informant’s tip brought the Secret Service operatives to Baltimore’s Imperial Hotel at midnight. The lobby, seemingly deserted, was thick with the choking fumes of Greek Fire, the arsonists’ hell-brew compound of inflammables that had doused all: horsehair-stuffed sofas, patterned carpets, plush armchairs—
A death trap. The trap was sprung; there was a timeless instant of impending fatality as a precariously perched oil lamp was knocked over by an opening door, falling to the compoundsaturated floor, bursting with a
whoomp!
A spreading ring of blue flames blossomed into a firestorm that turned unwary operatives into screaming human torches.
By sheer luck, Sam was at the edge of the blaze and saved himself by diving headfirst through a glass front window into the street, the only one of the team to escape alive . . .
 
 
. . . These and other incidents were relived by Sam again and again as his body and mind were wracked by the effects of the curative potion cooked up by the witch-woman healer, Alma.
The scenes played themselves out singly and together, cascading in a torrent of jumbled imagery as Sam found himself tossed from desert to swamp, gunboat to hotel, sequences runnning backward and forward until there was nothing left but oblivion. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
At the bedside, Lorena and Alma kept long vigil through the stations of the night.
“The fever breaks,” Alma said. “He will live.”
“For good or ill,” she added.
T
WELVE
 
Wednesday afternoon found Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew in Wild Horse Gulch, scouting for mustangs. They surveyed the scene to get the way of things, see where the herds gathered, where they grazed, watered and ran. Mustangs numbering in the hundreds roamed the Breaks.
The western hills were blue in the distance, sunlight gilding their tops. Johnny and Luke ranged for miles, working down toward the southern end of the gulch.
Something about wild horses gave Johnny a high lonesome feeling, kind of happy and sad at the same time . . . bittersweet. A mustang running fast and free lifted the spirit in a way he used to experience as a youngster on Sundays when Ma read passages from the Bible to him and brother Cal.
Johnny liked horses anyway; always had. Liked them a lot better than he did most people. Seeing these magnificent animals on the gallop, coursing, pressing forward, sleek muscles working, manes and tails streaming, hooves pounding, digging dirt—all spoke to something deep inside him, striking a responsive chord.
At the same time, though, they spelled opportunity, a chance to get ahead. Mustangs were there for those who could catch them. Break them to bridle, saddle and rider.
Johnny was in a reflective mood. “Pa never made much of a go ranching, but one thing he knew was horseflesh. I don’t remember much about him, but I do recall that there wasn’t a horse he couldn’t ride,” he said. “Before he went to be with the Lord, he taught me and Cal about catching wild horses, breaking and selling ’em. Cal was a real mustanger, he could outride me.”
“I don’t know about that, Johnny. You always was a riding fool,” Luke said.
“I was a damned fool, you mean. A damn fool kid. Cal was the better rider,” said Johnny.
“I was the better shot, though,” he added.
“I never got to know Cal too good, him being older and all, though my big brothers Eben and Andy did. The three of them ran together,” Luke said.
“Raised a lot of hell together, too.”
“Yes, indeedy. Them boys rode hell bent for leather six ways to sundown across this county and a couple more. Even the Comanches couldn’t catch ’em—and don’t think they didn’t try!”
“Sheriff couldn’t catch ’em, neither.”
They laughed.
“They was good fellows. I miss ’em,” Luke said.
“The war did in for a lot of good fellows,” said Johnny.
“That it did.”
They rode on, silent for a while. The cliffs enclosing the gulch opened out and away, widening into a vast, sprawling flatland. The streams petered out, the grass shortening, becoming stubbier, yellow-brown.
They were at the edge of Anvil Flats, where the plains rolling east to Hangtown gave way temporarily to stonier and more barren soil.
In the middle distance south across the flat, a high, rounded mound stood apart from a jumble of rocky ridges and bald stone domes. This was Buffalo Hump, a landmark on the trail that stretched west from Hangtown through the Breaks and into the Staked Plains.
It was a clear, bright day, allowing the duo to see from a long way off. A line of smoke rose from somewhere in the hills northwest of Buffalo Hump. The air was still and the long, thin line of smoke ascended unbroken high into the sky.
Johnny and Luke reined in, halting. Johnny said, “See that?”
“Yup. What do you think, Johnny—smoke signals?”
“Campfire, more likely. Looks to be coming out of Ghost Valley.”
“That’s real owlhoot country.”
“Mebbe that’s the hideout Monty spoke of.”
“Mebbe.”
“We should find out. Best we scout out them before they scout us.”
“Not today. They’d see us coming from a long way off,” said Luke.
“Not today,” Johnny agreed, “but soon.”
They turned, riding north.
T
HIRTEEN
 
Sam Heller sat up in bed, back propped up against the headboard. The bedcovers were down around his waist, covering him below it. He was bare from the waist up, a wad of gauze bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and left side.
A small window set high in the wall beside the bed framed a square of blue sky. It was open, letting in fresh air. It was warm in the room.
Alma entered without knocking, carrying a bundle of folded clothes held pressed to her chest by both arms. On top of that was a pair of boots Sam recognized as his own. Gliding soundlessly to a massive wooden chest at the foot of the bed, she set her burden down on top of the lid and straightened up.
So old, wrinkled, and ancient was she that she seemed almost sexless. She might have been a long-haired old man if not for her shawl and long-skirted dress. The shawl was wrapped cowllike around the top of her head, face peering out.
“
Gracias, vieja,
” Sam said. Thanks, old one.
She nodded in acknowledgment, a quick, curt head bob. She turned, exiting the room, closing the door on her way out.
Sam tossed back the covers, swinging his feet to the floor. The wooden plank floor was smooth and cool against the soles of his bare feet. He stood up, stretching his good right arm above his head, yawning. His left shoulder was sore as hell. The wound was neatly bandaged, a nice job of doctoring. Its throbbing increased now that he was standing. His left side was stiff and aching where the bullet had creased him.
He tested his left arm, raising it shoulder-high, holding it out from his side. It hurt; sweat beaded up on his forehead. Lowering the arm, he worked his left hand, clenching and unclenching his fist, flexing his fingers, wriggling them. They seemed to work all right.
He went around to the foot of the bed, reaching for the stack of folded clothes. He knew them for his own, spare garments he’d kept inside the bedroll behind his saddle.
The clothes he’d been wearing when shot must have been too bloodstained to be worth saving.
He took a pair of jeans from the pile. Still a bit shaky on his feet, he sat down on the bed’s edge to pull on his pants.
Rising, he padded over to the packing case standing against the wall. It served as a makeshift table. On it was a now-dark lamp, a washbasin, a pitcher of water and some towels. He poured some water into the basin, washed his face and hands and toweled them dry.
He finished getting dressed, donning a faded green-and-brown plaid long-sleeved shirt and a pair of thick gray woollen socks. He put his boots on.
There was no mirror in the room. He combed his long yellow hair with his fingers, brushing it back off his forehead and along the sides where it fell to his shoulders.
He opened the door, stepping out on to a dimly lit landing. At its end was a steep, narrow stairway. Descending it, he opened a door and stepped outside. It opened on to a plaza.
Alma stood nearby at the northwest corner of the storehouse, facing him. She extended one arm to point to a patio on the south side of the hacienda, a pavilion where vine-covered white wooden lattice fences and a canopy created a shady area, cool, green and restful.
“The Señora awaits,” she said, her voice a dry, toadlike croaking. Until then, he hadn’t known she could speak English.
Sam nodded, stepping out of the shadows into the plaza’s sunny, open space. He starting toward the big house. The sun’s position in the sky marked it as an hour or so before noon. It was warm, with the promise of imminent heat.
This was a working ranch and, except for Sam, most of its inhabitants had been up since before dawn. Some vaqueros rode across the courtyard, heads turning toward Sam. Their glances were flat, unfriendly, coldly appraising. Sam was reminded that he was unarmed. He felt undressed without his guns.
Nearing the hacienda, he angled toward its southern side. The pavilion was set on a terrace. It was an airy, tunnel-like enclosure open at both its short ends. Its long walls and overhead canopy were made of diamond-pattern white lath latticework.
Vines with leafy green shoots grew along the walls and roof, providing decorous shade. Foliage and layered wooden framing broke up the sun’s direct rays, filtering their brightness and heat inside the canopied trellis walls.
Bright-colored flowers blossomed on the vine-covered trellis, a burst of bright red, scarlet, pink, magenta, orange and white clinging to serpentine green stems and tendrils. Floral scents were heady in the warm morning sunshine.
Sam climbed a short, shallow stone stairway to the patio, entering the arbor. Within its coolly shadowed space were various items of lawn furniture, including a white-painted wrought irontable and chairs. The table was set with white linen, plates, silverware, drinking glasses.
Lorena Castillo sat at the round white table, facing him. She wore a short, red and yellow embroidered vest, a lacy white blouse, wide brown leather belt, doeskin ankle-length skirt slit up the sides to mid-calf, and reddish-brown leather brown riding boots with sharp pointed toes.
Lorena encouraged Sam to advance with a nod and a subtle beckoning gesture, her dark eyes alive in a composed masklike face. Sam halted at the opposite side of the table, facing her. “Buenos dias, Señora,” he said.
“I speak English, Señor Heller,” Lorena said. “Please be seated and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks.” Sam pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. “You have the advantage over me. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“I am Lorena Castillo Delgado, and this is El Rancho Grande, House of the family Castillo.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I took the liberty of going through the papers in your saddlebags. They contained your name . . . and other items of interest. You will pardon the intrusion but you were in no condition to talk when you were brought here.”
“What day is this?” Sam asked.
“Thursday.”
“Thursday! And I came in on Monday. I lost a couple of days there.”
“Be glad you did not lose your life. When you first arrived, some here thought we might have to bury you. Not I. You are strong and your wound was not mortal. Still, you are lucky to be up and about. Your powers of recovery are formidable.”
Sam studied her through narrowed eyes. “Seems to me I remember you working on me with a knife.”
“You had a bullet in you. I took it out.” Lorena reached into a side pocket of her vest, taking out a handkerchief folded into a square. Placing it on the table she unfolded and opened it, revealing a deformed lump of lead metal. “Here it is. It belongs to you.”
“It belongs to the man who shot me,” Sam said.
“Apparently it did him little good, if he was one of the men found dead at the ford. The men you killed. It is yours now, you earned it.”
Sam picked up the slug between thumb and forefinger, weighing it in his hand, eyeing it.
“Keep it. For luck,” Lorena said.
Sam shrugged without thinking, sending pain shooting through his left shoulder. He dropped the slug in the left breast pocket of his shirt. “You did a good job of patching me up.”
“I have had much practice doctoring bullet wounds for the riders of Rancho Grande,” Lorena said.
“I thought I remembered you digging out that slug. And a potion brought in by you and the old woman. Strange brew! After drinking it, I’m not sure what was real and what wasn’t. Everything mixed all together, dreams, memories, fancies,” Sam said. “It was a wild ride, like a witches’ sabbath.”
“Alma is no
bruja,
no witch. She’s a
curandera,
a healer. Her potion broke your fever. Without it you would have died.”
“I owe you my life, then. And her.”
“Alma is my creature. She does what I tell her. Otherwise your life or death is a matter of no interest to her.”
“But it is to you, eh? Why?” Sam asked.
“A fighting man can be useful to have around,” Lorena said, making eye contact with Sam, pinning him with an intense, unblinking gaze.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m nothing more than a simple stockman, looking to buy horses and cattle.”
Lorena smiled thinly, her expression one of frank disbelief. “Let us have something to eat, gringo; you will tell lies better on a full stomach. I have been waiting breakfast for you. You must be hungry, I know I am,” she said.
“I could eat,” Sam allowed.
“Good. Another sign of your recovery,” Lorena said. Red lips peeled back, flashing a smile of many teeth. She made a beckoning gesture, summoning a pair of serving women who’d been waiting on the other side of the trellis wall closest to the house.
Passing under a wooden archway, they entered the shady, green-tinged patio, each carrying a serving platter. One was prematurely aged, impassive, heavyset; the other was a nubile young girl in her mid-teens, hair parted down the middle and tied in two braids, her face piquant and pretty, her body high-breasted, slim-waisted and roundedhipped.
They laid out pitchers of fresh fruit juices, dishes and bowls of food, corn tortillas, omelettes, steak, bacon, spicy chorizo sausages, sliced tomatoes, bread still warm from the oven, cheeses and fruit. The youngster covertly examined the big gringo, glancing at him through the corners of her eyes.
Sam dug in. He was hungry, ravenous, but remembered his table manners and slowed down fast. He tucked away the food with relentless methodicity. It was good and tasty, but he ate in moderation, not wanting to slow his mental acuity and reaction time with a too full belly. He needed his wits and speed about him.
Lorena went to it with a hearty appetite. Once the keen edge of his hunger was blunted, Sam looked up from his plate, came up for air, and resumed the conversational sparring. “You said something about finding a use for a fighting man, Señora. But I’m a businessman, nothing more.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, “but what business?”
“Cattle buying, and a little horse trading on the side.”
Lorena laughed without humor. “And that black book in your saddlebag, the one with all the circulars of wanted men, outlaws with a price on their head? A most unusual stock book, no?”
Sam’s smile was disarming. “An honest man doing business in these parts, a stranger, has got to know who the bad hombres are, if only to protect himself. I wouldn’t want to buy any stolen stock.”
Lorena glanced around, making sure that she and Sam were alone on the patio. The servant girls had gone inside, carrying a load of dirty serving bowls and dishes to the kitchen.
She reached inside her vest, plucking out from a deep inside pocket a long, slim brown leather folder, its dimensions slightly taller and thinner than those of a billfold. Its outside was stained with dried bloodstains. Whisking it out of sight under the table, she quickly, furtively passed it to Sam Heller.
He took it. His green-and-brown plaid flannel shirt was worn tucked into his pants. He unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons, opening enough space to allow him to slip the folder inside his shirt and out of sight, securing it over on his right side. He closed the buttons, put his hands back on top of the table. He reached for a cup of black coffee, sipping from it.
Outwardly, all seemed as if the covert transfer had never been.
“When you were brought here unconscious and bleeding, Alma undressed you,” Lorena said. “She found that in the inside pocket of your jacket. She took it out before too much blood soaked into it—enough for me to read the warrant inside.”
“And what does it tell you, Señora?” said Sam, keeping a poker face.
“That you would make a better friend than an enemy, Señor Heller.”
“My friends call me Sam, Señora.”
“I am Señora Castillo—when others are about. Lorena, when we are alone.”
“We’re alone now.”
“I meant in a more intimate setting. I have rivals in the house, enemies. They spy on me. I must be cautious, discreet.”
“You’re calling the tune, Señora.”
Lorena leaned forward, serious, intent. “My position here is extremely delicate, Señor Heller.
“As is yours,” she added.
“What of Señor Castillo, your husband?” Sam asked.
“Señor Castillo is no more. My husband Ramon died seven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “The master of Rancho Grande is Don Eduardo, my father-in-law,” she said. “When we Mexicans extend our hospitality to a guest, we say that ‘our house is your house.’ Unhappily I can make no such statement. I am none too secure here myself.
“Let me explain. I am a Delgado, once the first family in this land. I am a Castillo only by marriage to Ramon, Don Eduardo’s firstborn. There was a child, a daughter—the angels took her when she was two years old. Ramon was killed soon after that—by gringos, Tejanos. Texas Anglos.
BOOK: William W. Johnstone
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