Ambush at Shadow Valley (28 page)

‘‘We did it,'' Beck corrected her.

‘‘All right,
we
did it.'' She smiled. ‘‘We fooled him, those two bodies in the bed. He would never have wasted precious explosives if he hadn't believed it was you and me lying there.''

‘‘My thoughts exactly,'' said Beck. ‘‘With everything else wrong with him, Soto is also a jealous man.'' He looked Clarimonde up and down, recalling how she'd looked earlier, standing naked before him in the soft light. ‘‘Not that I blame him in that regard.''

She wore one of Pierman's shirts and a rolled up pair of trousers they'd found in a clothes trunk in the bedroom. Beck wore a shirt from his saddlebags. He wore his Colt in a shoulder harness he'd found in the hacienda, having given up his holster to the explosion.

Clarimonde said, in a delicate way as if to slow down anything he might have in mind, ‘‘Let's be friends for a while first, Memphis. Can we?''

‘‘Yes, I understand,'' Memphis said quietly. ‘‘The fact is—'' He stopped short, and jerked around in his saddle at the sound of the ranger's stallion limping along the trail behind them. His gun came out of his shoulder harness, cocked and pointed. But seeing the empty saddle, he looked confused and said, ‘‘What is this?''

‘‘On no, look, Memphis!'' Clarimonde said, pointing down onto the flatlands where Sam had tried once more to struggle to his feet, only to fall again. They both looked across the flatlands in the flickering firelight at the two figures lopping barefoot toward the ranger from a hundred yards away, machetes in hand.

‘‘That blasted ranger,'' said Beck, ‘‘he had to stick his nose in. I had everything under control!'' He saw Hector, lying motionless, the dead horse nearby. ‘‘Damn it,'' he said, ‘‘I ought to let them eat him alive.''

Clarimonde only stared. Black Pot, the stallion, limped up to Beck as if seeking his help. Blood ran from a bullet graze across his withers. Scratches from flying debris had bloodied his shoulders. He staggered; a cut ran deep along his foreleg.

Beck looked back down toward the ranger, who, a knee rocking back and forth and his hands clutching the ground, lay on the ground, trying to get a grip and push himself up. ‘‘The poor bastard.'' Beck winced. ‘‘We never liked one another, but I hate seeing this.'' After short consideration, he looked at Clarimonde and said, ‘‘Get off the trail and keep the stallion with you. I'll put him down when I get back.'' He shook his head. ‘‘I must be nuts. If I get killed trying to save a law-man's life—especially this damn ranger—swear you'll never tell a living soul.''

‘‘I swear. Now go,'' she said.

Chapter 24

The ranger lay helpless, feeling the world swirl around him in a flickering glow of firelight. The blast had left him unable to hear; the impact of it had stunned him so badly he could hardly string a thought together, let alone put it into action. His face burned, blasted by grains of sand and chips of stone. His hands stung; his sombrero had been swept from his head; his gun belt lay twisted around on his waist, the tie-down keeping the tip of it in place at his thigh. His Colt had been slung from the holster and lay on the ground ten feet away. His rifle had been yanked from his hands and hurled away by the hot blast.

‘‘Hec-Hector . . . Black Pot,'' he said with much effort, his eyes squeezed shut. His voice sounded distant and detached from him. A dull ringing persisted inside his head.

‘‘Pote Negro?''
a sinister voice said above him, repeating the stallion's name in Spanish.

Hearing him say the stallion's name, Sam opened his eyes and struggled to keep them open.
"Sí... Pote Negro,''
he replied weakly, ‘‘Where is he . . . ?''

‘‘Pote Negro? Pote Negro?''
another voice said, the rounded point of a machete poking him in his stomach, not stabbing him, yet leaving a shallow cut each time. He managed to open his eyes and keep them open, seeing the faces of the two men standing above him, their machetes in hand.

‘‘You're not . . . demons,'' he rasped, feeling himself slip away again, struggling not to let it happen. Beneath him down in the ground, he felt a rumble of running hooves. Didn't they feel it? No, not up there where they were, he told himself.

‘‘Demons? Yes, we are demons,'' one answered in Spanish, ‘‘as you will see.''

Sam felt the rumble of hooves come closer; he saw the two men raise their machetes over their heads. But that was all right, he told himself in his addled state. All he had to do was get onto his feet. These men weren't demons. There was nothing supernatural here. These were ordinary murderers, lowlifes, the kind of men he was used to dealing with every day. Relieved, he felt his eyes close once again.

Standing above the ranger, the Satan's Brother on his right was the first to hear and see the large image of man and horse bearing down upon them from out of the darkness. He shouted out in warning, but his warning came too late. Across from him, the other brother had started to bring his machete down, to lop off the ranger's head with one swift, dreadful stroke. But suddenly he was gone, picked up by the speeding horse and launched twelve feet into the air. His machete fell to the ground with a metal twang.

Turning away from the ranger to the sound of Beck's horse coming to a jolting halt, the brother crouched, his machete poised, his hands spread in a fighting stance. Firelight from the burning hacienda flickered in his eyes. Stepping closer, Beck stooped and picked up the discarded machete, not wanting a gunshot to draw Soto's attention and bring him and the others back.

He glanced down at the unconscious ranger, then stood over him like a protecting hawk. ‘‘Turn and run,'' he warned the Satan's Brother, a grim look on his face. But he knew that wasn't going to happen; and if it did, what then? Everything he and Clarimonde had just set up would have been in vain. If this man lived, Soto would know everything and be upon the woman like the rabid animal he was.

The brother's only reply was something dark, sinister-sounding, like some evil, ancient curse in a language Beck did not recognize. Then he stalked toward Beck. ‘‘That's what I thought,'' Beck said, sidestepping away from the ranger, raising the machete and moving it back and forth slowly, drawing the man's attention to it.

Wearing a strange, tight grin, the Satan's Brother moved in closer and made a testing jab with the rounded tip of the machete. Beck jumped back a foot. Growing bolder, the man made two more plunges, then a quick slash with the blade. Each move sent Beck farther away, leading the man away from the downed ranger.

Seeing his opponent was afraid, the brother grew more aggressive. He lunged harder, slashing the machete back and forth in a bolder move. Then with a war cry he raced forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by Beck's hard boot heel landing in a vicious kick to his chin. The man staggered in place, stunned but not going down. Beck stepped in before he could regain his senses. With a hard swipe of the blade he opened the brother's throat and stepped back quickly.

The Satan's Brother stood for a moment longer, dropping his machete and clasping both hands to his bleeding throat. Then he sank to his knees for another moment before pitching face forward into the dirt.

Beck tossed the machete aside and walked to where the ranger lay trying to bat his eyes and bring himself to consciousness. ‘‘Take it easy, Burrack,'' he said. ‘‘It's me, Memphis Beck. I've come to help you.''

‘‘Help me?'' Sam rasped. ‘‘I thought you . . .'' His words trailed.

‘‘Yeah, I know, you thought the woman and I were blown up,'' said Beck. ‘‘That was a plan I put together to throw Soto off Clair's trail. I figured it was a good time to let everybody think I was dead too. But you've ruined that for me.'' As he spoke he looked the ranger over and helped him sit up on the ground. ‘‘Don't move,'' he said. ‘‘I'll get my canteen.''

Seeing his horse in the shadowy firelight, Beck hurried over to it, took down his canteen and started back to the ranger. But before he'd gone ten feet, he heard a terrible shriek and saw the other Satan's Brother charging toward him, having picked up the discarded machete while Beck had walked to his horse.

Beck let go of the canteen and made a grab for his Colt in the shoulder harness. But he saw it was too late. He had no time to draw his gun, or deliver his reliable roundhouse kick. The man was already upon him. He saw the machete go back for a hard swing. But the machete stopped as if frozen in place when a gunshot exploded and the brother stiffened, a gaping hole spewing blood from his chest.

Looking past the fallen Satan's Brother, Beck saw Hector up on his knees, his bloody belly covered with dirt from crawling to retrieve his lost pistol. The young Mexican lawman tried to say something—Beck couldn't make it out—then he fell forward onto the ground.

Gunshot . . . !
Would Soto hear it? If he heard it, would he be coming back? Beck looked off quickly to where Soto and his men had disappeared only a few minutes before. He couldn't take any chances. He hurried to the ranger, canteen in hand, and said, ‘‘We've got to get out of here.''

‘‘Hector's alive?'' Sam asked, his mind seeming to be more clear.

‘‘Yes, he is,'' said Beck. ‘‘I've got to get him and get you both out of here.''

‘‘That's good to hear,'' said Sam, referring to Hector being alive. He struggled up onto his feet with Beck's help. ‘‘Go help Hector. . . . I'll be all right.'' He looked all around for the stallion, and called out his name.

‘‘He's not here, Ranger,'' Beck said, on his way to help Hector. ‘‘Clair has him up on the hillside.''

‘‘Is he all right?'' the ranger asked.

‘‘No, he's not,'' said Beck. ‘‘He's bullet-grazed and he took some of the blast.''

‘‘Oh no,'' Sam said, hanging his head.

While Beck stooped down beside Hector, Sam walked over and picked up the reins to Beck's horse and led it back.

From the shelter of the wooded hillside, Clarimonde kept watch on the flatlands in the fire-light's glow while she helped Beck attend to the young Mexican's wound. Nearby, the ranger watched them work as he held the battered and wounded stallion's head against his chest and patted the animal's muzzle. He sighed in relief when Beck turned to him and said, ‘‘I believe he's got a chance if we can keep the bleeding stopped.''

‘‘Thank God,'' Sam whispered. He turned loose the stallion and walked over to look down at Hector. ‘‘If you can hear me,
Guardia,
I want you to know, I haven't forgotten my promise to you. I said I'd get Soto for you whether you're with me or not.''

Beck cut in, saying, ‘‘Ranger, you're crazy. You can't go after Suelo Soto, not now, not alone. The shape you're in, he and his demon men will cut you to pieces.''

‘‘Don't shoot my stallion, Beck,'' Sam said, not responding to Beck's words. ‘‘I looked him over. He's going to be all right.''

‘‘I won't shoot him, Burrack,'' Beck replied.

‘‘Give me your word,'' Sam said strongly.

‘‘My word?'' Beck said, bemused. ‘‘You mean you'd take
my word
—the word of a train robber like me? Ranger, what low level have you stooped to?''

‘‘I'm obliged to you for saving my life, Beck— Hector's too,'' the ranger replied. ‘‘But I've got no time for jokes and nonsense. I'm going after Soto, and I want your word that you won't put down my stallion.''

Jokes and nonsense . . .
Beck gave him a harsh stare. But he nodded and said solemnly, ‘‘You've got my word, Burrack. I won't put him down. I'll keep him with me and give him time to mend. Hector too, until he's able to ride.''

‘‘Obliged,'' Sam repeated.

‘‘I have a question,'' Beck said, watching the ranger raise his Colt, check it and drop it back down into his holster.

Sam just looked at him, his face scratched and cut and burned from the blast, his clothes ragged and scorched.

‘‘How are you going after Soto? Are you going to walk?'' Beck asked, sounding exasperated by the ranger's determination.

‘‘I've got the paint horse,'' Sam replied. ‘‘Hector left it hitched in the woods.''

Beck shook his head. ‘‘Go on then, if you're that big of a fool. As soon as I can build us a travois, we're pulling out of here. The stallion can walk with his leg bandaged and his bullet graze cleaned. When you come for him, he'll be in Hole-in-the-wall with me and all of my pals. If you don't come for him, I'll just figure he's mine. How does that suit you?''

Sam heard the challenge in Beck's voice. But he didn't have the energy to answer it. Instead, he picked up a lariat from his saddle, fashioned a hackamore around the stallion's head for a lead rope, and picked up the bridle he'd taken from Black Pot's battered head. ‘‘Obliged,'' he repeated again. Throwing the bridle and saddle up over his shoulder, he turned and limped away.

‘‘I mean it, Burrack, damn it!'' Beck called out, hoping it would stop the ranger. ‘‘I'll keep this stallion if you don't come get him. You've got
my word
on that too!'' He saw Sam fade into the darkness along the hillside. ‘‘This doesn't make us friends, you know! I don't owe you anything. . . . You don't owe me anything. Nothing's changed between us!''

Beck and Clarimonde stared after the ranger for a moment. ‘‘You're wasting your time trying to stop that one,'' Clarimonde said. ‘‘He does not stop until he has done what he set out to do.''