Bullets Over Bedlam (11 page)

The cribs were dark and grown up with weeds. One's roof had collapsed. Rojas had moved into the one farthest east—Kate's digs. Oh, the times he'd had there! After the boom, Kate had moved on, and Rojas had heard she'd succumbed to syphilis somewhere up north.

The old bandito crawled slowly toward the crib, spitting flecks of dried blood from his lips, grunting and groaning at the constant misery wracking his old body. At the shack's plank door, he rose up on his knees, clutching one arm to his battered ribs, and flipped the latch handle.

When the door screeched open, he dropped to all fours again, crawled inside and plucked a spare Colt from a coffee can on the floor beneath the room's single cot. Holding the pistol in one hand, he cursed and grunted as he pulled himself onto the cot and lay gently down on his back.

“Ay-eee!”
he cried softly through his gritted, broken teeth as the cracked ribs shifted.

A crock jug of sangria stood on a small shelf to his left. He grabbed it, uncorked it, lifted his head slightly, and took a long drink. He savored the fruity burn, felt the thick wine instantly begin to cast its spell against his misery.

Squeezing the Colt in one hand, the jug in the other, Rojas lay back against the feed sack he used for a pillow.

He allowed himself a chuckle in spite of the Apache arrows it fired against his ribs. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, you fucking gringo bastard.” He took a long pull from the bottle, ran his thumb across the Colt's hammer. “You really should have killed old Palomar!”

He chuckled again, sucked a sharp breath, and stretched his lips back from his teeth.

13.

HOUSE OF CARDS

G
IDEON Hawk moved slowly down the northern ridge, keeping as much as possible to the shadows of the cabin-sized boulders and scrub thickets. Occasionally, an old prospector's cabin, abandoned to the winds and the mountain lions, rose up out of the gravel, its brush roof either fallen inside the cabin walls or sprouting tall, brown sod and dried-up flowers.

He was three-quarters of the way down the mountain when the brow of the ridge pulled back, revealing the entire village nestled in the canyon. Hawk hunkered down behind a dilapidated horse stable and cast his gaze down the ridge.

From here he could see mainly rooftops. Here and there on the boulder-strewn slopes flanking the main street and the tiny square, wan lamplight shone in shack windows.

Main Street itself was dark, starlight playing across facades.

Hawk squeezed his Henry rifle in his gloved right hand, ran his left across his jaw. Since Palomar Rojas had informed him of the gringo lawmen's sudden appearance in Bedlam, dread and frustration had gnawed at his gut. It seemed impossible that anyone could have tracked him here, but if anyone could—if there was anyone so determined—that man was D.W. Flagg.

Nothing like political ambitions to spur a man to action.

Hawk had considered waiting at the hacienda for Flagg and his six deputies to come to him. But then he'd decided that if they came to the hacienda, he'd probably have little choice but to kill them all. He had no desire to kill lawmen. Bringing the fight to them was playing into their hands, but it also gave him more control. This way he might not have to kill them. He might be able to discourage a few, send them lifting dust for home.

And then, of course, there was Juliana. He doubted Flagg would hurt the girl, but the possibility wouldn't let him go. He had to make sure.

Hefting the rifle, Hawk rose and continued moving down the ridge, tracing a zigzagging path around brush, boulders, abandoned shacks, and old mine pits. He angled left along the slope, heading for the shack of Juliana and her guardian, Carmelita.

Ten minutes later, he crouched behind a piñon bush flanking Carmelita's small mud-and-brick chicken coop. The chickens had gone to roost, and he could hear them milling and clucking inside. Forty yards away, the tile-roofed shack crouched in the rocky yard, its shutters still open to the cool night air. The brick chimney trickled smoke, tingeing the yard with the spicy smell of chicken stew and tortillas.

Inside, Carmelita spoke in admonishing tones. Hawk knew a good bit of Spanish, but the woman's voice was muffled by the shack's thick walls. He was about to rise and leave when the shack's back door squawked open. Silhouetted by guttering light from a beehive fireplace stood a curvaceous, long-haired figure in a long skirt and serape.

Juliana.

Holding a dishpan in both hands, she strode several paces out from the door, then tossed dishwater onto a spindly ironwood shrub. She began to turn back toward the shack, but stopped. She stood silently, holding the pan in one hand, staring toward the dark mountain rising behind Hawk.

Had she seen him? No. She was no doubt listening for gunfire from the direction of the hacienda.

Hawk resisted the urge to go to her. He wanted to comfort and reassure her, but going to her now might only attract trouble to her and Carmelita. Knowing she was unharmed was enough. When Flagg and the other lawmen were either gone or dead, he'd hold her one last time and tell her good-bye.

Obviously, he couldn't stay in Bedlam. If Flagg had found him, others would, too. Even half-believing he could make a permanent home here with Juliana had been a foolish dream.

She stood near the open door, staring at the mountain. Hawk watched her, his heart heavy, willing her to go back inside and close and lock the door behind her. Finally, a stocky shadow moved in the doorway, and Carmelita ordered her inside.

Juliana jerked with a start. She turned sharply and, casting one last fleeting glance behind her, went inside and closed the door.

Hawk stared at the door for a few seconds. Squeezing his Henry, he rose and began moving back the way he'd come, his heart feeling like a large rock in his chest. When he came to a mine pit a hundred yards up the sloping ridge, he turned left and made his way westward along the slope, paralleling the village on his left but keeping to the shadows. Flagg was no doubt waiting for him, not taking any chances, so he probably had his men posted in every nook and cranny of the canyon.

He was moving down the hill toward the saloon when he heard a breath rattle in a throat. A soft sound, barely audible above the crickets and the breeze shuttling dry leaves along the ground.

Hawk froze. Listening, he held his breath.

A sigh rose from the direction of the crib ahead and to the right. Rojas's crib. Shit, he hoped that old reprobate hadn't returned to the village.

Stealing up to the crib's east wall, he stopped. Inside, someone drank from a crock jug, the liquid sloshing and bubbling. Lips smacked. Another sigh and a low, Spanish curse.

Hawk loosed a curse of his own and stepped up to the door. “Rojas?”

The raspy breathing stopped for a second. Then a chuckle. “I am not taking callers this evening, Senor Hawk.”

Hawk tripped the latch and opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind him. Rojas hadn't lit a candle, but Hawk's eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. The old bandito lay upon the cot against the right wall, clutching a jug to his chest. His head was propped on a pair of greasy buckskins. His chest rose and fell shallowly. The musty room was rife with the smell of sangria.

Hawk moved to the cot and stared down. “What the hell happened?”

Rojas chuckled again tightly. “I did not take your advice. Instead of slipping off into the mountains for a couple of days, I decided, at my age, that I wasn't going to run from a half dozen yanqui star toters.”

“You went back to the saloon.”

Rojas opened a hand. “I did not think I'd been followed.”

“Idiot.” Hawk knelt down beside the cot. “You deserve what you got, you stupid bastard. How bad you hurt?”

“He is bigger than me, and twenty years younger. I think he cracked a couple of ribs.”

“Flagg?”

Rojas nodded, then offered the jug to Hawk, who shook his head. Rojas tipped up the jug and took a long pull. Twin streams of wine trickled into his thin, gray chin whiskers. “What are you doing here, amigo?”

“It's Friday night. I came for the saloon dance.”

Rojas chuckled. “You aren't long for this world, gringo. There are seven of them and . . . I don't think they like you.”

“Where's Flagg?”

“Last I saw, he was heading for the saloon. He'd ordered the others to spread out around the town.” Rojas took another drink and sighed, spraying a fine wine vapor on his breath. “You better go back to the hacienda. Better wait for daylight if you're going to fight. I should be on my feet by then. I will help. I'll shoot Flagg's pecker off for you . . . out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Wait.” Rojas grabbed Hawk's arm. “Where are you going?”

“I told you.”

“Since you don't have long to live, will you do me two simple favors? Wrap my ribs and roll me a cigarette?”

Hawk snorted, set his rifle against the cot, and dug his makings sack from his shirt pocket. The old bandito had plagued the border country for years—mostly as a cattle rustler—but he was no cold-blooded killer. He hadn't thrown a long loop for years and, like Hawk, was only looking for a little peace and quiet here in Bedlam. Hawk couldn't help befriending the oldster. They'd spent many lonely nights in the saloon together, playing cribbage and poker.

When he'd poked the quirley between the old man's sun-cracked lips, and fired it, he helped him out of his bloodstained shirt. He tore the shirt in two, then wrapped it tightly around the old man's waist, Rojas sighing and cursing and puffing cigarette smoke, a fresh sheen of sweat popping out on his forehead. When Hawk had finished tying the knot, Rojas released a long, relieved sigh.

“Ah, amigo,” he said, lying back against the breeches and cradling his jug like an infant, “I miss you already!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Hawk picked up his rifle, cracked the door, and peered outside.

There was only the breeze rustling the rabbit brush and shuffling trash around the shrubs and boulders. High in the mountains, a wildcat screamed.

Hawk turned back to Rojas.
“Hasta luego.”
He slipped outside and softly latched the door behind him.

 

Flagg stood at the front of the saloon, angled so that he could peer westward along the main street toward the fountain and the little square. Behind him, a lantern burned low enough that the dark, dust-streaked window before him did not reflect its glow.

Nothing out there but the dark street, however. Occasionally the breeze blew up hay and dust and skidded it a few feet before spraying it against an abandoned building or corral.

Flagg fingered the Winchester in his right hand. What did he think he was going to see? Hawk wasn't going to mosey up to the saloon and announce himself before he started shooting.

He might not even come tonight. Or any night, for that matter. He might wait for Flagg and the deputies to visit him at his hacienda. Hell, while Flagg was sitting here smoking and sipping whiskey and building his house of cards while listening to the broken-nosed bartender moaning upstairs and squawking his bedsprings, Hawk was probably enjoying good carne asada and a bottle of wine from the hacendado's cellar.

On the other hand, he might be relying on that very train of thought. Taking advantage of it, he might be crabbing up to the saloon at this very moment, his .44 cocked and aimed.

A faint, wooden scrape sounded to Flagg's right. He jumped with a start and snapped his rifle up.

Under a nearby chair, a large rat dropped the bread crust it'd been nibbling and shrieked. It turned and scuttled into the shadows at the back of the room, its toenails scratching the worn puncheons with an eerie rustling.

Flagg glanced around the dark room, as if to make sure no one had seen him. He sucked a deep breath, cast another glance at the night-cloaked street, then lowered the rifle, strode back to his table, and sat down, careful not to nudge the table and tumble the house of cards he'd built from half a poker deck.

He sipped whiskey from his shot glass, then set the glass on the table and picked up the deck. He studied the foot-high house, thumbed a pasteboard from the deck. He placed it on the upper right rear corner of the house and drew his hand away slowly.

A crunching sound rose to his left. His hand jerked slightly, nudging the three of hearts.

The house swayed for a second before the three of hearts tumbled into the six of spades, causing a chain reaction, and the entire house tumbled to the table, clicking and fluttering around Flagg's whiskey bottle and shot glass.

Flagg's eyes weren't on the scattered cards. He was staring at the window to his left. The crunch had sounded outside, around the base of the east wall. His heart fluttered.

Another rat? It sounded like a foot stepping on gravel.

Flagg sat frozen, staring at the dark window, listening.

A silhouette appeared in the window—the profile of a man's head clad in a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat.

Flagg jerked to his right, blew out the lamp, grabbed his rifle off the chair beside him, and threw himself to the floor. He rolled off his shoulder and hip and pressed his back to the bar. He squeezed the rifle in his hands, poked his right index finger through the trigger guard, and sat frozen, jaws hard, awaiting a shot.

Silence.

Flagg looked at the window. It was an opaque, inky, rectangular blotch. If the figure was still there, Flagg couldn't see it.

Using the rifle butt, he pushed himself to his feet. Casting his glance at the windows around the room, he moved slowly to the front, peered out the windows on both sides of the door, then pushed the left batwing door open with his left hand. The right one he nudged with his rifle barrel.

He stepped slowly through the doors, sidled left, pressed his back against the wall, and looked around.

Nothing but the wind nudging chain-mounted shingles up and down the street, and the two rows of dilapidated shops shouldering against the stars. A tumbleweed rolled down the middle of the street and hung up against a feed trough. Somewhere, a lamb bleated, and farther back in the mountains, coyotes yammered.

The tinny clatter of a kicked can rose on his left. Flagg tightened his hand on the rifle's trigger. His heart thudding, he leapt off the end of the boardwalk and aimed his Winchester toward the building's rear.

The gap between the saloon and an abandoned adobe was murky with shadows and the faint lines of both buildings' outside walls. Spying no movement, Flagg resisted the urge to snap off a couple shots. The figure he'd seen in the window might have belonged to one of the deputies.

He doubted it, but he couldn't take the chance. He could call out, but only at the risk of giving away his position . . . and looking like a fool if it turned out he was only seeing phantoms.

He was going to be damn glad to get Hawk's head on a chopping block.

He released a long breath he hadn't realized he'd held.

Damn glad . . .

Slowly, Flagg rose, feeling sweat trickle into his beard despite the chill wind blowing from the west. Holding the rifle straight out from his left hip, he took a breath, swallowed, and began moving into the darkness between the buildings.