Authors: John Joseph Adams
“Deranged,” said Fat Bob.
There were a few more moments of silence, and the deputy said to Bob, “Don’t that
suit itch the hell out of you?”
We rode hard for a few more hours, and I dozed. Luckily, I woke just in time to pull
my horse up sharp next to Sandro’s riderless mount. I looked around and saw the tracker’s
shadow a few feet away, crouched near the ground. I got off my horse and went over
to him. He looked at me as I approached.
“The rider let his horse go here and went on by foot,” he said.
Fat Bob and Gordon rode up on us. The deputy asked Sandro to fill him in.
“So, he should be right out here somewhere,” said Gordon.
Sandro stood and pointed away into the night. “He left the horse maybe an hour, maybe
two hours ago.”
“We can catch him tonight?”
“I think so.”
We saddled up fast and struck out. Gordon had us ride four abreast now, some distance
between our mounts. He wanted to make sure we kept up the pace and swept like a net
across the desert. We rode hard for an hour straight, and at one point my horse leaped
over a tall line of creosote bush to keep its place in the formation. I was delirious
with lack of sleep, caught up in the whirling bright stars of the night sky, speeding
headlong in pursuit of Bastard George.
As we rode on, the hard-baked dirt of the desert floor gave way to white sand, and
soon enough we were traveling over tall dunes. That’s when I realized the wind was
beginning to pick up. I looked at the moon and saw dark clouds approaching. Then I
felt the sand against my face and knuckles. I affixed the chin strap of my new hat
so as not to lose it. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves had slowed as the wind grew
more powerful. It soon became necessary to squint in order to see any distance.
Sandro cried out, “There he is, ahead.” We halted and Gordon pulled out a spyglass.
I looked up into the blowing desert and thought I saw a shadow twitch at the very
edge of night. It could have been the Bastard. Gordon nodded, as if he also saw the
fugitive. He reached back on his horse and grabbed a Sharps rifle from its saddle
holster. He took aim and fired.
“He’s still running,” said Sandro.
The deputy handed over the rifle to the Mexican, who barely took any time to aim,
but fired off a shot. With the sound of the report still in our ears, we were hit
by a blast of wind that pushed even the horses backward. The sand followed in a rush,
stinging face and neck and hands. The wind was suddenly screeching. Last thing I saw
was Sandro hand the rifle back to Gordon, and then I could no longer open my eyes.
My horse was turning in circles. I was numb with fear.
Who knows how many times we went round before I felt the presence of another horse
next to mine and realized I’d stopped circling. I heard Sandro’s voice, weak beneath
the scream of the wind. “I know a place to hide,” he said. Then we were off through
the storm. Somehow the Mexican had tethered my horse to his, so I gave myself up to
huddling in my saddle with my arms over my face.
Eventually, we passed behind something that blocked the wind, and I looked up. Without
the moon and stars and with all the debris in the air it was difficult to see anything.
I stared for a long while until my eyes finally adjusted to the sight of a huge outcropping
of rock. It was bigger than any we’d sought refuge from the sun beneath. This one,
as well as being wide, went straight up a good ways and appeared to turn into a spire.
Sandro was on his horse next to mine. I could see him in the dark; he didn’t look
the least frightened, as I certainly was. Instead, he seemed to be listening intently.
How he could hear anything was beyond me. I got off my horse and moved next to the
rock wall. Sandro followed me. He sat down and took out his tobacco pouch and papers.
Before he lit that cigarette, Fat Bob came riding in out of the storm.
“You see Gordon?” Sandro yelled to him.
Fat Bob took his specs out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He got down off his
horse, and I thought I heard the beast sigh with relief. Taking a seat next to us,
he heaved to catch his breath. Finally, he said, “No. I think he was behind me for
a while, but then not.”
“That’s not good,” said Sandro.
“It’s a bitch out there,” said Bob, and then leaned back against the wall.
I was so tired I fell asleep even amid the roar of the storm.
Later, when I woke to the whispered sound of my name, the world was calm. I opened
my eyes and there was light on the horizon. The air was still cool. Fat Bob was standing
over me. When he saw I’d awakened, he motioned with his arm for me to get ready. Sandro
was already on his horse. He waited patiently for me and the gunslinger to mount up.
Once we did, he said, in a low voice, “Keep the guns handy.” Then he turned and we
started out, riding away from the rock wall. At a distance I glanced back, and in
the weird morning light it looked like a small cathedral.
We found Deputy Gordon before the sun was halfway to noon. He lay in the white sand.
Half his face was eaten and his bowels had been chewed out. There was blood and a
prodigious number of flies. The air buzzed with them like the remains of Gordon’s
last scream. The horses were spooked by the stench of the carnage and did an erratic
dance. None of us dismounted to inspect closer.
“I’m impressed by the Bastard’s appetite,” said Fat Bob.
I started shaking, and Sandro gave me a quick, sharp look. It prevented me from getting
hysterical, and I managed to eventually calm down.
“Do we go on?” he asked.
Fat Bob said, “I don’t know about you two, but I need the money. I’ll be bringing
back Bastard George by myself if I have to.”
“And what about you, ‘dog of the little pool’?” said Sandro. “Do you need the money?”
I did.
“Watch for vultures,” he said, and we rode.
It was full daylight and we moved along at a slow clip, it being already too hot to
run the horses. As it was, we’d given them a good portion of our water. It was clear
Sandro was going to have to find another pool before tomorrow.
As we lurched along, Fat Bob rode up next to me. “If I were you, sonny, I’d not take
Gordon’s demise too hard. He was a fine enough fellow, but, let’s face it, he didn’t
know what he was doing.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
Fat Bob gave a quiet bark of a laugh. “Well, he was eaten to death by the very man
he’d been sent to apprehend. That’s not what I would call a man who knows his craft.
But take this fellow, here, Sandro.” He pointed at the Mexican, who rode about thirty
yards ahead of us. “He knows what he’s doing. He’ll find George Slatten. And when
he does, I’ll kill the Bastard, because that’s what I do. And I know what I’m doing.
Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Well, what is it
you’re
doing?” he asked.
I didn’t even try to think, but said, “I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” he said, and rode on ahead to join Sandro.
I don’t know how much time passed then under the beating sun. We seemed lost in an
ocean of white dunes, up and over. I grilled in the saddle, delirious, for miles it
seemed, before Sandro stopped to point at something. There were birds circling over
the next dune.
I came more awake and drew my gun. We didn’t advance any more quickly. We couldn’t—the
horses needed water as it was. As we crested the dune, I noticed the sun was finally
going down. The next thing I noticed was the body, lying in the sand a few yards down
the descent from us. Sandro got off his horse and walked to it. He waved his arms
and made noise to shoo off a big vulture.
Fat Bob and I dismounted and went over to stand with Sandro. This poor fellow had
also been face chewed, gut chomped, and his ass was all but missing. The only thing
left of his face was the part that held his beard. I turned away and vomited from
the sight and smell of it.
“Is it him?” asked Fat Bob.
Sandro nodded. “Bastard George.”
I was confused.
“I don’t suppose he ate himself,” said the gunman.
Sandro crouched down. “The ground shows there was someone else. Very strange foot
mark, though. Not an animal. On two feet.”
“Maybe the wind changed the prints. I’ve seen that,” said Bob.
Sandro nodded and stood.
“Apache?” I asked.
“Never,” he said.
“Maybe Bastard George has a bastard kid out here,” said the gunman.
Fat Bob was the lookout while Sandro and I bagged what was left of Bastard George
in a tarpaulin the Mexican carried. We bound that package with ropes and tied it onto
the back of my horse. The smell was wretched, and the thought of riding in the heat
with it made me dizzy, but I knew I dare not complain. We were all jumpy, looking
over each shoulder and then again. Fat Bob said he didn’t like it at all and stood
with his pair of Colt Dragoons drawn.
“Are we going to hunt down the killer?” I asked as we finished up the job.
Sandro laughed.
“You should tell jokes for drinks at a saloon, sonny,” said Bob.
We mounted up and headed back toward town, each riding with a gun drawn. Dusk was
coming on, and since we’d ridden through the day, there was no way the horses would
make it without rest and water. I knew this meant that we’d have to put up at one
of Sandro’s rock formations just off the white sands. The prospect of spending a night
in the desert, sitting still while whoever ate Bastard George was roaming around in
the dark, twisted my outlook.
Just before twilight, near the edge of the sands, the scrub desert in view, we passed
a huge dune with a hole in it. Looked like a giant mouse hole at first.
“Never heard of a cave in a dune before,” said Fat Bob.
“That wasn’t there before,” said Sandro. “The wind must have shifted the sand and
uncovered it.”
“Maybe a good place to set up for the night if it stays calm,” said the gunman. “Easy
to defend.”
“Easy to be trapped,” said Sandro. Still, he moved his horse in its direction.
Guns drawn, we stepped into the shadow of the mouse hole. I don’t know what stopped
me from just pulling the trigger of the LeMat. I wanted to kill the darkness. I was
too exhausted to be as scared as I should have been. Sandro struck a match with his
thumbnail. It flared suddenly, and then its glow dimly illuminated the cave.
At first, I felt like I was in church—the dark and the candles—but the rotten meat
smell of the place put me off that notion pretty quick. My traveling companions’ faces
in the candlelight were cut by deep ravines of shadow and made sinister. The match
blew out and the dark clapped down. I almost fired my pistol. It took me a moment
to catch my breath. Another match was ignited and held up toward the ceiling. The
flame burned for a half minute. Enough time to judge from the beams and supports,
the remains of a wooden walkway leading back into the rock that ran beneath the sands.
It was some kind of old mine.
“La Madre Del Oro,” said Sandro. The light went out. I made to bolt, but Fat Bob put
his hand on my shoulder and we stood there in the dark.
“A gold mine?” asked the gunman.
“The Conquistadores took a lot of gold out of this land.”
“Is it worth a look?” asked Bob.
“People have found gold nuggets in buckets in these mines,” Sandro said. “It was like
the old Spanish soldiers left the area all at once in the middle of their work.”
“I have a little lantern strapped on my horse. Go get it, sonny.”
I was afraid to be in the mine, but I was more afraid to go outside by myself. I inched
my way out into the last light of day, gun hand trembling. It took me twice as long
as it should have to fetch the lantern. I kept looking over my shoulder and spinning
full around in the process. Making my way back to the mine entrance, I noticed a cool
breeze coming and knew we’d still be in the mine when night fell.
Sandro lit a match and Fat Bob held the lantern. A better light now filled the mine
head. My compatriots moved over to where the shaft led down into the rock.
“These Conquistadores were rather small fellows,” said Bob, judging the opening.
“You’ll go first,” said Sandro.
“Franklin,” said Fat Bob. “You stay here and anybody comes in behind us, shoot them.”
“At least give me one match,” I said.
Sandro reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved one of the wooden strikers. I walked
over and took it.
“A whole new vision of hell,” said Fat Bob. He ducked and held the lantern out in
front of him. The light was slowly swallowed by the mineshaft, and I was left shivering
in the dark. Eventually, my vision adjusted, and I could make out the entrance. When
I sat down, gun in hand, facing it, I could see a star up in the sky. At every moment,
I expected a sudden shadow to block it from view.
My mind reeled with possible ways to get out of there. For a moment I thought I’d
just leave, get on my horse and light out away from all of it. After that, though,
I had a better idea. I thought that if I fired the gun, they’d come running. I could
tell them I saw someone lurking outside and took a shot at him. They might doubt me,
I knew, but it would put a caution in them as well I suspected. And we’d leave. I
lifted my gun, but before I could pull the trigger, I heard a shot.
It echoed up the mineshaft. That one report was followed by a whole volley of shots
from at least two different types of guns. My first thought was they were shooting
each other. There was silence for a brief time, in which—if I could have worked my
legs—I would have run. Two more gun blasts came up from below followed by a terrible
scream of agony. From deep down in the ground I heard the sound of scuffling. Then
two more gun shots.
A moment later, I saw the light coming up the shaft. Dim at first but coming fast.
It was Fat Bob. First thing I could make out was his hat had been knocked off. It
became clear he had no gun in his hand, but held the lantern in one and clutched his
throat with the other. He staggered forward as if he might fall. The lantern finally
showed me his blood-drenched suit and shirt. He moved his hand, and I saw his throat
had been torn away, a huge bloody gash. “Run, sonny,” he said in bloody bubbles, and
then went over on top of the lantern, breaking it and smothering its flame.