The Fire of Greed (12 page)

Chapter 20

AS NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE HAD GONE TO SLEEP ON
down pillows thinking about immigrants and railroads, five men had awakened in the dark desert with dust in their nostrils, and the anxiety of plans gone awry.

Bladen Cole had lost his fugitives to a rival even before they had become his captives. Ben Muriday and Simon Lynch faced the dilemma of a captive having become a fugitive, while that man faced the desert alone, with no gun, no horse, and the prospect of men possessing
both
in pursuit and hot on his heels.

Redressing the shortcoming of his lacking these most useful—indeed essential—of possessions was the highest objective for him as the new day began. Jasper Gardner could at least be thankful for his boots.

The sun, white hot and promising another scorching desert day, now burst over the Sierra Manzano, which lay on the eastern side of the Rio Grande. Somewhere ahead, and perhaps reachable before the sun passed through its noontime zenith, lay the river and its populated valley.

Somewhere behind, however, rode those who did not want Gardner to reach that river valley. He moved quickly, alternately running and walking, but his lungs burned from the exertion. He looked back often, knowing that if he was seen by those men on horseback, it would be the end of his escape. He could run, but he could not hide. They would be upon him within minutes—assuming, of course, that they did not simply put a .45-caliber Winchester round through his back.

Suddenly, at what seemed like an hour past sunup, he reached the edge of the plateau on which he had been hiking. From this crest, the terrain sloped gently downward toward the Rio Grande, which lay in the distance like a fiery snake, reflecting the fire of the morning sun. He paused to congratulate himself on not having been caught—yet.

The river was still very far away for a man on foot, but Gardner knew he need not reach its banks. All he needed was to reach some outpost of the scattering of settlements that filled its valley. There were many horses and many guns in the Rio Grande valley. He just needed one of each.

As he paused momentarily to take in the view, he leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and gasped to catch his breath. He coughed a dry cough that stung his windpipe like hot coffee. Jasper Gardner thought that hot coffee would taste good right now, but he desperately craved
water
. More even than a horse and a gun, he needed water.

As he stepped forward to descend the broad, shallow slope, he glanced back one more time. More even than water, he needed to know that his pursuers were not in sight.

They weren't—yet.

* * *

BLADEN COLE STUDIED THE THREE MEN THOUGH HIS BRASS
spyglass. He had looked in vain for the escapee, and he watched as the mounted men did the same. When the sun was on the cusp of breaking into the day, they did a broad search of the surrounding area before deciding on an eastward direction.

They searched for some time before heading toward the Rio Grande. He could not tell whether they had found the man's trail or had just decided to head out in his probable direction.

Cole tied the lead rope of the pack horse to his saddle horn and followed, allowing them a generous head start.

* * *

JASPER GARDNER FOUND THAT HIS DESCENT INTO THE VALLEY, HOWEVER GRADUAL, AIDED HIS PACE, AND IT WAS NOT
long before he saw a cluster of houses, and he made for them. They proved to have been abandoned, likely a failed attempt at a homestead, but from the vantage point of the collapsing front wall, he could see another group of houses. From these, there rose a promising column of smoke.

The distance deceived him, but at last he was near enough to see a man in a corral, shoeing a horse.

“Hello, friend,” he called out, waving to the man.

The man looked up and waved, but did not return the greeting. He went back to work until Gardner was about thirty yards from the corral. He dropped the horse's foot and walked toward the fence.

“Good morning, sir,” Gardner said in as friendly a tone as possible. “My name's Jasper Gar—Garrity.”

“Name's Vargas,” the man said, his English lightly accented with Spanish. “What brings you out this way?”

“Headed up toward Bernalillo.”

“Don't see too many fellows walking out of the desert,” Vargas said warily.

“I'm embarrassed to say I got robbed yesterday,” Gardner said, repeating a story that he had concocted and rehearsed as he made his way across the desert. “They got everything . . . my horse . . . my gun . . . my dough.”

“Looks like they let you live.”

“Guess I'm lucky.”

“Guess so.”

“I'd be much obliged for a drink of water,” Gardner said hoarsely.

Vargas pointed to a pump that was situated before his small clapboard house.

Gardner pumped, cupped his hand, and took a drink.

Even uncut whiskey never tasted so good.

He repeated this several times until the slosh of water in his empty, dehydrated stomach made him feel a bit sick.

Next, he rinsed his hands and cleaned the sores on his wrists.

“Looks like they had you tied up,” Vargas observed, still standing inside the corral.

“They did.”

“Lucky you got away.”

“I sure am. Do you know where a fella might get hisself a horse?”

“Down that way about a mile and a half, you'll see a house with one wall painted kind of a light blue.”

“You reckon he might have a horse to spare?”

“Can't know without asking.”

“Much obliged for the water.”

“You bet.”

Jasper Gardner staggered onward, down the hill in the vague direction that had been indicated as that of the house with one blue wall.

The first time that he glanced back, Vargas was still looking at him. The next time, he had disappeared.

It had been Gardner's intention to steal the first horse that he saw, but Vargas had not averted his eyes for even a moment and had kept close to a Winchester that he had laid across a wooden box near where he had been working.

Maybe, Gardner decided, he would steal the
second
horse that he saw. Maybe, if he was lucky, that horse would be grazing unattended.

* * *

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU SUPPOSE THAT WAS?” SIMON
Lynch wondered aloud, after he and his companions suddenly heard a series of three shots fired in rapid succession.

“Not sure,” Ben Muriday replied, pulling his rifle out of its scabbard. “Seems they came from down that way.”

A few minutes later, they could see a shack about a quarter mile distant, with a corral nearby.

Three more shots rang out from that general direction.

As they neared the house, they could see a man with a rifle who seemed to be in the midst of target practice. Muriday replaced his rifle—no need in there being an unnecessary provocation—but kept his hand near the pistol in his holster.

“Mornin'” Muriday said in greeting as they came near to the man, who was watching them as he slotted more rounds into his Winchester.

The man merely nodded.

“I was wonderin' if you might've seen a stranger pass this way this morning.”

“You boys the law?”

“No, but we're bringin' in a couple of robbers that would be wanted up north. One of 'em got away and we're trailing him . . . Right, Stanton?”

“I ain't got nothing to say,” Stanton replied.

Vargas looked at Stanton, and at the ropes that bound his wrists. Then he looked at Muriday.

“Where you headed from?” Vargas asked.

“Yonder over by Luera,” Muriday said, pointing to the southwest.

“Wish I could help you,” Vargas said, returning to slotting rounds into his Winchester.

“Much obliged,” Muriday said.

“You bet.”

Chapter 21

JASPER GARDNER WAS PRACTICALLY ON TOP OF THE HOUSE
with one blue wall before he saw it. At first, he couldn't understand why Vargas had sent him here, until he had walked around to the eastern side and seen a series of fields on the sloping hillside below. A man was working down there with two large horses hitched to a harrow. He was probably planning to harvest a second crop of squash before fall.

As Gardner surveyed the scene, he saw a small barn and corral about halfway down the hill from the house with one blue wall. There was a lone, unattended horse in the corral. This was exactly what he was looking for.

He made his way toward the lone horse, exercising caution lest the farmer should see him. As he approached close to the corral, Gardner looked around for a saddle. A grin creased his lips as he saw it, neatly perched on a rack near the barn door. He chuckled to himself that the next thing he needed was an unattended gun.

“Where you headed?”

Gardner turned and saw the gun, though neither it nor—as it now turned out—the horse were unattended.

A short woman in a gray-green gingham dress was aiming a twelve-gauge shotgun at him. She appeared by her stance and her voice to be in her thirties, but the leathery texture of her face told of hard winters and hot summers that would make a person old beyond the years marked by a calendar.

“Just passing by,” Gardner said, raising his hands shoulder height to that she could see he was unarmed. “Stopped to admire your horse . . . mighty fine horse it is too.”

“You weren't thinkin' of admiring her out the gate were ya?”

“No ma'am . . . not at all. My intentions are honorable and I don't mean nobody no harm. 'Specially not a lady. No ma'am.”

“What you doin' up this way?”

“Just passing though. Do you know a fella name of Vargas?”

“Lives up yonder. Why?”

“Well, here's the thing,” Gardner began. “Me and him was talking . . . just this morning in fact. I said I was looking for a horse and he said you go on down to the house with one blue wall. When you get down by there . . . he told me this . . . when you get there you might find that they can help you get a horse.”

“He said
that
?”

“Yes, ma'am. He done said that. He said this would be the place to come if I was lookin' for a horse.”

“T'ain't.”

“You wouldn't be able to help out a fellow down on his luck?”

“Not with no horse.”

“If I could just explain . . .”

“You walkin' up like that with your wrists lookin' like you been hog-tied begs all sorta questions that no explainin' can answer.”

“I was robbed,” Gardner asserted. “Like I told Mr. Vargas, I was robbed and they stole everything and left me for dead.”

“So you done come here hopin' to do a bit of horse thievery?”

“Not at all. I'd be happy to pay you for it.”

“How much you offerin'?”

“How much you askin'?”

“Don't see that you got no way to pay for nothing.”

“I'm rich,” Gardner said in an exasperated tone. “Just as soon as I catch up to them robbers, I can pay you whatever you want. I promise.”

“Don't believe none of that. Now, you better jus' git before this trigger finger gets itchy.”

“Have it your way,” Gardner said, turning to walk away.

He glanced back and saw that she had lowered the muzzle of the 12-gauge and was cradling it on one arm.

Now or never, he thought.

In one swift move, he leaned down, grabbed a two-foot piece of scrap lumber, hurled it at her as hard as he could, and rushed her.

She had already dropped the shotgun when he collided with her.

Both of them sprawled on the ground, then rolled and lunged toward the weapon.

She got her hands on the barrel and he grabbed the stock.

The woman winced in pain as he kneed her in the kidneys, but she would not let go.

He got a better grip on the stock as she twisted the barrel to pry the shotgun from his grip.

His fingers reached the trigger.

He was about to discharge a hellstorm of buckshot into her leathery little face when she pushed the barrel away.

The blast pulverized a nearby wooden barrel, but both combatants went unscathed.

Gardner pulled the gun free from her grip and had started to aim it when a shot rang out. The bullet narrowly missed his head.

“Drop it or the next one won't miss,” Ben Muriday said. He and the others had ridden up as Gardner was brawling with the woman.

Gardner let the muzzle fall and felt the shotgun being taken from his hand.

He turned to see the face of the angry farmer a split second before a huge fist impacted his face. The pain was excruciating and accompanied by the sound of cracking bone.

Through the haze of blood and tears, he felt himself being helped to his feet.

Then the fist came again, and he felt himself falling again.

Gardner felt his body move at least a foot each time the farmer's boot hit his kidneys.

“Stop,” demanded Muriday. “Stop. Don't kill him. I need the sonuvabitch alive.”

“Are you the law?” the farmer asked angrily.

“No, but we're taking him in to a noose.”

“Let him get finished off
here and now
.”

“Lookit, mister,” Muriday pleaded. “Lemme buy him off ya for one of these.”

The farmer looked up to see that Muriday was holding a twenty-dollar gold eagle. He paused, sighed, and looked at his wife. There was venom in her eyes.

The farmer wiped his sweaty brow on his shirt and began to cock his leg to strike again.

“Eagle's got a friend,” Muriday said.

The farmer looked up to see a second gold coin.

He looked at his wife. She looked at him, at Gardner, and up at the two coins that Muriday held. At last she spat on Gardner, nodded, and turned to walk away.

Muriday handed the coins to the man as Lynch climbed down from his horse to scrape Jasper Gardner off the ground.