The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold (12 page)

Lew Jackson was beginning to realize what a bad mistake he had made by following Morgan into the Jornada del Muerto. The place had gotten that name for a good reason. It was hellishly hot and dry. Not only that, but his wounded shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, and the canteen that had been strapped to the saddle of the horse he had stolen had only a few drops of water left in it. On top of that, for the past two days, the only thing he’d had to eat was a handful of stale biscuits he’d found in the saddlebags.

He guessed maybe he hadn’t been thinking too straight when he set off into the desert to seek revenge on the man who’d killed his friends.

But it was too late to turn back. Stubbornly, Jackson had followed the wagon all day, being careful not to push his mount too hard. He didn’t really know this horse, what with it being stolen and all, so he wasn’t sure how much the animal could stand. If he rode the horse into the ground, he really would be in a bad fix.

During the afternoon, he had seen the hill up ahead. Vaguely, he remembered hearing some talk about there being a waterhole somewhere up there, near a big hill that jutted up out of the desert. That had to be the hill, and if he could find the waterhole, he could refill the canteen.

It would be a lot better, he told himself, if he could just take that wagon with its full water barrels. Then he could ride in comfort and style, with plenty to drink and probably plenty of food as well. That would get him out of the Jornada del Muerto. He could find the Rio Grande again and follow it all the way to Albuquerque. There would be a sawbones there to look at his wounded shoulder, and saloons and whores and everything else he needed.

All he had to do was get his hands on that wagon, and all he had to do to accomplish that goal was to kill Morgan and the girl and the old priest. That’s what he’d set out to do in the first place.

Simple as hell.

They’d be camped at either the hill or the waterhole. He could sneak up on both places and find out which, as soon as it got good and dark. Meanwhile, as twilight settled down over the desert, he reined in and dismounted to wait for nightfall. That wouldn’t take long. It never did once the sun went down.

Jackson took the canteen and shook it back and forth next to his ear, listening to the faint sloshing sound of the tiny bit of tepid water left in it. He unscrewed the cap and carefully lifted the canteen to his mouth. It was the last of the water, so he couldn’t afford to spill even a drop. The life-giving liquid flowed into his mouth and trickled down his throat, but it barely did anything to cut the coating of dust that covered the inside of his mouth. He was so dry he could spit cotton.

In the fading light, he took his knife and hacked a chunk off a cactus. He shaved the needles off it, then sucked on the inner flesh. It was bitter, but he was able to draw some moisture from it. He should have done that first, he told himself, then finished off the water in the canteen. Too late to do anything about that.

His stomach cramped from hunger. The biscuits were all gone. He had to kill his quarry and take the wagon tonight, he realized. He had no choice. He couldn’t make it another day without food.

The horse nudged his wounded shoulder. Pain shot through him. Jackson stumbled away from the animal, knowing that the horse was just thirsty. That knowledge didn’t do anything to help the throbbing agony coursing through him. He fought down the impulse to grab his gun and vent his fury by putting a bullet in the damn jug-head’s brain.

Might as well put the next one in his own brain if he did that, he told himself. He had actually reached down and grasped the butt of his revolver. He released it now and let it slide back down into the holster.

Something brushed against his neck. He started to look down, but then what felt like an iron bar clamped with brutal pressure across his throat. It jerked Jackson backward. As his good arm rose and he used that hand to paw instinctively at whatever had hold of him, he realized it was an arm. He felt a hard-muscled chest against his back. A surprised, scared gurgle escaped from his mouth. That was the only sound that could get past the arm pressing inexorably on his throat.

Blackness dropped over his eyes, but it wasn’t the sudden fall of night in the desert. There were no stars winking into existence where Lew Jackson was. There was nothing, just an empty void.

During the next hour, as he prayed for death, Jackson wished fervently that it had stayed that way.

The Kid waited until an hour after nightfall before leaving the camp atop Point of Rocks. He figured that would give the man who’d been following them time to get good and asleep.

“How do you intend to find him?” Annabelle had asked before he started down the slope. “There’s a lot of empty country out there.”

“He won’t be camped too far off our trail,” The Kid said, “and a horse is big enough I should be able to spot it, even if I don’t see the man.”

“But if you
can
see him, won’t he see you, too, or at least hear you coming?”

“The moon won’t be up for another hour yet. The stars give off enough light so a fella can get around all right, but he won’t be able to see very far. Also, he was staying far enough behind us that he probably thinks we don’t even know he’s there, so he won’t be expecting anybody to come looking for him. As for hearing me…I can move pretty quiet-like when I want to.”

Stealth was another thing he had learned from observing Frank Morgan.

“Be careful,” Father Jardine said. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you because you involved yourself in our troubles, Mr. Morgan.”

“I’ll be fine,” The Kid assured them.

Father Jardine stopped him with another question before he departed. “Are you going to…kill this man?”

“Only if he doesn’t give me any other choice,” The Kid replied, suppressing the impatience he was starting to feel. “I want to find out who he is, that’s all. Once I know, I’ll take his horse and his gun.”

“Isn’t putting him afoot in this wasteland the same thing as killing him?”

“Not really. There’s water over there at Paraje Perillo, and he can walk to it easily enough. If he can convince me that he doesn’t mean us any harm, I’ll just tie him up so that it’ll take him a while to get loose. We can leave his horse and gun at the waterhole for him to retrieve once we’ve gotten a head start.”

That answer had seemed to satisfy the priest.

The Kid left his hat at the camp and traded his boots for a pair of tough-soled moccasins he took from his saddlebags. The moccasins allowed him to move quietly across the desert while still protecting his feet. He relied mostly on instinct to guide him as he backtracked along the trail they had followed earlier.

Despite what he had told Annabelle and Father Jardine, he thought there was a good chance the hombre he was stalking wouldn’t surrender peacefully, especially if he was one of Count Fortunato’s men. But The Kid would deal with that when the time came, and if he wound up having to tell his companions something slightly less than the truth…well, he could handle that, too. He had dealt with a lot worse in his life.

His eyes moved constantly over the star-lit landscape as he walked quietly along the trail. When he estimated that he had come at least a mile from the camp, he stopped and frowned. He thought he should have seen some sign of the man by then. He listened intently, hoping to hear the horse moving around or blowing air through its nose.

Nothing. The night was as quiet as could be.

Then The Kid heard something that at first he took to be the blowing of the wind. It took a minute before he realized that it was actual moaning.

The sound came from his left. He listened until he was sure, then started in that direction, moving even more quietly than he had before. After a moment, he spotted a dark shape splayed out on the ground. The Colt whispered from the holster on his hip as he drew it.

The dark figure didn’t move, and after a few more seconds went by, The Kid was certain that was where the moans were coming from. He approached carefully with the gun in his hand.

A faint, coppery smell drifted to his nostrils. The Kid stiffened as he recognized it.

Freshly spilled blood—and quite a bit of it, too.

“Son of a…” he breathed. He moved closer, saw that the shape was that of a man with his arms and legs stretched out as far as they would go to his sides. They didn’t move, and that fact, along with the position they were in, suggested to The Kid that someone had tied the man’s hands and feet to stakes driven into the ground.

His first impulse was to go to the man’s side, drop to a knee, and try to find out who he was and how badly he was hurt. A warning voice in the back of his head that sounded something like his father’s told him he had better make sure there weren’t any other surprises waiting for him first. When he was still about twenty yards away from the staked-out man, The Kid circled completely around him, searching the night for any signs of danger.

As soon as he was satisfied that no one was lurking nearby, The Kid approached the man on the ground. The man still let out a soft moan from time to time. The agonized sounds were muffled by something. The Kid knelt beside him, reached toward the man’s mouth with his free hand, then jerked his fingers back when something painfully jabbed one of them. He looked closer and saw that someone had jammed a large piece of cactus, needles and all, into the man’s mouth.

That wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him, though. The large black pool of liquid soaking into the sand under his hips told The Kid that the man had been mutilated. His pants were down around his ankles. It appeared that his genitals had been hacked off.

His torso was covered with deep slashes, as was his face. The Kid had never actually seen a victim of Apache torture before, but he had no doubt that was what he was looking at.

Incredibly, given the terrible things that had been done to the man and the amount of blood he had lost, he was still alive. That was another common characteristic of how the Apache treated their prisoners, The Kid recalled from listening to Frank recount some of his experiences. The Apaches were experts at keeping a man alive for hours or even days while they put him through the worst sort of hell on earth.

The kindest thing The Kid could do for this hombre would be to either cut his throat or put a bullet in his brain. The Kid holstered the Colt, unwilling to fire a shot unless he had to. The sound might carry for miles in this thin, clear desert air. He still wanted to know who the man was, so instead of reaching for the knife on his left hip, he fished a match from his pocket. He cupped his other hand around it to shield the glow as much as possible from any watching eyes and snapped the match to life.

The faint light showed The Kid an ugly, beard-stubbled face made even uglier by the slashes and the blood that had welled from them. The cuts had been made long enough ago that the blood smeared on the man’s face was starting to dry.

Even though The Kid had gotten only a glimpse of this man’s face back in the church in Las Cruces, he recognized Lew Jackson. That was something of a surprise, but not too much of one. Jackson had already made one try for revenge after the shootout in the church. Obviously, he had followed them into the Jornada del Muerto, still bent on settling the score for the men The Kid had killed.

Bloody bandages swathed Jackson’s left shoulder. That was where one of the bullets fired by The Kid or Acting Sheriff Jake Nye had hit him during the ruckus that followed Jackson’s attempt to bushwhack The Kid. That wound was the least of Jackson’s worries now.

The Kid had a pretty big worry of his own. Who had done this to Jackson? An Apache, from the looks of it. One or both of the survivors from the attack on the wagon a few nights earlier? That was the most obvious answer. But The Kid supposed it was possible that a white man had carved up Jackson like this to make it
look
like an Indian was responsible. Would one of Fortunato’s men do that?

The Kid didn’t have any answers. Maybe Jackson would, if The Kid could get him to talk. He drew his knife, leaned forward, and used the tip of the blade to spear the chunk of cactus in Jackson’s mouth. Jackson jerked and heaved against the rawhide thongs binding his wrists and ankles to stakes made from mesquite limbs. He screamed as best he could while The Kid pried the cactus free.

Then Jackson slumped back flat, a wet, bubbling noise coming from his ravaged mouth. At first, The Kid couldn’t hear anything comprehensible in the sound.

Then he realized that Jackson was pleading, “Kill me…kill me…”

The Kid leaned closer. “Who did this to you, Jackson?” he asked. “Did you get a look at them?”

Jackson was so far gone in his world of pain that he didn’t understand The Kid, might not have even heard him. The Kid tried again, asking, “Who tortured you?”, but Jackson just repeated his slurred, blood-choked entreaty.

The Kid grimaced and shook his head. Jackson would never be able to talk coherently again. He was already too close to death. It was all he had left. The Kid took a deep breath through his mouth so he wouldn’t have to smell the spilled blood quite so strongly and tightened his grip on the knife. One quick slash across the throat would finish Jackson off and give him the peace he probably didn’t deserve, The Kid thought, remembering how Father Horatio had burned to death back there in Las Cruces. He wasn’t sure his conscience would let him stand up and walk away, though, leaving Jackson to die in his own not-so-sweet time.

The sudden rush of feet behind him took the decision out of The Kid’s hands. He dropped the knife and twisted around, reaching for the gun on his hip, but he was too late. Something came out of the night and crashed into him, knocking him over backwards onto Lew Jackson’s bloody, mutilated body.

His attacker let out a blood-curdling screech that assaulted The Kid’s ears like a physical blow. A hand closed around his throat, cutting off his air. As he looked up, he saw a dark shape blotting out some of the stars above him. The light from those stars winked faintly on the blade of a knife the Apache held over his head with his other hand, poised to drive it down into The Kid’s chest.

Before the knife could fall, The Kid swung a fist and crashed it into the side of the Apache’s head. The blow landed solidly enough to knock the Indian off him. The Kid rolled the other way, off the tortured, still-living body of the mutilated Jackson. As he came up on his knees, he palmed out his gun, but before he could trigger a shot, the Apache came sailing over Jackson and tackled him again. The Colt slipped out of The Kid’s grasp as his hand struck hard against the ground.

The Apache had dropped his knife when The Kid punched him so they were on equal terms. The man clawed at The Kid’s face with one hand while trying to get his other hand on the white man’s throat once again. The Kid hammered a punch home to the Indian’s midsection. He rammed the heel of his other hand under the Apache’s chin, forcing his head up and back. The Kid arched his body, heaving it up from the ground, threw his opponent off to the side.

He went after his enemy. When the Apache surged back up from the ground, The Kid grabbed his shoulders and flung him down again. He leaped and landed with both knees in the warrior’s belly. The Apache grunted in pain and tried to twist away, but The Kid’s weight pinned him to the ground. The Kid swung his fists, smashing a left and a right into the Apache’s face. The punches landed with enough force to stun the man, who went limp under The Kid.

Quickly, The Kid scrambled to his feet and looked around for the gun he had dropped a moment earlier. Spotting it lying on the ground, he hurried toward it, but the Apache jumped him from behind before he reached it. The son of a bitch had faked being knocked out, The Kid thought as he was driven to the ground with the Apache on top of him. The warrior looped an arm around his neck and pulled back. At the same time, the Apache dug a knee into the small of The Kid’s back. The Kid felt his spine bending and creaking under the tremendous pressure. His head spun from the lack of air. The arm across his throat was cutting off his breath.

He knew that if the Apache kept him pinned in the chokehold for another minute or two, he’d pass out. Then the chokehold would become a deathgrip, either because the Apache would continue to strangle him or make him a prisoner and do to him what he’d done to Lew Jackson.

The Kid didn’t like either of those alternatives.

So he found another one. His left hand wrapped around the handle of the Bowie knife on his hip and drew it from its sheath. He brought it up and back as hard as he could and felt the knife strike something. The razor-sharp blade penetrated with ease, and the Apache howled in sudden pain. The grip on The Kid’s neck disappeared. He jerked the knife free and struck a second time with it. Again the blade sliced into flesh. Fists began to hammer the back of The Kid’s head in a rage.

He bucked up from the ground. The wounded Apache toppled off him. Gasping for air, The Kid pushed up on his hands and knees, just before a savage kick landed on his shoulder, rolling him over. The Apache came after him, kicking and stomping. The Bowie flew out of The Kid’s hand as one of the kicks connected with his wrist leaving him unarmed.

The Apache landed on top of him and locked both hands around The Kid’s throat. He’d been able to gulp down a little air, but was still dizzy from lack of oxygen and on the verge of passing out. His strength was deserting him. He threw an arm out to the side and fumbled around on the ground, thinking that he might find a rock or something else he could use as a weapon.

Instead, his fingers landed on an arm. Jackson’s arm, The Kid realized. He was lying next to the tortured man. His hand followed that arm to the wrist, where he felt the rawhide thongs binding Jackson to the stake at the end of that arm.

Desperate hope flared to life inside The Kid. His fingers scrabbled around until he found the stake that jutted up six inches or so from the ground. His hand closed around it, and he began to work it back and forth in the dirt, trying to loosen it. Did he have the strength to do that? Would he remain conscious long enough?

He didn’t know, but he was damned if he was going to give up without fighting to the last breath. His father had taught him better than that. And so had his wife.

The stake came free from the ground. The Kid didn’t know how sharp it was. All he could do was slam it into the side of the man who was choking him to death—and hope.

The stake penetrated flesh. The Kid felt it grind and scrape against bone. He pushed harder, driving the stake deeper. The Apache let out a thin little cry and jerked back, releasing The Kid’s throat. The Kid’s other hand shot up in a punch that landed on the warrior’s jaw. The blow didn’t have much power behind it, but it was enough to make the Apache fall to the side.

The Kid rolled onto his belly and gulped air into his starved lungs. A few feet away, the Apache writhed on the ground as he pawed at the stake protruding from his side. A great spasm suddenly shook him and caused him to stretch out his legs. He kicked once, twice, then sagged onto his back and sighed.

After that, he didn’t move.

The Kid lay there propped on his elbows, still breathing heavily, as he watched the Indian for signs of life and didn’t see any. The point of that stake must have gone between a couple of ribs and found his heart. That could have just as easily been him lying there dead, The Kid knew. Only luck and his dogged determination had carried him through that fight.

But there had been
two
survivors from that Apache war party, he suddenly recalled.

One of the Indians had been wounded. He might have died since then.

Or he might not have. He could be lurking somewhere nearby, about to attack The Kid, too. The Kid’s gun still lay where he had dropped it. He climbed shakily to his feet and hurried over to the Colt. He felt a little better once his hand closed around its walnut grips. Holding the gun in front of him, he turned slowly, searching the night with his eyes and ears for any sign of that second Apache.

He didn’t see or hear anything. That was no guarantee the Indian wasn’t out there, he told himself, but at least he wasn’t already under attack again.

The Kid’s pulse still pounded in his head. His heart slugged in his chest. But he could feel himself recovering. The hardships he had endured in recent months had strengthened his already sturdy constitution that much more. He’d rather not have to deal with any more trouble, but if it came his way, he would give it a warm welcome. Maybe even a hot lead one.

The night was quiet.

The stillness of death, The Kid thought. He went over to Jackson and hunkered next to the man. With his Colt still in his right hand, he rested his left on Jackson’s chest and felt for any signs of life. Jackson’s chest didn’t move. While The Kid was engaged in his own life and death struggle, the Grim Reaper had claimed Jackson.

He’d be dead, too, The Kid told himself, if the Apache hadn’t tortured Jackson. Staking him out like that had provided The Kid with the weapon that had saved his life. He didn’t feel any gratitude toward Jackson. The murdering hardcase hadn’t had anything to do with it. The Kid didn’t intend to bury him.

There might not be many animals in the Jornada del Muerto, but he had a hunch the buzzards cruised over it pretty regular-like.

He turned away from the mutilated corpse and studied the Apache’s body. The Indian still hadn’t moved. The Kid was reasonably certain the warrior was dead, but he had to make sure beyond any doubt. He thought about shooting the Apache in the head, then decided against that. There was no telling who else was out there in the darkness. The Kid didn’t want to fire a shot unless he absolutely had to.

He looked around until he found his Bowie knife. Then a single slash across the Indian’s throat settled the matter. The blood just welled out slowly, instead of spurting, so The Kid knew that the Apache’s heart had stopped pumping minutes earlier.

Feeling a little disgusted with himself for doing such a thing, no matter how necessary it had been, The Kid wiped the blood off on the sand and sheathed the knife. His Colt was still in his other hand as he trotted back toward Point of Rocks.

He didn’t pouch the iron until he was almost there. The darkness at his back seemed like a living thing, still fraught with menace as it followed him.

Fifty yards from the spot where Azza-hij had died, Manuelito lay motionless as he watched the white man head back toward the knob where he and his companions had camped. There had been several times during the battle between the white man and Azza-hij that Manuelito could have taken a hand and slain the enemy.

He had chosen not to do so because he wanted to see whether or not Azza-hij could redeem himself for the cowardice he had shown in the earlier fight. Manuelito hoped sincerely that the young warrior would emerge victorious from the struggle, but it was one battle Azza-hij had to win on his own. Manuelito’s code in matters of honor such as this was stern and unyielding.

So Azza-hij had died, and the white man still lived. That wasn’t the outcome Manuelito wanted, but he would accept it and move on. Azza-hij’s death was one more grievance to be avenged when the time finally came for Manuelito to deal with the white man.

At least he had had the pleasure of torturing the other white man. Manuelito had captured him, then Azza-hij had staked him out and they had both worked on him with their knives, taking great joy in the terrified, agonized squealing and moaning that emerged past the cactus they had stuffed into his mouth. It would have been good to take all night at such sport, but Manuelito had had a hunch that the young white man accompanying the wagon might show up. The one they had captured had been a fool, venturing too close to his quarry, never realizing that they might be able to see him from the top of that knob. Manuelito had thought of that, however, and he suspected that the young white man would come looking for the one who followed them. He and Azza-hij had staked out their victim, tortured him, then left him there to serve as bait. The plan had worked.

Then Manuelito had whispered to Azza-hij, telling him to go stealthily and kill the young white man. That
hadn’t
worked.

Manuelito sat up, wincing at the pain in his side. The sickness from the wound had grown. He could feel it spreading through his body. But he knew how much he could stand. His time to die was not yet.

Not until the other three whites were dead, too.