Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (13 page)

“Damn,” he whispered, “Deacon must've got one of them, but it looks like they've killed him.” He nodded at the body lying across the first horse's saddle, wrapped in Deacon Jamison's coat. “Yeah,” said Liles, “and this one left his dead pard behind so he can haul Deacon in and show off his kill.”

“I hate a show-off son of a bitch,” said Thomas. “Let's go.” Standing, his rifle aimed, he walked sideways onto the middle of the trail.

Let's go?

“What about the ambush?” Burns whispered in protest even as he and Liles hurried to keep up with him.

“End of the road, mister,” Thomas called out to the figure clad in a long duster and low-pulled hat. “Throw your rifle aside. We're having ourselves an Apache- style skinning party.”

Jesus . . . !
Burns looked at Liles, wild-eyed.

They watched the tall figure swing the rifle to the side as if to throw it away. But instead of turning it loose, the figure ducked away with it, jerked the reins of the first horse, pulled the animal sidelong to the gunmen, swung the rifle up and fired.

Across the horse's back, the Ranger rose, his big Colt in one hand, the Remington in his other, firing both guns at once.

—

Mattie's first shot hit Manning Thomas dead center and sent him flailing backward, his feet scrambling to find purchase like a clown on ice. He hit the ground as she quickly levered another round and aimed at the other two outlaws in a mad exchange of gunfire.

The Ranger's first shot had hit Stanley Liles and knocked him to the dirt. Liles' rifle flew from his hand. The Ranger's second shot did the same to Dallas Burns, but while Burns hit the ground dead, Liles managed to struggle up onto one knee, draw a revolver from his holster and attempt to take aim.

Mattie's rifle shot rang out above the sound of Sam's big Colt. Both bullets hit Liles at once. Red mist jetted from his back as the shots lifted him from his knee almost onto his feet before hurling him backward to the dirt.

Mattie stood dry-mouthed in a ringing silence, smoke curling up around her from her rifle barrel. She watched Sam walk forward, the Colt leading him as if he held some small yet deadly animal on a leash.

Stepping sidelong, Mattie picked up the reins to both horses, pulled the Ranger's duster down from across the dun's saddle and carried it to him.

Standing over the dead, reloading his Colt, Sam looked surprised when he saw Mattie hold his duster out toward him. But he thanked her and took it. Holstering the Colt, the Remington shoved down in his belt, he took off Jamison's bloody coat, dropped it to the ground and put on his duster.

“They know we're coming,” he said. He looked at the bodies on the ground, then at Mattie. He started to say, “Good work.” But something about the look on her face advised him against it. “They'll be ready for any surprises from now on.”

Mattie only nodded. Sam took the dun's reins from her hand and noted that it took a second for her to release them.

“If all goes well, when we top the hill, we'll stop and rest awhile before we go on—”

“No, please,” she said grimly, turning her eyes to the dead on the ground. “I've got to finish this as quick as I can.”

“I understand,” he said, realizing the killing had begun to wear her thin.

He swung up into his saddle and waited for her to do the same.

Chapter 13

The Ranger and Mattie rode the rest of the way up the thin trail to Munny Caves with caution, expecting the worst. Yet, as they approached the tall black crevice in the waning evening light, they were relieved to find the place had been abandoned by Orwick and his followers. The three riflemen they'd encountered along the top of the trail must have been the only men left behind to offer them any resistance.

Out in front of the crevice, a fire burned inside a circle of heavy stone. It seemed as if countless fires had burned there for centuries past. Beside the fire stood an elderly Mexican wearing what was left of a frayed and ragged black cape over threadbare peasant clothes. A battered straw sombrero hung in his hand. He held his free hand up in a welcoming gesture.

“Welcome,
señor y señora,”
the old man called out. “Feel free to sit by the fire. I will water your horses.”

The two rode closer and then stepped down from their saddles. Sam let the man see the badge on his chest.

“You realize I'm pursuing the people who just left here, don't you?” he said.

“Yes, this I do know, Ran-jur,” the old man said, “but here there is only me and the dead, and we take no sides in the matters of man.” He grinned and gestured a weathered hand at the dugout hovels on the sides of the surrounding hills, remnant signs of life that had once clung to the place for thousands of years.

“How many armed men does Orwick have traveling with him?” Sam asked.

“Even here among the dead, lies and loose talk are cheap and worthless,” the old man said, his eyes turning sad with such a revelation. His wrinkled palm turned upward deftly.

Sam pulled a small gold coin from his vest pocket and laid it in his palm.

“How many?” he asked again.

“As they have come and gone, there are over a dozen men,” the old man said, “all of them armed. All of them prepared for trouble, as they have been this past year that I have come to know them.” He eyed the Ranger up and down as if realizing the trouble Orwick's men had been anticipating now stood before him. “With him also are seven women. These are the older wives that
Señor
Orwick will be replacing.”

“How do you know this?” Sam asked, testing him.

“Aw, Ran-jur,” the old man said, giving Sam and the woman the sad, wizened trace of a smile, “what man who can afford many wives will not replace them when he decides it is time to do so?”

“Oh, like so many horses, or field cattle?” Mattie said in a clipped tone.

Seeing the resentment in her eyes, the old man shrugged his bony shoulders.

“Por favor
,
señora,
” he said, again sadly. “Only if you are bitter at rain for falling from the sky, will you ever take solace in despising man for following the path man's nature bequeaths itself.”

All right. . . .
Sam nodded. The old cliff dweller had to be acknowledged.

“I see you study the ways of the ancients, the nature of man?” Sam said. “But what good does all this do me when I need to hear what's going on right now?”

Again the old man gestured a hand around at the dugouts on the cliff walls, the footpath worn low across a flat stone ledge leading to the black crevice.

“I thought myself a holy man—a
priest
, no less—until I journeyed here and saw this place and communed with those who whisper to me from within these ancient stones.”

“Easy, now,” the Ranger said. “Ours is not a spiritual quest.”

“But still, it is sacred here, Ran-jur,” the old man said, not to be swayed, “and its sacredness must be acknowledged. In this holy place you must take what wisdom is handed down to us and decipher from it that which will—”

“Okay, that's enough,” Sam said, cutting him off. “Tell me something useful, or I'll take back the piece of gold.”

The old man looked aghast at the prospect.

“Take back the piece of gold, my small pitiful coin?” he said in disbelief.

“Yep,” Sam said, “in about one second, even if I have to turn you upside down and shake it from you—”

“Wait!” the old man said, holding up a stopping hand toward him. “I will tell you this.” He pointed to the black crevice. “One of Orwick's men is inside. His
esposa
tends to him.”

Sam and Mattie looked at each other.

“All right,” Sam said, “lead us to them,
por favor.
” He reached into his vest pocket and took out another small gold coin and held it out to him.

“Sí,
of course,” the old man said. “Follow me.”

Sam and Mattie walked along close behind the old Mexican cliff dweller, their rifles in hand, through the black front crevice and down into the first chamber of the large cave. Before they were halfway down the narrow, torchlit hallway, they began to hear a man's string of mindless babbling interspersed with the calm, soothing voice of a woman.

Glancing back over his shoulder, the Mexican said, “I'm afraid the
señor
has been beaten into idiocy. He speaks of incidents from his childhood, and from the great civil conflict.”

“What happened to him?” Mattie asked.

But before she could receive a reply, the babbling voice echoed off the stone walls.

“Whose dog is that? Whose dog is
that
?” the injured man cried out. His voice sounded as if it were stifled by a mouthful of rocks.

The woman spoke quietly, trying to settle him, but the beaten man would have none of it.

“Will somebody tell me whose dog is
that
?” he demanded even louder. “He's licking the churn! He's licking the churn. . . .”

His voice trailed down beneath the woman's soothing pleas as the three stepped into sight. Upon seeing the Ranger and Mattie, the woman looked away from the man, panicked, ready to bolt. She raised a handful of wet cloth from the man's bloody, welted and split forehead.

“Please,” Mattie said, “we're not after you. Don't be afraid.”

“You're—you're after Dad, though,” the woman said, sounding frightened, distrustful. She looked from Mattie to the Ranger with her head lowered, her face almost out of sight, eyeing his badge in the flicker of torchlight.

“Yes, but not you, ma'am,” Sam said, checking her hands, making sure he saw no weapons as the old cliff dweller moved aside and he and Mattie walked closer.

“Is this man your husband?” he asked, hoping to engage her in something other than her fear of them.

“He—” She stopped, seeming to have to think about it for a moment, then said with her head still lowered, “Yes, he is my husband.” But she sounded unsure.

“What happened to him?” Mattie asked, quietly, feeling the woman settle down a little. She noted the woman's black eye even with her face half turned away, a strand of long silver-gray hair shrouding her cheek.

The battered man blurted out deliriously, “The same thing that happens to
any man
! Hold that line, boys! Hold her solid! Kill every fornicating cat in the litter! Look at them out there, look at them out there! Oh God, the
craven devils
fornicate before our eyes!”

“Shhh
, now, Brother Phillip,” the woman coaxed, placing the wet cloth back down on his purple, split forehead. “Quiet now, before you start swearing again. You know how Dad feels about swearing.”

“Dad?
Dad . . . ?
” The man's eyes rolled around toward Sam in the flickering torchlight.

Sam let out a breath and shook his head.

“I warned you, this one is an idiot, Ran-jur,” the old cliff dweller whispered, leaning in close to Sam.

“Yes, you did,” Sam replied almost in a whisper. “Who did this to him?”

The woman spoke up before the old Mexican could.

“I'm afraid I caused it all,” she said, almost in tears.

Mattie gave her a close and curious look as she listened to her continue.

“Dad
unbound
several of us from himself and bound us to any of his brethren he felt were worthy of us.” She tilted her chin up in Orwick's defense. “It was a wonderful, God-inspired act. I am ashamed to admit it, but I selfishly rebelled at the idea.”

“Whoa!
There it goes!” Phillip Kendrick blurted out. “Something dropped loose
inside my head
!”

“There, there, Brother Phillip,” the woman said, pressing the wet cloth against his forehead. Finally looking directly at Mattie and the Ranger, she shook her head.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Brother Phillip struck me. I should say
corrected me
for my own good. One of Dad's secular associates saw it and took offense, and before I could explain that it was my fault, he beat poor Brother Phillip with his pistol barrel—as you can see.”

“Oh my goodness,” said Mattie, suddenly struck almost breathless by her recognition of the woman. “Isabelle? Isabelle Rourke? Is that you?”

When she heard her maiden name spoken for the first time in what seemed like forever, a strange look came upon Isabelle's face. She stood up slowly, staring at Mattie as if in a stupor.

“Oh no,” she said, “my name is Isabelle Orwick, or so it was. Now, I suppose it has become—”

Sam watched, taking it all in, already seeing the resemblance between the two women.
Twins . . . ?
No, but their similarities were not far from it, he decided. Seeing the woman standing, he noted,
Same height, same size and build, near the same age, their hair worn the same way, almost the same shade of gray.

“Isabelle,
stop it!
” Mattie demanded, her voice sounding like a cold slap in the face. “It's Matilda, your sister! Look at me! Clear your mind and
look at me!
”

“Matilda?” Isabelle said, struggling with it. She paused tensely, then said,
“Mattie?”

“Yes, Mattie! It's me!” Mattie said, stepping quickly around the prone battered man lying on a blanket on the stone floor.

Sam watched the two embrace tearfully. Glancing at the old Mexican, he saw him shrug his thin shoulders.

“But—but you're dead, Mattie,” Isabelle said, holding her sister at arm's length. “You died long ago. . . .”

“No, Isabelle, I didn't die. You were only told that I died. You were lied to, the same way I was lied to. I was told that
you
were dead. It was Dad and his brethren. They lied to us—they used us. The way they are still using you.”

Sam eased back a step and looked all around the large cave in the flicker of torchlight. Eyeing the old Mexican, he finally said quietly, “Come on, you mentioned watering the horses. I'll go with you, give these women some time to talk.”

—

While the old cliff dweller watered and grained the horses, the Ranger took the opportunity to look the place over and gauge the number of riders by the abundance of hoofprints and debris left by Dad's group. After a few minutes he concluded the old man had been telling the truth. Over a dozen riders had passed through here within the past couple of days.

Walking back to where the horses stood drinking water from two short oak water buckets, Sam checked the animal over and slid his rifle back into its boot. In his saddlebags he carried two bundles of money stolen from the mine payroll, one he'd taken from the body of Burt Tally, the other he'd taken off the deacon's body earlier that day. Opening the flap, he riffled a hand down through the bundles of cash, then reclosed the flap.

“What was burning here earlier?” he asked as the old man finished with the horses.

“One of their wagons,” the old man replied. “I was there among the wagons when the man was beaten senseless. Luckily for the man who gave him the beating, one of the wagons caught fire when he left, so Orwick's men did not go after him.”

“Who was the man?” Sam asked.

“His name is Bannis,” said the old Mexican.

“Frank Bannis?” Sam asked.

“Sí,
Frank Bannis,” the old man said. “You know him?”

“I've heard of him,” Sam replied. “What do you know about Orwick?”

“Not so much,” said the old Mexican. “I only knew him for a year, since he started moving all his people to Mexico.” His voice dropped secretively. “I only see him one time, when his men did not know I was there.”

Sam just looked at him.

“They want no one to see, Ran-jur,” he whispered.

“Why do you suppose that is?” Sam asked, trying to get a better understanding of the men he was hunting.

The old Mexican shrugged and spread his upturned palms as if submitting to lack of knowledge.

“Forgive me. I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps they did not want the world to know that a man so young could have such power and lead such a large band of followers?”

“So young?” Sam asked.

The old Mexican cliff dweller went on as if he hadn't heard the Ranger's question.

“Perhaps he is ashamed to be a man so young, yet with so many
esposas
who are old enough to be his
madre.”

“His wives are old enough to be his mother?” Sam asked. “Are we talking about the same man here?”

The old Mexican's eyes widened as he turned in a circle, his arms outstretched, a supplicant to the silent ancient ruins surrounding them.

“What . . . ?” he asked, staring wildly from one dark open dugout doorway to the next as if seeing the entities from the past staring back at him. “Yes, yes, I hear you! Yes, of course, I hear them coming!”

But as he turned back to share this revelation with the Ranger, Sam heard the sound too. It was not information offered by unseen entities—it was something offered by the stone walls themselves. It was the sound of horses' hooves, and as he listened, he heard the rumbling sound become clearer as it rolled closer up the hill trail.