The Savage Curse Page 16

  He felt as if he were melting inside. The way she talked, the way she looked at him. He was melting and he hadn’t had such feelings in so long he had forgotten the youth that had experienced them. So many years gone by, and nothing much to show for it. How could he explain such things to anyone, much less Gale Gill?

  He couldn’t, he knew. Feelings were like smoke. You couldn’t rope ’em, you couldn’t hog-tie ’em. You just felt them. Felt them real deep inside, like the taste of good wine or the scent of a flower early in the morning.

  They heard hoofbeats, then the creak of leather, the jangle of metal rings. Then pounding footsteps, a loud knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Gale called.

  The door opened and one of the sheepherders burst through it, his eyes wide.

  “There is a rider,” he said. “He is coming. He is . . .”

  “Slow down, Fidel,” she said. “Is he coming from the north or from the south?”

  “He comes from the south.”

  Gale’s eyes flared. Ben set his tea down and scraped his chair as he climbed out of it.

  “That ain’t Johnny comin’,” he said.

  “Trouble?” Gale asked as Ben bolted for the door, brushing Fidel aside.

  “It sure as hell ain’t good news,” he said.

  Gale took Fidel by the arm and they walked back outside together.

  “You be ready,” she said as he climbed back on his horse.

  Fidel turned his horse and galloped to the edge of the tabletop. Gale walked slowly to where Ben was standing. He was staring down at the valley, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it sure as hell ain’t Johnny.”

  The rider was turning onto the road that led up to the mesa and the mine. His face was shaded by the brim of his hat. A rifle jutted from its boot, and sunlight glinted off the cartridges in his gunbelt.

  He looked like a man with a purpose as he rode on, seemingly fearless, right into a half dozen guns that were aimed straight at him.

  Ben’s eyes narrowed to dark slits.

  The rider, he thought, was either mighty bold or plumb crazy.

  27

  JOHN NOONED IN THE DUBIOUS SHADE OF A SMALL BUTTE several hundred yards off the road. He chewed on boiled mutton slabbed between two halves of a dried biscuit Ben had cooked the day before. Dry-throated, he sipped warm water from his wooden canteen and stared at the blue sky with small cottony clouds moving so slow they almost seemed motionless. He had seen no travelers on the road south, nor had he expected any in the heat of the day.

  John gazed at a land of sunshine and shadows, so serene, so peaceful under the blue sky. He marveled at the many shapes, the ancient formations that seemed as if they had been built by gods. The land seemed barren, but oddly golden, with a subtle mixture of cinnamon, lavender, and autumnal brown, as enticing as a painted lady in an enormous room, lying on a majestic couch draped with throws and shawls. He felt the land come into him as if its immense power had the ability to enslave a man’s heart, capture his soul.

  A lizard slithered across a shady rock, seeking the warmth of the sun, its tiny eyes glittering like a pair of jewels, its velvety skin woven of yellow-and-blue stripes, its muscles fluid and flowing, its tail twitching like a magic wand. Flies buzzed and hunted for blood or droppings from his food, their melodies an undertone to his thoughts, minor conversations in another room.

  He finished eating and stepped into the stirrup, feeling the muscular power of Gent beneath him as he settled into the cradle of his saddle. The creak of leather was reassuring in this alien land and as they moved back onto the road, John felt as rich as any man could be. He had a good horse, money in his pocket, gold in his saddlebags, and a friend waiting for him atop the mesa that jutted out from a mountain like the entrance to a shrine.

  An hour later, a jackrabbit jumped in front of him and he heard the ominous rattle in a nearby bush. The rabbit bounded out of sight and the rattler went silent. A few moments later, he saw a man on horseback riding slowly toward him from the south. His senses perked up as if pricked by the spine of a Spanish bayonet, and his right hand dropped to the butt of his pistol.

  There was something wrong with the rider. He was slumped in the saddle. The horse stepped out smartly, its hide sleek and black as velvet in the sun. An uncommon horse in such country, he thought, maybe four or five years old and tall, as graceful as a thoroughbred.

  The road to the mine was close, just out of eyesight. But close.

  John rode on, closing the distance between him and the lone rider.

  When he got close enough, John called out.

  “Ho, the rider. You all right?”

  There was no answer, but he saw the man’s arm rise and his right hand open.

  He gripped the butt of his pistol and rode in close. Close enough to see the rider, a half-naked man gripping the reins and saddle horn with his left hand. His right arm now dangled by his side, scarlet with blood.

  John knew he was looking at a Navajo warrior. The man’s leg was bleeding, too. The blood oozed out from under a scab just below his knee, on the calf. His right shoulder was wrapped with a blood-soaked bandanna that had loosened, apparently, so that blood trickled down his arm.

  “Quién eres?” he said in Spanish. Who are you?

  “Coyote. Yo soy Coyote.”

  John’s pulse quickened. He reached out and tilted the man’s head so that he could see his face. Yes, it was Coyote.

  “Do you know who I am?” John asked in Spanish.

  “Yes. Do you have my knife?”

  “I have it.”

  “I am dying. I want to take my knife with me.”

  “I will give it to you. Did you come to see me, Coyote? How did you find me?”

  “Yes. I see you from far away. And I talk to a man in a wagon. He tell me you go to Tucson, come back this sun. I come to give you warning. The white man Ollie. He is coming. He has many men. He comes to kill you, Salvaje.”

  John felt his pulse pounding in his temple. Coyote had used the Spanish word for Savage.

  “Ollie told you this?”

  “I ride the death trail, Salvaje. You were kind to me. You did not kill me.”

  Coyote drew himself up and looked at John with sad brown eyes that were misted with pain.

  “How many men does Ollie bring with him?

  “Four white men and Mano Rojo.”

  “When does Ollie come?”

  “One more sun. He comes tomorrow.”

  John reached back and felt inside one of his saddlebags. He found the knife, brought it out. Coyote’s eyes widened when he saw it.

  “Can you come with me, Coyote?”

  “No. Coyote die muy pronto.”

  “I have medicines.”

  Coyote shook his head.

  John handed him the knife. As Coyote grasped it with his bloody right hand, John could almost feel the pain that ripped through the Navajo’s body, could almost hear the silent scream that must be sounding in the man’s brain.

  Coyote slid the knife into the empty sheaf on his sash.

  “Go with your god,” Coyote said in Spanish.

  “Where will you go?” John asked.

  Coyote looked off into the distance.

  “To the mountains,” he said.

  He did not say good-bye, but turned his horse toward the mountains, toward the west. As he rode off, John saw the army brand on the horse’s hip. He watched him ride on, amazed at his courage, his fortitude. Coyote had a purpose, he knew, and he would get to the mountains and he would die all alone, close to the earth, under the sky.

  The sun was falling in the western sky and soon John was blinded by the light and Coyote had disappeared.

  He turned his horse and rode toward the road that would take him to the mine. His heart had lead in it, weighed heavy in his chest. He might not have been able to make Coyote well, but he knew he would have done it if Coyote had
let him.

  He would have made a friend out of an enemy if he could have.

  If.

  So Hobart was coming. And he had five men with him. One of them was Mano Rojo, the man who had killed Gale’s husband.

  As he topped the rise, he saw a wagon approaching. He recognized the wagon and the horses.

  The two men spoke in Spanish. John asked him what he was called.

  “I am called Romero. I take these dead ones to Tucson.”

  “The lieutenant?” John said.

  “He is one, yes.”

  “You go alone?”

  “The lady is on the mesa with your friend. I will return when the sun sets. There will be fighting, no?”

  “Yes, there will be fighting?”

  “This night?”

  “No. Tomorrow.”

  “Did you see the Navajo who was hurt?”

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “He told me he was your friend. He said he was dying and wanted to say good-bye.”

  “He is dying. He said good-bye.”

  “I told him he would meet you.”

  “That was good to do.”

  “I would have killed him, but I knew he was dying. I could smell his death on him.”

  “There will be more dying tomorrow.”

  “Good. I am not afraid.”

  Romero smiled.

  Perhaps he was brave, perhaps not. John couldn’t tell. But he waved good-bye and continued on. For some reason he was glad Gale was with Ben up on the mesa. He thought maybe she was taking a shine to him, and perhaps Ben was interested in her. They were both about the same age, and both had lost much in the world.

  But he was no matchmaker. Ben would have to fend for himself when it came to women.

  When he reached the road, he saw men on horseback atop the mesa. He waved, wondering if they could see him from so far away.

  He didn’t want to be shot if they were men who worked for Gale, which he suspected they were.

  One of the men waved back, while another turned his head toward the laboratory.

  A few minutes later, John looked up and saw what looked to be Gale and Ben, and another man, all on foot.

  All three waved at him and he smiled.

  He felt good for a moment and waved back.

  Yes, he felt good.

  It almost felt like he was coming home.

  And yet he knew, deep down, that he had no home.

  And he never would have until Ollie Hobart was dead and he could put away his six-gun.

  That accursed gun that was far too easy to draw and shoot.

  And to kill.

  28

  JAKE WARD SEEMED A MERE SEMBLANCE OF HIS FORMER SELF. HE had lost weight, for one thing. His clothes hung on him like someone else’s dirty laundry. He had not shaved in several days and the wiry bristles of his beard could not conceal his gaunt, emaciated face. He was covered with dust and reeked of long sweaty hours in the saddle. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed as if he had been rubbing them with sand or hot chili peppers.

  “You look like hell, Jake,” John said as the two shook hands.

  “I been through it, sure enough,” Jake said.

  “Glad to see you, anyway. You run off from Ollie?”

  “I sneaked off,” Jake said, “and only got free by the skin of my teeth. If most of the Navajos in Red Hand’s band hadn’t been killed by the soldiers Ollie bushwhacked, he’d have had me tracked and shot. Why he didn’t send Red Hand after me, I’ll never know. Anyway, I never had a chance to get Hobart, the bastard. He’s as wily as a fox, and a thousand times more dangerous.”

  Jake paused to get his breath, but it was plain that he had a lot more on his mind than his escape from Ollie’s band of outlaws.

  “Look, John, I come here to warn you. Ollie knows about this mine up here and that you found gold. He’s comin’. I don’t know when, but you got to get out.”

  “I know he’s coming,” John said.

  “You do? Then let’s all hightail it out of here. He wants the gold, sure, but he wants you more than anything else. I tell you, Ollie’s got blood in his eye. He means to put a bullet right square in your head or pump.”

  John sucked in a breath.

  “That’s good news,” John said. “I want Ollie to come after me. Saves me the trouble of hunting him down in Mexico.”

  “You’re plumb loco,” Jake said.

  “How do you know he’s comin’, John?” Ben asked.

  John told him about Coyote.

  “That injun told you that? And you trust a redskin?” Ben said.

  “He was dying. Look, there’s a lot to do. According to Coyote, Ollie and his men, as well as Red Hand, should be up here sometime tomorrow. Gale, we don’t need all those men standing guard. Just one will do. On foot. You can relieve him every two hours. Ben and I will stand watch, too, if need be.”

  “My men will be glad to hear that,” she said. “Shouldn’t the guard be on horseback?”

  “No. The guard should be sitting down. He can see far enough. But anyone down in the valley will find him hard to see if he’s not sitting a horse.”

  “I understand,” she said. “What you say makes good sense.”

  Gale picked her way through the piles of horse droppings and spoke to her men. All but one of the riders turned their horses. The last man dismounted and handed his reins to Gale. She came back to the lab, leading the riderless horse.

  “Too bad we never built no stable up here,” she said.

  John nodded and turned to Ben.

  “We need a place to hobble all the horses, Ben. Do you suppose you could scout a place on the other side of that mountain where the mine is?”

  Ben stepped to one side of the lab and surveyed the terrain. There were smaller hills to the north, but the mountain was wide and rugged.

  “There’s a wide path down that side,” Gale said. “Clarence sometimes tied up his horses in a little grassy swale. I don’t know exactly where it is, but he told me about it. When he was up here for any length of time with several of our men, he said he kept the horses down there, out of the way.”

  “I’ll ride down there and scout it,” Ben said.

  He started to go after his horse, then stopped.

  “John, how many men has Ollie got with him?”

  “Five or six, counting Mano Rojo.”

  “The numbers sound okay, but Ollie sure as hell ain’t goin’ to ride straight up the road right into our guns.”

  “No,” John said, “I don’t expect he will. I’ll tell you my plan when you get back. See if you can’t find that grassy place where we can quarter the horses.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ben said.

  “Take Fidel with you,” Gale said. “I think he’s been there before.”

  Ben and Fidel rode off toward the far end of the tailings and disappeared over the side of the mesa. John walked to the edge of the tabletop and surveyed the road and the surrounding terrain. The guard, whose name was Benito Porres, spoke to him.

  “What you look for?” he said.

  “Places to hide men on both sides of that road.”

  “Like the Indios, eh?”

  John nodded and walked the length of the escarpment from one side to the other.

  He stood at the south end for several minutes, scanning the road, the rocky terrain that sloped away from the mesa. There were plenty of places where a man might conceal himself. But there were other considerations, as well. If they flanked the road, he would have to place rifles in close range to the road, but in such a way that those on the opposite flank would not be in the line of fire. He was not a military man, but he knew he had to think like one now. Their lives depended on his judgment. And he wanted to make sure that Ollie could not get away.

  What would Ollie think when he came to this place?

  He wasn’t a stupid man. In fact, he was very smart and very clever. He was also very wary. He was like a wise old fox. If, when he rode up, he saw the slightest move
ment, heard a cough, or saw sunlight bouncing off a rifle barrel, he would elude any trap set for him.

  Gale and Jake finally walked over and stood just behind John. They didn’t speak or make a sound, for they surmised that he was thinking. John knew they were there, but he kept looking down at the south road and the road leading to the mesa and the mine.

  There was another matter he had to work out, too. What would draw Ollie up the road? The man wasn’t a fool. He would be thinking of ways to approach that were well away from the road. He would have a commanding view of the road, the mesa, and everything surrounding his path. And, too, he would have the eagle-eyed Mano Rojo with him, a Navajo warrior who could probably spot a sitting bird at a thousand yards.

  Finally, John turned around and looked at Gale and Jake.

  He gazed into Jake’s eyes, then into Gale’s.

  “Two questions,” he said.

  They both looked at him in silence, waiting.

  “Jake, are you a good shot?”

  “I am. So I’ve been told.”

  “Gale, how good can your men shoot?”

  “Not very good, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “So there’s Jake, Ben, you, Gale, and me. Four good shots. We’ll be facing five or six killers, men who seldom miss, probably.

  “You worried, John?” Jake said.

  “No. I don’t want anyone here to get shot. I don’t want any of you to die.”

  “That sounds like worry to me,” Gale said.

  “Just figuring the odds,” John said.

  “And?” Gale said before Jake could say the same thing.

  “In our favor, maybe,” John said.

  “Look, John,” Jake said, “I might not have gotten Ollie, but I want him as bad as you do. He killed my brother and I can’t rest until he’s paid for that. Just like you want him to pay for what he did to your family.”

  “I’m not questioning your courage, Jake.

  “Then, what?”

  “I’ll tell you both. You have a right to know.”

  “Tell us,” Gale said, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  A breeze had sprung up as the sun settled on the far peaks to the west, throwing much of the land into pools of shadow and sunlight, gentling the valley below, painting it a soft purple, while the clouds blazed on the horizon, their underbellies gilded with copper and gold, their sides turning salmon and silver.