by Jory Sherman
“You are a bastard, Cody.” And with those words, blood spurted out of Zigler’s mouth. He choked on it and spat up a large gob that went down his chin like tomato pulp and stopped just above the hole in his chest.
Death might be merciful to Zigler after all, Zak thought. He was losing blood. That would weaken him. He might lose consciousness before the pain struck him. It was tough to watch a man die. Any man. But Zigler had chosen his path. Had he been lucky, it might have turned out differently. Zak himself might be lying in the dirty street, instead of Zigler.
Zigler moved as a sudden spasm rippled through his body. His feet kicked out and his legs jumped. His shoulders shook and his hands lost control, twitched like a pair of wounded animals.
“Ahhh,” Zigler said. The groan was not deep in his throat, but more like air escaping. A fine spray of pink blood turned to silver mist and freckled his face.
“Any last request, Zigler? A final wish?”
“I wish you go to hell, Cody,” Zigler gasped.
“Maybe I’ll meet you there, Zigler.”
“To hell you will go.”
“You may already be there, Zigler, and just don’t know it yet. If you feel a sharp prod in your back, that’s probably the devil’s pitchfork.”
“Shit,” Zigler said, and Zak knew he was losing reason. He didn’t have enough blood in him to feed his brain. The little oxygen he was getting was just keeping his pump going. Zigler’s pale blue eyes were almost empty. They were gleaming dully like nickels under the glaze of the moon. But they were not bright—more like tarnished silver.
Zak ejected the empty hulls from his pistol, put fresh cartridges in the chambers. Zigler watched him as a small animal would watch a venomous snake that’s ready to strike.
Zak spun the cylinder, put the hammer on half cock.
“You shoot me now again?” Zigler said.
Blood oozed from the hole in his chest. It was not spurting, just eking out from the feeble beatings of his heart.
“No, Zigler. You have to die on your own.”
“You have the cruel streak, Cody. Gut. My hate keeps me alive a little longer.”
“Why waste another bullet on someone as worthless as you, Zigler?”
He said something in German that Zak could not quite hear.
Then Zigler’s body contorted as he was struck by another sudden spasm.
Zak could read the pain on his face. His facial muscles tautened and his skin nearly matched the blondness of his hair. His red lips and pale eyes gave him the look of a man dug up from a grave, a man already dead.
Zigler closed his eyes as he fought against the intense pain. He opened his mouth as if trying to scream, but no sound came out. There was only a gurgle deep in his throat and another issuance of blood, a fine spray as he convulsed, and then strings of crimson that settled on his chest like sodden earthworms.
“So long, Zigler,” Zak whispered under his breath.
He slipped his pistol back in his holster.
As he walked away, he heard a rattling sound in Zigler’s throat, then a slight wheeze, followed by a deep silence.
He grabbed up the reins of Jorge’s horse, a dark buckskin gelding, led him around the corner. He made sure his boots hit the ground hard enough for Vickers and Clarita to hear him coming.
“That you, Zak?” Jeff called out.
“Got you a horse, Jeff.”
“We thought you were dead,” Clarita said. “We heard the shooting.”
“Who was it?” Jeff asked.
“Zigler.”
“Good. Just those two, then?”
“I think so. Biederman either went with his men to the Jemez or sent Pete with them. A hundred or more, I figure.”
“What are they going to do?”
Jeff and Clarita stood up, both brushing at their clothes.
Zak put two fingers in his mouth and gave out a piercing whistle.
“Mount up,” he said to Jeff. “Clarita, you ride with him.”
A moment later Nox gamboled up to them, reins trailing.
“To answer your question, Jeff, I think Leo’s men are going to not only warn Narbona, but join him in trying to wipe out Loomis and his troops.”
“We’ve got to warn Colonel Loomis.”
“The soldiers rode out of the fort two or three hours ago,” Clarita said. “That is what Pete told Leo. I heard them talking after you left.”
“That fool,” Vickers said. “He should have given us three days.”
“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” Zak said. “I wouldn’t fault Loomis just yet.”
“What are we going to do? We have to warn Loomis what he’s up against.”
Zak climbed into the saddle, looked at Jeff.
“We’re going to help Loomis if we can,” Zak said. “If he goes into that country blind, then Leo’s men and the Navajos will cut him to pieces.”
“First, you must take me to my house, Zak,” Clarita said. “It is very important that my father speak to you. It will not take long.”
“It had better not,” Zak said, “because we can’t stay long. Jeff and I have a good ride ahead of us.”
“I know,” she said. “Come, I show you where we live.”
Jeff took the lead, with Clarita holding out her arm every so often to point the way.
Zak thought of the time that had already passed, and tried to figure out where Loomis might be. He was pretty sure Pete and the others wouldn’t attack him from the rear. No, they’d get ahead of Loomis somehow. They had the advantage. They knew the way to Narbona’s camp. Loomis did not.
Perhaps, he thought, he and Jeff could beat both the army and Biederman’s men into the Jemez. They would have to be like shadows—racing shadows. They would have to outwit Pete and his minions, and if they could catch up to Loomis, they might be able to reason with him, lead him through that terrible country and prepare him to do battle with a clever and powerful enemy.
It was a lot for two tired men who were running hours behind Loomis and probably an hour behind Pete Carmody.
Carlita cried out, “There. There’s our house.”
And there it was, a modest adobe building with moonlight on its porch roof, flowers in profusion, and a man standing in the lighted doorway. A man Zak remembered.
A man Zak knew.
Chapter 21
Francisco “Paquito” Mendez wore his short gray hair like a monk’s skullcap. His smile, wide and white and friendly, was as Zak had remembered it. His handshake when Zak entered his home was as strong as it ever was. The eyes, so brown they appeared almost black, were just as piercing, just as bright, as if lit by an inner fervor.
“Paquito,” Zak said, “you look fit as a fiddle. This is my friend, Captain Jeff Vickers.”
“Welcome to our poor home,” Paquito said. “Please take seats. Do you wish a cup?”
“No,” Zak said. “We can only stay a brief time. We must ride to the Jemez.”
“Sit, sit,” Paquito said. Both men removed their hats in deference to Clarita now that they were indoors.
Clarita took off her shawl, draped it over the back of an empty chair, and sat there, while Jeff and Zak seated themselves on the divan. Paquito sat in a baronial chair with a high back. It seemed to suit his judicial poise and confidence. Zak was not surprised that his friend was now a judge. Paquito had been outraged at the murder of Zak’s father and had always voiced his opinions about injustice. He had decried the treatment of Mexicans, Indians, and poor white people in Taos and vowed to change what he could change before he died.
“I was sorry to hear about Elena,” Zak said. “She was a good woman.”
“The grief of losing Clarita’s elder sister was too hard for her, I fear,” Mendez said. “I think grief took her to heaven. She is with the angels.”
Clarita crossed herself quickly, bowed her head. Elena was her mother, Paquito’s wife.
“I was hoping Clarita would bring you here, Zak,” Paquito said. “I know that yo
u have met Leo Biederman and his wife, Minnie, and some of his henchmen.”
“You know about Biederman?” Zak said.
“That is why I sent for you, Zak. I know a great deal about Leo Biederman, much to my misfortune.”
“He is…” Zak started to say. Paquito held up his hand to stay him from further discussion.
“I will tell you about Leo,” he said. Then he turned to Clarita and spoke in rapid Spanish. She nodded and rose from her chair.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I will prepare coffee. My father insists that we all take a cup with him before you leave.”
“Of course,” Vickers said, ever the polite army officer. “We would be delighted.”
Paquito smiled. Wanly, Zak thought. He had heard his friend mention coffee, but he had said something else to his daughter, something that was said with such celerity that Zak had trouble translating it. “Ponga goats en las tazas de los dos caballeros.” Or something like that. Something that did not make much sense, or that he may have misheard.
Clarita padded down the hall to the kitchen and Zak could hear the clatter of a pot, the rattle of kindling being thrown into a stove’s firebox, and the clang of a stove lid banging into place.
“You look much tired, Zak,” Paquito said. “And so do you, Captain Vickers.”
“We’ll sleep in the saddle if we must,” Zak said. “Just what did you want to see me about, Paquito?”
“I think there are some things you must know about this man before you hunt him down. I have known Leo and Minnie for some time. They are dangerous people.”
“I know that,” Zak said.
“He is a greedy man. I have been watching him and have had to adjudicate some legal disputes involving him. Over some land filings involving Spanish land grants.”
“I’m not surprised,” Zak said.
“It became very clear to me, Zak, that Biederman is trying to grab up—and that is the term I use, even though it is not a legal one—all the land in the Rio Grande Valley. To this end, he has, shall we say, helped and encouraged the Navajo nation, certain members of that nation, to flee their reservations illegally, and attack farmers and ranchers on both sides of the Rio Grande, then file on their properties, which he has obtained illegally.”
“I know some of this, I think,” Zak said. “I also think he wants to destroy the army at Fort Marcy and the Presidio.”
“That is true. So he wishes to draw the army into a fight, a dangerous fight, that the army cannot win.”
“Yes, I know that, too.” Zak told Paquito about his experience with Gregorio Delacruz, and what Narbona had said to him about telling the army.
“Yes. This Narbona is a very big man in the Navajo nation. He is almost like a god. The Navajos believe that he is their dead leader come back to life.”
“A ghost,” Zak said.
“Yes, but a live ghost with much power. Narbona—the real Narbona—died many years ago. This one has taken his name, which is against Navajo custom.”
“I know that, too,” Zak said.
“Did you also know that Leo’s wife is the sister of Narbona? Leo calls her Minnie, but her name is Minerva.”
“The Roman goddess,” Zak said.
“Yes. The goddess of the hunt. She is a dangerous woman. She was the courier between Leo and Narbona. She wants her people to reclaim all of their ancient lands and drive all the whites and the Mexicans away.”
“That is why Jeff and I must warn Colonel Loomis and try to stop Leo and Narbona.”
“Just the two of you? That is a fool’s errand, Zak. Listen to me. You must let the battle between Loomis and Narbona happen as if the fates had decreed it. You cannot stop them. Later, when Washington learns of the defeat of Loomis, they will send a bigger army and justice will be served.”
“While hundreds of Americans spill their blood in the Jemez,” Zak said.
Carlita came into the room bearing a wooden tray with four cups of coffee. She stopped before Jeff and handed him a cup, then handed another to Zak. She gave her father a cup and took the last one for herself. She set the tray on a small table in front of the divan and sat down.
Zak looked around the room, mulling over what Paquito had told him. There was a Spartan feel to the furnishings. In one corner, there was a small statue of the Virgin Mary with two votive candles burning in front of it. Zak thought it might be a shrine to Elena and Corazon, since there were two candles. There were pegs in the walls, a calendar hanging on one of them and a map of New Mexico on the other. There were no feminine touches, and Zak wondered if Carlita lived with her father or somewhere else. There was a fireplace and a mantel, with nothing on top except a small mirror that seemed out of place. It did not look like a place that saw much entertainment. There were books in a small bookcase. They looked like law books, with their thick leather bindings and ornate lettering on the spines.
He sipped the coffee, relishing its warmth and the lift it gave him. That lift was short-lived.
Jeff drank half of his cup and then reached out a hand to the armrest.
Zak saw the room go out of focus, the people and objects in it twisting into grotesque shapes. Then the room began to spin and he felt a rush of darkness rising up in his brain.
“You men need rest,” Paquito said, and his voice sounded muffled and far away, as if Zak were hearing it with cotton stuffed in his ears.
“Paquito, what in hell did you do?” Zak asked, his own voice strangled in some silken web.
“I gave you the kind of drops sailors use when they shanghai a seaman. It will make you sleep a while, that’s all. I do not want you and your friend to be killed.”
Vickers tried to get up and toppled over. He fell headlong onto the floor, passed out cold.
Zak tried to bring Paquito into focus. The cup dropped out of his hands, fell to the floor, and shattered into shards.
Clarita rose from her chair to go to Zak, but her father held up his hand and shook his head.
“Damn you, Paquito,” Zak said as the spinning moved from the room and into his brain. The darkness welled up again and everything went dark. He felt himself falling from a high cliff down into a dark sea that was turning red as blood.
Then he fell to one side and lay there like a stricken animal.
“We will put them in beds,” Paquito said to his daughter.
“I want Zak to sleep in mine,” she said.
“You have no shame, daughter.”
She did not answer because Clarita knew her father was right.
When it came to Zak, the hero of her childhood, she had no shame.
None whatsoever.
Chapter 22
Roaming through the dream corridors of his subconscious, Zak was a shadow gliding across emerald meadows where mule deer gamboled as he passed, and a beaver streamed a V of wavelets on a pond as it swam up from its domed den and streaked toward the shore, where a man, hip deep in the same silver water, oiled a trap with golden castoreum. The man had the face of Russell Cody before it transformed into the face of Paquito Mendez, then morphed into a grinning timber wolf.
The scene shifted to another, where his shadow was walking in a deserted landscape dominated by the sheer walls of red sandstone mountains, and he had a rifle in his hand. He entered a narrow canyon and saw the hunched figures of red men with bows and arrows hiding behind immense red boulders, their faces painted for war. He started running and the sky filled with arrows. He turned and aimed his rifle, but it turned into a twisting snake and slithered from his hands. He felt a hot rain stinging his flesh and his shirt disintegrated, slid from his shoulders onto the ground, where it became a steaming puddle of mud and water. An Indian pounced on him, a female with long black tresses and ruby lips, eyes like fiery black diamonds. He began to burn inside, and the landscape evaporated into a warm mist that enveloped him. Then an ocean darkness, and he was swimming up from its depths, his lungs burning until he could reach air on the surface. He swam upward, out of sleep, flailing his rub
bery arms, with nothing between him and death but a wine-dark sea.
He awoke to darkness—and a presence—his body naked, the bed beneath him soft and warm, a dark face next to his, a bare leg draped across his.
“Huh?” Zak said, groggy with sleepiness. “Where am I?”
“Zak, Zak,” she cooed and the cobwebs in his mind thinned. “Love me, Zak. Love me.”
“Carlita?”
“Yes, yes.”
She peppered his face with warm kisses and he felt a hand brush across his chest, the fingers searching through the tangled wires of his hairs. Her lips pressed against his and he felt the heat of her. She slid atop him and her breasts flattened against his chest.
It was dark outside, still, and the faint light of the moon streamed through the window, too weak to define the room. The room seemed filled with a solid mist, frozen into immobility as if the light were frost and could stop time with its ghostly glow.
Carlita made love to him and he went to her willingly, let her satisfy herself before he turned her over on her back and took command, burying himself deep inside her until her back arched and she mewed like a kitten and then uttered a muffled scream. She collapsed into what the Mexicans called “the little death,” sated and filled with him, and both came down from the heights like fallen birds, like swimmers floating on an ocean of air toward a distant, pillowy shore.
He slipped from her body and lay beside her, taking breaths into his lungs, struggling to get his bearings. He saw the room then, the adobe walls, dark frames on the walls, a single window filled with moonlight, a wardrobe against one wall, a table next to the bed, and shadows flitting like giant moths against the beamed ceiling.
“Carlita,” he said when his breathing had returned to normal, “did Paquito knock me out?”
“Only to help you,” she said.
“He should not have done that. I have to go.”
“Yes, I know. But you slept, Zak. You rested and now you can go. But I fear for you. You are going where there is danger.”
“Paquito had no right to do what he did. Where’s Captain Vickers?”
