by Jory Sherman
Trask headed straight up the old road, Deets, Ferguson, Cavins, and O’Hara right behind him. The others trailed after them as Julio and Renaldo drew their knives and began cutting into the hard pan of the desert. Julio’s face was streaked with grimy tears and he was shaking as he dug.
“That bastard Trask,” he said, in English. “Un hijo de puta, salvaje.”
“Calm yourself, Julio,” Renaldo said in Spanish. “One day, perhaps, we will bury him.”
“That would give me much satisfaction,” Julio said.
He picked up the small pistol lying next to his wife, examined it and stuck it under his belt.
“I wonder where she got this pistol,” he said softly.
Renaldo shrugged.
Trask turned to Ferguson when they had traveled a short distance.
“I know who killed that Chama and Carmen Delgado,” he said.
“You do? How? Who?”
“Cody,” Trask said. “He’s in this, somewhere.”
“How do you know?” Ferguson asked.
“I just know. I know it in my gut, that sonofabitch. I figure Chama made a mistake, or maybe went for his gun. The woman, she may have thrown down on Cody, too. That bastard’s fast. Very fast. He sure as hell could have killed them both. And I know damned well he did.”
“Who are the other riders, then?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I just don’t know, damn it all.”
He rolled a quirly and stuck it in his mouth. He lit a match and drew the smoke in. Ferguson got very quiet, but kept looking off to his left at the jumble of hills and the long ridge that seemed to be the land brooding down on them.
Over on the ridge there was just the slightest movement as Cody peered down at the old road.
He moved so slowly and held his head so still, he might have been just another rock to anyone glancing up at him. He was hatless, and his face, browned from the sun, was not much different in color than the desert itself.
Chapter 22
Zak clamped a hand over Colleen’s mouth and pushed her down, held her hard against the rocky ground. Her eyes flashed with a wild look as she struggled against him. The two soldiers looked on, uncertain about what they should do.
“Listen, Miss O’Hara,” Zak said, his voice a throaty whisper, “you make one sound and we’ll be captured and killed. Do you understand me?”
She calmed down, but Zak kept up the pressure on her mouth and body.
“I mean it. Those are dangerous men down there and they outnumber us.”
She tried to nod her head. Her eyes flashed her response.
“You’ll behave, then?” he asked.
“Umm-ummm,” she replied.
“I’ll let up on you,” he whispered, “but if you cry out or make noise, I’ll knock you cold. If you have anything to say, you whisper right into my ear as the sound won’t travel. Got it?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
Zak slowly lifted his hand from her mouth, but kept it hovering a couple of inches away. He watched her lips like a man watching a burning fuse on a stick of dynamite. He nodded and backed away so she could sit up. She beckoned to him, asking him to come close.
She put her lips right up against his ear.
“That’s Ted down there. My brother,” she hissed in a sizzling whisper.
“Nothing we can do about it now. But we’ll get him free. I promise. Now, just keep that notion in your head and shut up.”
She nodded.
Zak signed with his hands to the two soldiers, telling them he was going to crawl to the top of the ridge and that they were to stay there, out of sight, with Colleen. Both men nodded assent.
Before Zak crept to the top of the ridge, Colleen drew him close and whispered softly in his ear. She put one hand behind his head and pulled him next to her so his arm brushed against one of her breasts.
“I wish,” she sighed softly, “you were still holding me down, Zak.”
Zak felt the strength drain from his knees and his stomach fluttered with a thousand flying insects. The musky scent of her assailed his nostrils like coal oil thrown on an open flame. His veins sizzled with excitement and there was a twinge at his loins as the fever of her touch and the urgency of her words seared through him like wildfire.
He drew away from her, slowly, and touched a finger to his lips. She smiled at him, and he felt his insides melt as if she had poured molten honey down his throat. He turned from her and began the slow crawl to a vantage point on the ridgetop where he could watch and listen. He mentally shook off what had happened, needing to focus, to concentrate.
He lay very still, his head resting on his hands between two head-sized rocks. He saw Trask, the man he took to be Ferguson, and the Mexicans congregating around the body of Carmen Delgado. And he saw Ted O’Hara, guarded by one man in particular. O’Hara looked at ease, however, and Zak mentally applauded his courage, his coolness. He saw a man who was more alert than any of the others, a prisoner who refused to allow his chains to weigh him down. Ted O’Hara, he decided, was a good man to ride the river with.
He saw Trask extend his arm toward the east and start to ride up the old road, the others following in his wake. The Mexicans continued to dig a grave for Carmen as Trask and the others moved out of eyesight.
Zak thought for a moment. It was pretty plain where Trask was headed. He had left the stage road and was traveling on the old road, straight into the heart of Apache lands. There was only one thing Ben Trask was interested in, Zak knew—gold. Apache gold. And if his hunch was right, he was using O’Hara to lead him straight to an Apache camp. O’Hara had been dealing with the Apaches and he knew where their strongholds were. Like Jeffords, he most likely had spoken with Cochise and probably knew more than any other man in the territory.
O’Hara was in a bad spot.
And so were they all, for that matter.
Zak didn’t wait for the Mexicans to finish digging the grave for Carmen. Three of them stayed behind, and he knew it would take them some time to finish digging with their knives. If they buried Chama, it would take longer. The longer the better, he thought. But he knew he would have to deal with them sooner or later.
He slowly slid back off the ridgetop and descended to where Colleen and the two soldiers were still waiting. Colleen’s face told him that she was anxious, while the two soldiers seemed restless and ill at ease, perhaps put out because they had been left with nothing to do.
“Have they all gone?” Colleen asked in a whisper.
“Most of them,” Zak said softly. He knew his voice wouldn’t carry over the hill to the other side.
“How many?” asked Scofield.
“More than you two could handle. It’s not safe to leave yet. Some Mexicans are burying the dead woman. But I reckon you all are anxious to get to Tucson.”
“Yes, sir,” Rivers said. “I mean, we have leave, Delbert and me.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to Tucson,” Colleen said, her voice pitched low. “Not while those rascals have my brother. If I have to, I’ll chase them to the ends of the earth.”
Zak gave her a sharp look. “I think you ought to go to Tucson, Miss O’Hara. Under the escort of Scofield and Rivers. It would be the safest thing to do.”
“No. I came this far to find my brother. Well, I’ve found him and I’m going to…”
“To what?” Zak asked.
“Well, I have a gun. A pistol. I can shoot. I’m going to get Ted away from those despicable people.”
“Ben Trask would shoot you dead in your tracks if you even came after him with a pair of scissors, let alone a pistol.”
Colleen huffed in indignation.
Scofield stepped forward. “What you aim to do, Colonel? You can’t go after all them men by yourself.”
“That’s my field problem,” Zak said.
“It don’t need to be.”
“You have no stake in this. You and Rivers are on leave.”
“You got any plan at all, Colon
el Cody?”
Zak looked at the two men, measuring their willingness to give up their leave and help him fight a force that outnumbered them.
Buzzards floated in the sky like leaves drifting on the wind.
“Once Trask and his bunch get far enough away, I’ll brace those three Mexicans,” Zak said. “The sound of gunfire will draw Trask right back down on me if I shoot now.”
“You’re going to kill those poor Mexicans?” Colleen whispered, without any sign of enmity in her voice.
“I’ll make them an offer,” Zak said.
“An offer?”
“They can walk away. Go back to town.”
“And will they?”
Zak cocked his head and looked at her as he would an addled child.
“One of those men is burying his wife, the woman I killed. He’ll want blood for blood.”
Colleen shivered. “It seems such a shame,” she said. “All the killing.”
“That’s why you ought to go with these boys on into Tucson.”
“I’m not going anywhere without my brother. Now I know where he is, I’ll not give up.”
“We feel the same way,” Scofield said. “Lieutenant O’Hara’s a mighty fine soldier.”
“That’s right,” Rivers said. “’Sides, you can’t go up against three men all by yourself. Me ’n’ Delbert can even up the odds.”
“Then you’ll take Miss O’Hara into Tucson?” Zak said.
“I’m not going to Tucson,” she hissed, her whisper loud as bacon sizzling in a fry pan.
“I’ll be tracking near a dozen men, Miss O’Hara. Any one of which would shoot you dead without a second thought.”
“You don’t think I’d shoot back?”
“You might. But would you shoot first, before any one of them got the drop on you, Miss O’Hara?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm and filled with conviction. “Yes, I would. My father and my brother didn’t just teach me how to shoot. They taught me how to defend myself. And stop calling me Miss O’Hara like I’m some frail waif who needs coddling. And I’ll call you Zak, if you don’t mind.”
“I think you’ve been out in the hot sun too long, Colleen,” Zak said.
She gave a low “humph” and glared at him.
“All right,” Zak said, looking at the two soldiers. “You want to mix in, I could use your help.”
“We do,” Scofield said. “What’s your plan?”
Cody was ticking off minutes in his mind, minutes and distance, figuring Trask was keeping up a steady pace to the east. Soon, he thought, he would be out of earshot of any gunfire. Maybe. Sound carried far in the clear dry desert air.
“Rivers,” Zak said, “how good are you with that Fogarty carbine?”
Rivers looked down at the rifle in his hand.
“This is a Spencer rifle,” he said. “Army issue.”
“Spencer sold his company to a man named Fogarty. Can you shoot it true?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir. I’m the best shot in the outfit.”
“He is,” Scofield said. “And I’m right next to him.”
“Colleen, I don’t want you in this. You stay here. Scofield, you climb that ridge about two hundred yards to the east. Rivers, you climb up from here. Real slow. Soon as I round the end of this hill and you don’t see me, you start your climb. Stay low and move slow. I’ll ride up on those boys and tell ’em ‘what for,’ and you should be in position by then. Any one of them goes for his gun, you open up.”
“We’ll do ’er,” Scofield said.
Zak walked to his horse, climbed into the saddle.
Colleen came up to him, grabbed his hand, clasped it in hers.
“Zak,” she said, her whispery voice like silk sliding on silk, “be careful. I want you to come back alive.”
“I will, Colleen. Just sit tight. Try to think of something pleasant.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll think about you, Zak.”
He turned his horse and rode off toward the lowest point of the hill. He did not look back, but he felt three pairs of eyes burning into his back.
He slipped the Colt in and out of its holster twice, then seated it loosely in its leather sheath. In the distance he heard a quail pipe its fluting call, and above him the buzzards wheeled on air currents, so close he could see their homely heads, their jeweled eyes, sharp beaks, as they moved their heads from side to side.
To the northwest he thought he saw a blackening sky, but he couldn’t be sure. The day was young and the blue sky marked only with long trailing wisps of clouds that looked like smoke from a faraway fire.
Trask should be far enough away by now, he thought. He hoped the Mexicans would take his advice and ride back to Tucson without a fight.
It was a long shot, but he’d make them the offer.
But he was ready.
For anything.
Chapter 23
Julio Delgado heard a sound. He looked up from the shallow grave, squinted until his eyes were in focus on the rider coming toward them from the west. Renaldo Valdez saw him and turned his head, looking off in the same direction.
“Someone is coming,” Julio said.
“I see him. Who is it?”
“I do not know.”
Manuel Diego set down a rock he had dug up and turned to look.
“Maybe that is the man who killed your wife, Julio,” he said.
“Maybe,” Delgado said, his voice low and guttural.
A few of the buzzards landed some distance from the gravesite. They flexed their wings and marched to and fro like tattered generals surveying a battle-field. Their squawks scratched the air like chalk screeching on a blackboard.
“He does not ride fast,” Renaldo Valdez said. “He does not hurry.”
“No,” Delgado said. “He is without hurry on that black horse.”
“He wears black like the horse, eh?” Diego observed. “Maybe he is a messenger.”
“A messenger? Who would send a messenger out here from Tucson?” Delgado wiped tears from under his eyes, squinted again.
“Maybe there is trouble at the office of Ferguson,” Diego said. “Maybe it burned down.”
“You have the imagination of a chicken,” Valdez said.
“Why not?” Delgado said. “He has the brains of a chicken.”
Valdez laughed. Diego did not laugh.
Delgado stood up. He did not dust himself off, but continued to stare at the approaching rider. Valdez and Diego got to their feet as well, slowly, knives still gripped loosely in their hands.
“You there,” Delgado called to Cody, “what brings you this way?” He spoke in English.
“I have a message for you,” Cody said.
“See?” Diego said. “He has a message. El es un mensajero.”
“You are full of the shit, Manuel,” Valdez said.
“Be quiet,” Delgado said.
Zak drew closer. “What message do you bring?” Delgado asked.
“I will tell you in a minute,” Zak said.
“Tell me now, mister. Do not come any closer. It is very dangerous here.”
Zak kept riding.
“Oh, yes, it is dangerous here,” he said. “Dangerous for you. Are you Delgado?”
“Yes, I am Julio Delgado. You have news for me?”
“If you are Julio Delgado, I do have news for you. And for your companions as well.”
Zak rode up to the three men and reined in Nox. He looked down at them. Delgado’s knife lay on the ground, but Valdez and Diego still clutched theirs, more tightly than before.
“And what is this news that is so important that you ride out all the way from Tucson?”
“I did not ride from Tucson,” Zak said. “I rode out of the night on this black horse. My message is this: If you and your companions will bury your dead and ride back to Tucson instead of catching up to Trask and Ferguson, you will live another day. Maybe many more days.”
Zak’s words hung there like black buntin
g in a funeral parlor. Delgado cleared his throat. Valdez and Diego looked at each other.
“He is loco,” Valdez said in Spanish.
“He said he rides out of the night? What does he mean?” Diego asked, also in Spanish.
“Why do you want us to go back to town?” Delgado said to Zak. “Are you going to kill us if we do not do this?”
“Yes, Delgado,” Zak said. “I’m going to kill you if you try and join up with Ben Trask. I am going to kill him, too.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Zak Cody.”
“You are the one they call the Shadow Rider?”
“Some call me that, yes.”
“I am not afraid of you, Cody. Did you kill my wife? A man told me that you did.”
“I killed your wife, Delgado. And I killed Chama, too.”
Delgado’s neck swelled up like a bull in the rut. His face purpled with rage. The blood drained from the faces of Valdez and Diego. They both looked as if someone had come up to them and kicked them in the nuts.
“Hijo de mala leche.” Delgado spat. Then, in English, “You bastard.”
“He is only one. We are three,” Valdez said in Spanish to the others.
“He might kill one of us,” Diego said.
“I will kill him,” Delgado said. “For what he did.”
Zak understood every word.
He slid quickly from the saddle, slapped Nox on the rump and squared off to face the three men.
“What do you wish, Delgado?” Zak said in Spanish. “To bury your wife and ride to the town alive, or leave her body to the buzzards while you join her in sleep?”
“You talk very brave, gringo.”
Diego and Valdez squeezed the handles of their knives. Cody was too far away. Diego let his knife slide through his fingers until he grasped only the tip.
Zak saw the move and waited.
Delgado licked his dry lips. A buzzard squawked, impatient. There was a silence after that, a silence buried deep in a soundless well.
“You are a dead man, gringo,” Delgado said in English. “You do not tell me what to do.”
“Delgado, it is your choice. But I will tell you this. The last sound you hear on this earth will be the voice of my Walker Colt.”
