His spine turned to ice when he saw McLory lying on his side at the base of the cave wall, where Lonnie had left him. The young man’s eyes were closed. His chest was not rising and falling. His face looked waxen.
Trembling, horrified that McLory might have drifted off while he’d been alone here, with no one to comfort him, Lonnie dropped to a knee. He placed a trembling hand on the young Texan’s shoulder. McLory did not respond. Lonnie thought his flesh felt cold beneath the flannel cloth of his shirtsleeve.
Lonnie nudged the young Texan. “McLory?”
He was about to say the young man’s name once more when McLory turned his head toward Lonnie. He opened his eyes and looked up at the young cowboy. For a moment, it was as though McLory were trying to place him.
Then he glanced around and pushed up off his shoulder with a rattling sigh. “Reckon I done drifted off.”
Relief washed through Lonnie though he didn’t like the amount of blood that McLory had left on the cave floor, where he’d been lying. “How you feelin’?”
McLory smiled, his gray-blue eyes slanting devilishly. “Never better. Where’s the girls? Ain’t it Saturday night? Me—I’m ready to dance, Master Gentry!”
“I don’t think you’ll be doin’ any dancin’ anytime soon, McLory,” Lonnie said, straightening but keeping his head bowed so the low ceiling wouldn’t scrape his hat off his head. “But I found my horse, so I’ll fetch my possibles.”
“Don’t forget the whiskey!” McLory raked out as Lonnie ran down the steep gravelly slope to where the General waited for him. “Uh . . . for medicinal purposes only, ya understand.”
Lonnie retrieved his saddlebags and canvas war bag and hustled back up into the cave. He dug around in the saddlebags, found his flat bottle wrapped in burlap, and handed it to McLory, who took it and, struggling a little with the cork, tipped it back.
McLory took two hard swallows and then pulled the bottle down, blinking and turning even whiter than before. “Oh, jeepers,” McLory said. “Oh, boy . . . maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Burns?”
“Yeah.”
“Better go easy on it.”
McLory scrunched his face up and stiffened and then gradually relaxed and rested his head back against the cave wall. “I’m . . . better now. Once the liquor gets into my blood . . . it eases the pain.”
“But when it hits your belly, it probably kicks like a mule.”
“There you have it.” McLory held the bottle up to Lonnie. “Snort?”
Lonnie shook his head as he rummaged around in his bags for his flannel wrappings and the small, buckskin pouch of ointments his mother had prepared for him when, here and there throughout the year, he’d begun spending several nights by himself in the line shack, when he was working their herd.
“You don’t drink?” McLory asked him.
“Nope.”
“Good for you.” McLory took another, small sip from the bottle and winced as the fiery liquid seared its way into his belly. “Many a desperate man has turned to drink for comfort . . . only to find it’s about as much comfort as a woman. No comfort at all when the chips are down.”
“Speak from experience, do you?” Lonnie asked him.
“Sure do.”
“You’ve had bad experiences with both, then, I take it.”
Lonnie was unbuttoning McLory’s shirt. McLory put a hand on Lonnie’s, stopping him and narrowing one eye. He already seemed drunk. “Kid, when you’re as old as I am, you’ll get savvy to the ways of men and women . . . and firewater. And you’ll learn the two don’t go together.”
“How so?” Lonnie was genuinely curious despite his urgency at wanting to get the young Texan’s belly bandaged, the blood stopped.
McLory merely shook his head. Releasing Lonnie’s hand, he took another drink from the bottle.
“Best save some of that for the wound,” Lonnie said. “I’m gonna need some for the cleanin’.”
“Don’t bother.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a goner, kid.”
Lonnie looked at McLory. McLory was staring hard at Lonnie. He was trying to be tough just as he’d been trying to talk tough and sound worldly. But a fear blazed through that hard stare, giving the lie to the young man’s braggadocio. He was young and sick to death with the fear of dying, with the fear of leaving this world before he’d really had the chance to experience it.
Lonnie knew that fear himself. He’d experienced it last year with Shannon Dupree, and he’d experienced it just a couple of hours ago, when he’d nearly been blown out of his saddle.
“It’s gonna be okay, McLory,” Lonnie said. “I’m gonna patch you up. Then I’ll take you down to our cabin and send for the sawbones in Arapaho Creek.”
McLory looked at him, and now his gaze was even more fearful than before.
Finally, McLory rested his head back against the cave wall and let his gaze slide past Lonnie and into space as his fears set to work on him with even more intensity, chewing away at him the way the whiskey probably was.
CHAPTER 6
Lonnie cleaned and bandaged McLory’s wound, but it continued to bleed. Lonnie could see the blood staining the flannel pad he’d placed over the wound and held in place with a long, slender strip of flannel he’d wrapped around the young Texan’s lower torso.
If McLory noticed the blood, he didn’t let on.
He sat back against the cave wall, dozing as Lonnie fed and watered the General then gathered wood and built a fire in the middle of the cave, far back enough that the flames wouldn’t be seen from the canyon floor. Lonnie emptied his war bag and brewed a pot of coffee.
While the coffee cooked, he tended his own wounds, cleaning them with a flannel swatch dipped in whiskey. Neither was bad enough to require a bandage.
When the coffee was bubbling over, the smell awakened McLory.
Lonnie filled him a cup and gave him a bacon-and-biscuit sandwich that Lonnie had made earlier that day, before he’d left the line shack. It was his favorite food to nibble on throughout the day, until he could head back to the shack and cook a pot of pinto beans with a rabbit from one of his snares. Though only fourteen, Lonnie Gentry was an impeccable if rudimentary cook.
Night descended on the canyon. A metallic chill stitched the air. Mornings up this high, there was usually frost on the ground. Lonnie had given McLory his bedroll, and the Texan curled up in the sewn-together blankets, his head resting back against the wool underside of Lonnie’s saddle.
Lonnie kept the fire built up, knowing the night would grow colder and that McLory needed to stay warm. Even now, he could see the Texan shivering beneath the blankets. McLory’s coffee steamed up from where the cup sat beside him on the cave floor. He hadn’t drunk much of it. He’d taken only a couple of small bites from the biscuit Lonnie had given him.
“You want some jerky?” Lonnie offered when he’d returned with another load of firewood. “I got some in the saddlebags there. Help yourself.”
McLory shook his head.
“How come you’re not drinkin’ your coffee?” Lonnie asked him, biting into his second biscuit, and chewing. “You don’t like the way I make it?”
McLory didn’t respond to the question. He seemed to be staring right through Lonnie from where he lay back against Lonnie’s saddle. Lonnie studied him, feeling a little queasy with worry for the young Texan whom he’d found himself taking a liking to.
McLory seemed a lot like Lonnie. In McLory, Lonnie thought he could see something of his later self. Besides, being young, he had a raw fear of death that could probably be attributed to his lack of understanding of death, despite having witnessed it when he’d killed Shannon Dupree and Dupree’s two rotten, thieving partners and even having lost his own father to a heart stroke several years ago.
All he really knew about death was that it was a horrible thing, and he wanted nothing to do with it. But now, as he stared back at the dull eyes of Cade McLory, he had the chilling f
eeling down deep in his bones, that he was staring into the face of death itself. It might have just been his imagination, but he thought that McLory’s eyes were sinking deeper into their sockets and that the waxy skin was drawing back tight against his cheekbones. It was as though the young Texan was becoming a skeleton before Lonnie’s very eyes.
McLory smiled, then, as though to put the younger man’s mind at ease. “You got you a girl, do you, Master Gentry?”
Lonnie felt heat rise into his ears. The topic of the fairer sex always seemed to embarrass him for some reason, though it once did more than it did now. Now he felt a thrill of pride to say, “I reckon you could say that.”
“I had a feelin’—a good-lookin’ kid like yourself. A neighboring ranch girl, is she?”
“No. A town girl.” Lonnie refilled his coffee cup, using a thick leather swatch he’d fashioned for the maneuver, to keep from burning his hand. “Her name’s Casey. Casey Stoveville. She works at Hendrickson’s Mercantile in Arapaho Creek.” With a touch of pride, he added, “She’s sixteen.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” Lonnie felt his upper lip curl a grin.
McLory whistled. “An older woman—imagine that!” He looked at Lonnie askance, and Lonnie knew he was being teased now. “She don’t . . . she don’t work the cribs on the side, now, does she, Master Gentry?”
“Hell, Casey ain’t no parlor girl!” Lonnie felt a sudden burn of anger. He and Casey had been through a lot together, when they’d been trying to take Dupree’s stolen money over Storm Peak Pass to the deputy US marshal in Camp Collins, and they’d gotten close. As close as a sister and brother, at first. But then Casey had professed to Lonnie her love for him.
The boy’s heart had swollen to the size of a mature pumpkin. It had fairly sprouted wings and flown.
While he hadn’t had the chance to visit the girl in a while, her living in town and him living thirty miles up in the mountains, Lonnie held her close in his heart, and he was quick to run to her defense. But then he realized that McLory’s mockery was all in fun. The young Texan was merely trying to distract himself from his misery and, most likely, his fear of death.
“Must be nice,” McLory said, his gaze growing distant again, pensive. “Havin’ a girl all your own. I had me one, once. A couple years back. I was gonna marry up with her, back in Texas, but then her pa, a rich rancher—one of the few rich men in west Texas—steered her in the direction of a man who had a better chance of providing for her—you know, long term.”
“She let her pa convince her of that?” Lonnie was incredulous.
“She sure did. The night before we was to be married, she came out to the little shotgun ranch my brother and I were runnin’ at the time. She even brought me a bouquet of wildflowers, as if those would soften the blow of what she had to tell me.”
Tears glistened in McLory’s eyes. Thoughts of the girl still haunted him, obviously. Lonnie could imagine how he felt. He’d likely feel that way if anything like that happened between him and Casey, though he doubted it ever would. They were too close and too much alike.
They’d be married, eventually, when they were both a few years older. Lonnie had it all planned out in his head—how Casey would move out to the ranch with him, and he’d build a cabin just for her and him, separate from his mother and his little brother, who was Shannon Dupree’s child.
They’d raise a family out there—Lonnie and Casey.
“Summer.”
“What’s that?” Lonnie asked McLory.
“Summer was her name. Summer Nulf. It was like her folks gave her such a purty first name to make up for the humble last name. It fit her, too—Summer did. She was purty as a Texas hill country summer—all jasmine eyes and hair like honey. I can still smell her. She smelled like wild cherry blossoms growin’ on the banks of the Rio Grande.”
McLory paused. He was staring at the ceiling against which the firelight and shadows were playing tag. “I’d like to see her again. Never thought I would. But, now, I’d really, really, really like to see my Summer again.”
Tears dribbled down the young Texan’s cheeks.
Embarrassed, Lonnie turned away. He was surprised to find his throat swollen with emotion. He cleared it and then said, “You’ll find someone else. Sounds like she didn’t really deserve you, her listening to her pa and thinkin’ only about money an’ such. That ain’t how life should be. It’s too short. I know that from seein’ folks die.”
Lonnie stared off for a time. Then he sipped his coffee. Noting that McLory had fallen silent, he turned back to where the young Texan lay back against his saddle, staring dully up at the ceiling. McLory did not blink his eyes. He merely lay there, still, staring at the ceiling.
“McLory?” Lonnie said.
CHAPTER 7
Lonnie set his coffee down on the ground. He rose slowly from where he sat against the cave wall, on the opposite side of the fire from McLory. His heart was beating hard and fast.
Again, his boots felt like lead.
“McLory?” he repeated.
He walked over and knelt down beside the young Texan. McLory’s eyes stared nearly straight up at the play of light and shadows on the cave ceiling. He did not blink. Lonnie slowly waved a hand in front of McLory’s face.
Still, the Texan didn’t blink.
Lonnie set his hand down flat against McLory’s chest. He didn’t detect even the faintest flutter of McLory’s heart. He pulled his hand away quickly, instinctively repelled. He sat back hard on his heels and stared in shock at the Texan, who was now merely the husk of whom he’d been only a minute before.
A minute ago, he’d been a living and breathing man.
Now, suddenly, he was a corpse lying here before Lonnie. There didn’t seem anything more hideous to Lonnie than a corpse. His impulse was to hightail it. To leave the cave and set up camp elsewhere.
But then, swallowing, Lonnie made a conscious effort to control himself. McLory was still McLory even if he was dead. Even in death, the Texan needed Lonnie’s help.
Lonnie lifted his right hand. It quivered as he slid it out toward McLory’s head. Lightly, he ran the tips of his fingers down over the dead man’s eyelids, wincing and shuddering at the papery feel of the dead man’s skin and the fine prick of his eyelashes. Lonnie gently raked the eyes closed.
Instantly, he felt better. Now McLory looked as though he were merely sleeping, though of course he was just as dead as he’d been before. But those open eyes had been deeply disturbing.
Lonnie stared down at the dead Texan for a long time. Many thoughts ran through him. As his revulsion for the nearness of death faded, they were replaced by sad thoughts of what McLory had lost, dying so young.
McLory’s last thoughts had been of the girl who’d spurned him. Now, he’d never be able to see her again or to find another girl and build a life with her. He’d never raise a family. He’d never ride a horse or eat a meal or swim in a creek or know the joy of holding a girl’s hand.
Now, he would know only darkness. Or, if the preachers had it right, he’d know Heaven. In that case, he might make out even better than Lonnie, who was still alive and, if all went well, he’d live through this night and eat another meal and ride his horse down out of these mountains. If the preachers had it right, Heaven would be even better than a good life right here on earth.
Heaven seemed like a tall order, but what did Lonnie know about such things? The preachers were older than he was, which meant they were wiser, too, didn’t it? Lonnie supposed he was skeptical because he always needed sound reasons for his beliefs, and he couldn’t say any grown-ups, preachers included, had ever given him any clear evidence about Heaven.
Enough thinking about all that. What did Lonnie Gentry know about it? He was a cowboy who’d been born in these mountains. He’d likely die in them, too. Just like McLory.
Only, later. He hoped.
Lonnie would see his girl, Casey Stoveville, again soon. That was as close to Heaven
as he cared to get for now. In fact, he wanted right now to head down out of these mountains and visit Casey. It seemed the most important thing he could do.
But he could not. He’d see her again soon. First, he had to figure out what to do with McLory.
Lonnie drew McLory’s blankets up over the dead man’s face. Then Lonnie rose, walked over to the other side of the fire, and sat back against the cave wall, staring toward McLory. The young Texan faded gradually from Lonnie’s view as the fire died. It was an eerie sight, seeing him over there, still and silent in death beneath the blankets, his head still tipped back against Lonnie’s saddle.
When the fire died down to only three or four small, dancing flames, Lonnie built it back up again. The night was cold. And Lonnie didn’t want to be alone in the darkness with McLory’s body.
And not with that old Indian’s curse on this canyon. He knew he should leave, but it was too dark. He couldn’t risk injuring the General on his way out of here. And he couldn’t leave McLory.
He had to take his chances that the curse was nothing more than some old prospector’s tall tale.
When Lonnie had the fire going again, he sat back against the cave wall, crossed his arms on his chest, and shivered despite the fire’s heat. He should take McLory’s blankets, but there seemed something rude and crass about doing so, though he needed them more than McLory did now.
Still, he couldn’t do it. He’d keep the fire going all night.
But then he opened his eyes and realized that he’d slept there against the cave wall though he hadn’t thought he’d be able to. The fire was merely a mounded pile of faintly smoking ashes. False dawn filtered a milky light into the canyon. Birds were chirping and squirrels were chattering.
McLory lay where Lonnie had left him, on the far side of the cave—a dark mound beneath the blankets.
Curse of Skull Canyon Page 3
