He didn’t slow his horse’s pace a whit, even when the horse perked its ears forward at the sight of Mossy. We waited. From two dozen yards away I saw recognition draw a wide smile on his face. He straightened his shoulders, sat up, and parted his coat with his hands. No doubt to snatch at his weapons, one of which was Maple Jack’s old war cannon.
“You recognize him, don’t you?” I said.
Jack nodded. We waited, watching him advance in no hurry.
“Well now,” said the man, reining up a dozen yards from us.
Yep, it was indeed the long-faced bastard, his big teeth gleaming as he all but brayed to us across the distance of the trail separating us. We said nothing.
“I have made it through a fair number of years without seeing a spook, so you will forgive me if I seem amazed at the sight of you two gentlemen!”
He let this attempt at levity hang in the air. Neither of us spoke. This wiped the stupid grin off his face. He gigged the horse a few steps closer, then stopped once more.
“Well now,” he said, again, pausing for response. Receiving none he smiled once more. “Judging from the bloody mess your shoulder’s wearing”—he nodded at me—“and the burnt cinder that used to be your head, old man”—he nodded at Jack—“I’d say you ain’t ghosts. Just men who have had more than their share of luck.”
He nudged his horse ahead a few more steps. It was a fine-looking bay. “Can’t say as I’m surprised to see you. Had me a pricklin’ of the neck, if you know what I mean. Felt like I had somebody lurking over my shoulder. Told the others I’d catch ’em up. In truth, I wanted me a taste of that little crumpet I expect you found back yonder. And now I can’t find that harlot’s horse nowheres. Say, you all ain’t seen it, have ya?”
The horse stepped forward once more.
I glanced quickly at Jack, saw his seared whiskers pulsing, knew he was gritting his teeth, his jaw muscles bunched tight.
“That’s far enough,” growled Jack.
That brought the man’s smile up short, for a brief moment. “Surely you can’t be serious, old man.” He kept the horse walking. “A blind man could see you are unarmed, and so is that bloody bear next to you.”
My mind stuttered over the possibilities open to us—damn few of them. I tightened my grip around the end of the stout stick of a cane Jack had made for me.
Horse Face made his play and gave us our one and only opening by being so cocksure and belligerent. He rode that horse right up to within two or three yards of us, at the same time shucking a revolver. It wasn’t Jack’s gun, that much was plain, which was even worse, for it would be quicker to shoot.
He raised it to chest height, but kept his eyes on Maple Jack, and I knew, in a fingersnap, that he was going to shoot Jack first. Right about then, Jack’s knobby old hand whipped upward, the girl’s knife clutched tight. He’d never make it in time.
I shoved Jack hard on the shoulder. He’s a stout fellow, but didn’t expect anything of the sort from me, so he pitched to the side, nearly off the trail. Mossy fidgeted nearby. At the same time I lashed out with my stout walking stick, more suited for use as a length of firewood, and smacked Mossback hard on the rump.
That mule seemed to know what was required of him because he dove head down, ears back, closed that gap between him and the horse, and barreled straight into the bay.
The horse had no time to think, no time to do much but rear up, a raw whinny boiling out of its throat. But Ol’ Mossy gave it no chance to finish that cry of terror, for he caught the horse with both its front legs up off the earth, and kept on ramming. That crazy mule rammed his stout body into the horse like a locomotive.
The rider, Horse Face, shouted nonsense words and strangled cries as he tried to keep himself in the saddle, one hand flailing for the saddle horn, the other waving his revolver. He managed to crank off one shot that menaced nothing more than the treetops. His head snapped to and fro as if tethered to his body by a thread of yarn.
The mule plowed ahead as if the horse wasn’t there. I have no idea what made him go berserk like that—I didn’t smack him on the backside that hard—but figured Jack would feed me an elaborate amount of reasoning later. If we could deal with this killer as we hoped.
As soon as the mule barreled into action, I lumbered forward, as did Jack, flanking the flailing mass of mule, horse, and man. We only had scant seconds before he either dismounted or leveled off a shot at one of us. I grabbed at the bay’s sagged, jouncing reins as much to steady myself, but the horse danced too fast and I let go, staggering.
I saw the top of Jack’s head across the horse’s withers, saw a sneer on his blistered, seared face. His arm rose up in an arc, the girl’s knife’s handle gripped in his hand, the blade driving hard at the side of the horse.
What’s he doing? I thought, but knowing better than to doubt the man. He could no more harm a horse than would I. As if time had slowed, Jack’s arm rose up and down, up and down. Each yank back revealed a blade slick with strings of raw-red blood. Still he aimed a following blow straight at the horse. Then I realized what Jack was up to—stabbing the man. Blind, raw rage had taken over.
I took my cue from Jack and regaining my balance, swung that stout walking stick like a club, hard as I could, straight at the bastardly rider’s midsection.
One or both of us were successful, for the man’s screams clawed their way from his throat, one ripping over the next as if fighting their way up and out of his mouth. My stick slammed his ribcage, drove in neatly beneath his flailing raised left arm, and rammed hard and direct as you please before it snapped apart.
I am certain much of the cracking, splintering I felt was not just the stick, but the man’s ribs. I saw the side of him cave in. I relished the feeling and gave that long-faced bastard another and another, until I had no useable length of stick with which to thrash him.
The killer’s revolver had spun from his grasp and landed somewhere in the dirt. He was in too much pain to grab for another weapon. The horse had grown far too rambunctious, churning and stomping in place, its teeth a blur of white, rolling eyes matching, head thrashing side to side, foamy spittle spraying.
As the horse crowhopped forward a half dozen paces, we stepped away at about the same time. I saw Jack across from me, his chest rising and falling hard, his gray-black hair every which way, wilder than usual, his bruised face set in a mask of raw rage, teeth gritted, and spattered with blood from the man’s leg where Jack’s frantic lunges had stabbed and stabbed.
The killer, jerking atop the wild horse like a rat shaken by a terrier, pitched to his left, his right boot stuck in the stirrup. A gray wool sock dangled from the tip of a long, bony, white foot at the end of a long, raised right leg. I watched as he pivoted up and over, blood spouting from a half dozen punctures in his thigh and lower gut. He screamed and screamed and kept right on screaming until, with his left foot still in the stirrup, he hit the ground hard.
I watched his head slam, carom off the hard-packed earth. As the horse danced forward, the killer’s body and head lurched straight under that horse. A big rear hoof stomped down hard on the man’s battered head. Something popped, and the boot came out of the stirrup. It was twisted and the toes pointed in the opposite direction they should be.
It didn’t matter, the man was far beyond being able to walk. I hobbled over as the horse, belly heaving and head whipping, trotted off down the side of the trail. For all that, the man’s chest convulsed with hard-drawn, ragged breaths. I smelled too much at once—horse shit and man shit and blood and gun-smoke, and above it all, the one thing we all shared, men and beasts alike, the stink of fear. This situation was unexpected and awful and reeked to high heaven.
But it got the job done.
Jack and I stared down at him as his breaths lessened. Finally he pulled in a great rush of air, held it longer than possible, then it leaked out in a last slow sigh.
We neither of us spoke for a full minute, then Jack straightened, rubbed his right shou
lder, about where I’d shoved him to get him out of the line of fire. “Thanks, by the way. Saved my hide. I reckon we’re even.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I said, hoping to smile him or rile him, I didn’t much care which. Jack wore a dark look I’d rarely seen on his face. Past experience told me it was a tough one to shake loose once it settled in.
He stuffed the knife in the sheath, and flexed his hand, still staring down at the man. “I’d piss on him if I could, but I think I already wet myself in the fracas.” He turned and ambled off trail after the horse.
I toed the man’s bent boot. I’ve been surprised more than once by a critter playing dead—more often than not the two-legged sort. Convinced he was as dead as he was going to get, I bent, grunted, and grabbed a bunch of his trouser leg in a fist. I dragged him off the trail, over on the high side, laid him out close by a low snarl of rabbit brush.
I’d finished going through his pockets and unstrapping his gun belt when I heard a shout. I grabbed the remaining revolver, Jack’s brute of a weapon, and spun.
“Luck of luck, boy!” It was Jack shouting to me from off the trail.
I stood, holding the gun. There came Jack, leading the killer’s horse, saddle, supplies, and all. My stomach growled louder than a boar grizz in April.
“I heard that,” said Jack, smiling. “Reckon he has more than measly cornmeal in these bags, eh?”
Just then, Mossback the mule came plodding back down the trail. He looked anywhere but at us, one big ear twitching like a leaf in a stiff breeze.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or give you a lickin’, you crazy-headed critter!” Even as he said it Jack smiled. The mule walked up to within ten feet of him and stood, still not looking at either of us.
“Let’s keep him and that horse apart for now,” said Jack. “Mossy might be docile until he ain’t, but this horse is wound tighter than a fiddle string at a liquored-up hoedown.”
“How did you catch it?”
“What do you mean, how did I catch it? I took off after it. I am a swift runner, I will have you know.”
I stared him down.
He turned, mumbled, “Reins fetched up on a jaggedy old stump. Another second and I’d have had to bid him adios.”
“Well, at least you were fast enough for that.” I smiled at his weak attempt to look ornery. “This is one mule I will never cross,” I said, walking over to Ol’ Mossy. I lashed his reins to a low pine snag and made my way back to Jack and the horse.
The horse was a jumpy beast with wide eyes and a body all atremble. Blood streaked its heaving right side. The saddle and the lashed-down bundles behind the cantle were hanging askew, but they were all there.
I wound the reins around a low jut of rock for leverage and did my best to cluck and offer soothing sounds while Jack chased the beast in a tight circle, loosening the cinch and straps as they danced. It eventually worked and the whole apparatus flopped to the ground. If the horse decided to bolt, at least now we had gear. Next order of business was to hobble and tie her securely to something.
We sorted through the man’s gear and found a surprising amount of useful items, a good many of them familiar to Jack. Horse Face’s traps sported a fine assortment of food, coffee, and spices. Jack wanted to move on then and there, and went so far as to begin repacking the man’s bags. I, on the other hand, wanted to stay put, make some grub and hot coffee. I am partial to a cup of hot coffee most any time of the day or night.
I sighed and turned my attention to hauling rocks around the body.
“Why you wanna go and do that? And for him? You already laid him out nice and straight. Ain’t no one but his mama would care, and she ain’t around. And even if she was, she’d like as not curse him and spit on his foul stove-in face anyhow!”
“It’s not for him, Jack, it’s for us. If we take pains to bury the bastard, then mark a stone with the word ‘killer’ or some such, maybe it will go easier on us when the law finds him. Hell, I don’t know, I’m only trying to make whatever sense I can out of this mess. I don’t think right when I’ve been addled and deprived of coffee.”
Jack stared me down, finally nodded, and unpacked the coffee. He kindled a little flame and we made a couple of precious cups’ worth, then sampled more of the man’s jerky. Elk, I think, and damn tasty.
Refreshed and invigorated—as much as two busted-up rigs like us could feel, anyway—we covered the horse-faced bastard with rocks. We agreed there was no point in digging a hole for him first. He wasn’t worth the time and we didn’t want to make it too difficult for the critters. Just enough to ease my own conscience. Jack wasn’t burdened with such where this weasel was concerned.
I topped the misshapen rocky mound with a flat rock on which I scratched: “Murderer.”
I had little inclination to write more, nor further information to aid me in the task. We packed up once more, saddled the horse, and made ready to go.
“Makes sense you should ride Mossy. This horse is still fidgety, but not nearly big enough to hold that body of yours up.”
I couldn’t disagree, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting when people point out the obvious about my size. Double that with the fact that I’ll never be mistaken for a dashing stage actor and you find me chewing my lip half the time, biting back the urge to lay into folks who usually don’t know they’ve caused me annoyance. I can be thin-skinned and hardheaded.
It took a fair few minutes for Jack to keep that flighty bay upright and moving forward. It danced a jig when Jack hoisted his portly little body up and managed to keep his left foot in the stirrup. He clung to the saddle horn and bouncing like a poorly loaded pannier about to come undone. The only difference was this pannier howled and cursed and tried to shake a fist, all the while the bay churned the trail in good shape.
Eventually Jack got his right leg up and over and sawed those reins until the horse settled down. I was glad it was Jack on that jittery mount. I had begun to not see double, and all that commotion would surely have opened up my wound more than it did when we laid into that killer.
As for me, the mule gave no sign of ill content. Jack saw it, too, and harrumphed as if I were the cause of the horse’s fidgety behavior. It was agreed I would ride ahead so the horse wouldn’t travel in fear of the frightening beast behind it.
Before I mounted, I spent a good five minutes in the pucker-brush rummaging for Horse Face’s revolver. I thought I’d seen it land when he’d lost hold of it. Turns out I was off the mark by a dozen feet.
Jack was only too glad to have his Dragoon back in hand and caressed it enough so I had to look away. He stuffed it into his waist sash, and thus armed, along with the newly acquired booted rifle on his saddle, we rode forward. Once we got on the trail, the day brightened, matching our rising spirits, and we decided to begin making up for the days of time we lost. Worry drove me. Revenge drove Jack.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The day’s events had worked the zest out of the bay, for by afternoon she’d begun to poke along. Jack dug his moccasin heels in a time or two, but after a dozen such thumpings she failed to respond with much more than a quick step.
“Time to call it a day, Jack,” I said, stopping and tugging Mossback into a half turn in the trail. A gust of wind hunched my shoulders, and that in turn made me wince. The shoulder was a tender mess, but I was pleased I was alive. Could have been a whole lot worse.
Jack’s old popper might be big and intimidating and make a hellacious smoking stink and roar when it’s fired, but the load in that bullet Horse Face plugged me with wasn’t particularly powerful. It took a generous bite out of me, punched on through below my collarbone, chewing a hole big around as a double eagle, and lodged in there, at least until Jack fished it out some time before I first came around. Despite all that, it didn’t kill me. But it did leave me weak as a wormy dog.
Jack took pity on me—not that I was looking for it, mind you. A man who seeks pity is no man. He’s a weak-kneed rascal who’
ll turn tail if given the chance. That brought Thomas to mind. But more about that later.
“Yeah, this bay’s about played out. I doubt even sidling up close to Mossy will give her much of a spookin’, frazzled as she is.” Jack managed to get her a few yards closer. “But that doesn’t mean we should picket ’em close to one another. That mule, he’s liable to take another fit and lay into this beast.” Jack smiled, the first time in many hours.
We ranged ahead another quarter mile or so and managed to find a clearing on the right side of the trail where someone not too many days before had set up camp. A fire had been built tight below a flat-face boulder, a tumbledown from the rocky crags looming above us to our east.
That night I knew we would both eat well, at least compared with how we’d been dining. The man had had two wool blankets packed with clothes and rolled tight behind the saddle. I was looking forward to wrapping one of those blankets around me and sawing logs. The other blanket I recognized, and pointed it out to Jack.
“Yep,” he said, eyeing the cloth. “That there’s my decent old Hudson I have laid beneath many a night.” He paused, looking upward in reverie as the setting sun washed the high rocks to the east. Soon the sky shone with soft light the color of a fresh egg yolk popping in the skillet.
“Not alone, I take it from your musing.”
He spun on me, an accusing finger poised. If it had been a dagger, I’d be nursing a second wound. “Ain’t no call to be rude, mister. Women, as a rule, are fair creatures and only no-accounts mock their beauty.”
“I did nothing of the sort, Jack, and you know it. We’re both too crabby to natter on right now. How about we break out that coffee?”
He nodded, knowing I was right. “Good, yes, that’s the idea. And what’s more, I do believe the man left us a bottle of sippin’ whiskey.”
North of Forsaken Page 10
