Showdown

by Deborah Chester

  “You!” said Trask furiously. “I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing,” said Noel. “Why did you come back?”

  The fury died in the old man’s eyes. His face was bleak and defeated. “Lost her. Couldn’t keep the trail.”

  “I told you to wait until morning.”

  “Go to hell! I don’t need your advice, you damned no good! Why don’t you put a bullet in me and my boys and finish us?”

  Noel lowered the rifles with a sigh. “Because, as I told you before, I am not your enemy. I’m a friend. At least I’m trying to be. Now, will you accept that and quit shooting at me every chance you get? Or am I going to have to tie you up?”

  Trask glared at him. “I’ve never heard so much double-talk in all my born days. You and your Comanchero friends—”

  “They are not my friends!” said Noel in exasperation. “Who do you think was out there fighting them for you? Are you blind as well as obtuse?”

  “No, I ain’t blind. I saw that the bastard who carried off my granddaughter is the spitting image of you. Now do you want to keep talking out of both sides of your mouth, or are you gonna be straight with me?”

  Noel sighed. It seemed like he was doomed to have to explain Leon everywhere he went. Loathing went through his voice as he said, “He is my…twin. I don’t like him. I don’t claim him. I am not responsible for what he does. We are never on the same side.”

  The old man studied him in silence for a long while. “I reckon that’s honest enough. You bandaged my boy?”

  “Yes.”

  Trask pointed with his chin at Cody, who still slept—young and vulnerable beneath his saddle blanket. “What about my grandson?”

  “He’s taken a couple of hard licks on the head today. The first was when he got caught in a flash flood.”

  “A flash—”

  “That’s right,” said Noel evenly, holding the old man’s eyes with his own. “I pulled him out of that before he could drown. Then he got hit again tonight. He’ll have a headache when he wakes up, but otherwise he’s fine.”

  Trask frowned and looked away. Gently he smoothed the hair back from Frank’s brow. “Aw, Frank,” he said in a voice that was rough with emotion. He tried to say more, then cleared his throat and struggled to his feet.

  Coming over to Noel, who watched him with a mixture of compassion and wariness, he shook his head. “Frank’s bad, ain’t he?”

  “The bullet went through his lung,” said Noel. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Seen up close, Trask’s eyes were a light, steely blue. They sagged with defeat. Pulling off his bandanna, he wiped his face with a hand that shook. “I reckon that’s the end of him. There ain’t a doctor closer than Deming, and that’s a full day’s ride one way.”

  “The bullet went out through his back,” said Noel. “We don’t have to worry about removing it.”

  Trask grunted. “No blood poisoning from that. Listen to him breathe. God have mercy, I don’t think I can stand to hear him in such misery.”

  He looked away, his face working, then he seemed to regain control. When his gaze returned to Noel it was hard and calculating again.

  “You say this outlaw that’s got my gal is your brother?”

  Distaste rose bitterly into Noel’s mouth like bile. Unable to say the words, he nodded.

  “Bad blood between you two?”

  Noel nodded again. “I’m ashamed of him.”

  Trask hesitated, then asked, “Will…will he hurt her?”

  Thoughts of Elena, the beautiful wild girl of the Greek mountains, went through Noel’s mind. He recalled how Leon had taken possession of her mind, how he had controlled her and brainwashed her into trying to kill Noel for him. Leon was a fragment of him, a twisted mirror image down to being right-handed and having his heart on the right side of his body. Even his name was a reversal. Noel tried to reach into his own self-knowledge, tried to think about his own flaws, his own secret though unacted-upon perversions.

  “No, he won’t hurt her,” Noel said slowly. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

  Trask closed his eyes. “Thank God. I been about to go out of my mind over her. We got to get her back, but how? Both Frank and Cody are hurt bad. Can you track?”

  Noel blinked. “Can I what?”

  “Track. You know…no, I guess you don’t. You ain’t got the least idea of what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Noel with indignation. “I’m not a moron.”

  “But you ain’t from around here. Wearing squaw skirts and talking like an Eastern greenhorn. Where’re you from?”

  “Chicago. A thousand years from here,” said Noel bitterly.

  If he could have reached even the twentieth century he might have repaired his damaged LOC with the available technology. But the twenty-sixth century was as far from reach as the moon.

  With an effort he recalled himself to the present and realized he had to explain himself more. “I escaped from the Indians. That’s why I’m wearing…” Letting his voice trail off, he gestured at his torn, filthy tunic.

  “You’re more Cody’s size than Frank’s. Lisa-Marie said she’d brought Cody some new gear from Santa Fe for a gift. I reckon you could use the clothes more than him. Go ahead and dig through her things.”

  Noel needed no more persuasion. He went outside into the cool air and heard the coyotes yipping and howling even closer as he shouldered the carpetbags and dragged the trunk into the barn. When he’d tossed aside the tunic and stood up in the narrow canvas trousers and blue plaid shirt, he felt like a new man. The shirt would have swallowed Cody, but fit him well enough. The pants were a little short. His sunburn chafed painfully under the new clothing, but he didn’t mind.

  “Ain’t nothing I can do about boots,” said Trask. He’d soaked his bandanna in water and was busy pressing the cloth to Frank’s feverish forehead.

  Noel hesitated a moment, thinking about Jose lying dead in the back courtyard. The idea of pulling the boots off a corpse wasn’t appealing, but survival was survival. He suspected the squeamish didn’t last long in this country.

  “I know what to do,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When he returned a few minutes later, Trask looked at the boots on his feet, then up at his face. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Noel.

  Noel stretched out, aching for sleep, and figured he could trust the old man now. Still, he kept the guns within reach. “You take the first watch,” he said. “I’ll sit up with him later.”

  “He’s my boy,” said Trask grimly. “I’ll do the watching.”

  “We’ll be able to take care of tomorrow better if we both have some sleep,” said Noel. “Don’t let your pride get in the way of your good sense.”

  “You know, you got a mighty big mouth on you,” said the old man. “For a greenhorn I reckon you got more sand than I figured.”

  Noel wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d just been given a compliment. Shifting to find himself a more comfortable position on the hard floor, he said, “Yeah, well, my name, by the way, is Noel Kedran.”

  “Tom Trask. I put the Double T outfit together right after the Gadsden Purchase. I aim to keep it, too. Ain’t nobody runnin’ me off my own land.” He nodded at Frank. “This here’s my son Frank. And that’s my grandson Cody. I reckon you two already shared names if you came in together.”

  “We did.”

  “He and Lisa-Marie were my daughter’s children. After Ella died, I gave ’em my name. They’re Trasks, been raised Trasks, and they’ll have this place after me and Frank are done with it. You got any family besides that no-account brother of yours?”

  “No,” said Noel.

  “You got a home back East, or you just drifting?”

  Noel frowned, thinking about his apartment in crowded, high-rise Chicago, thinking about the shelves stuffed with books on history and the rows of data tapes he’d recorded from his travels to ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt.
He had four rooms, a tank of tropical fish that probably needed feeding, and a neighbor with nice curves whom he’d just started getting friendly with. He wondered if his pal and fellow historian Trojan had missed him yet, if Trojan had dropped by his place to check on it. He wondered if anyone at the Time Institute was working to get him back. What, though, could they do? Two travelers could not be in the same place at the same time. They could send messages to him through his LOC, unless that had been damaged, too, by the saboteur. So far, he had received no messages.

  He was alone, cut off, with no way back.

  An awful loneliness rose inside him, a blackness of despair that he thrust hurriedly down. If he ever felt sorry for himself, he would be paralyzed, unable to act. He had to keep hoping he could find a way home.

  “I guess I’m…drifting,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Home is too far away to reach.”

  Trask grunted. “There’re a lot of men out in this country with a past to lose. You ain’t alone.”

  Noel thought about those words long after the lantern light had been turned low and he lay listening to the wind in the cottonwoods outside. Not alone…he wished it were true.

  Chapter 4

  It was like being dead among the living. Leon felt like a ghost, drifting without purpose, unseen, unwanted, doomed never to be a part of the lives around him.

  He left the reins slack and allowed his mount to take him where it willed. The horse made slow though steady progress, following a dim, narrow cow track for a while, then veering off toward some low-lying hills to the south.

  The sun was coming up over Leon’s left shoulder, hot already although it was barely above the horizon. His hat brim provided welcome shade. He was learning he preferred the darkness; the brighter the sun the less substantial he felt, although each time he smacked his palm down upon the broad Mexican saddle horn he felt the sting of hard leather against his skin and knew that he was solid flesh and bone.

  The horse picked its way up a long slope dotted with tall yucca plants. Their spears of white blooms stood in bright contrast to the cobalt sky. The morning breeze, soft and still cool, blew blossoms across the trail, raining them down upon Leon and the unconscious girl lying draped across his saddle.

  He placed his hand upon the girl’s back, feeling her sturdiness beneath the frilled dress she wore. She had a gathered contraption strapped onto her backside, a bustle perhaps, with a wide bow tied above it. Leon hesitated. He knew the girl was awake, but still shamming unconsciousness. He knew her mind was racing with desperation, formulating plans and discarding them. He could feel the emotions rising hot within her, anger and grief and fear all boiling for the right moment to fight back and escape.

  A smile touched Leon’s lips. He liked the girl’s spirit. He had not yet actually entered her mind. There was no reason to do so. She was a bargaining chip for him, nothing more.

  Yesterday, when he had found himself yanked abruptly to this hellish place of sand and wind-blasted scrub, it had taken forceful persuasion to convince the Comancheros to let him ride with them. He had been obliged to read their minds in order to find out where he was and in what year. At first he had thought Noel tricked him. Having promised to leave him in the town of Mistra, on the other side of the world, Noel must have intended all along to discard him here. Burning with resentment, Leon had ridden to the ranch with the other desperadoes and vented his gall by helping to destroy the place.

  It wasn’t until he’d seen Noel there that he realized they were indeed linked forever, like a man and his shadow, two halves of the same entity, the original and the copy. His hatred of his double burned like acid in the pit of his stomach. His only consolation was that Noel’s LOC remained too damaged to let him return home. Noel was trapped, just as Leon was trapped. Two rats in the same cage.

  He’d taken the girl because he knew Noel would try to save her. He’d taken the girl because El Raton—leader of the Comancheros—would enjoy using her as a hostage. She was the means by which Leon could prove his worth to the bandits. He had to belong somewhere. It might as well be with them.

  Thirsty, he drew rein on top of a ridge and surveyed the parched, broken country spread out around him. Miles away, a thin spiral of smoke still rose to the sky from the burned ranch. Leon laughed softly to himself and reached for one of his canteens.

  The girl pushed herself up and twisted to shove him with a hard thrust of her arms. Caught off guard, he nearly went tumbling from the saddle, and only a wrenching effort enabled him to regain his balance while she grabbed the reins and yanked the horse around in a tight circle.

  He got an arm around her and clamped her close to his chest despite her wild struggles.

  She jabbed him hard in the stomach with her elbow. “Let me go!”

  She still had hold of the reins and was jerking them up. The horse backed and sidled, snorting uneasily. Leon did his best to pull the reins from her grasp, but she was scooting out onto the horse’s neck now, leaning forward with her fingers outstretched.

  Thinking she was trying to get off the horse, Leon realized too late that she was really attempting to pull off the bridle. She had it slipped forward over the horse’s ears, letting it dangle across the animal’s face with only the throat latch and bit to hold it on, before Leon could stop her.

  “You little fool—”

  He never finished his sentence. The horse put its bead down and bucked. Already off balance, Leon lost his stirrups and went flying through the air. The impact with the ground drove the air from him. He lay stunned, and only the rapid sound of galloping hoofbeats roused him. Scrambling to his feet, he saw the horse run past the girl, who was standing up and gauging the distance between her and the horse intently.

  As it passed her, she made a leap for the saddle horn and tried to swing herself onto the horse’s back. But her long skirts hampered her. She slipped and fell flat in the dust. The horse gave a saucy flick of its tail and galloped off, the bridle still swinging and the empty stirrups flapping against its sides.

  Slowly she picked herself up and slapped dust from her dress. “Stupid horse!” she shouted. “I hope you fall in a rat den and break your damn-fool leg!”

  Leon stepped toward her. With a gasp she whirled around to face him and backed away. Her hair was a soft tangle of reddish gold upon her shoulders. She had an oval face, smooth pale skin beneath a pert smattering of freckles across her nose, and eyes as dark and fierce as sapphires. They flashed at Leon now.

  “You keep away from me,” she said. “My grandpa is going to hang you from the nearest—”

  “—saguaro?” supplied Leon, amused by her spirit in spite of the trouble she’d caused.

  “There are no saguaros in this country,” she snapped. “A tall windmill tower will do for a hanging tree.”

  Leon smiled. “He has to catch me first.”

  “That won’t be hard. You left tracks for him to follow. He’s probably riding hard on our trail right now.”

  Leon shook his head. “No, he isn’t. Look for yourself. There’s no one remotely near us—”

  She whirled and ran in a flurry of petticoats. Leon swore and went after her. He should have been able to catch her in a matter of seconds. But his heavy boots hampered him in the sandy ground, and she was nimble. She dodged him twice just as he was about to catch her arm, eluding him both times by a whisker.

  Leon’s amusement faded. It was too hot for this nonsense. He increased his speed and aimed his mind at hers, skimming the surface just enough to know which way she intended to dart next.

  When she dashed around a black, thorny bush, sending jackrabbits bolting from cover, Leon dodged with her. He lunged and grabbed her arm just above the elbow.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and ducked low, twisting from his grasp and doubling back. It would have worked, had he been playing fair. He again read her intentions and tackled her. His weight on top of her drove the air from her lungs. She wheezed desperately for breath, turning red, and he held
her pinned.

  “Now,” he said, puffing for air. “You will—”

  Her eyes widened at something behind him, and she screamed. It was all the warning Leon had before something round and metallic touched the back of his neck. Leon froze, his mind casting desperately. It touched nothing. From the corner of his eye he could see a man’s shadow, but his mind told him nothing was there.

  Spooked, he whirled, reaching for his gun. In that split second he glimpsed an Indian with stringy black hair tied back with a red headband, a dirty breechclout, and a pair of tall leather moccasins. Then the butt of the Indian’s rifle connected with his chin, driving spikes of agony through his jaw and skull, and he went sprawling beside the girl.

  “Pinda-lick-o-yi,” said the Indian contemptuously. He was lean and honed down to a toughness unmatched by any other creature in the desert. Below the wide headband, his dark eyes were hostile. His mouth was set in a thin, cruel line.

  Leon propped himself up on his elbows and again tried to touch the Indian’s mind. It was as though his own reaching thought passed through air. Nothing.

  Animal minds were dim things that he could not control, but the Indian was completely alien. Leon felt the first stirrings of fear. He could not depend on his special abilities to get him out of this danger.

  To his surprise, the girl sat up and spoke. “Apache?” she said. “Chiricahua? Mimbrenos?”

  The Indian shook his bead. “Mescalero,” he said proudly. He tapped his chest where a puckered scar ran diagonally across it. “Yotavo.”

  Apparently encouraged by this introduction, the girl got to her knees. “I’m Lisa-Marie Trask,” she said. “Of the Double T. You’ve heard of my grandfather, Tom Trask. He is friends with the Apache people.”

  Yotavo stopped listening to her. He stepped forward and picked up a curl of her reddish-gold hair off her shoulder to study it.

  Lisa-Marie shrank from him, but she forced herself not to show the throbbing fear Leon sensed in her. “Yotavo is a warrior of what clan?”