The Savage Curse

by Jory Sherman

  “It’s the highest point close to the road hereabouts.”

  The hoofbeats no longer sounded. It grew quiet as the two men leaned against the bank, their rifles resting on the flat ground. Somewhere in the distance, a quail piped a plaintive call and then that sound left a vacuum of silence that was almost deafening.

  Then John heard a sound behind him that sent shivers up his spine, electric ripples that set every nerve in his body to tingling as if touched by icy fingers. A boot crunching on sand and gravel, followed by the snick of a cocking hammer. Ben heard it, too, and froze into a stiffened statue. John slowly turned his head and looked up. There, on the opposite bank, stood a man with a rifle pointed directly at him. A split second later, another man came into view and stood beside the first man. He cocked his rifle and aimed it at John.

  “Well, well,” the first man said, “look what we got here, Jesse.”

  “Yeah, a coupla drygulchers.”

  “Standin’ in a dry gulch.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Don’t tech them rifles, boys,” the second man said. “And better heist them hands in the air.”

  Ben and John lifted their hands in surrender.

  “They got us cold, Johnny.”

  “And shet yore trap, old-timer,” the first man said.

  The second man looked toward the butte and gestured, motioning to someone to come his way. John heard hoofbeats a few moments later. The two men waited. The first man was chewing on a cud of tobacco and he spat into the dirt once, sending a stream of brown juice through his stained lips. The men both had five-day beards and neither had seen a barber in some time. They both had long hair streaming from under their hats.

  Two riders rode up and John assumed that they were the men who had shot at them. Both brandished rifles. They sat their horses a little behind the other two men and looked down at John and Ben with lifeless brown eyes. They each shoved their rifles into their scabbards.

  “Looks like you got you two owlhoots, Cruddy,” the man on the buckskin said.

  “How you figger that?” Cruddy said. His name was Billy Crudder, but everyone called him Cruddy.

  “Look at ’em. Neither one has stood up close to a razor and they got so much dust on ’em they look like they been a-wallerin’ in it.”

  “You boys on the owlhoot trail?” Cruddy asked.

  Ben looked at John.

  “Maybe,” John said, his mind churning for time to think. “Depends on who’s asking?”

  “I’m askin’. And what you answer might make a difference.”

  “You the law?” John said, affecting an air of innocence. He put a little quaver in his voice to heighten the illusion he was trying to create.

  Cruddy guffawed. The other three men laughed, too, with all the loudness of a churlish chorus in their cups.

  “Do we look like the law?” Cruddy said.

  John shrugged. Ben’s face took on a puzzled blankness, but he said nothing.

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe. We were sure chased by a posse back there.” He twitched a pointing finger to the east, behind where the four men stood.

  “Lordsburg?”

  “Yeah,” John said, his voice dipping low into a disappointed growl.

  Cruddy and the other gunmen exchanged knowing glances.

  “You must be green as baby shit to try and pull off something in Lordsburg. Might as well poke a stick into a hornet’s nest.”

  “Well, that’s what we done,” John said, warming to his lie. “Stuck up a pilgrim and had to light a shuck. Posse chased us clear across New Mexico.”

  The four men all guffawed with raucous gusto. Cruddy slapped a hand on his heisted leg and the two men on horseback doubled over in mirth.

  The man standing next to Cruddy squeezed his eyes shut to block the tears. He was a thin razor of a man with long straggly hair and a grease-stained hat that looked as if it had been kicked over a hundred miles of rough country. His vest bore the faded colors of spilled grub and grog, and his boots were as scuffed as his splotchy face.

  John stood there with that pasty look of dumbness that made his spurious account of banditry all the more ludicrous.

  The rider at the end of the line of four was a stocky, grizzled man in his forties, with dark curly hair that tumbled from under his hat like curls of thin-shaved ebony. He had a cheroot sticking out from pudgy lips, small black eyes that were deep sunk behind high cheekbones. He looked slightly Oriental, but John thought he might be a half-breed. He was taciturn except when he laughed, and his laughter was on the scornful side, more reserved than the laughter of the others.

  “Just who in hell did you boys rob?” Cruddy asked.

  The thoughts whirled through John’s mind like corks in a millrace.

  “Turned out to be a preacher and his wife,” John said, snatching up the first thought that bobbed up.

  More guffaws. Except for the breed, who allowed John only a condescending sneer and a slight chuckle.

  “A preacher?”

  “That’s what got the town all riled up,” John said. “Hell, I didn’t see that he was totin’ a Bible. I thought it was a box of jewelry, or maybe cash.”

  Cruddy doubled over in laughter then. All but the breed laughed with him.

  The shadows grew long as the sun descended into the mountain-edged sky. The gunmen seemed to be in no hurry, but bound to make sport with their captives before killing and robbing them. John had no doubt he could pull his pistol and drop at least one or two of the men up on the bank, but he didn’t know if Ben could react fast enough to protect himself. He decided he’d better not risk it. Just play out the hand, he thought. At least the drygulchers seemed to be amused at his playacting. Maybe their sense of humor would prevail over their killer instincts. It was a long shot, but so far, none of the men had cocked a hammer or squeezed a trigger.

  “You ever hear anything like that, Jubal?” Cruddy asked the man next to him.

  “Dumber’n a sack full of rocks,” Jubal said.

  The men all chuckled.

  John’s palms began to sweat. He wanted his pistol in his hand so bad, he had to force himself to smile back at the men up on the bank. The two horses switched their tails and swatted at flies. One of them pawed the ground, impatient to get away from the darkening gully.

  Ben crinkled his nose, trying to relieve an itch without using his hand. He shifted the weight on his feet as one of them began to grow numb.

  “You better get serious, Cruddy,” the breed said. He was sitting on a steeldust gray with cropped mane.

  “Hell, Horky, I was just havin’ a little fun.”

  “Well, ask them if they seen Bud. He warn’t nowhere up on that mesa. Just his tracks.” This from the man on the buckskin, the one called Jubal.

  “I was getting to that. But . . .”

  John was trying to figure out who the leader of the bunch was. He couldn’t tell from the way they acted. Cruddy did all the talking. The breed didn’t say much, the one called Horky, and Jubal hadn’t taken charge. He was just watching, like the others.

  “But what?” Jubal said.

  “I got a better question to ask.”

  “Well, go ahead and ask it then,” Jubal said.

  “You boys got any money? Any greenbacks, silver, or gold?”

  “A little,” John said. “We were running short in Lordsburg and thought we’d pick up some cash. If it wasn’t for bad luck back there, we would have had no luck at all. We’re pretty broke.”

  John hoped he sounded convincing. He could almost hear Ben groan inwardly at the lies he was spewing. But he knew Ben was smart enough not to say a word. His arms were getting tired, holding them up like that. He wished one of the men holding guns on them would make some kind of move. Give him an excuse to go for his pistol. It would probably be the last thing he’d ever do, he thought.

  Then, to his surprise, Ben spoke.

  “We ain’t et in two, three days,” Ben said.

  John could have k
issed him.

  With those words, Ben had probably saved both their lives.

  5

  SHADOWS BEGAN TO CRAWL UP THE EAST SIDE OF THE GULLY.

  “You boys want something to eat?” Cruddy said. “Maybe get acquainted?”

  “That would be better than standing here like a couple of scarecrows,” John said.

  “We might have somethin’ in common,” Cruddy said. “What do you think, Jubal?”

  “It’s okay by me, Cruddy.”

  “Horky?”

  “I could use some grub myself.”

  “Maybe we better lighten them up some before we let ’em ride with us,” the other man said, the quiet one on the buckskin.

  “Yeah,” Cruddy said. “Set your rifles up here on the bank and unbuckle your gunbelts. Just until we know you better.”

  John hesitated. It could be a trick, he thought. If he let himself and Ben be disarmed, they wouldn’t have a chance against four men.

  “Sure, we can do that,” Ben said, surprising John. “Hunger is a mighty powerful coax.”

  “Hear that, Jubal? A mighty powerful coax. Mister, you got a gift of gab.”

  Ben smiled wanly, as if he had been punched in the stomach. John glanced at him, but Ben was already turning around, reaching for his rifle.

  John got his rifle and carried it to the bank, lay it alongside Ben’s. Ben unbuckled his gunbelt, wrapped it into a wad of leather and cartridges, and set it alongside his rifle. John shrugged and did the same.

  “Lead your horses on up here,” Cruddy said. “Jubal, you collect their hardware and pass some to Horky and Dan.”

  John’s blood began to boil, but he held his temper as he and Ben walked out of the gully. The leaves on the paloverde trees were losing their color in the twilight and the saguaros stood like silent sentinels as far as the eye could see, broken only by the rising hills with varied geometrical shapes, mesas, spires, cones, flatirons, and buttes. The land took on a mystical quality at that time of day, and such a hush that he could hear his own breathing, the thumping pump of his heart as he climbed onto the flat.

  “You boys can mount up. Just foller us.”

  John turned to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He avoided looking at Ben. Ben could read him too well, even if he kept that blank look on his face. He wanted to strangle Cruddy and was still berating himself for giving up his rifle and pistol.

  He felt naked and vulnerable as he and Ben followed the men. They were prisoners without shackles, disarmed, helpless, and outnumbered.

  Crudder led the procession, which had fallen into a semblance of a military unit with lead rider, flankers, and the half-breed riding drag. They turned right before they reached the butte and entered what appeared to be a narrow defile between two low hills dotted with ocotillo, prickly pear, and cholla. Then Crudder turned right again and they entered a high-walled canyon that was now dark as the sun disappeared. The trail wound through the canyon and twisted through smaller canyons, until it seemed to John that they were in the midst of a puzzling maze.

  “We’ll never find our way back through this,” Ben whispered to John. “If they let us go, or if we escape.”

  “It does not look good,” John admitted.

  Finally, Crudder took a left-hand turn through an opening in the canyon wall and the riders entered it. The fissure narrowed until they were all riding single file through almost total darkness.

  The narrow passage led to an open place that appeared to be enclosed by walls. In the gloom, John made out a number of adobe dwellings, each tucked against a canyon wall, each in shadow. They almost looked like illusions, just faint impressions of doors and windows. The silence was intense until he heard the wind whistling over them, brushing past the high walls in a heavy whisper.

  A fire glimmered in one of the adobe huts. Crudder headed for it. A man stepped out, leveling a rifle at him.

  “That you, Cruddy?”

  “Yeah, Jake.”

  “You gained a man or two.”

  “Two. We run acrost a pair of owlhooters.”

  “Well, come on in. They’s beans in the pot and a chunk of beef floatin’ on the bottom.”

  John looked around for other horses, but didn’t see any. Crudder dismounted and walked up to the man he had called Jake. He handed the reins of his horse to Jake and then beckoned to John to dismount.

  “This here’s Jake Ward. He’ll put up your horse.”

  Ward took the reins from John, handed them to Horky. John looked at Ward a long time, watched the way he walked. Something about him seemed familiar.

  “I didn’t get your name, I reckon,” Crudder said, breaking into John’s thoughts. John thought quickly.

  “Logan. Johnny Logan,” he said quickly.

  “Well, Johnny, likely we’ll get to know each other better after we all have some vittles and some hot coffee after supper. Gets mighty chilly out here in the desert at night.”

  “I know,” John said.

  Horky and the others dismounted, along with Ben. Horky took Ben’s horse and followed Jake to a fissure in the canyon wall behind the firelit adobe. The horses and men disappeared as John stood next to Crudder.

  “Yeah, we got a big ol’ corral back there with several head of beef. Makes a good hideout, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What is this place?” John asked.

  “I think Yaqui used this place to hide from the army. Some say it was built by Navajo or some such tribe, maybe the Havasupai. Lots of legends in this country.”

  John felt a queasiness in his stomach. He could no longer hear either the horses or the men. It was as if they had been swallowed up by this secret canyon. The quiet was so thick, he thought he could cut it with a knife. The roiling in his stomach he recognized as something close to fear. He and Ben were completely at the mercy of these outlaws. Crudder held all the cards and owned the deck.

  “Jake,” Crudder said, “I didn’t give you this feller’s handle a while ago. Goes by the name of Johnny Logan.”

  “Logan,” Ward said, avoiding John’s penetrating gaze. “I better see to the fire.”

  Ward went inside the adobe. John could see his silhouette against the blazing light of the fire. John’s brows knitted in thought, but all the thoughts were dead ends, leading nowhere.

  Ben came back, walking with Horky. The others followed. All except Ben were smoking cigarettes. The tips glowed in the gathering gloom like fireflies on a summer night. The smoke hung in the still air like morning steam along a river.

  “Horky here,” Ben said to John, “used to herd sheep up in Colorado. When he was a kid. Small world, eh, Johnny?”

  John flashed Ben a look, shook his head slightly.

  Ben caught on fast and shut up.

  The men went inside the adobe. The cook fire made it hot inside, but when John leaned against a wall, the adobe was cool. He studied the faces of the men as they squatted around the room, their faces lit by firelight. When Hobart and his gang had murdered his parents and the other prospectors in Colorado, he had memorized all their faces. He wanted to be sure that none of these men had been there that day, that none had been in Hobart’s bunch. He recognized none of them, but his gaze lingered on Ward longer than on the others.

  “Well, boys,” Crudder said, hefting Ben’s gunbelt, which was still wrapped up in a bundle of leather, bullets, and buckle. “Shall we trust these owlhoots with their weapons?”

  “If you vouch for ’em, Cruddy,” Ward said. “They look all right to me.”

  “Um, I do not know,” Horky said. “We do not know nothing about them.”

  “They ain’t wearin’ badges,” Jubal Mead said. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “We ain’t gonna vote, are we?” Jesse said. “I can’t tell who a man is just by lookin’ at him.”

  Crudder turned to look at John Savage.

  “You want to join up with us, Logan?” he said.

  “Depends,” John said. “We don’t know much about outlawin’.”r />
  Crudder and the others laughed. All but Ward, who narrowed his eyes as he gazed at Savage.

  “That’s for sure,” Crudder said, and then he told Ward about the Logans robbing a preacher in Lordsburg. “They may be dumb, but at least they tried.”

  Horky picked up John’s gunbelt and unwrapped it. He slid the pistol from its holster and let out a long low whistle.

  “That is a pretty six-gun,” he said. He bent his head and held the engraved inscription up to the firelight and mouthed the words inscribed on the barrel in silver inlay.

  “No me saques sin razón, ni me guardes sin honor,” he read.

  “What’s that gibberish, Horky?” Crudder asked.

  “It’s Spanish,” Jubal said. “Don’t you know nothin’, Cruddy?”

  “What’s he doin’ with a Spanish pistol?” Cruddy asked.

  “My father gave it to me,” John said.

  “I know what it says,” Ward said. “I speak a little of the lingo.”

  “Well, spit it out,” Crudder said.

  “I’ll save him the trouble,” John said. “It says, ‘Don’t draw me without reason, nor keep me without honor.’ ”

  “It sure is a purty pistol,” Crudder said, taking it from Horky. “Looks like a Colt .45.”

  “It started out that way,” John said. “My daddy modified it, engraved it, inlaid it with silver. I’d like to have it back. It means a lot to me.”

  Crudder squinted as he turned the pistol over in his hands.

  “Might trade you for it,” he said.

  John fought to keep his emotions from showing on his face. All of the outlaws looked at him. Crudder had made an offer.

  John Savage’s life depended, he thought, on his answer.

  Ward cleared his throat. Ben looked as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

  The fire crackled and the water in the pot came to a rolling boil. Steam rose into the air and the room felt as hot as a sweatbox.

  Nobody moved.

  Waiting for John’s answer.

  6

  HORKY STEPPED INTO THE CONVERSATION BEFORE JOHN COULD reply to Crudder.

  “That gun has a curse on it,” he said.

  “Huh?” Crudder looked over a Horcasitas.