Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  The Indian said, “Ummm.”

  The little man lifted a hand toward his companion and said, “I know, he’s quite obnoxious, but we came to Santa Fe on business, not to give ill-mannered louts a lesson on etiquette and civilized behavior. Although I agree with you, he could use one.”

  The angry man stepped closer and demanded, “Are you callin’ me names?”

  “Umm,” from the Crow.

  The little man laughed. “Yes, you’re right, Nighthawk. If he possessed even a modicum of intelligence, he’d know whether or not he was being called names, wouldn’t he?”

  “That does it!” the man roared. “I’m gonna twist your head off, you little pip-squeak!”

  He started to lunge at the little man. Instantly, the Crow warrior lost his casual pose. He snarled, and his hand plucked a wicked-looking tomahawk from behind his belt. At the same time, the little man drew his pistol with surprising speed.

  Neither of them had to use those weapons, though, because as soon as Breckinridge heard the name Nighthawk, he had realized how come he seemed to know this unlikely pair. Three long, quick strides while everything else was happening took him across the room. He looped his left arm around the angry man’s neck and jerked him back. Breck’s right hand held his knife, which he pressed to the man’s throat.

  “You’re a damned fool, mister,” he said. “You’d be better off if I cut your throat right now. More than likely, these two would kill you their own selves, but if you got lucky and managed to hurt ’em, you’d have their best friend huntin’ you down to settle the score. You know who he is?”

  The man made a noise, but he couldn’t actually talk with the razor-sharp edge of Breckinridge’s knife pressed against his Adam’s apple that way. Not without risking the blade slicing into his throat.

  “Their friend’s name is Preacher,” Breckinridge went on. “Does the thought of havin’ Preacher after you make somethin’ warm run down your leg? It ought to. You see why I said you’d be better off if I cut your throat and got it over with.” Breck moved the knife, just a little. “Why don’t you say you’re sorry, and then maybe you can get outta here without embarrassin’ yourself even more.”

  Breckinridge felt the man swallow hard. Then he said, “I . . . I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t realize . . . who you were.”

  “Yes, because there are so many who resemble my Crow friend and me out here on the frontier,” the little man said. “It’s easy to see why you would make such a mistake.” He looked at Breckinridge and nodded. “You can let him go. He’s not going to cause any more difficulty.”

  Breckinridge lowered his arm. The man stumbled forward a step, short of breath and feeling the strain of coming within a whisker of being killed.

  “To show how magnanimous my friend and I are, there are no hard feelings,” the little man went on. “Isn’t that true, Nighthawk?”

  “Umm,” the Indian said.

  “Yes, such generosity is perhaps more than he deserves, but it’s up to us to be big about it.”

  The Crow warrior half turned, pointed at the door, and said, “Umm.”

  “I’d do what he says, if I were you,” the little man added.

  The angry man, apparently no longer angry, started to shuffle toward the door. But then he stiffened suddenly and clawed at the pistol at his waist.

  The move didn’t take Breckinridge by surprise. He still held his knife. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he brought it up and crashed the brass ball at the end of its handle against the back of the man’s head. The man’s knees buckled and he went down. Breck prodded him in the ribs with a boot toe, maybe a little harder than was absolutely necessary to make sure he was out cold.

  The rotund bartender lifted his voice and said, “Some of you boys drag him out and leave him in the alley. Can’t have him cluttering up the plaza.”

  Several of the customers took hold of the unconscious man’s arms and legs and lifted him from the floor. As they carried him out, the little man and the Indian came up to Breckinridge, who was sheathing his knife again.

  “You have our gratitude, my young, fiery-haired friend,” the little man said, “but it really wasn’t necessary for you to come to our assistance. Nighthawk and I could have handled that cretin.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Breckinridge said with a grin, “but he got under my skin.” He stuck out his hand. “You’d be Audie, I reckon. My name’s Breckinridge Wallace.”

  The little man cocked his head to the side for a second before he shook Breckinridge’s hand. Breck’s big paw completely engulfed the smaller hand, but Audie’s grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Indeed I am, and my companion is Nighthawk, as I surmise you’re already aware. From your mention of Preacher, I assume you’ve made his acquaintance and that’s how you know who we are?”

  “I ran into him a while back. We were on the same side in a little scrap a long ways north of here. I remember him tellin’ me about the two of you. I said then that I’d sure admire to run into you one of these days.”

  “And now you have, in Santa Fe, of all places. This isn’t our usual stomping grounds, but Nighthawk and I, we like to roam far afield from time to time.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “Come on over to the bar and have a drink with me,” Breckinridge invited.

  “It would be my pleasure. Nighthawk, being of the aboriginal persuasion, does not partake.”

  Breckinridge’s grin widened. “Preacher said you used to be a professor and still talked like one.”

  “A vestige of a previous life,” Audie said with a wave of his hand.

  One of the serving girls intercepted them and steered them toward a vacant table. She had Breckinridge’s unfinished bucket of beer and a cup of wine for Audie. Breck dug into a pocket for a coin so he could pay for the drinks, but behind the bar, the bartender waved off the gesture.

  “Mr. Stanton and I are old friends,” Audie explained as he and Nighthawk sat down at the table with Breckinridge. “Despite running a saloon in this largely untamed territory, he’s an educated man, and he says that the occasional conversation with me is enough repayment for whatever libations we consume.”

  “Them are expensive words, I reckon. I don’t quite know what all of ’em mean, exactly, but I can figure ’em out.”

  “That’s because you have a keen native intelligence. I can tell.” Audie took a sip of his wine, then asked, “What brings you to Santa Fe, Breckinridge?”

  Having lifted the bucket of beer, Breckinridge took a healthy swallow from it before answering. Then he lowered the bucket, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and said, “I came here to kill a man who’s badly in need of killin’.”

  Chapter 30

  That blunt statement didn’t seem to surprise either of Breckinridge’s companions. Nighthawk had lived his entire life on the frontier, and Audie had been out here for a long time. Both men knew what a harsh, violent, and unforgiving place it could be.

  And they knew that, as Breckinridge said, there were some men that just needed killing.

  Audie asked, “Who might this man be?”

  “A fella name of Jud Carnahan,” Breckinridge replied. “I met him in St. Louis last year, but we didn’t really have our first run-in until we were both up in the Yellowstone country. Since then he’s hurt or killed a whole bunch of folks I care about.”

  “I see. Do you know for certain that he’s here in Santa Fe?”

  “I reckon not,” Breckinridge admitted. “But I know he was headed here. I’ve been on his trail for months now, and he’s done a lot of wanderin’ around, tryin’ to throw me off. By now there’s a good chance he figures he’s given me the slip, so he can afford to stay in one place for a while.” Breck paused, then added, “Carnahan’s got a girl with him, too.”

  “Ah,” Audie said, raising an eyebrow. “Someone who’s special to you?”

  “No. There ain’t really anybody like that right now. She’s just more of a friend. But s
he don’t deserve what he’s been doin’ with her, neither. Nobody does.” Breckinridge’s hands clenched into fists. “He was sellin’ turns with her to the bullwhackers he traveled with for a while, before he led those fellas into an ambush by a gang of outlaws who wound up murderin’ all of ’em.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “I agree,” Audie said. “This man Carnahan sounds as if he deserves whatever happens to him.”

  “No doubt in my mind about that.”

  “Or in mine. What does he look like?”

  Breckinridge described Carnahan, then added Ophelia’s description, too. Audie and Nighthawk looked at each other, which made Breck lean forward in his chair as excitement sprang to life inside him.

  “Do you happen to have seen the varmint?” he asked.

  Audie hesitated. Nighthawk said, “Umm,” and the little man nodded.

  “Nighthawk and I make it a practice to mind our own business,” he said, “but he believes, and I concur, that we should share a bit of information with you. Several nights ago, we entered an establishment known as the Black Bull. Are you acquainted with it?”

  Breckinridge glanced at the bartender and said, “I’ve heard of it, but I ain’t been there and don’t really know anything about it.”

  “The current proprietor, from what I gather, hasn’t owned it for long. We got a good look at him the other night, and he matches your description of Jud Carnahan down to the smallest detail.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said again.

  “I’m getting to that. I hesitate to say this, Breckinridge, since I’m not certain how deeply it will affect you, but the young woman you mentioned was there, too.”

  Breckinridge blew out a breath and nodded. “Actually, I reckon it’s a relief to know that she’s still alive.”

  “Perhaps. But as far as I could tell, she was serving as the, ah, madam of the place, being in charge of the other . . . young ladies of the evening.”

  “She’s runnin’ the whores?”

  “To put it bluntly, yes. And Carnahan was working behind the bar, as well as being in overall charge of the place.” Audie raised a finger. “You understand, this understanding was gleaned from limited information, because we weren’t there for very long. It was a more sordid venue than we tend to frequent, and some of the ladies were quite upset at the prospect of sharing their dubious charms with a native or a person of my, ah, stature. Not that Nighthawk and I had any intention of arranging for their services. It was more of a stray . . . wandering-in, so to speak. We departed as soon as we realized what a wretched hive of scum and villainy it really was.”

  Breckinridge didn’t care whether his two newfound friends had been wanting whores or not. What mattered to him was knowing where he could find Carnahan and Ophelia. He was sad to hear that she had lowered herself to being a madam, but given the ordeal she had been through, he wasn’t really surprised.

  He put his hands on the table and got ready to push himself to his feet.

  “Reckon it’s time I go pay a visit to this Black Bull place.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Audie said as he raised a hand. “I should give you a word of warning, Breckinridge. When Nighthawk and I were in there, I saw Carnahan talking in a quite friendly and animated fashion with Captain Armando Consalvo.”

  “Who?”

  “Captain Consalvo is an officer at the Mexican garrison here,” Audie explained. “He’s very close with the governor, and he’s a man you don’t want to have for an enemy if you’re going to be in Santa Fe for very long. Also, he’s a man with very healthy appetites, for young ladies, to be sure, but especially for money and power. Understand, I know him only by reputation. We’re not personally acquainted. The captain and I don’t travel in the same, ah, circles.”

  “You’re saying he’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

  “Not by Mexican government standards. The wheels of their bureaucracy can’t turn without considerable greasing, sometimes in the form of favors traded back and forth but often by outright and blatant bribery.”

  Breckinridge sank back in his chair and frowned in thought.

  “You think Carnahan is payin’ off this Captain Consalvo to protect him?”

  “Paying off . . . or perhaps Consalvo is actually a silent partner in the Black Bull. They had the look of business associates sharing a friendly talk together.” Audie laced his fingers together on the table and gave Breckinridge a solemn look. “Either way, the situation is greatly complicated for you. You can’t simply go in there and kill Carnahan, as you might be able to get away with it if your enemy was someone not connected with a Mexican official. The laws around here are enforced rather laxly, even the one against murder. It all depends on who you know.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “Or who you’re willing to pay off—that’s exactly right, my friend,” Audie said.

  “I can’t let Carnahan get away with everything he’s done,” Breckinridge insisted.

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting. But perhaps you should wait a bit and try to think of a different approach.” The two older men traded glances again. “And perhaps Nighthawk and I might be of assistance to you.”

  Breckinridge shook his head. “I was just thinkin’ earlier today that this was my fight, and I needed to handle it alone. You fellas don’t even know Carnahan.”

  “You said you and Preacher fought on the same side, correct?”

  “We did,” Breckinridge admitted.

  “That makes you Preacher’s friend, and any friend of Preacher’s . . .” Audie smiled and left the rest of it unsaid.

  “Well, maybe you’re right,” Breckinridge allowed. “If Carnahan’s bought this whorehouse and got himself tied up with some Mexican official, it ain’t likely he plans on leavin’ Santa Fe anytime soon.”

  “Very doubtful that he would,” Audie agreed.

  “And he don’t know I’m in town or even still on his trail. That gives me some time to think about it, like you said. Problem is, I’ve always been better at fightin’ than thinkin’.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of fighting before this is over.”

  Nighthawk nodded and said, “Umm.”

  * * *

  The air inside the Black Bull was thick with the smells of smoke, liquor, sweat, and lust. Ophelia Garwood picked up a thin black cigar that was smoldering at the edge of the bar and took a deep drag on it, drawing the smoke from the peppery Mexican tobacco into her lungs. A few months ago, she had never smoked a cigar or even dreamed of indulging in such a vice, she thought.

  But since then, she had indulged in plenty of vices she had never dreamed of, including some she hadn’t even known existed. None of it had been her choice, of course, but she had learned not to worry about that and just survive, even if it meant hardening her heart to a chunk of stone.

  Carnahan strolled along the bar and stopped across the hardwood from her. He looked very self-satisfied and smug, as he usually did these days. He had traded in his buckskins for a fine Mexican suit with a lot of velvet trim and fancy embroidery. He poured himself a shot of tequila, threw it back, and said, “You need to speak to the girls. They’re taking too much time with their customers.”

  “Most of them were whoring long before we got here, Jud,” Ophelia said. “I think they know their business.” She started to lift the cheroot to her lips again.

  Carnahan reached across the bar and grabbed her wrist, holding it in a strong enough grip that she winced and almost dropped the cigar.

  “Don’t try to tell me how to run my business,” he told her, still smiling but with a warning tone of menace in his voice.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying not to let him hear the pain his grip was causing her.

  “We’re here to make money, whatever that takes.” He let go of her arm. She stepped back a little as he poured himself another drink, then went on, “Speaking of that, Captain Consalvo will be dropping by here tonight. He’ll expect to spend some time with
you.”

  “Of course,” Ophelia murmured.

  She hated the arrogant Mexican officer, but she had to admit, Consalvo wasn’t as bad as some of the men Carnahan had forced her to be with. He didn’t smell all that bad, especially compared to the men who had taken turns with her when they were traveling with the freight wagons. Bullwhackers, they were called, and they smelled even worse than the bulls they drove with their whips and sticks. Consalvo wasn’t as rough with her as Carnahan had been, either, when he’d finally gotten around to raping her. The officer just had an air of casual corruption about him that turned her stomach. Given the chance, she would have gladly cut his throat, just on general principles, because he had allied himself with Carnahan.

  It was different with Carnahan. She wouldn’t cut his throat . . . not until she had spent hours or even days torturing him for everything he had done, from killing her father to turning her into . . . what she was now.

  She turned away from the bar. The long Mexican-style skirt she wore swirled slowly around her legs. She wore the same sort of lightweight, low-cut, off-the-shoulder blouse the Mexican girls wore, too. The outfit looked good on her, good enough that men overlooked the slight limp she had from the foot that had never healed completely after the long flight away from the trading post had damaged it so badly. She had to bandage it every day and figured she would lose the foot eventually, but she had lost so much more she didn’t see how it really mattered.

  Her eyes scanned the room as she moved along the bar. She was still pretty new at this, but she had learned a great deal already. She knew how to watch the girls, to watch how they acted with the customers and make sure they weren’t trying to set up some rendezvous outside the Black Bull, so they wouldn’t have to share the money with Carnahan. Nobody could be trusted less than a whore.

  She watched for signs of potential trouble, too, like a man who might get too rough with one of the girls. That was pretty difficult to do, but it was possible. Sometimes a man came into the Black Bull looking for a fight, too, and Ophelia thought she spied one of them now. He was standing at the end of the bar, his shoulders hunched, his head down, staring with peculiar intensity at the half-full glass of tequila in front of him. Ophelia saw his lips moving, and as she came closer, she heard him muttering to himself.