Damnation Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  Most of the words she could make out were curses. Once such vile language would have shocked her, but she was beyond that. She paid a little more attention, though, when she heard him say, “. . . kill him! Big redheaded son of a . . .”

  The voice trailed off into more imprecations. Ophelia glanced around the room, searching for any redheaded men. The mutterer, who had a big nose and an untidy black mustache, might have followed someone in here who he had a grudge against. He could be trying to work up the courage to make a try for that enemy with a gun or blade.

  She turned around and went back up the bar. Carnahan still stood where he had been a few minutes earlier.

  “Jud, you see that fellow down there with the black mustache, the one who’s bent over the bar? He’s talking to himself about killing somebody.”

  Carnahan scowled. “Not in my place, he’s not going to. I’ll throw him out.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to find out who he’s mad at first? Maybe it’s not even anybody here. It might be somebody who’s still back wherever he came from, and you’d be running off a paying customer for no good reason.”

  Carnahan frowned in thought for a couple of seconds, then a grin appeared under his bushy beard.

  “You’re learning,” he said. “You’re a smart girl. See, I told you you were cut out for running a whorehouse and a saloon. I’ll go talk to that gent.”

  Ophelia drifted along in front of the bar as Carnahan approached the man at the end.

  “You look like you’re upset about something, mister,” Carnahan said as he rested his hands on the bar in front of the man. “I hope it’s not because you haven’t been treated right in here.”

  “What?” The man looked up, seemingly confused. Then he shook his head and went on, “No, it’s not anything that happened in here. I had a run-in earlier in another place with some big, no-good bastard. Snuck up behind me and held a knife to my throat, he did, just because I didn’t want to drink with a blasted redskin and a litle freak.”

  “What did he look like?” Ophelia asked abruptly, surprising both Carnahan and the stranger. She had heard the man mention red hair, and a wild thought had just forced itself into her head.

  “He was big. Tall as a tree. Shoulders as broad as an ax handle. And he had shaggy red hair.”

  Carnahan started to breathe harder. He leaned forward with his hands on the bar and asked in a taut voice, “Do you know his name?”

  “I didn’t at the time, but later, after he’d run me out of the place like I wasn’t any better than a blasted dog, I heard somebody say it. They heard him introduce himself to the freak and the Indian. He called himself Breckinridge Wallace.”

  Chapter 31

  Ophelia’s heart slugged heavily in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t believe she’d actually heard what the man just said.

  Carnahan looked just as shocked as Ophelia felt. And being Jud Carnahan, he reacted violently. He reached across the bar, grabbed the front of the man’s shirt, and jerked him forward.

  “What did you say?” Carnahan demanded.

  The man looked angry and frightened at the same time. He had good reason for the latter, because Carnahan appeared ready to commit murder. After a moment, the man found his voice and was able to say, “Wallace . . . he told the others his name was Breckinridge Wallace.”

  “You never heard the name before?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  Carnahan let go of the man. The big, blunt-fingered hands smoothed the man’s shirt. Since settling in Santa Fe and buying this brothel, Carnahan had made an effort to become more civilized and act like a businessman, if not actually a respectable one, Ophelia knew. But that was difficult for someone with Carnahan’s brutal, impulsive nature.

  “Sorry, friend,” Carnahan muttered. “You’re drinking on the house tonight.”

  That made the man perk up some. “Thanks,” he said, licking his lips.

  “You’re sure about the name you heard?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a name you’d easily mistake. Just like anybody who ever saw him before would recognize that big ox.” A nervous expression suddenly appeared on the man’s face. “Say, Wallace isn’t a friend of yours, is he?”

  “A friend?” Carnahan grunted and shook his head. “No, he’s not a friend. In fact, I’d say he’s about as much of an enemy as I’ve ever had. He’s been nothing but a thorn in my side for a long time now!”

  A shrewd, calculating smile replaced the apprehensive look on the man’s face. He said, “If you ever get ready to pluck that thorn and need a hand doing it, I’d be obliged if you’d think about me. I’d like nothing more than a chance to even the score with Wallace.”

  That suggestion certainly got Carnahan’s interest, Ophelia saw. Carnahan’s eyes narrowed as he said, “Is that so? Would you happen to know anybody else who might like to throw in with us?”

  “I know several who might be interested . . . if you could sweeten the pot by promising them some time with your girls without having to pay.”

  “Oh, I can promise that, all right.” Carnahan looked at Ophelia. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Whatever you say, Jud,” she replied. She wasn’t going to argue with him and risk having his rage directed at her.

  At the same time, her heart was still thudding in her chest, and for the first time in months, she was thinking about something other than just surviving to the end of another day. There was only one reason for Breckinridge Wallace being in Santa Fe: he had tracked them here and was still after Carnahan. Although she didn’t know the details, she was aware that Breck had had a serious grudge against Carnahan even before the man showed up at the trading post on the Yellowstone. It had to do with the injury to Morgan Baxter and something that had happened with some Indians Breck had spent the previous winter with.

  She wondered suddenly if Breckinridge knew she was still with Carnahan. Would it make a difference if he did? Would he want to help her if he got the chance?

  After everything that had happened, did it even matter? She couldn’t go back to her sisters now, not after all the degrading things that had happened. She was soiled, damaged beyond repair, and always would be. She knew Desdemona and Eugenia loved her and probably would welcome her back, but they would always know what a sordid creature she had become.

  Ophelia brushed aside in her mind the fact that none of it had been her fault.

  So she couldn’t do anything to oppose Carnahan on her own account. But what about for Breckinridge? He had never done anything except try to help her family. He didn’t deserve to be murdered, and that was exactly what Carnahan had in mind. She knew that.

  “What’s your name, mister?” Carnahan was saying to the stranger.

  “O’Leary,” the man replied. “Terence O’Leary.”

  Carnahan shook hands with him across the bar and said, “Round up those friends of yours and meet me back here. Where was it you had that trouble with Wallace?”

  “A saloon called The Territorial. Used to be El Grande, when a Mex owned it. It’s a few blocks from here.”

  Carnahan nodded. “I’ve seen the place. Do you think Wallace will still be there?”

  “I’ve no way of knowing,” O’Leary said, spreading his hands. “But he might be. If he isn’t, maybe somebody there will know where to find him.” An ugly grin stretched the man’s thin lips under the ragged mustache. “Are you gonna ambush him tonight?”

  “There’s no point in wasting time. Besides, Wallace would do the same to me, if he had the chance.”

  “We, ah, haven’t talked about money yet.”

  “If things turn out the way I want, you’ll be well paid. You can split it up with your friends however you want, or just let them collect on some favors from my girls if you’d rather do that. Whatever arrangement you make with them is up to you. But don’t worry, Terence, I’ll take care of you.”

  When Ophelia heard Carnahan say that, she had a pretty good idea what he meant. Once Breckinridge Walla
ce was dead, more than likely Carnahan would double-cross O’Leary and kill him, too, to shut him up and to keep from having to pay him. Captain Consalvo would see to it that nothing ever came of that.

  O’Leary was eager, though, and none too bright, evidently, because he didn’t seem to hear the same hidden threat in Carnahan’s voice that Ophelia did. He nodded again and hurried out of the Black Bull.

  Carnahan looked at Ophelia and said, “Can you believe that Wallace is still on our trail after all this time? I thought we’d lost him!”

  “He’s determined, I suppose.”

  “A stubborn fool, is more like it. It’s time we deal with him, once and for all. Then he’ll never bother us again.”

  From the sound of it, Carnahan was the fool. He had deluded himself into believing that he was her partner, that she wanted Breckinridge disposed of as much as he did.

  And yet, as she stood there watching Carnahan smirk in self-satisfaction, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. Was she going to do anything to stop his plan? She honestly didn’t know. It would be simpler to just let things go on as they had been. At least she would know what to expect. If anything happened to Breckinridge, maybe it was his fault for being so stubborn. Muleheaded, her father would have called it.

  Thinking about her father made Ophelia’s breath catch in her throat. What would Absalom Garwood’s reaction be if he knew she was considering standing aside and letting a good man be killed? She thought she knew, and that knowledge almost forced a sob out of her.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Carnahan snapped. “You look like you’re about to start crying again, like you used to.”

  Ophelia shook her head and forced the emotions down.

  “No,” she said, “don’t worry about that. I’m not going to cry.”

  Never again, she vowed. Tears solved nothing.

  But she wasn’t going to let Carnahan get away with murdering Breckinridge Wallace, either.

  * * *

  Audie claimed to know the best place to eat in Santa Fe, so Breckinridge went with him and Nighthawk to a small, hole-in-the-wall café run by a spindly, solemn Mexican man and his much more cheerful and abundantly framed wife. The food was almost spicy enough to make Breck’s hair stand up on end, but once he got used to it, he found the various dishes delicious. Tortillas and beans with some sort of sauce Audie called mole rounded things out. Breck was stuffed when they finally left.

  “Probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said as he patted his full belly. “I figured on havin’ a look at that Black Bull place this evenin’, but if it came down to a fight with Carnahan, I ain’t sure I could move fast enough to keep him from killin’ me.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “There’s no need for comments about condemned men and last meals,” Audie told the big Crow warrior. “Yes, we ate heartily, that’s true, but . . . On the other hand, there is that old proverb that says to eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow—” He stopped short and waved a hand. “We’re getting very far ahead of ourselves here. Breckinridge, I suggest postponing any confrontation with Jud Carnahan and getting a good night’s sleep tonight instead. Nighthawk and I are staying at a stable not far from here where our horses are also domiciled. The hotelkeepers hereabouts are loath to allow one of Nighthawk’s hue to rent a room, which is ludicrous considering how vermin-infested many of their more highly regarded guests are. I daresay both of us probably bathe more often and subscribe to higher standards of cleanliness than many of the people who pass through Santa Fe, and the local citizens, as well.”

  “Uh, sure, I can sleep in a stable,” Breckinridge said, wondering how Audie packed so dang many words into such a small body. “Slept in lots of worse places, I reckon.”

  “Actually, it’s the hayloft we’ll be sleeping in.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Audie led the way. Breckinridge realized that between being in a town for a change, instead of out on the trail, and having eaten so much for supper, he wasn’t quite as diligent about keeping an eye out behind him as he normally was. But under the circumstances, he didn’t think it was likely to hurt anything.

  * * *

  Captain Consalvo showed up early in the evening. Ophelia showed him to a fairly isolated table in a corner of the barroom and said, “I’ll fetch you a bottle of wine.” She knew his tastes ran to that, rather than tequila or whiskey.

  Before she could turn away, Consalvo looped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. He caressed her blatantly, intimately, through the thin garments as he said, “One of the other girls can bring the wine. You will sit here with me and we will enjoy our time together, eh?”

  Ophelia signaled to a girl whose raven hair was so long it hung down below her waist. When she came over, Ophelia told her, “A bottle of wine for el capitán.”

  “Do not try to ply me with too much to drink, bonita,” the officer said with a chuckle. “I would not want to go to sleep before we have enjoyed all the delicacies the evening has to offer.”

  Ophelia was glad the candlelight in this corner was rather dim. That made it less likely Consalvo would see her roll her eyes at his smirking comments.

  She didn’t care for his wandering hands, but since she had endured much worse, she didn’t say anything about it. She was glad, though, when the long-haired girl, whose name was Belita, came over with the bottle of wine and two glasses on a tray. Ophelia used that as an excuse to slip off Consalvo’s lap.

  “We’ll drink first, before we go upstairs,” she said.

  Consalvo shrugged. He looked a little impatient, but not enough to argue.

  She poured the wine for them and sat down on one of the other chairs instead of in Consalvo’s lap. They could make the bottle last quite a while if she worked at it.

  Carnahan came over a few minutes later and greeted Consalvo, saying, “Good evening, Captain. I hope Ophelia is treating you well, as usual.”

  “But of course,” Consalvo replied. “One so charming could never do less.”

  Ophelia managed to smile at the compliment. Her smile faltered as she spotted Terence O’Leary. The man had just come into the Black Bull and was looking around, no doubt for Carnahan. O’Leary had been here several times since his first conversation with Carnahan that afternoon. On a couple of those occasions, he’d had other men with him . . . large, hard-featured men, some Mexican, some American, but all of them looked like cutthroats to Ophelia. She had figured it was only a matter of time before Carnahan began putting together a gang to do his criminal bidding, as he had always done in the past, and now the news that Breckinridge Wallace was in Santa Fe had prompted Carnahan to get on with that.

  O’Leary saw Carnahan standing next to the table where Ophelia and Consalvo were sitting and started across the room toward them. He came up and said, “I need to talk to you, Mr. Carnahan.”

  Carnahan was obviously annoyed by the interruption, but he said, “Excuse me, Captain,” and turned to grip O’Leary’s arm and lead the man several steps away from the table.

  O’Leary leaned in and talked quickly. Ophelia couldn’t make out many of the words, but she thought she heard O’Leary say, “Found him.”

  That had to refer to Breckinridge Wallace. Ophelia tensed inside. She had hoped that Carnahan wouldn’t get in any hurry to go after Breck, which would give her a chance to find him first and warn him. Fate had dumped a willing and eager accomplice in Carnahan’s lap, though, in the form of Terence O’Leary, and Carnahan wanted to take advantage of that stroke of luck.

  Which meant that if she was going to help Breckinridge, she would have to do it quickly.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, I suddenly don’t feel well,” she said.

  “Oh?” Consalvo didn’t look or sound particularly sympathetic. “A shame. You should rest tonight . . . after we have had our visit.”

  Carnahan turned back to the table and said, “I have to go, Captain.”

  “Trouble?” Consalvo murmured.
/>   “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

  “Be careful, mi amigo. Our friendship has been profitable for both of us so far. I would hate for anything to disturb it.”

  “Nothing will,” Carnahan stated bluntly. “I just have to squash a rat, that’s all.”

  “If you need any help with your . . . rat killing . . . my men and I stand ready.”

  Carnahan shook his head. “Muchas gracias, but I can handle it.”

  He nodded to Consalvo, ignored Ophelia, and strode away with O’Leary. They were on their way to kill Breckinridge, Ophelia thought. She was sure of it.

  She slid back her chair and said, “I’m going to get a bottle of whiskey.”

  “I prefer wine,” Consalvo said.

  “I need something stronger,” she told him, then headed for the bar. She knew he was frowning after her but didn’t look back. She wasn’t really after whiskey but needed something to allay his suspicions for a few moments.

  When she reached the end of the bar, she ducked through the door there into a short rear hall with doors on both sides and at the other end. She hurried to that one and opened it to step out into the alley at the back of the building. Her hastily formed plan was to hurry around to the plaza, follow Carnahan and O’Leary, and hope for a chance to warn Breckinridge, even if it was just a shout.

  She had taken only a few limping steps through the thick shadows when a hand closed around her throat with terrific force. Whoever had grabbed her swung her around and slammed her against the building’s adobe wall. The back of Ophelia’s head struck hard and the impact made her senses reel.

  An all-too-familiar voice hissed at her. “Thought you could sneak out and go warn that big bastard, didn’t you? I knew you never really came around to being on my side, you bitch.” Carnahan slammed her against the wall again. “You turned out to be a pretty good whore, but there are a lot of good whores in the world. Time for you and me to part ways, girl.”