Bad Intentions

by Norman Partridge

  Ten thousand dollars... pretty soon it would be his. Because there wasn't no man alive who'd take a bullet today when he might stand himself another chance tomorrow, no matter how slim that chance might be.

  The nigger had to see that's how it was. Sure he did... but maybe Fristo still needed to clip him anyhow. Shoot him in the leg or something. That would sure enough start the bastard thinking straight.

  Fristo said, "On your knees, you son of a bitch."

  The nigger retreated another step. Looking past Bill now.

  Like he was waiting for something that was bound to happen.

  Bill couldn't figure out what.

  Until Pablo buried his knife in Bill's back.

  Time and time again.

  And it occurred to Bill Fristo that he was being sliced up exactly like one of his mama's prize apple pies.

  Pablo pitched a shovelful of dirt into the dead man's face. Things hadn't worked out the way he'd hoped. But the way his life had gone so far, and the way it seemed to be going, he was getting used to that.

  "You think it's a deep enough hole?" Conchita asked. She was over by the mound of earth Pablo had shoveled from the grave, picking through the churned dirt with eager fingers.

  "Any deeper and he'd be buried in China. What are you doing, anyway?"

  "Looking for worms. If I find any. I'll toss them into the hole. Worms will get rid of Senor Bill's corpse that much quicker. Their bellies are skinny but also very long, and they are always hungry."

  Pablo shivered and tossed another shovelful of dirt into the grave. "You think anyone will miss him?" Conchita asked, tossing a fat earthworm worm into the hole.

  "No."

  "You think anyone will come looking?"

  "Maybe... but not for a while. I don't think he had too many friends."

  "More worms than friends." Conchita laughed, tugging another writhing creature free from the moist earth.

  “Madre de Dios. You are one strange woman."

  "Not so strange as all that." Conchita looked to the horizon, where a one-handed black man with a rope around his neck rode Bill Fristo's horse along a trail which snaked toward the mountains. "Not so strange at all."

  But Pablo knew that was a lie. This woman was strange. Talking only of worms, when anyone else would talk of the ten thousand dollars, and how the money had slipped through Pablo's fingers like so much water.

  If he had only waited until Senor Bill got the gun away from the demon, everything would have been different. But that he had not done. Thinking of the reward, and how close Senor Bill was to having it, and knowing that Senor Bill would never share one thin dime of it, and hearing the negro cabron talk about slicing a pie... all those things added together had triggered a madness in Pablo—the same madness that had caused him to carve the belly of that man in San Francisco—and Pablo had buried his knife in Senor Bill time and time again until the old gringo was dead.

  Doing that, Pablo had felt that the reward money was as good as his. But in the time it took Pablo to kill Senor Bill the demon had drawn his pistol with his right hand, and once that was accomplished there was nothing for Pablo to do at all, because a man with a pocket knife stood no chance against a man with a Navy Colt, especially a Colt scarred with so many notches,

  Pablo wanted to speak of these things. But Senor Bill was dead, and Gordito was crying over his butchered fingers, and the hanged man was gone. There was only Conchita. And if Pablo knew one thing, it was that a man could not talk of such failings with a woman.

  But he had to talk.

  That was the true hell of it.

  Pablo prattled on, but his complaints were only of his back and his toil. These Conchita had heard many times. She ignored him, picking at the harrowed earth like a hungry bird, but there were no more worms to be found. Besides, by now Pablo had nearly covered Senor Bill with a thick blanket of earth. All that could be seen was one bristling gray eyebrow flecked with little droplets of blood.

  Conchita was a bit disappointed that Pablo was burying Sefior Bill face-up. Mostly because she could not see the knife that Pablo had buried between the corpse's skinny shoulders out of spite. She knew that the knife was there, of course. Just as she knew that Senor Bill was not coming out of that hole.

  Resurrection was a rare thing. This she had learned from many a priest. She had witnessed only one resurrection in her lifetime, and she had seen it today. She didn't think she would see another anytime soon.

  Still, the burial was fascinating. The sound of shovel biting earth, the dark dirt blanketing the shadows as it washed the grave, the pink worms writhing in the churned soil—Conchita thought that it was something worth seeing, even so.

  Another shovelful of dirt splashed the hole. Senor Bill's bristling eyebrow was covered. Instantly, he was gone forever. And then the only thing to watch was Pablo's shovel above, and the burrowing worms below, and soon the worms were buried, as well.

  It was then that Conchita turned and walked from the shadow-dappled orchard into the morning sunlight, thinking of the worms and Senor Bill.

  She smiled, but only to herself.

  "Where are you going?" Pablo asked.

  "Senor Bill did not eat his breakfast this morning," Conchita said, "and suddenly I am very hungry."

  PART TWO

  THE WITCH

  They called the outlaw Windy Jim for reasons which could not be discussed in polite company. Windy had ridden with Buck Barlowe's gang for nigh on four years. Four good years, as far as Windy was concerned. Because in the time it took for a city fella to get hisself a college education. Buck and his boys had raised themselves a whole lifetime's worth of hell—living high on the hog when they were flush, existing by guts and grit when they weren't.

  During his tenure with Barlowe, Windy Jim had robbed stagecoaches, trains, and (on one desperate occasion) a traveling whorehouse situated in a particularly spacious Conestoga wagon. And, in the space of his many larcenous endeavors—with the notable exception of the traveling whorehouse—Windy's plunder had been of the spendable sort. Folding money, gold, and the like.

  Which was why Windy was having trouble cinching his saddle to the way things were going of late. Ride out and rob a bank—he was used to that. Slap leather and corral a stagecoach carrying a Wells Fargo strongbox—he could pin back his ears and do 'er every day for a month of Sundays. But to lynch a flea-bitten black tramp and steal his bony left hand—no doubt about it, a deal like that made Windy as twitchy as a man wearing a pair of buggy underdrawers.

  But that was the way things had been going since Buck Barlowe got hisself mixed up with the bruja from Arizona. A right sassy little dark-haired gal with eyes as golden-brown as good whiskey. At first Windy had figured her for a real goodtime Hannah. Until he saw the way she could twist up Buck's guts with the least little glance. Until the Mex outlaw named Jalisco explained exactly what a bruja was.

  Was a goddamn witch, was what that little gal was. A witch with gleaming whiskey eyes, and hair the color of a moonless night's innards, and a Spanish tongue that could charm the devil into church on Easter Sunday.

  Windy didn't like one little bit of it. And he was not alone in his displeasure—none of his saddle pals were exactly kicking up a shivaree over Buck Barlowe sharing his bed with a witch, either. To a man, they had turned downright trepedatious.

  Jalisco had practically got himself religion—at least as much religion as you could steal. His lips were chapped from kissing a medal of the Holy Child, and he'd taken to wearing a scapular of Our Lady of Carmel that he'd swiped from the old mission in San Juan Bautista. But Jalisco wasn't the only one who'd taken to prayer—lately, O'Reilly was crossing himself so often that he had finger-sized bruises on his forehead and chest, and on more than one occasion Windy had caught the Irishman studying Jalisco's Holy Roman neckware with undisguised envy. Why, even Pueblo Jack, the goddamn heathen Injun, had offered Jalisco a good bit of jingle for his medal. Jack had himself a medicine bag he'd carried with him since
he was a tot, but he said it couldn't hurt to cover as much of his plate as possible, spiritually speaking.

  But those boys could go to hell in a hand basket as far as Windy Jim was concerned, because not a one of them had a worry to speak of compared to his.

  It shook out like this—Windy was the only man in the gang who owned a Bowie knife. And, being the proud owner of such a fine weapon, the chore of severing the lynched tramp's gunhand had been Windy's and Windy's alone. Not to mention slicing a slab of fat off the tramp's backside. And that last task took some doing, 'cause the Buck had less meat on his bones than any prisoner of war who'd stumbled out of Andersonville after the Civil War.

  Windy did not know why he had to do these things. He did them simply because Buck Barlowe ordered him to, as Buck wasn't one to go in much for parliamentary procedure let alone any back talk when it came to the doings of his outlaw gang.

  Especially since he'd gotten that witchy gleam in his eyes.

  But Windy sure enough wished he could get the memory of doing that carving out of his head. Same way he wished he could get the severed hand and the slab of fat out of his saddlebags.

  Leastways, it wouldn't be long before the latter of those wishes came truer than true.

  Because just ahead lay Black Pine Falls.

  And just behind those falls was the cave entrance to the place Buck Barlowe had named Bandit's Notch.

  Buck watched the lazy bastards come.

  Four bedraggled men under the glow of a ripe apricot moon, every one of them slouching in the saddle, every one of them wet straight through and shivery from their ride through the cold waterfall.

  Windy Jim led the pack, looking particularly noncombustible. Next came Jalisco, plump lips playing kissy with that damned papist neckware of his. Then O'Reilly, mick eyelids drooping like he hadn't slept a wink since riding out two days ago and might never sleep again. Last but not least was the Indian, Pueblo Jack, one hand fisted around that medicine bag of his.

  Estrellita watched the men, too. She wasn't standing on the porch, of course. She was inside the cabin, tending to her potions. But she saw everything that Buck saw. She was perched right up there in his head, looking through his eyes, and when it came to Estrellita that kind of togetherness suited Buck just fine. Like he told her, he had himself a mucho grande head —hahaha—and there was plenty of room in there for the both of them.

  Windy Jim's Appaloosa snorted as he drew rein. The outlaw dismounted, freed up his saddlebags as if he couldn't do the job quick enough, and tossed them Buck's way.

  Buck opened his mouth, but it was Estrellita's question that crossed his lips. "Did everything go okay?"

  "I don't have a goddamn idea of what okay should be on a job like this," Windy said. "But I did like I was told."

  That didn't satisfy Estrellita. Once more, she spoke through Buck. "Are you certain that you got the right man?"

  Windy snorted laughter. "Boss, this guy looked even worse than the way you described him. His eyes was more dead than alive, and I figure he had more scar on him than skin. Skin he did have looked like a slab of bacon that had tried to set up housekeepin' in a hell-hot skillet. Couldn't be two like him on earth, not unless dead folks have started bustin' out of hell."

  "And you made sure that he was dead?"

  "We left him swingin' from the branch of an apple tree, a rope around his neck, his tongue all purple and plumped between his lips like the biggest ol' blood-boil you ever did see. If that ain't what you'd call dead, I don't know what is."

  Buck waited for Estrellita to ask another question, but it appeared that she was satisfied with Windy's report. "Well," Buck said finally, and all by his lonesome, "I guess you boys have earned yourselves some rest."

  The horsemen exchanged troubled glances, as if they'd expected something more.

  Buck figured he knew what it took to make his gang happy. "You boys look like you could stand to shake the chill out. There's a couple fresh bottles in the barn."

  "Then we got nothin' to wait for," Windy said.

  "Sure you do." Buck patted Windy's plunder. "Let me take this stuff inside, and I'll give you back your saddlebags."

  Windy shook his head.

  "Burn the damn things," he said as he gave his mount the spurs, and only a blind man could have missed the fire in his eyes.

  Estrellita caressed the severed hand. In truth it was not much to look at, for the fingers were bony and the knuckles were knotted and the nails had been chewed down to the quick. Still, her heart thundered at the leathery feel of it.

  The callused hand of a left-handed gunfighter who drew his powers from a deep well-spring of dark magic. This, along with the slab of fat carved from the gunman's backside, was what Estrellita Dolores Refugio Cavendish needed if her plans for Buck Barlowe's outlaw gang were to come to fruition.

  Barlowe hovered over her shoulder, a hungry coyote circling dangerous prey. "Is it what you wanted, Estrellita?"

  "Exactly, mi amor." She turned and kissed him. Just a short peck on the cheek as she placed the dead man's hand on the table and took Buck Barlowe's hand lightly in her own.

  Of course. Buck's big paw did not excite her the way the hand of the dead gunfighter did. But Buck would never know this. He could not see into her heart the way she could see into his. When he looked at Estrellita, he saw nothing but the excited gleam in her eyes, and his mulish male self-assurance told him that he was the man who had put it there.

  The silly gringo.

  He said, "I'm glad it makes you happy, darlin'."

  "Si, Buck. And soon it will make you happy, too."

  "Well, I could just about stand that if what you say is true. But the boys... you can see that they's all tied up about this witchy stuff. They's gonna take some convincing. They's used to relying on guns, not black magic."

  "Soon they will understand." Estrellita stared down at the gunfighter's hand—black skin tight around the severed wrist bones, dark fingers curled like the branches of a wind-twisted tree. "There are things more powerful than guns," she continued, "and things more deadly than bullets. These things have always remained in the shadows, the secrets of a chosen few. But the world is changing, Buck. It is time you and your men changed, as well. It is time the shadows washed away the light of day."

  "It's sure hard to believe." Buck shook his head, staring at the severed hand. "Just looks like a dead nigger's hand to me."

  "Just you wait," Estrellita whispered, and then she kissed Buck again and nibbled his earlobe for good measure. "After we rob the bank in San Jose without firing a single shot, mi amor... then you will see that I have been right all along. And so will your men."

  "And everything will be different."

  "Si." Estrellita smiled. "Everything."

  Of course, Buck wanted to go at it right then and there, what with all that earlobe-nibbling. But Estrellita had work to do. She sent her outlaw to bed. It would be better to wait until the spell had been cast, after all. Then she would need a release as badly as Buck Barlowe.

  Estrellita's black cat rubbed against her ankles, purring, begging attention, but the witch only shoed the animal outside. She needed to be alone. For the time had come for Estrellita Dolores Refugio Cavendish to recreate an old family recipe.

  Her grandfather, a warlock, had brought the spell for the Hand of Glory from London to the shores of America, where he taught it to his seventh son. That son, a youth with wandering feet, had brought it in turn to Arizona, where he taught it to his wife, a lovely witch who had come north from Mexico.

  His wife, of course, added a Southwestern touch to the spell. It was this strange hybrid which she passed on to her only daughter, Estrellita, who brought the spell to California.

  Estrellita set the ingredients on the table before her. A bit of the Old World—pounded salt, peppercorns, and saltpeter—and a bit of the new—diced jalapenos, along with other peppers: de arbol, and pequin, and tepin.

  The hot peppers accounted for the improvement over
the Old World spell. They speeded the spell's progress, a good bit of which involved drying the hand. Traditionally, this meant pickling the hand for fifteen days, then drying it in the sun during the Dog Days of July and August. And if all that proved insufficient, the hand would be heated in an oven fed by bracken and verain.

  But the fiery peppers dried the hand out quickly, shortening the time of preparation from weeks to days. And that was good, because the magic that the Hand of Glory would provide could not come quickly enough to suit Estrellita.

  She took the dead gunfighter's hand in her own, squeezing it until the bones ground together and an awful rasping sound filled the cabin. A few droplets of blood pattered onto the table. Thick droplets, and very dark, which beaded like obsidian on scarred wood.

  In the Old World the spell had required the hand of a hanged man. Any hanged man. But in the magic of Estrellita's mother, the strength of a spell grew in accordance to the strength of the ingredients. So Estrellita's mother had substituted the hand of a hanged gunfighter—preferably a left-handed gun—which increased the speed and potency of her magic.

  Now Estrellita was going her mother one better. For she had much more than the hand of a left-handed gunfighter who had been hanged. She had the hand of a left-handed gunfighter whose veins had coursed with a dark magic all his own.

  With all her might, she squeezed the gunfighter's fingers one by one, but not another drop of blood remained in the hand. She placed it on a piece of winding-sheet, then ground the salt, peppercorns, saltpeter, and Mexican peppers in an earthenware jar. To this she added a pickling sauce which she had mixed earlier in the day.

  Estrellita folded the winding-sheet over the hand, saying a few words that had been spoken by her great-grandfather and her father and her mother as well, and then she eased the hand into the jar.

  Now, she had done all she could do.

  Now, she could only wait.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Estrellita imagined how it was going to be. The Hand of Glory held in her own, a candle made from the gunfighter's fat nestled in the dead palm. With Buck and his men at her side, she would enter the largest bank in the town of San Jose. She would light the candle and the magic would strike like lightening. The occupants of the bank would be as stone—unable to move, speak, or cry out. Buck's men would dynamite the safe, and there would be money, money enough for forever, and no one would make a move to stop them, not as long as the candle made of dead man's fat burned.