Something was wrong. His vision was still obscured. He could see lights moving around him, but they were blurry, indistinct. All he could make out was their brightness and circular shape. As he blinked his eyes he felt something against them. A cloth of some sort was bound around his head, covering his eyes. It was thin and gauzy, but it blocked his sight enough so that he couldn’t make out details, only the lights and vague shapes moving around him.
“He’s awake,” the leader said with a sneer in his voice. “Get him on his feet.”
Strong hands gripped Jackson again and hauled him upright. If they hadn’t killed him so far, what was the likelihood that they would kill him now? He hoped it was small, but unfortunately, he couldn’t answer that question for sure. He might be dealing with madmen here . . . or at least one madman, the man in charge.
“Tie him to that tree.”
Jackson didn’t like the sound of those orders, or the cold, flat voice in which they were issued. His captors hustled him over to what felt like the trunk of a pine tree. Its rough, sticky bark pressed painfully against his face as his arms were pulled around the trunk and he was tied to it as if he were hugging it. What felt like rawhide thongs were pulled painfully tight around his wrists.
“Hell Jackson, do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jackson grated. He couldn’t very well play dumb now.
“Your very name declares you to be a tool of the Devil. And like all of Satan’s minions, you have the blood of innocents on your hands.”
“I never killed anybody who didn’t have it coming.”
“Silence! You speak the lies of Lucifer!”
The bastard was spreading it on mighty thick, Jackson thought, but for whose benefit? His? Or were the melodramatic utterances intended more for the other men? Jackson had no idea.
“I am the Hand of God on Earth,” intoned the leader of his captors. “I have been sent to do the Lord’s work, and that work is the punishment of sinners. Liars, drunkards, fornicators, and thieves! All are sinners, and all will know the wrath of the Hand of God!”
Jackson had been testing his bonds. The son of a buck who’d tied them had been good at it. Jackson figured he could work his way free, but it would take him a while. That was time he might not have. He thought about what happened to Berryhill, Harcourt, and Mrs. Vance, and an image of himself with his face destroyed filled his brain. He had to push it away stubbornly so that he wouldn’t panic.
“You will not be killed,” the so-called Hand of God went on, “but you will be punished. You are being spared so that you can go back to Death Head Crossing and warn all the sinners there to beware of the Lord’s vengeance. You will serve as an example, Hell Jackson, an example to all who would dare to defy the Hand of God!”
The next words were almost more chilling than anything that had gone before.
“Bring the whip.”
Chapter 25
Instinctively, Jackson jerked against the bonds that held him to the tree trunk. He couldn’t budge them. An inarticulate shout of rage welled up his throat, but couldn’t escape from his mouth because of the gag. All that came out was a muffled groan.
“Bare his back,” the Hand of God ordered.
Jackson heard ripping sounds as his shirt was torn away from him. Here in the thin atmosphere of West Texas, the nights were cool despite the heat of the day, and he felt the chill of the air against his skin. He tugged against his bonds again, still to no avail.
“Go ahead,” the Hand of God said.
Jackson heard a hissing sound, like a snake might make, but he knew it was no serpent. It was a bullwhip being shaken out and readied for use. His blood congealed in his veins at the thought of what was coming.
Even though he tried to prepare himself mentally, the first stroke of the lash across his back was even worse than he expected it to be. The whip struck him with such physical force that he was driven hard against the tree trunk, scraping his face against the bark, and at the same time it burned like fire as it laid open the flesh of his back. The pop of the whip as it was pulled away was added torment.
“Again,” the Hand of God said.
Jackson hadn’t made a sound when the first stroke landed, and he set his jaw and steeled himself to continue that stubborn silence, denying them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Again, the whip slashed blazingly across his back. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and ground his teeth together.
“Again.”
On the third stroke, a grunt of agony escaped from his mouth, despite his efforts to hold it in. His whole body was filled with pain now, and he would have collapsed if his arms hadn’t been bound so tightly around the tree that he couldn’t. He had been shot and stabbed several times in his life and had suffered other injuries, but he had never been whipped like this before. It was the worst torture he had ever endured.
“Go ahead until I tell you to stop,” the Hand of God told the man who wielded the whip.
The fourth stroke fell and then the fifth, and Jackson whimpered, the sound so tiny that maybe none of his captors heard it. But Jackson knew he had made it, and he hated himself for that moment of weakness. He clenched his jaw even tighter, until it seemed that the bones might break.
His entire existence was pain. It had grown so large that there was no room for anything else in his awareness. But as the whip continued to brand him, a blessed numbness started to spread through him. He could still feel the flesh of his back being shredded, but it didn’t hurt as much anymore. Then, after a while, it didn’t hurt at all. The Hand of God had said that they weren’t going to kill him, but it was beginning to look like he was going to be whipped to death after all. In his stunned lassitude, he didn’t really care.
But then the fiery agony of his back kindled a different kind of flame deep inside him. Anger began to grow. No one had ever dared to treat him like this. His need for vengeance swelled. If the Hand of God was dumb enough to let him live after this, then sooner or later the bastard would regret that decision. Jackson swore that to himself as he drew strength from the inferno of rage that now blazed within him.
He was only vaguely aware of the voice saying, “That’s enough. Cut him down.”
His hands and arms had gone numb. He didn’t feel the knife cutting his bonds, didn’t even realize he was free until he slumped to the ground. The pain of the blood rushing back into his hands took him by surprise, so that he gave a little hissing cry at the pins and needles. He had held it in for the most part during the whipping, only to give in now and shame himself.
One more mark against the Hand of God.
“Put him back on his horse.”
Jackson was lifted into the saddle and tied onto the animal’s back as he had been before, so he couldn’t fall off. The Hand of God continued. “Take him close enough to the settlement that the horse will go on the rest of the way by itself. Be careful not to let anyone see you.”
“Sure, Boss,” one of the other men said. “I don’t know if this fella’s gonna live long enough to make it back, though.”
“Oh, he’ll make it. He’s tough. Haven’t you ever heard of Hell Jackson, the famous gunslinger?”
The Hand was talking in a more normal tone now, instead of making ominous pronouncements. But Jackson still couldn’t pin down the voice. Did it belong to Benjamin Tillman or not? Jackson suspected that the Hand of God wore a hood like the other men, to hide his face and muffle his voice.
Jackson felt the horse lurch into motion. The animal’s every step sent a fresh jolt of agony through him. The ride back to Death Head Crossing was going to be a long, painful one.
He let his mind drift. That was the easiest way to cope with the pain. Just go somewhere else, he told himself. Go somewhere it doesn’t hurt so bad. He imagined himself sitting beside a high mountain stream, a fishing pole in his hand and the sun warm on his face.
Time meant nothing. He couldn’t have said whether he had been swaying in the saddle for minutes, hours, or days when he
heard a voice say mockingly, “So long, Jackson.” The horse continued to plod forward.
Sometime later—again, Jackson couldn’t have said how long it was—he heard a stifled scream. Then hands were tugging on the bonds around his wrists. As the ropes came free, he felt himself start to slide, and instinctively grabbed at the horn to keep himself from falling out of the saddle. His fingers slipped off, though, and he toppled off the horse.
He didn’t know if anyone was there to catch him or not. He didn’t feel himself hit the ground, but that could have been because a sea of blackness had already swallowed him whole.
Most nights, Philomena enjoyed her walk home from the boardinghouse, even though her simple little hut was all that awaited her. It was good to be away from Señora Morton. The woman didn’t treat Philomena and the other girls who worked for her too badly, but they were always aware that she looked down on them. She made that clear with her glares of disapproval, her little sniffs of disappointment when not everything was done exactly as she wished, her occasional comments about Mexicans and how lazy they were. But in all that, Señora Morton was no different than most people, and Philomena had grown to tolerate her.
The boardinghouse was usually stuffy too, since Mrs. Morton didn’t like to have the windows open. So Philomena enjoyed the night air as she walked home. Sometimes, cowboys would ride past and, emboldened by whiskey, would call out crude comments to her. Philomena always ignored them, holding her head high and proud as she did so, and the men usually laughed and rode on. Whenever one was particularly bold and got down from his horse to approach her, she always drew the knife from under her skirt and threatened him in rapid Spanish as she brandished the blade at him. So far, that had been enough to make the men back off and leave her alone. But perhaps some night it would not be....
No one would bother her if Señor Hell Jackson walked at her side, she thought tonight. She imagined how nice it would feel to stroll through the night with him. He was not a handsome man; his face was too rugged and stern for that. But she liked his face anyway, and had thought more than once about how it would feel to stroke his lean cheek with her fingertips as she looked into his eyes. She wished he was waiting for her tonight in her hut.
She noticed a horse plodding along the street toward her. It had just entered the edge of town, so Philomena couldn’t see the rider very well in the shadows. But as the horse came closer, she realized that the man wore no hat, which was unusual for this part of Texas. Something was familiar about him too. Perhaps it was the broad spread of his shoulders.
Philomena caught her breath as she realized that the rider looked like Señor Jackson. Something was wrong, though. He always rode with his back straight and his head up, and this man was slumped forward. He usually kept his mount moving at a brisk walk too, but tonight the horse plodded along like there was no hand on the reins. The rider swayed first to one side and then the other, catching himself at the last second before falling.
Telling herself that this could not be Señor Jackson, Philomena broke into a run toward the horse and rider. As she came closer, she recognized the animal as the one Señor Jackson always rode. Man and horse passed through a slanting patch of light that came from a window of a building they passed, and Philomena saw the familiar dark hair and hard-planed face. It was him. There was no doubt about it now. But he was hurt, and as Philomena dashed up and grabbed the horse’s reins, she saw that his shirt had been stripped off of him and his back was dark with blood. She clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that tried to escape.
Señor Jackson needed help, not some hysterical woman crying. Philomena saw now that his hands were tied to the saddle horn, and his feet had been lashed together under the belly of the horse. She took out her knife and cut that rope, but she hesitated to saw at the bonds around his wrists for fear of the blade slipping and cutting him. So she put away the knife and began trying to untie the ropes. The knots were stubborn. Her nails broke and began to bleed. She kept at it, every bit as stubborn as those knots.
Finally, one came free, then another and another, and the ropes fell away from Jackson’s wrists. He was half conscious at best, but he was still aware enough of his surroundings to make a grab for the saddle horn as his balance deserted him and he started to fall. He missed and toppled from the saddle.
Philomena was there to throw her arms around him and break his fall, but he was considerably larger than her and it was all deadweight now, because he had passed out completely. Either that or he really was dead, she thought, but she forced that idea out of her head. He could not be dead. She would not allow it.
He had knocked her to one knee when she caught him. She struggled upright, using the strength that a lifetime of hard work had given her. Her bare arms pressed against his back, and she shuddered as she felt how raw and sticky with blood it was.
They weren’t far from her hut. There was a shortcut down a nearby alley, in fact. Philomena had to drag him. He was out cold and couldn’t help her. It seemed to take forever to reach her hut. She backed all the way there, keeping her arms locked around Jackson so that he wouldn’t fall and get dirt on his torn flesh. His head rested on her shoulder. She felt his warm breath on her skin, so she knew he was still alive and thanked the Blessed Virgin for that.
She kicked the door open behind her and pulled him inside. The hut was dark, but she didn’t need light to get around in it. She knew every inch of it. Panting with the effort, she got him over to the bunk and carefully lowered him onto it, turning him so that he lay facedown. Still fighting against panic, she straightened and thought that she had to go find someone to help him. He needed a doctor, or at the very least more medical care than she could provide. She backed away from the bunk, then turned and plunged through the door, out into the night once again.
She didn’t even notice in the moonlight that her arms were stained with blood where she had held him.
She emerged onto the main street and looked around wildly. She was about to turn toward the doctor’s house when she spotted a familiar figure walking away from her. Señor Everett! He would know what to do. She ran after him, too breathless to even call his name.
When she reached him, she grabbed his arm and jerked him around. The fierce control she had imposed on herself finally snapped. She began to sob, and the only words she could manage to get out were, “Señor Jackson! Help! Help!”
Chapter 26
Everett let out a startled yell as he was pulled around to face the person who had grabbed him. He jerked loose and brought his hands up to defend himself, because he was certain he was being attacked.
But instead of fighting back, he was shocked to see Philomena standing there. Tears began to run down her face as she sobbed, “Señor Jackson! Help! Help!”
“Philomena!” Realizing that she was hysterical, Everett took hold of her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Philomena, snap out of it! I’m not Señor Jackson! I’m Everett!”
She stared at him for a second, then said, “I know that!” She leveled an arm, pointing. “There, in my hut! He needs help!”
It took a moment for her words to soak in on Everett, because he was staring at her arm . . . an arm that was smeared with blood from the hand almost to the shoulder. Her other arm was the same way, he saw. Even the short sleeves of her low-cut white blouse had crimson smears on them.
“Philomena!” he said, aghast at what he took to be her injuries. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed in obvious exasperation. “I have done nothing! It is Señor Jackson who is hurt! He is lying in my jacal!”
Everett understood now, and suddenly he was afraid for Jackson. That was the gunslinger’s blood on Philomena’s arms. Jackson had to be hurt pretty badly to have lost that much blood.
“Take me to him,” Everett said, and Philomena grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the mouth of an alley.
“Through here,” she said. “It is closer.”
Everett
couldn’t see where he was going in the gloom, but Philomena seemed to know the way, so he trusted her. She had no reason to be leading him into a trap. Anyway, she was too upset to be faking anything. Her agitated state seemed genuine to Everett.
They came out at the rear of her hut. She flung open the back door and pulled Everett inside. As she let go of his hand, she said, “I will light the lamp.”
As Everett waited in utter darkness, he heard the rasp of heavy breathing. Philomena muttered something in Spanish that sounded like a curse, and Everett wondered if she was having trouble with the lamp. But then, with the scrape of a match, light flared up. The glow from the match in her fingers only vaguely illuminated the room.
Everett saw a dark shape huddled on the bunk next to the wall, but he couldn’t make out the details. Then Philomena held the flame to the wick of a lamp and lowered the chimney as it caught. Yellow light spread throughout the room, flickering for a couple of seconds before it steadied.
“My God!” Everett said as he stared at Jackson. The gunslinger lay facedown on Philomena’s bunk. His back had been torn to shreds. Everett couldn’t imagine what could have done such a thing. A grizzly bear maybe. Did they have grizzly bears in this part of Texas?
Everett knelt beside the bunk while Philomena brought the lamp over to give him a better look at the damage. Everett had to turn his face away from the torn flesh for a moment and take a deep breath to calm his nerves. When he had steeled himself, he looked again at Jackson’s back and asked Philomena, “Do you have any idea what did this?”
Her face was grim as she nodded. “I have seen such things before, below the border where the hacendados rule like kings. He has been whipped.”
“Whipped! You mean . . . someone did this to him deliberately?”
“Very deliberately,” Philomena said. “It takes much practice and skill—terrible skill—to use a bullwhip in such fashion.”
Death Head Crossing Page 16
