The hours dragged. They rested, but only fitfully. The sun climbed to its zenith and heat built up in the rocks—even in the few remaining slices of shade—like an oven.
Dusk approached with agonizing slowness and the air and the rocks finally began to cool.
Kendrick made a small fire and Veronica fixed coffee. They drank it along with a meal of jerky and biscuits and stewed tomatoes. When the sun was but a pinkish glow sinking behind the lava ridge, Kendrick clambered back to the oval pool and filled their water containers. They then saddled and loaded the horses and began their ride through the night.
*** ***
Nights on the desert, in startling contrast to the hellish heat of its days, grow bitterly cold as the hot, dry air is yanked away from the barren land and stinging winds frequently prowl in its place.
The white dunes to the east took on the appearance of snowdrifts and the chill wind added to that effect.
They rode tight to the ridge, Kendrick knowing that the lava rock would retain heat longer than the sand as well as offer more solid footing for the horses and provide at times a partial windbreak for all of them. The sky was again clear and except for the long shadows thrown by the irregular peaks of the ridge and the blur of occasional dust devils dancing in, the moon and stars lighted their way clearly. Kendrick was able to hold them to a steady, distance-eating pace. At one of the intermittent places where the ridge fell away to almost nothing and the sand closed in high and powdery across their path, they dismounted and walked the horses. The sand sucked hungrily at their legs and, down under the cold crust, it felt clammy-hot, like the inside of a loaf of freshly baked bread.
As daylight was coming on, Kendrick began more closely watching the shape of the ridge, looking for signs of another likely spot where water might have collected. The first such spot he chose to climb off and investigate yielded nothing. A quarter of a mile further, he tried again.
The second time he was in luck. The depression here was a long, irregular gash in the rock, neither as broad nor accessible as the pool he'd found yesterday, but deeper and filled with water cold and sweet. He cupped some in his hand and tested it sparingly, exploring for the taste of ground poisons.
Recognizing nothing adverse, he cupped a double handful, lifted it and drank freely.
It was as he lowered his hands, starting to wipe them on his trousers, that Kendrick heard the sound. A muffled, high-pitched piece of noise that didn't belong to the desert—not to the night, not to the day, not even to this gray in-between time.
The bounty hunter dropped instantly into a crouch, springing for the nearest patch of shadow. He moved with amazing speed for such a big man, and even faster was the blur of his hand drawing the Colt from its hip holster. In the shadow, his crouch deepened and the flash of his eyes darted alertly above the muzzle of the drawn shooter. His ears strained as intently as his eyes.
The sound came again. Distant, but not too far. A foreign, nerve-twanging sound—like fingernails scratching across slate.
Kendrick waited out several clock ticks, his own pulse booming inside him. He thought of his offhanded warning to Veronica the previous night—there are more ways to die in the desert than stars in the sky. And sooner or later, he knew, all of them converged where the water was. The same wonderful liquid that was so essential to survival sometimes served as a magnet that drew opposing forces together with the end result being that one of them caused the other to cease to survive. So here was where the water was. Kendrick had figured it out. If Fire Shirt's renegade Apaches had reason to be this far east, they would know. Or desperadoes on the dodge from the law. Or Darrel Brade and his Circle G men, if they'd done some lucky second-guessing on Kendrick's oh-so-clever plan. Or one or more of the pistoleros who were after Veronica ... the sound could be any of those things.
When it came a third time, Kendrick decided he was listening to a ragged whimper. Human or animal, he couldn't be sure. But it was coming from the other side of the ridge, he was certain of that much. Somebody in trouble—or a clever trap? The Southwest was full of stories of men who'd struggled and died only a few feet short of life-saving water. There were also stories of cold-blooded ambushes sprung from the most innocent-seeming setups. For the first time he became aware of the two black dots floating in high circles overhead.
Buzzards.
His skin prickled.
Kendrick's long suit had never been patience. If something was going to happen, he believed in taking a hand to make it happen.
He glided to the rim of the ledge he was on, stepping out where Veronica and Ludek could see him from below. With chopping hand movements, he motioned them to get down out of sight and be quiet. Their widened eyes told him they understood.
That taken care of, he turned and began pulling himself carefully and silently toward the peak of the ridge, angling slightly away from where he judged the sound to be originating. The sun was only minutes old, but already he could feel the heat of it on the back of his neck. Sweat popped out on his face and arms and was dripping freely by the time he reached the summit of rugged, rapidly warming rock.
Pulling off his hat, Kendrick drew himself into position to peer through a small V-shaped notch. The ridge tumbled away more sharply on the other side, the ground at its base dotted with gravel, the gleaming white sand held farther at bay. It took him a minute to spot the shapes that didn't belong to the landscape, then a minute more to recognize them for what they were. When he did, the groan that escaped the tough bounty hunter's lips was not unlike the faint whimper that had initially caught his attention.
Chapter 11: Ambush
There were three of them. Three soldiers, although the only marking identifying them as such were the remnants of blue trousers with yellow side-stripes that hung in tatters about their legs. Otherwise they’d been stripped clean; barefoot, shirtless, hatless
They were staked out spread-eagle on the gravelly, hard-baked ground. The sun had blistered their exposed skin, the night wind had abraded it by whipping a million fine grains of sand against it.
They were alive, one of them just barely. He was the one doing the whimpering. He had been partially scalped and his head scorched with hot coals, and at some point his eyelids had been cut off. The sun would have permanently blinded him in a matter of hours, long before the scavengers came during the night to pluck at the soft, exposed orbs and the raw, bloodied burnt flesh. The other two had been worked over to a lesser degree and were in shock both psychologically and from exposure to the elements, but overall were in considerably better shape than their companion.
Exercising caution to be sure the torturers weren't watching from concealment, it took Kendrick the better part of a half hour to climb down, check the condition of the poor bastards on the ground, offer as much verbal comfort as he could, then scramble back to get some assistance in bringing them aid.
"From what they told me so far," he explained to Veronica and Ludek as he urged them through a narrow gap he'd discovered in the lava ridge, returning toward where he had left the half-butchered troopers, "their patrol engaged the Apaches sometime early yesterday. When the Indians broke off and took to flight, these three gave chase after what they thought was a lone, scared brave. But the buck tricked them, led them straight into a trap where a handful of his buddies had re-converged and they were captured."
"So why bring them way the hell out here?" Ludek asked. "I thought you said the Apaches would be holed up in the mountains on the other side of the river."
"Far as I know, they are," Kendrick replied. "This handful of bucks brought their captives 'way the hell out here' exactly because it's so remote—away from everything and everybody, far enough away so they could take their devilishly sweet time having sport with their new toys."
"Toys? Having sport with them?" Veronica said. "What do you mean?"
Kendrick looked uncomfortable. "Surely you've heard some of the stories, haven't you ... what Indians are capable of doing to their captives?"
"I've heard stories of what they do to females they take. I suspect every woman on the frontier has been cautioned with horror stories of that nature."
Kendrick sighed heavily. "Well, what they do to males ain't necessarily any prettier. You got to remember, see, that pain and suffering is part of the way of life to an Apache. This land they're born to is responsible for most of that, what the White Man has taught them has only added to it."
"Oh, Christ," Ludek muttered. "You ain't going to turn this into another Injun-lover speech, are you?"
"No," Kendrick said, glancing skyward at the two dots still circling on high. "Not likely, not under the circumstances." He addressed Veronica again. "What you're going to see when we get through these rocks is going to be mighty unpleasant. You've got to steel yourself. Those men will need you to be strong for them."
Veronica looked at him with wide, wondering eyes and even in the building heat of the Jornada day she felt a chill twist its way through her.
They emerged cautiously from the gap, Kendrick again searching with trained eyes for any sign of the Apaches who had brought the soldiers here. When he was satisfied they were nowhere near, he motioned the others to follow him out.
Spotting the men staked to the ground, Veronica's fingertips flew to her mouth and she froze in place.
"Sweet suffering Jesus," Ludek said in a hoarse whisper.
Kendrick branded them both with a searing stare. Then, swinging one of the canteens over his shoulder, he turned and hurried toward the soldiers.
He knelt beside the man who'd been the most clear-headed when he was there before, a lad of only twenty or so who'd identified himself as Trooper Callahan.
"I'm back, amigo," Kendrick said softly. "I told you I would be."
Callahan's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack. His voice was a barely audible croak. "I ... thought you were some kind of mirage ... thought I must have gone out of my head like old Thurmond over there."
Thurmond, Kendrick guessed, was the poor soul the Apaches and the buzzards had treated the worst. The one doing all the moaning and calling out. It was clear that his agony had driven him to the brink of madness.
"Hell," Kendrick said, grinning, "if you was to dream up a mirage, I hope to blazes you could do better than my ugly mug, couldn't you? But don't try to talk. Here, I got water this time. Let it go down nice and slow."
He soaked a bandana with water from the canteen, then squeezed a trickle from it back and forth over Callahan's split, peeling lips. The young man's tongue—dry and chalky-looking—licked gratefully at the blessed moisture. Kendrick soaked and squeezed some more.
As he was doing this, he became aware of Veronica moving into his peripheral vision, kneeling with a canteen beside the third soldier. All color was drained from her face and her eyes carried a stricken look, but her mouth was locked in a firm smile.
"He told me before that his name is Pearlman," Kendrick called over to her. "He said he's from West Virginia."
Callahan turned his head and his eyes followed the direction of Kendrick's words. The corner of his mouth twitched with a faint smile. "Guess you were right," he said, watching Veronica with longing. "There's what I would've dreamed ... if I'd dreamed a mirage."
"I'll have her come talk to you in a little bit," Kendrick promised. "For the time being, you're stuck with me." He slopped more water on the bandana, letting a good amount of it splash over Callahan's whole face.
Veronica did as she had seen him do, at first soaking her handkerchief with water from a canteen and then squeezing a careful trickle of it onto Pearlman’s mouth, all the while talking soothingly to him.
Ludek shuffled up to stand over Kendrick. He cleared his throat. "Ain't much I can do with these cuffs on. But the other fella over there—the one who ain't likely to make it—he deserves some attention, too. I'd be willing to comfort him the best I could if you'd trust me with my hands free."
Kendrick looked up at him. Their eyes met and held.
"I know you ain't got a reason in the world to trust me," Ludek said. "But a situation like this ... man, the lowest bastard on earth would have to see the only thing that counts here is giving these poor boys some aid. All I can do is give you my word that I won't try to take advantage of what they've been through."
Kendrick stood up. He measured the man before him with a hard stare, trying to see deep inside him.
All around them the day and the desert were heating up.
The situation was heating up, too.
There are more ways to die on the desert than stars you can count in the sky.
At length, Kendrick expelled a long breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Never before had he come close to doing what he was about to do. "Call me seven kinds of a fool," he said, digging the handcuff keys from his pocket, "but I'm going to accept that word of yours." His eyes flashed momentary fire as burning as the white-hot sun that was climbing higher overhead. "And damn your hide in hell if you turn back on it."
* * * * *
More than an hour had passed.
Callahan and Pearlman were sitting up. They were wrapped in wet saddle blankets that Veronica and Kendrick kept soaking out of the big spare water bag they'd brought along. Kendrick had already climbed once with the cumbersome container to fill it from the slash pool in the rocks.
They were keeping Thurmond wetted down, too, but he was in pitiful shape, unable to rise, still out of his head, seemingly unaware they were even present.
Heat shimmered in the air like the breath of a blast furnace.
Ludek had assumed a position part way up the ridge, and from that height he was keeping a sharp watch to the west, scanning for any sign of approaching riders. Trouble was, they all knew how Apaches had a way of staying invisible in even the flattest, dustiest, most wide open places ... especially if they suspected any possibility of trouble.
With Veronica tending to the soldiers, Kendrick picked his way up to Ludek's perch. The sun-hammered lava rock was scorching to his touch.
"See anything?" he asked, slightly out of breath.
Ludek shook his head, continuing to squint toward the west. "Not a sign." He was unarmed, but he was also still unchained.
Kendrick sleeved sweat. "They'll likely be coming before long. By noon at the latest, I'd say. They'll want to be here to see their victims squirm in the hottest part of the day."
"Sounds about right," Ludek agreed. "Do the soldier-boys understand the part they'll have to play?"
"They're not crazy about it, but I've got them convinced it's the only way we'll be able to pull it off. Of course, none of it matters one way or another to Thurmond."
Ludek winced. "He ain't going to make it, is he?"
"I don't see how."
"Poor devil. Those damn buzzards up there in the sky know—they're looking to feed on him some more real soon. The greatest kindest we could show him might be to put him out of his misery. Was me, I think that's what I'd want."
"I thought about that, too," Kendrick said tightly. "For the time being, though, we’d best save our killing for the Apaches when they come."
For the first time, Ludek shifted his gaze from searching the horizon. He looked at Kendrick. "You figuring to let me in on some of the Injun killing?"
Kendrick squinted across the burning gypsum. "Callahan said all he ever saw was seven Apaches—the same handful that closed the trap on him and the other two. Sounds like they’re keeping this little shindig to themselves, not sharing it with Fire Shirt or the rest of his war party. They brought the soldiers here yesterday, staked them out and did their preliminary carving and burning on Thurmond, letting Callahan and Pearlman get a good look at what they were in for, then left them to the mercy of the desert and its night critters and their own imaginations while they rode back and rejoined Fire Shirt for his after-sundown raids. Expect it will be the same seven who come back this morning to play some more with their leavings. When they come, they'll have to be wiped out quick and clean—can't let a
single one of them get away alive or he’ll bring the whole renegade bunch down on us."
"No other way to play it," Ludek agreed with a grim nod. "We sure as hell can't continue on and leave the soldiers here. And we can't take them with us, we don't have enough horses or supplies. Even if we tried, the Apaches would track us sure and we'd all end up spread-eagle under the desert sun."
"Seven Apaches would be a handful for me to try and take out by myself," Kendrick said, rubbing his jaw, "even from ambush. I can't count on Callahan or Pearlman because they'll have to be re-staked in order to make everything look right so's to draw them all the way in. Veronica can shoot, but I don't know how well if there's any distance involved. That leaves you, hombre." The bounty hunter eyed his prisoner. "Your word still hold if I put a gun in your hand?"
Ludek grinned. "Hell, I'd consider it a powerful favor to be allowed to kill Injuns. Sure wouldn't break my word to the man who showed me that kindness."
* * * * *
One minute there was nothing.
Then they were there.
First a lone, copper-skinned rider appeared, materializing like a waft of smoke from behind one of the gypsum dunes. He rode at a hard gallop close to where the three abused soldiers lay spread on the baked ground. He reined his pony and wheeled about and at some unseen signal from him the others materialized in much the same way. They rode up wildly, zigzagging in and out among the men pinned to the earth. Their ponies' hooves churned dust and sand onto the upturned, unprotected faces. The Apache riders laughed heartily, all seven of them.
Observing from the concealment of the lava ridge, Kendrick felt a sharp stab of remorse for having subjected Callahan and Pearlman to this further abuse and degradation. And Thurmond, too, even though he seemed to be beyond comprehending anything more that happened to him. Kendrick thought of how the conscious pair had watched him as he retied their feet and wrists with leather thongs to the stakes driven deep into the oven-hot desert floor, then as he'd smeared dirt back onto their washed faces to make them look properly soiled and battered; watched him with eyes frightened yet trusting, condemning him with the responsibility of getting them through this in no worse shape than they already were. He wondered what they were thinking about him now, as the pounding hooves came within inches of their heads and the dust threatened to choke off their breathing.
Hard Trail to Socorro (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 1) Page 8
