by Jory Sherman
Lew froze against the building, blending into the dark shadow. He stayed motionless until he saw Grimes stop and look up the street. Lew’s breath was a whistle through his nostrils. His chest rose and fell like a balloon with a pinhole in it, up and down, as if his lungs would not fill. He hoped Grimes could not hear his breathing from that distance.
“I know who you are, Zane. Might as well give up.”
Lew hugged the building, unmoving.
Grimes started walking his way, looking on both sides of the street. He took his time, as if he knew Lew hadn’t had time to go very far. Lew could feel his muscles tighten, his nerves begin to clang warning signals in his brain.
One step, pause. Another step, wait. Look. Another step, and Grimes was getting closer.
How good were his eyes in the dark?
Lew did not know.
He edged toward the end of the building. A pair of mannequins inside the glass display window stood in eerie shadow gazing outward. They looked almost like real people in the dim light. Lew took another cautious step.
Grimes stopped and whirled, his gun hand swinging toward Lew.
Lew ducked as Grimes squeezed the trigger. Orange flame belched from the barrel of the pistol. The glass behind Lew shattered, and he heard the bullet thunk into one of the mannequins. The mannequin teetered on its moorings, but did not fall.
Lew ran into the passageway between that building and the next. Another shot rang out, and he heard the splatter of adobe as the bullet nicked the edge of the building.
He did not stop, but ran to the end of the passageway, hit the alley, and veered to his left. He heard running footsteps on the street. He kept running, to the next block, then dashed in between two buildings, puffing hard.
He strained to hear the running footsteps. They stopped when Grimes reached the street. Lew could picture Grimes looking both ways, searching for any sign of him, any movement.
“Zane, you son of a bitch,” Grimes yelled, and his voice carried down the street like the last of an echo.
Lew regained his breath and his pulse stopped racing. His heart was pounding, still, but he was not going to move. He drew his pistol and eased back the hammer. If Grimes showed himself in that corridor, he was a dead man.
“I’ll get you yet, you bastard,” Grimes yelled, and Lew knew he had not moved from his last position.
“Come on,” Lew whispered to himself, knowing Grimes could not hear him.
He heard footsteps moving away from him. Angry stomps from Grimes’s boots as he left the street.
Another close call, Lew thought. He eased the hammer back down and slid the Colt into its holster. But still, he waited, just in case Grimes snuck back.
He waited five minutes. Ten.
He had no idea where he was, but he started edging along the wall to the next street, opposite the direction from which he had come. Once he got his bearings, he would go back to the hotel and get some sleep. He didn’t know if Baker could identify him to Grimes, but he thought not. Still, he knew he would have to be careful. And he might have to move to another hotel in the morning, just to be sure Baker had not made the connection.
He didn’t give a damn about Grimes, but he was a thorn in Lew’s side. Grimes wanted that bounty money. But Lew wanted Wayne Smith, and those four men in the Tecolote were the bait. If he could keep an eye on them, sooner or later they would meet up with Smith, if Smith was still alive and showed up in Santa Fe.
Lew emerged onto the other street, an unfamiliar street, unlit. The dust was painted with a silver sheen of moonlight, glinted with tiny stars of mica. He angled left to try and get his bearings, thinking he would eventually circle around and come back to El Rincon.
As he moved toward the cross street, he heard a voice call out that sent a shiver up his spine, made his blood leap to his temples as his heart jumped.
“Charley, you get him?”
“Naw, Kip. But I know where he went.”
“We’ll help you find the bastard.”
“Moon and Riley with you?”
“Yeah, they’re back there,” the other man said, and now Lew knew who it was. Kip Baker. A first name to go with the last. And Riley must have been the man standing guard with the shotgun when Baker was checking into the hotel. Moon stayed there, too, and was the man waiting at the table in the Tecolote when Lew first entered.
“Hey Freddie, over here,” Baker yelled. “Bring Jethro with you.”
So, now, Lew knew the names of all the men waiting for Smith. Kip Baker, Freddie Moon and Jethro Riley.
“He went up twixt them two buildings yonder,” Grimes said, his voice carrying on the night air. “I might have winged him.”
“We can get him,” Baker said. “Freddie and Jethro can flank him on the cross streets. We’ll flush him out.”
Lew heard their voices drop as they outlined their strategy, he supposed. He was already moving closer to the cross street, but he knew he couldn’t double back there toward the street where the Tecolote stood. He’d have to move in the opposite direction, and fast.
There was a chance that Baker knew he was staying at the hotel. If so, that made his return dangerous.
Lew’s thoughts raced as he angled down the next street. A sign identified it as Mariposa, but that didn’t help him.
The buildings there were dark, and it was hard to read the signs that identified them. One of them seemed to be a warehouse of some sort, and next to it was what looked like a land office. All adobes, and all dark. He ran across the street to the far side, trying to muffle the sound of his boots.
Off to his left, he heard a man running. That would be either Moon or Riley, hoping to cut him off. Behind him, far down the street he had just vacated, he knew the other man would be running down it to block his escape from that part of town.
Baker and Grimes were running between the two buildings where he had just passed. He heard their footfalls grow louder, and then he knew they were on the street. Well, he thought, unless they were very good trackers, they wouldn’t know where he had gone. But they were too close for comfort.
Lew slid between two buildings and headed for the back alley off of Mariposa Street.
The footsteps grew louder and he knew that Grimes and Baker were coming up Mariposa. On the run.
“Which way?” Baker said, his voice loud enough for Lew to hear him.
“This way,” Grimes said, and Lew had no idea what he meant.
But as he crept between the two buildings, he knew. Baker and Grimes were right behind him, out on Mariposa Street. He trotted back to the alley, trying not to make much noise, but as soon as he got there, he heard more footsteps, someone running toward him from another direction. The other flanker, he reasoned. He could not go left, he could only go right. He began to run, and the air was heavy in his chest. His lungs were so sore he felt as if he were breathing lead, not air.
Lew reached the other street and turned left. The blur of buildings as he ran were shops, he figured from just what he could see of them out of the corners of his eyes. The darkness helped him, and he stayed close to the buildings on his left. Anyone coming around the corner from the alley would have less of a chance of seeing him right away. But now he knew he had three men coming after him who were not very far away. Where the fourth man was, he had no idea, but he would probably be closing in at some point.
There were no streetlamps, no gaslights nor oil burners. Just the moon above him, big and bright, like a searchlight beaming down on him. The street was wide and long. When he reached the next street, he paused for just an instant.
“There he is,” Grimes yelled, and someone fired a shot.
The bullet whizzed by, a split second before Lew heard the report, and he heard it thud into a corner building across the street.
Which way to run?
If he turned left, he might run into the third man. If he turned right, he’d be a target for a long time until he reached the other side of the street. Which way? But he had t
o run, and fast now. He heard them coming, Baker and Grimes, their boots sounding like a herd of cattle on the run.
Lew ran straight ahead, crossed the street, and started looking for a place to hide. The buildings were packed close together and he could see no opening.
More shops, small ones, were packed together so tightly it seemed like he was facing one long adobe wall.
He turned left, glancing on both sides of the street to see if there was any space between buildings. Ahead of him, he thought he saw a shadow moving across the street. He wondered if that was the other flanker, or just an illusion.
A cat raced out of a doorway and crossed his path. Lew thought his heart had failed for a moment. His lungs were starting to burn, and he drew breath in through both his mouth and nostrils.
“There he goes,” Baker yelled.
Then, Grimes called out, “Moon, he’s comin’ straight at you.”
“I see him,” Moon yelled back, and Lew knew that the shadow that had crossed the street was the flanker on that side.
But he couldn’t see the man anymore. Where in hell was Moon?
Two men behind him, one in front of him. And another somewhere beyond, probably closing in from that direction.
Lew saw a flash of orange flame up the street, and heard the bullet like the whispering cough of a huge bull. The bullet struck the ground a few feet in front of him and spat dirt and grit into his face.
Then more shots came from behind him. One, two, three, as Baker and Grimes pulled the triggers on their double actions.
Bullets fried the air, sizzling past his ears like angry hornets. He drew his pistol, cocked it, and ran to his left, looking for any building that was recessed from the street, any niche he could get into so that he could fire back and defend himself.
Bullets kicked up dirt all around him. Orange flames sprouted hideous flowers from the snouts of pistol barrels. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, like some crippled animal on its last legs.
Lew reached the other side. He smelled fruit, all kinds of fruit, and the musty smell was coming from one of the store fronts. He stumbled onto a door and pushed against it. He could feel the wooden bar give on the other side. One bar, maybe two. He couldn’t break in and escape through that door.
He saw Moon, then, or the man he figured to be Moon. He was at the corner, on the opposite side of the street.
He turned and saw two shadows slinking up the street, Baker and Grimes.
Lew hunched down and slid along the storefronts toward Moon. There were no openings between the different tiendas.
He was trapped, unless he could find an open door, or a window he could break through.
“We got him,” Grimes yelled.
“Moon?” Baker called.
“I see the son of a bitch,” Moon yelled, and Lew saw Moon separate from the shadows and angle across the intersection, sure of himself, coming on like a deadly wraith, the pistol in his hand gleaming with moonlight, shooting off sparks like some shooting star gliding through space.
Lew knew he could probably shoot Moon. But then Grimes and Baker would be right on top of him, guns blazing like rockets at a Fourth of July picnic.
Time struggled in its harness like a flapping bird caught in a net.
And, for Lew, there wasn’t much of it left.
19
OUT OF THE CORNER OF HIS EYE, LEW SAW SOMETHING FLASH. IT was just a brief flicker, almost unnoticeable. But he was desperate and noticed everything. He turned and saw a pane of glass a foot or two away from him. Bright colors, dulled by the darkness, leaked through the glass and were visible. He slid along the adobe, scraping his shoulder blade against the brick, feeling the granules against the back of his shirt.
He saw framed paintings, blown glass objects, small statues, a velvet throw, and a sign on the window that read ART GALLERY. Without thinking, Lew took three steps away from the window, bent down, and rushed the pane, his shoulder lowered like that of a charging bull. As shots rang out all around him, he smashed through the glass and smacked into an overstuffed chair. The tinkle of glass resounded in his ears, and he felt a sharp, searing pain in his shoulder. He touched his neck and felt hot, wet blood.
But he was in one piece. Glass continued to fall from the cracked window as he dashed through the gallery, past paintings on the wall, statues he dodged on the hardwood floor, and glass cases filled with handmade jewelry, ceramic pottery, and colorful throws made of fine cloth. He heard shouted voices outside on the street, but continued his headlong flight through the store until he came to a back room where there were high shelves with more paintings stacked against them, as well as statues and trinkets. He stirred up choking dust and struggled to breathe. Blood trickled down his face, and his sleeve was wet and dripping. He groped for the back door in the darkness, felt the latch. He rattled and shook the latch until it released and he stumbled onto a small loading dock and a welcome rush of fresh air.
He leaped down the dock and into the alley. He heard, faintly, the clump of boots on the hardwood floors, bewildered shouts and muffled curses as men made their way through the art gallery. He could hear them smashing wood and stone and ceramics as he raced down the alley, his lungs on fire, burning on fresh oxygen.
He crossed a street and kept on running as though his life depended on it. And he knew his life did depend on it. He eased the hammer down on his pistol and slid it back in its holster, jammed it down tight. On and on he raced, back in the direction of both the cantina and the hotel. He didn’t veer or swerve, but held to a straight path while a phrase he had learned in school kept repeating itself over and over in his mind. “A straight line is the shortest distance between two points.”
Distance was what he needed, and he ran as he had never run before, with his lungs burning like parchment over an open flame. He felt his legs go numb and forced himself to think of fresh blood pumping into them, shooting energy and strength into every fiber, every muscle, every tendon. He ran without seeing, blindly, down one dark alley then another. Dogs and cats yelped and yowled, scattered before him like leaves blown by a passing wind.
Finally, exhausted, he ran between two buildings, into a narrow passageway. He stopped, panting for breath, and leaned against a cool adobe wall. He bent over and put his hands on his knees to hold himself up while he pulled air into his tortured lungs. From far off, he heard faint music and ribbons of voices floating on the night air, unintelligible streamers of disembodied conversation that could have been in a foreign tongue or any number of languages.
He heard air whistling through his nose, felt it wheeze into his lungs and back out again. It was hard work staying alive, he thought. Damned hard work, the hardest he had ever done.
He stood up straight and felt his side. His shirt was torn and there was blood on his skin. He felt along a furrow and knew the wound was not deep. He touched his forehead and winced at the slight pain. His fingers came away sticky with blood. A scratch there, too. But he was no longer bleeding much and he felt no pain. His lungs began to heal, the flames subsiding, the fire banking with each new slow breath. His heart, too, was no longer racing like a scared deer in his chest. His temples no longer pounded or throbbed.
And it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. The laughter and the talk died away. The music faded into nothingness. Time to move. Time to make his blind way back to the hotel, find out if it was safe to stay there, and if it was, to rest, to sleep, to let his mind and his body heal.
But if it was not safe?
He would go someplace where it was safe.
Simple.
He walked back into the alley, then onto another dark street. He stopped and looked both ways. He listened. Then he looked at the sky, as if he could see his compass there, some guiding star that would lead him out of the maze of Santa Fe to El Rincon.
He had no idea where he was, but he knew he could not be more than a few blocks from the hotel. He didn’t know how far he had run, but he could not have run more than a mile or so.
; Everything looked different at night. He had no landmarks, since he had only been down a couple of streets between the hotel and the cantina. There was a street sign on one of the corner buildings at the next street. He skulked across the street and stared up at it.
Delgado Street.
Where in hell was Delgado Street? He had no map, and even if he had, he would not know one street from another. Mariposa was the only one he had seen. He felt more at home in the woods, where he could follow paths, find creeks, study moss at the base of trees. Santa Fe was a labyrinth, and all the buildings looked the same at night. All the streets looked the same. All were dark, forbidding.
Left or right? Turn around or go ahead? He saw no lights, heard no sounds. Had he run that far? Away from all the cantinas, all the hotels, all life?
Delgado ran into Esperanza and Esperanza took him to Caridad, and he knew he was lost by the time he reached a street named Iglesia. Church Street. Had he seen any churches? He could not remember any, but he had not been looking for a church. Still, the street name told him something. Something important.
He had wandered away from the dens of iniquity. He was in a quiet part of town, well away from the hustle and bustle of downtown Santa Fe. Now he knew which way to go, because he had been angling left, east perhaps, or north.
Lew turned right and stole through the streets like a thief in the night. He was furtive. He felt like a hunted animal on the prowl, and there was a feeling of safety in that notion, a feeling that he was safe as long as he could not be seen. He began to think of himself as just another animal, but he had not decided on which kind.
Was he a deer making its way through thick trees to the hardwoods where it could feed on fallen acorns? Or a coon slipping down to the creek for a drink of water and perhaps a fish it could catch.
