Sharp aches in Pedro’s arms plus the pins and needles in his hands only added to his misery. Then his punisher slugged him again. The wiry bulldog of a man struck Pedro’s midriff like a battering ram.
No one to come to his rescue. The desperateness of his position set in like a lead weight tied to his neck. Señor Green was miles away in Texas, his wife Juanita at the ranch with Angela and the others. Maybe these bas-tardos would soon tire of their game.
“Who are you?”
“Gomez—” he managed to gasp. “Pedro Gomez.”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth?” someone spouted off.
“Maybe he’s part of the federales. No simple vaquero can shoot like he did for Alverón this afternoon.”
“Maybe he practiced a whole lot,” someone else shouted.
Pedro, with dread in his heart, saw the big man give his bulldog a nod to continue the beating, so he tried to stiffen up for the blows he knew were coming. His patrón’s words echoed in his ears as the shock of the man’s fist drew up the last rush of sour puke that spewed out. Don’t try anything by yourself. How he regretted disobeying him. Too late—another hard sledgehammer blow drove the wind from him, and he went faint.
In the darkness of night, he discovered in his dizziness, someone was trying to hold him up. They had cut loose the rope on one arm. It was a female with her body pressed to him for support as she tried to reach the other rope to cut him free. All very dark—finally, he could smell her musk. She hugged him against her ripe form with one arm around him to keep him from falling and tried to reach up to slash the last rope.When at last she managed to slice it, they fell to the ground in a pile, his arms as useless as if they had been pulled from the sockets.
“Quick, we must escape,” she hissed.
He blinked at her in shocked disbelief.He doubted he could even stand, let alone walk. How ridiculous; he wanted to laugh. His sea legs would never hold him. But she scrambled around to carry him with one of his numb arms draped over her shoulder.
“Come on, we must be gone,” she whispered.
“Sure, sure,” he agreed, not at all certain that what she expected from him would work.
Somehow she managed to half drag and carry him out into the starlight. Then she boosted him onto a cart. So grateful for his pain-filled arms to be free, he closed his eyes and hoped sleep would ease the excruciating pain in his entire upper body.
Soon the ungreased wheels began to creak so loud he feared the dead would even come alive. The carita shook and rattled as she led it away from the back of the cantina. He had no idea about her destination; as long as they made it there unscathed, he’d be satisfied.
“I can’t take you home,” she said to him after she paused the cart-pulling animal. “They would look for you there. I’m going to hide you down by the river until you are strong enough and can get away.”
“Gracias,” he managed, realizing that his lips were badly swollen when he tried to speak. A knot on his sore head, ribs probably broken, what else was torn up?
Holding his aching arms tight to his side, he looked up at the stars. A good drink at the moment might be what he needed. How would he ever explain this to his patrón? He hadn’t been drunk when they jumped him, hadn’t been drunk in six months, and he thought for certain that his cover would work in this place. Obviously, some stool pigeon had told Torres about him. Or was it only a guess? He might never know.
In his discomfort, he tried to think of anyone who knew about him riding down there to find the bandits. Had Riaz double-crossed him? Rocked back and forth whenever the cart wheels hit a rock or bump, he tried to imagine who the informer could be. Torres might have spies in Tucson—some lowlife people would tell on their own mothers for a quarter.
“There is some high grass and willows, they should offer you some shelter.” She apologized. “I will bring you food when they aren’t watching me.”
“I am very grateful,” he said, shocked at the weakness in his voice.
When she helped him out of the cart, he could see the silver river rushing past in the starlight. Then, with much effort, she eased him back through the reeds and weeds.
At last, they decided they were deep enough to be hidden. She spread the old blanket on the ground and helped him get down on his butt.
“A weapon?” he asked her. “I have no gun, no knife.”
“I have this small knife,” she said, and put the wooden handle in his palm.
He nodded in gratitude. It was hardly more than a paring knife. He regretted leaving the Colt in his saddle bags; no doubt, they had discovered it. Before he ever left these weeds, he would need to feel a lot better and stronger. She helped him lie down, then told him to sleep if he could and hurried away in a rustle of the dry reeds. Soon he could hear the high-pitched screams of the carita’s dry axle, and he knew that she had gone to her own place.
In teeth-gritting pain, he faded in and out of sleep the rest of the night. A red-winged blackbird awoke him. Perched precariousy on a tall reed, it rode the morning wind’s swaying and sang for him to awaken, the new day had begun.
The notion of the water made him thirsty, but if he managed to crawl to it, then he would be exposed and might not have the strength to get back. Best wait for her to return. He’d been thirsty before. Lying on his back, he could look up into the cottonwood limbs overhead, the dollar-sized leaves in a constant rustle, spinning back and forth in the breeze.
Once he felt strong enough to leave, he’d need a horse or animal to ride. They, no doubt, had confiscated Poco.
His pockets were empty; he realized they’d taken what little money he had on him. That wasn’t so bad in Mexico because no one ever had any money, anyway, except bandits and rich hacienda owners. Everyone else would share their meager food and housing with a poor stranger.
Torres. He went over the man’s name several times. No way could he forget him or the bulldog-faced man who hit him…over and over again. They would get theirs; he had many friends. Burt Green would make hash of them. First, he needed to get better so he could go and fetch him. What a mess. He had promised that he would be careful.Who even knew that he came to this place? The señora. All she knew was he went to Sonora to look for Torres. Had he mentioned Diablo to her?
Then he heard men’s voices and felt for the knife handle. They spoke in Spanish, and he understood every word as they passed close by his place of hiding.
“He couldn’t bite the rope in two—that’s stupid.”
“They said the teeth marks are on it,” the other said.
“Bullshit! No one can reach that high and bite a rope.
He wasn’t any taller than I am.”
“Any man who could walk away after such a beating can do anything.”
“I don’t see him around here. You go ahead. I am going to take a shit in these weeds.”
“Do it. I’ll meet you back at the cantina. He’s not down here.”
Listening close to their words, Pedro wondered how deep in the weeds the man might come. He heard the reeds being parted. The other one walked away in the direction of the square. His companion was coming in Pedro’s direction to find himself a place of privacy.
If only he had the man’s weapon. No doubt, the outlaw wore a gun and a knife both. Still, he wondered if he had the needed strength to take this bandit. If he could only overpower him and take his pistol … armed, he could hold them off if he had to. How could he hide the body? Put it in the river, and let it float downstream.
Still, he had never before been forced to murder someone. He needed to remember this hombre would shoot him like a dog in a split second. Perhaps he should wait. He sure couldn’t let the man live, or he’d have the whole bunch down there on him. It was kill or be killed, and even if he had the man’s weapons, he couldn’t be certain of escaping this hell hole.
Seated on the ground, he flexed his sore shoulders, then tested the edge of the small knife—sharp enough. He could make out the man’s outline. The bandit w
as squatted only a few yards away, grunting and straining. His time was at hand. Then his left hand closed on a good-size rock. With effort, he rose to a crouch and began to stalk toward his prey.
The hunkered-down bandit never knew what hit him. He spilled facedown with his pants around his ankles. Pedro dropped to his knee and tried to get his breath.No movement in the outlaw. Good. All he needed to do was pull his pants up, then get him to the stream and let them think he drowned when they found him.
Dressing him back was easy, but for Pedro to drag the body even inches was slow and hard work. The last fifty feet, the bandit, a man in his twenties, made some groans that caused Pedro to stop and reconsider. But he soon fainted. Grateful for that, Pedro resumed his efforts to pull him to the water’s edge. On the gravel, Pedro removed the outlaw’s holster, knife, and money. The treasures piled on the ground, he tugged on the man’s booted feet and gave it his all to slide him into the shallows; then he rolled him over facedown in the water. When the bandit showed some signs he might be recovering, Pedro shoved his head down until all the struggle was gone from him. Then he jerked the limp body out into the knee-deep water and launched him in the current. For a minute, the body spun around, and he worried he might have to wade out further to get the corpse on course. Then, to his relief, it began to bobble away downstream.
“One less bandit,” he said under his breath, and with effort waded out to the shore. There he secured the man’s gun, holster, knife, and a few coins. He buckled the holster around his waist, and before he stuck the Colt back into it, he noticed the revolver had been converted to cartridges from a cap-and-ball version. When he finally got back into his lair in the tall reeds in his water-filled boots, he disassembled and cleaned the weapon.
Worn out from the effort, he moved deeper into the tangles to be certain they didn’t discover him while he slept. So weary and sore, he knew he would be asleep in minutes. Each effort he made hurt him so deep he was forced to grit his teeth. At last, with the Colt in his fist, he passed out on his blanket.
“You moved?” she hissed, then scowled at him. “Whose gun?”
He could see her out of his slitted eyes. With her assistance, he sat up. Dazed and weaker than before, he licked his sore, cracked lips.
“A bandit came by—almost discovered me.”
“Where is he?” Her round eyes flew open in shock as she searched around for him.
He held up his palm to stop her. “I put his body in the river. He’s downstream.”
“How?” Her smooth forehead pleated in lines of concern.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “But I had to do it and did it.” He felt grateful when she never asked how the man died. He cleaned the grit from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and shook his head. “It wasn’t easy.”
“They’ll know you are here!” Upset, she looked at him with impatience in her eyes.
“I don’t think so. He’s miles downriver by now.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“No.” He wasn’t about to tell her he bashed his head in and then drowned him. “He fell in.”
“I almost forgot. Here’s your food.” She brought out two tortilla wraps from her apron pockets.
“If I could get to a horse.” He looked down at the two white flour tortillas and nodded in approval. It had been a while since he ate her last one. He took a bite and she held up a bottle of wine for him, too.
“Gracias,” he said, and settled into eating.
“You need more strength if you’re going to ride from this place. Promise me not to fight with any more of the bandits. They will kill you.” Her face was only inches from his, demanding he agree to her terms.
“I promise.”
“No, you are crazy like all men. They beat you up, and you want revenge. I have buried a husband and two brothers who were that crazy, too.”
He put out a hand to stay her as she glared in disapproval at him.
“I won’t do it again,” he promised her between bites.
She still looked peeved at him and shook her head. “They’re all crazy men.”
“They hurt you?” he asked.
She never answered, simply stared toward the mother mountains in the distance. He knew the answer. That bunch took what they wanted. He suspected it that night when Torres got off his horse and bowed at her so mockingly.
“I’m not a reason for revenge.” She looked over the gun harness and nodded. “My man’s name was Polo. He was tough. You’re very lucky even to be alive, Pedro.”
He crossed himself at her words. She took the wine bottle and drank deep; some of the red juice showed at the corners of her mouth. Then she handed it back to him, and he nodded before he took a drink from it. Strong red wine, it cut the dust in his throat. He toasted her and gave her back the bottle so he could eat his food.
“I can’t stay here much longer,” he said.
“When they will ride out on a raid, you can escape this place.”
“They are going soon?” He worried about Obregón being alone with only the boy Juan to guard Green’s ranch.
She shrugged. “Who knows, but Torres likes too well the money he makes off the raids, selling horses and treasures they take, not to go back soon for more.”
“Will they miss you?”
She dismissed his concern.
“I guess I can stay here another day. I feel like some injured dog hiding under the floor.”
“Better to live longer,” she said, then drank some wine again from the neck.
“You want to go with me?”
She shook her head. “I have my own place here. I can make a few pennies cooking on the square and eat on that, too. I am too old to be a puta or a man’s toy—what could I do up there?”
“Maybe you could work as a cook for someone.”
“You are feeling guilty for me. Don’t—I’m fine. And when you are stronger, you can leave this place.” She handed him the bottle. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t kill no more banditos.” Then, with a wary last look at him, she put the scarf over her head and left, making her way through the tall weeds.
He stared after her until he could no longer hear the rustle of the dry stems.Turning his attention to his food, he began to eat again, washing it down with the red wine—somehow he needed to be strong, strong enough to ride, and soon, too.
Chapter 12
DEUCES BROUGHT DOWN HIS FIRST DEER WITH HIS new bow and arrow. Proudly, he came off the steep hillside on his moccasin heels to the fallen animal; the feathered shaft was deep in the young deer’s chest, and from the blood, he knew it struck the animal’s heart. The yearling never suffered. Good. He shouldered it and started back for their camp, holding the legs together in front.
He had not forgotten the lessons of his youth—his mentor would have been proud of his kill, swift and deadly. All the time spent with white men never erased his skills as a warrior-hunter. He climbed the last ridge in a jog. The blood of the animal was on his shirt; he would need to rinse it in the spring at camp when he finished butchering the carcass.
Freed the night before of the last handcuff by Greta’s diligent filing, he felt on his way to being a whole person again.
“Greta.” He repeated her name aloud, then smiled as he crested the hill and looked down in the valley. On her knees with a knife in her hand, she fleshed a small goat hide and looked up at his approach. Struggling to her feet and with her dress tail in hand, she hurried to meet him.
“It’s fat,” she exclaimed, looking over the game.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Two white men rode by today. They had many horses and did not dally around here but a minute to water them. They rode west.”
“They see you?” He glanced toward the setting sun but saw no sign of anyone.Were they posse members?
She shook her head.
“Good.We better move tonight.”
She made a pained face, then nodded in agreement. “Let’s butcher the deer. Perhaps we ca
n jerk it tomorrow wherever we camp next.”
“Yes, I have lots of pepper.”
“You shot it with the bow?” She looked puzzled at the fact.
“Yes, and it worked good.We will need to make some more arrows.”
“Deuces, will they chase you forever?”
“I fear so. Are you sad for your family?” He set the deer down on the ground.
“For some.”
“For some?” He tied two strings of leather to a low, thick limb to hang the deer for skinning and dressing.
“My mother and the little boys—” Then she shook her head. “Not for him. Let me clean your shirt.”
“Did he ever hurt you?” He wanted to know about this man and what evil things he had done to her. Waiting for her answer, he unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off.
“Yes. Several times—he forced himself on me—” She was close to tears.
“I wondered the first time I saw you and him.”
She shook her head. “I could never be alone in the barn when he was there, or he made me—”
Deuces nodded that he understood. He watched the tears run down her cheeks. He stepped in and hugged her. “He will never hurt you again.”
She nodded. She had heard him and took the bloodstained garment from his hands. “I will wash it.” She snuffed her nose and shook her head to escape the pain.
He watched her hurry off to the spring. How could a father do such a thing to his own? Abuse her. She left with him on her own after that first encounter—willingly. No longer strange to him why her life on that farm was not so good. Not once since they rode away had she complained to him, and she worked hard at everything they did. Now he knew the real reason why she left her family so willingly—it was all over what her stepfather had done to her. That’s what she called him, stepfather, and he could hear the edge in the tone of her voice every time she mentioned him.
Deuces tried to shrug the man’s wickedness from his mind and turned his attention to the deer. With the sharpened knife, he began to slit the animal open from the inside, careful not to let the knife split the hair to fall on the meat. He soon had the belly open, and the still hot guts spilled out. He cut away the liver and heart, then removed them from the body. When he looked up, he saw that buzzards already were attracted to his kill. Bad sign; the circling birds might bring white men to check it out. Nothing he could do for the moment but complete the job.
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