“You think the others are gone?” Santiago asked as he and Dixon emerged from the rocks.
“Seems like it.”
Dixon said, “If you want to go take a look around, Mr. Slaughter, I’ll take care of buryin’ Callan.”
Slaughter nodded. “All right, Chuck. That’s a good idea. Come on, Santiago.”
Slaughter and Santiago mounted and rode up the canyon, rifles held ready for use. They went around the bend where the rustlers had held the herd until the pursuit caught up to them, and another hundred yards farther on, Slaughter and Santiago came to a narrow, twisting trail that led up to the rim on that side.
Slaughter nodded toward the trail and said, “Let’s go take a look.”
Cautiously, they rode to the top. When they reached the rim, they had no trouble locating the spot where the bushwhackers had waited. They found empty rifle cartridges littering the ground, as well as the stubs of several quirlies.
“Three horses,” Slaughter said as he pointed out the tracks. “They took the extra one with them when they lit out, and it looks like they were in a hurry to put this part of the country behind them.”
“The odds were no longer in their favor,” Santiago said.
“Yes, that’s the way it seems to me, too. From the looks of everything we’ve found, it appears that Becker sent six men on with the herd and took the rest of the bunch with him. I’d say the two who were left didn’t care for the idea of being sacrificed on the altar of Ned Becker’s revenge.”
“What do we do now?”
“We’ll catch up to the herd, leave a few men to drive it on back to the ranch, and the rest of us will go on ahead and get back as soon as we can.” Slaughter glanced at the sky. “I started to say earlier that I wanted to get there by nightfall, but I doubt if we can do that. But we’ve wasted enough time. If our guesses are right, they could use our help back there, and the sooner the better.”
* * *
Joe Sparkman lifted his arm and used the sleeve to wipe sweat off his forehead. He had been up here on top of the water tank for a couple of hours, with no shade from the sun, and the heat from the sun was intense.
It would be nice if he could lift the hatch in the top of the tank, lower himself into the cool water, and float around for a while. That would cool him off. But he couldn’t keep an eye on what was happening from inside the tank.
As far as he could tell, the varmints who had laid siege to the ranch didn’t know he was up here, and Sparkman wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. Not for his own protection, although he sure as hell had no wish to die here today, but rather because he thought he could do the most good for Mrs. Slaughter and the others in the house if he took the outlaws by surprise when he finally announced his presence by drilling some of the bastards.
Joe had come close to shooting the fella who had ridden up to the front gate. It would have been easy to do while the gent was palavering with Mrs. Slaughter.
But that would have been cold-blooded murder. Sparkman was no saint, but he drew the line at such things.
So he’d waited, and for a second it looked like he’d made a bad mistake when he thought that Mrs. Slaughter had been shot. Texas John would go on a rampage if anything ever happened to that little gal.
Thankfully, he’d caught a glimpse of her a short time later when she opened the door to retrieve that note one of the outlaws had tossed up on the porch, so he knew she was all right. That was a big load off his mind.
Now he’d settled down to waiting again.
Hot, tedious waiting.
He was no strategist, just a cowboy from Zephyr, Texas, who’d discovered at an early age that he had a natural shooting eye. He had supplied countless squirrels and jackrabbits for his ma’s stew pot when he was a kid.
But he was beginning to get a hunch that the outlaws were going to wait until dark to make their move. They could get around easier then without being seen. They might be planning to sneak up on the house.
Sparkman figured he’d better do something to spoil that plan while he still could.
The varmints were holed up behind the schoolhouse. Sparkman could look over the ranch house roof and see the Texas-style adobe brick building a couple of hundred yards away. Cottonwood trees grew behind and to one side of it, and the outlaws were using those for cover, too.
But from time to time he spotted some of them moving around. As Sparkman thought more about it, he decided that the hombre who had ridden up to the gate to talk to Mrs. Slaughter must be the leader.
Cut off a snake’s head and the rest of it died, he thought. Any good ol’ Texas boy knew that. Sparkman’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the barrel of his rifle and waited to catch a glimpse of the boss owlhoot. His vision was exceptionally keen. Even at this distance he thought he could spot the man again.
And when he did, that would be the time to take his first shot. Kill that fella and the others might give it up as a bad job. Maybe not likely, but there was at least a chance of that happening.
Sparkman waited with the patience of a born hunter. He recalled the time he had waited almost an entire night, not moving a muscle, for a coyote that had been getting into his ma’s chicken house and carrying off a hen every night. Finally the slinking critter had showed up, and Sparkman drilled him with a single shot from the hayloft in the barn. He’d hung that varmint’s tail from the fence around the vegetable garden, proud of what he’d done.
If he could save the lives of everybody here on the ranch, it would be even better.
Caught up in those thoughts, he might not have heard anything behind him—even if there had been anything to hear.
But as it was, the form that pulled itself swiftly onto the top of the water tank moved in utter silence. The only thing that warned Sparkman he had company was a flickering shadow in the corner of his eye.
His heart leaping in alarm, he rolled onto his back as fast as he could. That saved his life, at least for the moment. The knife that the Apache had been about to drive into his back struck the tank’s top instead and the point imbedded itself in the wood.
Sparkman tried to swing the Winchester’s muzzle up and around so he could get a shot off, but the Indian knocked the barrel aside with a swipe of his other arm as he struggled to wrench the knife free.
Sparkman struck upward with the rifle’s stock instead. He aimed the blow at the Apache’s face, but the man twisted and the butt caught him on the shoulder.
That was enough to knock the Apache to the side. Sparkman kicked him in the belly. The cowboy knew he was fighting for his life, and that desperation gave him strength and speed he didn’t know he had.
Unfortunately he was battling a man for whom fighting and killing were as natural as breathing. The Apache writhed out of the way when Sparkman tried again to hit him with the rifle. His left hand shot out, gripped Sparkman by the throat, and drove the back of the cowboy’s head against the tank.
The blow stunned Sparkman, caused his vision to go blurry for a second, and made the world spin crazily around him. By the time he recovered his wits, the Apache had wrenched the knife loose and held the blade at Sparkman’s throat.
Sparkman expected to die right then and there. The keen edge sliced into his skin and he felt the warm trickle of blood down his neck.
But the Apache held off and didn’t put enough pressure on the blade to slice into Sparkman’s throat.
Instead he leaned close over the cowboy, his face only inches away from Sparkman’s, and asked, “How many are in the house?”
It was hard to talk with a knife at his throat that way, but Sparkman managed to gasp, “You can . . . go to hell!”
The Indian pressed a little harder on the knife and went on, “Santiago Rubriz. Is he here at the ranch?”
Sparkman didn’t see how it would hurt anything to answer that one. He said, “No. He went with . . . Texas John . . . after those damn . . . rustlers.” Sparkman breathed raggedly through his clenched teeth for a second, the
n added, “You fellas better . . . light a shuck . . . before Slaughter gets back. You’ll be mighty sorry . . . if he catches you.”
The Apache smiled. If anything, it made him look uglier and more evil.
“What about Don Eduardo?”
“I don’t know . . . a damn thing. And I wouldn’t tell you . . . if I did.”
“Then there is no reason to keep you alive.”
Sparkman’s heart jumped again. He wanted to cuss the Apache again, but there was no time for that. He felt the knife bite deep into his throat, burning hot and icy cold at the same time, and his body bucked up from the pain. He saw his own blood spout up like a fountain as his panic-stricken heart pumped it out through the gaping wound.
He knew he would never see Texas again. In fact, the last thing he saw was his killer standing up, knife in hand, blood dripping crimson from the blade . . .
The only thing that gave Joe Sparkman any comfort as he crossed the divide was the knowledge that his death would be avenged.
John Slaughter would see to that.
Chapter 18
Becker saw Bodaway walking through the cottonwood grove and frowned. He realized he hadn’t seen his old friend for a while.
“Where have you been?” Becker asked.
“Getting rid of a problem,” Bodaway replied.
“What problem?”
“The rifleman hidden on top of the water tank.”
Bodaway pointed to the tank, the top of which was visible in the distance, rising higher than the roof of the ranch house.
“Wait a minute,” Becker said with a frown. “One of Slaughter’s men was up there?”
Bodaway grunted and said, “I would not have had to kill him if he wasn’t.”
“How did you know?”
“I saw the barrel of his rifle when he pointed it at you.”
“At me?” Becker asked, surprised.
“While you were at the fence talking to the woman.”
Becker felt a little shiver go through him. He wasn’t surprised that he’d been covered while he was parleying with Mrs. Slaughter, but the idea that a sharpshooter had targeted him from the top of the water tank was unexpected. Putting a man up there was actually a pretty smart move.
But evidently it hadn’t paid off, because Bodaway had disposed of the hombre.
“So you killed him?”
Bodaway shrugged.
“What did you do with him?”
“Left him up there. What else would I do with him?”
There were still a couple hours of sunlight left. The body would start to stink by nightfall, lying out in the sun that way.
Maybe the people in the house would smell it, Becker thought. The idea made him smile a little. Nothing like the stench of death to make somebody’s spirits fall. Maybe some of the defenders would start to think about giving up.
Not that it would really matter in the long run if they did. They were all going to die anyway.
Herb Woodbury came up to Becker and Bodaway and said, “The boys are startin’ to wonder what we’re gonna do, boss. Are we waitin’ until the sun goes down to make our move?”
“That’s right,” Becker said. “Once it’s dark I want a couple of men to get up close enough to the house to throw torches through some of the windows. If we set the place on fire inside, they won’t have any choice but to come out.”
“And we shoot ’em down when they do,” Woodbury guessed.
“Have you forgotten why we’re here?” Becker asked with a frown. “I want Don Eduardo and his wife alive.”
Bodaway said, “The boy is not here.”
Becker looked quickly at him and asked, “You mean Santiago?”
“I asked the man on the water tank about him. He said the boy went with Slaughter after the cattle.”
Becker rubbed his jaw and said, “Well, that’s pretty much what I figured. That makes it even more important for us to capture the don and doña and Mrs. Slaughter. The others will be coming back sooner or later, and we’ll need hostages to make them surrender, too.”
“Gonna make a clean sweep of it, eh?” Woodbury said.
“Whatever it takes to make sure Rubriz dies knowing that I’ve taken everything from him. That means his wife and son have to die first.”
Bodaway said, “And the white men claim that Apaches are cruel.”
For a second that comment annoyed Becker. Then he looked closer at Bodaway and realized that despite the solemn expression on his old friend’s face, the Apache had just made a joke. Becker threw back his head and laughed.
Then he grew more serious, too, and said, “Nothing is too cruel for the man who murdered my father.”
* * *
“Let me go out there,” Don Eduardo said as he struggled to stand up. “That is the only chance any of you have to survive this madman’s scheme.”
“Eduardo, don’t be insane,” Belinda said. She put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “You know it wouldn’t do any good. You heard what Mrs. Slaughter said.”
Viola held out the note to Don Eduardo and said, “You can read it for yourself. He wants both of you. And don’t think for a second that if he got you, he would spare the rest of us. Becker’s a natural-born killer.”
“No!” the don responded with unexpected vehemence. “She made him that way, that woman. That evil woman!”
He was breathing hard. Dr. Fredericks came up on his other side and said, “You’d better take it easy, Don Eduardo. You’ve been through a rough time of it, and you’re in no shape to work yourself into such a state.”
With an angry frown, Rubriz leaned back on the sofa. Belinda perched on the edge beside him and took his hand. He lifted her hand in both of his and gently pressed his lips to the back of it.
“I am so sorry that you are in danger, my dear,” he said. “This is my fault. I should never have trusted either of them.”
“Either of them?” she repeated with a puzzled frown.
“Thaddeus Becker . . . and his wife.” Don Eduardo sighed. “Although, to be fair, Thaddeus was a good man at one time. We fought side by side for freedom against the oppressors of my country. True, at first Thaddeus joined with us because he believed our side would emerge triumphant in the end, and he might become rich if he was one of us. But by the time that came about, he believed in our cause, I know it.”
Viola thought the don might be wrong about that. A man who fought for money, or even for the hope of profit, seldom changed his stripes.
But she hadn’t been there, she reminded herself. She had no way of knowing what had really been in Thaddeus Becker’s heart and mind.
“It was Lusita,” Don Eduardo went on. “She was the one who changed him. He saw her in Mexico City, at a ball to celebrate our victory, and lost all reason. It was the same ball where I met my own beloved Pilar.” He looked over at Belinda. “I am sorry, I should not mention her—”
“Of course you can mention her,” Belinda said. “I know you loved her. Of course you did. From everything you’ve told me, she was a wonderful woman. And she was Santiago’s mother, so of course you still have feelings for her.”
“They do not diminish my love for you.”
Belinda leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She murmured, “I know that.”
Viola frowned slightly. She had spent the past eighteen hours intensely disliking Doña Belinda Rubriz, and now the woman had to go and act like a decent human being. Her affection for her husband seemed genuine.
But if it was, how could she be unfaithful to him with her own stepson?
“Lusita was quite taken with the dashing gringo adventurer, I suppose,” Don Eduardo went on. “But I should not bore you with this story.”
“No, go on,” Belinda urged him. “Anything that helps me get to know you better is all right with me, Eduardo.”
And talking kept the don sitting there relatively quietly and resting, thought Viola. She glanced at Fredericks, and the doctor gave her a slight nod. He approved of Don E
duardo telling them about his past, too.
“You understand, these are things that have weighed on my heart and soul for many years. We were happy at first, there at the ranch: Thaddeus and Lusita, Pilar and me. But Lusita always had, how do you say it, a wandering eye. She claimed to love Thaddeus, but she thrived on the attention of men. It seemed to be like air and water to her, a necessity of life.”
“I’ve known women like that,” Belinda said.
She had probably been a woman like that in the past, Viola thought, then chided herself for being so judgmental.
“Thaddeus loved her so much, he could not see what she was really like,” Don Eduardo said. “Or if he did, he persuaded himself to ignore it. But he gave no sign that he knew, even when she . . . even when she decided that she wanted to seduce me, his own partner and comrade-in-arms.”
“You resisted her, of course.”
“Of course,” Rubriz said. “Then when she became with child and presented Thaddeus with a fine son, I hoped that motherhood would force Lusita to put everything else behind her. That she would devote herself to her husband and the little boy. And for a time it seemed that would be so.”
Viola said, “That little boy was Ned Becker, the man who’s out there laying siege to this house now?”
With a solemn nod, Don Eduardo said, “Yes, it must be so. That is the name I remember him by. I have not seen him in many, many years. In truth, I thought that he was probably dead. I knew from friends in Mexico City that Lusita never returned to her family after she took the boy and left the ranch, after Thaddeus Becker’s death.”
Viola’s head was spinning a little from trying to keep up with everything in Don Eduardo’s story. It was a good example of how messy and complicated life could get for some people. She was glad that she had met the love of her life at a relatively early age and spent so many years happily married to John Slaughter.
“I wanted to believe that Lusita was just impulsive and misguided,” the don continued. “But that hope was colored by memories of earlier, happier days. When she lied to her husband and made him believe that I had attacked her, she forced Thaddeus to take action that ultimately resulted in his death. I have no doubt that wherever they went after that, she filled her son’s head with lies about the things I had done. She must have blamed me for what happened to Thaddeus, when I was only defending myself. And now Ned has come to reap the evil his mother sowed.”
The Edge of Hell Page 13
