John McMasters reached down and fingered the boy’s eyelids shut.
“I’m sorry, Dan,” he whispered. “But I’m still going after Butcher.”
His words lacked confidence. To keep his date with vengeance, he had to get back to the road. And that would take a bloody miracle.
He tugged the body free from the rocks, ignoring the blood, the bones protruding from Kilpatrick’s clothes and flesh, and the gray, grotesque matter that seeped from the splits in the boy’s skull and natural orifices.
Daniel Kilpatrick felt light. McMasters dragged him across the rocks, avoiding the rattlesnake hidden in some hole or underneath a slab of sandstone. Grunting, sweating, shoving, and swearing, he managed to get the corpse up on the ledge above him. The legs dangled in his face, and McMasters noticed the other boot had been pulled off, along with the sock from the foot already missing a boot.
He looked away, fought down the gall in his throat and gut, and moved down a few feet, trying to find the easiest path to get himself up that five feet without knocking the corpse back down, possibly sending it to the banks of the Salt River below.
Five minutes later, he was on the ledge, breathing heavily, chest aching, heart pounding. He came to his knees and looked, first at the body of Daniel Kilpatrick—still there—and then at the rocks above where the rope might still be waiting for him.
Again, he wiped sweat from his eyes. Not wanting to use his glasses out of fear he would drop them or lose them for he had a long way to go yet, he squinted.
The rope remained.
And Alamo Carter’s big, bald, black head reappeared.
“You need help?”
“I will,” McMasters said, realizing he could barely hear himself. He tried to clear his throat, but lacked enough moisture or strength. Even shaking his head took more energy than he had.
He turned, slid back to the body of the deputy marshal, and reached down to grasp the corpse’s arms. Grunting and sliding, he backed his way up, dragging Kilpatrick’s legs to solid ground.
Then he rose and dragged the body toward the dangling end of the lariat.
Not enough rope hung down to tie to Kilpatrick’s body, and the overhang was too far for McMasters to push the corpse atop. He looked around, thinking, and saw an avalanche of boulders on the far side of the rocks. Maybe.
Slinging the body over his left shoulder, McMasters stumbled in that direction, pausing frequently to catch his breath and wipe away more sweat. Reaching the boulders, he swallowed what he could and crept and crawled up that makeshift staircase. The rocks only went so high, but that was close enough. With a grunt and heave, McMasters managed to get Kilpatrick’s body on to the top of the ledge. Then, somehow, he managed to get himself up above. Lying in the dirt and rocks, he breathed heavily, sand and dried twigs sticking to his clothes and his flesh.
His body and mind craved for water and for rest, but he knew better than to stop while he had momentum.
Somehow, he managed to push himself up, came to his knees, and looked up. Alamo Carter was standing, but he saw no one else. Likely, they were all raising dust for Mexico. Perhaps Carter had drawn the short straw and had been ordered behind to wait. To kill McMasters. No. McMasters shook his head. The black man had had plenty of chances to make sure McMasters was dead.
He turned back and reached for the corpse.
He dragged and pulled and positioned Kilpatrick over his shoulder again, and staggered toward the final wall. Once, he tripped, falling to his knees, but by some miracle he did not drop the dead man. With a groan and giant effort, he made himself stand, lifting the dead weight on his shoulder. He zigged and zagged until he dropped to his knees again, falling on purpose, and slowly, gently, lowered the body onto the ground.
Turning back, leaning against the rocks, he began pulling the rope until it lay in a loose, rough coil near him. Next he brought the rope underneath Kilpatrick’s body and wrapped it underneath the dead man’s armpits and chest, making a good tight knot. He lifted the body, let it fall again over his left shoulder, and with his gloved hands, he reached out and gripped the rope firmly. At least, as tight as his cramped, aching hands and fingers could manage.
Above him, Alamo Carter nodded.
McMasters did the same, and the big killer disappeared with the rope braced against his shoulders and back.
McMasters felt himself lifted as stones tumbled onto the clearing, bouncing and pounding their way toward the river below. He reached the next ridge and kept his momentum going forward, feeling the rope in his hands and shifting the body closer. He slipped, the body tearing away from him, moving toward the road while McMasters slid down. He stopped himself from dropping over the next ridge and saw Daniel Kilpatrick’s legs and feet—both without boots or socks—disappear onto the ridge . . . the safety . . . above.
McMasters sat up, chest heaving, still aching. He waited. He listened. Then he heard a curse, a pistol shot, and saw the rope . . . his precious lifeline . . . flinging over the top. He lunged for it, but it was nowhere near him, and he fell onto his face. Coming up, he looked down, and saw the rope falling, spinning, silently making its way toward the Salt River. It hit the rocks, and the sandstone swallowed it.
He looked up. Six feet. That’s all he needed. Six feet and he would be on the road. He could drink water. He could eat corn dodgers or jerky. He could rest. Sleep. Six feet. That’s all. It looked like six miles.
Suddenly, startlingly, Alamo Carter leaned over the edge, holding the Winchester Yellow Boy. His giant right hand shoved into the lever, the barrel pointing straight down at McMasters’s chest.
CHAPTER 24
“Grab hold,” the black killer said. McMasters lacked strength to move. If that giant planned on killing him, he might as well just do it from where he lay. McMasters wasn’t getting any closer to that .44-caliber rifle.
“Damn it,” the big man barked. “Take hold of the barrel. I’ll pull you up.”
McMasters blinked.
“Now. The rifle’s all I got.”
Hell, McMasters thought, I don’t even have strength enough to pull the Colt. If he wants to kill me . . .
He stood, somehow, and staggered to the dangling rifle. It hurt to lift both arms over his head. It hurt to tighten his grip around the rifle’s barrel. His lips pressed hard against one another. He focused on holding onto the Winchester as hard as he could. He did not even bother trying to steel himself for the bullet that surely would come tearing through his body.
“On three,” Carter said. “One . . . two . . .” His head vanished as he turned away from the edge and his bulging right arm began pulling and lifting.
McMasters did not hear the final number and braced his feet against the rocky terrain, trying to assist the massive Negro. His hands felt sweaty, but the gloves, still dry on the outside, did not slip. A moment later, he saw the road, the blue skies, white clouds, and Mary Lovelace holding the 1890 Remington in her right hand. She wasn’t aiming the .44-40 at McMasters. That was all he saw.
Rolling over away from the cliff, Alamo Carter gave a giant groan, and the Winchester slipped and toppled to the dust. So did John McMasters, who lay there, his right cheek on pebbles and ancient horse dung. His vision blurred briefly. His chest heaved. All the pain he had endured, all the muscles he had used, began attacking his body for such abuse. Yet he had to stand. No, not stand. He did, however, make himself sit up.
Ahead of him, in the center of the road, holding the reins to their horses, Emory Logan and Marcus Patton stood. They did not look happy. A few yards away from McMasters, Bloody Zeke The Younger sat on a boulder, right arm folded across his chest. The left elbow was braced on his thigh, and his hand pressed hard against his ear. Blood seeped between his fingers and dribbled down his shirtsleeve. Hatred filled his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at John McMasters.
Turning, McMasters saw Mary Lovelace again. The pistol moved from Bloody Zeke to the other two. Finally, once Alamo Carter managed to sit up, she lowered the rev
olver, but not the hammer.
She gave McMasters a brief look.
“You all right?” Immediately, she put all her attention on Logan, Patton, and Bloody Zeke.
“I’ll live.” McMasters wasn’t quite sure, though.
He thought he knew what had happened. Once Daniel Kilpatrick’s body had reached the road and after Carter had removed the rope, Bloody Zeke had rolled up the lariat. Carter and Mary Lovelace must have thought he was doing that to help, but Bloody Zeke The Younger only helped himself. Throwing the rope over the side was a good way to help himself, he must have figured. That got his left earlobe shot off by Mary Lovelace.
The gambler and the bushwhacker might not have thrown in on Mary’s or Zeke’s side, but standing with their horses in the middle of the trail was a safe place for them to be. Safe for themselves. Safe for Mary Lovelace and Alamo Carter.
McMasters rose, stumbled to the buckskin, and found his canteen. One sip, he told himself, but his brain, muscles, and body did not listen. He drank greedily until he coughed, spitting out dust and water and phlegm. He wanted more, but made himself cork the container and push it back against the buckskin and the saddle. Then he staggered over, picked up the Winchester, and leaned against the boulder to which Alamo Carter had tied the rope earlier. He looked at Mary.
“Must’ve been . . . some party . . .” His breathing still came deeply, quickly. He did not know how long it would be until he could inhale and exhale normally, and without so much damned pain in his ribs, side, and chest.
“You did all the dancing,” she told him. “Was it worth it?”
He looked at the body, then down the road where the dead palomino and what remained of Emilio Vasquez lay. McMasters looked at the sky and saw more than the bright blue and the white clouds. He saw the buzzards circling overhead.
“You brought him up all this way,” Bloody Zeke said. “For what? Ain’t a thing up here to bury him with.”
“We’ll take him . . . to . . . Apache Junction. Bury him there. A cemetery. A real funeral.” Another I won’t be able to attend.
Resting the Winchester across his thighs, he turned toward the Rebel and the gambler. “Get the food off that horse. The saddlebags. Bedroll. And get the saddle blanket.”
“Saddle?” Marcus Patton asked. “Bridle?”
“Just the blanket, bags, and food.”
The blanket and bedroll he could use to cover Daniel Kilpatrick’s body.
“What about the Mex?” Emory Logan asked. “You gonna see that he gets planted, too. Gets hisself a real funeral.”
McMasters looked at the dead body of Emilio Vasquez. Then he looked at that pretty palomino that had taken some of the buckshot that had not found the Mexican bandit’s body.
“Bring him in,” Marcus Patton suggested, “and maybe we . . . er, I mean . . . ahem, ummm, you . . . you could claim any reward there might be posted on that bandito. Law’s sure to have learned that we ain’t goin’ to Yuma. Posses likely swarmin’ all over the country. Got to be papers on all our heads by now.” He grinned at McMasters. “Including yours.”
“Did you see what that Remington done to that bean-eater?” Logan asked. “Did you get a good look at his face. There ain’t no face. Hell, there ain’t even no head.”
“It’s worth a try,” Patton said. “Got to be some money on him.”
“On us.” Alamo Carter’s strength had returned. He sat up and mopped his own sweat-covered face with a rag.
“Law wouldn’t expect one of us to bring in the Mex for a reward,” Patton said.
Logan spit, wiped his mouth, and cursed before he turned toward McMasters. “Well? What do you think?”
McMasters kept looking at the buzzards.
“Leave him.”
* * *
They would not make it into Apache Junction. Not after all the time and strength it had taken to bring Daniel Kilpatrick’s body out of the rocks. McMasters wasn’t even certain they would make it up the hill, but, somehow, they did.
Up that hill and down it, and then they entered a canyon, cleared it, and saw the clouds again. By then, dusk was not far away, and McMasters could smell rain in the air. “Should be what passes for a cave a mile up this road!” He had to shout to be heard above the wind as it roared through the canyon. “We’ll camp there for the night! Make Apache Junction in the morning.”
Bloody Zeke had slid his hat off his head and left it dangling on his back by a stampede string. A scarf wrapped tightly around his head was stained with blood over his left ear. He pulled Daniel Kilpatrick’s horse behind him. It carried quite the load—the ammunition sacks, the food sacks, and Daniel Kilpatrick’s loosely wrapped but tightly tied body. McMasters rode behind them, the Remington, cleaned and reloaded, in his hands. Ahead rode the gambler and the bushwhacker, and at the point the black man and the redheaded woman.
When they reached the cave, they busied themselves—all except Bloody Zeke, who just found a rock and sat on it—picketing the horses, getting coffee started over a fire, and spreading out their bedrolls. McMasters had them all drop their weapons on a blanket, and he checked them to see how many were loaded. To his surprise, he found only Mary’s Remington revolver held any shells. To an even bigger surprise, he did not unload it. The Winchester Yellow Boy had bullets, too, but it remained in the scabbard on Kilpatrick’s horse. The derringer they had left in the possession of the late Emilio Vasquez.
The rain came as it usually did at that time of day and that time of year—powerfully in a savage torrent. It pounded the earth like buckshot, and mixed with small hailstones. Two of the horses took a bit of a beating, but there was nothing to be done about that. The cave only had so much room. The men and the woman stayed dry, but the storm turned the burning hell into a bitter cold, and the fire and coffee did little to warm them.
Bloody Zeke, brooding from his wounded ear, sat closest to the cave’s entrance and covered himself with his bedroll while gnawing on rough, hard jerky. Deepest in the cave sat the gambler and the bushwhacker, playing blackjack while sipping coffee.
The black man squatted over the fire, stirring beans in a pot.
“How is ’em beans comin’?” Emory Logan called out from his card game.
Alamo Carter snorted. “They might be fit to eat . . . for breakfast.”
“That’s all right.” The Missouri killer giggled. “Man, Carter, you’s somethin’ else. I mean, cookin’ and all, you’ll make some fine white folks a real good house—”
“Shut up.” Mary Lovelace sat across the fire, but she was not looking at the black man or the one-eyed bushwhacker. She wasn’t even looking at McMasters. She stared at the wrapped body of Daniel Kilpatrick.
Logan did not notice that. He pointed at Marcus Patton and shook his head. “Now we know why she done what she done after that Mex made his play. She loves the big black turd.” He spit. “Lady, don’t ya know they’s a law ag’in that kind of thing. They’ll send ’im and ya both to Yuma fer that. That is, if we don’t hang ya two.”
“Shut up,” McMasters told him.
The bushwhacker obeyed and returned to his blackjack game.
Shaking his head, Alamo Carter set the spoon on a rock near the blackened kettle of beans. He turned on his heels and looked at Mary, then at McMasters. “If it’s all right with you, I’m turnin’ in. All that work today . . . I’m kinda tuckered out.”
McMasters nodded. He sipped coffee and watched the Negro move toward the far wall, where he had rolled out his bedroll.
“Carter.”
The black man turned.
“Thank you,” McMasters told him.
“Don’t need to thank me, McMasters.” Alamo Carter jutted his jaw toward Mary Lovelace. “She had that big pistol in her little ol’ hands. I was like Zeke and them other two boys. All set to light a shuck for ol’ Mexico. But she had the gun. And she barked the orders. And after she up and shot off Zeke’s ear, well, I figured I’d just better do like she told me to do.” He chortled, shook
his head, and turned around.
McMasters watched him until he reached the bedroll, then looked across the fire at Mary Lovelace.
She did not look up at him.
“You could’ve been shuck of me and this lot,” he told her.
She did not reply.
“You’re a damned fool.” He set the cup of coffee down. It had lost its flavor, whatever flavor it had earlier. “Did Moses Butcher hurt you that much? What the hell did he do to cause you to hate him so much?”
She stared at him, and those green eyes reflected the flames of the fire.
McMasters felt as though he stared into the fires of Hades.
“What did he do to you, McMasters?” she asked.
“He didn’t kill your husband. You did that.”
Her head shook, and she made some sort of noise that McMasters couldn’t quite grasp. Her gaze returned to the campfire.
McMasters tried to read her, but he couldn’t. The dress, once pretty, was soiled . . . maybe like her soul. A thin body, rawhide tough. Maybe she was taller than Bea had been, but not by much, yet Mary was the woman who had managed to hold off those other men, some of the worst killers in the entire Territory of Arizona. No, not some of the worst. With the exception of Moses Butcher, they were the worst.
McMasters shook his head. He had tried to enlist six hardened criminals, men with no remorse, to join him on a mission of revenge. And if it had not been for Mary Lovelace, he would be dead . . . or dying . . . down on that treacherous slope between the road to Apache Junction and the Salt River.
“So that’s it,” he said at last, almost a whisper, but the redhead looked up over the fire and the smoke. She did not say anything, just looked.
He listened. He heard the flames eating the dried wood. He heard the wind and the rain, which was starting to slacken a bit, no longer pounding the desert with hail, just hard, cold drops. One of the horses snorted. Another kept tapping the cave floor with a hoof. He heard his own breaths. He felt the soreness from today’s events. He felt the pain that had refused to leave him, that had driven him to that cave, with those people, on his mission.
Remington 1894 Page 19
