by Ben Boulden
The man stood over the boy, adjusted the guns on his hips. He looked up at the crowd, a sour expression on his face, then back down at the boy. He unleashed a powerful kick. The boy made a mewling, wounded animal sound. Then the man, smiling cruelly, spat in the boy’s face. He looked back to the crowd, said, “I believe the street needs cleaning.”
The crowd went silent for a moment. A few whispers rose and were followed by giggles and then loud excited guffaws. The bolder men slapped the brawler on the back, congratulated him on a fine fight, and one, the one that caught Kate’s attention, said the man’s name—
“Brother Rockwell.”
“I think we found Rockwell,” Kate said to J.D.
“We sure did.”
J.D. looked back towards the sheriff’s office where Allred stood on the boardwalk, leaned against a post, and watched the show. When he noticed J.D.’s attention he raised his hat a few inches from his head and winked. J.D. grimaced. He turned to Kate. “It’s time to rattle the cage.”
Kate said, “You think we’re ready?”
J.D. nodded. “You know what to do.” He handed her the Winchester. Then turned towards Jackson Rockwell. Rockwell stood in the in the street like a conquering hero, pumped his fists in the air. The brass of his badge reflected the morning sun. J.D. strode purposely towards him, said, “Rockwell! You’re a son of a bitch!”
Rockwell tried to step away, but J.D. was too quick and landed a hard right cross to the deputy’s chin. A whoosh of air rushed through the man’s lips as he fell backwards onto the dusty street. He rolled away, jumped to his feet. His fists extended in a classical pugilistic pose, his feet danced beneath him.
“Who the hell are you?”
J.D. didn’t answer, instead he feinted with another right cross, then placed a hard jab to Rockwell’s exposed right side. The crowd silently watched as Jackson Rockwell teetered on his feet, stumbled, then regained his balance. His breathing ragged with pain and rage. He straightened, moved towards J.D. His feet slowed, but still danced. He darted inside J.D.’s arms, landed a 1-2 combination before dancing away.
J.D. absorbed the blows, pushed forward as Rockwell retreated, landed a powerful, hooking shot to the side of his head. Pain exploded in J.D.’s hand. Rockwell stumbled, struggled to stay on his feet. The ground rose and Rockwell fell face down in the street. J.D. moved in closer, kicked him in the ribs, backed away and raised his hands.
Sheriff Allred ambled towards J.D. A grim look to his face, he said, “That’s enough.”
J.D. glanced back towards where he had left Kate, but there was no sign of her slim figure in the crowd. He stopped a smile from forming on his lips, said, “I reckon it is, Sheriff.”
CHAPTER 14
The noise from the street faded as Kate led the horses through the alley alongside the hotel. A few wooden boxes stacked on the hotel’s exterior wall were its only clutter. The narrow walkway shadowy, dark. The temperature noticeably cooler than that on the street. Kate swiftly moved from the side to back alley, as if her presence was usual and expected, glanced in both directions. When she was certain she was alone Kate approached a large dingy door at the back of the hotel, gently rapped it with her knuckles. She counted to ten and knocked again. This time in a 1-3-2 pattern.
The door opened a crack, Kate saw a wide eye, a sliver of pale skin topped by auburn hair.
“You ready?”
Beth Jensen didn’t answer. Instead she opened the door just enough to slip from the hotel to the alley. A brown and yellow floral patterned bag in her hand. She looked at Kate and nodded. The remnants of tears painted the corners of her eyes silvery white.
Kate palmed the horn of her horse’s saddle, placed her left foot in the stirrup and swung into its seat. She took Beth’s bag, secured it behind the saddle’s roll. “Be quick,” she said. “We have a long ride.”
Awkwardly, nearly losing the stirrup with her foot, Beth gained the seat of J.D.’s horse and followed Kate’s lead through the alley. They followed the path to the next narrow intersection, turned right, moved further away from the main street and the center of town. The only sounds the whisper of metal shoes scuffing soft dirt. Kate stopped short of the rear wall of a building at Small Basin’s eastern edge. She signaled Beth to stop and then silently listened to the morning sounds—chirping birds, rattling grasshoppers, mellow hush of wind—before she emerged onto the open canyon floor. She fought the urge to ride quickly away from Small Basin and towards the shadowy base of the steep canyon wall. Instead she allowed her horse only an ambling gait, Beth at her heels, the small creek ahead. Creating, she hoped, an innocent image of two women enjoying a horse ride in the fine morning air.
* * *
The sight of two single women on horseback was unfamiliar in the polygamist town and their escape was noticed by the glowering man with red hair. His eyes shaded from the cresting sun by the scruffy brown felt hat slanted across his brow. He leaned heavily against the back exterior wall of the livery, built a smoke with his left hand. A sin he assured Brother Skousen he no longer committed. Teased the curls of his long oily red hair below the smudged white bandage wrapped around his skull with his right hand. He casually watched the women ride across the flat canyon floor, gingerly cross the small creek, before they turned southeast.
“I’ll be damned,” he said to no one. Sparked his smoke, took a deep drag, leisurely walked to the corner of the livery where his horse was tied to a post. He swung into the saddle, watched the retreating women until they disappeared in the shadows of the morning’s black canyon walls, before he followed.
CHAPTER 15
J.D.’s head snapped back with the punch; blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth across the small cell. The chair rocked beneath him, threatened to topple before settling back on its four legs with a heavy thump. His hands, tied uselessly to the chair’s arms, flexed numbly against the thick rope. J.D.’s eyes stinging from equal measures of sweat and blood.
“Where’s your wife?” Allred said.
J.D. stared wordlessly at the floor. His breathing ragged, bile crawled up his throat, blood and hurt pulsed in his ears. Rockwell stood in the narrow doorway of the cell, a devil’s grin on his face, and watched the beating with obvious pleasure.
Allred paced back and forth in front of J.D. Sweat glimmered on his forehead and soaked his shirt. He rubbed the palms of his hands together then took a hanky from a pocket, wiped his face, returned it to his pocket. Allred forced J.D.’s head up by his chin with the palm of his left hand. “This doesn’t have to be so hard. We’re all men of the world here, aren’t we, Jack?”
Rockwell nodded. “We sure are, Jim.”
“There’s no reason you—or your wife, for that matter—need to get hurt. No reason at all.”
J.D. coughed, a spray of coppery blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
“And for what?” Allred continued. “A worthless slut?”
“Some might even say a whore,” Rockwell said.
J.D., his chin still held in the lawman’s hand, spit in Allred’s face. It impacted just below the left eye with an unflattering splat in a kaleidoscope of mucus, blood, and saliva. The lawman smashed J.D. with a violent backhand, then knocked the chair to the floor with a short hard kick. J.D.’s head cracked against the cell’s plank floor, stars spun jerkily across his vision.
J.D. gasped for breath. Blood pulsed in his ears. His head pounded. He fought to stay conscious and as the dark edges retreated from his vision he smiled, teeth lined with blood, and emitted a harsh, garbled laugh.
J.D. said, “You hit like a newborn babe, Sheriff.”
Allred, panting, looked back at Rockwell. “You reckon all this trouble our friend’s taking is just about the Jensen girl?”
Rockwell, his face still raw from the beating he took earlier, said, his mouth a motionless slash, “Nah.” Straightening himself from the doorway he stepped into the cell. “I think there must be something else.”
“Seems right.”
“Mind if I take a turn?” Rockwell said.
Allred nodded. “Help yourself.”
Rockwell violently pulled the chair upright, visibly jarring J.D. when its legs hit the floor. An audible gasp escaped J.D.’s mouth. His head rolled with the impact.
“Shit,” Rockwell said. “I thought you were a tough guy.”
J.D. smiled weakly. His eyes slightly unfocused. His voice strong. “Untie me. We’ll see who’s tougher.” Then: “But I guess we already did that, didn’t we?”
Rockwell grimaced. “I should ask a few questions, but I can’t say I’m in the mood.”
“If I was as dumb and ugly as you, I’d keep my mouth shut, too,” J.D. said. “Just to keep people from noticing.”
Rockwell attacked quickly. The toe of his boot crashed into J.D.’s stomach. The chair lurched, fell hard to the floor. Air whooshed from between J.D. lips. His lungs hollered for breath, his vision sparked, then blackened as he fell into the grim abyss of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 16
The sun moved slowly across the afternoon sky as Kate and Beth rode the high desert, its heat unobstructed by the canyon walls and the bleak, flat landscape of the desert. The valley widened in places to several miles, narrowing in others to no more than a few hundred yards. Ancient sandstone spires clawed skyward towards the unfathomable eternities. The horses sputtered their complaints and Kate was forced to slow the march, stopping every several minutes to allow the horses rest and a small taste of the water they hauled.
“Are we close?” Beth said, her face bright red under the flimsy cloth bonnet she wore, as Kate pulled up and dismounted her horse.
Kate looked at the sterling blue sky pushing down on the varnished canyon walls. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But so damn hot I could roast a pork chop on my ass.”
Beth blushed, turned an even darker red than the heat had already done, at Kate’s vulgarity. She giggled in a high-pitched, almost hysterical manner.
Kate smiled in what she hoped was a motherly fashion. “We’re almost there. If Father Pacheco is trustworthy there’s a spring and more shade than we’ll know what to do with. It’ll be as comfortable as home.”
“How much farther?” Beth asked.
“An hour?” Kate shook her head. “Maybe less. Father Pacheco is meeting us north of Lugar Bonito. And I reckon we’re close and he’s probably already there.” Then: “Would you like to rest here for a while?”
Beth shook her head. Her mouth opened, then closed as she formed the words in her mind. “No. I would like to continue, if that’s all right?”
“Me, too,” Kate said. She pulled the cavalry-style canteen from her saddle, removed its stopper. Then stepped around to the front of her horse, poured a splash of water into the palm of her cupped hand, and held steady as the horse lapped it up. She did the same for Beth’s mount and then passed the canteen to the girl. “Take a little, not too much. Just wet your tongue. Swish it around your mouth before swallowing.”
Beth took the warm water into her mouth, held it for a moment, then swallowed. She tilted the canteen back to her lips, looked at Kate nervously.
“Go ahead. One more won’t hurt us.”
Kate noticed a tremor in Beth’s hand as she returned the canteen. Kate, after accepting the canteen, clasped Beth’s hand in her own, gently squeezed. “Just hold on a little longer.”
A smile flittered across Beth’s face. She nodded. “I’m ready.”
Kate mounted her horse without looking back at Beth, urged it forward into a slow walk.
It was more than an hour when Father Pacheco appeared on the horizon. His black robe floating, smeared to a greasy haze by the waves of heat roiling across the ground. Kate thought he was a desert mirage until he waved his wide brimmed black hat and hollered to draw their attention. The distance separating the women from the priest was less than a thousand yards, but to Kate the journey was formidable and seemed hours long instead of minutes.
When they finally reached Father Pacheco he greeted them. “I was getting worried about you two.” He turned to Beth, smiled, bowed slightly. “I have never had the pleasure, ma’am. I’m Father Pacheco of Lugar Bonito.”
A tired smile rose and quickly withdrew from Beth’s lips.
Father Pacheco looked at Beth, noticed her slouched posture, red face, and weary eyes. “Would you like some water, señorita?”
“Very much,” Kate said.
Father Pacheco smiled. “Then water we shall have.” He pulled a thick, round, animal hide canteen from his saddle, passed it to Beth. “Drink as much as you like. There is plenty more where we’re going.”
“How much farther?” Kate asked.
“Not far at all. Fifteen minutes,” said Father Pacheco. “And most of the journey is shaded.”
“I’d forgotten such a thing as shade existed, Father.” Kate laughed, her dry throat complained with a cough. She twisted in her saddle and asked Beth for the water.
“Do we need a rest before moving on?” Father Pacheco asked.
“We need shade and cool more than anything,” Kate said.
Kate took a few shallow draws from the canteen, passed it back to Beth. “Not too much. A few sips and then we’ll move on.”
Beth looked at the canteen hungrily, brought it to her mouth and took two gulps, water dribbling down her chin, before she pulled it away and offered it back to Father Pacheco. “You better take it,” she said. “I can’t trust myself with it.”
Father Pacheco laughed. He took the canteen from Beth before securing it back to the saddle. “Many are untrustworthy with water, señorita. Especially in a place like this.” His arms gestured expansively at the red desert. “Which is the reason I always carry two canteens. One for me and the other for everyone else.”
“That is very kind of you, Father,” Beth said.
“Not as kind as it sounds,” Father Pacheco said. “The larger of the two is mine.”
Beth grinned. It was the first joyful smile Kate had seen on the girl’s face and it made her look even younger than her seventeen years.
“Are we ready?” Kate asked.
“I’ll lead,” Father Pacheco said.
* * *
The red-haired man watched the entire exchange from a mile back. He and his horse huddled in a shallow alcove on the canyon’s rock face. A short, blackened, looking glass held to his eye.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. A mirthless smile revealed a mouthful of rotted teeth. “The preacher man, too.”
He held his ground for several minutes after the riders moved on to ensure they wouldn’t see him if they checked their back trail. They rode towards the opposite canyon wall. The blonde stranger woman the only one to glance back, never using her glass, and only when he was satisfied that he would be unobserved did he follow.
CHAPTER 17
A rhythmic click-clack echoed in J.D.’s ears. The sound muted, as though passing from a great distance, but coming closer and closer. An unfamiliar rocking motion gave him the nauseated feel of falling. His head pounded, white hot explosions erupted with each sway and roll. His wrists sparked with electric pain. Confusion threatened to overwhelm J.D. Hot panic rose like bile in his throat. His chest tightened. He struggled to breathe.
J.D. calmed himself by concentrating on what he knew. His last moments of recollection were of the tiny jail cell in Small Basin. Sheriff Allred’s questions about Kate and Beth. And the beating. Rockwell was there, too. Standing in the doorway of the cell waiting his turn. Malice on his purpling and puffy face, mouth pinched in anger. Then J.D. understood that the nauseating roll and sway, the rhythmic click-clack were from the uneven gait of a horse.
A few more minutes passed before J.D. opened his eyes to a flash of bitter white. He tried to blink away the vivid pain. Tears formed against the glare and blurred everything into a static softness. Then, slowly, the white faded away to reveal a world of color and shape. The unfamiliar dun colored mane of the horse beneath him. The burni
shed leather of the saddle, his pain-wracked wrists bound tightly to its horn. He lifted his head and saw an unfocused shape of rider and horse.
“Looky here!” The disembodied voice hammered J.D.’s skull. He turned to find its source, but a whip of pain shimmied down the left side of his head and neck. He closed his eyes as the man spoke again. “Mr. bad-man-from-out-yonder is joining us, Jack.”
“Shut up, Romms,” said the rider ahead of J.D.
“You know,” Romms said as he hurried his horse forward to come even with J.D. “He don’t look so tough to me, all bound up like a hog. How exactly did you say he whipped your ass, Jack?”
“Shut up.”
J.D. looked ahead, ignored the rider at his side, squinted his eyes against the harsh desert glare. He recognized the sharp dressed Jackson Rockwell. And he knew Romms was the heckler. The same Romms who had bushwhacked and beaten John Fernandez.
“How’s your head?” Romms’ voice came from behind J.D. this time. “Jack is pretty good when you’re tied to a chair, ain’t he?”
“Last warning, Romms,” Rockwell said without turning in his saddle.
The threat was serious, J.D. thought, since Romms gave no return and the men rode on in silence.
J.D., as his eyes and head began to clear, looked for something familiar in the landscape. A rock formation, structure, or anything else he recognized that would identify his location. There was nothing except the nearly dry creek bed cutting a ragged path across the canyon floor. A wilting and stunted line of green clinging to its edges; hackberry, cottonwood, tangled brush. Its presence didn’t tell J.D. exactly where he was since the creek ranged across the entire area, but it did tell him he was still close to Small Basin. Then Rockwell turned from the main canyon into a narrow offshoot, twenty feet wide. A high plank fence stretched across its width. A gate stood open at its center. And in an instant J.D. knew exactly where they were taking him.
Two men stood guard at the entrance, lazily chatted. Their Winchester rifles leaned against the wall, butt plates in the dirt. When they saw Rockwell both men raised their rifles, walked a few feet in opposite directions, scowled in what, J.D. thought, was an attempt to look vigilant and mean. Rockwell didn’t speak, or even acknowledge the men, but rather rode silently past. And J.D.’s horse followed.
