The Kid nodded. “So that’s the last water for, what did you say, eighty miles?”
“That’s right.” Annabelle glanced at him. “Thinking about turning back?”
“Not hardly,” The Kid said.
They pushed on, and Point of Rocks, if that’s what it was, exhibited the same sort of behavior as the Caballo Mountains—it didn’t seem to ever get any closer.
The Kid knew, that that was just an illusion. If what Annabelle said about the old maps she’d studied was correct, Point of Rocks and Paraje Perillo were about ten miles north of where they had camped the night before, which meant they ought to reach those landmarks by nightfall.
As the afternoon wore on, he began to be able to discern that they were closer to the knob. It even took on a greenish tinge, telling him that there was vegetation growing on it, maybe even trees. If that proved to be the case, it would be a good idea to stock up on firewood while they were stopped there. There wasn’t much fuel in the desert, only the scrubby, gnarled mesquites.
The Kid continued checking their backtrail. Late in the afternoon, when he could tell that Point of Rocks was only about a mile away, he said, “I’m going to ride ahead and climb up there. From the top, I ought to be able to see for miles around.”
“So you can see if there’s anyone following us,” Annabelle said.
The Kid nodded. “That’s the idea.”
He heeled the buckskin into a trot. The long days and the heat and arid conditions were wearing down the horse a little, but the buckskin had always had plenty of grit and stamina to spare. He even seemed to enjoy stretching his legs and moving a little faster.
As The Kid drew closer, he saw that the sides of the knob were dotted with pine trees, some of them pretty good size. He could definitely chop some firewood. The coarse grass was thicker around the knob, too. That fact, along with the presence of the trees, combined to tell him that any underground water in the area must be closer to the surface there than in the surrounding desert. That boded well for the spring at Paraje Perillo not being dry.
When he reached the base of the slope, he paused to let the buckskin rest for a couple of minutes before starting up the hill. Point of Rocks rose to a considerable height above him, at least for that mostly flat country, and it took another ten minutes or so for him to ride to the top.
The landmark got its name from its rocky nature and the fact that it narrowed to a rather small point as it ascended. It gave that appearance, anyway. When The Kid reached its flat top, he found that there was actually considerable area up there. He dismounted, took the field glasses from his saddlebags, and used them to scan the countryside to the south, behind the slowly moving wagon.
He stiffened less than a minute later when he spotted a black dot against the rust and tan of the desert about a mile behind the wagon, maybe a little more. It was moving slowly northward and as The Kid squinted through the lenses, the shape gradually resolved itself into that of a man on horseback.
The hombre was alone, and he wasn’t in any hurry, just moseying along. The Kid couldn’t make out enough details to recognize him. One of Fortunato’s men, he wondered, trailing them so that he could report back to the count?
That was the most likely explanation, but it wasn’t the only one. It was even possible that the rider didn’t have anything to do with Annabelle and Father Jardine at all, that he was just some stranger heading north through the Jornada del Muerto.
Would anybody be foolish enough to start out alone across this hellish land? The Kid supposed it was possible. No matter how foolish a thing was, there would always be somebody, somewhere, who would attempt it. One thing was certain, though, he thought as he lowered the field glasses. He had to find out who that hombre was, or he wouldn’t sleep well that night. Not well at all.
It bothered The Kid to see the rider following the wagon, but he didn’t waste the opportunity to take a good look everywhere else around Point of Rocks. He saw another area where the vegetation was thicker and greener, about five hundred yards to the west. As he focused the glasses on it, he even caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting on water. That would be Paraje Perillo, he thought, and the waterhole wasn’t dry. That was good news.
By the time he rode back down to the base of the knob, the wagon was less than a quarter mile away. They could refill the water barrels in the morning before they started, he decided. For the night, he wanted them to camp there at Point of Rocks.
He dismounted and stood holding the buckskin’s reins while Annabelle drove the wagon closer. The Kid’s eyes narrowed as he looked past the vehicle, but from there he couldn’t see the rider who was behind them. The fella was too far back. Whether that was deliberate or an accident, The Kid couldn’t say, but he intended to find out.
“This is it,” Annabelle said as she brought the team to a halt. “Point of Rocks. I recognize it from Oñate’s account. Paraje Perillo is over there.” She pointed toward the green spot to the west.
The Kid explained his plan about topping off the water barrels in the morning, then said, “We’ll make camp here tonight. We can unhitch the team and lead them to the top of the hill. You’ll sleep up there, too.”
“Why would we want to do that?” Annabelle asked.
“This may be the last high ground we see for quite a while,” The Kid said. “I reckon we ought to take advantage of it. If anybody tries to sneak up on us during the night, they’ll have a tougher time of it if we’re on top of that knob.”
Annabelle shrugged, set the brake, and climbed down from the box. “That’ll leave the wagon undefended, you know,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, but nobody’s after the wagon. It’s you and the padre they want.”
She couldn’t argue with that logic. For the next half hour, Annabelle carried the things they would need for the night to the top of the hill while The Kid unhitched the team and led the horses up the slope. When he got to the top with them, he picketed them where they would have some decent graze.
He was a little surprised that Annabelle was able to get a small, almost smokeless fire going. She had been paying attention after all, he decided. The sun was nearing the western horizon as she hunkered next to the fire to fry bacon and heat up some beans and biscuits.
“The conquistadors thought they were going to die of thirst when they got here,” she said. “They were coming from the north, and it had been a long, thirsty trip. They had a little dog with them, and after they made camp, it wandered off. When it came back, its paws were muddy. They backtracked along the trail the dog had left and found the waterhole. It didn’t have much water in it, but there was enough to keep them alive and let them make it out of the Jornada. They named the waterhole after the little dog that found it.”
The Kid enjoyed listening to her talk. He said, “Did you read that story in those old documents in Mexico City?”
“That’s right. There are several accounts of the Oñate expedition. All of them mention Point of Rocks and Paraje Perillo.”
“Paraje means spot, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
The Kid grinned. “Maybe it was a little spotted dog.”
Annabelle shook her head at him, then chuckled in spite of herself.
Father Jardine was sitting on a rock, listening to the conversation. Without warning, he said, “You saw something from up here earlier, didn’t you, Mr. Morgan?”
The Kid glanced up at him in surprise. “What do you mean, Father?”
“You saw something through those field glasses of yours,” the priest said. “Something that worried you enough you decided we needed to camp up here where it would be more difficult for our enemies to get to us.”
The old-timer was sharp, The Kid thought. Annabelle hadn’t put that together, but Father Jardine had. Quietly, he said, “There was a rider about a mile back.”
With a note of alarm in her voice, Annabelle said, “Following us?”
The Kid shrugged. “Quien sabe? He might be just
another pilgrim.”
“Out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“People have been using this desert as a shortcut for a long time,” The Kid pointed out. “Like that old German, Albrecht Konigsberg. It’s risky, but if people didn’t travel through here, it wouldn’t have gotten the reputation it has.”
Annabelle gave him a level stare and said, “But you don’t believe it, do you?”
“That the hombre just happens to be back there?” The Kid shook his head. “Nope. I don’t.”
“It was just one man, you said?”
“That’s right.”
Father Jardine said, “A scout for Count Fortunato, perhaps.”
Annabelle nodded. “I don’t know who else it could be. If he knows that we’re camping here, he’s liable to go back to the count with the news, and then Fortunato will attack us.”
“We don’t know that he’s close enough to do that,” The Kid said. “Besides, this hill would be pretty easily defended. I reckon it’s more likely that he’s just keeping an eye on us. I intend to find out for sure.”
“How are you going to do that?” Annabelle demanded.
The coffee was ready. The Kid picked up the pot using a thick piece of leather to protect his hand and poured some of the strong, black brew into his tin cup. He blew on it to cool it, then said, “When it gets good and dark, I’m gonna go do a little visiting.”
Chapter 19
Lew Jackson was beginning to realize what a bad mistake he had made by following Morgan into the Jornada del Muerto. The place had gotten that name for a good reason. It was hellishly hot and dry. Not only that, but his wounded shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, and the canteen that had been strapped to the saddle of the horse he had stolen had only a few drops of water left in it. On top of that, for the past two days, the only thing he’d had to eat was a handful of stale biscuits he’d found in the saddlebags.
He guessed maybe he hadn’t been thinking too straight when he set off into the desert to seek revenge on the man who’d killed his friends.
But it was too late to turn back. Stubbornly, Jackson had followed the wagon all day, being careful not to push his mount too hard. He didn’t really know this horse, what with it being stolen and all, so he wasn’t sure how much the animal could stand. If he rode the horse into the ground, he really would be in a bad fix.
During the afternoon, he had seen the hill up ahead. Vaguely, he remembered hearing some talk about there being a waterhole somewhere up there, near a big hill that jutted up out of the desert. That had to be the hill, and if he could find the waterhole, he could refill the canteen.
It would be a lot better, he told himself, if he could just take that wagon with its full water barrels. Then he could ride in comfort and style, with plenty to drink and probably plenty of food as well. That would get him out of the Jornada del Muerto. He could find the Rio Grande again and follow it all the way to Albuquerque. There would be a sawbones there to look at his wounded shoulder, and saloons and whores and everything else he needed.
All he had to do was get his hands on that wagon, and all he had to do to accomplish that goal was to kill Morgan and the girl and the old priest. That’s what he’d set out to do in the first place.
Simple as hell.
They’d be camped at either the hill or the waterhole. He could sneak up on both places and find out which, as soon as it got good and dark. Meanwhile, as twilight settled down over the desert, he reined in and dismounted to wait for nightfall. That wouldn’t take long. It never did once the sun went down.
Jackson took the canteen and shook it back and forth next to his ear, listening to the faint sloshing sound of the tiny bit of tepid water left in it. He unscrewed the cap and carefully lifted the canteen to his mouth. It was the last of the water, so he couldn’t afford to spill even a drop. The life-giving liquid flowed into his mouth and trickled down his throat, but it barely did anything to cut the coating of dust that covered the inside of his mouth. He was so dry he could spit cotton.
In the fading light, he took his knife and hacked a chunk off a cactus. He shaved the needles off it, then sucked on the inner flesh. It was bitter, but he was able to draw some moisture from it. He should have done that first, he told himself, then finished off the water in the canteen. Too late to do anything about that.
His stomach cramped from hunger. The biscuits were all gone. He had to kill his quarry and take the wagon tonight, he realized. He had no choice. He couldn’t make it another day without food.
The horse nudged his wounded shoulder. Pain shot through him. Jackson stumbled away from the animal, knowing that the horse was just thirsty. That knowledge didn’t do anything to help the throbbing agony coursing through him. He fought down the impulse to grab his gun and vent his fury by putting a bullet in the damn jug-head’s brain.
Might as well put the next one in his own brain if he did that, he told himself. He had actually reached down and grasped the butt of his revolver. He released it now and let it slide back down into the holster.
Something brushed against his neck. He started to look down, but then what felt like an iron bar clamped with brutal pressure across his throat. It jerked Jackson backward. As his good arm rose and he used that hand to paw instinctively at whatever had hold of him, he realized it was an arm. He felt a hard-muscled chest against his back. A surprised, scared gurgle escaped from his mouth. That was the only sound that could get past the arm pressing inexorably on his throat.
Blackness dropped over his eyes, but it wasn’t the sudden fall of night in the desert. There were no stars winking into existence where Lew Jackson was. There was nothing, just an empty void.
During the next hour, as he prayed for death, Jackson wished fervently that it had stayed that way.
The Kid waited until an hour after nightfall before leaving the camp atop Point of Rocks. He figured that would give the man who’d been following them time to get good and asleep.
“How do you intend to find him?” Annabelle had asked before he started down the slope. “There’s a lot of empty country out there.”
“He won’t be camped too far off our trail,” The Kid said, “and a horse is big enough I should be able to spot it, even if I don’t see the man.”
“But if you can see him, won’t he see you, too, or at least hear you coming?”
“The moon won’t be up for another hour yet. The stars give off enough light so a fella can get around all right, but he won’t be able to see very far. Also, he was staying far enough behind us that he probably thinks we don’t even know he’s there, so he won’t be expecting anybody to come looking for him. As for hearing me…I can move pretty quiet-like when I want to.”
Stealth was another thing he had learned from observing Frank Morgan.
“Be careful,” Father Jardine said. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you because you involved yourself in our troubles, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’ll be fine,” The Kid assured them.
Father Jardine stopped him with another question before he departed. “Are you going to…kill this man?”
“Only if he doesn’t give me any other choice,” The Kid replied, suppressing the impatience he was starting to feel. “I want to find out who he is, that’s all. Once I know, I’ll take his horse and his gun.”
“Isn’t putting him afoot in this wasteland the same thing as killing him?”
“Not really. There’s water over there at Paraje Perillo, and he can walk to it easily enough. If he can convince me that he doesn’t mean us any harm, I’ll just tie him up so that it’ll take him a while to get loose. We can leave his horse and gun at the waterhole for him to retrieve once we’ve gotten a head start.”
That answer had seemed to satisfy the priest.
The Kid left his hat at the camp and traded his boots for a pair of tough-soled moccasins he took from his saddlebags. The moccasins allowed him to move quietly across the desert while still protecting his feet. He relied mostly on instinc
t to guide him as he backtracked along the trail they had followed earlier.
Despite what he had told Annabelle and Father Jardine, he thought there was a good chance the hombre he was stalking wouldn’t surrender peacefully, especially if he was one of Count Fortunato’s men. But The Kid would deal with that when the time came, and if he wound up having to tell his companions something slightly less than the truth…well, he could handle that, too. He had dealt with a lot worse in his life.
His eyes moved constantly over the star-lit landscape as he walked quietly along the trail. When he estimated that he had come at least a mile from the camp, he stopped and frowned. He thought he should have seen some sign of the man by then. He listened intently, hoping to hear the horse moving around or blowing air through its nose.
Nothing. The night was as quiet as could be.
Then The Kid heard something that at first he took to be the blowing of the wind. It took a minute before he realized that it was actual moaning.
The sound came from his left. He listened until he was sure, then started in that direction, moving even more quietly than he had before. After a moment, he spotted a dark shape splayed out on the ground. The Colt whispered from the holster on his hip as he drew it.
The dark figure didn’t move, and after a few more seconds went by, The Kid was certain that was where the moans were coming from. He approached carefully with the gun in his hand.
A faint, coppery smell drifted to his nostrils. The Kid stiffened as he recognized it.
Freshly spilled blood—and quite a bit of it, too.
“Son of a…” he breathed. He moved closer, saw that the shape was that of a man with his arms and legs stretched out as far as they would go to his sides. They didn’t move, and that fact, along with the position they were in, suggested to The Kid that someone had tied the man’s hands and feet to stakes driven into the ground.
The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold Page 13
