The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold

by J. A. Johnstone

  Fortunato nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll rely upon your experience and judgment.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” Novak said with a grin.

  “We’ll see,” Fortunato replied curtly.

  He went upstairs, through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Jess still slept soundly. Fortunato went over to the bed and reached down to rest a hand on her hip where it curved up under the sheet. He gave it a good shake.

  She let out a groan of protest as she began to stir. Fortunato shook her again and said, “Wake up, Jess.”

  She rolled onto her back, pushed the disarrayed, honey-colored hair out of her face, and muttered, “Why?” Then a smile curved her lips, and she said, “Oh. You want to—”

  “Unfortunately, no. You must get up and dress.”

  “Why?” She reached out and caught hold of his hand. “It’s a lot more fun when we’re undressed.”

  As if to illustrate the point, she used her other hand to throw back the sheet and reveal her nude beauty. Normally, Fortunato would have taken great pleasure in the sight—Jess really was a stunning woman—but his attention was once more focused on the prize that had brought him to America in the first place.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. “You’ll have to go.”

  “Leaving?” she repeated. She frowned prettily. “Where are you going?”

  “That’s none of your business. Now, I believe we should conclude our arrangement. I’ll speak to Arturo and have him see to it that you’re compensated fairly—”

  Jess sat up in bed. “Now wait just a damn minute,” she said. “You think you’re gonna just pay me off like I’m some common saloon girl—”

  “But that is what you are,” Fortunato said. Experience had taught him that the truth, no matter how blunt and painful it might be for people to hear at times, often cut through otherwise complicated situations. “I thought that was clear between us from the outset. You are a prostitute, and I am your customer. Was your customer.”

  “You think I’m nothing but a soiled dove! Why…why, you son of a bitch! I thought you understood I’m more than that. I’ve got culture, I’ve got breeding, I’ve got—”

  Fortunato’s voice sliced into her angry words. He told her in no uncertain terms exactly what she had that had interested him, then added, “And that’s all, my dear.” He pointed toward the door that opened into the hall. “Once you’re dressed, you can leave that way. Go downstairs and wait in the bar. I’ll have Arturo find you and settle up, as you Americans say.”

  “You…you—”

  His hand shot out and seized her chin. His fingers dug cruelly under her jawline on both sides of her mouth as he wrenched her head back.

  “I suggest that you don’t call me any more vile names,” he whispered. “I don’t like it. Now, I’m going in the other room, and when I come back in here, you’ll be gone. Do you understand?” When she just glared up at him, his fingers pressed even harder into her flesh and she gave a muffled cry of pain. “I said, do you understand?”

  She managed to nod slightly, despite his brutal grip on her chin and jaw.

  “All right,” he said as he let go of her and stepped back. “Please don’t think that just because this is ending badly that I didn’t enjoy our time together, my dear. I assure you I did.”

  As he turned and went to the door of the sitting room, she whispered something behind him. He couldn’t make it out, and while his first impulse was to turn back and force her to repeat it, he decided that wouldn’t be worth the time and effort. He went into the other room and closed the door behind him.

  He found Arturo waiting there, sitting quietly in one of the armchairs. Fortunato took a cigar from his pocket and said, “The lady will be waiting downstairs in the bar for you shortly.”

  Arturo nodded. “The usual arrangement, Excellency?”

  “That’s right. I trust you to know what’s fair.”

  “Of course.” Arturo paused. “Was she upset?”

  Fortunato stuck the cigar between his lips and grinned around it. “Somewhat.”

  “Splendid,” Arturo said sarcastically as he got to his feet. “There’s nothing I like better than dealing with an enraged prostitute.”

  “Arturo!” Fortunato said as the servant started toward the hallway door. “We’ll be leaving Las Cruces shortly. Those men I spoke to earlier will accompany us.”

  “I assume you’ll want me to continue driving the wagon?”

  Fortunato shook his head. “We’re not taking the wagon.”

  That news actually penetrated Arturo’s normally unflappable demeanor. He frowned and said, “We’re not?”

  “No. We’ll be traveling by horseback, with pack animals. We’ll be moving fast. Dr. Dare and the priest and that meddlesome stranger are probably thirty or forty miles ahead of us by now. That won’t be the case for long.”

  The frown still creased Arturo’s forehead. “But I’ve never ridden any great distance on horseback.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Fortunato said around the cigar. He struck a match and held the flame to the end of the tightly packed cylinder of tobacco. “Besides, it can’t be any worse than dealing with an enraged prostitute, now can it?”

  Chapter 23

  As far as the terrain went, the next two days were more of the same for The Kid, Dr. Annabelle Dare, and Father Jardine. The land was flat, sandy, and hot. Vegetation was sparse, although the stubborn mesquite trees still dotted the scenery. Those trees were no taller than shrubs and their branches were gnarled like the arms and legs of little old men. The dried bean pods that hung from their branches made a clicking sound whenever one of the blistering, vagrant breezes blew them together. Clumps of grass still grew here and there, enough to provide some graze for the horses. Occasionally, dry washes twisted across the landscape, with no sign of any water having run through them in months, if not years.

  “It must have been a dry spring and summer,” Annabelle commented when they passed one of the parched arroyos. “That doesn’t bode well for the possibility of Laguna del Muerto having any water in it.”

  “We have enough water in the barrels,” The Kid told her. They had been very careful so far, rationing out the precious, life-giving liquid. “We can make it to this Fra Cristobal place you told me about.”

  “Even with the side trip into the lava field?”

  The Kid nodded. “We’ll be all right…as long as nothing happens to those barrels.”

  The main difference during this stretch of the journey was that no one attacked them. The Kid didn’t know if that last Apache was still trailing them, or even if the warrior was still alive, but it was possible. It seemed likely that Fortunato was still back there somewhere, too. Annabelle and Father Jardine were convinced that the Italian wouldn’t give up. By now he’d had time to recruit more hired gun-wolves. The Kid and his two companions had a good lead, but the wagon could only go so fast. If Fortunato’s men came after them on horseback, as they probably would, they could cut into that lead fairly rapidly.

  For that reason, he checked behind them frequently, scanning the endless desert with the field glasses. He was surprised to find that the longer he went without seeing any signs of pursuit, the more worried he became.

  Annabelle noticed the frown on his face after one such occasion. As he turned the buckskin and started riding alongside the wagon once more, she asked, “What’s wrong? Did you see something back there?”

  The Kid shook his head. “Nope.”

  “But you look like something’s bothering you,” Annabelle said, sounding puzzled.

  “It is.”

  “I don’t understand. The fact that no one’s chasing us is a good thing, right?”

  The Kid thought about it for a moment, then said, “You know how it feels before a storm, when the air’s so heavy you can’t get your breath and you know it’s going to start pouring down rain any minute…but it doesn’t do it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “
You want it to just go ahead and storm and get it over with,” The Kid said. “That’s how this feels to me. I get tired of just waiting for something to happen.”

  “So you’d rather we were attacked?” Annabelle shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, but I don’t agree. It would be fine with me if I never saw Count Eduardo Fortunato again, and the same goes for that other Apache you’ve been worrying about.”

  The Kid knew she was right. More violence still seemed inevitable to him, however.

  The waiting’s always the hardest part, Frank had said to him once. I learned that back during the war. Standing in some trees and looking out at a field, knowing there were Yankees in the trees on the other side and that they were waiting, too, and that when the orders came down the line we’d all walk out there into the open and try to kill each other…Those are the times that gnaw holes in a man’s soul, son.

  Like a lot of other things, Frank was right about that. But The Kid knew there was nothing he and Annabelle and Father Jardine could do except keep going.

  They had finally drawn even with the Caballo Mountains, so when they looked due west, the rugged gray peaks loomed there. On the other side of those mountains lay the valley of the Rio Grande, a green, fertile strip in an otherwise dry and dusty land. Over here in the Jornada del Muerto, it might as well have been on the moon. That was how far away the river seemed from this wasteland. They wouldn’t see the river again until they were north of the malpais.

  Mid-afternoon of the second day after leaving Paraje Perillo, Annabelle said, “We ought to reach Aleman soon. Definitely by nightfall.”

  “The place where folks believed the old German died?”

  She nodded as she wearily flicked the reins against the backs of the team. “That’s right. From what I was able to discover about the place, several people have tried to establish a homestead there. There are some trees, and that fooled them into thinking that there might be water. One man even dug a well, thinking that he’d start a ranch. He didn’t have any luck.”

  “Dry hole?”

  “Actually, no. A little water seeped in when he dug deep enough. But it was too alkaline to drink. He had even started to build a house there. He abandoned it before it was finished.”

  “Too bad. He should have figured, though, that there’s a good reason this part of the country is so empty. It’s not fit for humans to live here.”

  Father Jardine said, “God made this land, the same as He did all the other. There must have been a reason for it.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, padre, you tell me,” The Kid said with a smile.

  A short time after that, when The Kid reined in and turned the buckskin so that he could study their backtrail, he noticed an odd haze in the air on the southern horizon. He pulled the field glasses from his saddlebags and lifted them to his eyes. His jaw tightened as he peered through the lenses and saw a dust cloud rising from the desert.

  The trouble that had been looming over them for the past two days? Well, it was back there, sure enough, The Kid thought.

  And it was on its way.

  Fast.

  Annabelle had kept the wagon moving while he stopped to check behind them, as usual. The Kid studied the dust through the field glasses for a few seconds longer, then shoved the glasses back in the saddlebags and turned his mount hurriedly to the north once again. The wagon was about fifty yards ahead of him. It took only a moment to catch up.

  Annabelle heard the buckskin’s hoofs drumming on the ground and sensed that something was wrong. She was hauling back on the reins and bringing the team to a halt when The Kid reached the wagon.

  “Keep going!” he called to her, waving her ahead. “Don’t slow down!”

  “What is it?” Annabelle cried as she did as he said and slashed at the horses’ rumps with the reins.

  “Riders coming up from the south! Looks like quite a few of them!”

  Father Jardine closed his eyes, and since he made the sign of the cross a moment later, The Kid figured he had just muttered a prayer.

  “Could you tell who they are?” the priest asked.

  The Kid shook his head. “No, they’re too far back for that. I can see their dust, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps they’re not pursuing us,” Father Jardine suggested. Annabelle had the team moving even faster than usual and the rougher pace made the priest sway back and forth on the seat. “Perhaps they’re just fellow travelers—”

  “You know better, Father!” she said. “It’s Fortunato’s men. It has to be! He may even be with them!”

  “Dear Lord, let us hope not. From everything I know of him, the man’s a veritable devil!”

  The Kid figured that was a pretty good description. During the journey, Father Jardine had spoken of other holy artifacts the Church had tried to recover, only to have Fortunato get his hands on them first. The man’s palazzo in Venice must be full of art, sculpture, and other objets d’art, both secular and religious, from all over the world.

  And The Kid had seen firsthand that Fortunato wouldn’t stop at murder to get what he wanted. The bullet that had grazed Annabelle’s arm would have taken her head off if its trajectory had been a few degrees different.

  Of course, the same was true where he was concerned, he realized, and for the first time, it occurred to him that Fortunato might have been aiming at him that day, rather than Annabelle.

  It didn’t matter, The Kid told himself. Either way, the Italian was a dangerous son of a bitch.

  He twisted in the saddle to look back. The haze in the air had sharpened until even with the naked eye it appeared to be a dust cloud. That meant the pursuers were closer, cutting into the wagon’s lead.

  Veering the buckskin nearer to the wagon, The Kid called to Annabelle, “You said there’s an abandoned homestead at this Aleman place?”

  “That’s what I’ve read. I don’t know it for a fact.”

  “We’d better hope that there is,” The Kid said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I reckon we’re going to need a place to fort up.”

  “Oh, my dear!” Arturo cried as he clutched at the saddle horn and bounced wildly on the horse’s back. “Oh, my dear Lord! Can’t we slow down, Excellency?”

  “We’re already behind all the others,” Fortunato said. “I don’t like breathing their dust, either!”

  As soon as they had spotted the wagon, he had ordered Novak and the other gunmen to go ahead. All of them except Green were a couple hundred yards ahead of Fortunato and Arturo, closing on the wagon. The oldest of the gunmen had held back, leading the pack horses and keeping track of the spare saddle mounts, all of which were tethered together. And even they were ahead of Fortunato and Arturo.

  If Novak and the others had captured the three people with the vehicle by the time Fortunato and his servant caught up, that would be all right with the count. He had no particular desire to engage in battle personally. He paid others to run those risks.

  Over the past day and a half, as the group traveled north through the Jornada del Muerto, Fortunato had discussed the job with Novak, making it clear to the leader of the gunmen that Dr. Dare and Father Jardine were not to be killed when they overhauled the wagon. Fortunato didn’t want those two even harmed, if at all possible.

  As for the young stranger who had interfered with the count’s previous attempt to close his hand around his quarry, Fortunato felt a certain amount of curiosity about him; that was undeniable. He would like to know who the stranger was and why he had involved himself in affairs that were none of his concern, as far as Fortunato could see.

  For that reason, he preferred that the young man be taken alive, but as he had told Novak, that wasn’t absolutely necessary. If the stranger was killed in the fighting, Fortunato could always persuade Dr. Dare or Father Jardine to reveal who he’d been.

  But only after they had been persuaded to tell him how to find the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls, of course. It was a matte
r of priorities, and Fortunato was a man who always had his own priorities in their proper order.

  “Oh, my!” Arturo yelped again. “Oh, my!”

  The servant had complained almost unceasingly since they’d left Las Cruces. Count Fortunato was a man who craved his creature comforts, but the same was true of Arturo. He didn’t like the dust, he didn’t like the heat, and he didn’t like the hat with the huge brim that he wore to keep the sun off his head. The hat had a ribbon that tied under Arturo’s chin to keep it on. It looked ridiculous, Arturo said, but he liked the sun blistering his head even less.

  The only reason he hadn’t complained too much about the food was that he had taken over preparing it himself, not trusting any of the hired gunmen to do an acceptable job. He claimed that dust got into the supplies, so that everything he cooked tasted like sand, no matter hard he tried to keep it out.

  The worst thing, was the result of the seemingly endless hours in the saddle. That didn’t bother Fortunato—well, not much, anyway—but by the end of the first day, Arturo’s nether regions had been so sore that he could barely hobble around. They were even worse the next morning, when the muscles had had time to stiffen up.

  But for all the complaining, Arturo had never fallen behind. He was still right there beside his master, doing his best to keep up and perform his duties. That was one reason Fortunato tolerated Arturo’s sarcasm and arrogance. For all his bad qualities, Arturo was still an excellent servant.

  Fortunato looked at him as they galloped over the desert and asked, “Do you have your gun?”

  “My gun? Surely you don’t expect me to shoot anyone, Excellency?”

  “You won’t have to, if Novak and his men do their job. But just in case…”

  “Yes, I have it,” Arturo said. “It’s even loaded, as you ordered. But, Excellency, really, I…I don’t think I’d be a very good shot.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Fortunato said.

  They would know soon, because he had just heard the rapid popping of gunfire coming from up ahead.