by Ralph Cotton
Two Horses looked over at Paco and drew a long bowie knife from its sheath at the small of his back.
Paco recognized Delbert Trueblood, but instead of letting the young warrior know that Trueblood was one of their own, he decided to wait. He smiled to himself and nodded for Two Horses to make his move. Two Horses slipped around the rim of brush lining the trail as quietly as a spirit until he loomed above the unsuspecting outlaw, crouched like a mountain cat.
“Hope this doesn’t ruin your day, Delbert,” Paco said under his breath.
On the rocky trail, Trueblood had just looked back over his shoulder when the renegade let out a loud war cry and sprang down upon him from a rock ledge.
Even caught off guard, Delbert Trueblood managed to throw aside the wiry renegade as the big knife blade slashed across his forehead instead of his throat. “My God!” Trueblood cried out, blood spilling down into his eyes as the renegade hit the ground and shot back onto his feet in a crouch.
Trueblood’s hands went up to his bleeding forehead, then reached for his gun. But in his confusion he fumbled and dropped the weapon from his blood-slick fingers, accidentally kicking it several feet away. “Jesus!” he screamed.
Paco winced, but he gave a dark chuckle at the deep blood flowing freely. As the bleeding gunman wiped and clawed at his eyes, the wiry renegade leaped forward again and put two more gashes across his chest, then jumped back.
The helpless gunman screamed, not knowing which wound to clutch first. Blood flew. “I’m part Indian!” Trueblood cried out, as if that information might save him.
Hearing him, Paco stepped out into the open just as the renegade sprang forward again. This time Two Horses grabbed Trueblood by his hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. The frightened man sank helpless onto his knees.
“This is getting ugly,” Paco said with a cruel grin. Then he called out, “Two Horses, stop! Don’t kill him. I know this man.”
Two Horses, primed for a kill, caught himself at the final second and settled down. Instead of plunging the knife blade in Trueblood’s throat, he let out another bloodcurdling war cry. Trueblood grappled in the air aimlessly with his bloody hands.
“Holy Madre,” said Paco, watching as the renegade reversed the knife in his hand and struck the blinded gunman with a solid blow in the middle of his forehead, using the weapon’s hard, rounded-brass hilt. A loud thunk of metal on bone caused Paco to wince again.
“I said, do not kill him! He is one of us,” Paco called out. Even as he spoke, he chuckled aloud and walked down to the trail.
The blow of the knife hilt on Trueblood’s forehead caused the already addled gunman to fall face-forward onto the dirt. A puff of fine brown trail dust billowed up around him.
“I do not kill him because you say that he is one of us,” said Two Horses. “I only knock him out. You must tell him I could have killed him, but I did not.” He stared with a questioning look into Paco’s dark eyes.
“Sí. I’ll tell him,” said Paco, stooping down over Trueblood. “But I don’t think he is going to be happy about it either way.” He reached out and turned Trueblood over onto his back and loosened his dusty bandana from around his neck. “He’s bleeding like a struck pig.”
“Yes, and I would have cut him four more times until he died,” Two Horses said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, really?” Paco looked disappointed that he hadn’t waited a few moments longer. He shook out the dusty bandana and wadded it into his hand.
“Is—is that you, Paco?” Trueblood said in a halting voice, blinking his bloody eyes.
“Sí, it is me, Delbert, your amigo, Paco Stazo,” the grinning Mexican said, wiping the wadded-up bandana roughly across the gunman’s eyes. “Lucky for you I am here,” he said. “This man would have killed you for certain.” He helped Trueblood sit up on the dirt and handed him the bandana.
“Then, I—I owe you my life, Paco,” Trueblood said, still blinking, trying to see the two men more clearly. He held the bandana against the blood flowing from his split forehead.
“Sí, you do owe me your life, Delbert,” Paco said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “But I only do for you what I know you would have done for me, eh? I mean, if it was the other way around?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. . . .” Trueblood nodded and fell silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, “I was afraid you still held a grudge against me for me calling you all them hateful names back in—”
“No, no,” said Paco, cutting him off. “I forgot about that the minute after it happened.” He looked at Two Horses and said, “Help me get our amigo here onto his feet.”
“I—I can’t stand up yet,” Trueblood said as Paco and the renegade pulled him up from the ground.
“Yes, you can,” said Paco, holding Trueblood up as he swayed back and forth. “You must be strong and tell yourself that nothing will stop you.”
“I’m too dizzy . . . ,” said Trueblood.
Ignoring him, Paco gestured for Two Horses to turn the wobbly gunman loose; then he did so himself.
“Whoa!” Paco said, standing back and watching Trueblood fall flat on his face. He looked at Two Horses and shrugged. “We tried to help him. He must be worse off then we thought.”
“I will get my horse and carry him on it,” the renegade said.
“Yes, you should go do that,” said Paco. He reached out with the toe of his boot and poked Trueblood in his ribs. The unconscious gunman grunted, but lay limp and motionless, his forehead bleeding into the dirt. “Some plains riders I know carry a sewing needle for repairing their gear. Do you?” Paco asked.
“I carry such a needle, but it is large, made from the rib of young coyote,” Two Horses replied. “It is only used to repair moccasins or saddle leather and other—”
“It will have to do.” Paco cut him off with the same slight grin. “Bring it,” he said, “along with any rawhide lacing you happen to have with you. We will sew up his wounds and stop the bleeding.” He grinned slightly. “I’ll hold him down while you do as much stitching as it takes.”
“It is good that we do this for him.” Two Horses nodded.
“Yes, it is.” Staring down at the bloody, unconscious gunman, Paco gave Trueblood another jiggle with his boot toe. Trueblood grunted in pain. “Nothing is too good for our friend here,” Paco said.
Chapter 6
Darkness had fallen across the badland hills by the time Paco and Two Horses rode back into the clearing among brush and rock where Silva Ceran and the others had made camp. On the perimeters of the camp, three riflemen stood watch, each from a hidden position. As Paco and Two Horses rode in, keeping their animals at a slow walk, Jenkins stepped forward as if out of nowhere.
“Who the hell is this, Paco?” he asked from the shadows, his rifle in hand. He looked up at Trueblood, who sat slumped, riding double behind Two Horses.
“It’s Delbert Trueblood,” Paco said. “This is who was following Quintos and his men.”
“Jesus,” said Jenkins, staring at the dark blood and thick rawhide stitches across Trueblood’s forehead.
“It is a long story,” said Paco, “and I only want to tell it once.” He nudged his horse on beside Two Horses until they both stopped a few feet back from a large, glowing fire.
Jenkins walked along beside the riders toward the fire. “Who cut him up so bad?” he asked, staring up at the slumped Trueblood, whose eyes were half closed against the throbbing pain in his tightly stitched forehead and abdomen.
Paco jerked his head toward Two Horses. “The Injun cut him all to hell before I recognized him.” Paco spit, and kept himself from grinning. “The poor sonsabitch was trying to find us and got himself mistook.”
Two Horses stared straight ahead in silence.
“Damn. I’ll say he did,” Jenkins commented. “How many times did he cut him?”
Paco stared down at him. “What you don’t want to do, Jenkins, is take advantage of my friendly nature. I told you I don’t
want to have to keep repeating myself, like some kind of damned idiot. I’ll tell you when I tell Ceran.”
“Tell me what?” said Ceran, standing up from beside the fire and walking over, slinging coffee grounds from his tin cup. A few feet behind him, Quintos also stood and walked forward, toward Two Horses, who sat with the wounded gunman behind him.
Paco and Two Horses stopped their animals a few feet from Ceran. Trueblood swayed in place and muttered painfully under his breath.
Paco continued, saying, “That we found the man who was on Bloody Wolf’s trail. It’s Delbert Trueblood.” As he spoke he reached over, took Trueblood by his shoulder as if to assist him down from behind Two Horses’ saddle. But before Trueblood could turn to dismount, Paco gave a yank and turned him loose, letting him fall heavily to the rocky ground.
Trueblood let out a loud grunt.
“Oops,” said Paco, straight-faced.
“Jesus,” said Jenkins, watching.
“It was a slip,” Paco said. He stared down at Trueblood and said, “Are you all right, pal? I hope I didn’t save your life out there in order to watch you break your neck.”
“I’m . . . all right,” Trueblood said haltingly, allowing Jenkins to help him onto his feet.
“You don’t look all right,” Jenkins commented, taking note of the thick rawhide stitches running the width of his forehead, the same crude stitch work crisscrossing his chest and stomach. “You’ve been cut all to hell.”
“You think . . . I need you to tell me that?” Trueblood said angrily. He jerked his forearm away from Jenkins and looked at Ceran, who stood staring with an air of impatience.
“Where’s Kitty Dellaros?” Ceran demanded.
Unsure of how much he should reveal, Trueblood gestured toward the darkness behind them and said, “She’s back there, with Andy Weeks. As far as I know.”
“With Andy Weeks? As far as you know?” Ceran stared at him curiously, trying to determine if there was any sort of implication being made. He drummed his fingertips on the butt of the big Colt holstered on his hip.
“We—we got split up, Silva,” said Trueblood, knowing one false word would get his head shot off. He looked all around, then touched his fingers carefully to the thick rawhide stitches. He said to Ceran in a lowered tone, “Can I . . . get some coffee? Then the two of us can talk somewhere in private.”
Before answering Trueblood, Ceran looked up at Paco and Two Horses. “Good work, both of yas,” he said. “Now break away. Get yourselves some grub and coffee.”
“What about Trueblood being cut all to hell? Are we going to stand for that?” Jenkins asked Ceran, giving Two Horses a cold, hard stare.
“Get back on lookout,” Ceran said to Jenkins.
Seeing an expectant look on Quintos’ face, Ceran said quietly, “Your warrior did good.”
Quintos nodded in agreement, observing the long, tightly stitched gashes running across Trueblood’s head and abdomen. “Two Horses, good warrior,” he said. Seeing that Ceran wanted to be left alone with Trueblood, he turned and walked away, around the fire to where his warriors and Comancheros stood watching.
Trueblood held his tongue to keep from issuing a string of curses against Two Horses, although he knew the warrior had only done as he was told by Paco. When the other men saw Ceran give them a questioning look, they turned away. The wounded gunman started straight toward the fire, where a coffeepot sat steaming on a bed of glowing coals. But Ceran gave him a shove, redirected him away from the fire and said, “Start talking. You might not be needing any coffee this night.”
Trueblood caught the threat in Ceran’s voice as he stumbled out of the glowing light and away from the rest of the men. He fell to the ground and looked up at Ceran, who loomed over him. “Silva, I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear to God I haven’t!”
Ceran’s Colt slipped easily from its holster, cocked and leveled toward Trueblood’s stitched forehead. “Where’s Kitty? Where’s Weeks and Wheeler? What went on in Wild Wind?”
“Damn it, Silva, please don’t kill me,” Trueblood pleaded, his mind still working on how to explain things to the outlaw leader. He cowered with a forearm raised, as if to protect himself. “I don’t have nothing but bad news. That’s why I didn’t want to say it in front of the others. I didn’t want to tell you, for fear you’ll kill me for just knowing about it.”
“Start talking,” Ceran repeated, “or it’s for sure I will kill you. Where’s everybody?”
“Okay, Wheeler is dead,” Trueblood said. “A lawman rode into Wild Wind and blew him to hell and was gone before the rest of us could do anything to stop him.”
“Damn it,” said Ceran. His hand eased away from his Colt.
Trueblood breathed a sigh of relief. “We didn’t know how many lawmen were there,” he lied, “so Weeks and Kitty and me cut out. We got separated in the badlands. I lost my horse when it broke its damned leg.”
“Separated? How far out?” Ceran asked.
“I don’t know—ten or twelve miles,” said Trueblood, feeling better now that it appeared Ceran believed him. With the ranger on their trail, he knew it was a good possibility Kitty had been captured and was on her way out of the badlands in cuffs—better yet, maybe she was shot and killed, he thought. But he would settle for caught and dragged out of the badlands. That would keep Ceran from ever knowing what had happened out there.
“It was Kitty’s idea that we split up,” Trueblood continued. “She said it’s what you would have wanted us to do, so we did. I hope you ain’t angry over it.”
Without answering right away Ceran considered things. He wasn’t too disturbed over Wheeler being killed. In fact, he was glad it happened before they sat down and took their cut of the Poindexter robbery money.
“Are you? Angry, that is.” Trueblood ventured, wanting to feel out the explosive gunman, see how much lying he needed to do.
“Before Wheeler died, did you find out anything about the Chicago mining company setting up a place in Wild Wind?” he asked, still without answering Trueblood’s question.
“Only what I learned from old Emilio, the cantina owner,” said Trueblood. “He said they’re raising a building right now to house the valuables. He said it’ll be part bank depository, part ore-hauling operation until they can build a rail spur across the badlands.”
“Across the badlands—ha,” Ceran scoffed. “I have dreamed for something like this my whole thieving life,” he chuckled. “When does all this happen?”
“It’s happening now,” said Trueblood. “The building is being built. There could be silver ore and cash money there almost any time.”
“Yeah, there could,” Ceran said, getting a wistful look to his eyes as he thought of the possibilities awaiting him. “Did you and Weeks and Wheeler check out what the old man told you before Wheeler got shot, or was you all three too busy chasing whores and drinking whiskey?”
“All right, I ain’t going to lie to you, Silva,” said Trueblood. “We did get us some whiskey drunk and we was getting our bells rung when the lawmen slipped into Wild Wind on us. But everything the old man told us must be true. I saw enough that I believe him.”
For a second, in Ceran’s greed he’d almost forgotten about Kitty and Weeks. But then he snapped his stare back to Trueblood. Looking at the thick, reddened stitches on his head and abdomen, he said, “All right. Get yourself some coffee, and grub if you’re able to eat. As soon as you’re full, get yourself a horse from one of the renegades’ spares.”
“Where am I going?” Trueblood asked, standing and dusting off his seat.
“We’re all going,” said Ceran. “We’re riding back and finding Kitty and Weeks.” His eyes riveted onto Trueblood’s. “That’s not going to raise any problems, is it?”
“No. Hell no,” Trueblood said quickly. “The sooner, the better. I want to find them just as bad as you do. I mean, hell, they’re two of our own. We got to find them before the law gets to them.”
“That’s the spirit,�
� said Ceran, studying him closely as he gestured a sweeping arm toward the fire, inviting Trueblood toward the coffeepot.
Jesus. That murdering bitch . . . , Trueblood thought, hoping the ranger had blown Kitty Dellaros’ brains out somewhere on the badlands.
The ranger and Kitty Dellaros had taken the trail that cut across a hill line and a long stretch of flatlands toward Wild Wind. From a cliff ledge inside the hills, Sam lay eyeing the vast, empty flatlands through his telescope before venturing down onto the harsh terrain. Standing off to the side, Kitty Dellaros wet a bandana from a canteen of tepid water and touched it to her hot, dust-streaked face.
“I thought you said we’d outflanked Bloody Wolf and his renegades,” she said.
“We did,” Sam replied over his shoulder, still scanning with the telescope as he spoke. “But Bloody Wolf’s renegades don’t have these badlands all to themselves.”
“Oh? Who else are we ducking, then?” Kitty asked in a critical tone.
“Let’s see . . . ,” Sam said, as if giving the matter some serious contemplation. “There’s Mexican bandits . . . American bandits. Runaway Apache. Comadrejas—desert weasels. A few other assorted saddle tramps, killers, lunatics . . .”
“Well, then,” Kitty said cynically, “lucky for them, they won’t have to worry about running into Ranger Sam Burrack. Will they?”
“That’s right,” Sam said, not letting her words get to him. He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d spotted a freight wagon sitting with a broken wheel just at the edge of a short, spiky hill line. She would find out once they got there, he decided. “Mount up,” he said, collapsing the telescope between his gloved hands.
“When will we be back in Wild Wind?” she asked. “I can’t believe it’s taking so long going this way.” She fanned herself with the wet bandana. “Are you sure you haven’t gotten us lost?”
“We’ll be there before the day is out,” Sam said, not dignifying her question by answering it.
For the past two miles he’d noticed that she’d become more talkative again—more talkative, more taunting and more high-strung. These were traits he’d recognized each time prior to her making another attempt at escape. She had settled down at the sight of the renegades. But now that they no longer posed a threat, and now that the two of them were drawing closer to Wild Wind and closer to the possibility of her freedom being taken from her, he knew she would make some desperate move on him at any time.
