Hanging in Wild Wind
Page 6
“There’s no point in me wasting my breath trying to reason with you again, is there?” she asked out of the blue.
Yep, that cinched it, he told himself. She was about to try something. He’d better be ready for it. Running her options through his mind, he realized there was nothing left for her to do but try to make a hard run for it across the rocky flatlands. She was unarmed; she had learned that she wasn’t going to get the drop on him, take him by surprise the way he figured she’d taken down Andy Weeks. Outrunning him was all she had left.
He knew he could catch her easy enough. The horse she was riding was no contest for Black Pot. But there was more to consider. This was rugged terrain. He didn’t want to risk injuring the stallion in a race across treacherous ground.
“We’d be foolish to wear these animals out and have to walk the last miles into town,” he said quietly.
“What?” she asked, looking around at him quickly, his quiet tone of voice having caught her by surprise. She watched him draw his Winchester from its saddle boot and prop it up on his thigh.
“Even with the renegades behind us, we’d be in trouble if they happened back this way and came upon us afoot,” he said. “So, keep it in mind that I’m not going to chase you.” He levered a round into the rifle chamber, making sure she heard it.
“For God’s sake, Ranger,” she said. “Is that all you think about—me trying to escape?” She gave him a feigned look of shock and disgust. Her real shock was that he seemed to have just then read her mind. She had been on the verge of nailing her oversized boot heels to the horse’s sides and making a run for it. Now she realized it would be useless. And he was right: this was no place to be on winded or injured horses. Damn. Now what? She asked herself, looking all around as if in defeat.
Would he actually shoot me? She wondered. He hadn’t offered her a close enough look inside him to allow her to know what he might or might not do. She prided herself on reading men. But this one was not an easy study. This one didn’t play along enough to let himself be seen. Damn it to hell. . . .
Sam had drawn Black Pot back a step behind her, keeping a close watch on her until he saw her slump ever so slightly in her saddle. The move was genuine, he told himself. She had considered her chances, then changed her mind. Maybe she was starting to understand that he was not out here to either play or be played with—only to do a job.
Chapter 7
On the flatlands, the freight wagon lay partly hidden in a stand of scrub juniper and saguaro cactus at the foot of the short hill line. But Sam knew where it sat, and as they came to the crest of a low rise and the wagon came into view, Kitty stopped her horse and sat staring until the ranger stopped beside her.
“What have we here?” she asked, seeing no one in sight in or around the wagon. Looking around at the ranger, she noted his lack of surprise. “Did you see this sitting here from atop the ridge?”
The ranger didn’t reply. Instead he said in a guarded tone, “Keep moving.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice sharp with resentment.
Leading the spare horse by its reins, Sam nudged the Appaloosa forward at a walk, Kitty right beside him. When they were only a few yards from the wagon, they stopped again and sat quietly for a moment.
“Hello, the wagon,” Sam called out, looking in among the sprawl of cactus and juniper scattered along the base of the hills.
“Can’t you see there’s nobody here, Ranger?” Kitty said, sounding impatient.
“Step down,” Sam ordered.
In frustration she let out a puff of breath and swung down from her saddle. The ranger followed suit, and they led the horses forward, Sam with the Winchester still in hand. “Stay here,” he said as they both stopped twenty feet from the wagon. He gave her a look of warning. “Don’t forget what I said about not chasing you down.”
“I won’t,” Kitty said. She stood with her reins in her hand and watched him walk over to the wagon and look down into the open bed.
In the wagon bed Sam flipped back a canvas cover and looked closely at a pile of silver ore. “What is it?” Kitty called out.
The ranger looked all around again, knowing that no one would abandon a valuable load under ordinary circumstances. “It’s silver,” he said.
“Really? How much?” Kitty asked.
“I don’t know; quite a bit,” he said. He walked to the team of horses hitched to the wagon, and felt the muzzle and the mane of the one on the right. The animal’s mane felt dry, its muzzle cool.
Walking back to the rear of the wagon, he stooped down beside the broken wheel and saw where someone had started to remove it from its axle, but had stopped halfway through the task. He ran a gloved finger through a dark streak of blood on the oak wheel hub and inspected it closely. An injury? Maybe, he thought.
“What is it, Ranger?” Kitty called out.
He straightened and looked back down at the ore. Running a hand over a chunk of stone the size of a melon, he said, “Bring your horse over here and tie it. I’m going to change this wheel and take this load on into—”
“Take your hand out of the wagon bed or lose it,” a voice from the shelter of a saguaro cactus said, cutting him off.
Sam froze for a second, his ears searching for the direction of the voice. Then he raised his hand from the ore and started turning toward the cactus.
“Nice and easy,” the voice said. “This scatter gun has a hair trigger.”
“No harm intended,” the ranger said, raising both hands chest high, knowing that in doing so, the badge on his chest would be visible from behind the lapel of his riding duster. The badge could be either a blessing or a curse, depending on who was standing behind the cactus.
“I spotted the wagon from the ridges a while ago,” he said. “I rode down to take a look.”
“Is that a territory ranger badge?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” Sam replied, knowing it was time to see where he stood. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Longworth,” said the voice, as a young man around Sam’s own age stepped into view, a double-barrel shotgun resting over his raised left forearm. “Clayton Longworth,” he added. “I’m a detective with Western Railways Transportation.” His right hand held the shotgun, his finger on the trigger. But his left hand was wrapped in a bloody bundle of burlap.
“You’ve hurt your hand?” Sam called out, realizing now where the blood on the wheel hub had come from.
“But I can still handle a gun,” the young man replied. “Stay where you are until I get a better look at that badge.” He walked forward. To Kitty he said, “Do like he told you, ma’am. Bring your horse on over here and hitch it to the back of the wagon.”
Thinking quickly, Kitty said, “Mister, this man is not who he says he is. He’s holding me against my will. Make him drop the rifle and let me go. If you’ll let me ride away from here, I promise that if we ever run into each other somewhere, someday, I’ll make sure you get—”
“Bring your horse over and hitch it, lady,” the young man said in a stronger tone of voice. “I’m hurt, and I’ve got no time to waste on you.”
Damn it! Kitty cursed to herself. Jerking the horse by it reins, she led it over to the back of the wagon and hitched it. “There. Everybody happy?” she said.
Clayton Longworth stopped a few feet away and lowered the shotgun upon getting a better look at the badge on the ranger’s chest. Sam noted the black, sweat-soaked linen suit jacket, the loosened black string necktie, the white but soiled shirt with a stiff clip on collar.
“Clayton Longworth, I’m Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack,” he said. “Before you listen to anything she tries to tell you . . . this woman is in my custody until we arrive at Wild Wind.”
“I understand, Ranger Burrack,” said Longworth, with a look of relief on his pained face. “I know you are who you say you are. I recognize you by the sombrero and the Appaloosa stallion.” He gestured a nod toward Black Pot standing nearby, then said, “I am mighty glad
you come along when you did.”
“What happened to your hand, Detective?” Sam asked.
Longworth gave him a long strange look as he leaned back against the open wagon bed and held his bandaged hand before him. Seeing a curious expression come to the ranger’s face, he said, “Forgive me for staring, Ranger Burrack, but you’re the first person who has ever called me Detective—the first lawman anyway.”
“Oh?” Sam said curiously. “How long have you been a detective?”
“I’ve been a detective almost a year now. But most of that time I’ve been in Chicago,” said Longworth, “doing what we call detail work, same as I’ve been doing here.”
“Details need doing too,” Sam said.
“Yeah, that’s how I figure it,” said Longworth. “But most of the lawmen I’ve had occasion to work with have had a hard time considering me a detective, owing to my age, I suspect.” He looked the ranger up and down, as if to emphasize their closeness in age.
Sam gave a wince as he looked at the young detective’s mashed and broken left hand. White bone and tendon stuck out from split and blackened flesh beneath the edge of the bloodstained bandage. “How’d this happen?” he asked.
“The jack slipped and pinned my hand between the hub and the wheel,” said Longworth. “I had a hard time pulling it out.”
“I can see you did,” said Sam, noting the heavy wagon jack lying in the dirt.
“Next time I’ll use a rock and a long lever,” said Longworth. “I never should have trusted a wagon jack. Newfangled inventions never work for me like they should.”
Sam only nodded as he inspected the mashed hand closely.
“What do you say, Ranger?” Longworth asked. “Am I going to lose it?”
“You’ve banged it up awfully bad,” Sam replied, knowing the man wanted to hear something encouraging. “But it’s going to take a doctor to say whether or not you’ll lose it.”
“I was getting ready to unhitch a horse from the wagon and ride back to Wild Wind when I saw the two of you in the distance,” said Longworth. He relaxed a little in spite of the pain running from his mashed hand up the length of his arm. “First I had to get this ore unloaded and hidden somewhere.”
“Unload the wagon first?” Kitty cut in, staring at him in disbelief. “You must be out of your head.”
The ranger saw the sweaty white sheen on the young man’s face and realized that Kitty was closer to being right than she realized. It was taking everything the young detective had had to keep from passing out.
The ranger gave Kitty a look and gestured toward the horses. “Why don’t you get a canteen? Give him a drink; then we’ll wash this hand off, take a better look and bandage it up good before we head to town.”
Clayton Longworth sat starring blankly, but managed to say, “Obliged, Ranger. I could use a swig of water, or something even stronger if you’ve anything on hand.”
“Water is the strongest thing I’ve got,” Sam said. He looked at the big wagon jack lying in the dirt, and at the spare wagon wheel lying beside it. “When we get you bandaged up, I’ll see if I can get this spare wheel on. It’ll save us having to unload all this ore and come back for it.”
“I’m in your debt, Ranger Burrack,” Longworth said. Sam noted that his voice had begun to sound distant and shallow. He suspected that any minute the young detective would fall into unconsciousness.
“Take it easy, Detective,” Sam said. “I’ll see to it everything gets done the way you want it.” He looked back along the distant hills. “We saw a band of renegades on the high trail. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
“Will they be coming this way?” Longworth asked. “If they are, I can still shoot, Ranger. I can handle my end of things.”
“I’m sure you can, Detective,” said Sam. “I doubt we’ll be running into them. I just wanted you to know.”
At first light, Ceran, Bloody Wolf and their men had ridden in the same direction up into the hills that the ranger and Kitty Dellaros had taken down to the flatlands. But the band of outlaws had ridden different paths. Ceran did not realize it until he stood looking out from atop the same high ridge Sam had stood on the day before.
“Whoever it is, damned if we didn’t pass them somewhere,” he said almost to himself, staring out through a pair of binoculars he had used to follow the winding double strips of wagon wheels and the upturned dirt of hoofprints across the dusty flatlands. Lowering the binoculars, he looked back down at the two sets of big boot prints and the hoofprints on the ground at his feet. “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” he added, shaking his head.
“Yeah, bad luck for us,” Trueblood said, feeling relieved that they had managed to not catch up to Kitty Dellaros, if indeed her horse’s hoofprints was one of the sets on the ground. Ceran saying heads or tails brought back the image of the coin toss between him and Weeks. Jesus, what a stupid thing to do . . .
Seeing Trueblood’s troubled expression, Ceran studied his face closely, looking for any signs of deception. He had just started to say something when Quintos called out, “Here comes Little Tongue. He brings something in a bag.”
“Little Tongue,” Ceran said under his breath, watching the scout ride into sight on the rocky trail. He shook his head again. “Christ, where do they get these names?”
Trueblood just stared at Silva Ceran, not knowing what to say.
“Come on, Delbert. Stick close to me,” Ceran said, stepping back from the edge of the cliff and walking toward the approaching rider. “I don’t want you out of my sight until I figure what’s going on.”
“Silva, please,” said Trueblood, “you’ve got to believe me. . . .” He let his words trail, watching the scout stop ahead of them and pitch a grass sack to the ground at Bloody Wolf’s feet.
“What the hell is this?” Silva said, quickening his pace toward Quintos.
When the two arrived, Quintos had stooped down, grabbed the grass sack by two bottom corners, turned it upside down and shaken out the contents. Trueblood stopped cold as Weeks’ pale, bloodless head rolled across the ground toward him. “Holy God!” he said.
Ceran also came to halt. But he stuck out a boot and clamped it down onto the rolling head and held it in place while he stared down at the turned-up eyes and sharply severed neck, just beneath the wide, bloodless gash left by Kitty’s razor.
Looking up at the mounted scout, he said, “You better tell me quick-like that this is how you found him.” He gripped the butt of the big Colt on his hip.
Little Tongue sat staring, expressionless.
“This is how he found him,” Quintos interceded on behalf of the scout.
“Hold on, Bloody Wolf,” said Ceran. He continued to stare at the scout. “Doesn’t this man talk?”
“He talks, but you do not want to hear it,” Quintos said. “He was born with a tongue that is too small for his mouth. His words sound like the squawking of a strange bird. It is better that I sign with him and speak his words for him.”
“I see. . . .” Ceran tried to imagine what the Indian’s voice must sound like. But he quickly shook the thought from his mind and said to Quintos, “All right, what happened out there? Why did he only bring back my man’s head?”
Little Tongue made sign with Quintos. Then Quintos turned to Ceran and said, “The buzzards, wolves and coyotes had taken their turn at the body. Little Tongue brought back only the head because it was easier to do so. It is the cut throat that shows what happened to the man.”
“I see,” Ceran said quietly. He rolled the head back and forth an inch under his boot for a better look.
“It is plain that his throat was cut,” Quintos said.
“Yeah, it is,” Ceran agreed, feeling Trueblood’s eyes upon him. Both of them knew that Kitty Dellaros carried just the right kind of instrument for such a clean, slick cutting job.
Ceran avoided Trueblood’s eyes for the moment and asked Little Tongue, “Was this man dressed or undressed when you found him?”
Little Tongue turned to Quintos and made more signs while Ceran watched impatiently.
“He wore nothing,” Quintos said without hesitation when the two were finished making signs. “Not even his drawers or his boots.”
“Buck naked, huh?” said Ceran. He turned an enraged stare to Trueblood. “Delbert, if you’re keeping something from me, now’s the time to spill it.” He tapped his fingers on his gun butt.
“Silva, I swear to God,” said Trueblood, “I’m not keeping anything from you.” He quickly crossed his heart and said, “That’s the gospel truth.”
Ceran stared at him for a moment longer, then said to everyone, “Mount up. We’re going to back-track all the way to Weeks’ body and see where everybody went from there.”
“What about the wagon tracks?” Paco asked.
“Whoever it is, they’re headed for Wild Wind,” said Ceran. “We know where to find them.” He turned as the men reached for their horses. “So long, Weeks,” he said, “you shifty sonsabitch. I don’t know what you was up to”—he gave the head a long kick and sent it flying out off the edge of the cliff—“but by hell, I’ll find out.” He turned a harsh glare at Trueblood. “You ride at my side, Delbert. I want to be able to reach out and know you’re there at all times.”
“Yeah,” Paco said, with a slight grin turned toward Trueblood. “In a few days I will pull those annoying stitches out for you, and you will feel much better, eh?”
“Paco,” Ceran cut in, “I want you to pick yourself one of Bloody’s men to go with you and follow those wagon tracks into Wild Wind. Lie low there and keep an eye on things until I get there.”