Apache Sundown

by Jory Sherman

  “I can, Erskine. You know I can.”

  Willoughby smiled, blew a smoke ring. It hung in the air like the ghost of a doughnut, wafted across his desk and vanished in a golden spray of lamplight.

  The wood inside the room ticked like a clock in the silence.

  Chapter 23

  Zak stepped into the shadows. He became a shadow. Behind him, he heard Colleen let out a tiny gasp. Then he heard someone else draw in a quick breath. Then the silence of the night enveloped him and he circled below the adobe to come up on its north side. He could see only the roof, barely visible in the starlight, the moon just beginning to rise, far to the east.

  He stood still for a few moments, almost willing his eyes to adjust to the darkest regions ahead of him. He waited, listened, glad that the horses were quiet. So, too, his ears adjusted to that silence, and he thought of them as small cushions that would absorb every slight noise so he could interpret their origins. Soft, cushiony sponges, soaking up the stillness, adjusting, constantly adjusting, to every nuance of sound the night might have to offer.

  He took a step, a careful step, short enough so he could keep his balance. He did not move the other foot until the first one had settled. He did not disturb the small pebbles nor dislodge the larger rocks, but sought out the open sandy spots where he might place a boot without making a sound.

  He took his time, and after a while reached a place parallel to the north wall of the adobe. He approached it with careful steps, watching for anything growing, since he did not want his trouser legs to brush against leaves or bark or cactus. He reached the wall and pressed an ear against it and stood there for several long moments, listening for the scrape of a boot, the clearing of a throat, the shifting of a body in waiting.

  He eased himself to the front corner, again pressed his ear to the adobe brick, holding his breath, listening with the intensity of an owl listening for the cheep of a chick or the squeak of a mouse.

  He heard a slight scraping sound.

  Very slight.

  What was it? A rodent inside the shack? A snake slithering across something on the floor? He waited, ear hugging the wall.

  Or a man?

  He tried to think about what position a man inside might take if he were on guard, waiting to catch some unsuspecting riders coming up on him. He would stand or sit near a window or an open door. He would have a rifle, so he might be at a window, resting the barrel on the sill. He would be looking toward the road, ready to crack off a shot at anyone who approached.

  Such a man might have been waiting inside for a long time. Many hours. He might be tired, or sleepy. He might have to change his position often to avoid fatigue. Such a man would be patient.

  As Zak was patient now.

  There had been no sound for several seconds. The seconds became minutes and passed. Still, Zak stood there, listening, feeling the weight of his rifle as it rested on his forearm, feeling the weight of it grow into a leaden burden. He did not move. He brushed away the thought of that particular discomfort. He made the weight go away until there was a numbness in that spot where the barrel rested, until his hand on the stock felt no weight.

  Then he heard a louder noise. A scraping sound, then a sound like metal striking wood, sharp and quick. More scraping sounds and one that was difficult to define. A light stomping sound as if a man was lifting up one foot, then the other, perhaps restoring blood circulation to deadened feet. A perfectly natural thing to do, Zak thought. If a man had been squatting or sitting for some time, perhaps several hours, he would have to stand up, stretch. If he had a rifle in his hands, that rifle might fall to the sill or on a board and make one of the sounds he had heard.

  He took his ear away from the wall, rubbed it to bring the blood back into the squashed parts.

  He stepped around the corner, hugging the wall. He did not need to put his ear to the wall. He saw that the window on his side was open. He heard the rustle of cloth.

  Was there one man inside? Or two? Trask’s whole bunch was certainly not inside. That many men would make a lot more noise than he had heard. Most likely one, he thought.

  The sounds stopped then, and he knew the man was no longer lifting his boots. Instead, there was a rustle of cloth as the man turned or flexed his arms. It was a sound that was hard to detect, but unmistakable to Zak. He could picture the man standing there, perhaps at the window on the other side of the door. He stretched his neck out and saw that the door was closed.

  He moved toward it, a slow, careful step at a time. When he reached it, he did not lean against it, but stood there. He craned his neck again and saw what he had expected to see.

  The other window was open, also, and the dark snout of a rifle rested on the sill, ten or twelve inches poking out.

  One lone man, then, as he’d thought.

  Who would Trask leave behind? he wondered.

  A crack shot, for one thing.

  Trask would tell his man to look for a man dressed in black riding a black horse. He would probably trust this man to do the job of assassination. Well, Zak thought, perhaps trust was the wrong word. He would expect the man to carry out his assignment. Perhaps he offered bonus money. Bounty money.

  He looked at the door. He traced a finger along the crack. The door was closed tightly, but if he remembered correctly, the doors on these old shacks used leather hinges. Over the years, the leather had probably started to rot or lose its toughness. There might be a latch or a bar on the other side. It might be too risky to knock down the door, crash it open, rush inside and hope he got the waiting killer with his first shot.

  But they could not stay there all night. Something had to be done.

  Again Zak’s thoughts turned to Trask and which of his men he might have left behind. He might not leave someone he’d known for some time. Too dangerous. He might leave one of Ferguson’s men, perhaps one of the Mexicans.

  More likely, Trask would do that. Risk someone he did not know too well or might need for the big job ahead.

  So there could be a Mexican inside.

  Zak set his rifle down behind him, leaned it against the wall. It was not cocked, and if he had to cock it, that would alert the man inside the adobe, give him the advantage.

  He drew his pistol, easing it up out of its holster with a practiced slowness. He thumbed the trigger back while gently squeezing the trigger so it would not click when it was fully cocked.

  The locking sear might make a small sound, but nothing loud. No more than a muffled snick, at best.

  He cocked the pistol, held it at the ready. He listened to see if the slight sound had caused any alarm to the man inside.

  It was very quiet.

  His next move, he knew, would be the most crucial one.

  Zak leaned toward the open window and whispered.

  “¿Quien es?” Who’s there? in Spanish.

  He heard a sucking of breath, the scrape of a boot.

  “¿Quien es?” the man inside hissed in a loud whisper.

  Zak thought fast. He knew now that he had been right. There was a Mexican on guard. His accent was perfect for a man who spoke Spanish. He picked a common Mexican name, hoped that would confuse the man inside. No, he thought, he would use the name of the man they had found shot in the back during the flash flood. He tried to remember his name. “Es Jaime,” he said.

  He heard the man inside curse under his breath. He murmured the names of saints and invoked Jesus, Mary, and God, all in Spanish.

  “¿Tu no eres muerto, Jaime?” Pablo Medina said.

  Zak saw the rifle barrel disappear, then reappear.

  “Yo soy el espirito de Jaime Elizondo. Soy muerto. Dame agua, dame pan.” Give me water, give me bread.

  “Jesús Cristo,” Pablo exclaimed. “Vete, vete.”

  “Tira su rifle afuera,” Zak said. Throw your rifle outside.

  “¿Por qué?” the man inside said. Why? in Spanish.

  In Spanish, Zak replied. At the same time, he kept his eye on the man’s rifle,
measured the number of strides it would take to reach it, snatch it out of the would-be killer’s hands.

  “I am the ghost of Jaime Elizondo. I am looking for the man who shot me in the back. I am going to kill that man so I can be free of this earth.”

  “I did not kill you. Ben Trask shot you, Jaime. Go. Go away.”

  That was enough for Zak.

  He took two long strides, leaping past the door, pouncing downward. With his left hand, he grabbed the rifle barrel, jerked it hard. The man inside held onto it, cried out, then released his hold on it.

  Zak flung the rifle away from him like a man would throw a stick to a dog, then rose to a crouch and fired his pistol through the window at pointblank range.

  Orange flame spouted from the barrel. The pistol bucked in his hand.

  For one terrible moment all time stood still. The deafening roar in Zak’s ears blotted out all other sounds. He seemed rooted to that spot where he crouched like a leopard, frozen there for an eternity, not knowing whether his bullet had struck the man at the window or if the next shot would come from that man’s pistol and blow his own heart to a bloody pulp.

  For that split second of infinity, he did not know whether he would live or die.

  He just did not know.

  Chapter 24

  The man inside the adobe cried out. Zak climbed through the open window, cocking his pistol as he cleared the sill. In the flash from his pistol, he had caught just a quick glimpse of the man; not in that instant he had fired, but a second later, when the afterimage registered on his brain.

  He was taking a chance, he knew, but also knew he had the advantage. He seized the moment, shoved the man backward, swung his pistol next to the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The explosion reverberated inside the adobe. The man screamed as the concussion shattered his eardrums. Zak saw him clearly in the bright orange flame that erupted from his barrel. He smashed the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple, and he dropped like a twenty-pound sash weight, stunned.

  Zak pounced on him, pinned him to the littered floor. He put the muzzle of his gun square at the man’s temple, waited a second, then cocked the hammer back. There was a loud click, and the man beneath him stiffened in fear.

  “¿Como te llamas?” Zak asked.

  “M-Me llamo Pablo Medina. ¿Quien eres tu?”

  “I’m the Shadow Rider,” Zak said, in Spanish. “I am the man Ben Trask wanted you to kill.”

  Zak heard hoofbeats and voices. He remembered that he had told Ted to come looking for him if he heard a shot. Ted had heard two shots, and Zak knew he must be wondering what had happened. The voices grew louder, and he heard Colleen’s voice and Scofield’s. He could not decipher what they were saying to one another. In a few moments the sound of hoofbeats separated and he figured Rivers and Scofield were flanking the adobe, perhaps covering the closed door.

  “Zak?” O’Hara called out.

  “In here,” Zak replied. “Come on in.”

  A moment later the door opened and the shadow of a man filled the doorway. Ted O’Hara stood there, rifle in hand. Zak heard more hoofbeats, the creaking of leather as people dismounted outside.

  “Zak?”

  “Down here. I’ve got a prisoner,” Zak said. “There should be a stove or a fireplace in here. Let’s have some light.”

  “Right,” O’Hara said.

  Pablo Medina struggled to free himself, rolling from side to side, pushing upward with his torso. Zak exerted more pressure on the man’s face with his arm. Medina stopped struggling.

  O’Hara issued orders from the doorway.

  “Rivers, bring Deets in here. Scofield, you stand guard outside. Colleen, come in and help me get a fire going.”

  O’Hara crashed around the room, feeling his way. Zak heard a clank and a rattle of wood that sounded like loose kindling. A moment later he heard crumpling paper. Rivers and Deets came in after tying up their horses. Colleen followed right after.

  “I can’t see,” she said.

  “Just walk toward the sound of my voice, Colleen,” O’Hara said. “Be careful. There’s stuff on the floor.”

  Then more sounds as O’Hara stuffed kindling and newspapers into the potbellied stove. He struck a match, and Zak saw the outlines of Medina’s face, his black eyes staring up at him in terror.

  “I do not want to die,” Medina said, in English.

  Colleen paused and looked down at Zak’s prisoner.

  “Did you shoot him?” she asked Zak.

  “Help your brother,” he said.

  She snorted and walked toward her squatting brother and the stove.

  The paper caught fire and then the wood started to burn. There was enough light now for Zak to see around the room.

  “There’s an awful smell in here,” Colleen said. “And the place is filthy.”

  “Find a broom,” Ted said to her. “Be careful where you step. There are human remains in here, sis.”

  Colleen gasped.

  Zak spoke to Medina. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to let you up, after I take your pistol from you. If you try to run, I will shoot you dead. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Zak slipped the pistol from Medina’s holster, handed it to Rivers. Then he stood up. He reached down and helped Medina to his feet.

  The fire was brighter by then, and threw large shadows on the walls of the adobe. Colleen gasped when she saw the mess inside the shack. She looked around for a broom and a shovel, while Rivers took Deets over to a corner so he would be out of the way.

  O’Hara walked over to Zak, who still had a gun on Medina.

  “What are you going to do with this man?” he asked.

  “Probably let him go,” Zak said.

  “Let him go?”

  “First, a few questions for Pablo here.”

  Medina blinked both eyes. Then he looked over at Deets, who was still wearing the black slicker and Zak’s black hat, then looked again at Zak.

  “Yes, that’s Al Deets,” Zak said to Medina. “If you had seen us ride up in daylight, you’d probably have shot him instead of me, eh, Pablo?”

  “It is possible,” Medina said in Spanish.

  “Speak English,” Zak ordered. “How long ago did Trask leave here?”

  “I do not know.”

  Zak poked the barrel of his pistol into Medina’s gut, just above the belt buckle. “Drop your gun belt,” he said.

  Medina unbuckled his belt, let it and the empty holster fall to the floor.

  “Now, answer my question, Pablo.”

  Medina shrugged. “An hour, maybe two.”

  “He left longer ago than that. Sunset? Just after sunset?”

  “Maybe.”

  Zak lowered his pistol and placed the barrel an inch from Medina’s genitals.

  Medina flinched. One of his eyes flickered as the skin over his cheekbone twitched.

  “I’ll blow your juevos clean off if you don’t give me a straight answer, Pablo.”

  “After sunset. Maybe three hours ago.”

  “Zak,” O’Hara said, “you know damned well how long ago Trask lit out of here. You can read tracks like I can read an army map.”

  Zak smiled.

  Understanding flickered in Medina’s eyes.

  “That is true, Ted. So now I know that Pablo can lie, and he knows that I do not lie. Isn’t that right, Pablo?”

  “Yes. Three hours go by. I wait here.”

  “Would you like to catch up to Ferguson? You work for him, don’t you?”

  “I work for Mr. Ferguson. Yes. I would like to go to him.”

  “Surely, you’re not going to let this man go, Zak.” O’Hara said. “He’ll tell Trask and Ferguson how many men we have and that my sister is with us. Trask would have us at a disadvantage.”

  Zak watched Pablo Medina’s eyes. They pulsed like gelatinous jewels.

  Zak smiled without showing his teeth. Just a flicker of his lips told o
f his amusement at his prisoner’s reactions.

  Colleen swept debris into a pile near the door. Then she leaned the broom against the wall, walked back to a place just behind the stove, pulled a shovel off the wall and carried it to the front door. There, she shoveled the debris up and walked outside. Before she left, she looked at Zak.

  “I understand Spanish,” she said. “I know what you threatened to do to Pablo.”

  “Pablo understands Spanish, too, Colleen. He knew I would do what I said I would do to him if he didn’t talk.”

  Colleen went outside. Zak heard her toss the debris onto the ground.

  He turned back to Ted O’Hara.

  “I’m thinking of letting both Deets and Medina here go,” he said. “We’re not equipped to handle these prisoners.”

  “That would be a big mistake, Zak.”

  “If we take on any more prisoners, we’ll be outnumbered,” Zak said. “We’re already short on guards for these two.”

  “Still, these men would give Trask valuable information. Information he could use against us when we meet up with him.”

  “I’m not worried about Trask at this point,” Zak said.

  “You’re not?”

  “No. He knows I’m on his trail. He thinks Deets is dead, probably. When Pablo here doesn’t show up, he’ll figure he’s dead, too. That won’t worry him any. That’s why he left this man behind. He doesn’t care, but if there was a chance Pablo could kill me, he’d have one less worry.”

  “So, you’re just going to let these men go back to Trask and blab all they know.”

  “I could cut out their tongues,” Zak said, just as Colleen came back inside.

  She stopped, stared at Zak with a look of horror on her face.

  “You wouldn’t…” she said.

  “There’s probably a pair of pliers or some blacksmith’s snips in here,” he said. “I could either cut off their tongues or jerk them out by the roots.”

  “You—You’re a savage, Zak Cody. A cruel, heartless savage.”

  “Yes’m,” Zak said.

  Medina shrank away from him.

  “I know you’re joking, Zak,” O’Hara said. “But I hope you reconsider about turning these two men loose to run off to join Trask.”