by Tim Champlin
“Do you think the law will somehow follow them here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “They think so, or they wouldn’t bother keeping a hostage.”
“What can we do?” Her tone was plaintive. “He saved me; we have to save him.”
Sandoval had been pondering much the same thing. But no ready solution presented itself. “You hungry?” he asked to divert the question.
“No.”
Then he realized it hadn’t even been two hours since they’d eaten. They sat silently for a minute, staring into the low flames and entertaining their own thoughts.
“Another heavy wind outside,” she commented.
Sandoval nodded, only half-aware of the mesquite bushes thrashing a few yards away. He was mulling over ways he might take advantage of the darkness, the dust, and the howling wind in Nightwind Canyon. Surely there was some way to make use of the cover the storm provided.
Their conversation lagged. The fire slowly died to a bed of coals winking red in the fitful breeze that found its way inside.
Lucy began to nod.
“Rest,” he said. “You must be worn out.”
“I’ll just stretch out here and close my eyes for a minute,” she said, not moving away from him or the dying fire.
Sandoval guessed it was near midnight. The wind continued unabated. “Lucy, I have an idea. I’m going out for a while.” He paused as she stirred in the darkness. “I should be back in an hour or two. If something happens and I don’t get back, you have food and water here, and you have my mule and burro to get back to Carson City.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have a plan that might distract those men so they’ll forget about Charvein, and we can get him free.”
“Oh, be careful,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost both of you.”
He needed no light as he moved to the back of the cavern and opened a wooden box. He filled the two inside pockets of his poncho. Returning, he crouched beside her, a full canteen slung over one shoulder. He gripped his Henry rifle. “This could take me a little longer than I first thought. Don’t fret if I don’t return until after daylight. As long as you stay here and be quiet, you’ll be all right. Don’t stir up that fire. Give my animals some grain and water.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I’ll do as you say.” Her voice sounded more assured and less anxious. “Adios,” he heard her whisper as he slipped outside into the screening bosque.
TWELVE
Ex–Deputy Marshal Buck Rankin was sorely tempted to take French leave. Hunkered under a blanket on the lee side of his horse, he impatiently endured the gusting wind and suffocating dust of the playa. Advancing years had made him soft; he’d let this posse of volunteers drag him to a stop before he was ready. Now they were spending another night exposed to the elements on this dry lake bed. If they’d kept going at sunset as he urged, they could have reached the nearest desert mountains before the worst of the night wind began to howl.
Unable to sleep, he was being tormented by the incessant buffeting of dust that powdered the insides of his nostrils, clogged his nose, grated between his teeth, and worked its way inside his collar. It left a bitterness in his mouth and attitude. He fought the urge to jump up and run screaming into the night, cursing this damnable weather, his companions, and his luck. His was not a passive nature. Endurance was not his forte; action was.
The men huddled in their blankets. The hobbled horses stood, rumps to the wind, manes and tails whipping in the relentless gusts. Rankin wondered if any of the men were asleep. For the plan he was formulating, they had to be. He was going to shed himself of this posse. They weren’t man hunters. They could only slow him down. And if it came to a showdown, they’d bungle the job, get in the way, and maybe get him killed. He’d purposely bedded down fifteen yards upwind from the nearest member of the posse. No sign of life came from any of them. The last time he’d struck a match under his blanket to check his watch, it was 12:40 a.m. And that was at least an hour ago. It was time to make his move. So what if he abandoned these men in the middle of a dust storm? Come morning, they’d gripe and moan, but they had water and food enough to see them back to town, even though it’d probably take them two days—as much as they liked to rest themselves and their horses.
Only one man of the posse was he unsure of, one who had a mean streak as wide as the yellow streaks of the others—a mean streak that might pass for courage in a fight. Schooner Douglas was a big, rawboned Scotsman who ran a saloon in Gold Hill and was probably his own best customer. Taken away for a few days or weeks from his favorite beverage, Schooner tended to get mean. He’d killed more than one man in a rough-and-tumble fight, so the story went. Buck suspected the saloonkeeper had stashed a bottle or two in his saddlebags, but so far there’d been no indication Schooner was nipping. Buck had made it clear he’d tolerate no drinking on the job.
Like the others, Schooner Douglas stood to collect a considerable reward if these men were either captured or killed. And Douglas was not the kind of man to throw up his hands and head home once he saw that their leader had left them stranded. As far as needing a share of the reward, Douglas had a business that appeared to bring in a goodly flow of money, whereas, he, Buck Rankin, broken-down ex-marshal, had only a tiny pension. The way his leg felt, this could be his last manhunt as a freelancer. He had to earn all he could—now. There was no tomorrow or next month or next year. He was not feeling pity for himself; leave that to lesser men. He was only calculating the cold, hard facts. By gathering in all the reward from the state and from the wealthy relatives of the woman hostage, he’d have a cushion of several thousand in the bank, enough to set himself up in a small business. He had no intention of dying in poverty. No, siree. He had his wits and his guns, and he intended to finish this job on his own. He would never have brought along these citizen volunteers except at the insistence of the sheriff who thought he was doing Buck a good turn by supplying their help. Well, by God, the sheriff apparently had the same low opinion of him as most others did: a good lawman in his day, but his day was done. Buck had never been one to care much what folks thought about him.
He drew his legs under him, cringing at the old injury in the back of his thigh. Throwing back the protective blanket, he forced himself to stand, stretching his hamstring. Was it his imagination, or was the wind lessening?
Now that he’d made up his mind to finish this manhunt alone, he was impatient to be off. Wherever the outlaws were, they must have gone to ground in this dust storm. If he could be on the move now, he’d gain precious time and distance on them. They surely wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come at them out of this dry hurricane. He had to use all advantages, surprise being one of the best. If they put up a fight, he’d shoot to kill without hesitation.
His bad leg was paining him something fierce, so there was no time to lose, no time to drag this deadweight posse behind him.
In total darkness, and with his back to the wind, he could see nothing of his companions. He removed the protective slicker he’d tucked in loosely around the horse’s headstall. Operating more by touch than sight, he tightened the cinch straps, unclipped the hobbles, and rolled and tied his blanket behind the saddle. Then he grasped the reins and led his mount away, the wind masking any small sounds.
He figured Lodestar was a few miles directly west. The quartering wind was coming from the southwest at a forty-five-degree angle to his heading.
After a few steps, he glanced back. His companions were swallowed up in blackness as if they’d never existed. He hoped the wind wasn’t veering, since he’d have to walk at a constant angle to it in order to maintain course; he couldn’t be stopping every hundred yards to huddle under his blanket and strike a match to check his compass. This would be like dead-reckoning navigation at sea.
His horse hated it even more than he did, continually pulling to the side, trying to turn his back to the blowing dust. Rankin tied a bandanna across his own nose and mouth and partially
protected his eyes with a pair of green-tinted glasses he’d originally brought along to cut the glare of the sun. Since he couldn’t see where he was going anyway, it didn’t matter how dark the lenses were.
The horse fought the lead with every step, so Rankin finally stopped and took his spare shirt from the saddlebag. He tied its soft cotton arms around the animal’s head to keep out the wind and dust, tucking the loose ends inside the headstall to keep them from flapping. This would have the effect of blinders in calming the animal.
He slogged on, head down, wind bending his hat brim. He wondered how much dust was getting into his lungs. Was the powdered soil any worse than breathing cigar smoke in a saloon?
“Buck Rankin!”
The distant shout of his own name jarred him for a moment. But then he realized it probably came from inside his own head. “Yeah, Buck Rankin,” he said aloud, “you’re tougher than any of’em.”
“Raannkin!” A wavering cry he barely heard.
Startled, he stopped dead, turning his head this way and that, listening. Surely some trick of the wind. This strange place, this scorched, abandoned tip of the planet, was getting to him. He was drying out. That was it: dehydrated and hearing things. He fumbled for the canteen that hung from the saddle horn. Pulling down the bandanna, he tipped up the canteen and took a long drink.
“Raaankin! Wait!”
He yanked the canteen from his lips, sputtering and half-choking on a swallow. That wasn’t the wind or his imagination. This time the sound had seemed to come from off to one side. But he couldn’t be sure. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth.
“Why you running, Rankin?”
He whirled around to face the voice that came from the west, from upwind. A prickly chill ascended his back to his hairline. The wind could create ghostly sounds, but it absolutely could not mimic the sound of his name, over and over again. In fact, there were no obstructions—not even a bush or rock—that could divert the wind and cause any sort of unusual noise. Somebody was out there, playing a trick on him. He dismissed the idea that this could be his conscience. A completely practical man, Rankin didn’t believe in such things. But madness? He’d seen men go mad, and he knew that insanity was a fact. It happened. But not to him. His mind had always been stable. He’d never taken drugs, or been a drunk, or gone through any horrifying ordeal like being trapped without food and water for days in a mine or the mountains—things that might send a man over the mental edge of reality.
He pulled up the bandanna, took up the reins, and resolutely put the sounds out of his mind as he trudged westward into the gusting wind. The strange cries ceased and his uneasiness slowly ebbed while he fought the elements. His laboring breath dampened the bandanna and the dust stuck to it, turning to mud. But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. It seemed an hour dragged away. Pain elongated time, so he guessed it was more like thirty minutes. Had he gone a mile? Two miles?
Finally, he pulled up, stopping for a moment of rest. He untied the shirt from the horse’s head to make sure the animal was all right. Glancing back the way he’d come, he noted a blurry dimness that heralded the coming dawn. He’d never been so glad to see daylight coming. He had a greater appreciation of how blind people were able to function in a dark world.
He shook out the shirt and started tying it back in place.
“Buck!”
He jumped and whirled toward the voice. No one.
“Runnin’ out, Rankin?” The ridicule was evident. Now he knew that voice—Schooner Douglas.
“Shit! Show yourself, you son of a bitch!” Rankin yelled, though his voice came out as a hoarse croak. “Dammit, Schooner, face up like a man.” The gusts whisked his words away. He knew his voice carried no more than a few feet.
Suddenly, the figure of a big man rose up, silhouetted against the pale eastern sky. Fear stabbed Rankin’s gut. He snatched off the green-tinted spectacles and flung them away, grabbing for his holstered gun. The six-gun jumped in his fist; the explosions of three quick shots were somehow reassuring. He was fighting something besides a ghost. Somewhere beyond the muzzle flashes, the figure vanished. Though he’d been sighting through irritated eyes, Rankin knew his shots were true. But maybe the figure wasn’t; if it was a man, he’d dropped out there with three bullets in him. Schooner Douglas, be damned!
His heart was pounding now, and he yanked down the bandanna, coughing as he breathed in the dust. Watering eyes scanned the gradually lightening scene. Blurring emptiness. “A dust devil—that’s what you are—a dust devil. A whirlwind, a column of dust that looks like a man,” he croaked, starting to doubt his sanity.
Again he staggered toward the west. Sweat burst from every pore, soaking his clothes. Terrified and disoriented, he didn’t realize for a minute that his horse had bolted at the sound of his gunfire and galloped off, vanishing into the murk. Never mind; he’d find the big sorrel when daylight came.
Sometime later, he felt the ground rising under his boot soles, as if he were wading up out of a lake. Through gritty eyes, he thought he could make out a jumble of buildings ahead. But now he doubted his own senses. Nothing was real.
He could hardly breathe; he felt as if he were suffocating. Then he heard the mellow tolling of a bell. A slow, deep, muffled tone. The thought crossed his mind that he was late for his own funeral. He had to hurry; they’d be expecting him. Blindly striving for whatever was up ahead, he moved his legs automatically, the familiar ache in his right hamstring telling him he was still among the living. Dead men felt no pain. He plunged ahead.
Suddenly, they were there—the dried, brown, sagging buildings of Lodestar, rattling and banging in the wind. He twisted to look behind. He’d escaped the playa. He’d shot the specter who’d been stalking him. Or maybe he’d just shot at something and scared it off—some creature of the playa who’d come out of the dark and dust to prey on solo travelers. He realized his thinking was askew, but he couldn’t seem to get his head straightened out.
The back door of the first building stood ajar. He pushed it open and went inside. Suddenly relieved from the need to lean against the wind, he lost his balance and fell to the wooden floor. He didn’t care where he was, as he gulped the relatively clear air. His head was whirling. He’d made it to Lodestar. “I’ll just rest a bit,” he told himself in a whisper, “then go look for m’horse.” He took a deep breath. “Finally rid o’ that damned posse.” And he drifted into unconsciousness.
THIRTEEN
“Hell, tie him up if you think he’s going to escape,” Boyd said to Stepenaw. “But stop waving that damned gun around. You’re making me nervous.”
“Hold this while I put some ropes on him.”
Weasel took the Colt in his good hand.
Charvein submitted meekly, still playing the role of innocence.
Stepenaw used his braided hemp lariat to bind Charvein’s hands together in front of him, then bent him forward to tie wrists to ankles. Only when Charvein was lying on his side, trussed and helpless, did Stepenaw accept his Colt from Weasel and holster it.
Boyd lounged on his blanket near the fire, watching. “That’s better. Now we can all relax.” He dragged his saddlebags toward him. “Got a little surprise here,” he said, loosening the strap and thrusting a hand inside. “Was planning to save it to celebrate when we found the gold, but since it’s disappeared, I reckon it won’t hurt to break it out now.” He held aloft a quart bottle of Noble’s whiskey. “Besides,” he continued, twisting out the cork, “Weasel could likely use a good, stiff drink to dull the pain in that arm.”
“By God, you been holding out on us,” Weasel said, licking his lips. “Probably holding out about the gold, too, but first things first.”
The rich, amber liquid glowed warm in the firelight.
Charvein, lying on his side by the wall, watched Boyd pour a generous amount into each man’s tin cup.
The wounded man and his big companion tipped up their drinks.
“Whew! That’s good!” Weasel’s grim
ace seemed to belie his words. He drained his cup and held it out for a refill. Boyd complied.
Stepenaw merely smacked his lips, grunted, then attacked the drink again, his massive hands engulfing the tin cup. He also got a refill.
“Ain’t you having none?” Weasel asked, eyeing Boyd, who was recorking the bottle.
“I’ll take a nip before bedtime,” he replied, “to help me sleep. I have to go easy on the hard stuff; it upsets my stomach when I haven’t had much to eat.” He smiled and poured himself half a cup of coffee and leaned back against his saddle.
Charvein suspected the crafty Boyd was up to something. He wondered where the men had left their horses and mules. Surely they hadn’t been picketed outside in the dust storm. The tin-sided sheds on the hilltop couldn’t have been used for the animals since the wind rattled and banged the loose metal. There must be other caves nearby, possibly the openings in the walls were like the holes in a flute and caused the eerie moaning and crying of the night wind in this aptly named canyon. Charvein wasn’t thirsty or hungry, but his untreated head still ached. He was glad Stepenaw had not tied his hands behind his back, a position that would have made sleep impossible. At least partially doubled over like this he might be able to doze off and get some rest. He wiggled his hands and feet to test his bonds. The oiled hemp was around his shirt cuffs and his moccasins, so the rope didn’t chafe, and it wasn’t so tight as to restrict blood circulation. He’d remain quiet and try to sleep. Maybe the morning would bring a chance for escape.
The untended fire slowly burned down to only a few flickers of flame.
The liquor loosened Weasel’s tongue, and he babbled on about the missing gold and where it might be, cursing Boyd for retrieving it and hiding it. He finally stretched out on his blanket, continuing to mumble, slurring his words. The others ignored him.
Stepenaw got quietly drunk, helping himself to another cupful from the bottle lying near Boyd’s saddlebags. The small pieces of rattlesnake meat hadn’t been a full meal for any of them, and there wasn’t enough food in their stomachs to absorb much of the alcohol. In his years as a peace officer, Charvein had dealt with many drunken men. Even hardened drinkers, given physical work and very little rest, would succumb to straight whiskey rather quickly. A man of Stepenaw’s size could soak up more, but it finally began to affect him as well.
