by M. A. Armen
“Well, the joke’s over. We’ll fix it so they’re laughin’ on the other side of their faces!” Lathrop shouted to his men. “Mount up!”
As the outlaws hurried to their horses, Lathrop turned to the guards.
“No more water for those damn savages till they go back to work!” He swung aboard his horse and galloped off toward town, his men following.
Chapter Seventeen
Rileyville dozed tranquilly in the early afternoon sun. Here and there a scattering of townspeople moved unhurriedly along the boardwalk, bent on various mundane errands. They glanced curiously at Hal Peters as he jogged down the dusty street. He halted beside a drunk who sprawled on the ground, snoring spasmodically, his head propped against a pole of the saloon hitch rail.
Peters dismounted, rolled the drunk aside with a rough shove of his boot, and tethered his animal. Bellied in the dirt, die drunk lay blinking after him groggily as he strode toward the batwings.
The saloon was mildly busy. Several ranchers stood at the bar talking. Four other men played poker at a nearby table, and in a rear comer Annie sat with an ardent young wrangler, enduring his advances wearily.
Peters shoved through the doors and surveyed the gathering, arrogant, his glance sharp and searching. His manner drew attention. Slowly the room fell silent, all eyes on his aggressive figure and his low-slung gun.
Peters returned their scrutiny challengingly, announcing, “I want Glint McClain. Where do I find him?”
The ranchers and poker players shook their heads blankly, but Annie’s face whitened. She pulled away from her companion, exchanged a tense glance with the bartender.
Peters noticed their reaction. Instantly his gun was out and leveled at the bartender. “Talk, mister!”
“He was here yesterday. Said he was just passin’ through,” replied the barman nervously.
“Passin’ through to where?”
“Didn’t say.” The bartender nodded toward the rear table. “Just bought a bottle and went upstairs with Annie.”
Peters turned toward the girl. She shook her head uneasily. “He . . . he didn’t do much talkin’.”
“You’re lyin’!” Peters moved toward her ominously.
Annie rose, clutched the back of her chair for support. “No! Honest, mister! Honest!”
His free hand shot out and cracked against her cheek. “Where is he? Where?"
The blow brought tears to Annie’s eyes and left an angry red stain across her cheek. She swayed for an instant, then steadied, her eyes hardening.
“He paid me not t’say. You pay, too.”
For an instant Peters’s eyes blazed. Then he swore contemptuously, “Greedy whore!” He tossed a silver dollar to the table. “Talk!”
Annie picked up the coin and dropped it into her bosom, eyes still hard and unreadable. “He mentioned Cedar Mesa . . . somethin’ about meetin’ a friend.”
Peters studied her narrowly for a moment, then holstered his gun. “I don’t find him, I’ll be back.” He slapped her again, harder, then strode out of the saloon.
Annie sank into her chair and poured herself a drink as the young wrangler slid a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“Bastard!” he said. “Hope this McClain shoots his balls off.” He studied Annie curiously for an instant, then asked, “Lied for him, didn’t ya?”
Annie nodded.
“How come?”
“It wasn’t for him. It was for somebody else. ” She downed her drink, shakily poured another.
Outside, Peters mounted his horse and loped toward the far edge of town. As dust misted his disappearing figure, Lathrop and his men thundered into view, firing as they came.
They skidded to a halt in the center of the street, milling around, still firing into the air and shouting to the townspeople to come out.
Slowly doors opened and the frightened inhabitants emerged. They gathered tensely near the saloon. The outlaws circled them, herding them to face Lathrop.
“Where’s your mayor?” His eyes raked the small crowd. “And that Chairman Fowler? Get ’em out here!”
Jake Gulden and two hefty ranchers hurried into a nearby building. They reappeared a few minutes later hauling Mayor Spencer and Chairman Fowler with them. The crowd parted, allowing them to shove the unhappy pair to the side of Lathrop’s horse.
He looked down at them contemptuously. “Well, seems like the town leaders don’t wanna give us a welcome, boys.”
His men laughed raucously.
“They act like they’re hidin’ somethin’, boss,” suggested Rafe.
Lathrop’s cold gaze impaled the two uneasy men. “You figure it could have somethin’ to do with that dead priest?”
Fowler and Spencer tensed, fighting to hide their increasing fear. The mayor was the first to regain a degree of composure.
“We have nothing to hide, Lathrop. Nothing at all.”
“You lyin’ skunk! You heard the Indians talk about a devil ghost. They been seein’ him for three days. They’re so scared they won’t work!”
The mayor swallowed nervously. “All Indians are superstitious. Surely you don’t believe their talk!”
Fury contorted Lathrop’s face. Leaning over, he slashed Spencer viciously with his long romal. “They’re not seein’ ghosts. They’re seein’ the priest, Father Miguel. He’s still alive an’ your people helped him stay that way!”
The townspeople gasped and shouted frightened denials, but Lathrop refused to accept them. Shouting angrily, he revealed that his men had opened the grave at the mission and found it filled with rocks, he accused the town of trickery, of deliberately helping Father Miguel to escape.
“We’re not to blame,” yelled a rancher. “If the priest’s alive, it ain’t our doin’.”
“Maybe not,” retorted Lathrop grimly, “but I’m holdin’ all of you responsible. I’m givin’ you twelve hours to find him an’ bring him to me. I don’t care if he’s dead or alive. Just so he can’t stir up the Indians!”
“How can we find him?” asked the mayor desperately. “We don’t know where he’s hiding!”
“Find out! Bring him to the mission in twelve hours or we’ll bum the town to the ground!” Spinning his horse, Lathrop galloped away in the direction of the mine. His men followed, shooting out windows and watering troughs as their parting warnings.
Chapter Eighteen
As the mission came into sight across the sun-drenched plain, Miguel signaled the Indians and McClain to halt. He studied the silent courtyard carefully, then sent two of Yomuli’s best scouts ahead to make sure its apparent desertion held no ambush.
They slipped from their horses, scurried forward, and dropped to their bellies. Separating, they melted into the landscape and approached the mission from opposite directions, as indistinguishable as grains of sand.
Long, voiceless moments passed. Then the chapel doors opened. A scout emerged and signaled all-clear with raised spear. An instant later his companion sprang lightly into view on the courtyard wall, also raising his spear.
Relieved, Miguel led the party into the mission courtyard. As the Indians concealed his mule and their own mounts behind the chapel, Miguel conferred with Yomuli.
“Place watchers on the walls, Yomuli, and tell your braves to move carefully. If our plan is to succeed, we must not be seen.”
As the chief nodded and strode toward several waiting warriors, McClain spoke dryly from behind the priest.
“Afraid it’s too late for secrets, Padre.”
Miguel turned. McClain stood several feet away, beside the opened gravesite. The priest strode to his side. He looked from the empty pit to the pile of dirt beside it with stunned comprehension.
“Lathrop must have become suspicious! Only he would have reason to do this thing!”
“Figures. He ain’t the kind t’believe in devils.”
Miguel scooped a handful of soil from inside the cavity and examined it. “The earth is still damp. The grave has not been open long.”
&nb
sp; “Two . . . maybe three hours,” agreed McClain, “but that’s long enough t’start ’em lookin’ for you.”
Miguel nodded thoughtfully, dusted soil from his hands, and straightened. “We must hurry the plan, McClain. Ride into town at once. Alert the men. We will need them.”
“And if they won’t listen to me?”
“They will listen. Lathrop is no fool.” Miguel motioned at the grave. “He will blame the town for its trickery. Already he will have threatened vengeance if the people do not produce me.”
“So they’ll turn you over to him!”
“I have taken that possibility into consideration, McClain.”
“An’ you’re still willin’ t’stick your neck out?”
Miguel stared at him, eyes lighting. “My neck ? That is an interesting thought, my friend. I am glad you mentioned it.”
McClain scowled. “I’d feel easier if I knew more about this plan.”
“It is not yet complete.”
“Not complete!? Then how d’you know it’ll work?”
“I do not, but Heaven does. It will show me the way, as always.”
“Just see to it I’m not the bait again.” McClain strode away.
Miguel looked after him with an enigmatic smile. “You will not be, my friend. That I promise,” he murmured.
Chapter Nineteen
In Rileyville, fear trapped the people like a rising flood tide, washing away the veneer of civilization to expose the gritty sands of venom, cowardice, and inhumanity.
Crowded around the steps of the saloon, the inhabitants confronted Mayor Spencer and Councilman Fowler angrily.
“You mean t’say we buried an empty coffin?” demanded a rancher.
“We knew it was a risk, Ben. We thought it was safer if only a few of us knew about it.” Spencer faced the crowd unhappily from the top of the steps.
“That won’t cut any leather with Lathrop,” retorted the rancher.
The townsfolk shouted agreement, and a cowpoke yelled furiously that Rileyville wouldn’t be in danger if Father Miguel had been allowed to die.
“That no-good priest’s not worth this risk,” screamed a woman hysterically. “I got children t’think of! And a ranch!”
The discussion continued with increasing savagery and brutal agreement that Miguel must be found, the town saved from destruction at any cost.
“He’s probably hidin’ out with the Indians. They’ll never let us find him!” called a man. “They’ll bum the town out, an’ we’ve got our mayor t’thank for it!”
There were shouts of agreement, and a husky wrangler shoved Spencer roughly against the saloon wall.
“You got us into this, Spencer. Now get us out. Where’d he be likely t’hide?”
“How do I know? He promised never to come back. That’s the only reason we helped him!” Spencer was white with fear.
“Anybody knows where he is, it’s that whore Annie,” shrieked a middle-aged ranch wife. “They was lovers!”
“That’s a lie!” Annie emerged from behind the saloon’s swinging doors, where she had been listening. Anger lent her courage. “He was my friend. Only one I ever had. That’s why I nursed him, an’ I’m proud of it!”
“She’s lyin’!” screamed the ranch wife. “ She’ll protect him if we all die for it!”
“You’re all cowards an’ hypocrites! I wouldn’t tell you anything if I knew it!” Annie’s voice trembled with emotion.
“Come on! Let’s beat it out of her!” The ranch wife lunged at Annie, slapping her and pulling her hair. Several more women joined the attack. Annie fought back, kicking and biting, but they knocked her to the ground, striking her repeatedly. The men watched, urging the women on, shouting ugly names at Annie.
The tumult of assault drowned the sound of hoofbeats as McClain galloped into view from the end of the street. His horse slid to a halt at the fringe of the gathering.
A mixture of consternation and fury washed across his features as he saw Annie, bloodied and half-naked, on the ground.
“Let her go! ” He jerked out his gun and fired several shots into the air. “Dammit, let her go!”
Startled, the crowd looked toward him, grew silent, the frenzied women releasing Annie. All emotions locked by the gunplay.
“Now get outa my way!”
As the crowd wavered, then separated, McClain dismounted and helped Annie to her feet. She clung to him weakly, tears streaking the blood on her cheeks.
“They want Father Miguel. They tried t’make me tell where he is.”
McClain’s gaze raked the gathering contemptuously. “So your damn town’s worth more than a man’s life. Bunch of boards an’ glass. I don’t know what you are, but you’re sure not human! A coyote’s got more balls than any man here!”
The men stirred shamefacedly, but the ranch wife was unabashed. “Easy talk, mister. It ain’t your town or your life.”
The gunfighter’s contempt increased. “You can stop worryin’ about your precious lives. I’ll take you to the priest.”
He put an arm around Annie and helped her into the saloon as the crowd murmured with relieved astonishment. Inside, he seated her at a table, got a bottle from behind the bar, and poured her a drink. As she gulped it down gratefully, he asked, “You gonna be all right?”
She nodded, eyes searching his face urgently, “You go on. Father’s gonna need you.”
“You get some rest.” McClain started for the door.
Annie’s voice stopped him. “Hope you know what you’re doin’, McClain.”
He turned to look at her reassuringly. “Only partly, but Miguel’s got a plan.”
Their eyes met with a mixture of understanding and apprehension. Then McClain strode outside.
The town men were mounted and waiting.
“Where we headed?” asked one.
The gunfighter gave him a cold look. “Just follow me.”
Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped away. The men followed, choking on his dust.
Chapter Twenty
Crouched atop the mission’s front walls, unmoving and undetectable except to the practiced eye, two of Yomuli’s braves scanned the surrounding desert. Through the silver haze of afternoon sunlight, a group of horsemen became visible, approaching at a high lope.
One sentry turned and gave a soft, chirping signal to the brave standing silently at the chapel doors. The brave answered with a similar signal, then disappeared, wraithlike, into the chapel. The braves on the walls dropped lightly to the mission courtyard and melted to invisibility amidst its brush and debris.
Moments later, the horsemen galloped into the courtyard, McClain leading. The party dismounted, the townsmen looking around at the apparent desertion suspiciously.
“Don’t look like anybody’s here. Where’s the priest?” demanded the rancher named Ben belligerently.
“Just follow me,” snapped McClain. “He’s waitin’ for you.” He mounted the chapel steps.
“Follow, hell! Let’s take him, boys,” shouted the rancher. Rifle in hand, he started for the steps, the others crowding behind him.
McClain whirled, drawing his gun with a swift motion. He faced them, weapon leveled, eyes as cold as its steel barrel. “First man that moves is dead.”
As the townsmen halted, taken aback by the gunfighter’s swift proficiency, the two Indian sentries materialized on opposite sides of the party, their spears leveled.
“Yomuli’s braves!” The consternation in the mayor’s voice echoed that on his companions’ faces. He turned accusingly on McClain. “What is this? I thought you were a stranger to these parts, McClain!”
“I am, Mayor. But since we met, I took a job.”
“Gunslingin’ for who?”
McClain smiled grimly. “Father Miguel.” He enjoyed the men’s stunned alarm for a moment, then ordered, “Now drop your guns.”
“Hold on, fella, we—”
The gunfighter’s flinty gaze cut Ben’s words short. “I said drop your gu
ns.”
The men dropped their guns reluctantly.
“Now follow me. An’ remember . . . you’re goin’ t’church.” McClain led them into the chapel. The Indian sentries followed, their spears ensuring that the group remained intact.
Chapter Twenty-One
Father Miguel, wearing his priest’s robes, stood at the foot of the altar flanked by Yomuli and his braves. The chapel was alight with candles. Their flickering glow etched the statuesque Indians and their priest with gold and cast their images in gigantic shadows on the walls.
Entering behind McClain, the townsmen hesitated, awed by the compelling tableau and the hushed authority which pervaded the long, narrow room.
McClain crossed to the priest, took a place beside him, his manner leaving no doubt as to his allegiance. Cautious and uncomfortable, the townsmen approached to confront Miguel.
“I see that you have come for me, gentlemen. No doubt at Lathrop’s bidding.” The priest spoke with quiet dignity.
The townsmen’s discomfiture increased. For a moment they evaded Miguel’s probing eyes.
Then the mayor replied defensively, “We told you not to come back. You should’ve listened.”
“To listen was to remain a coward, to leave my people in slavery.”
“Nobody can help the Indians, or you either. Not now.”
“Because Lathrop wants me dead?” There was an undercurrent of challenge in Miguel’s tone.
Ben answered with equal challenge. “Right! An’ it’s either you or the town.”
Miguel looked from Ben’s grim eyes to the faces of the others. All held a mixture of fear and determination. Sorrow swept the priest’s features.
“You are as weak as I was, my friends. To ensure your own safety, you have ignored the misfortunes of other human beings. That is my fault. I should not have allowed it to happen. As a priest, it was my duty to act against evil, no matter where it existed. Instead, I waited until it was directed against me.”
The men exchanged shamed looks, tom by his words but still dominated by fear of Lathrop’s outlaws.
Miguel sensed their feelings and spoke with increased urgency. “Evil has dominated you too long. It is time for your people and Yomuli’s to unite against it.”
