“Shaw,” grumbled Porter, resting his chin upon his saddle. “That tenacious polecat. What’s he expect to find following us?”
“Maybe he expects to find bodies,” suggested Quincy.
Porter glared at Quincy with a growl.
Quincy played devil’s advocate a moment. “Well, he ain’t got anything else to go on. Sides, maybe he’d be some help if we catch up to Matamoros soon. Another few guns would be handy.”
“That puke wouldn’t help us in a gunfight against Lucifer himself, which is close enough to what Matamoros is. But better that he doesn’t get any ideas or interrogate Matamoros either. We don’t want him catching that bastard and questioning him before I use him up.”
“Use him up?” asked Roxy.
“Kill,” answered Porter bluntly.
She didn’t respond.
They ran a cold camp, despite knowing full well Shaw knew they were there too.
A couple hours before dawn, Porter had them up and moving on down the trail in the cool semi-dark. It didn’t slow Shaw down much though, by mid-morning they saw him in the distance following along with six or seven members in his posse.
“You think he’ll do anything antagonistic out in this high lonesome?” asked Quincy.
Porter shook his head. “I doubt it, but he wants to ride our tails like ticks on a hound. He wants the answer to that mystery, and he won’t get it by shooting us.”
“What if wants to provoke a gun fight?” asked Roxy.
Porter had to think about that for a second. “Maybe, but he knows as well as anybody my reputation, so I doubt it.” Porter laughed to himself. “Come to think of it, I do believe he has taken some potshots at me in the vain hope of proving my blessing wrong. Course they all missed and he can’t admit to failing.”
“You got a funny way of thinking Port,” said Quincy.
Porter looked at him and shrugged.
“I mean, you laugh at death more than anyone I know. I suppose because you have that blessing. Makes you feel invulnerable, but I jest want to remind you the rest of us aren’t invulnerable, so don’t go getting us in any scrapes we can’t get out of.”
“Have I ever?”
Roxy silenced him. “Don’t even.”
“Fine, I’ll make sure and slow down Shaw before he gets any closer.”
They went on for another half mile until they came upon another deep ravine cut out by spring runoff. This one was too wide for horses except at a particularly narrow and deep bend. Here it had a stable little bridge made from pines out of the nearby mountains, lashed together with thongs of rawhide and a few spikes. It wasn’t the best bridge ever made, but it sure wasn’t the worst Port had ever ridden across.
Once they were all on the other side, Porter began worrying at the ground where the thing was lashed to a juniper stump. When he had all the anchors free, he motioned for the others to help him.
Porter and Quincy did the lion’s share of the work, but the four of them helped heave the whole thing into the ravine. It was slow, tedious work, but gradually the bridge broke off chunks of the side of the ravine as it tumbled over the brink making the divide a few feet wider.
It wasn’t an impossible jump—Porter had done wider over the San Rafael River when Matamoros’s men were on his heels—but nobody here had witnessed that or there would have been bets on Port’s life.
“They might could try and make that jump, but I doubt it,” said Porter, admiring his own handiwork. “Catching up to us ain’t worth a broken neck.”
“Can’t they run east or west and find another spot to cross?”
“Sure, they can, and they will, but it will buy us more time. Let’s get going.”
They were almost over the next rise when they heard Shaw’s curses billowing through the air. Porter looked back and tipped his hat, then crossed over the ridge.
3. Bad Wording
The second day on the trail and they rode into a familiar enough sight. Passing through Green River/Ferry-Town was odd now. More than half the population was gone; dead and buried in a lost canyon Port and the others had sworn never to return to. Luckily, one of those left in town had taken to repairing the ferry from its trouble and the damage Porter had done not more than two-weeks gone by.
They got some dirty looks from the remaining townsfolk and some appreciative ones too, well everyone except Redbone that is. There were too many hard feelings toward the Ute chieftain, but nobody was going to do anything about it either, at least not with Port and the others there. Instead the townsfolk glowered, frowned, and spat but otherwise kept their mouths closed.
Porter paid the toll, and they were soon crossing the roaring, torrential Green River.
“What about when Shaw gets here?” asked Roxy.
Porter shrugged. “I can only do so much. You got an idea?”
“Maybe.” She drew a gold coin from her purse and showed it to the boy running the tug line. “This is for you if you wait on this side until a posse of men come wanting to cross after us. You go ahead and bring them across but you tell them we went south along the river. Got it?”
The boy eagerly nodded pocketing the coin.
They rode on south along the river until they were out of sight of the boy and the ferry, then they crossed a rocky ridge and went on east.
“Think that will fool Shaw? Cuz it won’t,” said Porter.
“Just buying time like you did.”
“Good girl,” said Port with a laugh.
On the other side, up above the river lowlands, a barren wilderness welcomed them like fire welcomes fuel. This would be among the worst of the landscapes they would have to traverse. There were no trees, no shade, and no shelter from the elements for at least twenty miles, just hard packed rolling hillocks with nary a blade of grass growing between the cracks. A more hellish landscape Porter couldn’t imagine, but then he had grown up in New England, moved to Ohio, then Illinois and finally the Utah territories. Quite a difference. Not that he would change any of that, this was home now.
Redbone was sure he could pick up the trail. He said that Matamoros had attacked his village then headed back down toward the Old Spanish Trail. They would come across his trace soon enough.
“I cannot understand how he found our village,” said Redbone, musing along the trail. It was the most he had spoken all day. “We were hidden in a narrow canyon. I cannot help but think we were sold out by someone.”
“Who? Who could know your villages hidden place? Except us?” asked Quincy.
Redbone gave him an accusing scowl.
“Obviously, he came to us for help,” broke in Roxy. “He knows we had nothing to do with it. Right, Redbone?”
Redbone looked her in the eye. “I have no answers, but am greatly troubled.”
Porter said, “Well, since Matamoros survived, he must have wanted to take out some revenge on somebody. I killed a bunch of his men—”
“We all did,” said Quincy.
“Right, but I’m the one who really insulted him and freed his prisoners on the plain. Even some white women. He must have taken that pretty bad as an insult. Hell, and then he lost most anyone he had left back in the canyon, so what else is he gonna do but cut his losses, gain some more prisoners and head on south to lick his wounds and make a little scratch?”
Quincy was indignant. “Don’t refer to people as scratch.”
Porter shrugged and tipped his hat. “No offense was meant.”
“I hear you, but remember they’re people, Yankee.”
Roxy asked, “Do you think he was just rounding up whoever he could then? Or did he have something specific in mind by taking those women and children?”
“Well, women and kids is easier to abduct and keep prisoner than the menfolk. More interested buyers for slaves like them too, I imagine.”
“I imagine,” said Quincy heatedly.
“Damnit, Quint, no offense. I’m just reasoning this out and denying that something took place isn’t gonna help us solve it
.”
“I’m just asking you to remember they are people!”
“Well, hell, of course I haven’t forgotten that! That’s why we’re here!”
“You two need to settle it down,” commanded Roxy.
“I am afraid that I have brought a curse upon my people because the treasure was disturbed,” Redbone wiped away a tear. “I am responsible. That is why they took my daughter. Dark spirits are at work.”
“Redbone,” said Porter, putting a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Trust me, Matamoros is not the tool of the Great Spirit to punish anyone. He is just a bad man, and we’re all caught in the thick of it. Especially you in the here and now, but we’re gonna do everything we can to make it right.”
“I hear the spirits whispering to me that there is bad medicine involved,” answered Redbone.
“Well, sure there is. A good person wouldn’t do what Matamoros does, he’s bound to be surrounded by bad spirits, and we’re trailing him, so we hear their haunting words on the wind.”
“I don’t like thinking about this. Can we not talk about that side of things?” said Roxy, unconsciously drawing her shawl about herself a little tighter.
“I’m just telling it like it is, Little Sister.”
“How about you stop talking and aggravating your friends,” said Quincy.
“Fine,” grumbled Port, throwing his left hand in the air and letting his horse trot a few paces ahead of the others.
***
It was a long, hot ride and they were only too glad to come to a stop that evening in Crescent Junction. There was a small saloon, a few homesteads, and a handful of comforts but no beds. After rubbing down the horses and getting them some much needed water and grain, they prepared their own bedding for the night.
“Beginning to think I’ll never have a good night’s sleep,” said Quincy.
“One fine day,” Porter joked. “When you’ve got your own spread.”
Quincy laughed. “Yeah, and it’s funny because I’ve got enough gold now to buy this dump and then some, but I can’t spend it since we’re right back on the trail.”
“Doing what we do best,” said Porter, sliding his hat down over his eyes.
Roxy poked at the dying coals of their campfire with a long, thin willow branch. “What if we’re too late? What if the trail is too cold? Redbone found us two days after all this happened and its now two days after that. Matamoros could be a week ahead of us since he could have cut right through the Swell, and we’ve gone around it to get to the Trail.” She sighed heavily as if hoping for a response; some kind of comfort that only Port could offer her.
Porter didn’t shift his hat or even move to respond. “You thinking we shouldn’t even bother?”
“No,” she said defensively, throwing her stick into the fire. “Just worried is all. That’s a big head start on us.”
“It is,” Porter agreed. “But we also know which way he’s going. We’ll find the trail sure as shooting. Besides, having those prisoners is going to slow him down, so that’s on our side too.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Don’t call ‘em prisoners,” Quincy interjected. “They are kidnapped victims bound for slavery or worse. Prisoners doesn’t make it sound serious enough for my blood.”
“Fine,” grumbled Porter. “Kidnapped victims. Either way, we are getting them back and Matamoros is gonna pay in blood.”
“I will cut out his heart,” declared Redbone, from the edge of the darkness.
Porter grunted in the affirmative and turned over in his bedding. He was soon snoring.
***
The moon rolled out from behind a mountain of clouds and owls hooted ominously. Somewhere a dog barked and a whore cooed exuberantly from behind the saloon, and Roxy thought it was going to be the longest night of her life. She was anxious to get moving and deal out some justice. Then she realized there was someone even more restless than herself. Redbone remained off in the gloom, staring at the moonlit hills far to the south.
“Redbone. Are you going to be all right?” she asked.
His mask of stone began melting. “I’m afraid,” he said. “Afraid, I’ll never see her again.” He dropped to his knees.
She clutched him to her chest. “We are going to help you. You will see her again. I swear it.”
He composed himself and stood, wiping away a tear. “I am sorry for my weakness.”
“It’s all right,” Roxy said. “We’ve all been there. Lost someone we loved and weren’t sure what would happen. Trust me, we are going to see this through. We will get her back. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”
“I cannot sleep.”
“You need to try. We all need our strength come morning. We have a long way to go, but we’ll do it just the same.”
He nodded, even though it didn’t seem like he believed her.
They walked back to the camp and each lay down upon their bedrolls. Roxy was glad that between the dogs, owls, and whores the last had gone quiet.
Soon enough, she heard the steady rhythmic breathing of Redbone and knew he was asleep. Now if only she could follow her own advice.
4. Blood on the Sand
Morning came, or at least what she thought was morning. Roxy awoke to Porter kicking her toes. “Rise and shine, Little Sister, we gotta get moving. We’re burning daylight.”
It was still dark with just the faintest hint of a light turquoise scraping at the horizon.
“Now?” she asked, tired and comfortable in her bedroll.
“Now,” Porter said. “We gotta cut all the time we can on Matamoros and break that gap.”
“Do we have anything to eat?”
“I got a few vittles warmed up in the pan there, if you hurry. I want to be riding in the next ten minutes.”
She nodded and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Redbone was already awake and Quincy was too, rolling up his bedroll.
“Do we know where they are going?” she asked. “All this barren desert looks much the same to me. What’s even out here?”
“A whole lot of nothing, but yeah I know. He’s on the Old Spanish Trail. He’ll be making his way toward Santa Fe and then on down south to old Mexico.”
“How do you know?”
“This land is pretty inhospitable; the easiest routes have been found by explorers going back centuries. It’s the route he’ll take all right.”
Roxy frowned, she knew all the stories of this ancient land. She didn’t want to think about them anymore, because if she thought too long, she would have to face her past too. Grunting, she packed up, ready to hit the trail.
They moved down the trail like ghosts, silent, with moonlight nipping at their heels. As dawn came, the scenery changed from dull yellow browns, to stark red cliffs on all sides.
Redbone suddenly broke the stillness with a fierce cry. He raised an arm to signal a halt. “They are close, I can feel it.”
“Maybe just over that rise?” asked Porter, as he tipped his hat back and wiped away the beading sweat.
Redbone nodded as he dismounted and crawled on his belly up the top of the next slope to peek over. It was plain that he was still fighting through the pain of his leg wound. He sprawled beside a spiny yucca bush to hide his outline. Then he dashed over the top, disappearing from view.
“That dad blamed fool!” cursed Porter, drawing his guns and spurring his horse. But just as suddenly Redbone appeared at the peak again shouting in glee.
Redbone babbled excitedly in Ute, pointing at the ground.
Porter rubbed at his beard and took a swallow of Valley-Tan. Maybe this trip would be over a whole lot quicker than anyone figured.
“What is it?” asked Roxy.
“He found the trail, he’s sure of it,” answered Porter. “He can tell by the moccasins of the children being drug along. We’re in luck.”
“How?”
“He says these tracks can’t be more than a few hours old. They are going a little slow. We hurry and we
can catch them by noon!”
They cantered their horses, picking up the pace while still not running their mounts ragged. The red, rocky ground was treacherous enough without that worry.
In less than a mile, Porter thought he heard a child’s terrible wail in the distance. It was beyond pain and fear, it was sheer tormented terror, and it tugged at his heart strings as strong as anything he had ever felt. There was evil over that rise and a child was enduring something no one should ever have to.
“Is that a child?” asked Roxy.
“Sure, sounds like it,” said Quincy.
Redbone was almost uncontrollable and raced ahead.
“Hold on!” cried Porter. “We don’t want to ride face first into any traps. Let’s take it easy, for all our sakes.”
Redbone wheeled his horse around, glaring. “It is my daughter!”
“I know, but it won’t do anyone any good to ride into a trap. Matamoros is deadlier than a rattler, we’ve got to be careful. Everyone, have your guns loaded and loose. We might start throwing lead in a hurry.”
They edged closer, ever wary of any hiding spots a gun barrel might be pointing from toward them.
A few hundred yards away, they all heard the young girl’s terrible cries. She was whimpering now, as if the fight for life had left her. She was dying, and Porter knew it before he even saw her.
Alone in the world, the wounded child cried out pitifully when she heard their approach. One last call for help. One last call for relief.
Redbone leapt from his horse and hit his knees at the ground beside her.
Roxy gasped and looked away. Quincy took off his hat.
What they saw was shocking. A young girl, maybe eight years old, was lying in a pool of her own blood. She had been horribly maimed by the wretched slavers. Her limbs were completely severed at the elbows and knees and her eyes gouged out.
Redbone was beside himself, tearing at the red sands in agony.
The girl went silent.
Redbone screamed aloud, casting sand over himself while howling.
CRAZY HORSES: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 2) Page 2
