by Mark Henry
He gave her bare thigh a swat. “I don’t want to mess you up, little girl. But I’m a businessman first and foremost. If you do anything bad for business, well, that would be an awful shame.” Convinced he’d made his point, the man walked out of the cave into the darkness.
Her head drooped in despair.
A huge black fly, sticky from the rancid antelope haunch, buzzed up to investigate the crusted blood on her swollen lip. Four days ago such a thing would have sent her into a spitting frenzy to scrub her mouth with soap. Now, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
* * *
Payton Brandywine hunkered against a lumpy boulder at the edge of the cave and watched his plan come unraveled right before his very eyes like a poor pack-knot. The rock dug into his back, but he pressed against it all the harder, letting the pain in his flesh keep him in the grim reality of his circumstances.
Since that idiot Straw had become too familiar with the merchandise and gotten himself killed, the group had begun to polarize. The Papago was still with him, not so much for the money as for revenge against the greaser girl’s daddy. The sullen Indian didn’t have much love for Mexicans in general, but he hated Colonel de la Cruz about as much as he hated Apaches—which was more than considerable.
Other than the Indian, he wasn’t sure who was on his side. No one had killed him in his sleep yet. That was a mercy anyhow. He was pretty sure the one they called Bent Jim was with him, if only for his share of the ransom money. Bent Jim’s partner was a quiet man everyone called Grunt, because that seemed to be the only way he knew how to communicate. Brandywine figured Grunt would throw in with Bent Jim, whichever way he went. That’s what partners did. And out here everyone had a partner. A body had to have one to survive.
The Indian agent calculated his odds. The Papago was scorpion-quick, with the dead cruel eyes of a rattlesnake. Grunt looked to be worth any two of the others in a fight, but a bullet would kill him as quick as it would any man. Bent Jim was no slouch, but he was among the smallest of the group. Well into his fifties, he was definitely the oldest.
The two Mexicans were too mortified of Papago to go against him. Every time he stood, the two idiots nearly pissed their pants. Still, they could shoot, and he needed shooters. Hell, even he was scared of the Papago.
Haywood and Babcock, brooding whiskey peddlers Payton had known off and on for over five years, had been friends of Straw. They were none too happy to see their partner stabbed by an Indian over a Mexican girl. None of them had challenged him directly, but Brandywine knew the look when he saw it. A dispute was coming. It was just a matter of time.
A wild-eyed lion hunter named Tug leered at the girl like she was the ultimate prize instead of the money. He would choose whichever side would ultimately give him a go with her, Payton was sure of that. Tug was happy with nothing but a pile of skins to sleep on and flea-bitten hides for clothing, and the ransom meant little to him.
Tug’s partner, Joe Simmons, was a filthy creature almost as old as Bent Jim. His skin and clothing were so equally stained with sweat and grime, it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. He would side with Tug.
A pair of cackling, towheaded twins not yet out of their teens were the wild cards. They dreamt of the money, but the thought of a few minutes with the señorita made them giggle maniacally and punch each other in the arms in turn. They were young and untested, but both were handy with their guns. Hiram, the crazier of the two, looked up to Tug the lion hunter and was apt to follow him as far as he went in any direction. Hiram’s brother, Lars, would certainly go the same way, so there was a chance that whole group would band together if it came to a mutiny.
Brandywine sucked air in slowly between his teeth while he thought. “You sure got yourself a handful this time, Payton,” he whispered under his breath.
If only that son of a bitch Evans would get back. He and his kid brother were supposed to deliver the ransom note two days ago and come back with supplies. The fact that they hadn’t returned had tensions rubbed raw in the little group. The plan had been working perfectly until now.
If Brandywine ever had a partner it was Ponce Evans. The Army sergeant knew his way around the military. He was the one who’d heard the Mexican colonel’s daughter was on her way to Phoenix under U.S. escort, the one who’d suggested how much money both governments might pay to get such a girl back. At first, the two men had thought to attempt the kidnapping with only Papago to help them, but when Evans found out the escort would consist of eight troopers, not including the coach driver, they decided to recruit more men.
To easily overpower an army, they had needed an army, so they were forced to cobble together this group of killers and misfits. If he’d known how young and inexperienced the escort was, Brandywine wouldn’t have hired half the men he did. Now, they all wanted their share of the money, even if all they did was sit around and play dice and scratch themselves.
Brandywine was not a big man. For some reason, his hair had decided to thin everywhere except the cowlick at his crown. His cookie-duster mustache made him look more like a schoolteacher than a kidnapper. What he lacked in size he made up for in greed and ruthlessness. He felt confident he could hold the conspiracy together for a little while longer with the promise of money. Either the girl’s father or the U.S. Army would pay. He was positive. Evans had assured him the Army considered the girl precious cargo. He’d heard enough talk from the officers about how strained relations were between the two countries. The Mexican colonel would want his precious daughter back, and the United States would pay nearly any price to avert sinking further into a squabble with their neighbor to the south.
Brandywine pushed himself to his feet. He couldn’t very well stand by and watch all his planning and hard work crumble down around his shoulders. He had to do something. He needed to send out more ransom instructions before the pitiful girl died of fright or one of the men got to her in the night and killed her for the fun of it.
He didn’t want to send anyone that would be on his side in a fight. In the end he decided on the Mexicans. They were too scared of Papago to go against him, and too greedy not to come back.
“Ruiz! Cardenas!” Brandywine clapped his hands together. “Venga aqui.”
The Mexicans stood and staggered over to Brandywine. Neither was very tall, but both were strong men, with big hands and small hearts.
The remainder of the group peered up from their gambling to see what was going on. Everyone expected that the others might cheat or kill them at any moment—and in most respects, that was likely to be the gospel truth.
“We need supplies,” Brandywine said, nodding his head. “I want you two to ride into Agua Caliente and see what you hear about Ponce and Sammy. I’m afraid they didn’t get through. Take another letter with you and deliver it so we can get our money. If you can find that giant friend of yours, bring him back with you in case we need reinforcements.” He studied the sodden, bloodshot faces of Cardenas and Ruiz.
“Comprende?” he said.
The men gave grunting mumbles of agreement. They brightened at the thought of a little escape from the tension of the cave.
“Very well,” the Indian agent said. He turned his attention to the rest of the men. “This will all work out, boys, I assure you. In a week’s time we’ll all be rich.”
It was Tug who proved he was the one to watch. Brandywine had been right.
The lion hunter spit a greasy brown slurry of tobacco into the sand. “You ain’t got a week. If we don’t see some cash inside of two days, I reckon some of us are gonna divide up our share of the spoils as best we know how.” A cruel grin etched his greasy face and his hungry gaze fell on the cowering girl. He spit again. “Comprende, Boss Man?”
CHAPTER 38
A blind man could have followed the wide swath Lyons’s troop had cut through the rough desert country. Trap kept a sharp eye out for any intersecting trails that might have been made by the dead outlaws.
His thoughts constantly wande
red back to Maggie. Madsen was right about one thing. Life had a funny way of turning out a heck of a lot different than a person planned. Less than six months ago, he’d been a contented student at his father’s school for Indian children. Now, he found himself married and part of a secret military unit.
As was his custom when the trail was apparent, Captain Roman ranged ahead about a hundred yards. Clay and Johannes hung back with Trap, riding on either side of him helping him try and cut sign.
“You ever think about getting older?” The words escaped Trap’s mouth before he had a chance to consider the ramifications of such a question.
Clay shot a grin and a wink at Webber. “Told you he was ponderin’ on the missus.”
“By getting older,” Johannes mused, “do you mean maturing or just getting on in years? I only ask because I don’t think Madsen will ever do anything but age.”
“Hell,” Clay scoffed. “I’m old enough, I reckon. I expect I’ll get creaky and stiff when the time comes.”
Trap shrugged, sorry he’d brought it up. “I guess I meant settlin’ down. You know, building a little house somewhere, raisin’ some kids . . .”
Clay lifted his reins and the big roan stopped in his tracks. The other boys pulled up alongside him. “A body’s got to have a roof over his head, especially if he wants to have a wife that’ll stick around—and I reckon young’uns are a natural consequence of having a wife that sticks around—but I will tell you this, partner: I may be young yet, but hangin’ around my papa’s whores taught me a good bit about this old world. I’ve seen you in the scrap. You got a gift when it comes to settlin’ the score—you’re a damned dangerous man, Trap O’Shannon, and I can’t see no dangerous man settling down too awful early in his life. Just because you up and got yourself married don’t mean you have to stop fightin’.”
Madsen clucked to his horse and they all three began to move again.
“Look at the captain,” Webber said. “He’s as married as I ever seen, and he’s apt to keep doing this for as long as he lives. You’ve heard him. He thinks he’s an instrument in God’s own hands.” Johannes put on a stern face and squinted into the sun as he tried his best Hezekiah Roman impression. “ ‘When the right path is before you, gentlemen—never pause, proceed. ’” Webber laughed and shook his head. “I wish I had his kind of ambition.”
“Drive be damned,” Clay said. “Anything else sounds plumb dull after all this.” He looked across at Trap, who’d skirted a tall saguaro cactus that stood lonesome in the rocky soil. “Hell, partner, I don’t see why you’d want to grow up now. We’re just gettin’ started with the good stuff.”
Roman trotted back toward them about the time a sudden shift in the wind brought the new smell to Trap’s nose: the sour scent of manure, sweat, and mescal—a town.
“Agua Caliente,” Webber said, pointing ahead of them with the tail of his reins. “Been through here once on a patrol. Not much to it except for a little cantina, some goat herds, and a couple of portly women.”
Clay threw his hat back and grinned. “Heavy don’t necessarily mean homely. I prefer my gals to have a little hip on ’em if I have the choice.”
“Well, Madsen,” Webber mused. “You should be able to have your preference on this occasion. Because more-than-adequate hips are something with which every tortilla-eating beauty in this little burg are well endowed.”
Madsen ran his hand through his thick head of dark hair. “I’m hoping what you just said means the girls here have nice rear ends.”
The captain slowed his horse and let the others come up beside him. “If you men are finished, we’ll ride in and nose around in the cantina.” Roman squirmed at any talk of loose women and though he didn’t come right out and stop it, he didn’t encourage it either. That suited Trap just fine.
“I’d like to get a decent meal if they offer such a thing,” the captain continued. “Webber, you listen to the chatter and see what you can pick up. Maybe we can get a little light shed on those roasted men back there.”
* * *
The pink adobe cantina occupied the position most towns would have reserved for the courthouse. It was a long, slumping affair with exposed cedar beams, bark peeling in long feathery strips, acting as reinforcements against the periodic fall rains. A handful of rustic houses of the same material, each a sad little replica of the tavern, slouched in a loose circle around the larger establishment.
Three molting chickens, skin as pink as the sunlit adobe, pecked and scratched in the street. A black and white dog flopped in the shade with just enough energy to look hungrily at the birds and give a wide-mouth yawn.
A flimsy wooden door leaned halfheartedly across the opening to the cantina waiting for a good breeze to knock it down. Madsen and Webber wasted no time in shoving the door aside, and shouldered their way in like they owned the place.
Roman tied his horse to a split-cedar rail and stuffed his gloves in a saddlebag. Trap reined up beside him and slid to the ground. He loosened Skunk’s girth a notch—not too much in case they had to leave in a rush. He wasn’t in too big a hurry to go into a saloon. Growing up under the strong religious influence of his father gave him a healthy dislike for that particular kind of enterprise. He watched as Captain Roman seemed to hitch up his will to make the trip in himself.
“My poor Irene would cry her eyes out if she saw me in a place like this,” Roman said under his breath.
“Beg pardon, sir.” Trap wasn’t certain the words were meant for him, but it didn’t feel right to ignore them either.
Roman blushed a little—hardly noticeable on his already sun-pinked skin. He took on a familiar tone O’Shannon hadn’t heard before—as if they were friends instead of officer and subordinate. “Nothing, Trap. I was just thinking how my dear, innocent bride would feel about me going into such a place. I think she’d like to believe we camp in the hills and fight the good fight every day we’re away.”
“I reckon a fight gets a little ugly sometimes,” Trap said. He stepped up to the door. “Maybe we can get something to eat while we’re here, sir.”
It took a while for Trap’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior. What little light there was filtered through the broken front door and tiny slit windows built to use as gun ports when the cantina came under attack from bandits or marauding Apaches. Two rows of upright cedar posts ran down the center of the wide building, supporting the flat adobe roof. Rough-hewn wooden tables zigzagged around the posts. Four of them had active card games and hushed conversations going. At two others, loners did their conversing with bottles of cheap mescal. All told, Trap counted fourteen men. He wondered how many were left to tend to business around the little town.
The bar was at located at the back, between two peeling cedar posts. A coal-oil lamp, its globe blackened by soot and dust, cast a flickering shadow across two Mexican prostitutes sitting on tall stools and leaning on the rail. Clay and Johannes went straight for the bar. Each ordered a beer and sidled up next to the girls. True to Clay’s recent description of his preferences, he struck up a conversation with the chubbier of the two.
Trap and the captain took a table a few feet away so they could observe without being too obtrusive. It didn’t really matter; they were the only white people in the place, so there was no doubt they were all together.
To be as young as he was, Clay moved easily around the women. Neither of them appeared to speak English, but the language barrier didn’t slow Clay down at all. With a mixture of sign language and facial expressions, he managed to get the heavy girl giggling and flirting back in a matter of moments.
Johannes was more circumspect. He sipped his beer and chatted quietly with the skinny girl. She had a bit of an overbite and a sour look that turned Trap’s stomach if he looked at her too long.
Roman cleared his throat and motioned the two men over after a few minutes.
“That’s two beers,” he said. “Make sure and keep your wits about you.”
Webber chuckled and shot
a glance at Clay. “I wouldn’t worry about us getting drunk,” he said. “The stuff they serve here is more water than anything else.”
Madsen nodded. He threw a flirting gaze at the chubby prostitute to keep her on the line while he was away.
“Are you finding anything out?” Roman looked down his nose at the two like they were mischievous schoolboys.
Johannes shrugged. “It’s all just flirtation and coarse stories so far.”
Madsen let out an exasperated sigh. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but do you mind if I ask you what thing in this world you consider yourself the best at?”
“Well,” Roman blustered, taken aback. “I suppose I’d have to give that some thought.”
“Well, I don’t, sir,” Clay said. “If I’m good at anything it’s talkin’ to women in general, whores in particular. These sorts of things are touchy. They take a little time, but if anybody in this town knows anything it’s these girls. They’re the only two sports around for miles. They hear it all, I guarantee it.”
“Go on back and talk to them then,” Roman said. “But remember, you’re working.”
Clay grinned and gave Trap a wink. “So are they.”
Madsen continued to work his magic on the girls while the bartender brought two hunks of barbecued goat out to Trap and the captain. There were mashed beans on the side and red peppers. It was surprisingly good, and both men dug into the meal with gusto.
“I’m surprised you don’t drink,” Roman said across his fork. “Is it because your father is a minister?” He’d kept up the familiar tone, and Trap found him an easy man to talk to. In some ways he was like Maggie. There was nothing false about him. His life and his personality were out in the open for everyone to see.
Trap swallowed a mouthful of the tender meat and washed it down with a glass of water. “No, not really,” he said. “He takes a drink now and then at the suttler’s store. No, I promised my mother when I was still a small boy that I would never touch alcohol. Have you ever met my mother?”
