Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  Back inside Iverson said she thought the feeling was coming back. “God it really hurts. Now what?”

  “Can you ride a horse?”

  “You're kidding.”

  “Not at all. It's the only way out of here other than walking. You wait here. When you can get around roll up some blankets and see if you can find two jackets. We may be out overnight.”

  “Oh God,” Iverson moaned.

  Goodnight picked the soundest looking horse, a broad-chested mare, for himself and a gentle gelding for Iverson. He saddled the pair then hitched them in front of the cabin.

  “What have you got?” he asked as he entered the room.

  “These blankets, but no jackets or any clothes.”

  “All right. Lay two blankets on top of each other, fold them in half then roll them up. Do the same for two others. We'll tie them to the saddles.” He walked outside and listened. Nothing. A gentle wind touched his face from the river. It was going to be cold tonight.

  He went to the kitchen and located a butcher knife which he slipped into his belt. He told Iverson to take the blankets outside as soon as she finished then he scanned the room one last time. The flintlock was no good since it had no flint. The Civil War rifle's hammer was broken but the Navy Colt seemed fine. He hefted it in his hand, pulled back the hammer of the single action weapon and pulled the trigger, careful though not to drop the hammer on the empty chamber. It was dry as a bone and could use oiling but was otherwise in working condition. Iverson said Westby shot antique weapons like this one so that meant there was some chance of finding gun powder.

  He scanned the room and spotted a low lying cabinet. Locked of course. With the butt of the revolver he smashed it open. Papers. He tried one of the bedrooms, ripping drawers out of dressers, checking the top of the closet. Nothing. In the second bedroom was another locked cabinet. Inside was a canister of black powder, a jar of lead bullets, wadding and a box of percussion caps. The weapon predated cartridges so each chamber had to be meticulously loaded first with powder then with a lead slug wrapped in cloth. There was a lever built into the gun to press it all together. Then on the back of the cylinder he slipped a percussion cap to each chamber. It was ready. As he was considering how to carry more powder, bullets and caps Iverson shouted, “They're coming!”

  Goodnight slid the gun into his belt, moving the knife to the other side. Outside he quickly tied the blankets to the horses then helped Iverson up. “I don't think I can do this.”

  “You'll do fine. Just stay with me and hang onto the horn. Consider the alternative.”

  He turned the head of his horse to the north, generally in the direction of the river and along a path he had spotted earlier, one the Jeep could not possibly use. Iverson had no idea what to do so Goodnight took her reins and led the horse behind him as if she were his daughter on her first horse ride. “Hurry! They're here!!” she screamed.

  Goodnight didn't look back. He moved the unfamiliar horses as fast as he could towards a boulder beside the trail because it would take them out of sight. He heard shouts then three gun shots behind them.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The bullets ricocheted off stone and flew away with a loud zing. Goodnight had the horses moving at a fast trot and risked a look back to see Iverson hanging on to the horn with both hands, bouncing up and down like a ping pong ball. It was possible that the Mexican and Westby would run after them so at the first wide spot in the trail he nosed his horse back the way he came and told Iverson to say nothing. After only a moment Juan came sprinting around a corner, his pistol clutched in his hand, his face strained in effort. Goodnight had the heavy revolver out of his belt, cocked it then fired in a single motion.

  Perhaps at 15 feet, standing perfectly still, aiming at a man-size target it was possible to hit something with those fixed iron sights. From horseback, 50 feet away, Goodnight didn't delude himself. Even if he could site the weapon properly he had no way of knowing how it pulled. So he trusted to instinct and surprise.

  He had just an instant to see the Mexican's reaction before his horse bolted. Only in the movies will a carefully trained horse not react when a gun is fired near it. The gun seemed to explode in his hand and there was more smoke and flame then he had ever seen before in any gun. The bullet, he saw, had gone to the Mexican's left and a bit high. Not bad. But it was the noise that did it. Juan was on his belly then rolling military style off the trail the last Goodnight saw of him.

  The trail was wide enough to let the horse have its head and Goodnight would feel better with more distance between them and the Mexican. He dare not look back and just hoped that Iverson was managing. A horse at a run is easier to stay aboard for a novice than one at a trot. His was sure footed and seemed to know the way. Finally, Goodnight pulled the reins and brought them to a halt.

  “How are you, ma'am?”

  Iverson's hair was scattered as if she had been in a high wind. She had bit her lip which was quickly swelling and blood was running down her chin. The wound to her head had reopened and was bleeding. Her clothes were askew and she was pressing a breast back into a bra as she said, “Enough of this 'ma'am' shit, all right? Call me Jodi. Shit, you can call me anything you want except 'ma'am'. My God, people actually ride these things willingly?”

  “You aren't experiencing it at its best. We better keep moving. This trail is heading towards the river.”

  “That's good?”

  “When we reach the river we'll swim across then find a ranch house with a telephone or cut a road and stop help.”

  “Swim? It'll be dark by the time we get to any river.”

  “Actually the horse is going to do the swimming. You just have to hang on. We better move out.”

  “Did you hit anyone back there?”

  “No. But I sure got one hell of a reaction. No more talk now.”

  The going was slower than Goodnight wanted because he chose to move cautiously. This was Westby's ranch and this was a well-traveled trail he was following. It looked to him that Westby rode horseback from the ranch house to the line shack pretty regularly. On weekends he would have been over all these trails. That meant he knew where Goodnight was headed and if there was a way to get there first by Jeep he'd do it. For now Goodnight had no choice but to stay on the trail. It was taking them along the face of the hills, not seeming to drop any but the rise and fall on either side of the trail was too steep for the horses. It was perfect ambush country.

  In half an hour he spotted them in the distance and pulled to a halt. “Let's dismount and give the horses a break while I do some figuring,” he said easing from the saddle. He reached up and lifted Iverson to the ground then loosened the cinches on both horses. He squatted and said, “There they are.”

  Iverson looked. “Where?”

  “About three miles out, in the flat between us and the river. Maybe with your younger eyes you can make out more.”

  Iverson squinted. “These goddamn contacts! One fell out, the other's full of sand. I can't see a goddamn thing!” She sat on a rock. “I'm getting cold. And I'm thirsty.”

  “Don't think about water. It only makes it worse. I'm pretty sure that's this trail down over there.”

  “I can't see a fucking thing! God I hate it out of the city. They should asphalt this whole country. Are there snakes?”

  The trail they were following dropped off the face of the hills about a mile to their left from what Goodnight could see. Then it meandered to the river which he guessed followed it back towards the ranch house. Westby's red Jeep was down there now, moving cross country at slow speed, followed by a pickup truck with lots of chrome. They stopped and two men stood pointing up at him, talking for several minutes. Goodnight caught the glint of the dying sun off binoculars. Then the pickup was in motion passing the sitting Jeep and moved to cut the trail further out. The two men now had the flats from here to the river covered. The only way he and Iverson were getting through was to sneak in the dark and Westby would already have thought of t
hat.

  “I'm sore,” Iverson complained.

  “You'll get a lot sorer before this is over. Let's mount up.”

  Goodnight continued the way they were moving since the hills were getting lower all the time and it was growing darker with each minute. In an hour it was completely dark and the trail began to dip precipitously. He reined up his horse, dismounted, then eased Iverson off her saddle. “God, I...”

  “Shhh...” he hissed into her ear.

  He loosened the cinches on the horses again and tied them both securely to a mesquite tree then joined Iverson who was sitting on a rock. He placed his lips against her ear. “We mustn't make any unnecessary noise. The sound carries far in the desert and there is almost no wind. We are going to climb through the rocks leading the horses to reach the other side of the hills and get around them. Then we'll strike for the river.”

  “In the dark?”

  “If we wait for morning they'll find us with little trouble.”

  Iverson considered that before asking, “How far?”

  “I'm not certain how far we have to go in the hills, but once we are through them it's about three miles to the river.” Iverson shivered. “I know you're cold but you'll soon work up a sweat. If you stay cold I'll cut you a pancho. Now follow me leading your horse by the reins. I'll be moving slowly. Hold the tail of my horse. If we get separated don't call out for me and don't look for me. Just stop and stand in the open where you are. I'll find you. Be patient.”

  Had either of them been in hiking condition and had it been daylight Goodnight believed this would not have been that difficult. But as they were and in the dark with no real idea where they were headed the going was rough, especially leading the two horses. Several times Goodnight thought he had found a trail but each time it petered out and they were forced to scramble between rocks. Occasionally there were abrupt crevices that loomed out of nowhere and the going was made more difficult leading the horses. He considered abandoning them, but he knew they might have to make a break for the river and better to do it on horseback than on foot.

  Iverson proved tougher than she looked and took the abuse without complaint. Goodnight checked his watch and every hour called a five minute halt. Too many cigars, he thought, as he sucked for air. At two in the morning he cut slits in one of the blankets and made a pancho for each of them. Iverson was exhausted by then, cut in a dozen places, but didn't ask that they stop.

  At four Goodnight called a halt, tying the horses. Iverson collapsed where she stood. He massaged his left leg which had been acting up. They had been working their way down hill for two hours and he was considering if it was time to turn to their right and head for the river. Distances on foot, especially in rough going, always seemed greater than they were. Juan or Westby in their vehicles on the flats could cut them off in ten minutes if they were spotted.

  Goodnight was concerned about the lack of water. Neither of them had had anything to drink since the previous afternoon and he doubted there was any water from here to the river. If they didn't make it under cover of darkness then that meant a long dry day holed up in hiding, running the risk every minute of discovery. It was not summer but even the cool desert is waterless and the sun would be relentless. They wouldn't die without water, but they were sure going to feel like it if they made it through the day. Better to make the river tonight, especially since there was no moon.

  “How are you doing?” he asked Iverson his dry lips to her ear.

  “Thirsty. Exhausted. Wish I had a goddamn cigarette. Can't we just stay here?”

  “No. They'll kill us if we do. Come on.”

  Goodnight headed down for another ten minutes then realized they were coming into the flats. He dismounted, secured the horses and as he turned to his right the shot rang out. Goodnight was down and to his right without thinking and shouted at Iverson to do the same. Three more shots were fired, two of them striking quite close.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Oh God, get us out of here!”

  Goodnight crawled thirty feet away, followed by Iverson. “We have to move back into the large boulders for protection. I think they've got a night scope or night binoculars. Otherwise I don't think they could have seen us. Do as I do.”

  He crawled in his best military style along the ground until he was into a cluster of boulders. Finally he risked sitting up. Iverson joined him and he placed his hand across her mouth.

  Not far away he heard steps, the snap of dry twig, then the crackle of a radio followed by whispering. Iverson began to tremble against him and Goodnight eased the heavy revolver from his belt.

  The steps moved away slowly and he relaxed. An eternity later he heard a snap immediately to his left, not five feet away. The radio crackled again. This time he could hear Juan. “Nothing here. I think they are farther up in the boulders. O.K., but don't forget he has a gun. I'm moving down to wait.”

  Steps, the snap of another twig. Iverson's teeth were chattering. Half an hour later Goodnight whispered into her ear. “We have to move farther into the hills. You understand?”

  She nodded. “What about the horses?”

  “They'll keep.” A tough lady, he thought as he rose crouching and moved cautiously back the way they had come. It was, he knew, demoralizing to retrace your steps but they had no choice. The river was out of the question. The men were going to be hunting them come daylight and Goodnight gave them very poor odds of surviving to the next night. A dim purple light was growing in the distance as he called a halt. “Sleep if you can,” he told Iverson. “You'll need it.”

  Iverson clung to him as he wrapped his pancho about her bare legs. She didn't say anything for a long time then, “Are we going to die?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Goodnight watched the dawn grow and wondered what Conchita was doing about now. Sleeping. He found the thought comforting. He had had no sleep to speak off the previous night crossing the Atlantic and, except for one hour, none since then.

  He was exhausted. There were times he could fool himself, he occasionally thought, but tonight had not been one of them. He was 67 years old and at this moment he felt every day of his age.

  “Sometimes I think I'm not much of a person,” Iverson said. “I know I'm not very honest, but I've never killed anyone. You know what really makes me mad? The very idea that Westby might just get away with this. That pisses me off more than the thought of getting killed.”

  “Sleep. There's going to be plenty of time for anger.”

  ~

  He must have dozed off because when Goodnight opened his eyes the night was nearly day. He listened and heard the footsteps that had awakened him in the first place. He placed his hand across Iverson's mouth until she was awake then put his finger to his lips and eased the revolver from his belt. He slipped the butcher knife into her hands, not daring to risk a word.

  Juan was moving more cautiously now. His steps could not always be heard and he rarely stepped on a twig. Still, he was not a tracker and moved more like a man used to the city. He slipped on lose ground and cursed in Spanish. Goodnight could place him now and moved around the large boulder where they lay. He cocked the awkward gun then slid along the rock bringing more area cautiously into view with each step.

  Juan was waiting for him and Goodnight felt the sting of the splinters in his face from the boulder before he heard the report of the rifle. He threw himself down, careful to keep the revolver away from him. More than one gunfighter, he had heard, had managed to shoot himself in the midst of a fight with weapons like this one.

  Juan fired again, then a third time. The last bullet not coming close at all. The radio crackled. “Did you get them?” a tinny voice asked. Goodnight knew where Juan was now and rose to his feet, the gun extended, ready to fire. Juan was twenty feet away, half concealed by brush. Goodnight's sudden appearance startled him. That happened with men accustomed to hunting animals that only tried to run away. He swung the scoped rifle towards
Goodnight and fired from the hip, the bullet flying wild.

  The Navy Colt fired with its blast of smoke and flame. Juan screamed and dropped the rifle. He clutched his right thigh and screamed again. Goodnight took careful aim and fired, striking Juan in the gut, lower than he wanted. The slug straightened him up a bit. He teetered, his arms flaying like a windmill then he dropped from sight, his screams suddenly stopped short.

  Goodnight moved around the brush and eased himself to where Juan had stood. He spotted him lying on rock 40 feet down the ledge he had been working along. His rifle was there as well, and expensive red lensed night binoculars. Crackle. “Juan? Juan? Did you get him? Answer me! Did you get him? Juan! Juan!!” Goodnight picked up the radio, listened a moment longer, then thumbed it off.

  Iverson was hunkered down, the knife held in both hands, ready to slice anyone who got close. “Easy,” Goodnight said softly coming around the boulder. “Juan's dead.”

  “Thank God,” she said and slid on the ground to sit.

  Goodnight considered if he should risk getting Juan's rifle. He had two shots left and had more respect than before for his Navy Colt, but two shots weren't going to be enough.

  “Now what?” Iverson asked.

  “I'm not sure. If Westby's smart he'll keep his distance and spend the day trying to pick us off with his rifle. He might come looking for Juan but he knows I've got the revolver and may have Juan's rifle by now. He's in a fix.” He squinted towards the river. “But I think I need to make a break for it. It's no good just waiting here.”

  “What do you mean?” Iverson sounded frightened.

  “I'll make my way down to the horses then run for the river. He'll have to follow me. You just hunker down here until you see him go after me in his Jeep. When he does, move up into the hills and find cover. I'll be hell to hit on horseback at the range I'll be. If I make it my guess is he'll take off. If I don't you'll be in cover until nightfall and your chances of making the river on your own will be good.”