Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  She rose and took his arm. “Don't go. I don't want to be alone. I... I don't want anything to happen to you.”

  Goodnight smiled easily. “I'll be fine. He's a play cowboy. I know the type. That horse will go places his Jeep can't even try. It's hilly ground. Alone now, he'll have the devil to pay stopping me.”

  He touched her hand. “I don't think he'll come for you, but if he does don't hesitate in using the knife. Don't even think about it. If he's close enough, stab him. You have to move instantaneously. He isn't used to being attacked and at the least you will startle him. Up close his rifle isn't nearly as effective.” He slipped the radio into her hand. “I think you'll do fine. Careful not to let him hear it, but if worse comes to worse maybe you can talk him out of chasing you, Jodi.”

  Iverson grinned at the use of her name. Her hair was a mess, her face was scratched repeatedly, there was dried blood running down her neck and on her chin, and she had scuffed both knees badly. “Call me Mickey. I think Jodi's had it.”

  “All right then. You know what to do. Good luck.”

  “John?” she said, then leaned forward and kissed him, their parched lips touching like two pieces of sandpaper. “Be careful.”

  It was farther to the horses then Goodnight recalled. He hesitated by the ledge but reasoned it was going to take too long to make his way to Juan's rifle. Even with it he and Westby would be stalking each other and Goodnight didn't like the odds of that, not when Westby had water and the Jeep. Every step of the distance to the horses he expected to feel the impact of a high velocity bullet. When he reached them he found that his mare was spooked from all the shooting and he took a moment to calm her, before cinching the saddle. He mounted, adjusted the revolver, and kicked the horse clear of the boulders and into a gallop.

  She had a good head for the terrain, making the moves around obstacles even before Goodnight could give her the rein. He was down from the partial cover of the boulders in the hills and on to the rolling land that he must cross from here to the river when he heard the first distant crack sounding like a loud thwap. A bullet travels faster than the sound of its discharge so he knew he didn't have to worry about that one. Above the breathing of the horse, the sounds of her hoofs on the ground, he still heard five more reports of a rifle but not once a bullet though he reasoned they were striking reasonably close to him.

  He rode in an all-out gallop that in usual times he would consider much too risky for the ground. He weaved the horse left, then right, then left, then left again, breaking the pattern, his head down low along the neck of the horse, talking to her. “That's it girl. Steady here. Good. Good. Get up! Now! Get up!”

  She was a fine horse, in the peak of her life and could have carried him, hungry as she was, thirsty, 10 miles like this before dropping from exhaustion. Even then she'd try to get up to carry him farther. He'd seen horses like this before, horses that nearly always possessed better character than the men who rode them.

  To his right he saw the red Jeep, bouncing wildly over the ground. It turned its hood towards him and was making remarkably good ground. Westby couldn't shoot and drive so Goodnight pulled the horse up to give her a blow and scanned the ground ahead. He needed to disappear if he could. He kicked the horse back into a gallop and made for a dry arroyo.

  He could not recall the last time he had ridden a horse so recklessly. He and his brother, Luke, had done it a few times on the ranch when they thought their father wouldn't know. It had certainly been at least 25 years since his last ride anything like this and even then not for the distance he was attempting to cover or over such terrain. It was exhilarating.

  He pulled the horse up at the edge of the arroyo then nosed her down. A gallop was out of the question in the sandy bottom but he pushed the mare along as fast as she could move. The closer the arroyo got to the river the steeper were both sides and Goodnight feared he had come into a trap. From either ridge Westby would have no trouble at all picking him off once he figured out where he was. There should be places where the loose sandy sides had collapsed as they often did and there he could lead the horse out but so far he had seen none.

  The arroyo opened into a broader expanse and the horse moved instinctively into a lope. Goodnight heard the crack of the rifle and looked over his right shoulder. There was the Jeep, partially concealed by the wall of the arroyo and Westby standing beside it, tall and erect, sighting the rifle at him from under his black hat. There was a turn in the arroyo just ahead and he urged the mare into a gallop. She was breathing heavily now, wheezing, but she was still willing and lowered her head like a derby winner.

  “Yeah!! Yeah!!” he shouted into her ear.

  She lowered her head and stretched her gallop even more, but Goodnight suddenly felt the horse give from under him then the crack of the rifle. She was going over head first. He instinctively kicked his feet clear of the stirrups so he would not be crushed by the weight of the horse and was thrown clear as the mare plowed into the ground. Goodnight landed hard on his left side and turned over twice before stopping, knowing that his left arm was broken.

  The mare whinnied in distress. The rifle cracked again and sand stung Goodnight's face. He tried to move but the pain in his arm was excruciating. He could see Westby now, about 150 feet away, kneeling to take careful aim for the kill shot. The mare cried out again in pain and fear.

  In the distance was the softer report of a rifle and Westby's shot went wide. He looked over his shoulder and again there was the report of a distant rifle, an ominous thawp. Westby scrambled behind his Jeep, took a peek over the hood of the vehicle, then another quick peek. He jerked his head down as the distant rifle fired at him still again.

  It was Iverson, Goodnight knew. Somehow she had climbed down to Juan and retrieved the rifle. Sighting through the scope which had to have been knocked out of alignment she could still place the bullets reasonably close to Westby but there wasn't a prayer in the world she could hit him, even if she was a skilled shot.

  Goodnight wiggled his body around so that he could place his good hand on the butt of the Colt, then he slowly pulled it out, wondering if the barrel was filled with dirt and would explode in his hand when he fired. The broken arm was killing him but he ignored the pain and squirmed until his legs were towards Westby. He braced the heavy revolver against his right knee, cocked it and sighted carefully.

  Westby had apparently decided Iverson wasn't enough of a threat to distract him from killing Goodnight. He turned from the Jeep, using it as a shield, resumed his kneeling position and aimed the rifle back into the arroyo towards him.

  Goodnight fired, his gun belching white smoke and a fiery finger as it bucked in his hand. Steam was suddenly rising from Westby's Jeep and the startled lawyer shot to his feet. There was the distant report of Juan's rifle and Westby was back down like a jack-in-the-box.

  He appeared confused to Goodnight. He was straightening back up but his head rose no higher. Now Goodnight could see that the sandy ledge of the arroyo was sliding down in slow motion like a dump truck casually dumping a load of sand onto the ground. Westby was moving with the miniature avalanche, his boots now mired in the suddenly lose ground. He took a giant step up the moving hill he was on, then another, but with each step his legs sank deeper into the sand. He leaned forward as if to brace himself, placing the rifle on the liquid sand but it was quickly engulfed and he jerked his hand back without the weapon. In the motion his hat fell from his head and tumbled down the sliding earth until it was sucked away.

  Then Westby looked above him and screamed. Goodnight saw the Jeep lurch on its side towards the lawyer as the ground beneath two of its wheels gave away. Westby was nearly to his waist in the moving sand when the Jeep slipped into the avalanche, turned onto its side and rolled slowly towards the bottom of the arroyo. Westby screamed again, a long piercing sound that slowly turned into a wail like a siren then was abruptly silent as the Jeep lazily rolled over once again, crushing him into the sand, coming to rest where he had on
ce been.

  Goodnight managed to get to his feet and make his way to the Jeep. The entire distance his arm was torture. He dug with his good hand into the loose sand but as fast as he dug the sand rolled back into the hole he was trying to dig. Another side of the arroyo broke free and half buried the Jeep. Goodnight realized it was useless. All he could see of Westby was the silver tip of one ostrich skin boot.

  The mare whinnied again, with less strength, and Goodnight walked to her, each step sending sharp pain throughout his body. “Easy girl,” he said kneeling beside her. She had taken a rifle shot through the chest and blood was frothing out her nostrils and mouth. Her eyes were frightened and she was looking around wildly. “It's O.K. girl,” Goodnight said stroking the horse on the side of her neck as he cocked the gun and placed it against the horse's head. “It's O.K. girl,” he repeated, then pulled the trigger.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Conchita slipped into the bed cautiously. There were still bandages across her abdomen and band-aids on her cheek. “We look like survivors of a train wreck,” she commented.

  The weather had changed completely in the two days Goodnight had been in Texas and it now was raining. The water ran off the roof and dripped onto the patio with occasional loud slaps.

  Goodnight's left arm was in a heavy cast and he had to move his upper body awkwardly to position it. It had been broken in two places. The doctors told him they were optimistic. “We are a sight, I must admit.”

  Before bringing him home Conchita had insisted on dropping by Rosa's Cantina. As Goodnight walked through the doors, his left arm in a heavy cast, Conchita moving slowly because of her injuries, it was apparent they were expected. The Hispanic crowd was too reserved to applaud but broad grins and nodding heads told the story.

  Arturo, his face beaming, ran from behind his bar and embraced each of them, “Amigos mios!” he gushed. One prominent table remained free and he led them to it, pulling the chairs back, one for Conchita, the other for Goodnight.

  A Mexican singer was strumming tunes tonight. After they were seated Arturo placed drinks for them, then nodded at the singer. The nervous young man with a thin mustache, Indio features and a face shiny from perspiration in the cantina's heat began to play El Comando Increible.

  Goodnight knew of the song and Miguel Peña had once sung it for him as a joke when just the two of them were drunk in a border cantina in Nogales. Goodnight had been embarrassed by it then and was ill at ease hearing it now. The bar hushed as the young man sang the melody about the ranger who avenged the family in a gunfight of great courage and skill. Only now there were three new verses.

  Years later, the song said, the ranger met the surviving daughter of the family he had avenged and she became his woman. But her evil former lover refused to let her go. When he confronted her she spit on his knife before he cut her. The Comando Increible hunted him down and in a gunfight of great bravery shot him through his black heart. Now the couple live together in happiness as it was always fated.

  Conchita squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. And Goodnight knew he was blushing from toe to the top of his head. When the song was finished the crowd insisted it be sung again and the singer, obviously nervous at facing the very ranger and his woman about whom he sang, performed the song again, only this time with greater flair and power.

  After his single drink Goodnight insisted they leave and Arturo bid them goodnight at the door. This time the crowd applauded and pounded their tables. During the walk home the first drops of rain had fallen and they hurried the last few feet. Goodnight could not recall ever having been more embarrassed and he eased into bed with a sense of relief.

  “Tell me the rest of it now,” Conchita asked.

  “Iverson shot all the bullets in Juan's rifle. She said she watched the Jeep tip over. Then she walked there, not knowing what she was going to find. I was still sitting in the arroyo wondering how I was going to make it out when she poked her head over and asked if I was all right. I told her to go get the pickup and fortunately she had gone through Juan's pockets and taken the keys. It took most of the day for her to find the truck and drive it back to where I was. She came down the slide that killed Westby with a canteen then halfway drug me back to the truck. She drove us into town.”

  “From what you had told me about her before I am surprised she could do all that.”

  “So was I. I think she even impressed herself. She is one tough lady.”

  “I think we should have her over for dinner.”

  “She's already left town. Said there was no point in all this sun without an ocean.”

  “That reporter, Liz Doney, keeps calling,” Conchita said. “Aren't you going to talk to her?”

  “No. I talked to her once and that proved to be enough.”

  “There's those television people with cameras too. They are always coming by the house.”

  “Something will happen. I'll be old news real soon now.”

  Conchita fingered what would be the scar on her cheek. “He marked me like a... whore, John.” Her voice was tentative, as if she feared his rejection.

  “Not to worry. You look like a woman with an interesting story to tell.”

  She smiled. “Which reminds me. Did I tell you about the two detectives? Morrison and Kosack?”

  “No.”

  “They eloped. It was in the news while you were in Texas.”

  “Good for them.”

  She was pensive. “What should I wear to the funeral tomorrow?”

  “Something black, if you have it. Nothing flashy.”

  “You think I'd dress flashy at a funeral?”

  “I've seen your wardrobe, remember?”

  She hit him lightly on his good arm, then moved her pillow into two positions before deciding on still a third.

  “Her husband was rearrested just before he was to be released from prison.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Does he get the insurance money? She's really dead this time and didn't you say he was the beneficiary.”

  Goodnight smiled. “You can't be tried for the same crime twice. That would be double jeopardy. But there was no murder the first time, despite the jury verdict, and he agreed to have Leah killed the second time and share the insurance money. That's a different crime altogether.”

  “Even though she framed him the first time?”

  “Yes. He was part and parcel of her real murder, and he'll stand trial for it.”

  “Does he get the money?”

  “No.”

  “Well, good. I don't think he should get any.”

  “With Westby dead it will take years, if ever, to get the money out of his off shore account.” Goodnight paused, chuckled, then continued. “Unless, of course, someone had plenty of time to search his ranch house and found the account number and access code.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Iverson told me she was going to the Bahamas. I must be getting slow because I just figured out why.”

  “None of them were very nice people.”

  Goodnight chuckled again. “You've got a point.” He turned out the light. “I never knew you to be so talkative before.”

  Conchita snuggled closely against him. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  Later, she said, “John? Are you asleep? No? I've been thinking. I want to have a family.”

  He didn't answer for a long time. “Don't you think I'm a little old for that?”

  “You're 67 and I'm 38. When will we be younger?”

  Goodnight considered what she said for some time. “In that case I think we better get married.”

  “O.K. But you have to propose when we aren't naked and in bed. Otherwise it doesn't count.” She kissed him gently on his neck. “Te amo, querido.”

  It was raining heavily outside now. The newspaper had said Bobby McGuire was sentenced the day before. He received probation and was ordered to pay restitution for all the false claims he had filed over the years.
Goodnight figured Jethro Ludwig wasn't the only politician who'd received campaign contributions from McGuire. It looked as if the judge had too. Well, that's the way it goes, he thought.

  Goodnight listened to the steady pour of the rain and was glad he had let Morris in to join Scottie for the night. Tomorrow he would call Pedro da Silva in Portugal and tell him the man who had murdered Teresa Ferreira was himself dead.

  Soon all Goodnight could hear was Conchita's breathing. Not long after that he told Flo goodnight in his thoughts, then joined Conchita in sleep.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  In 1901 the governor of the Territory of Arizona created the Arizona Rangers, a 26-man force intended primarily to combat cattle rustling in the southern region of the territory. Rangers worked alone, often undercover, infiltrating rustling operations and participating in some of the most famous gunfights in Arizona history. In one singularly unique event the Rangers were appointed temporary officers in the Mexican army after which they opposed the notorious Mexican Ruralis in Sonora for a time. They were conspicuously successful in Arizona and a darling of that day's newspapers. To Arizona's enduring loss jealous local sheriffs and powerful cattle interests who profited from rustling orchestrated the Rangers undoing in 1909, three years before statehood.

  The Arizona Rangers depicted in this book are a product of fiction. The individual characters appearing here are also wholly fictional. No character bears any resemblance to any person, alive or dead, whom I have ever known. And any apparent resemblance of a character to any person alive or dead is entirely coincidental.

  If you enjoyed Wrath in the Blood, please post a review at Amazon.com. You may also enjoy of the similar books written by the author. Many of his works are also available as audiobooks. You may visit the author at: www.RonaldJWatkins.com.

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