Bullets Over Bedlam

by Peter Brandvold

  Hawk let the sentence die on his lips. He lowered his eyes, removed his hand from hers. He stepped back, kept his voice just above a whisper. “Go home.”

  A sleep-thick voice grumbled behind him. “Hey, who you talkin’ to over there?”

  Hawk turned his head sharply, heart thudding. Beyond the dark cell, kicked back in the chair, Franco Villard had turned his head to regard Hawk incredulously.

  “Go back to sleep,” Hawk told him. “I was just watching the star—”

  Beyond the window, Juliana gave a clipped scream. Hawk whipped his head around to see a tall, duster-clad figure holding her hands. Starlight winked off the object in her right hand and off the badge pinned to the deputy’s duster lapel. J.C. Garth’s voice was a chuckling reprimand. “What the hell you think you’re doin’ out here, sweet-heart?”

  Hawk grabbed the bars. “Let her go!”

  Behind him, Villard shouted, “What the hell’s goin’ on out there?”

  Hawk hardly heard him. He was watching Juliana struggle with the deputy. Garth dodged a kick and wrenched Juliana’s right hand behind her back. She yowled as her head jerked back, hair flying.

  “No!”

  There was the solid, metallic thud of a heavy gun hitting the ground.

  Both Garth and Juliana froze, staring down at the old-model Colt in the dust. Garth’s head snapped up and he took one long stride toward Juliana, swinging his right hand back to his left shoulder. “You little bitch!”

  He brought the open hand forward, the knuckles connecting solidly with Juliana’s right cheek. She gave a cry as she whipped around and fell against the stone wall with a smack.

  “Garth!” Hawk barked, squeezing the bars, half-hearing the jailhouse’s front door slam and boots pounding the stoop. Running footsteps sounded on the west side of the jail, and then Villard ran around the corner, hatless, breathing hard.

  “What the hell’s—?”

  Garth reached down for the gun. He turned it in his hands, studying it. “Little bitch brought our friend a weapon. Here.”

  He tossed the revolver to Villard, who caught it, gave it a quick study, then lowered it, dropping his gaze to the girl. Hawk could see only Juliana’s legs beneath the window and to the right. Her skirts had come up, revealing nearly all of one finely turned thigh. She’d lost her sandals, and her bare feet pushed at the dirt and rocks beneath her, seeking purchase.

  The cool night air was tinged with the smell of whiskey. The deputies had been sharing a bottle for the past two hours. Pulse throbbing in his temples, Hawk renewed his grip on the bars and shuttled his gaze between the two men staring silently down at Juliana. Garth’s hand was fisted, and his chest rose and fell heavily.

  “Let her go, boys. She meant no harm.”

  Silence. The men’s breath mixed with the rasping of the cottonwood leaves barely audible above the stream’s trickle over the rocks behind them.

  Villard gave his head a hard shake, ran his hand through his curly red hair. “A fine-lookin’ girl you got here, Hawk. Yessir. Fine piece of work.”

  Garth swallowed. “Girls just throw themselves at a hero, don’t they?”

  Hawk’s voice was low and pitched with menace. “Let her go.”

  “Why should we?” said Villard. “She’s trash mixin’ with outlaw trash and callin’ him a damn hero.”

  “You’re lawmen.”

  Villard laughed. “That’s real funny, comin’ from you, Hawk.”

  Juliana dug her heels into the sand, pushed herself to her feet, and lunged toward the side of the jailhouse. Villard grabbed her poncho and threw her down.

  She sat up, tossing her hair from her eyes and turning to Hawk. “Gideon!”

  Garth moved toward her, heavy-footed, swaying drunkenly. Hawk warned through gritted teeth, spittle spraying from his lips, “You touch her, I’ll kill you both.”

  Garth spat. “Fuckin’ bitch. Tryin’ to give him a gun . . . what? . . . so’s he can shoot us? You’re nothin’ but a whore! His whore. Now you’re gonna be my whore.”

  He grabbed her arm, jerked her to her feet.

  Juliana whipped her head again to Hawk, beseeching with her eyes. “No!”

  Villard lunged toward her. “Shut up, whore!” He slapped her hard across the face. She twisted around and fell in a heap, sobbing. “Please, no!”

  Staring through the window, Hawk clutched the bars as if to bend them with his fists. There was no give at all. He pulled and jerked till his knuckles felt as though they’d pop through his skin, veins bulging in his forehead. Outside, Villard grabbed Juliana’s arm and jerked her up.

  “No!” She lunged at him, fists flying.

  Villard laughed and ducked, turned her around, grabbed her from behind, and nuzzled her neck. She turned, rammed a knee into his groin. As Villard bent over his bruised oysters, cursing, Garth staggered toward her and raised his fist.

  “Garth!” Hawk raged.

  At the same time, Garth shouted, “Whore!” and slammed his fist against Juliana’s right cheek. The girl flew like a rag doll, hitting the ground in a heap. She lay writhing and groaning.

  Rage burning through him like fire-tipped arrows, Hawk wheeled and lunged at the door. He shook the bars, rattling the lock. The bolt held fast.

  “Goddamnit!”

  He wheeled again to the window. Garth and Villard were dragging Juliana off toward the cottonwoods, the girl a slumped figure between them, her legs dragging along the ground.

  “Villard!”

  The deputy glanced behind him, starlight making his sweaty face glisten. “Sit tight, Hawk. Take a load off. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Both deputies chuckled as they disappeared into the darkness of the cottonwoods.

  Gripping the bars in both fists, Hawk closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. In the distance, just above the stream’s gurgle, he heard the men laughing, heard the sound of clothes tearing, Juliana whimpering and pleading. Hawk shoved the sounds aside, replaced them with images of both deputies lying dead upon the rocks, their heads bashed in with stones.

  Juliana’s cry rose shrilly, muffled by the stream and the men’s laughter. “No . . . no . . . please . . .”

  Hawk’s eyes flickered. He squeezed them shut, clamped his jaws till their hinges dimpled, the muscles in his crimson cheeks fairly leaping out from beneath the skin.

  When he’d been standing there at the barred window for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, a loud smack jerked his eyes open. It sounded like a stout branch smashed against a boulder. A man yowled.

  Another voice. “Hey . . . what do you? . . .”

  A choking, gurgling sound, like that from a man with his throat cut.

  Hawk spied movement back in the trees—two shadows running toward him, one before the other. The first ran, faltering, with both hands clutched to his throat, blood glistening in the starlight. As his gait lurched and he dropped to his knees, the second silhouette—short, and wearing a low-crowned sombrero—lifted a heavy plank above his head and slammed it down with a resolute, cracking thud against the head of the first.

  The first man arched his back, and he sat for several seconds, as if staring skyward and praying. Then he sagged to his side, both hands coming away from his throat.

  The sombrero-clad shadow tossed the plank into the brush and walked toward Hawk. As he drew closer, the stooped, bandy-legged figure of Palomar Rojas took shape in the darkness.

  “Ayee!” the old man wheezed, wincing and holding one arm taut against his side. “That hurt me more than him, I think.”

  19.

  FLIGHT

  HAWK followed the old man around the corner of the jailhouse with his eyes, then wheeled and crossed to the cell door. He stood there, brows furrowed, as Palomar Rojas opened the building’s main door, casting a wary glance toward the saloon a block away.

  Inside the office, he closed the door and hurried to the desk, wincing and holding his right elbow tight to his ribs.

  �
�The key’s in the bottom drawer,” Hawk said. “You kill him?”

  Rojas spread his swollen, cracked lips in a grin. “Oh, yes.” Key in hand, the old bandito ambled over to the cell and shoved the key in the lock. When he flung the door open, Hawk bolted out, grabbed his gun belt from a wall peg, wrapped it around his waist, then picked up one of the two Winchesters leaning against the wall near the desk.

  He opened the breech, made sure it was loaded, then ran to the front door.

  He cracked the door, peered both ways along the street, then stepped slowly onto the boardwalk. Holding the rifle straight up and down before him, he sidestepped to the building’s east side, then turned and lit off toward the stream. He could hear Rojas limping along behind him.

  Hawk jogged through the brush around the cottonwoods, pausing to glance down at J.C. Garth lying on his back, head turned to one side, the wide gash in his neck stretching from ear to ear. The deputy’s lips were pulled back, showing the tips of his uneven teeth. Several streams of blood trailed down from his smashed skull, disappearing in his beard.

  Resisting the urge to bury a boot toe in the deputy’s ribs, Hawk continued forward twenty feet, where the stocky figure of Leo Baskin crouched over Juliana, smoothing her hair back from her face. The girl lay with her head resting on a balled-up duck coat. Her torn blouse was spread blanketlike across her chest. Her skirt was twisted about her thighs.

  Hawk crouched beside Baskin, his eyes on the girl.

  Baskin growled, “Me and the old bandit had come to spring you, when we saw those two with the girl.”

  “Is she? . . .”

  “She’s alive. Must’ve hit her head on a sharp rock. I felt some blood.”

  Hawk followed Baskin’s gaze into the brush beyond Juliana. Franco Villard lay on his side, a wide knife gash laying open his neck, the thick, pooling blood glistening in the starlight. His lips were drawn back from his mouth in a horrified death grin.

  Holding a rifle across his thighs, Baskin turned to Hawk. “Your horse is saddled and tied yonder. Best get a move on.”

  Hawk frowned at him, his brain freezing up, unable to make a decision.

  “I’ll take the girl home,” Baskin said. “Carmelita’ll take care of her.”

  Boots crunched brush behind Hawk. He turned to see Rojas ambling toward him. “You must go now, before the others find your cell empty.”

  Hawk reached down and pulled the coat up closer to Juliana’s chin. She lay still but for muscles twitching in her cheeks. “I can’t leave her.”

  “You must!” Rojas hissed.

  Hawk dropped to both knees, snaking his arms beneath the girl’s knees and neck. “I’m gonna take her home.”

  Rojas laid into him with a long string of exclamatory Spanish, which he cut off suddenly himself. He turned his head sharply to one side. At the same time, Hawk froze with the girl in his arms, her legs dangling.

  Enraged voices rose inside the jailhouse, echoing dully.

  “Shit!” Rojas spat. “Goddamn, what I tell you, gringo fool?”

  An angry shout rose behind them. “Check around back!”

  With Juliana in his arms, moaning softly, Hawk stood and turned to Rojas and Baskin. “You two, vamoose.”

  Both men shuttled quick, nervous glances between the jailhouse and Hawk.

  “Now!” Hawk barked. “Move!”

  As Baskin and Rojas scrambled off through the trees, angling southwest along the stream, Hawk headed straight east to where his horse stood tied to a big cottonwood. He couldn’t leave the girl now. She’d slow him up, and she’d be better off with Carmelita, but he had no choice but to take her.

  When he’d set her on his saddle, he snapped the reins free of the cottonwood branch and climbed up behind her. Several deputies were scrambling around the jailhouse now, jostling shadows against the pale bulk of the building. He could hear Press Miller cursing tightly as boots tapped a staccato rhythm beneath the stream’s constant rush.

  Hawk neck-reined the horse eastward and was about to press his knees to the mount’s ribs when a rifle popped and several small branches snapped to his right before the slug spanged loudly off a rock several yards beyond. In his arms, Juliana gave a soft, startled cry, tensing.

  “There!” a deputy shouted.

  Facing straight ahead, Hawk rammed his heels against the grulla’s flanks. “Hee-yaa!”

  Another rifle snap. Then another, the slugs pounding the rocks and brush as the grulla leapt off its back hooves and bounded straight east through the trees.

  When the grulla had galloped thirty yards, Hawk turned right and splashed into the stream. He galloped the horse back the way he’d come, the hooves clacking off stones and splashing water, enraged voices rising on the stream bank to his right.

  The deputies were taken aback by the maneuver, however, and only a few shots came close. The grulla whinnied as the slugs spanged off rocks or plunked into the water. In a minute, Hawk was a hundred yards beyond the lawmen, tracing a gradual curve toward the northeast as the deputies triggered a couple of halfhearted shots behind.

  Beyond the village, he turned the horse onto the narrow, seldom-used western trail ribboning into the high, rough country beyond the old mine and stamping mill and smelter. He pushed the grulla as hard as he could on the treacherous trail in the darkness, watching with his mind’s eye as the four remaining deputies scrambled to the livery barn, saddled their horses, and headed straight west of town. Miller would take the lead, shouting orders.

  They didn’t know the country out here, but it wouldn’t take them long to realize there was only one trail into the badlands, which were too rugged and dry for even Apaches. Only one trail twisting through the high-walled canyons and cactus-studded gorges—a veritable dinosaur’s mouth of rifted earth and mountains and mesas rising from an ancient seabed, dry for countless ages.

  A perfect place for a man to hide. If he knew where to find the single water hole that existed and if that water hole wasn’t dry, as it was for most of the year.

  If so, well then, the joke would be on Hawk and the girl.

  Juliana slumped against him as the grulla made its way along the uneven path, climbing into cedars and junipers and dropping into gorges and clay-bottom washes where only rocks and boulders grew, with occasional tufts of Spanish bayonet or low, spindly catclaw.

  When he’d ridden for nearly an hour, he paused beneath a lip of overhanging rock and set his hand on Juliana’s right shoulder. He whispered her name, then knew a moment’s trepidation when she lay deathlike against him, silent.

  “Juliana?” he repeated, louder.

  Her head moved slightly, sliding across his chest, and a low groan escaped her. It didn’t make sense that she wasn’t waking up by now. She must’ve been hurt worse than he’d thought, and this ride wasn’t doing her any good at all.

  Hawk expelled a frustrated breath but kept his hand on her shoulder as, hearing something, he canted his head to listen.

  Behind rose the faint click and clatter of shod hooves. Occasional voices lifted, the lawmen no doubt arguing, blaming each other for their predicament. Hawk couldn’t help smiling as he wondered if someone had told Flagg about the empty jail cell, the two dead deputies. If he and Juliana made it back to Bedlam alive, he owed Baskin and that old reprobate, Rojas, a case of the best brandy and some good smoking tobacco.

  He nudged the grulla with his spurs, riding on.

  He stopped twice to offer Juliana water from the canteen, but she only shook her head and fell back against his chest, barely opening her eyes.

  Concern for the girl eating at him, he continued riding, twisting through the badlands as the sun slowly rose, gray light seeming to emanate from the mountains and mesas and rocky turrets themselves before a burst of rose appeared over Hawk’s left shoulder. The sun vaulted over the eastern ridges, scattering shadows until the vast, moonlike terrain stood out sharply on all sides, capped with a dry, cobalt sky.

  Hawk turned around a tall, arrow-shaped
scarp and reined the grulla to a halt.

  A rock wall loomed before him, connecting the sheer walls on both sides. He’d found the box canyon he was looking for.

  Turning toward the north, he raised his gaze up along the shelving ridge thrusting giant spires and arches over the canyon. The spring should be up there, behind that sandstone block with what looked like three chimneys pointing skyward.

  Hawk dismounted and led the horse up the ridge, moving slowly across three treacherous talus slides.

  Twenty minutes later, he halted the horse on the far side of the sandstone block. Between the block and the ridge wall was a V-shaped trough of rocks around which some spindly junipers and Mormon tea grew. There was plenty of animal scat and tracks around the trough. In the trough itself were several inches of black, scummy water.

  Up the slope beyond the spring was a shady spot amongst boulders. Hawk dropped the grulla’s reins, then reached up and eased Juliana into his arms. He didn’t like it that she barely stirred as he pulled her out of the saddle, then hung limp in his arms as he carried her up the slope and eased her down in the shade amongst the rocks.

  She groaned and turned her head from side to side, her thick hair like a pillow beneath her. Hawk frowned and ran his right hand through her hair, crusty with dried blood. Her eyes opened, and they took a while to focus.

  “Where are we?” she asked thinly.

  Hawk kept his voice quiet, calm. “I had to get you out of town.”

  “I caused more trouble.” She winced and rolled her eyes to one side, as if to indicate from where the pain came. “What happened?”

  Hawk wasn’t sure what to say. If she didn’t remember what had happened behind the jailhouse, he wasn’t going to tell her. He put a finger to her lips, cracked a wan smile. “You rest. Can you drink some water?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  He rose and started toward his horse.

  “Gideon?”

  Hawk turned back to her.

  She stared up at him, brown eyes crinkled at the corners from pain. Trail dust streaked her face. “I love you.”