Fear in a Handful of Dust

by Brian Garfield

  Perhaps it was the song that drew the scorpion out of its hole. Mackenzie saw it venture into sight and stand just outside its rock crack, tail up over its back, little claws opening and closing like lobster appendages. When it moved it moved quickly but not very far—across the game trail in front of the truck, claws rattling audibly like a crab’s. After some insect, probably, but Mackenzie couldn’t see the prey. The scorpion disappeared into leaf shadows under a ball of scrub.

  Sluggishly Mackenzie’s brain began to work. He had one advantage although it wasn’t much: Duggai wouldn’t be expecting him here. Duggai wouldn’t credit Mackenzie with the strength to get this far and probably he wouldn’t believe Mackenzie still had the presence of mind to think ahead of him. Duggai had it all mapped out and knew his victim’s limitations and knew he was safe here: this was R&R, not a combat zone. Therefore Duggai would be just a shade slower to react than he’d have been if Mackenzie had come at him last night in his hilltop lair where Duggai had been expecting it.

  But it wasn’t enough of an advantage to be reassuring. It was a factor but there were plenty of factors in this and most of them were set dead against Mackenzie. And above them all loomed the simple fact that Duggai could get his wet hand on that Magnum faster than anything Mackenzie could do by way of getting near the rifle.

  He thought, half panicked, of getting back up onto the cliff and somehow dragging a boulder up there with him and dropping the boulder on Duggai’s head in the water but he knew that was no good because it was too chancy—he was so weak he certainly couldn’t trust his aim and anyway Duggai would probably hear him struggling with a rock long before he got into position to launch it.

  He thought of trying to disconnect the brakes from underneath the truck, then pushing the truck over the lip so it would roll down and crush Duggai in the water but that was a fevered pipedream: even if he knew some way to disengage the gears and cut the brakes from underneath the truck, Duggai would hear the noise.

  He thought of trying to pick the lock but he didn’t know how; anyhow he had no implement.

  He kept watching the ball of brush where the scorpion had disappeared because he didn’t want it taking him by surprise. And that gave him an idea.

  It was a slim chance, perhaps no better than some that he’d discarded, but he had to do something quickly before Duggai got tired of the pool and decided to come back to the truck for lunch or a towel or a look around.

  He backed away painfully toward the half-dead mesquite he’d passed on his way up. Under it lay half a dozen dead branches and he selected one. It was the size of a broom handle, gray and gnarled and brittle; he tested it gently to make sure it wasn’t broken. All the time he kept watching the ball of brush for the scorpion to reappear. He saw a spider run out across the clay. It disappeared under a catclaw. Something had frightened the spider; it meant the scorpion was still under there. Mackenzie hefted the stick and quickly searched the ground nearby until he found a loose rock twice the size of his fist. He picked it up but it was stratum-cracked shale and that was no good; he needed a rock that wouldn’t shatter. He kept half his attention on the ball of brush while he continued to seek a suitable rock and finally he found one that satisfied him: it appeared to be honest hard stone and it would have to do.

  Mackenzie padded forward, feet curling in agony; he had the rock in his left hand and the stick in his right, holding it by the butt-end like a saber. He worked his way past the ball of brush until he was crouched in the trail with his back nakedly exposed to the truck and whatever might come up behind the truck; he was facing the ball of brush, as far away from it as he could get and still remain within stick’s-length of it. Then he began to prod silently.

  Finally the provocation succeeded. The scorpion came out of hiding, lashing at the offending stick with its tail. When it was out in the open Mackenzie poked the stick under the scorpion, resting the point on the ground. Predictably the scorpion grabbed hold of the stick in a tight-clenched grip and went to work at it, nailing away overhead with its stinger. Mackenzie whipped the stick into the air, holding onto the butt-end, flipping it hard when the tip reached its apex—like a fisherman casting with a fly. The scorpion flew off. He watched it sail over the top of the camper and disappear.

  Mackenzie put the stick down soundlessly and moved as fast as he could. He transferred the rock to his right hand and gripped it securely and went up alongside the truck, dropping to his knees as he went past the right-side front wheel; he was in shadow here, between the truck arid the cliff, and unless Duggai was looking right at the spot and expecting to see him probably he’d go unseen if he didn’t move too abruptly. Mackenzie slowed and moved forward until he could see the edge of the pool below him; he kept pushing his head forward an inch at a time until more of the water came in view and Duggai finally appeared.

  Duggai was staring narrowly at something Mackenzie couldn’t see on the rock face to the right. It had to be the scorpion. Mackenzie saw Duggai paddle back through the water toward the pile of clothing. Never looking behind him, Duggai reached the edge of the pool and his hand groped along the rock behind him while he kept his eyes unblinkingly on the scorpion. Mackenzie moved his foot and leaned forward six inches farther; now he could see the scorpion, crawling on the rock to one side of the pool. Probably it had been shaken up by its flight but Duggai wouldn’t know that; Duggai would know only that it was deadly and alive and he would think it was after him—a personal thing, just as Mackenzie had automatically tagged it at first as one of Duggai’s deliberately conjured demons. In Duggai’s mind there would be no question but that the scorpion was after him.

  Behind Duggai the big brown hand reached the pile of clothing and patted it blindly until it found the Magnum. Mackenzie lifted his arm and cocked the heavy stone in readiness.

  Duggai brought the Magnum around overhead and settled it in both hands. Mackenzie saw him cock the hammer and take careful aim across the quarter of the pool to the point where the scorpion made its slow scuttling way across the bare rock.

  Mackenzie tensed. He saw the flesh of Duggai’s finger whiten slightly on the trigger. All his fibers twanging, Mackenzie watched and clenched his muscles.

  When the revolver went off Mackenzie smashed the truck’s window.

  29

  The scorpion was replaced by a white streak on the rock.

  Simultaneous with the roar of the gunshot Mackenzie slammed the heavy stone with all his remaining strength against the side window. It was safety glass and it didn’t shatter; the stone punched a great hole through it and left the remainder starred and frosted. There was no falling tinkle of glass shards.

  The explosion of the Magnum’s cartridge kept booming around the bowl of rocks, reverberating, dying slowly. Deafened by it, Duggai certainly hadn’t heard the smash of rock against glass above him. Mackenzie was in plain view but Duggai only put the Magnum back on the pile of clothes and braced both palms on the bank of the pool to lever himself out of the water. It put Duggai’s back to Mackenzie and now Mackenzie reached inside through the hole in the window and found the handle inside the door. As silently as he could he unlatched it.

  His mind was hurtling forward in anticipation. Certain things he had to be aware of. The rifle was scope-sighted and probably zeroed in for a range of not less than 250 yards and that meant, at this short range, he’d have to aim low. A combat-trained rifleman like Duggai would keep a round chambered and ready to go but he’d make sure the safety was engaged so it wouldn’t go off accidentally. Mackenzie wouldn’t need to work the rifle’s bolt action but he would have to kick the safety off before pulling the trigger; otherwise nothing would happen.

  All this went through his mind in the time it took him to free the door lock.

  Duggai was still clambering out of the water, his back to Mackenzie, and Mackenzie with a rough uncaring need to finish it yanked the door open and caught the rifle as it tipped toward him and lifted it to his shoulder in a smooth synchronous motion, fo
und the safety with his thumb and flicked it off, and saw by the sudden tensing of Duggai’s back muscles that Duggai had heard something—some sound Mackenzie had made. Duggai began to turn and began to fall to one side toward the Magnum where it lay only a few feet from him on the bundle of clothes.

  In the circular telescopic lens Duggai’s profile was immediate, point-blank, and Mackenzie lowered it, remembering that it was sighted in for longer ranges than this, but suddenly there was too much rage in Mackenzie for this—a bullet through Duggai’s head wouldn’t even make the down payment—and so, as Duggai reached out for the Magnum, falling toward it, Mackenzie shifted his aim. It was guesswork because he didn’t know for what distance the scope was sighted but the target was big enough and close enough—it wasn’t more than thirty feet from him; he hardly needed sights—and Mackenzie squeezed the trigger quickly until the big rifle slammed back in recoil against his bare shoulder and the earsplitting racket exploded in his ears and the bullet knocked the Magnum spinning halfway up the salt lick far out of Duggai’s reach.

  Duggai reacted with blinding speed. He pushed himself backward and slid into the water and ducked under. Mackenzie worked the rifle bolt. The empty cartridge case flipped out and rolled down the rock with a tinkle like something they rang at the altar between incantations, and Mackenzie watching it had time to think: it was one of those that started all this.

  Duggai had a big chest and stayed under for a long time but then he came up, sputtered, raked hair from his eyes, stared at Mackenzie and finally went still, his head above water, looking like nothing Mackenzie had ever seen but something crossed the mind crazily:

  John the Baptist on a silver tray.

  The water reflected silver barbs all around Duggai’s decapitated face. He said nothing—only stared into the muzzle of the rifle. Mackenzie put his eye to the scope and he could count the bloodshot veins in the eyes.

  Mackenzie did not speak or move. He wanted terror to reach into Duggai and spread through every fiber.

  After a long motionless time Duggai finally turned to the shallow side of the pool and climbed onto the slope of rock. Then without even looking toward Mackenzie he began to walk up the salt lick toward the revolver.

  Mackenzie spoke.

  “Both kneecaps if I have to. You’ll never walk again.”

  It stopped Duggai in his tracks. He turned to face Mackenzie and his face lifted, jaw jutting—Get it over with.

  “You don’t think I’m going to make it that easy, you rancid bastard son of a bitch.”

  Duggai’s eyes closed down as if he was bored. Insolence settled over his features. He merely waited, demonstrating his courage.

  “Come up here. Bring the truck keys. Never mind the clothes, you won’t need them.”

  Naked and powerful Duggai climbed the switchback rock trail. Mackenzie backed away, never letting him come in jumping distance: he had no reserves left but it didn’t take much strength to pull a trigger and Duggai knew that and Mackenzie kept the rifle aimed at his privates so that Duggai knew he couldn’t be panicked into a hasty kill shot. Even if it missed it would tear up his pelvis or his abdomen and he’d be a long agonizing time dying. No: Duggai’s illness of the mind wasn’t that kind. He hadn’t forsaken his shrewdness. Like his victims he would bide his time and wait for an opening—he wouldn’t fight the drop.

  Mackenzie said, “You knew I was Navajo. You should have thought about that.”

  “Half Navajo. Beligano.”

  “White man hell. I put myself in your moccasins, Calvin. I knew what you’d do. I got here ahead of you. We played your game and I won. You hear me?”

  “I hear you, Captain.” Duggai stood dripping, all hard dark musculature—mammoth and unbowed. He gaped at Mackenzie in that maddening way of his. “You can kill me now.”

  The rifle was so heavy he could hardly hold it. He stopped Duggai at the tailgate and shuffled painfully around him in a wide circle. He got the truck open and found the pieces of wire where Duggai had tossed them inside. He threw two of them at Duggai and got his hand back on the rifle.

  Mackenzie’s lips peeled back viciously. It came out in a whisper of rage: “You know the drill.”

  Duggai’s eyes went a little wider. He bent down and picked up the wire. While he was bent he hesitated a moment and Mackenzie knew he was thinking about making a try—throwing dirt in Mackenzie’s eyes—but it was too far for that and finally Duggai twisted the wire around his wrist and sat down on his naked butt and wired his own ankles together. Then rolled over on his belly and put both hands behind his rump.

  Mackenzie approached him very slowly and put the muzzle of the rifle against the crotch between the buttocks and held his right hand on the trigger. With his left hand he wired the hands together behind the small of Duggai’s back.

  He had trouble standing up after that but he made it. “Get in the truck.”

  “How?”

  “Hobble it.”

  Duggai hopped like a farmer’s kid in a potato-sack race. Then he sat on the tailboard and lifted his legs and swiveled himself up inside.

  “On the bunk now.”

  He wired Duggai’s feet to the floor cleat as his own had been wired. He jammed the rifle against Duggai’s hip and again held the trigger at arm’s length while he leaned behind Duggai and wired his hands to the steel crossbrace of the wall.

  “You fixin’ to leave me out in that desert, Captain?”

  Mackenzie slammed the door in his face.

  30

  The truck came strenuously across the ravaged earth. Approaching the camp it tipped clumsily through a gully that almost rolled it over. It righted itself and advanced, gears snarling.

  Shirley came out of her hole hollow-eyed and hesitant. She stood with her arms folded as if she were cold and stared at the truck with the face of a prisoner awaiting execution against a wall.

  Drawn by the hated sound, Jay arose from the grave and sidled toward Shirley. He touched her hand and they stood together, watching.

  The truck whined slowly up the slope and finally stopped. Mackenzie in shirt and shorts and boots opened the door and stepped out, all his muscles twitching. He had to keep a grip on the door to keep from felling over on his face but he managed a grotesque smile.

  They stood behind the truck watching while Mackenzie opened the camper door. Inside Duggai sat wired on the bunk. He gaped at them with that idiot vacancy he used to mask the ceaseless wild hatred that filled his soul.

  Jay coughed horribly and found his voice. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him.”

  “It would have been too easy.”

  “Yes. Better to leave him the way he left us.”

  “No,” Mackenzie said.

  “What?”

  “We’re taking him back.” All the fury of the desert climbed to a screaming pitch in him. “We’re taking the son of a bitch all the way back.”

  Jay slumped against the truck, terrorized by Mackenzie’s sudden venom. Shirley reached for Mackenzie’s arm, her face alarmed, but he veered toward the truck: he took a canteen off the bunk and tottered past them toward Earle’s trench.

  Earle blinked up at him.

  “You’re still alive, then.”

  “I never doubted I would be,” Earle said. He even smiled. “Providence, Sam.”

  Mackenzie lowered the canteen to him. “That’s all yours. There’s plenty more. We’ve got the truck—we’ll leave as soon as it cools down. By midnight we’ll be on the highway. Have you in a hospital before you know it.”

  “God be praised.”

  “God and Samuel Mackenzie.”

  “That too. I won’t begrudge your strength. It’s God-given.”

  Earle’s God or the silversmith’s gods. One or another—Mackenzie believed it.

  Shirley brushed past him with the first-aid kit. Jay lurched behind her, his arms flapping as if broken. He’d put a hat on his head but he stood stark naked under it—an awe-inspiring scarecrow. “What do you mean, take hi
m back? For God’s sake, take him back?”

  Mackenzie felt too weak to stand. He stumbled toward the truck. Jay chased him with comic alacrity; caught him at the truck, hauled him around. “What did you mean, take him back?”

  Mackenzie felt the pinch of Jay’s weak grip on his arm. He didn’t push Jay away. He put both hands on Jay’s shoulders and gripped them hard, feeling the strength surge into his hands.

  He measured his words out with infinite effort. They fell with equal weight; like bricks.

  “This desert was our hell. But the one thing he can’t stand—that’s Duggai’s hell.” He pounded Jay’s shoulders happily, taking cheap pleasure in vindictiveness and feeling no shame for it. “Think of the worst thing we could do to him. The worst thing we could possibly do to him.”

  Jay’s face changed with slow comprehension.

  Shirley whispered, “The hospital?”

  “The hospital,” Mackenzie replied.

  They both began to nod and Mackenzie turned to see her better but the red haze washed her out. He had something to tell her. With stubborn determined effort he tried to form the words but then for a while he passed out.

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