The Cost of Dying

by Peter Brandvold

  Lou looked her up and down. “This ain’t you.”

  Louisa scowled beneath the broad brim of her Stetson. “What?”

  “This. This here.” Prophet waved his hand at her, indicating her delightful figure before him. “This ain’t you.”

  “What ain’t me?” she asked, mocking his poor grammar. Hers was perfect, of course. And she rarely cursed but when she did, it was usually at him.

  Lou gestured again. “This ain’t you. You ain’t standin’ here. Either I’m dreaming, or . . .” He turned toward the door to the secondary canyon in which the cliff dwellings lay. “It’s this place . . . this crazy haunted place . . .”

  “What crazy haunted place?”

  “The place . . . in there . . .”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Louisa stepped up in front of him, grabbed his shoulders, rose onto the toes of her boots, and pressed her lips to his.

  When she pulled away, she dropped to her heels and smiled up at him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Prophet said, astonished. “It is you!”

  “It’s me, all right.”

  “What are you doin’ here? How’d you get here? How in the holy blazes did you know where I was? Baja Jack said no one but him . . . and now his men and me and Colter Farrow . . . know about this place.”

  “I followed you.”

  Lou scowled down at her in disbelief. “Followed me? How far?”

  “Ever since you left Silver City.” Outside Silver City was where they’d had their falling-out over his snoring. Not just his snoring. The argument had multiplied the way arguments usually do, to include her slurs against his hygiene, his horse, and his ancestors and a few more things.

  Lou continued to scowl down at her in disbelief.

  Louisa shrugged. “I had a premonition about something bad happening to you down here. About you getting yourself into a situation that . . . well, a situation you didn’t have full control of.” Her right eye glistened wetly. “I had a dream that you came down here to Baja, fouled up, and got yourself killed, you big galoot!”

  She gave a rare sniff of sadness.

  Again, she shrugged—a single shoulder this time. “So I followed you. I stayed back because I was still angry. Besides, I knew you were still angry with me . . . and didn’t want you to see me . . . so . . . I held back.”

  “You been shadowing me ever since Silver City?” Prophet couldn’t believe it. Had he gotten so old and feeble that he didn’t know when he was being trailed? What if she’d been someone out to snuff his wick . . . which she had been a time or two in the past . . .

  “Don’t get your neck in a hump,” Louisa scolded him in his own colorful language. “I kept well back. An Apache wouldn’t have known I was back there.”

  “I doubt that.” Prophet renewed his accusatory scowl. “Hey, what about when them rurales buried us up to our necks in . . . ?”

  “I was about to take them down when your little friend and his mongrel cutthroats stepped in and saved your bacon.”

  “Ah, I see.” Prophet raked a pensive thumb along his jawline then fired off another accusing glare. “Boy, you were close then, weren’t ya?”

  “Well, you were a little distracted by that time. Really, Lou—drinking hopped-up mezcal and letting rurales waltz into your camp to bury you neck deep in the desert! You see why I followed you?”

  “We all make mistakes, Miss Persnickety Bloomers!” Lou leaned back against the rock he’d leaned against a moment ago, when he’d thought he was alone out here. He pulled out his makings sack again and started to build another quirley.

  Louisa moved up close to him again, spread her feet, and crossed her arms on her chest, confrontationally. “Where are you headed, Lou?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Ciaran Yeats?”

  Again, he scowled with deep annoyance. “You’ve gotten close more than a coupla times. Close enough to overhear me and the younker gassin’ over our plans!”

  “Everyone in this part of Baja knows that Alejandra de la Paz was kidnapped by Yeats. After you visited Hacienda de la Paz, I figured you were after Yeats . . . sicced on him by the don.” Louisa paused, canted her head to one side with even more accusing. “By the way, how was your evening with Señorita de la Paz? The beautiful Marisol . . .”

  She tapped the toe of one cocked boot against the ground and wrinkled her nose at him.

  Prophet looked at her again angrily, ready to cut loose with another tirade. But he stopped himself, poked the quirley into his mouth, and sealed it with his spit. He popped a lucifer to life on his thumbnail, touched the flame to the quirley, and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  He blew smoke at her.

  She waved it away. “You’re an animal.”

  Lou smiled smugly as he puffed the cigarette. “That’s what she said.” He frowned. “Say . . . what were you doing while I was . . . you know . . . otherwise involved at Hacienda de la Paz?”

  “Never mind that. What I want to know is how in the world do you think you’re going to be able to kill Yeats and squirrel his daughter out of that old Spanish fort? You do know how many men he has riding for him, don’t you? And how savage they all are?”

  “Yeah, I know a few things, Miss Smarty. What I want to know is how do you know all this about Yeats?”

  “I’ve known about Yeats for years. He kidnaps young women . . . young peon women, mostly. He takes them from their families and turns them into slaves for his and his men’s diabolical desires. When he tires of them, or they get sick or pregnant, he sends them across the Sea of Cortez to work for pimps in the slums of Mexico City where they cater to the ugly needs of men even more squalid than himself.”

  “Yeah, you would know about him, wouldn’t you?” Louisa specialized in such men as Ciaran Yeats, who committed crimes against girls and families, similar to the way the Handsome Dave Duvall bunch had devastated Louisa’s own family, leaving her an orphan. Now she rode the long lonely bloody western trails, scouring the frontier of men just like Handsome Dave . . . and Ciaran Yeats.

  “I reckon it’s right surprising you haven’t hunted Yeats down by now,” Prophet remarked, then took another deep drag off his quirley.

  “Oh, I’ve thought about it. Unlike some, I make use of my winter vacations.” She’d spouted that out in true Vengeance Queen–uppity fashion.

  “I ain’t exactly whistlin’ ‘Dixie’ down here, you know.”

  “No, but you’re going after Yeats for money.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry not all of us are bleedin’ hearts. I do like to eat a meal now and then, and so does Mean and Ugly.”

  “That horse should be fed a bullet.”

  “Be that as it may, you gonna shadow me to Yeats or do you wanna ride along?” Prophet smiled ironically at the pretty blonde. “Shall I introduce you to my pards in yonder?”

  “I’ll make my own friends, if you don’t mind.”

  “Uppity!”

  “Besides, I don’t trust Baja Jack and neither should you.”

  “How do you know Jack?”

  “Like I said, I make use of my winter vacations. Nasty little bandito. He grows locoweed for Yeats. Everybody knows that, and you would, too, if when you came down here you didn’t just—”

  “I’ll do what I want on my own time, if you don’t mind! And get your snooty tongue off Baja Jack. He pulled me and Colter out of a bad situation.”

  “Yes, didn’t he?” Louisa gave an ironic snort.

  Prophet studied the coal of his cigarette, which had burned down to a nub. “What don’t you trust about Jack?”

  Louisa gave a weary sigh, doffed her hat, and ran her hand back through her long, thick, gold-blond hair. “Think about it, Lou. He grows that vile weed for Yeats.”

  “I hear it keeps him alive.”

  “It’s turned him into a madman. Him and his army of degenerates. They’re all addicted to the stuff.”

  “You can’t blame Baja Jack for turnin’ a nickel.�
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  Louisa stuffed her hat back onto her head, gave another tolerant sigh, and crossed her arms on her chest. “Do you really think he’s going to let you and your redheaded friend just waltz into Baluarte Santiago and drill a couple of rounds into Yeats, his best customer?”

  It was Prophet’s turn to give an ironic chuff. “He doesn’t know that’s what we’re gonna do, silly child!”

  “Oh, please!” Louisa threw her pretty head back and trilled out a sarcastic laugh in true Louisa fashion.

  Prophet stared at her. Chagrin buzzed around his ears like a pesky fly. He didn’t say anything but only studied on the notion she’d planted in his brain.

  “He knows you’re a bounty hunter, doesn’t he?” Louisa asked though it was obvious she knew the answer.

  “Of course he does. I’m right famous, don’t ya know.” Of course, Louisa might even be more famous but he wasn’t about to remind her of that.

  “Lou, do you really think Baja Jack, who knows you’re a bounty hunter, doesn’t at least suspect that you’re in this part of Baja because you’re out to kill Ciaran Yeats, a man with multiple, high-dollar bounties on his head north of the border?”

  Again, Prophet just stared at her. That pesky fly was joined by another . . . and another.

  Louisa said in that annoyingly confident way of hers, “I have a pretty good notion that Baja Jack is leading you to Ciaran Yeats to—”

  “Kill me?”

  “Or to let Yeats do it.”

  Prophet flicked the quirley stub away. It bounced, red cinders flying before glinting out. He stared at where he’d thrown it, suspicion building in him, poking at his belly like a dull stick.

  Louisa placed a hand on his right cheek, near his jawline. “You’re bleeding, you idiot.

  “Huh?”

  “Your face looks like ground beef left out in the sun.”

  Lou fingered the cut over his swollen right eye. It left a faint smear of blood on his index finger. He shrugged. “It’s been a hard ride.” He gave a droll chuckle. “I think I’ll spend next winter in Dakota.”

  Louisa pulled a lace-edged pink hankie out of her back pocket then rose up on her boot toes again. She dabbed the hankie at the cut over his swollen eye. She touched it to her tongue, gave him a vaguely coquettish sidelong glance, then went to work on the cut again.

  “I swear,” she said as she worked, “I don’t know how you get along without me.”

  “I manage.”

  “Yes . . . the lovely Marisol.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Not at all. I just feel sorry for her. There’s obviously such a paucity of men around Hacienda de la Paz that she—”

  Prophet grabbed her, drew her to him, and kissed her. She resisted at first then returned the kiss, groaning as they ground their lips together.

  Finally, she pulled away from him, staring up at him, breathing hard.

  “I’ve missed you,” he confessed.

  “I know.” Louisa smiled, already back to her old tricks. She looked at the bloodstained hankie, wrinkled her nose, and held it out to him. “Here. You can have that.”

  Prophet took it without looking at it. He stared at her, desiring her the way he always desired her—with a surging, hammering, nearly overpowering need.

  She backed away from him, smiling.

  “Where you going?”

  “Back to my camp.”

  “Why don’t you ride with us?”

  “Into that trap?” Louisa shook her head. “No thanks. I’ll keep an eye on you, though, you big galoot—for all the good it’ll do you with as many men as Yeats has riding for him.”

  She shook her head, giving a dark sigh.

  She blew him a kiss, swung around, and tramped off into the night.

  Just like that, she was gone, and Prophet stood staring after her. As though to reassure himself she’d really been here, and he hadn’t just dreamed her, he looked at the pink handkerchief in his hand.

  He clenched it in his fist then started back to his bedroll. “Miss Uppity Bloomers!”

  Chapter 32

  “We’ll be meeting our friend today—eh, Lou?” Colter said the next morning after they and Baja Jack and his men had enjoyed an early breakfast of tortillas, frijoles, and coffee.

  Now they were all saddling their horses. Old Pepe was placing the aparejos and panniers on the burros while singing a typically forlorn Mexican ballad and smoking a corn-husk cigarette that dribbled ashes as the old man worked.

  Lou was reaching under Mean and Ugly’s belly to tie the latigo straps. “Sounds like we’ll get there today, yeah. According to Jack.”

  Colter had finished saddling Northwest. Now he moved up close to Mean and stared over the saddle at Lou, frowning curiously. “Somethin’ botherin’ you, Lou? You ain’t said much so far this mornin’. That ain’t like you.”

  Prophet cast a quick, furtive glance toward Baja Jack, who was dressing down one of his men, whom he’d apparently caught spicing his morning coffee with tequila. His rule was only a couple of sips of tarantula juice during lunch, to wash the beans down, and a few more at night, excluding those men on first guard duty, of course.

  Last night no guards had been posted since Baja Jack was fully confident that no one but him and his present company knew about the ancient mud dwellings in the secondary canyon.

  Baja Jack strictly forbade morning libations, wanting his men to be as clear as “Baptist preachers and Madre María on Easter Sunday her own damn self” at the start of the day. It was a somewhat comical sight—little, squat, bull-legged, hawk-nosed Baja Jack remonstrating a man who was easily twice as tall as he was and who could, if he’d wanted, have squashed Jack like a bug without trying. The bigger man just stared silently down in chagrin at Jack, however, absently rubbing his hands up and down on his serape.

  Lou was glad to see Jack preoccupied at the moment. He wanted to have a quick, secret palaver with his trail partner. He hadn’t slept much after talking with Louisa last night in the main canyon, because he knew she’d been right, and he felt like a fool for not having considered the possible problem himself.

  Lou gazed over his saddle at Colter. “Keep an eye on Jack, Red.”

  Colter frowned. “Huh?”

  “Just keep an eye on him.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “Uh . . .” Prophet cleared his throat. “Somethin’ sort of occurred to me last night, after I walked out for my stroll and had me a ponder.” He saw no reason to mention that his female partner was shadowing him. At least not yet. It was damned embarrassing, his getting shadowed by his female partner and not even suspecting she was back there. And then her informing him of what he should have recognized as an obvious threat.

  No, it was just too much to admit to right off . . .

  “What occurred to you last night, Lou?”

  “Jack might be onto us.”

  Colter frowned. “Onto us?”

  “Yeah. You know . . .”

  Prophet glanced over at Jack. The little man had finished dressing down the morning tequila-imbiber and had gone over to palaver with old Pepe. His mood had changed suddenly, like Mexican governments that came and went with the wind, and now he was laughing and sharing dirty stories in Spanish with the old burro wrangler while the other men finished saddling their horses.

  Lou continued with: “I’m thinkin’ Jack might have figured out we’re after Yeats. To kill him. You know—since he knows I’m a bounty hunter an’ all. He might’ve figured out our plan, see, and, if so, he ain’t gonna cotton to the idea of our killin’ his main customer.”

  He glanced at Jack once more then turned back to Colter. “He might be leading us into a trap, see, is what I’m sayin’.”

  Colter stared across the saddle at Lou. He smiled, chuckled, and said, “Of course he does.” He chuckled again and regarded Prophet skeptically. “Yeah, he probably does, Lou! I guess I sort of figured you already figured that out, so I saw no point in bringin’ it up!” />
  Lou stared across the saddle at him, his ears burning.

  Colter said, “I figured we both figured it was a risk worth taking, since Jack’s gonna take us right up to Yeats’s front doorstep an’ all. I mean, how else were we gonna find the Mad Major? Hell, we’re about to get a personalized introduction to the locoweed-addicted son of a buck!”

  Lou’s ears burned. “So, you . . . then . . . you already figured . . .”

  “Yeah, of course,” Colter said, grinning across the saddle. “I guess the trick is gonna be how do we do-si-do around Baja Jack and kill Yeats without getting ourselves killed in the process, since we’re probably gonna have to buck both Yeats’s men and Jack’s men, too. Oh, and of course there’s the little matter of rescuing the don’s daughter from Baluarte Santiago.”

  Colter chuckled and wagged his head. “I don’t know about you, Lou, but this trip to Mexico is turning out to be the most fun I’ve had in a long time. It beats running from the law up north.” He winced and clutched his side. “Except for a couple of nasty bullet burns, I mean . . .”

  “All right.” Lou looked away in shame, tapping his fingers on his saddle. “All right, then. Never mind me . . .”

  Again, Colter chuckled, turned, and walked over to his horse.

  “Yeah,” Lou said. “Never mind me . . .”

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon after a long hot day of riding when Baja Jack reined his horse to a stop at the crest of a steep ridge. It was one of many ridges they’d crossed that day.

  Jack leaned back in his saddle, hooked one of his short, crooked legs around his saddle horn, and thumbed his sombrero back off his forehead. He lifted his chin to indicate a large, pale bastion topping the next ridge beyond, maybe a mile away as the crow flies.

  “That, gents,” said Jack, “is Baluarte Santiago.”

  Prophet stretched his gaze across the next canyon, squinting against the harsh sunlight. Baluarte Santiago was an impressive piece of Spanish masonry, at least regarding the masonry of three or four hundred years ago. The mottled pale walls appeared thick and tall from this distance and punctuated by domed defensive turrets. Inside the walls rose a heavy, blocklike building of several levels and wings and which had likely housed the bastion’s garrison and commanding officers as well as stables for the garrison’s horses.