The Texians 2

by Zack Wyatt

  Ice!

  Frigid water—not hot as imagined—engulfed him as he plummeted into the swamp, sucking him downward. The icy shock suffused every cell of his body. Awareness sliced through the sluggish molasses flowing about his brain, above the pain searing in his back.

  Sands forced aside the panicked instinct to kick toward the surface. Cotton, Pumpkin, and Professor Peoples waited for him up there. Instead he sank into the muddy water, hands groping, finding the moss that covered the bottom, and anchoring himself. He steadied his buoyant body, then reached out, grasped a handful of the moss ahead of him, and pulled forward.

  His body screamed! The simple movement of his arms strained the muscles in his back. Cotton’s rifle ball felt like a honed razor embedded in his flesh, cutting, slicing, working its way deeper toward something vital within him. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached from the pressure, reached out, and grasped another handful of moss to edge forward another arm’s length.

  Lancing brands of fiery pain erupted anew. Sands’ head spun wildly, threatening to send him plummeting into the darkness of unconsciousness. He struggled through the waves of agony to find another handhold in the moss and tugged. Then again. And again.

  His jumbled spill down the bank had robbed him of any sense of direction. But direction didn’t matter; anywhere was better than what awaited above.

  Sands’ hand closed around—his mind went blank, unable to identify the solid, knotted length in his palm for what seemed like an eternity. When realization came, the fight remaining in his chest dissipated. He held a submerged root! One he was certain belonged to the cypress and willow trees that grew but a few feet from where he had fallen into the water. He had pulled himself back to the bank!

  Open my mouth. Suck in one deep breath and then ...

  No!

  He shoved away the thought. He still lived, and as long as life pumped through his veins there was a chance.

  He reached blindly out through the muddy water and found another root. Beyond that, there was another and another. Teeth clenched, threatening to crack beneath the pressure of his jaw, he fought off the waves of engulfing pain and dragged himself along the swamp’s submerged floor.

  When his burning lungs could no longer contain their hunger for air, he floated upward, slowly, allowing only his head to quietly break the water’s surface. He drank down the air in gulps as his eyes blinked away the water that blurred them. And he listened.

  “If you kilt him, Cotton”—Pumpkin’s voice reached Sands’ ears—“then where the hell’s the body?”

  “It sank to the bottom, you stupid sonofabitch!” a feral growl answered.

  Sands glanced about, hastily taking in his surroundings. The roots had brought him twenty feet upstream, safely beyond the gaze of those on the bank above—at least for the time being. If the three decided to search, he’d be easy enough to find here. He looked out across the water, toward the moss-laden cypress trees.

  If I can reach ...

  “I can see the big one’s body floating just below the surface.” Professor Peoples’ voice interrupted Sands’ thought. “Why can’t I see the other one?”

  “I think we should go down and find him, Cotton.” This from Pumpkin. “He’s seen all our faces. He can—”

  Sands didn’t wait to hear more. Sucking down another breath, he sank below the surface and used the moss covering the bottom to carry him across the open stretch of the river and into the shallow water among the cypress trees and their roots.

  Again, he cautiously poked his head above the water and gulped air. Across the water, Pumpkin and Peoples prodded among the reeds along the bank with their rifles, searching for him. Cotton stood above them, hands on his hips, laughing at their efforts.

  “Even if he is alive, he won’t last long. I got him dead center of the back. Enough gators around to take care of him.”

  Sands didn’t waste the effort to silently curse the mountainous killer, but sank beneath the water again, working his way farther back among the fat-boled cypress trees that jutted from the swamp. When he came up for air again, he could no longer see the three or the bank.

  A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips. He had done it; he had eluded them! Now to get himself out of this damnable swamp. As long as a breath remained in his body, he’d find a way to make Cotton pay ...

  The image of death Sands had seen in Cotton’s eyes overlaid his thoughts of revenge. Was he lying to himself? Terror was the only word he had for the paralyzed feeling the killer evoked in him. He had known fear—any man who had ever faced a howling Comanche warrior bent on hanging a white man’s scalp from his tipi had known fear and conquered it, or died.

  What he had seen in Cotton’s face, those emotionless eyes, went beyond fear. The man lived to kill. Sands had seen the ecstasy in that face when he had cut Dub down. The man’s hunger, his desire for killing was—what most men experience in the bed of a woman well versed in carnal pleasures. It was something Sands had never seen in a man, something he knew he would have to face again if the twisted knot in his gut ever was to be shattered.

  At the moment he was in no condition to face anyone. Now he had nothing but one task at hand, to stay alive, to survive.

  Sands pushed to his knees, then managed to pull himself upward by hugging a cypress trunk. Pain, the constant pain, swelled to wash through his body in a tidal wave of fiery heat and icy cold at the same time. The ranger clung to the tree as the world abruptly stood on its head and swirled about him.

  Before the spinning maelstrom of his senses dragged him down into the tempting oblivion of unconsciousness, his vision steadied. He stood motionless with temples pounding, afraid that the slightest movement would bring on another onslaught of dizziness.

  Cautiously his eyes shifted to the left. No more than twenty feet away, a small knoll pushed from the water, a grassy island five feet wide and ten feet long. But it was dry. A place where he could rest for a moment and think.

  Taking one step, letting the vertigo pass, then wobbling another unsteady step, Sands crossed to the humpback knoll and dragged himself from the water to lie face down in the tall, green grass. He sighed and closed his eyes. He’d rest here a few minutes, gather his strength, then push on.

  Rest ... just a few ... minutes ... then ...

  A scream!

  Sands jerked rigid, crying out as pain knifed through his back. His eyes went wide and darted about him. Confused, he stared at the moss-dripping jungle of cypress trees towering about him. And he remembered—Professor Peoples, Pumpkin, Cotton, Dub’s murder, the rifle ball he had taken in the back.

  “Stupid bastard.” He cursed aloud as he noticed the dim light that filtered through the trees. He had done more than rest; he had fallen asleep.

  How long? Unable to see the sun through the leafy canopy above and with his watch in Pumpkin’s pocket, he had no way of knowing for certain. But it was obvious hours had passed. Evening now swallowed the swamp.

  A scream echoed through the trees again. The same scream that had brought him from his unwanted sleep. Somewhere a cougar stalked. Probably in the forest ... too damned wet in here for a cat.

  The thought gave him little comfort. The water that kept the cougar from the swamp was the same water he had to cross—somehow—to find help.

  Sands pulled his arms to his sides and pressed his palms flat against the ground. A cry forced its way over his lips when he shoved upward. That honed razor once more went to work deep in his back.

  Fighting his way through the swirling agony, he tucked his knees beneath him and slowly stood in a swaying stance. All you have to do is swim back the way you came, he reassured himself while struggling to keep his balance.

  He looked up, gaze going out over the swamp. The way you came ... He couldn’t remember the way he came. The left, the right—they looked the same.

  Shifting one foot a fraction of an inch and following it with the other, he turned. Nothing appeared familiar. There was nothing but water
, trees, moss, and shadows. A humorless smile moved over Sands’ lips; the irony of his situation was inescapable. He had managed to elude his would-be killer only to lose himself.

  Lost or not, he had to make, a try at the swamp. He couldn’t wait; with each passing second he could feel his strength oozing from the hole in his back. In an hour he wouldn’t have the willpower to push himself.

  Sands took a shaky step, then another. He walked straight ahead. One direction was as good as the other—a four-to-one shot that he chose correctly. Not the best odds in the world, but the only ones he had.

  He managed five steps before his knees went liquid on him, and he collapsed back into the grass. He screamed, unashamed of the cry, using it to push back the maelstrom that sucked him downward toward unconsciousness.

  When the churning waves of pain subsided once more, Sands pulled himself to his knees for a second time. “Easy now, you sonofabitch. Take it slow and easy. You can’t take too many falls like that. You haven’t the strength to pick yourself up again and again.”

  He coaxed himself to his feet and stood—for a quivering heartbeat before he collapsed back on his face. Hot tears of frustration welled up in his eyes. He had lied to himself. He didn’t have the strength to do any more than just lie here and let death creep in to steal his life away.

  No!

  He had to try again. He couldn’t just resign himself to death. He couldn’t let Cotton win—not like this. He had to move!

  His arms slid to his side and he flattened his quaking palms against the ground. Pain flared as he tensed his arms and inched upward.

  He cursed. The best he could do was to raise himself to his elbows and then lift his head and stare at the ...

  Angel!

  Sands blinked his eyes to erase the hallucination. He stared out over the murky water once more. The angel remained. In long, flowing white, she was floating among the cypress trees. Her hair, a cascade of gold, rained over her shoulders to hang halfway to her waist. It sparkled and glinted as it caught the setting rays of the sun.

  Madness. Sands shook his head. In the last minutes before his death, fate had decided to visit him with madness. His beautiful angel didn’t even carry a harp in her hands, but what appeared to be a long staff—a walking stick.

  And there'’s nowhere to walk in this God-forsaken swamp! But then his lovely vision didn’t walk, she floated over the muddy water. Not even her hem of her white gown was dirtied by the swamp’s filth.

  “Here.” Sands tried to call out to her, but his voice was gone, no more than a mere whisper.

  He shoved upward. The lance of agony drove deeper between his shoulder blades. He didn’t fight the pain now, but tumbled into the churning darkness to await the gentle hands of his waiting angel.

  Chapter Five

  Josh Sands floated. A billowy cloud gently caressed the aching muscles of his body, soothing away the pain. He sighed, the sound reaching his ears as a whispered moan. Something cool and moist brushed across his forehead. He sigh-moaned again, and his eyelids, hot and leaden, fluttered open.

  The golden-haired angel hovered above him. The concern knitting that lovely brow vanished when she saw his open eyes, and was replaced by a soft smile.

  Wanting to speak, Sands forced his dry lips to part, but was unable to pull the words from his spinning brain—only another weak moan.

  The smiling angel leaned closer, her aquamarine eyes aglow with an inner light. She placed a cool finger to his lips. “Shhhh. Don’t try to talk. Just rest. Sleep and rest are what you need.”

  Sands attempted to return her smile, but strength fled him. His weighted eyelids closed.

  A demon, fiery body with horned brow and cloven hooves, reached into the dark well and snatched Sands from the peaceful comfort of sleep. By the nape of his neck, the ruby-eyed devil dangled the naked ranger in front of him, feet, inches from the burning coals of the floor.

  Sands’ brain sent commands to his hands and arms to strike, to slam a fist into the grotesque creature that eyed him like some slab of meat. Neither hand balled nor arm swung. Sands’ strength had completely abandoned him, leaving him helpless in the grip of Satan himself.

  The demon’s eyes brightened as though he had read his captive’s mind. He laughed and the sound came from his throat like the braying of a jackass.

  “Welcome to hell,” the devil spoke. “This is going to hurt you more than it will me!”

  The braying laughter rose to a crescendo. Sands’ eyes darted about in desperation. Hell was a flaming blacksmith shop: a billows, a glowing forge, and an anvil three times as large as the ranger had ever seen.

  It was atop that anvil the demon flung him, belly down on unyielding iron. Again Sands’ brain shot commands to his body, but muscle and sinew refused to obey.

  “I see they left the lead in for me!” the devil spoke as he placed burning palms against Sands’ exposed back. “Might as well get rid of that right now.”

  The demon raised a clawed hand and thrust it straight into the flesh between his victim’s shoulder blades. Sands screamed, unable to endure the column of fire that lanced deep to the core of his body. Blackness swirled up to swallow him.

  The angel hovered over him again, holding a tin cup in a delicate hand. He smiled when she gently lifted his head and placed the cup to his cracked lips.

  “Drink this, it’ll help ease the fires,” she said ever so softly. “Then try and sleep some more. I’ll be right here, watching after you.”

  Sands sipped, then forced his throat to swallow the honey-sweet mixture of molasses, sulfur, and a touch of corn liquor. It rolled smooth and cool all the way to his stomach. He drank again, draining the cup before the angel lowered his head atop a passing cloud.

  The boy ignored the screaming pain that radiated from the Comanche arrow shafting from his young body. He clawed at the dry grass, dragging himself forward toward the burning supply store. He had to get into the building. Had to! His mother was trapped within.

  A dream, Sands told himself. I’m dreaming. He tried to shake the dream away. He had lived this when he had been twelve years old. He had no desire to relive it in his dreams.

  The dream continued, and Joshua Sands, once more a child, dragged himself through the summer-burned grass, past the butchered body of his father toward the roaring inferno and the screams of his dying mother within.

  Sands awoke. His eyes blinked and focused. He lay not on a cloud but in a bed, atop a plump feather mattress with a down comforter tucked neatly under his unshaven chin. Two pillows were carefully arranged beneath his head.

  Nor was he in the fiery bowels of hell. He lay in the small log cabin of a hunter, if the pelts hung on the walls were any indication. The smell of sulfur did hang in the air; its source was a small bowl on a rough-hewn wooden table to the left of the bed. A small cone of the yellow powder now smoldered within.

  The angel, however, was quite real. The flowing white gown that he had first seen her in now hung from a nail in the wall across from the bed. The homespun dress had been exchanged for a black-dyed man’s shirt and a pair of gray doeskin breeches. Gone too was the walking staff he had originally seen in her hands. She now clutched an ancient-looking, long-barrel hunting rifle while she sat peering out the cabin’s sole window. A hint of moonlight filtered through the stretched gut covering the window to mist softly about her face.

  Rifle, homespun shirt, and doeskin breeches or not, she was still beautiful, with streaming blond hair that cascaded down her back like threads of fine, spun gold. Sands pushed himself up into a sitting position in the bed.

  The young woman’s head turned from the window. She smiled. “So you’ve finally decided to wake up.”

  Her voice was as soft as he remembered from his dreams, and her features as delicate as a china doll’s. This was his angel; he had no doubt about it, and he told her so.

  “Angel, devil, you called me both—and a lot worse this past week.” Rifle still in hand, she walked from the gut-co
vered window to the bed. “Not that I hadn’t heard most of them. Though there were a few that I had missed before, Mr. ...” She laughed softly and shook her head. “I’ve been nursing you for a week, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Josh—Josh Sands.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even in the cabin’s dimness her eyes were agleam with a dancing light. She was young, no more than twenty. “And yours? I’d like to thank the angel who pulled me from the swamp.”

  “Viola Sharp,” she said with a disdainful crinkling of her nose. “Pa hated it worse than I do. He used to call me by my middle name, Ann.”

  Sands nodded his approval. Viola was a name that belonged to an old woman who spent her days knitting in a rocking chair. “Ann’s good, but I think I like Angel better.”

  “Mite sight better than you-son-of-a-godamned-pox-ridden-whore.” She laughed again. “That’s what you called me when I cut the bullet from your back. Can’t say that I blame you none, though. The bullet was in deep, and it took a long time to dig it out. I was afraid the wound would fester after you got all that mud and swamp water in it. I cauterized it with black powder.”

  Sands cringed inwardly at the thought of powder being poured into his wound and ignited. He remembered his dream of the demon sinking a claw hand into his back. That claw had obviously stemmed from the searing black powder. Although it was hard to believe pain could transform this angel into a devil. “I thank you, and apologize for ...” Ann’s words suddenly penetrated Sands’ mind. “A week? Did you say you’ve been nursing me for a week?”

  “Didn’t think you’d make it through the first night,” she said, explaining she had heard the gunshots coming from the edge of the swamp and taken her father’s flat-bottomed swamp boat to investigate.

  Sands smiled. His angel had floated across the swamp, although not in the air, as he had thought, but in a boat. And her walking staff had been a long pole to glide the boat through the shallow waters.

  “Found you lying atop one of the few dry spots in this swamp. Managed to roll you into the boat, bring you back here, and drag you into that bed.” She reached out and lightly rested a palm on his forehead. “Fever’s gone now. Broke early this morning. You’ve been sleeping quietly all day.” As her fingers slipped away, Sands reached up to take her hand. She jerked back; her eyes burned with fire now.