Ambush at Shadow Valley (16 page)

Listening, Clarimonde noted that the slight trace of a Spanish accent that had crept into Soto's voice while they were below the border had now vanished. His English had become as clear as Beck's, or any man there.

‘‘I see,'' Beck replied coolly, not giving Soto any clue as to whether his question had been honest, or just his way of finding out if Soto knew what he was talking about. ‘‘In that case, tell us what we need to do to help you get it done. We need to be out of here headed north in no more than a week.''

Looking off toward a small weathered barn a hundred feet away, Soto said, ‘‘I'll need that building to do my work. It'll take the next couple of days. If we're through with introductions, I'll get started right away.''

‘‘Good enough,'' Beck said. He looked around at the faces of the men and said, ‘‘Caplan, Kirkpatrick, you two come with me. We're going to help him make—''

‘‘No,'' Soto said quickly, cutting him off, not wanting to share what he knew with the rest of the gang. ‘‘I won't be needing your help.'' He nodded toward Clarimonde and said, ‘‘Clair will give me all the help I need.'' He looked at her and said, ‘‘Bring the horses. I'll bring the buggy.'' He looked at Beck and said coolly, ‘‘I'm going to have a deep hole dug in the barn floor . . . and I'll need ice, lots of ice.

‘‘We can start diggin' the hole first thing in the morning,'' said Beck. ‘‘Ice might be a little hard to come by.''

‘‘As soon as I have a hole full of ice, I'll get started,'' Soto said firmly.

Beck looked around. ‘‘Where am I going to find any ice?''

‘‘That's your problem,'' Soto replied in a dry, arrogant tone. ‘‘Just get it for me.''

Watching the two gather the horses and loaded buggy and ride away toward the barn, Cruzan said to the others under his breath, ‘‘He's kind of an odd bird. I'm not so sure he's going to fit into this bunch.''

‘‘He's got a rude, belligerent turn to him,'' the Tall Texan commented. ‘‘He didn't mind keeping everbody waiting while he drank his fill before he'd ride out here.''

Beck stared after the two riders and their buggy load of supplies. ‘‘Well, he's not going to share what he knows with us, that's for certain.''

‘‘I'd almost as soon put the job off than work with the arrogant turd,'' Carver said. He spit on the ground toward the barn.

‘‘We're not putting it off,'' said Beck, watching Clarimonde look back at him from the open buggy. ‘‘He's our safecracker. Until one of us learns to make nitroglycerin and dynamite, we had better get used to him.''

The woman's eyes had singled Beck out for a moment, as if asking both him and herself if she could confide in him. Confide what? Beck wondered. He considered it, watching the man and woman move closer to the old barn. He didn't know what it was, but there was something at play here, he was sure of it. Shaking the matter from his mind for the moment, he turned to the others and said, ‘‘All right, let's get the man some ice. Bowen, you're in charge of getting it.''

‘‘Get the man some ice, where?'' Bowen Flannery said, spreading his hands. ‘‘Look around you, Memphis. We're in a desert.''

‘‘The rail station at Rock Crossing,'' Memphis said, the idea just coming to him. They're using insulated cars, shipping goods on ice from Missouri.''

‘‘Rock Crossing is more than a fifty mile ride from here,'' Flannery protested.

‘‘Then you had better pick a couple of men and get started quick,'' Memphis shot back. ‘‘Take the train out of Rusty Nail as far as Dry Buttes. Steal a handcar to ride back. That'll cut your time in half both ways.''

‘‘What about our horses?'' Flannery asked, spreading his hands.

Beck stared at him.

‘‘Damn it.'' Flannery shook his head. Then he looked at Billy Todd Carver and said to Cruzan, ‘‘All right, let's go. We're bringing back ice.''

Chapter 13

Clarimonde and Soto spent the night in the barn, the two of them sleeping on a pallet of hay-stuffed blankets in a warm, dry stall she had to prepare for them. The following morning in the first blue hour of light, she walked from the barn to the well out front of the house with a blanket wrapped around herself. No sooner had she walked out of the barn than Soto, naked, had stood up from the pallet and watched her through a crack in the wall planks. He carried his big Colt, his thumb poised over the hammer, ready to cock it if need be.

When Cruzan, who had spent the last third of the night on the porch keeping guard, stepped down to help her lift a bucket of water, Clarimonde turned him down. Soto smiled to himself, watching her draw the heavy oaken bucket of water from the well and carry it back toward the barn. At the well, Cruzan stood scratching his head. ‘‘I've never known a woman to turn down a friendly offer of assistance,'' he said to Memphis Beck, who had stepped out onto the porch, a freshly rolled smoke in his fingertips.

‘‘She's obeying her master, I'd say,'' Beck replied. Noting her bare feet and realizing that she wore nothing beneath the blanket, he watched her walk toward the barn. ‘‘Peculiar,'' he commented to himself, striking a match down a porch post and lighting his cigarette.

Looking toward the barn himself, Cruzan said, ‘‘Her master, huh? Well, as far as I'm concerned, this Soto fellow has no interest in ever being a part of our bunch. The sooner we can find somebody else who mixes explosives the better,'' Cruzan said, stepping back to the porch.

‘‘Maybe we've already found that person,'' Memphis speculated quietly to himself, watching the woman until she disappeared inside the barn.

‘‘Huh? What's that, Memphis?'' Cruz asked, not hearing his lowered words.

‘‘Oh, nothing,'' Beck said letting go of a stream of gray smoke on the crisp morning air. ‘‘Just thinking out loud.''

Inside the barn, Soto had walked back to the pallet and lain down on his side, facing her in the dark as if he were still asleep. When Clarimonde stepped inside and closed the door, she set the bucket of water down and made her way to the kerosene lamp standing on a dusty shelf. She took a long match from a wooden box, lit the lamp and adjusted the light into a narrow, circling glow.

With better light to see by, she carried the bucket over, set it atop a wooden work shelf and poured water into a wash pan sitting beside it. She gathered her long hair, wrapping and twisting it atop her head to get it out of her way.

In the dim, golden circle of light twenty feet away, Soto watched her drop the blanket from around herself, pick up a small washcloth from the pan of water, wring it between her hands and begin washing herself. He watched her, enjoying every movement, every touch of the wet cloth to her skin. She was not a young woman, nor was she beautiful. Her face, her sinewy body, had long been seasoned, weathered and hardened by the harsh Mexican hill country.

But Soto didn't care. She was no limp or rigid piece of cold flesh. She knew how to apply herself to the act of pleasing men. She was his for the taking, and she had seemed to grasp instantly that what he wanted from her was her complete and total submission. He smiled to himself outside the glow of light, watching her hand touch the cloth to her most private areas.

She was something warm, something to do with at his pleasure after all the days and nights alone in his ten by ten prison cell. He liked the idea of her knowing how little it would mean to him when the time came for him to kill her. And they both knew that time would come, he reminded himself, liking that idea as well. After he'd finished with her, had his fun with her, had his fill of her, they both knew she was marked for death.

When she'd finished washing herself, she gathered the blanket and walked out of the light to the pallet. Soto opened his eyes. Reaching out and grasping her forearm, he said, ‘‘Leave it lie,'' as she stooped to pick up her dress and put it on.

She let the dress fall from her fingertips and watched him turn onto his back and throw off his blanket, exposing himself to her. ‘‘Do something about this,'' he commanded her. Then he smiled, seeing her stand up long enough to loosen her hair from atop her head and bow down over him with no hesitation, no sign of reluctance. To think Nate Ransdale would have scalped and killed this woman, he reminded himself. The man was a fool. No wonder he was dead. . . .

Moments later, as Clarimonde stood dressed, rewrapping and resetting her hair atop her head, Soto had stepped into his trousers, pulled them up, buttoned them and looked all around the barn. He walked to Clarimonde and gripped her hard by her buttocks. ‘‘We slept too late. Go over to the house, get us a pot of coffee and some grub. Don't let me find out you said a word to anybody about how we met. Do you understand?''

‘‘I understand,'' Clarimonde said quietly, her eyes lowered.

‘‘Don't be foolish enough to think these men are going to do anything to help you. They need me worse than anybody needs you.'' His grip tightened; Clarimonde struggled to keep from trying to pull away from him. He tapped the side of his head. ‘‘You're just a washed-out whore. You're not worth the cost of your feed.'' He smiled cruelly. ‘‘I have
knowledge.
They'll do whatever I want them to do. That includes skinning and salting you, if I tell them to do it.'' He took a deep breath of satisfaction. ‘‘I'm the only thing keeping you alive.''

She winced under his increased grip on her behind. ‘‘I won't tell them anything, I swear it,'' she said. ‘‘I have given my word.''

He turned her loose roughly, saying, ‘‘All right, then get going and hurry back here with some food and coffee. We've got a lot to do to get ready for when our ice arrives.'' He watched her try to hurry away, limping the first few steps from the pain his strong grip had caused her. ‘‘Who knows, maybe I'll have you help me mix up the first batch of nitro. You have a steady hand, don't you?'' he said, teasing her.

‘‘I—I don't know if you should trust me to do something that important,'' she said. ‘‘I have heard how dangerous it is.''

‘‘Dangerous?'' Soto chuckled. ‘‘I'll tell you how dangerous. One false move and they would be picking pieces of you out of the trees.''

Clarimonde shook her head. ‘‘Please don't make me do something like that,'' she said, for the first time begging him to not force her to do something against her will. ‘‘I wouldn't be steady enough to do it.''

Soto's thin smile went away as he took a step toward her. ‘‘You'll do it if
I say
you'll do it,'' he said in a threatening manner.

Clarimonde shut up, her eyes still lowered. Knowing better than to say any more on the matter, she moved away toward the barn door. ‘‘Go on,'' Soto added, waving her away in dismissal as he reached for his shirt lying over a stall rail. ‘‘As soon as we get this place set up to mix our explosives, I'm going to tell
Mr. Memphis Beck
to have his men clear us out a room in the house all for ourselves,'' he said, even though Clarimonde had already left and shut the door behind herself. To himself he added as he straightened his wrinkled shirt, ‘‘He'll do it, too. That'll show how much he needs me. . . .''

Outside, walking to the house, Clarimonde saw Memphis Beck and another man watching her from the front porch. As if acting upon a word from Beck, the other man stood up and walked inside as she drew nearer. ‘‘Morning, ma'am,'' Beck said, standing and touching his hat brim. ‘‘I hope you were comfortable enough in the barn.''

‘‘Yes, thank you,'' Clarimonde said cordially yet stiffly, Beck noted. She stepped onto the porch, deliberately avoiding him with her eyes.

All right, Memphis, you're the smooth talker. Here's your chance. Get busy . . . ,
he ordered himself.

‘‘I want you to know that had we been expecting a lovely woman such as yourself, ma'am, we would have strived to provide you with more genteel accommodations,'' he said, hoping to bring her eyes around to him.

But she replied without facing him, ‘‘We made do with the accommodations on hand, Mr. Beck. May I please have a pot of coffee and some food?''

‘‘Yes, ma'am, you certainly may,'' Beck said. He stepped over and knocked on the front door, even through there were eyes watching them through the windows. ‘‘Now that you and Suelo are up and around, we'll get busy straightaway, digging the hole in the barn. I sent three of my men to fetch some ice.'' He heard someone turn the door handle from inside. ‘‘Is there anything else you or Suelo might have thought of overnight? Anything else that me and my associates can do to help speed things along?''

The woman stood rigid without offering any sort of reply. Beck had to ask himself if she realized how much her silence and her lack of response told him.

All right then . . .
Beck studied her expression.

The door opened, Beck's knock being answered by Dave Arken, who'd had been relieved from his job of standing guard along the trail. ‘‘Miss Clair,'' Beck said, ‘‘this is Dave Arken.''

‘‘Ma'am,'' Arken acknowledged with a curt nod.

To Arken, Beck said, ‘‘Dave, this is Miss Clair, Suelo Soto's ‘companion.' She and Suelo have gotten a late start this morning. Fix them up a fresh pot of coffee and some breakfast.''

‘‘Sure thing,'' said Arken, taking a second to look Clarimonde up and down. ‘‘We just made a fresh pot of coffee. I'll pour it into a couple of canteens. There's plenty of beans, bacon and hot cakes.''