Golden Riders (17 page)

“Not to mention Cordy and his rowdy pals,” said Short. “You think me and Earl ought to ride out, see who's in El Ricon, see if we can find out what's keeping everybody?”

Kane sat silent again for a moment; the two gunmen gave each other a look.

“Yeah, I think so,” Kane said, finally. “I've got a big job waiting for us—requires a good dynamite man. I sent for the best in the business. A Mex-Injun called the Bluebird. You ever heard of him?”

“The Bluebird?” said Faraday. “Sure I've heard of him. Like you said, he's supposed to be the best blowup man in the business. Learned his trade from the South American Suala Soto.”

“That's him,” said Kane. “I've got the Garlet boys bringing the Bluebird up here. Sniff around, see where the hell they are.”

“You've got it, Boss,” said Faraday.

“I've heard of the Bluebird too,” Short cut in. “Always heard he's the best. I heard he blew up everything from Chihuahua to the Honduras for the Mexican-German mining companies.” He grinned again, his face pale behind his black mustache. “I'd be honored to have him open a big ole safe for us, let me run my fingers through some fresh U.S. greenbacks.”

“How about some bright yellow gold ingots?” Kane said quietly. He gave the two a secretive sidelong glance.

“I can live with that too,” Short said. “I have never had a minute's trouble turning ingots into cash money.”

“So, Boss,” said Faraday, “when do you want us to head out, see if we can find out what's keeping everybody?”

Kane gave the two another sidelong look, then gazed back out across the Mexican hill line.

“Ain't you gone yet?” he said.

El Ricon, the Mexican Badlands

It was dark the following evening when Short and Faraday, having traveled all day and most of the night before, rode into the small, dirty town and stepped down from their horses at a hitch rail out front of the Luna Loca cantina and brothel. Laughter, guitar and accordion led by the blare of a trumpet reached out and met them as the two stepped onto a plank boardwalk toward the blanket-draped doorway.

Firelight flickered from iron firepots filled with wood, refuse and fuel oil standing in front of the Luna Loca and along the half-empty street of the small mining community. Five yards away, two half-naked brothel girls stood smoking thin black cigars and sharing a bottle of rye with a drunken teamster. They disregarded the two newcomers and concentrated on their easier prey.

“Well, well, look who's here, pals,” said a voice in the darkened shadows just out of the firelight as Short and Faraday walked closer.

Another voice replied as two more men stepped forward from the shadows into the flicker of the street fire.

“Dayton Short and Earl Faraday, as I live and breathe,” the voice said.

“Howdy, Luke, howdy, Quince . . . Woods,” said Short, he and Faraday both touching their hat brims, recognizing the three.

Luke Bolten, Jimmy Quince and Hank Woods touched their hat brims in return.

“We were talking about you two earlier tonight,” said Luke Bolten, a tall, wiry gunman with a reputation for being fast with a six-gun. “Wondering if your man Braxton's got any gun work that might need doing.”

Short and Faraday stopped and looked at the three figures lounging against the front of the adobe building. Short turned to Faraday with a look, then turned back to Bolten.

“I would ordinarily tell you to speak to Brax himself about gun work. But it turns out you might be getting here at just the right time.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Bolten, his interest piquing. He and the other two stepped closer. “Something told me we might be hitting here at the right time. What have you got planned?”

“That would be for Braxton and us to know,” Faraday said a little sharply. He eyed the big nickel-plated Russian revolver glinting in the firelight in Bolten's cross-draw holster.

“But the thing is,” Short cut in, “we'll take you there, make sure he knows you're available.”

“And we're all obliged for your help,” Bolten said for
the three of them. “It is damn hard talking to Braxton when he's got something big planned.”

“It won't be for you, not this time,” said Faraday. “We're looking around for some men right now. But you fellows be ready to ride when we come back through here.”

“Whoa, Short. We're ready to ride right now,” said Bolten, not wanting to take a chance on the two leaving without them and not coming back. “What say we ride along with you wherever you're headed? You never know out here when you might need some guns backing you up.”

Short considered it for a moment, then nodded.

“All right then, come with us,” he said. “The first place we're headed is right through that blanket to get us some rye whiskey. Then we're headed up out of here.”

Bolten grinned and looked at the other two gunmen.

“And you can rest easy, knowing that me and Quince and Woods here will have you both covered while you drink it,” the outlaw said, only half joking.

“I feel better already,” said Faraday as the five of them filed inside the Luna Loca and walked through the blaring music to the bar.

Seeing the five men walk to the bar, knowing that Short and Faraday rode with Braxton Kane, the bartender wasted no time standing a bottle of rye and shot glasses along the bar. He had already poured the rye when Short and the others stopped at the bar. Short gave him a nod.

“Obliged, Cooney,” he said to the red-nosed bartender.
As he and the others raised their glasses, he asked Ned Cooney, “Has any of our hombres come through here today?”

“No,” the bartender said, “just these fellows.” He nodded at the three gunmen standing with Short and Faraday. “I figured them for Golden Riders soon as I laid eyes on them.”

Short gave a chuckle.

“Hear that, hombres? He took you three for part of our bunch soon as he saw you.”

The three gunmen only nodded, staring at the bartender. Looking nervous, Cooney swallowed a knot in his throat.

“Did I—did I do something wrong?” he said.

Short downed his drink and shook his head.

“No, Ned, you done good,” he said. He wrapped a hand around the bottle to pour himself another shot.

The bartender looked relieved.

“Thank you kindly,” he said. “I hope you mentioned me to Braxton Kane. I can be ready to ride
anywhere
he wants me to,
anytime
he wants me to.”

“He knows that, Cooney,” said Short with a stare. “I ain't forgot about you. Now why don't you get on away from here whilst me and my pals talk.” As Short spoke the trumpet player blew out a long string of loud sharp notes.

“Damn . . . !” said Faraday with wince. He said to Cooney, “If you want to be useful how about raising your scattergun and shooting that fool's horn out of his mouth?”

The bartender looked trapped and worried.

“Well . . . I suppose I—that is, if he's bothering—” His words stuttered and halted, but even so his hand reached down under the bar.

“Easy, Cooney,” said Short, “he's just joshing you.”

The bartender let out a tense, tight breath.

“Now go on, let us talk,” Short said.

As the bartender hurried away along the bar full of drinkers, Bolten chuckled and shook his head.

“Why'd you stop him? I believe he would've done it.”

“So do I,” said Short.

“It shows you how bad everybody wants to throw in with us Golden Riders,” said Faraday.

“Finding gunmen has never been hard to do,” Bolten came back quickly. He looked sidelong at Hank Woods and Jimmy Quince, then gave Faraday a narrowed look. “But finding three
good ones
like us is a whole different story.”

“Alls I'm saying is—” said Faraday.

“Besides,” said Bolten, cutting him off, “If gunmen are wanting to ride with you
that bad
, where are they?” He gestured around the smoke-filled cantina. “All I see is
you and us
”—he nodded down the bar toward Ned Cooney—“and some half-simple cork puller, ready to shotgun a horn player because he's too stupid to tell you was joshing with him.”

Short reached over with the bottle of rye and filled Bolten's glass before Faraday could offer a comeback.

“Right you are, Luke,” he said. “Pay Earl no mind. We've been letting him piss so close to the house he's starting to think he's smarter than the barn dwellers.” He gave Faraday a glance, letting him know to shut up.
“The fact is we
should
have more men here right now than we do.” As he spoke he looked at the others' glasses, making sure they were full. Then he set the bottle aside, picked up the cork and corked it. “What say we all drink up here and go find out why?”

When the five men left the Luna Loca they rode in purple-gray moonlight until well after midnight, seeing not a single campfire in any direction. Overhead, a deep rounded blanket of stars lay glittering across a velvet Mexican sky. As the trail sloped upward into a labyrinth of random stonework, black slices of shadow reached out and down from the tops of jagged hill lines. On the edge of a cliff, the five men bunched their horses close together. They looked out across a silver-streaked ocean of sand strewn with islands of stone, of tall saguaro cactus, their spiky arms raised as if being robbed.

“Maybe most of your Golden Riders won't risk a fire, the Apaches being what they are in Ole Mex, these days,” said Luke Bolten.

Short and Faraday eyed Bolten in the grainy moonlight. Quince and Woods looked out on the desert floor, their hands crossed on their saddle horns. After a silence Faraday addressed Bolten quietly.

“I believe after riding with us a while,” he said, “you'll find that Golden Riders don't fear
anything
, Apache or otherwise. Them with
fear
are best advised to seek other means of employment.”

A silence ensued, then Bolten turned slightly facing Faraday who sat right beside him.

“Let me ask you something, Earl,” Bolten replied
quietly, recalling Faraday's attitude back at the Luna Loca cantina. “Are you the hardheaded sumbitch whose ass I'm going to have to trounce soundly to make a place for myself among this bunch?” He'd pulled off his riding glove as he spoke.

“I just might be,” Faraday said, coming back quickly. “Slide that saddle from under you, we'll find out.” He spun his reins around his saddle horn, ready to leap to the ground.

But Bolten reached over, jammed his first two fingers up Faraday's large nose and crooked them forward, hard. Faraday shrieked, bucked and flopped. He tried to reach for his gun, but Bolten had him. Every move Faraday tried to make, Bolten jerked his head farther forward and down, twisted it askew until the hapless outlaw's face lay over above Bolten's lap.

“Jesus,
turn him loose
, Bolten!” shouted Short, his hand on his gun butt. But upon seeing Woods and Quince also gripping their side arms, he pulled his hand away.

“
Naw
, he's all right,” Bolten said confidently. He twisted Faraday's head a little more, roughly. Faraday's thrashing and threatening rage turned into a sob, a plea for mercy. The former border guerilla eased his big Smith & Wesson Russian from its holster, held it up and cocked it. Knocking Faraday's hat out of the way with the gun barrel, he shoved the tip of the barrel straight down into Faraday's ear.

“Take 'er easy now, hoss,” he said down to Faraday. “You've just seen how fast I can turn ugly.”

“Damn it,
Luke
!” said Short.
“Let him go!
We're too noisy up here.”

Bolten took his time.

“Woods?” he said. “If I shoot him from here, am I risking a bullet in my leg?”

“Yep,” Woods said without having to look any closer. “Either that, or you're going to ruin a good horse.”

“That's what I thought,” Bolten said. He lifted Faraday's face toward his, jerked his fingers out of his nostrils and gave his nose a solid thump with his palm. Faraday's head snapped back. Before he could recover, Bolten reached down expertly and flipped his Colt up from its holster even as Faraday's hand grappled for it. “
Hunh-uh
, now,” he chuckled in dark warning. “Everything you do will likely put you in more pain than you already are.”

“Son of a bitch . . .” Faraday said hoarsely to no one in particular, bowing forward, his nose bleeding into his cupped hand. His hat hung sidelong from his head by its string.

Bolten gave a smug grin to Woods and Quince and reached over, took the hat and straightened it atop Faraday's head.

“Surprising as hell, wasn't it?” he said to Faraday. He patted the outlaw's slumped shoulders, then looked at Short. “Will that do it? That's how I use to do things before I got civilized.”

Short only stared at him for a moment. Then, before he started to speak, he heard a sound from farther along the trail and turned in his saddle toward it.

“Whoa, what was that?” he asked in a hushed tone. The gunmen sat quiet, listening intently.

“I heard it,” Quince whispered.

“So did I,” said Woods. Faraday was too absorbed with his bleeding, throbbing nose to notice anything.

“It's no critter,” said Bolten. “It sounds like a person—a person in pain.” He gave Faraday a sidelong glance. “What say you, Earl?” he taunted.

“Come on, follow me,” said Short, unwrapping Faraday's reins from his saddle horn and holding on to them. Turning his horse, taking the lead back from Bolten, he pulled Faraday's horse alongside him. They nudged their horses away from the cliff at a quick walk, single file. As they moved like ghosts along the trail Short heard the sound again. This time they all heard it.

“Yep, that's no critter,” Bolten confirmed. He booted his horse up alongside Faraday's, reached over and stuck the bleeding gunman's unloaded Colt down into his holster. “Don't be aiming this at things that aim back,” he whispered in a condescending tone. He rode side by side with Faraday and Short until they slowed their horses to a halt and sat watching a lone figure struggling and groaning, dragging itself along the trail toward them on its belly.

“My God . . . ,” Earl Faraday managed to say with a stuffed nasal twang. “Somebody's lost all their legs. . . .”

Bolten gave Faraday a sidelong look and shook his head. Before Short could get collected and step down from his saddle, Bolten pitched his reins to Woods who'd sidled up to him. “Everybody sit tight, I've got this,” he said. Short sat staring, smoldering, holding Faraday's reins in his hands.

Down from his saddle and walking forward, Bolten
held his nickel-plated Russian out and cocked down his side. As he moved forward, Short stepped down from his saddle, pitching Faraday's reins to him. The others stepped down too and walked forward, spreading out on the narrow trail.

“Say now, ole pal, where you headed?” Bolten asked half cordially. He planted a boot firmly down in the dirt only inches from the crawling man's face. He held the Russian cocked and pointed at the man's bloody head.

“Thank—thank God. You found me . . . ,” the man rasped, dropping his jaw onto the rocky dirt.

“Yeah . . . ?”
Bolten cocked his head a little. “You might want to thank us instead, if you're wanting a ride out of here.”

“Help me . . . ,” the man said in a waning voice.