Golden Riders (19 page)

Prew Garlet and the Bluebird had ridden a full day and made it as far as a dry creek bed at the edge of the sand flats. With the mescal still boiling in his head, and the memory of his brothers' deaths becoming more clear and real in his fevered brain, Prew flung himself from his saddle and grabbed on to a stand of brush. For over an hour he'd wretched and gagged like a poisoned dog. The Bluebird sat off to the side on the slope of the dry creek bed and watched with a stoic expression.

When Prew had finished and slumped over onto his side, the Bluebird stood up, walked over and dragged him out of the sun. He washed Prew's face with canteen water and left him lying faceup, staring at the blue, distant sky. Prew watched the world twist out of shape and swirl and spin. He pictured Foz landing on the rocks below the campsite. He pictured Tillman with his throat sliced open, falling to the ground.

“Just . . . shoot me,” he murmured to the Bluebird, out of his head. But the Bluebird only saw his lips moving. He had no idea what he was saying. He only nodded in reply,
rose up and walked to the horses. He took down their saddlebags, saddles and bedrolls. Then he made a camp where they stayed for over two days and a night, until Prew appeared over his bout with the loaded mescal.

On the third morning, after three cups of strong coffee and a modest breakfast of warmed elk jerky and hard soda crackers, the two gathered their gear and supplies, and prepared their horses for the trail.

“I'll tell you something, Bird,” Prew said as he tightened his horse's cinch and tested his saddle with both hands. “I have never in my life drank
anything
like that.” He stepped back from his horse and dropped a stirrup down its side. “And I'll tell you something else, I'll never drink nothing like it again.”

Standing a few feet away, not seeing Prew's face, the Bluebird had no idea he was even being spoken to. He stood staring at a single rider who had slipped in close without being seen and stepped down from his saddle and stood facing the two from across the creek bed.

“Hello, the camp,” Luke Bolten called out, now that he realized the Indian saw him.

Prew spun around in the direction of the voice, his hand going to his holstered Colt. The Bluebird only continued staring.

“Easy now, ole pard,” Bolten said to Prew. “I'm betting you and me are on the same trail.” He eyed the Mex-Indian, already supposing him to be the Bluebird.

Prew held his hand firm on his gun butt.

“Oh? And what trail might that be, pilgrim?” he asked, a suspicious look on his drawn face.

“Allow me to be as blunt as a missing thumb,” said Bolten, a flat smile on his face. “I'm betting you're a couple of Golden Riders.” He held up a hand in a show of peace. “If that be the case, we're sent to see what's taking you so long.”

Prew let his hand fall from his gun butt, but didn't answer, not just yet.

“All right then. . . .” Bolten gestured his raised hand toward the other riders just out of sight in a stand of rock and brush, and waved them in.

Seeing Dayton Short and Earl Faraday riding ahead of the other two riders, Prew relaxed and watched the riders come in closer and start down the far side of the creek bed. Then he tensed as he saw Lester Stevens flopping unconscious against Faraday's back. As they crossed the creek bed, he watched closely, knowing he'd have to determine quickly what they might know about how Stevens got the bullet hole in him.

“Prew Garlet!” Dayton Short called out as he slid his horse to a halt in a sidelong spray of dust. The others reined down all around him. “I am damn glad to lay eyes on you.” He looked around, saw the Bluebird and touched his hat brim toward him. “I was getting concerned the same thing happened to you that happened to this poor sumbitch.” He gestured toward Stevens.

Prew looked at the wounded outlaw flopping against Earl Faraday.

“That's Lester,” said Prew, looking surprised. “What happened to him anyway?”

“That's what we'd like to know,” Bolten cut in, leading his horse up the side of the creek bank in the dust the
others had raised with their horses. “I'm Luke Bolten, this is Hank Woods and Jimmy Quince.” He motioned at the other two gunmen, then said, “Do you know there're two riders back there tracking you along this trail?”

“No, I don't,” said Prew. “Obliged you telling us about them. I'd hate to make it this close to Kane's place and get ambushed.” He gestured at the Mex-Indian. “This is the Bluebird. Kane sent me to escort him back.”

“Howdy, Bird,” said Bolten.

“He don't speak English so good sometimes,” said Prew.

“Sometimes, hunh?” said Bolten. “You mean other times he speaks it all right?”

“That's right,” said Prew. “I don't know if he speaks Spanish any better. I've tried both.”

Bolten turned to the Bluebird and rattled a few curse words at him in Spanish.

“Whoa,” said Prew taking a step back in case the Bluebird jerked up his gun and started firing.

“Stay out of this, Garlet,” said Bolten. He laughed as the Bluebird nodded his head in agreement. Then he said in English, “You are one stinking flea-bitten bastard, Mr. Bluebird.” He sat grinning. The Bluebird returned his grin and nodded vigorously.

Prew looked puzzled.

“This Mex-Injun couldn't hear a bear fart if it aimed at his face,” Bolten laughed.

“What?” said Prew, looking around at the Bluebird.

“He's deaf, damn it,” Bolten said in a louder voice.

“You don't know that,” Short said in a sharp tone.

“Yes, I do,” Bolten said confidently. “If he could
hear what I said, we'd be shooting holes into each other right now.”

“It makes sense, now that I think about it,” Prew said. “He used to handle explosives for the mining companies.”

“There you have it,” said Bolten. “His hearing got blasted away a long time ago.” He grinned at Prew and Short and said, “I'm going to check my horse's hooves now. If there's anything else you need me to figure out for you, maybe we could do it over some coffee?”

The outlaws watched him walk away leading his horse. Woods and Quince stepped down from their horses and followed.

“Pay him no mind,” Faraday said to Prew under his breath. “We don't know if they'll be riding with us or not.” He looked at Short and said, “Can we get Stevens off me for a while.”

Prew and Short helped untie Stevens' wrists and lowered him from behind Faraday's saddle. They carried him into the thin shade of a twisted ironwood tree and laid him in the dirt under its branches.

“Where's your brothers anyway?” Short asked, leaning down beside Stevens with a canteen.

“I don't know,” said Prew. “We've had lots of trouble getting up here. I don't mind saying, I'm a little concerned. My brothers are always up for a big job like the one we've got coming.”

“It's not just your brothers, Prew,” Short said. “I can name a half dozen men or more shoulda been here by now. Something's afoot. I'm thinking a lawman is dogging us.”

Prew ventured, “You figure that's what happened to ole Lester here?”

“I don't know,” said Short. “But we'll damn sure find out if we can keep him alive long enough to tell us.”

“I think we should ride back and shoot whoever it is back there,” said Faraday. He held Stevens' head up enough for Short to pour water onto the wounded man's parched lips. “Wait a minute,” he added, looking at Stevens' face, wobbling his head back and forth in his hands. “We're wasting water on a dead man.” He dropped Stevens' head and stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I've been toting a stinking corpse all this time.”

Prew breathed a sigh of relief.

Short stood up. “We're going back to Kane as fast as we can. See what he's got in mind.” He capped the canteen and looked around at Prew. “What do you think, Prew? Want to ride back and look for your brothers, or get on up to Kane, head out for this big job he's got?”

“Let's get on to Braxton Kane's,” he said. “I've got a feeling I can't do much for my brothers.” He glanced up at the Bluebird who stood watching them with caged eyes.

The Ranger spotted the new flock of buzzards circling in the sky as he and his prisoner rode the last mile down onto the edge of the sand flats. They stopped for a minute and Sam looked up at the big birds, then back over his shoulder in the direction of the last grizzly feast they'd discovered over the edge of the high trail.

“I could have left you behind, Teddy, if all I had to do was follow the buzzards,” he said to Bonsell.

Bonsell didn't answer. He sat watching the buzzards circling high up and ahead of them for a moment, then nudged his horse forward beside the Ranger and the two men rode on.

A half an hour later they had reached the dry creek bank and saw the body of the dead outlaw dragged to the side and left for the scavengers. Two big birds already stood atop the dead man's belly. Three more stood lined along the other side of the creek bed.

“Look at them, Ranger,” said Bonsell, the two of them stepping their horses down into the dry bed and across to where the body lay spread-eagle in the afternoon sun. The two buzzards on Stevens' chest stopped their pecking and stood red-beaked, looking at the two approaching horsemen. “They're so used to you, they don't even bother to move when you ride up. Must be they know a good friend when they see one.”

“That's enough out of you,” Sam said.

But Bonsell wasn't finished. He gave an ugly grin.

“Must be you and them are all one big happy family,” he said.

Sam didn't answer. He stepped his dun closer until finally the two big birds rose up reluctantly and batted their big wings skyward. The other three held their ground on the creek bed edge and stared curiously.

“You know him?” Sam asked.

“Never seen him before in my—” Bonsell's words stopped as Sam's Colt came sidelong and rapped him on the side of his head hard enough to make him wobble in his saddle. “Jesus, Ranger,” Bonsell said in pain,
yanking his hat off and cupping a hand on the whelp the gun barrel raised. “There was no call for that.”

“I told you I'm counting on you, Teddy,” Sam said evenly to the pained outlaw, sliding his Colt back into its leather. “Imagine how disappointed I am when you let me down that way.”

“It don't seem fair, a lawman gets to rough a man around this way,” Bonsell said.

“I sympathize with you,” Sam said. “But it makes up some for having to chase you curs down, hear all your sharp-mouthing. Now, let's try again, see if you've just learned anything. Do you know this man, Teddy?” he repeated.

“Ranger, I told you, I never seen this—” His words stopped short again, this time when he saw Sam's hand go back to his holstered Colt. “Okay, yes! I do know him,” he said quickly. “His name is Lester Stevens.”

“One of your Golden regulars, is he?” Sam asked, letting his hand drop away from his Colt.

“I wouldn't say he's a
regular
, so much as I'd say he rides with us sometimes when—” He saw the Ranger's hand go back to the gun butt. “All right, yes! I suppose you could say he's a regular. Damn, why are you asking if you already know?”

Sam's hand slipped away from the Colt again.

“I don't already know the answer, Teddy,” he said. “But I do know when you're lying. See how that works? See why it's important that you not lie to me, just the two of us out here . . . us and the buzzards
that is
.” He gave Bonsell a flat, sidelong stare.

“Hell, that's crazy talk, Ranger!” Bonsell said. “That just sounds like an excuse to bust a man's head any time you damn well please.”

“No,” Sam said, “not just anytime I please, Teddy, else I'd be busting your head every three minutes. But I believe we've come to a place where you need to know that if you don't tell me the truth every time you open your mouth, I'll get tired of fooling with you and feed you to these buzzards.”

“You need me, Ranger,” Bonsell said smugly.

“Not if you're not helping,” Sam replied. “I can drop you and follow the tracks as far as they'll take me. I don't want deadweight hanging behind me.” He turned his eyes upward for a second, then looked straight ahead. “You let me know right now if I'm not going to be able to count on you, Teddy. I'll keep us both from wasting each other's time.”

A quiet and sudden change in the Ranger's tone and demeanor caused Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell to look at him in a new light. He just stared at him as they stopped their horses and stepped down beside Lester Stevens' body. He wasn't sure if it was the lingering effects of the mescal, or if the Ranger was purposely playing with his mind. But something told him that here in this desolate stretch of Mexican desert, unarmed, was not a good place to agitate a lawman widely known for his ability to kill.

“Ranger, I—I was just joshing you back there about the buzzards and all,” he said in earnest. “I didn't mean nothing by it.”

“I understand, Teddy,” Sam replied. “I have as much
a sense of humor as the next man.” He nodded at the body on the dirt. With his hand on his Colt he looked at Bonsell closely and said, “This man being a regular, those other bodies we found by the high trail, I take it we're getting closer to the Golden Riders' hideout?”

“Yeah . . . ,” Bonsell said in a meek, submissive voice. “We're getting closer. We've got a turnoff less than twenty miles ahead.”

Sam nodded, looking down at the body in the dirt, dust caked in Stevens' open eyes.

“You want to drag your friend over and throw some rocks on him, that'd be all right,” he said quietly.

Bonsell considered it for a moment.