Hell Come Sundown (8 page)

“Now hold on there, you two!” Cuss snarled, hurling the boot he'd been cleaning to the floor. “What about me?”

“You should be safe. Sangre and his men won't come back.”

“Fuck this Sangre and the horse he rode in on! You ain't leavin' me behind like some useless piece of ol' junk! I'm goin' with you!”

Hell frowned and shook his head. “It's too dangerous, Mr. Johnson.”

Cuss gave a humorless laugh. “Dangerous? What part of my life up to now has been
safe
, son? I figger I'll be endin' up in the bone orchard a lot sooner than later, no matter what. But how is that any different from what becomes of any man born of woman? It's what you do between comin' into this life and goin' out that marks you as a man. The Tuckers took me in when I was lower than a snake's dick. They're the closet thing I've ever come to havin' a family. And a man don't stand by and do squat when his family's in trouble. I figger Jimbo for a goner, but I got to trust in the Lord that it's not too late for Dottie, Loretta and the other two kids. This is my chance to do right by them.”

“I can appreciate how you feel, Cuss. But I said no, and I meant it!” Hell said sternly. “Sangre on his own is deadly enough, not to mention the gang of hardened killers he's got doing his dirty work. I don't need to have a crippled up civilian in the way when things get hairy, even if he
does
have his heart in the right place. Now, if you don't mind, Mr. Johnson, Pretty and I have some riding to do if we're going to catch up with them before it's too late.” With that Hell and his companion turned back in the direction of their horses.

Cuss jumped out of his chair and limped to the door of the shack, grasping the frame with both hands in order to steady himself. “I know where they're goin'!” he shouted after the retreating figures. “I overheard a couple of them jawin' while I was hiding in the biffy!”

Hell turned and glowered at the ranch hand. “Where are they headed?”

“No,
sir!”
Cuss said with a vigorous shake of his head. “I ain't gonna tell you nothin' unless you agree to take me with you!”

“I could
make
you tell me, old man,” the Ranger said darkly.

“I don't doubt that. But somethin' tells me you ain't that kind of a man, partner.”

“There are only two horses.”

“I figger I can ride double with one of y'all.”

Hell turned to look at Pretty Woman. “Your medicine got anything to say about this?”

Pretty reached into one of the pouches tied to her belt and withdrew a handful of small, polished bones and tossed them onto the ground. She squatted on her haunches and squinted at the pattern they made in the dirt at her feet. She quickly snatched the bones back up, returning them to their pouch.

“Bring him,” she said, with a weary sigh. “But if you think I am going to allow that stinking old coot to ride double with
me
, you got another think coming.”

Chapter Six

“When are you gonna tell me where Sangre's gang is headed?” Hell asked over his shoulder.

“When we're far enough away that I know you can't just ditch me and ride on ahead,” Cuss replied. “What about you? What's this cocksucker to you?”

“Let's just say he and I have some unfinished business and leave it at that.”

“You been huntin' this Sangre varmint long?”

“Longer than I'd care to remember. This is the closest I've gotten to him since I started. This is big country, and it's real easy to lose yourself in it, even for someone like Sangre. Especially if you don't want to be found.”

“This ‘unfinished business'—does it have somethin' to do with you bein' dead?”

“Beg pardon?” Hell said, turning around in his saddle to scowl at his passenger.

“I might not be book-learned, but I ain't dumb. You got the same pale cast to your skin as that cocksucker in the fancy vest. And then there's the fact your eyes tend to shine like a coyote's around a campfire, not to mention that I've been ridin' nuts to butt with you for the better part of an hour and I've yet to feel a heartbeat in your chest. Your skin is as cold as a rattler in January, by the way.”

“You ain't scared none?” Hell asked, surprised by the old-timer's nonchalance.

“Son, I'm so scairt I could shit peach pits! But I ain't scairt of
you
. I like to think I can get a bead on a feller pretty good. Somethin' tells me that no matter what, at your deep-down core you're someone who can be counted on to do what's right. That's mighty hard to find in folks that are still alive, much less dead. Uh—you don't drink human blood, do you? Just askin', mind ya.”

“Nope. Mostly I feed on rabbits and the like. It works out fairly well—I drain 'em, and Pretty eats 'em. Now, are you going to tell me where they are or not?”

“They're headed for Diablo Wells.”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“No reason why it should. It ain't a real settlement. Not anymore, anyways. It's located just east of the Salt Flats on the Diablo Plateau. It started out as a Spanish village. It even has a church—or what used to be one. Then there was a smallpox outbreak about thirty years back. Those that didn't die packed up and left everything behind. The whole place ain't nothin' but ruins, and it's got a reputation for bein' haunted. The wells are still there, though. The only visitors it gets anymore are occasional cowpokes lookin' to water their herds and desperadoes aimin' to avoid the law.”

“Sounds like the ideal place for Sangre and his gang to hole up.”

They rode on in relative silence, following the wagon tracks through the hard, dry soil of the Trans-Pecos Basin, until Hell's attention was attracted by something glittering on the ground. He reined his mount to a halt, signaling for Pretty Woman to follow suit.

“Huh—? What?” Cuss snorted, startled from a light doze. “What's wrong?”

“It's getting closer to dawn. They're lightening their load.” Hell said, swinging down from his saddle in order to pick up a discarded copper pan. He walked a few more steps, kicking aside the collection of cookware littering the ground. “Seems they tossed whatever was handy out the back of the wagons.”

“What's that?” Cuss asked, pointing at what looked to be a couple sacks of grain lying beneath a stunted yucca alongside the trail.

Pretty Woman trotted her pony forward to investigate. As Hell moved to join her, she gave her partner a short, sad shake of her head. Although the body was sprawled belly-down on the desert floor, they could still see its face. Something had turned the dead man's head completely around on his neck just as easy as winding a watch stem.

“What in blue blazes is going on?” Cuss had dismounted as well and was leading the horse over to where they stood. “What's so special about a few bags of oats tossed off the back of a—” His voice trailed off as he stared at the corpse. Cuss wiped his mouth with a clenched fist. “That's Jimbo,” he said, his voice tight as a drumhead.

“I'm sorry, Cuss.” Hell squeezed the old man's shoulder.

Cuss took a deep breath and turned his gaze skyward, as if searching it for respite from pain. “Why would someone do that to his body? Ain't it enough they kilt him?”

“It prevents Sangre's victims from coming back as dead'uns,” Hell explained. “It keeps down the competition.”

“We've got to bury him,” Cuss said.

“That'll take too long.”

“I don't care!” the old man snapped in reply. “I ain't gonna let the buzzards and coyotes scatter his bones from here to San Antonio! I owe the man that much.”

“I find your loyalty admirable,” Hell said. “But he's beyond caring now, Cuss.”

“Yes, but I ain't.”

Hell sighed and dropped his shoulders in acquiescence. “There's no time to dig a grave. You'll have to be satisfied with piling rocks on top of him.”

“Thank you, Mister Hell.”

“Call me Sam.”

Pretty Woman folded her arms and favored her partner with a half-smile. “For someone without a heartbeat, you sure are a soft touch.”

“Bite your tongue. Come on, let's lend him a hand. The sooner we get finished, the sooner we can leave.”

After twenty minutes, the three had succeeded in building a cairn over the body of the late Jimbo Tucker. As Cuss placed the last rock atop the pile, he dusted his hands on his thighs and turned to face the others.

“I reckon this is as good a time as any to confess that I ain't been honest with y'all.”

“How so?” Hell asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What I said about Jimbo helpin' me when I was down and out was true enough. But I lied to you about how I got my leg busted up. I weren't a hand on the Lazy J. I was a gunrunner. I sold mostly to the Apache, or anyone else who could meet my price. Then, five years ago, I made the mistake of takin' on a real asshole for a partner. He decided he could make out a hell of lot better without havin' to split the profits with me. So the bastard snuck up on me while I was sleepin' one night and broke my leg with an axe handle, then left me out in the desert to die. It was Jimbo Tucker who found me, more dead than alive, and brought me home.

“He and his wife nursed me back to health, even after I told 'em the truth about myself. I was a sinner—one of the worst ever born—yet they forgave me my trespasses and offered me a chance to live an honest life. I didn't have no family to speak of as a young'un, so I've pretty much made my own way since I was a boy. The world ain't shown me much kindness. But the Tuckers …” Cuss stopped and cleared his throat. “The Tuckers did good by me. And I figure to do good by 'em. I'm gonna do my damnedest to make sure that Dottie, Katie, young Jimmy and Loretta make it out of this alive, even if it means I die tryin'.”

All that was left of Diablo Wells was a collection of single-story adobes gathered at the foot of a small hill, on top of which sat a church, whose badly cracked whitewashed stucco facade revealed the red mud bricks underneath. The wells that gave the village its name and reason for existence were still in evidence, located in the center of what had once been the town square.

At the edge of the ghost town were two corrals constructed of the same red mud bricks as the rest of the village. One contained the horses stolen from Tucker's Station. The other housed the passengers from the stage and what remained of the Tucker family.

From his vantage behind an outcropping of rock and cactus, Hell could see that the women were doing their best to console the frightened youngsters, who ranged in age from seven to fifteen years of age. While the women and children were free to move about, the men had their hands tied behind their backs and ropes looped about their necks, like a string of prize bulls ready for market.

One of Sangre's followers sat on the corral wall, a cocked rifle in his hands, watching the prisoners with the detached air of a bored wrangler. Every so often, he would cast a look over his shoulder in the direction of his fellow bandits, who were whooping it up back in the village.

The two female members of the gang, one a strawberry blonde, the other a brunette, were outfitted in new dresses taken from the trading post. Their male counterparts were eagerly downing bottles of trade whisky as they shouted and sang. The brunette was dancing with one of the men, while another played a guitar. As Hell watched, the strawberry blonde hiked her skirts up over her hips and took one of her partners in crime, a large man with a scarred face, between her legs. The others clapped their hands and whistled loudly, urging on their companion's rut with rude comments and raucous laughter.

Suddenly there was an abrupt hush as the bandits halted their revelry in mid-debauchery, their heads turning in the same direction, as if connected to a string. Hell saw Sangre standing framed in the doorway of one of the adobes. The conquistador snapped his fingers and pointed to the corrals. The scar-faced man fucking the strawberry blonde nodded and pulled up his pants, leaving the others to resume their carousing. His place atop the woman was quickly taken by one of his fellows, who picked up where he had left off.

Sangre strode purposefully toward the pen where the humans were being held, his hands clasped in the small of his back. Upon reaching the corral, the scar-faced man retrieved a four-foot-long catchpole. After properly adjusting the noose of rope at the pole's far end, he stood by and waited for his master to make his pick.

The Spaniard methodically stroked his chin as he studied the assembled prisoners before pointing to the little girl. The scar-faced man nodded and hopped over the wall as if he were setting out to rope a calf for branding.

“No!”
Dottie Tucker screamed at the approaching outlaw. “Don't you dare touch her!”

Dottie grabbed Loretta, trying to put herself between her daughter and the monster that had killed her husband. But Loretta was so frightened she wriggled free of her mother's grip and dashed across the corral. Even though she was small and fast, she never stood a chance. The scar-faced man was on her like duck on a June bug.

“Mamaaa!”
Loretta screamed as the catchpole's noose dropped about her neck.

Her screams for help were choked off as the scar-faced wrangler pulled on the slack end of the rope. Her legs folded under her as her fingers clawed at the rope cinched tight about her throat.

“Let her go, you son of a bitch!” Cuss bellowed as he broke cover, standing up to fire upon the scar-faced bandit, catching him between the eyes.

“Goddamn it, you old coot! I told you to hold your fire until I gave the signal!” Hell shouted in exasperation. Now that their cover was blown, he had no choice but to follow the retired gunrunner's lead. What he had intended no longer mattered. They were committed to action now, and extreme action at that.