Paxton Pride (52 page)

True to his word, Vance left before the sun glimmered over the horizon. The ravines were still black with shadow and he picked his way with care, holding the grulla to a walk. Now he had finally straightened out the confusing array of emotions beating at him for the last months, he had no intention of breaking his neck in an accident. He was going back to Karen, back to the woman he had tried so hard to deny, returning to the truth his heart had hidden.

Two hours deep into the morning and making good time beneath the bright, clear mid-April sky, he guided the grulla out of an abrupt draw and onto a rounded knoll from whose vantage point the steep hills and granite outcropping fell away dramatically. A flicker of movement in the dry creek below caught his eye, repeated itself. And then again. Vultures … carrion feeders. Nothing unusual about their presence; the country was harsh and death was never far from hand. Some animal, perhaps, or.… A shape lay sprawled on the fringe of Dry Wash Creek. Too big to be a man.… He searched in his saddle bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars brought back from the war. The shape swam into focus through shimmering heat waves. A dead horse, body swollen and bloated … Ted's Appaloosa!

Thirty minutes later he'd maneuvered himself to within fifty feet of the carcass. There was no doubt about it. The animal had been there since the evening before. Shot. He studied the surrounding area with care but could see no trace of Ted. The suggestion of tracks beneath puzzled him. Cautiously, he followed them around a hillock to read the story on the ground. A rider had waited here. Another horse came galloping up from the creek and the hidden rider intercepted the running animal, struck the rider to the ground. Later, the galloping horse had been led off behind the hidden rider's horse. Vance dropped to the earth, studied the tracks. The realization struck him like a slap and turned his blood icy despite the sweat which ran down his neck and back. The galloping horse had been Karen's sorrel! He was sure of it. Karen …! But was she riding? He studied the tracks closely and found a small footprint, a woman's. She had been there, was taken by.…

Where was Ted? A faint sound, to which he had been listening for some moments without realizing what he heard, broke into his conscious mind. He was hearing a Comanche chant, a death chant lingering on the south wind thrumming up the canyon. Slowly, rifle in hand and leading his horse, he picked his way through the rocks along the hill sloping upward from the creek. Buzzards, startled from the Appaloosa's carcass, flapped into the air and settled on the branches of the mesquite cluster across the dry wash, waiting patiently for the man thing to leave so they might return to their feast.

Ted Morning Sky lay propped among the rocks, his back to a sandstone outcropping, legs splayed before him, rifle across his lap. There was blood on the Winchester's action and wooden stock, more between the reclining Indian's thighs and a sickeningly dark red tinge to the ground around him. Shot twice through the back, the bullets had torn a frightful exit from his. stomach. So devastated was the fragile flesh, Vance found it incredible any man should sustain such a wound and still be alive after so many hours. His eyes clouded with pain and weakness, Ted looked up at Vance with fatal resignation. He ceased his chant “… knew … in the mesquite … Karen screamed … I turn …”

Vance knelt by his friend. Knowing full well the meaning of those awful wounds, he made no effort to touch the red man. “Who, Ted?”

Ted shut his eyes and spoke as if each word had been planned over and over during the long hours of the night, planned to tell the story precisely and with the least amount of energy possible. “Karen … look … for you. Followed … me. I find … bring back … to valley. Jaco … Jaco.”

Jaco! No name could have.… Grimly he scanned the hills where the threat lay. Jaco had stolen his woman. Jaco had Karen.

“My brother … it is … fault … my fault … I … call on Great … Spirit … to keep me … alive. Tell you Jaco … and one other …” The dying man's head fell back, his mouth taut with a silent scream. He looked around wildly, no longer seeing Vance. “Buffalo Woman,” he called in Comanche, only some of which Vance could understand. “Buffalo Woman,” the Indian's voice mellowed, “… bring water … fill my lodge with warmth, with laughing … many moons … she was … so young to travel … dark trail … Buffalo Woman … I burn my lodge … and follow …”

The inexplicable hand of pain released its clutch and the torn vision faded. Clear and bright, his eyes locked with Vance's. “Help me … to stand … White Brother.”

Vance lifted the frail form. The movement must have caused unimaginable pain, but Ted's face remained calm, betraying not a hint of his dreadful wounds. Using the Winchester as a crutch, he thrust Vance away with surprising strength.

And stood alone.

A breeze sprang up, a river of air binding the hills with a timeless flow and chant all its own. The Comanche stared into, the heart of the south wind. His voice was firm but gentle.

“Here … I am here.…”

Vance found Jaco's trail winding off among the rocks. Every effort had been made to blot out the tracks, but a stone bearing the fresh scuff mark of a horse's hoof and a broken mesquite branch where there should have been no broken branch served to show the way. Only once did he look back to the hill where Ted lay. There had been no time for a proper burying so Vance had carried the bullet-torn, empty shell of his friend the rest of the way up the hill and laid him to rest on its solid, bare granite crown, a crest upon which nothing grew. On the second trip he carried Ted's Winchester and blanket roll. A few minutes later and the blood- and sweat-caked clothes were off and the corpse, weapon in hand, wrapped in the blanket. At one with the weathered rock, Ted Morning Sky lay facing the horizon of his namesake. A fitting final resting place for a Comanche warrior, Vance thought, the words sounding silently within his heavy heart. “Flesh to nourish the animals and birds, bones eroded by rain and wind, a spirit to feed the stars. Farewell, my friend.”

He turned and studied the way ahead. Jaco had Karen. Calming the rage welling in him, he nudged the grulla forward and the hill fell behind, lost from sight. The trail took him beneath a high serrated ridge, gouged in places by dry watercourses. The spring rains had been light so far this year and the going was thirsty but safe. At least the sky was clear: during a storm the path he and his quarry now traveled would be suicidal. The grulla snorted his displeasure and picked a careful trail among the rocks, leaving behind his time of rest as his rider forced his mind to a coldly analytical bent and settled into the work at hand.

The decisions necessary were few but complicated and important, all to be considered in light of one single overriding fact—Jaco had Karen—and the equally overriding conclusion—Vance intended to get her back. Briefly, he considered riding to the ranch and gathering the men, quickly decided against it. Every man jack on the PAX would want to mount up and ride, leaving a deserted ranch vulnerable to attack by anyone who came along, Indian or white, outlaw or renegade. And who knew? If Jaco had taken Karen, the rest of his men—however many there were left—might be around. Precious hours would be lost on the trip. As it was, he was little more than a day behind them, and traveling alone would be able to make fair time, depending on how much they did to throw him off the trail. The country in which he would be traveling would be relatively arid. A large body of men would find the more heavily traveled routes to the border mandatory, for such routes were governed by the frequency and plentitude of water. Alone, one could travel the broken hills, the arid backbone of the country, existing on small pockets and seeps holding enough for himself and his horse. Finally, had he not caught them by the time he reached the Rio Grande, it would be far safer for one man to risk the forbidden crossing into Mexico.

There were other factors to be considered. Karen was sure to be missed—had undoubtedly been missed already. The men would be searching for her. Sooner or later they would find the dead horse and Ted's body, signs of the struggle. Grimly, he decided they must be turned back. Jaco, whatever else he might be, was no fool. Ten men added to the pursuit would be nothing less than disastrous. If cornered, the bandit would execute Karen without a second thought. Any note Vance left might very well be interpreted as a ploy by Jaco and hence ignored, for no one knew Vance was anywhere in the area. Even so, he would try. Stopping, he scratched the message on a boulder where they would have to see it. “Am on their trail. Go back. Vance.” Still not trusting they'd believe him, for the grulla's shoes had been changed and his sign would look different to those who had known him three months ago, he tore up the saddle blanket he'd taken from Ted's Appaloosa and wrapped the stallion's hooves to insure against any telltale marks on the stone.

The only consideration left was food. No one knew where Jaco hid out, but surely somewhere south of the border. There was little or nothing between where he was and where he was going. Mentally, he tabulated his supplies. A little more than a pound of coffee, a half dozen hardtack biscuits, a can of milk, a pound or so of beans, two or three strips of jerky and a pinch of salt. Not much of a larder for at least four days' travel, he'd have to make it last. Luck was with him, though, for later in the day a small deer, surprised by the silent downwind approach of the horse, bounded from the rocks ahead and fell with a single bullet from Vance's rifle. A day behind, the chance he took was reasonable, but it would be the last such he took. Quickly field dressing the small carcass, he buried the remains in the hot sand, covered all evidence of his presence and rode on.

He came upon the remnants of a camp late in the afternoon. Jaco … the sign was easily read. Karen was most certainly with him. She had been bound to a nearby mesquite, for the trunk was chafed where she tried to wear through the rope. So far there was no indication she had been harmed. After a quick meal he rode on until the failing light called a stop to the day. His horse cared for, he lay down with a small clump of cedar at his back and slept soundly, the grulla watching over him.

The morning after their first camp, Karen lay exhausted against the mesquite trunk, her wrists and ankles sore, rubbed raw by the rope which so cruelly bound her. Her captors were up before first light and, after quick cups of coffee all around, they broke camp and headed away from the rising sun. The emotional shock of her kidnapping had worn off and Karen, in the cool morning air, appraised her situation. Vance would not be far behind. She had to believe he would follow—or give herself up to utter despair. All she could do was keep her wits and wait, eat and rest whenever she might and be prepared for whatever happened.

But there was no chance for food and rest. She had to pay the price of obdurance—she would accept no food the night before—and unnecessary tension—she had not slept as she should have. Fatigue, physical and spiritual, in spite of the best intentions, struck with the first rays of the sun, bored into her inexorably until she almost fell from the horse, for fear and hunger had robbed her of all energy. She had ridden a great deal since her arrival at the PAX, but never for two solid days, and as the sun rose higher and higher each step of the horse became a torture until the struggle not to cry out filled her dulled senses and consumed every leaden minute. Thirsty, hungry and tired beyond her wildest nightmares, she doggedly held her seat in the saddle, shifting weight often in an attempt to alleviate the shooting pains running up and down her legs, buttocks and back. Grimly determined not to break, cry or fail agan, she anaesthetized herself with a rhythmic, mesmerizing repetition of the name of the one man upon whom her life depended, upon whom rested all hope of rescue and sustenance:
Vance
…
Vance … Vance
.

Neither bandit found time to speak to her during the day. Always their eyes searched the way behind, searched for ways to throw off any possible pursuers, for they too knew she would be missed and men would seek her. Periodically, Jaco rode away to the north and east and Karen was left alone with the other outlaw. Marquez, as Jaco called him, was a slight, spare individual with skin like rawhide stretched over a bony frame. His nose was hooked beak-like under a pair of close-set, challenging eyes and when he grinned she saw his teeth were bad—yellow and rotting. Huge and heavy in contrast to his spare physique, two guns hung at his thighs. When Jaco disappeared, wiry fingers hovered near the low-slung guns. Marquez, nervous already, was more concerned with the problem of his unseen companion than the unknown pursuers, whoever they might be.

She was not tied the second night. Karen looked into the darkness surrounding their tiny camp, realized she was just as effectively bound by the measures taken by her captors. They had taken her boots. If she tried to escape she would not go far over the arid, hostile land capable of shredding the flesh of her lightly-stockinged feet. Her bedroll lay between Jaco and Marquez and she would have to step over them to reach her horse. Once to the horse, her problems would only begin, for the sorrel was staked between the bandits' mounts and there was no way she could lead him off without the other two waking the men. Marquez reached out and added a piece of mesquite root to the tiny blaze, glanced over at Karen and grinned, his face lurid and evil in the flickering orange light. Karen shuddered and looked away: his intentions were only too clear. And who, she wondered, would stop him? Who was there to help her? Vance, possibly, but despite the earlier, forced optimism, she had to admit he might not be. Ted? She could guess his fate with certainty. The shots heard before losing consciousness, followed by the exuberant half-phrases heard when she came to, indicated he was dead. She had allowed herself no time to mourn, had suppressed the tears before they started. Jaco and Marquez watched too closely and she was determined to keep any display of emotion from them. Coldly, she vowed they would derive no satisfaction from her in any way. Instead, some way or other, Karen Paxton would see they paid for her friend's death.