Red Moon (15 page)

He clenched his teeth and fought down the urge to lift the knife from its sheath and slash out with it—cut something, anything. Hash something deep and mercilessly, he thought. But he calmed himself and thought about the money lying in the wagon below. A faint smile came to his rain-streaked face. He had money, he had a woman—everything most white men wanted, he told himself with a sense of disgust.

He looked up at the low swollen sky and felt rain fall into his open eyes. It was evening now. Soon it would be night. He needed the moon, he told himself. He had not seen it since the storms had moved in across the desert hill country. His
Apachean
spirit was of the water and of the moon. Water had cleansed and readied him; to be complete he needed the moon to course through him.

His white blood was finally gone; he could feel its absence from the core of him. It had been drunk up by the desert, just as the elder White Mountain warriors had told him it someday would. When he had become a Red Sleeve, he was told his purpose and his way in this world. When the last of his white blood was gone and a slayer of monsters was upon his trail, he knew that only the moon would save him. He knew that the time and place for these mystical things would come upon him, and soon.

He spoke the white man's language as well as the white man; he lived the white man's life, as much of it as he could stand. Yet he was now and forever bound to the life and fate of a Red Sleeve.
So be it.

As he looked up, he saw no place in the swollen sky for the moon to appear, even if it sought him, even it had come to reveal itself to him. But that was all right. It would come to him as it should, when the time was right. Throughout his life, he'd heard in his inner ear the clash and ring of steel against steel—the voice of consecrated battle—and he had never heard it more clearly than he heard it now.

Yes.
He believed it must be.

He shut his eyes to the falling rain and stood strong, letting it pour down on him. After a moment he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He turned and climbed down from the rock in the pouring rain, seeing the two gunmen pull their horses up beside the buckboard wagon.

As Orez stepped onto the muddy ground, he looked through the rain and saw Freeman Manning sway in his saddle, then turn his bowed head sideways and vomit thin red blood down his horse's withers.

“Jesus, Freeman!” said Hardin, jerking his horse a step away still holding Manning's horse's reins. Seeing the hard look on Orez's face, he tried to lighten the matter by laughing it off a little. “Have you been drinking Mexican wine all day?”

“What's wrong with him?” Orez asked Hardin, staring at Manning as he spoke.

“What's wrong with him?” said Hardin. “Well, let's see. He's been caught in a twister, rolled up and down a rock hill, sailed through the air, beaten like a parlor rug, bounced like some kind of damned—”

“I'm all right,” Manning cut in, stopping Hardin. “I just lost my bearings there for a minute.”

“Lost them, huh?” Orez said, stepping in closer. He looked up at Manning and paused, then asked, “Are you dying on us?”

“Hell no,” Manning growled, struggling to keep another stomach full of blood from surging up. He raised the Colt he carried across his lap. “I've got some fight left if I need it.”

“Cock that gun at me,” said Orez, rain running down him.

“Stop it, Wilson,” said Hardin. “He said he ain't dying. Leave him alone.”

“Go on, cock it,” Orez demanded of Manning. “If you can't kill me, you can't kill nobody else.” He poised his gun hand near his holstered Colt. “Cock it and shoot me, or I'll put a bullet in your head.”

“That's enough!” said Hardin. He poised his gun hand toward Orez, but Orez paid him no attention.

Manning looked at the iron strongboxes sitting on the buckboard and the bags of money lying against them. His face turned regretful; his Colt slumped.

“Of all damn times to run out my string,” he said. “Hell yes, I'm dying. I'm busted inside my head, my belly, I don't know where all else. Like I said, I'm ruint.”

Orez turned his face to Hardin, who let his hand fall away from his holstered Colt. A fresh lick of lightning flicked on and off on the rocky, drenched hillside.

“Damn this weather!” said Hardin, looking away from Manning and Orez. “Damn it to
everlasting hell
!”

At that very moment, a new clap of thunder pealed on the horizon like encroaching cannon fire.

In the noisy clattering of rainfall on rock, the Ranger rode the roan across the flooded valley lands, below the same hill line where he and the horse had taken shelter. The center of the valley ran knee deep with silt-water that bobbed and pummeled chunks of cactus and twisted broken limbs of ironwood, cottonwood and pine. Approaching a turn in the valley floor, he saw the brown current turn frothy and break around an uprooted oak that lay bobbing on rock and gravel, half of its root ball still clinging to the bank, but ready to break free at any moment.

Drawing closer to the turn, Sam guided the roan and led the other two horses wide around the fallen oak, wanting no part of the huge tree should the muddy bank suddenly turn it loose and up the current, sending it barreling at them.

“I don't know about you,” he murmured to the roan. “I've had enough of this to last me awhile.”

Without understanding him, the roan all the same chuffed and blew and lifted its head at the sound of his voice.

Sam gave the horse a watery pat on its wet withers. The other two horses sidled as close to him as they could get.

Around the turn he stopped and sat staring for a moment at the sight of a mud-covered man sitting on a stone, dipping his dirty socks up and down in the silty water. It took Sam a few seconds to recognize the man. When he did, he put the roan forward at the same steady walking pace.

“Bob Ailes? Is that you?” he called out above the noisy rain and the braided, running floodwater.

The railroad scout rose shakily to his feet and looked up at the sky as if the voice of God had singled him out. Then he turned woodenly and followed the sound around to the approaching Ranger and spread his muddy arms in greeting.

“Lord Almighty, Ranger Burrack,” he called out in an unsteady voice, allowing his emotions to get a little out of check. “We must be all of humankind left on this miserable wasteland. Would you suppose?”

“I hope not,” the Ranger said, riding closer. “These horses are talking back to me as it is.”

“Yes, yes, they do indeed, Ranger,” Ailes said, staring strangely at him. Sam could tell the man did not know clearly what had been said to him. It didn't matter
.

“Where's Colson?” Sam asked, drawing closer, stopping the roan and letting the other two horses sidle up closer to him.

“Why, he's dead, of course,” Ailes said. He gave Sam a look that suggested he should already have known as much.

“I'm sorry to hear it,” the Ranger said.

“Yes, well—” Ailes said, busying himself, inspecting the dripping socks in his hands.

As he spoke he wrung water from his socks, shook them out and stuck them down behind his belt. Sam saw the muddy neck of a whiskey bottle peeking through the ripped-open front of the railroad man's muddy shirt.

“It was terrible,” Ailes said after a pause. “One second there he was, struggling with the reins to keep the wagon horses settled, and the next second I saw him go flying straight up as if he'd never come down.”

“Where were you, Ailes?” Sam asked.

“I—I was only twenty or so yards away,” he said. “I saw the funnel cloud coming. We both did. I was still gathering equipment to take to the wagon. Odell had run ahead to get the horses calmed, they were carrying on so.” He swallowed a hard knot in his throat. His eyes welled a little.

“Go on,” Sam encouraged him.

“I saw I wasn't going to make it to the wagon in time, so I fell flat, wrapped my arms around a small pine and hung on. I could see around the tree just enough . . . ” He paused, drawing the muddy bottle from inside his shirt and pulling out the cork deftly. “Just enough to see what I told you, Odell fly straight up into the black funnel and disappear.” He took a long drink, as if to wipe the picture from his mind.

Sam refused the bottle when Ailes held it up to him.

“A moment later I saw the wagon, horses and all go flying up behind him,” he said with a helpless shrug. “What could I do?” He took another swig of rye whiskey. “It was a full ten minutes later, supplies from the wagon come sailing down around me. It was raining spikes and hammers.” He gave a strange stiff grin. “I was struck several times, but I didn't let it bother me.”

The Ranger lowered his head and shook it slowly.

“You see much use in searching for him?” he asked Ailes.

“To tell you the truth, no, I don't,” Ailes said. He corked the bottle with finality and shoved it back inside his shirt. “If he's alive after that, you can bet the devil owns his soul.”

What a strange thing to say,
Sam thought, staring at him. It was clear the man was badly shaken. But was there something more than that wrong with him?

“What do you mean by that?” Sam asked.

Ailes considered it for a second, trying to think of the best way to express himself. Finally he appeared to give up.

“What I mean is, he would never again be the same Odell Colson I knew,” he said. “Not after going through all that.”

Sam nodded and looked back and forth. As they had spoken, the rain had built back up and slanted on a rising wind. The blackness that had seemed to dissipate earlier was now coming back, noticeably moving in around them.

“Pick a horse for yourself. Let's get up out of here,” the Ranger said.

“Where to?” asked Ailes, stepping over closer to the two wet horses, his muddy socks hanging from his belt.

“Trade City's our best bet from here,” Sam said, nodding in the direction of the town.

“Trade City is where I was headed,” said Ailes. He looked around, confused. “But I thought it was that direction.” He pointed back the way the Ranger had come. “I should know, I've been there enough the past few weeks.”

“No, Ailes,” the Ranger said. “Trust me, it's that way.” He nodded again.

“That's the way I just came,” Ailes said. “I heard gunfire earlier. Are you sure you want to go that way?”

Gunfire?

“Yes,” Sam said. “I'm very sure.” He saw Ailes seeming to stall beside the horses. “You need a hand up?” he asked, wanting to get under way.

“No, I'm all right, Ranger,” Ailes said, turning away from him to the nearest horse. “But I have to say, I have felt better. That's a fact.”

Seeing him from behind, the Ranger winced at the sight of a long steel spike, finger-round, sticking directly through the back of his head. It almost looked as if it had been there all his life.

The Ranger froze, but only for a second. Then he swung down from his saddle and stopped Ailes from trying to climb atop the horse. He saw black blood down the railroader's back in spite of the falling rain washing down on it. He looked at the point of the spike sticking out an inch from his ear.

“Are you sure you're feeling all right, Bob?” he said. “We can rest here awhile. You can sip some more whiskey.”

“If you're worried about the spike in my head, Ranger,” he said, “I already know about it.” He turned to the Ranger and carefully touched the steel spike head sticking from atop his skull. “I was going to mention it, but I must've forgot.”

“I understand,” said the Ranger, catching on quickly, knowing he had to go along with the man. What else could he do? “Are you hurting?”

“No, believe it or not,” Ailes said. “I feel numb up there, and like I'm on the verge of one terrible headache. But no pain . . . none yet anyway. I keep getting glimpses of things that I know ain't real. Mostly I feel like I'm not entirely here.”

“Tell me what to do, Bob,” he said bluntly. “Is riding that horse going to kill you?”

Ailes tried to draw the whiskey bottle from inside his shirt again. Sam reached in and did it for him.

“I know only one way to find out,” Ailes replied calmly, taking the bottle after Sam pulled the cork and handed it to him. “If it does, Ranger,” he added, “I'm telling you now, it was my choice.” He stared at Sam as he raised the bottle to his lips. “Just remember, I was dead before you found me here.”

•   •   •

It was afternoon when the workers in Trade City looked up from clearing and piling debris and saw the Ranger and Ailes, their horses moving at a walk across the runoff water and rising onto the street through a silvery gray mist. When they had first started toward town, Sam had taken off his wet hat and placed it carefully down on Ailes' wounded head. The rain had ceased since then, but the distant sky was still low, black and threatening.

Along one side of the muddy street lay a dismal line of bodies, storm victims, male and female, young and old, Anglo and Mexican alike. At the end of the line of dead, nearest to the fallen bank building, lay the riflemen Wilson Orez and his accomplices had slaughtered. Wet towels, blankets and sheets lay partially covering the bodies, plastered ghoulishly to their faces from the day's drenching rainfall.

“My, my,” Ailes whispered. “There appears to be more of us dead than there are of you living.”

The Ranger never liked that kind of talk, but he knew the man was not responsible.

In the street, a group of workers stepped out in front of them, causing them to slow to a halt. The big red-bearded man stepped in front of the others. His right arm rested in a bloody sling; his head bore a high welt. The red-haired boy appeared at his side. The spotted dog limped forward and barked at the roan, but made no effort to snap at the roan's hooves.

“Who the hell are you, mister?” the big man asked, still feeling surly from the day's earlier attack. “I know that one is Bob Ailes, a railroad scout.”

Sam stared at the big man for a moment before deciding to answer.

“I'm Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack,” Sam replied finally.

“This is Mexico,” the man said gruffly.

“I knew that,” Sam said, still staring hard. “I'm tracking some gunmen across the border under an agreement with the Mexican government—”

“If you're looking for four no-good sons a' bitches, one of them a bitch herself,” the man said, cutting in, “they was here all right, you betcha.”

“You don't know it's the same ones, Audie,” said a mud-streaked townsman standing near him.

“It was them, sure enough,” said the big man, Audie Murtzer. “I'd bet money on it. They robbed our bank and killed our bank manager and some others.” He gestured toward the line of bodies. “Not all of them lying there,” he corrected. “Just the ones with bullet holes.”

Sam looked again at the bodies, noting the pinkish red spots on some of the sheets. The rain had washed away much of the blood.

“It was a
rootin'-tootin'
good time!” the red-haired boy cut in with a half-toothless grin.

“Shut up, Little Audie,” said the man. He backhanded the boy a hard thump on the side of his head. The boy staggered to keep from going down. The dog jumped away sidelong, as if afraid he'd be next. “All this little jackass thinks about is
acts of violence
,” the man said. “I can't seem to beat it out of him.”

“How long ago?” Sam asked, stepping down from the roan and walking around to Ailes' horse. The red-haired boy stood rubbing the side of his head.

“A couple of hours or better,” said Murtzer. “We heard some shooting for a while. Then it all stopped.”

Sam very carefully helped Bob Ailes down from his saddle as he asked Audie Murtzer, “How many townsmen rode out after them?”

“Six,” Murtzer replied, watching how careful the Ranger was with Bob Ailes. “I'd gone too, except for this shoulder. Plus, the other night some horse thief made off on my Morgan. Some of us wanted to wait for the
federales
to show up. I said
hell
, like as not the
federales
will turn tail, they hear it's Wilson Orez. He's cleaved enough of their kinfolks' hair to stuff a large mattress.” He grinned. “Cowardly sons a' bitches.”

Sam helped Bob Ailes around to the front of the horse. He noticed how much paler Ailes had turned. A purplish cast had circled and formed under his eyes.

“What's
ailing
Ailes?” Murtzer grinned at his little joke.

“He got injured in the twister,” Sam said. “I was hoping to find a doctor here for him.” As he spoke, he carefully removed the wet hat from Ailes' head. It seemed larger than earlier, bloated on the rear right side, the Ranger noted.

“Somebody get Doc Menendez,” said Murtzer. “Doc's a beaner, but not half bad. He fixed my arm and—oh
my God!
” he said, seeing the spike in Ailes' skull as Ailes half turned, looking more dazed than earlier.

The townsfolk drew back with a gasp.

“Doc rode out with the posse, remember?” said a townsman. He managed to pull his eyes away from Ailes' head and looked at Sam. “He was finished with the dead and wounded here. He's one of the best shots in town. We just figured—”

Murtzer cut in, “If I was you, Ranger, I'd take Bob out to him. He'll be along the trail with the others—got his medicine, his bag and all with him. But it looks like poor Bob could be dead before Doc and the posse get back. Besides, the doctor's house is blown away. I don't know what he's going to do for a place, especially for anybody in this kind of shape.”