Sidewinder (18 page)

Delbert was a careful man, a planner, and he had long ago set up isolated and secluded stock pens and abattoirs, secured the services of butchers, some old mountain men, others drunkards and wastrels who had lived off the land for years. These were his butchers, and he paid them well.

For some years he had been stealing cattle from unsuspecting ranchers, butchering them, and selling them to restaurants or hash houses, mostly in the mining towns where the proprietors didn’t ask too many questions. He had a smooth, solid operation because of his policy of secrecy. His men were all handpicked and efficient. They weren’t hesitant about killing, and none had any qualms about rustling cattle. In fact, every man jack among ’em was a criminal, just like Del and his brother, Hiram.

“You gals come with Hiram and me,” Delbert said to Felicity. “And, maybe, I better know your names before we start out. How about you, Mrs. Storm? You got a name.”

“I wouldn’t have it on your filthy lips,” Felicity said.

Delbert laughed, but it was not a humorous laugh. Rather it was full of derision. That told Felicity a lot. Delbert had no more feelings for her than he did for Curly. And she was likely to suffer a similar fate, she believed.

“How about you, little Mexican gal? You got a name.”

Pilar looked at Felicity, a questioning glint in her eyes.

“I am called Pilar,” she said, meekly. “And my friend is Felicity.”

Felicity gave Pilar a sympathetic look. She wasn’t angry at her. Pilar just didn’t want any trouble with these rough, crude men; that was all. Felicity didn’t blame her. But at least she hadn’t told Delbert her name.

“Pretty names,” Delbert said. “Pretty ladies to boot. Let’s move out. Hiram, you take Pilar with you. She tries to run off, shoot her dead. Felicity, you stick close to me, so’s you and me can get more acquainted.”

Felicity held her tongue for the moment. Delbert gave her a scornful look, and she turned her head away from him. She wasn’t going to give this man an inch, she told herself. He’d soon take a mile.

The other two herds disappeared after a few moments. Hiram and Delbert moved their small herd in a different direction, heading north. They crossed the creek again and wound through scrub pines, hugged the rimrock before dropping down on an ancient moraine that had been ground down over the years. It was wide and strewn with small pebbles and sand that had once been huge boulders. From the looks of the limestone and the hillocks, a river had once coursed through there and over time, with plenty of raging flash floods, the rocks had been pummeled and crushed and reduced to small chunks, and these had been eroded into the flatness and smallness they now possessed. The cattle left no tracks other than a turned over pebble here and there. The bottoms of these were only slightly damp and would soon dry in the sun. The sun was climbing toward its zenith.

After a time, Delbert no longer looked over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. The moraine had twisted several times, and he felt safe from immediate pursuit.

Felicity watched his every move and made note of their route in case she lived through this and had to remember it later.

She was hot and hungry and powerless to wipe the perspiration off her face. The sun was boiling at that lower altitude.

Delbert slipped the strap of his wooden canteen off his saddle horn, took a few swallows, then held out the vessel to Felicity.

“Want a drink?” he asked.

“I’ll drink,” she said, “and if you’ll be so kind, would you take that bandanna from around your neck and wipe my forehead? The sweat’s stinging my eyes.”

“Why, sure,” Delbert said. He untied his bandanna and leaned over, wiped her forehead. Then he put the canteen to her lips, and tipped it so that water trickled out of it and into her mouth and throat.

“Enough?” he said.

“Yes.”

He corked the canteen, slung it from his saddle horn, and stuffed his bandanna in his back pocket after wiping the grime from his neck.

“Delbert? Is that your name?” Felicity said.

“Yeah, but you can call me Del.”

“It’s Coombs, isn’t it?”

“You know my name?”

“I’ve heard it before,” she said.

“Hell, everybody in these parts knows my name. What did you hear about me?”

“That you murdered a family named Seguin and stole all their cattle.”

“Don’t nobody have no proof of that.”

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“Go right ahead.”

“You stole our cattle. You kidnapped me and my friend Pilar. Why did you have to burn down our houses? Why did you burn our barn?”

“Oh, you been wonderin’ about that, have you?”

“I can’t help but wonder. There was no reason to do that. You got what you wanted. I’m frankly curious.”

“Well, curiosity killed the dadgummed cat, you know. Still, it’s probably a fair question.”

“Are you going to answer it?”

“I might. Never thought about it real hard. The way I figure it in your case is that your man is off somewhere. Pilar’s, too, right?”

“Right. They’re probably back by now.”

“Well, with the barn gone and the houses burned, they can’t get no grub ner any more ammunition. Slow ’em down. I don’t like to leave no tracks.”

“Brad—my husband—is an excellent tracker.”

“He is, is he? Well, now we’ll just see how good he is, won’t we?”

“We sure will, Mr. Coombs.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it much. We ain’t got far to go, and once these cows smell water, they’ll run to where we keep ’em. After that, any trackers will run right into a wall of lead.”

“I wouldn’t be so damned smug if I were you, Mr. Coombs.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, would you? Hell, lady, you know, I just don’t give a damn.”

“I can see that. Pride goeth before a fall.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that in Sunday school. I still don’t give a damn.”

She said no more. She had sized up Delbert Coombs pretty well.

He was a heartless, cruel man, with no morals, no conscience. He would murder people and burn their homes down without so much as batting an eye.

Such a man was dangerous.

Now she knew just how dangerous he was.

She thought of Brad and wondered if he could track them. The herd had been split into three separate groups. Which one would he follow? She knew now why Coombs had switched horses. Brad would track her horse, most probably.

Delbert was very cunning, she thought. He may have outwitted Brad.

But, sooner or later, she was sure, Brad would figure it out.

If he did not and followed her horse, he would ride straight into an ambush or arrive at a dead end. It all seemed hopeless now that she thought about it. And she wanted him so much, wanted his arms around her. But she was a hostage, and if Coombs was using her as bait to kill Brad . . .

Well, she didn’t know the answer to that question.

She was filled with an overwhelming feeling of dread.

Deep dread.

And a sudden sadness that passed all understanding.

Brad knew the horses were tired. That last gallop had taken the last of their spunk. They were not lathered yet but were close to it. And two horses were all that the three of them had.

“For want of a horse,” he said aloud and to no one.

Julio was still in shock. He stood there, dazed, looking at the burned remnants of his bunkhouse, his wife gone, along with all of his possessions. He stood there, like a man whose arms had been cut off.

“What you say?” Carlos asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just an old phrase about war and the want of a nail.”

“I do not understand.”

“Let’s see if we can find your guns in the bunkhouse, Carlos. Get that bucket, fill it, and we’ll douse any of the hot spots.”

“That is what I wished to do when you came up. My pistol was under my bed. My rifle . . . I do not remember where my rifle was. Maybe in the kitchen. Maybe by the back door. Maybe it fell outside when . . .”

“We’ll see if we can find them,” Brad said. He turned to Julio with his tear-streaked face, his red-rimmed eyes, eyes with the haunting look of loss flickering in them like a dim lamp in a fog. “Julio, take care of the horses, will you? Strip them, walk them, see if you can find any unburned grain in the barn. Water them. Give ’em a good rubdown.”

He put his hands on Julio’s shoulders, squeezed them.

“The way to get over loss, Julio, is to build something, plan something. We’ll go after Pilar and Felicity before the sun sets.”

“I know,” Julio said. “If I keep busy, my heart will not have so much pain.”

“That’s the idea,” Brad said.

Julio led the horses toward the smoking ruins of the barn. Brad walked to the bunkhouse, met Carlos at the well. Brad helped him carry the full bucket of water.

“Let’s start looking where you think your pistol might be,” Brad said. “Show me where you had your bunk.”

Carlos walked around the side of the smoldering frame of the bunkhouse cabin. Tendrils of smoke rose from some of the logs that were still burning in certain places.

“There,” he said.

Within the downed walls, Brad saw shards of exploded glass, the blackened remnants of peaches, apricots, and pears, blackberry preserves, and unrecognizable vegetables. Swollen airtights with their labels partially burned away lay helter-skelter in the area that had once been the kitchen. There were knives, spoons, and forks scattered and twisted into grotesque shapes, amid cracked pewter plates, a skillet, and a fry pan, and cracked clay bowls next to burned wooden canisters and bowls.

“Before you pour any water in there, Carlos, get a stick and poke around where you think your pistol might be.”

The smoke was making them all sick to their stomachs. It hung in the air like torn shrouds. Brad was coughing. So, too, was Carlos. Carlos returned soon with a long planed one-by-two that they used to measure creek and well water. He began poking in the ashes and charred chunks of logs, stirring the ashes, pushing away clumps of a cotton-stuffed mattress, goose feathers from his pillow, scraps of a woolen blanket, and the melted gobs of a black slicker.

“Take it slow, Carlos. You don’t want to stir the small fires.”

Poke, poke, poke. Stir, stir, stir.

The end of the wood strip clunked against something metal. Carlos worked it toward the edge of the room, wormed it past the smoking log wall and onto the ground.

“That looks like a pistol,” Brad said. “Careful, it’s probably hotter’n a branding iron.”

Carlos picked up the bucket and poured a small amount of water over the object. Flakes and globs of burned cotton and fragments of feathers washed away. The outlines of a pistol barrel showed, then the trigger, trigger guard, hammer, and butt came into view. The wooden grip was only partially burned on one side. The pistol hissed as it cooled, and a thin mist steamed from the hot metal.

“Maybe we can find some oil, and you can clean it up,” Brad said as Carlos gingerly lifted the pistol up by its trigger guard. “It looks okay. Cock it, but don’t fire off a bullet if there are any in the cylinder.”

“There are five,” Carlos said.

“Be careful then.”

Carlos turned toward the pasture and thumbed the hammer back. The cylinder spun from an empty tube to one with a cartridge in the chamber. He eased the hammer back down to half cock.

“
Se sirve
,” he said in Spanish. “It works.”

“Good. Now set it down and let’s look for your rifle.”

“I do not know where the holster is,” Carlos said as they walked around the house. “I take the pistol out at night and put it under my bed.”

“Probably burned to a crisp.”

They looked over toward the barn. Julio was letting the horses drink at the water trough. They were unsaddled, their wet blankets drying in the sun.

Carlos carried the stick with him, while Brad carried the sloshing bucket of water. They walked around to where the back door used to be, and Carlos began poking through the rubble. The logs in the back had not burned through. They were still standing four high, still hot and still smoking. Brad sloshed water on what was left of the doorjamb. There was a hissing of steam.

Carlos reached around with one hand, feeling for the rifle. It was not there.

“Check the floor,” Brad said. “Use the stick.”

Carlos leaned in and poked around with the stick. He felt something hard and worked it toward the doorway.

“I think it is there,” he said.

“Don’t touch it with your hands,” Brad said. “It’s probably still hot.”

Brad poured water onto the object and slowly its outlines began to appear. The rifle, a Winchester ’73, like his own, seemed to have suffered no major damage to its barrel or receiver. The stock was scorched but could be sanded and refinished, after which it would be as good as new.