The Guns of Santa Sangre (16 page)

His companions nodded slowly.
 

Tucker looked at Mosca and tipped his hat. “Lead the way.”

The Jefe grinned, and spurred his horse. “Follow me.”

So the three gunfighters urged their horses and followed, escorted by Mosca and Calderon in the lead and the nine bandits to their rear. Tucker knew they were handily flanked fore and aft, but they had to play it out. As they trod through the square of the besieged village, the cowboy looked left and right at the eerily deserted huts and shacks. It had the stink and ennui of a graveyard. Give up hope all ye who enter here. Vultures were everywhere, the foul carrion birds strolling to and fro unchallenged down the streets and byways of the empty town like they owned the place, the true citizens of the village now. The buzzards picked at pieces of flesh and bloody shags of meat that they happened upon. They didn’t fight over them as such scavenger birds usually did, because there was plenty of meat to be found. In the sky overhead, a dozen vultures circled in constant circumference, their shadows falling over the men’s hats.

The seconds ticked by into minutes as the group rode patiently through town, to the metronome beat of the horses’ hooves.
 

Tucker looked ahead past the heads of the two brigands. Down the dirt street, the cowboy saw the stark white pueblo church looming above on the hill, a place of iniquity drawing closer like inescapable destiny. Vultures perched on the steeple and rooftops of the mission congregated like crows on telegraph wires, from this distance resembling rows of black teeth against the blinding whitewash of the adobe structure. They were in there, the villagers that were left, and his stomach clenched in dread anticipating what they would witness inside the church minutes from now. It was going to be bad. He remembered too well the horrors of the stagecoach junction massacre they had come upon earlier that morning, and this would be worse. But the silver was in there. All they had to do was get it and somehow get out.
 

Perhaps the bandits meant to kill them once they had passed the open wooden doors of the mission that beckoned like a gaping mouth up on the ridge, but somehow Tucker doubted that was the plan. Mosca and his men could easily have opened fire on them right here down in the square. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the hairy Mexican banditos riding patently behind, making no move for their many guns, though their present position gave them the perfect opportunity to shoot the gunslingers in the back.
 

The one ahead on the right called Calderon looked back at Tucker and winked, the up and down movement of the horse doing his work for him as he pleasured himself inside the half-dead meat puppet of the girl in his lap, her arms thrown limply over his shoulders in a grotesque mockery of a lover’s embrace. The bandit was a lean, feral vulpine man with a long snout of nose who bore a natural resemblance to a rabid coyote. Tucker broke his dull, ugly gaze and stole laconic glances left and right to Bodie and Fix. His confederates were staring straight ahead at the mission they called Santa Sangre, braced for battle, hands on their pistols. Like it or not, they were all about to find out why it was now called Saint Blood.

The gunfighters trotted with the bandits up the paved hill to the pueblo church of Santa Sangre. The heat seemed to get hotter the higher they ascended. The upgrade was a wide gravel path that rose farther and farther above the opposite embankment, and the cluttered sprawl of village huts shrank below as the shadow of the steeple fell over them.
 

A broad ridge about fifty yards wide formed a natural perimeter around the religious structure. The ground was rock and dirt, and they all rode around the back of the church. They dismounted and tethered their horses on the rail in the shade behind the cathedral. About twenty other horses, saddles and bridles were tied to the same hitching post.
 

The cowboys exchanged glances, now having a good idea of the actual number of the opposing forces. The three had the bullets, if they had the luck.
 

Tucker saw the early afternoon sun moving down the sky in the direction of the distant Durango Mountains. He whispered to his comrades. “Savvy we got five hours till nightfall and the full moon.”
 

The stark sunlight was blinding and bleached the outside of the church blank white, but inside the open oaken doors the interior of the cathedral was pitch black. The bandits stood back to allow their guests to enter the doorway.

When the three gunfighters set foot inside the church, the stench nearly pitched them backward. It was the disgusting, gorge-rising odor of dead meat, rot and death in the stifling enclosed quarters. Tucker, Bodie and Fix stepped into the nave with utter revulsion. Their spurs jingled, ringing through the catacombs of Santa Sangre. Diffused light filtered through the broken stained-glass windows into an area more animal cave than chapel. The silhouettes of more than a dozen bandits hunkered and sprawled in the pews. Some chewed on bones. Others played cards. Still others slept curled up like dogs, snoring loudly. One of them urinated against a far wall. Sunlight glinted on the dull metal of guns, and blades of knives and machetes.
 

Tucker’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
 

Chunks of human meat and flesh, both fresh and decayed, were piled everywhere on the tiles. Bones and skulls, gnawed clean, had been heaped waist high. The blood pooling on the floor was shiny and wet or black as dried paint. Flies swarmed in a steady maddening drone. Gore dripped. In one corner of the defiled abattoir of the church once known as Santa Tomas, several naked young women sat cowering in the darkness, hugging their knees. They shivered, bruised and limp, eyes dead, too broken to care as they waited to be used at the whim of the bandits.

“Lordy,” whispered Tucker.

“Where are the rest of the villagers?” Bodie wondered.

“Reckon they’re that wet stuff your boots is standing in,” Fix observed grimly, nodding at the huddled group of bare, savaged girls. “They all that’s left, what’s left of ’em.”

In the murky darkness, shiny things gleamed. The shimmering came from glinting metal objects placed all around the room. It was silver. Statues. Candlesticks. Plates. The precious metal shined regal and bright in the cathedral, and the reflections flashed in the eyes of the three gunfighters.

What they had come for.

The blasting light from the sun through the doorway behind them silhouetted the three cowboys and cast their shadows thirty feet ahead down the aisle as they walked tall through the grisly pews. The gunslingers’ eyes were riveted on the silver treasures before them. Their lips parted and drew breath at the riches they beheld. The shiny beams danced on their faces, and they forgot the unspeakable horror all around them as they approached the altar, hypnotized by the glory of the silver, more than they could have dreamed. The treasure was actual. Tucker saw the wonder in Fix and Bodie’s eyes, silver reflected light rippling on their faces in liquid refraction, like the sun off a river. A man would never have an opportunity like this again. The gunfighter wanted rid of this place. He felt hatred for the bandits and outrage for the people, but he was not responsible for their fate. This was more money than he could ever spend.
Forget the stench, put it out of your mind
, he told himself.
Don’t look at those young girls, you can’t do nothing for them. It will be all over for them soon, anyway. Keep your mind on the silver. Don’t listen to their wails and sobbing, people suffer in this world. You didn’t put them here.
 

But you can get them out,
a stubborn voice in his head told him as he forced it into the back of his conscience, telling himself he had to get the three of them out first. He had one big problem, and as he exchanged glances with his fellow gunsels, he saw they were thinking the same damn thing.

How the hell were they going to get the silver out of there?

Well those stinking scum damn sure weren’t going to just let them walk out with it. Tucker automatically gauged the killing ground and did some fast calculations in his head. The others were doing the same. The three gunfighters communicated wordlessly by directional eye movements and subtle hand signals to work out the strategy of the pending shoot-out that could be seconds away. Most of the bandits now appeared to be behind them, near the front of the church. A finger point and open palm gesture by Fix. There were but two of the animals loitering behind the tabernacle they had to worry about and the gunslingers would pick them off first. Tucker nudged his chin. There were about fourteen pews, which would afford them ample cover and shield them from the bullets. Bodie and Fix imperceptively nodded. An eye movement from Bodie. The naked girls in the corner would be directly in the line of fire. Tucker didn’t like that, but they did not have time to get them out of harm’s way, didn’t have time, period. Fix reached up to scratch his nose and drew his thumb across his throat. Tucker felt terrible, those poor girls who had suffered so much were dead meat when the bullets flew. He tried to tell himself they were just being put out of their misery.
Keep your mind on the silver, and at least you’ll be killing those bastards for them.
 

Then the silver was suddenly swallowed in shadow when a wall of blackness descended as the big oaken doors were slammed shut behind them with a resounding
boom.

The gunfighters turned, hands by their guns.

The Jefe and the bandits stood at the other end of the aisle by the closed doors with their arms crossed. On both sides, the other bandits, acting drunk or sleepy, were rising from their spoor to regard their new visitors. It seemed they were salivating. Mosca grinned, flashing rows of gold teeth, and spread his arms wide in generosity and welcome. “
Mi casa es su casa
.”

Tucker spat. “You're a real nice bunch of guys.”

Mosca winked. “Stay and party with us. Have a drink. You want a woman?”

Bodie winced at the sight of the brutalized females. “We’ll pass.” Some of the bandits standing nearby were sniffing the scent of the gunslingers. Fix shot one of them a look that made them retreat fast.

The Jefe spoke softly. “I ask you again, amigos, what have you come here for?”

Tucker looked at Bodie and Fix, then looked at the bandit leader and came right out with it. “Silver.”

The bandit leader walked down the aisle of the nave between the pews, nodding, eyeing the treasures of the tabernacle. “
Si
.
Entiendo
. Much silver.
Mucho dinero
. You want this,
si
?”

“Yup.”

“Then take it.” Mosca shrugged affably. “It is yours.”

Tucker kept his hands near his pistols. They were outnumbered ten to one. “Just like that?” he said.

“
Si
, just like that. Take it and go.”
 

The gunslingers exchanged glances.
 

“Thanks,” said Bodie.

“With our regards.” With a wave of his arm, Mosca gestured for his men to open the front doors of the church. “
Hombres
, fetch the saddlebags of the
caballeros
so they may take the silver.” A group of bandits lifted the beam and the oaken doors swung wide, blasting daylight into the church, as they went outside. The Jefe just stood with his arms crossed, presiding over the slaughterhouse of a defiled cathedral scattered with piles of human remains, bones and drying blood that festooned the walls, floors and pews.

“What's the catch?” asked Tucker.

Mosca shrugged. “We have no use of silver.”

“So we heard,” Fix quipped.

The Jefe chuckled. “Or gold. Or
dinero
. Men like us, we take what we want. Nobody stops us. What need have we of
dinero
?” The bandito walked up to Tucker, seeming to sniff him. His breath was foul and canine, steaming in the air, but his eyes were powerful and primal as a wild coyote and owned the gunslinger's gaze with the respect of the strong. “You have killed many men,
si
?”

“Reckon.”

“And you. And you.” Mosca nodded at Bodie, and then at Fix. “I see this. You are cruel men, yes, and strong.
Muy gusta
. So I make you this proposition. Ride with us.”
 

The gunfighters exchanged laconic glances.
 

“Join us,” spoke the Jefe.

The leader of the gunfighters spoke for all three. “Thanks, but we ride alone.”

“Lone wolves, eh?”

“Something like that.”

The bandit leader threw his head back and laughed. His men laughed. It was contagious. Even the gunslingers joined in and laughed.
 

“Lone wolves.” Mosca gave an old, knowing smile. “We know about wolves, amigos, and because of this I tell you it is true what they say. Lone wolves are easy targets.”

“We'll take our chances.” Fix’s jaw slowly worked on a chaw of tobacco, measured and deliberate.

“Join us, amigos! You will never be alone. And you will live forever. Be free. But the choice is yours.” Three bandits came back through the open doors of Santa Sangre carrying the gunfighters’ saddlebags, and dropped them at the floor of their owners’ feet. “Your silver.” The Jefe gestured to the tabernacle. “Take it all.”
 

Wary and incredulous, Tucker, Bodie and Fix eyed one another and the bandits. The offer seemed good. With one hand near a gun, each one of the gunfighters began using the other hand to grab the candlesticks and stuff them in their saddlebags. They whispered to one another out of earshot of their hosts.