A Time to Slaughter (22 page)

The sun was hot and the mighty Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim, scourge of the high seas and enslaver of the infidel, was thirsty as a sweating Turkish peasant laboring in the wheat fields of Izmir.

A great lord should never know thirst, and Hakim felt a burning resentment.

He drew rein on his tired horse and stared across shimmering heat to the distant mountains, sharply outlined against the sky like a broken saw blade. He made a face. “Pah!” The mountains were not for him, deserted by God and man. He was a prince of the sea and that was where his destiny lay.

The pursuit must be over, Hakim decided. The infidels would not chase him and the woman far in any case. And if they caught up, what then? The sheik smiled. The unbelievers would not try too hard, for they feared him as women fear the desert lion and dare not venture too close to his claws and fangs. He could turn south and make a loop toward the coast. He had more than enough gold coins in his money belt to see him home.

Pretending a concern she did not feel, Julia interrupted the sheik's thoughts. “Leave me here. I'm only slowing you down.”

Hakim smiled. “The thought is tempting and I've already considered it. But I may keep you as a concubine for a while.” He nuzzled Julia's neck. “The desert heat brings out the fragrance of a woman's skin as the spring rain does a flower.”

Julia's anger flared and she tried to push the man away from her. “Leave me the hell alone!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the Arab's chest.

“A tigress,” Hakim grinned. “But I'll soon tame you with the whip.”

“You'll never have a moment's rest,” Julia promised. “I'll kill you in your sleep.”

The sheik thought this vastly amusing and tilted back his head, roaring with laughter as he swung his horse away from the mountains and took the direction he favored. The animal was exhausted, and the sheik drew his sword and slapped its lathered flanks with the flat of the blade. His mount broke into a shambling trot, and Hakim pushed it into a canter.

He'd kill the horse, he knew, but, Allah willing, not until he was within sight of the sea.

 

 

An hour later, as the sun hung like a brass ball in the sky to the west, Hakim glanced behind him and the blood in his veins froze. A large dust cloud kicked up by many feet spun into the air just a mile or so behind him. The sheik's eyes narrowed. Was it the infidels? The seamen from the accursed ship that had ruined all his plans?

Damn its soul to hell, his horse was dying under him, wheezing and lathered white. It could not last much longer. How many miles could he beat out of it?

Hakim shook his head. Not many. The sorry beast was on its last legs.

But then a thought came to the sheik that made him smile. The American sailors would not dare chase him across the desert. That much was clear. But his loyal crew would—those who had escaped the infidel cannons.

That was it! His own men were on his trail, raising a cloud of dust as they hurried to be with him.

Hakim grinned. Allah be praised! Now he was no hunted fugitive but a warlord with followers who would die for him.

“Look,” he cried to Julia. “Allah be praised! My men are coming for me! We will go greet them so they may once again bask in the presence of their lord.” He slapped his horse with his sword and the animal lurched forward.

Shrieking the undulating battle cry of the Bedouin, Hakim beat the horse into a canter and its hooves pounded over hard-packed sand. As he drew closer he expected to hear answering cries from his men. But the dust cloud came on in silence, relentless as a wave at sea.

Suddenly, Hakim was wary. Through gaps in the yellow cloud he caught glimpses of white-clad legs, not the black sailor pants of his crew.

He savagely drew rein and studied the dust more closely and the ugly truth dawned on him. They were rabbits! The filthy Mexican peons he'd hunted for sport.

Once again Hakim's sword slithered from the scabbard. He raised the shining blade above his head and snarled his rage. He would scatter the vile peasant rabble like wheat chaff in a wind.

The mighty lord Hakim threw Julia from the saddle, roared his battle cry, and charged.

 

 

The horse was a big American stud named Blue Boy, and he'd been born and raised in the green pastures of Kentucky. Bred for speed and stamina, he'd been a hired gunman's charger since he was four years old and he'd proven himself time and time again in battle or in the chase.

But even Blue Boy's strong heart could not take the punishment Hakim had dealt him.

Fifty yards from the dust cloud . . . he faltered and pecked a couple of times.

Thirty yards . . . his breathing was labored, and his knees started to buckle.

Twenty yards . . . Blue Boy's noble heart burst, and he was already dead when he cartwheeled to the ground and threw Hakim over his head.

Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim lay stunned for a few moments, his sword a couple of yards away from him. He saw the Mexicans running toward him, blades in their hands, and he dived for his scimitar.

Too late.

Hands reached out for Hakim and tore off his clothes. He sprawled on the sand naked as the day he was born.

Bellowing his anger, he fought the peons and struggled to get to his feet, determined to die like a warrior, not a dog.

But a dozen men, who badly wanted to kill him like a dog, dragged him to a hedgehog cactus and threw him on top of its spines. Men hauled at his wrists and ankles and Hakim was spreadeagled. He roared his outrage at a great and mighty lord being given such treatment.

Then the old women came to him and Hakim began to taste fear.

They were survivors from the village he'd ravaged and mothers of the men he'd killed on his rabbit hunt. He looked into their faces and saw no mercy, only a silent hate burning in their eyes like black fire.

The lord Hakim did not scream when cactus spines were forced into his skin and set alight, a trick the Mexicans had learned from the Apaches who had taught them much.

He did not scream as the women, solemn as the Sphinx, their faces empty of expression, used their knives to cut slices from his skin.

He did not scream when the wife of the dead village blacksmith showed him the iron hammer that would soon shatter his bones.

But when the honed knives began to carve away his manhood . . .

Well, Sheik Abdul Basir-Hakim screamed then all right.

“They didn't leave much of him for the buzzards, did they?” Uriah Tweedy shuddered as he stopped his horse in front of Hakim's dead body.

“He looks kind of like one of those jigsaw puzzles children play with,” Thaddeus Lowth commented, stopping too.

Shawn turned in the saddle. “How long you figure it took him to die, Jake?”

“Too long,” Jacob said. “See the cactus spines burned down to his skin? That's an old Apache torture.”

Tweedy dismounted and looked at the footprints around the scarlet stain, large as a steer hide, surrounding the Arab's body.

“Judging by the sandal and barefoot tracks, I'd say Mexican peons done fer him.” Tweedy nodded to the dead horse. “Deservedly so, if only for riding that hoss to death.” He looked around him. “What happened to Trixie? Did the Mexicans take her?”

“I don't know,” Shawn said. “But I sure aim to find out.”

Tweedy mounted his horse. “Then let's ride. It will be dark soon.”

Jacob gathered the reins and said to Consuelo, “The man who murdered your husband is dead.”

Consuelo stared at the butchered corpse for a long time, then lowered her head and sobbed quietly.

Jacob, no hand with crying women, turned to his brother. “Shawn, can you help her?”

Shawn moved his horse close to the woman and put an arm around her. She sobbed on his shoulder while he gently stroked her hair and whispered cooing sounds, as he would with a baby. Jacob watched and thought it very well done.

From a distance, came the thin cry of another woman, begging for help.

Jacob's gaze scanned the desert, but it was Tweedy who spotted Julia. “Over there.” He pointed to a figure on the ground not too far away. “See her?”

He turned his horse around and galloped in the direction of the fallen woman, Jacob close behind him.

They swung out of the saddles and Tweedy kneeled by Julia's side. “Are you all right?”

“I hit the ground hard.” Julia stretched out her right leg and hiked up her skirt. “I think my ankle is broken.”

Tweedy looked at Jacob. “What do you think, Jake?”

“It looks swollen. We'd better check it over.” Jacob kneeled in front of Julia, unlaced the high-heeled boot, and ran his hand over her ankle. “I don't think it's broken. But you've got a bad sprain.”

He took her hands and pulled the woman to her feet. He dropped her hands and smiled. Damn, but she was pretty.

Julia tried a few tentative steps. “I'm sorry. I can't walk.”

“I'll carry you,” Tweedy offered.

“You might hurt your back,” Julia protested.

“No I won't. It's the least I kin do fer my intended bride.”

“Uriah—”

Ignoring what Julia had been about to say, Tweedy swung her into his arms. “No need to thank me fer becomin' your husband, Trixie. I'm doin' it right willingly.”

Julia threw a despairing look at Jacob, who smiled and said nothing.

It seemed that poor old Tweedy was headed for a big disappointment.

Flies had found the Arab's carcass and Shawn and the others left the place of terrible death and headed back toward the coast.

But after barely a mile, Consuelo suddenly swung her horse around and cantered back into the desert.

“Let her go,” Shawn said as Jacob made a move to go after her. “She's heading back to her people where she belongs.”

“Seems to me, that little gal just ain't right in the head,” Tweedy said. “What's your opinion on that, Mr. Lowth?”

“Sadly, I concur, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth agreed. “The Arab didn't kill her, but he wounded her mind.”

“Her people will take care of her,” Shawn pointed out as they continued to ride.

“I believe in second chances, Mr. O'Brien,” Lowth continued. “Perhaps she'll be given one.”

“Truer words was never spoke, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “After what that gal's been through, she deserves a second chance.”

“Well, good luck to her.” Jacob watched Consuelo disappear in a distant cloud of dust, then swung his horse back in the direction of the coast.

Julia was behind him in the saddle, an extra burden that did not go unnoticed or unpunished by his nasty mustang.

Thanks to the Irish engineer who stopped his train on the tracks to let Jacob and the others board, two days later they rode the cushions of an Albuquerque-bound cannonball, and Julia broke the bad news to Uriah Tweedy.

She let the old man down as gently as she could. “I'm just not ready for marriage, Uriah. I want to go on teaching at Dromore. I don't think the life you offer is for me.”

For his part, Tweedy was stunned. “Ol' Ephraim will be coming out of his winter sleep pretty soon. You an' me should be hitched and huntin' by then.”

Julia shook her head. “I'm sorry, Uriah. I like you, but I don't love you as a wife should love her husband.”

“Is there another man? Just give me his name and I'll—”

“There's no other man, Uriah. I look ahead to see my future and it's at Dromore.”

“Trixie, you're making a bad mistake. Is that not so, Mr. Lowth?”

Lowth laid his cup back on the saucer and glanced around the dining car, as though he feared being overhead. Shawn was pretending to be serious, but Jacob smiled into his coffee cup, his mouth hidden by his mustache.

“Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said, “you're a well set-up fellow and you prosper in your chosen profession. In other words, you are true blue in every way, shape, and form.”

“Truer words was never spoke, Mr. Lowth.” Tweedy sat back in his seat and beamed as though Lowth had fairly stated his attributes.

“But,” Lowth continued, “Miss Davenport is a fair, delicate creature, not suited for the rigors of mountain camps and bear hunts. Alas, your proposal of marriage must founder on the rock of that truth.”

Tweedy looked at Julia. “I understand what you're saying, my love. But I can't give up the only life I know and become the husband of a schoolma'am.”

Julia saw her chance and took it. As melodramatic as any actress, she said, “Then we must part, Uriah, and go our own ways.”

“I know I've broken your heart, Trixie,” Tweedy murmured sadly.

“It will mend in time.” Julia continued the melodrama. “At least I hope it will.”

Tweedy was lost in silence for a few moments, giving thought to the situation. Perking up, he smiled warmly. “Of course, I could give up on ol' Ephraim and hunt wolves for a livin'. Would that be more to your liking?”

Julia shook her head. “Uriah, you're a bear hunter, strong, reliant, and brave. When I lie in bed at night just before I drop off to sleep, I want to see you in my mind's eye, out there in the wilderness, just you and Ephraim.”

“But I don't hunt at night,” Tweedy said, confused.

“Well, I'll see you in my mind's eye in the morning light then,” Julia responded.

Jacob, grinning, held up his sack of tobacco and papers. “May I beg your indulgence, ma'am?”

“Why, of course.” Julia nodded.

Tweedy was dispirited. “Her heart's broken, Jake.”

“She'll get over it, Uriah. In time,” Jacob promised.

“Time is a great healer, Miss Davenport,” Lowth pointed out.

“It is, but not when it's a man like me who captured the lady in question's heart,” Tweedy said, a great sadness in his voice.

Shawn coughed uncontrollably and covered his mouth with a fist. Finally, his eyes watering, he gasped, “Anybody else feel like a drink?”