Lookout Hill (9781101606735) (16 page)

His thoughts flat out left him as he walked past a dark open doorway and felt the side of his head explode. He fell to the ground on his cheek. In the swaying stupor that he knew came before blacking out, he stared straight ahead at ground level, seeing one rough boot and one worn-out Indian moccasin standing beside him.

“Son of a…,” he heard himself mumble, his words trailing away as a furry black silence slipped in and wrapped itself around him. In his unconscious state, he came to enough to imagine a gathering of Indian youths steadily pelting his back and the back of his head with rocks. His arms were up above his head, rocks hitting them too, but he couldn’t lower them, nor could he make his hand reach for either his holstered Colt or the big Remington stuck down behind his gun belt.

But after a moment he realized through the swirling blackness that his hands weren’t tied above his head at all, nor was he being pelted with rocks by a rowdy band of young Indians. He was being dragged along the rocky ground by his boots. All right, that made more sense, he decided in his unconscious state. With the puzzle solved, he relaxed back into the darkness and disappeared for a time as he bumped and slid mindlessly across the hard ground.

When he vaguely awoke again, he realized he was no longer being dragged by his heels. He was upright now, tied to a support post inside the livery barn, his hands pulled back, bound wrist to wrist by a length of rope. He raised his dazed head from his chest and steadied it enough to stare across the circle of lantern light in the center of the dark barn. In the stall behind him, he heard a large animal chuff and stomp a hoof.

On the other side of the flickering circle of light he saw Hodding “Hot Aces” Siebert sitting with one hip propped on the edge of a wooden tack table. Siebert looked up at him above a bowl, eating red beans with a flat wooden spoon. Siebert had retrieved his stolen roan from its stall; the horse stood beside him.

Saddled, ready to ride,
Bellibar told himself as his head fell back to his chest and the darkness reclaimed him.

When Bellibar awoke again, he did so feeling a rough hand shake his head back and forth by his tangled hair. Bellibar opened his eyes and looked down at Siebert’s mismatched footwear. In a muddled tone Bellibar said, “Are they…giving out moccasins in hell?”

Chewing beans, Siebert looked down at his foot, turned it back and forth. “Oh, this?” He chuckled a little. “I took it after you shot me out of my boot, found it whilst rummaging a place I came upon on my way here. I killed an old man and his woman…and two damned dogs who nearly ate me alive.” He gestured at all the stitches in his face, the side of his head, at his chest beneath his shirt.

“I…know you’re dead, Hot Aces. I…killed you,” Bellibar said in a weak voice, shaking his throbbing head. The side of his skull housed a wild monkey beating on a metal drum with an iron hammer, or so it felt.

“I’ll soon say the same of you.” Siebert grinned, looking him up and down. A tin of whale oil sat on the table beside him. “I want you woke up good and clear, so you’ll know when I take your power.”

“There you go with your crazy talk,” Bellibar said. “It always spills out of you, sooner or later.” Staring down at his feet covered with straw, he noted he wore nothing but his sweat-stained long johns.

Siebert gave a slight shrug and scooped up another spoonful of red beans.

“
Crazy
says you,” he replied. “But there’s not a warrior folk in history who didn’t believe when you kill a person you take his power. Mimbreno Apache…Chiricahua. Hell, the Romans, Hannibal, the Huns, all of them believed it—”

“Not trying to piss on your place in history, Aces,” said Bellibar, cutting him off, “but you’re none of those
warrior folk.
You’re nothing but a bummer and a poltroon coward.”

“Well…” Siebert spooned more beans, then said, “I expect like any other religion, taking power only works if you believe it works.”

“Yeah?” said Bellibar. “What kind of power did you get killing the couple and their dogs?”

“Not much from the couple,” said Siebert, “but a pair of Mexicans showed up. That helped. I got nothing from the dogs except a passing desire to scratch my neck, sniff my own behind.” He gave a short, cackling laugh.

“You’ve always had that,” Bellibar said somberly.

Siebert ignored him.

“I killed a witch,” he said matter-of-factly, chewing beans as he spoke.

“A witch…?” Bellibar said in a dreamy voice. “An honest-to-God witch?”

“She tried to say she was only a healing woman,” Siebert said. “But a witch will lie, even if she doesn’t have to. So, sure she denied it…but I saw right through her.”

“Jesus…,” said Bellibar, his throbbing head sagging back down onto his chest.

Siebert pointed the wooden spoon at Bellibar and wagged it a little. “That was a damned
strange
feeling, killing a
bruja.
Didn’t sense it right away, but now there’s a part of me feels like she’s still right here at my shoulder, watching everything I do.” He gestured the spoon past Bellibar to the stall behind him. “That’s her black mare standing behind you. The animal and the
bruja
both have stuck a hex on me.”

From the stall, the black mare stared defiantly at
Siebert and tugged at the short length of rope that held her tied to the stall rail.

Stuck a spell on him?
This crazy son of a bitch
….

“Let’s stop palavering,” Bellibar said. He strained against the ropes holding his wrists tied behind him. “Untie me and I will kill you deader than hell.”

Siebert took a bite of beans, seemed to consider the offer as he chewed and swallowed.

“Sounds like a damned good deal,” he said. “But I’ll pass on it. I’ve got it in mind to set you afire, you and that damned black mare behind you—now that I got my roan back.”

“Then stop sucking beans and get it done, you loco, witch-killing son of a bitch!” Bellibar shouted.

“Easy, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert. He gave a dark, evil grin. “The belief is, the more you torture a man, the stronger it makes his power when you take it from him.”

“Oh?” said Bellibar. “Burning’s not enough?”

Siebert considered the matter as he ate the rest of the beans and set the empty bowl down.

“In this case, I would say no,” Siebert replied, picking up the tin of whale oil and standing, wiping a hand across his lips. “But I can see where too much power from you might cause a wild goose to fly sideways.” He walked forward and pulled the top off the whale oil tin. He started to pour the oil down around Bellibar’s feet.

“Let me ask you this,” Bellibar said. “Why am I standing here in my undergarments?”

Siebert stopped and stood with the tin of oil in hand. A curious look came to his face.

“I don’t really know why,” he said. “It just seemed
right for some reason.” He paused, then said, “Now let me ask you something. Why’d you bury that son of a bitch alive?”

“You saw that?” Bellibar said. He instinctively glanced around the dark barn, making sure they weren’t being overheard.

“It was hard to miss,” said Siebert. He chuckled. “Poor bastard grabbing for his life, you shovel-thumping him in the head. What did he do to you anyway?” He looked Bellibar up and down. “While we’re at it, how’d you make sheriff here? I figured you’d head straight to Lookout Hill after jackpotting me.”

Bellibar noted that Hot Aces hadn’t yet gotten back to pouring the oil down around his feet.
A good sign?
He hoped so. He’d have to play this right to do himself any good.

“I didn’t
jackpot
you, Aces,” he said calmly. “Leastwise not until I saw you were out to jackpot me.”

“You didn’t know I was jackpotting you,” said Siebert, “not at that time. I was drinking water. You robbed me of my gun.” He patted the big Remington now standing in his holster.

“I figured you might have had something up your sleeve,” Bellibar said quietly. “Turns out, I was right. You’d unloaded my gun.”

Siebert gave him a strange look.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You figured I
might
jackpot you, so that made it okay for you to jackpot me first?” He tapped a finger on his chest.

“Something like that,” said Bellibar, “since it turned out I was right.”

Siebert just stared at him for a moment trying to unravel the twists of the situation.

“I’m not saying I was all the way right,” said Bellibar. “I’m only saying I wasn’t all the way wrong either.”

“Oh,” Siebert said with sarcasm, “now I understand.” He started to tip the oil tin and pour it. “Obliged to you for straightening it out for me.”

“Anyway,” said Bellibar, seeing the explanation was getting him nowhere, “I killed him because he was going to be riding up to the mines every three or four days, reporting what I was up to down here. I only buried him alive because he didn’t die as quick as he should have.”

“That’s understandable.” Siebert shrugged a shoulder. “Go on,” he said, getting interested.

“As for me being made sheriff,” Bellibar said, “Mr. Dale Pettigo himself put me in charge—said he wanted me here identifying outlaws, making sure they didn’t start gathering up in Copper Gully to make a run at his mines.” He stopped and stared at Siebert. “I figure the sooner I buried that no-dying son of a bitch, the quicker I’d start gathering those outlaws to make a run on his mines.” He managed a tight grin. “I know it sounds too good to be true, but there it is.”

Siebert shook his head; the oil tin slumped at his side.

“Jesus,” he said, bewildered, “talk about leaving a wolf to guard a meat house.” He scratched his chin. “Pettigo… You have to wonder how a man can be that stupid and still manage to get himself such a big cut of the pie in this world.”

Bellibar took an easier breath, noting the oil tin was no longer in play.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes I think maybe…” He stopped and let his words fall away.

“
Maybe
what?” said Siebert.

“Nothing,” said Bellibar. “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes, I do,” said Siebert. “Now spit it out, else I’ll dose you down and we’ll get right on with it.”

“Maybe they can be so stupid and still acquire so much because they always stick together somehow,” he said.

“And ol’ boys like us…?” said Siebert, knowing there was more coming on the matter.

“Maybe ol’ boys like us are too busy always trying to kill each other,” Bellibar said. “Maybe if we all—”

“You stole my gun and shot me, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert, seeing where Bellibar was headed.

“Only because
you
unloaded my gun and was going to shoot me, Aces,” Bellibar returned.

“Damn it,” said Siebert, “I don’t see how you—”

“Let’s don’t go through all that again, Aces,” said Bellibar, cutting him off. “Yes, I shot you, but I didn’t kill you.”

“No,” said Siebert, “that’s because this big cross of mine saved my life.” He whipped the crucifix out from behind his shirt and showed him the bullet-scarred bottom edge. “Deflected the bullet,” he said, lifting his eyes to the barn rafters and the endless sky beyond.

Staring at him, Bellibar said, “Something like that has to give a man pause. Peculiar, wouldn’t you say? All we went through, now here we are again, neither of
us worse for wear. And now I’m dealt the kind of hand we both would give our eyeteeth for.”

“I got to admit you’ve landed on a sure thing, Bobby Hugh,” said Siebert.

“I know,” said Bellibar. “Think about it. Instead of us going to Lookout Hill, hats in hand begging for work, we ride right up to them and say, ‘How would you fellows feel about robbing Pettigo-American Mining with us?’”

“It is one fine position to be in. I’ll give you that, Bobby Hugh,” Siebert admitted, taking a step back, considering everything Bellibar had said.

“What time’s it getting to be?” Bellibar asked, letting his head hang down for a moment.

Siebert looked all around and said, “I don’t know…I make it to be two, maybe three in the morning,” he said.

“Damn,” said Bellibar in disbelief. He noted the darkness beyond the circle of lantern light. “How long was I knocked out?”

“A long while,” Hot Aces Siebert said with a dark chuckle. “I hit you hard enough to kill any normal man. They say it’s hard to kill an idiot.”

Bellibar let the remark slip past him. He raised his face.

“It’s not too early to get some breakfast,” he said. “How long since you’ve seen a couple of Mexican eggs stare up at you from beside a roasted capon?”

“Breakfast, huh?” said Siebert, thinking about it.

“Yeah, why not?” said Bellibar. “I’d like to hear all about that
bruja
and her mare putting a hex on you.”

“It’s a hell of a story,” said Siebert.

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Bellibar. “I’m already tasting capon and eggs—some pepper gravy hot enough to lift an anvil…?”

Bellibar noticed Siebert waver. He waited, tensed, until Siebert reached over and stuck the cap back on the oil tin.

“I could eat something, that’s a fact,” Siebert said.

Inside the ragged tent cantina, at a table near the rear canvas wall, Bobby Hugh Bellibar and Hot Aces Siebert sat drinking steaming hot chicory from earthen mugs. As suggested beforehand, they’d ordered
huevos y gallo asado
—eggs and roasted rooster—from a young prostitute wearing the same soiled white peasant gown she’d worked in the night before. As she’d turned to leave, Siebert grabbed her wrist.