Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (30 page)

The old Comanche fighters dove for shelter, two of them under the walk, one behin
d
a watering trough; another dashed for the saloon. Without doubt he was headed fo
r
a drink to ballast his shocked nerves, but he was doomed to die thirsty. He caugh
t
a slug from Socorro's rifle and went down on the very step of his goal, and in
a
matter of seconds the street was laced with gunfire, stabbing, darting flames.

Young Johnny Mulhaven was still on his feet, carrying enough lead for three men t
o
die, and he was still firing left-handed. Scar Ethridge had made one attempt to ge
t
up, but Johnny made sure of him with a bullet through the skull. One of the horse
s
sprang away, and then the bank door burst open and three men charged into the street.

Mulhaven took the full blast of their fire and went down hard, blood staining th
e
gray boards of the walk. A rifle spoke from the livery stable, another from the store.

Three men were unlimbering guns from within the saloon. Old Pete, at the first shot
,
had come erect with a lunge, swallowed his chewing tobacco, and methodically pulle
d
his old pistol, aimed, shot, and put a slug into Kane Geslin.

And then, suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Five men had come into town, an
d
four rode out. Two of them were wounded.

It was only then that the full story was known. Within the bank, the slugged ma
n
told it. He had come out of it just in time to see Mailer strike the banker down
,
then unlimber his pistol and kill all three of the men within the bank. Wisely, h
e
lay still and lived.

Four men were dead, but Johnny Mulhaven, miraculously, was still alive, but wit
h
nine wounds.

Headed east and riding fast were the four remaining outlaws. Geslin had a flesh woun
d
and Socorro had come out of it with a bloody but merely burned shoulder. All fou
r
were ugly, despite the success of their venture, and three of them were worried.

They had known Mailer for a long time, but not the Mailer in the bank. They wer
e
all men who had killed and would kill again, yet those three killings were cold-blooded
,
unnecessary, and dangerous to their safety. Dangerous because while many a Wester
n
town might overlook a bank robbery, they would never overlook a cold-blooded killing.

They swung north, leaving the trail for the rough country, and circled west, headin
g
for a crossing above White Canyon. They had good horses, and doubted if a pursui
t
would immediately get under way. Silent, brooding, and bloody, the four men crosse
d
the Rio Grande and headed up Pajarito Canyon, crossed to Valle de los Posos, an
d
headed for the Rio Puerco.

Nobody talked. Geslin had lost blood and felt sick and sore. The movement of th
e
horse hurt him. Sweat smarted the burn on Socorro's arm and his mood became vile.

Steadily, they pushed on under a baking sun, their shirts stained with blood an
d
sweat, their horses plodding more wearily. Behind them there might be pursuit, an
d
they could easily be followed. There were Indian trackers at Aztec Crossing.

No clouds marred the faint blue of the sky where the sun hung brassy and broiling.

Nothing moved but the sage, and there was no wind, only a heavy, stifling heat. Sa
m
Starr alone seemed unaffected, but from time to time his eyes turned toward the hug
e
sullen figure of Frank
Mailer. Mentally, he told himself he was through. When I get mine, he told himself
,
I'm pullin' stakes.

Alkali dust lifted in soft clouds and dusted a film over their clothing. Socorr
o
cursed monotonously and Geslin stared ahead with bleak, desperate eyes, his lip
s
dry, his body aching for rest and water. Frank Mailer, indomitable and grim, rod
e
on ahead. Starr stared phlegmatically before them, his eyes squinting against th
e
intense white glare of the sun. He watched his horse carefully, keeping it to goo
d
ground whenever possible, knowing how much depended on it.

At last the night came and shadows reached out and touched them with coolness. I
n
a tiny glade on the Rio Puerco, the men swung stiffly from their horses. Starr eye
d
the sacks thoughtfully, and Socorro with greedy, eager eyes, watchful eyes, too
,
for they shifted vaguely to the night, and then with more intentness on the men close
by.

Bulking black against the starry sky, looming almost above them, were the rugge
d
San Pedro Mountains. Starr got some food together, and nobody talked. Geslin bathe
d
his wound and bandaged it; Socorro did likewise. Mailer stared into the flames, hulkin
g
and dangerous.

"Will we make it back tomorrow?" Socorro asked suddenly.

"No," Geslin replied, "there isn't a chance."

"Let's split the money now," Socorro suggested.

Starr wanted nothing more than that, "but he was hesitant to agree. His eyes shifte
d
to Mailer and they all waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. Starr had see
n
men like this before when killing was on them. There was only one end to it. Death.

They killed and killed until they themselves were slain. He wanted no part of it.

He wanted to get away. He also wanted his money.

Dawn found them pushing northeast, heading up Capulin Creek. With the San Pedros to the south and the bulk of Mesa Prieta to the north
,
there was no way to see if there was any pursuit or not. Geslin was willing to be
t
there was, and Starr agreed. They told each other as much during a moment when the
y
had fallen behind.

It was dusk when they drew up at a spring and slid from their horses. "We'd bette
r
stop," Geslin said. "My arm's givin' me hell!"

Mailer turned on him. "What's the matter?" He sneered. "You turnin' into an old woman?"

Geslin's face whitened and for an instant they stared at each other. "Go ahead!"

Mailer taunted. "Reach for it!"

Sam Starr stepped back, his eyes watchful. Geslin was in no shape for this. The man'
s
nerves were shot, he was weakened from loss of blood, and beaten by the endless riding
. I
"What's the matter?" Mailer said. "You a quitter? You yellow?"

Geslin's hand flashed for his gun, and Frank Mailer swung his pistol up with incredibl
e
speed. An instant it held, then the shot bellowed, thundering between the cliffs.

Geslin went down, his gun spouting fire into the dirt, shot through the heart.

Socorro touched his lips with his tongue, and Sam Starr stood very still, starin
g
at Mailer. The man was fast; h
e
was chained lightning.

Mailer's eyes went to Socorro, then sought Starr, but Sam had his back to darknes
s
and shooting at him would have been a poor gamble. "Anybody sayin' anything?" Maile
r
demanded. He waited while one might have counted five, and neither man spoke. The
n
he turned away. "No time for loaf in'. We're ridin' on."

Three days before, Lance Kilkenny had set out on the trail of what he suspected wa
s
a thirteen-year-old murder. Following Lena's vague memories of the journey to th
e
Blue Hill ranch and his own knowledge of the best route to that area from Santa Fe
,
Kilkenny cut across country to a spot he hoped would intersect the path the Markha
m
wagon had taken. By morning he was in Canyon Largo, headed west, with the sun a
t
his back. Lona had told him that she had gone on only one more day after she'd bee
n
told that her father had traveled on ahead. That meant that the site of that las
t
camp and possibly the site of the killing was relatively close to the ranch. By goin
g
a good sixty miles farther east than would seem necessary, Kilkenny hoped to follo
w
the best path for a wagon and therefore have some hope that he might discover th
e
exact way that Markham, Lona, and Poke Dunning had approached the ranch. He was coverin
g
ground faster than any wagon could have, not bothering to look for any true clue
s
of the Markham family's passing, just getting a feel for the slope of the land, watchin
g
for deep arroyos and trying to think like a man would when driving with a heavy load.

By noon he had stopped at a place where the stream had eddied back on itself an
d
made a good watering hole. From the growth of trees and brush, Kilkenny figured tha
t
it was a place that had remained unchanged for many years and was not the creatio
n
of some recent alteration in the flow of water.

He got down and, leaving Buck to graze on whatever grass he could find, scouted aroun
d
on foot. In twenty minutes he had discovered nothing, so he mounted up and heade
d
off again figuring that he'd cross and head on out north of Angel's Peak. He ha
d
not gone a score of yards when he saw it.

He drew up staring at a crude drawing scratched on the rock wall of Largo Canyon.

It was scarcely three feet from the ground and was a crude, childish representatio
n
of a girl with stick legs and arms. An Indian drawing? he wondered. But no India
n
had ever made a drawing like that!

He rode straight up now, his eyes searching the canyon walls and the sandy bed. Althoug
h
he had found no campsite, and Lona had not mentioned making this drawing, he wa
s
sure that he had stumbled onto their route.

The following morning, scarcely ten miles from the ranch, he watered his horse an
d
rested on the east side of Thieving Rock. Idly wandering about, Lance Kilkenny suddenl
y
saw a charred wheel, then some bolts.

Near a sheltering overhang, half-hidden by brush, were the old remains of a larg
e
fire. Here a few stones had been huddled together and blackened with soot. He droppe
d
to his knees and dug in the sand, feeling around to see what he might turn up.

At the bottom of the inner wall, the water or wind of some bygone age had scoure
d
out a small crevice in the stone. It was partly covered, but his eye caught a glimps
e
of something more than sand, and stopping, he prodded at it with a stick. It move
d
and he saw that it was an iron box!

Kneeling, he grabbed the corner, and brushing away the sand, he pulled out the box.

It was ancient and badl
y
rusted, so picking up a stone he struck at the lock.

Another blow and the box broke open. Within it were a few silver pieces, black wit
h
age, and a handful of pa pers. Carefully, he picked them up. A birth certificat
e
for Lona! Markham's marriage certificate!
A last will and testament!
And the dee
d
to the ranch, placing it in Lona's name, along with the old original deed given hi
m
when he
h
imself acquired the ranch!

Probably he had been afraid of Dunning and had concealed this box each night to preven
t
it being found by him if anything happened.

That evening Kilkenny had ridden down the Old Mormon Trail to Blue Hill. Rusty Gate
s
was mending a bridle and he glanced up at him as he rode in. Gordon Flynn was workin
g
around the corral and Lona saw him coming and smiled nervously as he swung down.

"I'm hunting Poke Markham," Kilkenny said loudly. "Is he around?"