Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (15 page)

“Jesus,” Sorenson muttered. “Did you tell him?”

“I—I told him that the women and kids was going away in the morning.”

“Going away? Going away where?”

“Let me go,” Verdugo pleaded. “Let me go and I will tell you. But Schneck will fire me. Or kill me.”

“I'll kill you if you don't tell me what I want to know. Where are the women and children going?”

“I do not know. To some camp place down on the Poudre. They have the wagons and the food and tents. The men do not want their wives and kids to stay there no more.”

“Is that where Schneck and Wagner are headed now?”

“I—I think so. Sweeney and Jackson went with them.”

“And what does Schneck plan to do, Verdugo?”

“I do not know. He did not say.”

“He might not have told you, but you know, don't you? You know where Schneck is going and what he's going to do?”

“No, I do not know.” Verdugo started to step away, but Sorenson grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back.

“Leave me alone,” Verdugo said and struggled to free himself from Sorenson's grip on his shirt.

“Damn you, Jorge. You tell me all of it, or else.”

“I do not know anything. Schneck, he don't tell me.”

“You were there when he told Wagner and the others, though, weren't you?”

“I did not hear what Schneck said.”

“You're a damned liar. I want to know what he said to Jim and the other two men who rode out with him. I know you heard every word Schneck said.”

Verdugo shook his head, and Sorenson ran out of patience. He let loose the Mexican's shirt and swatted him across the face with the back of his hand.

Verdugo staggered, then fought back. He lashed out at Sorenson with a clenched fist and grazed his jaw.

“You little Mex bastard,” Sorenson growled.

He waded into Verdugo with a left hook to the smaller man's jaw, then followed up with a right to Verdugo's gut.

Verdugo doubled over and cried out in pain. Sorenson straightened him back up with a punishing uppercut and Verdugo's head snapped back with the sharp sound of a crack. His eyes rolled in their sockets and tears boiled up in them.

“Tell me, you little bastard,” Sorenson said and drew back his right fist ready to launch it straight into Verdugo's face.

“He—he is going to kill them,” Verdugo sobbed. “He is going to kill all the women and all the little kids.”

“The sonofabitch,” Sorenson said, and dropped his arm and fisted hand.

“I am sorry,” Verdugo cried out. “I am sorry.”

“You miserable bastard. How much did Schneck pay you?”

“He has not paid me. Twenty dollars.”

“You're no better than Judas Iscariot. You sent all those people to their deaths.”

“I did not know Snake was going to kill them.”

Sorenson appeared as if he was going to walk away, but when he turned back to Verdugo, he went into a crouch and slammed a fist square into Verdugo's jaw. He knocked the man down.

Verdugo was out cold. His eyelids fluttered but did not open.

Sorenson stepped over him and went inside the stable.

He rummaged around in the dark for his saddle and bridle, then led Monty outside. He began to saddle his horse as he listened to the shallow breathing coming from Verdugo.

The moon inched across the sky, and the stars wheeled so slowly they could not be tracked.

When he finished saddling Monty, Sorenson led him to his lean-to, grabbed his rifle, and slid it into his scabbard. He had a ridge to climb, a tabletop to traverse, and another cliff to descend. He wondered if he could make it to the valley of the sheep before the women left. He could not hurry in the darkness. There was too much of a chance that Monty would injure a leg, or an ankle.

When he mounted up, he saw the dark hulk of Verdugo attempting to rise. He was holding one side of his head and appeared groggy.

“You better hope Schneck doesn't kill those women and kids, Verdugo,” he said. “If they die, you die.”

Verdugo said nothing. He staggered around in a half circle and then fell against a post and braced himself so that he would not fall.

Sorenson rode off without looking back. He didn't expect to see Verdugo again. If he did, he just might make good on his threat.

But the man he wanted to kill was not Verdugo but Schneck.

He wanted to kill him before the bastard murdered those women and their children.

He knew it was a tall order, but with the help of Brad Storm, he just might get the chance.

It was a long, slow ride to the sheep camp and there were clouds rolling across the night sky. They would mask the moon and make the going more difficult, he knew.

He rode with his anger and his fear.

He could not measure which was greater as the high thick clouds plunged the world into total darkness and the stars disappeared, too, and Sorenson had never felt more alone, nor more helpless.

It was nearly noon when Sorenson appeared atop the rimrock, leading his lame horse. Brad spotted him as he stood in line at the chuck wagon, an empty bowl in his hand. He could see that Monty was limping, favoring his left hind leg.

Brad stepped out of line and set down his bowl on a stump next to one of the wagon wheels. He waved at Sorenson. The Swede waved back and then beckoned for him to come and meet him as he headed for the talus slope where he could descend into the valley.

Brad took off in a lope to meet Sorenson as the sheepherders looked on in puzzlement.

Huge snowy-white thunderheads billowed up from behind the distant mountains. They floated like giant balloons over the ridges and valleys, heading for the wide prairie. Their shadows crept across the valley and the few sheep that were still grazing and threatened to blot out the sun. The breeze behind them was stiff and steady, building to a high brisk wind that would sail the clouds far and wide like full-sheeted ships in full sail, antic as seabirds before a storm.

Brad felt the chill as he ran, his boot heels gouging small holes in the soft ground, his soles turning green from the crushed grasses underfoot. As he neared the talus slope, Sorenson stepped slow and careful ahead of his crippled horse, holding Monty in check so that he didn't slide on the loose gravel and further injure himself.

Sorenson's eyes widened as he scanned the other side of the valley in vain.

“Where are the women and kids?” he shouted as he neared the bottom of the slope. Monty crashed through heavy brush on three good legs, his ears flattened, his eyes rolling in fear.

Brad stopped short and waited for Sorenson to make it the rest of the way down to the flat plain.

He tipped his hat back on his head, a worried look crawling across his face.

“They're gone, Thor,” he called back. “Left this morning, early. Why?”

Sorenson panted for breath as he came to a stop a few yards in front of Storm.

“Hell, we've got to catch up to them, stop them.”

“What?”

“Schneck aims to bushwhack them. He's probably waiting for them down on the Poudre.”

Brad uttered a blasphemous oath and squared his hat on his head.

“Can you get me a good horse? Monty stepped into a hole during the night and I feel like we've walked a hundred miles.”

“I can find you a good horse. How long ago did Schneck leave?”

“Just after midnight, Brad. There's no time to waste.”

“Don't say anything about this to those men over by the chuck wagon,” Brad said. “They'll panic and run off this mountain like a pack of rabid dogs.”

“Schneck's got three men with him and they all got rifles.”

Brad swore again. He and Sorenson walked as fast as they could with the injured gelding hobbling in their wake. Brad headed straight for the stables.

To his dismay, he saw Mike and Joe look up at them from their perches on a log, their bowls of mutton stew in their laps, puzzled looks on their bronzed-leather faces.

“Uh-oh,” Brad said.

Sorenson said nothing. He was still short of breath.

“You can put Monty up under that big lean-to we use as a stable,” Brad said. “Do you want some liniment or bandages for his ankle?”

“No time,” Sorenson said. “I'll doctor him later. Just get me a horse so we can try and catch up to those women and kids.”

“We might catch up to them. They're hauling two wagons and going through rough country along the river.”

“Let's hope,” Sorenson said as they reached the stable. He led Monty inside, dug a halter out of his saddlebag, removed the bridle, and slipped the halter on the horse. Then he unbuckled the cinch on the saddle and stripped it off Monty's back, removing the saddlebags and his bedroll. He dumped them in a heap on the ground.

Brad took the bridle from him and slipped it onto the dun he had brought down from the ridgetop, the horse that had belonged to the man he shot.

“I recognize that horse,” Sorenson said. “It belonged to a puncher named Grunewald.”

“Well, he won't need it anymore,” Brad said. “The horse is yours now.”

“I wondered about that boy,” Sorenson said. “That the one you shot dead some days back?”

“I reckon,” Brad said.

Sorenson began to saddle the dun while Brad took the halter off Ginger and slipped the bridle over his head.

Mike and Joe entered the shadowy interior of the stable. They wiped stray food scraps from their mouths.

“Going somewhere, Brad?” Mike asked.

“This is the man I told you about, Mike. Thor Sorenson. He's got a line on where Snake might be and we're going to try and track him down.”

“Where?” Mike asked. He walked over to Sorenson, who was throwing a blanket on the dun.

Sorenson turned to look at the sheepman.

“Schneck rode out to meet up with a herd he's got coming up from the Cheyenne Trail,” Sorenson said. “We might be able to catch up to him if we hurry.”

“I am Mikel Garaboxosa, Mr. Sorenson,” Mike said as he extended his hand. “Brad vouched for you, so I am grateful for your help.”

“Mikel,” Sorenson said as he shook Garaboxosa's hand.

“Call me Mike. And this is Joe Arramospe.”

Joe nodded and stepped up to shake Sorenson's hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sorenson,” he said.

“Likewise,” Sorenson replied. He slung the saddle over the dun's back and adjusted the blanket until they were both in alignment. He leaned down and grabbed the single cinch, pulled it up under the horse's belly, and ran the bitter end through a metal ring. He drew the belt tight, made a loop in the leather, ran the tongue through it, and pulled it tight. He tested the seating by pushing the saddle horn back and forth. Satisfied, he placed his saddlebags behind the cantle, tied on his bedroll. Finally, he slid his rifle into its scabbard and made sure it was a tight fit.

Mike and Joe walked over to Brad and watched him saddle Ginger.

“Joe, would you mind bringing my rifle and shotgun out from where I bunk?” Brad asked.

“No. I will get them,” Joe said.

“Do you have plenty of ammunition?” Mike asked.

“In my saddlebags,” Brad said.

“Do you want any of my men to go with you?”

“No,” Brad said as he tightened his cinch. “I think Thor and I can handle it.”

“I wish you the good luck, Brad,” Mike said.

“Thanks, Mike,” Brad said.

Joe returned in a few minutes. He handed the Winchester'73 to Brad and held up the shotgun. He watched as Brad holstered the rifle and hung the sawed-off shotgun from his saddle horn.

Brad took his canteen off a wall nail and hung it from his saddle horn on the opposite side from where the shotgun dangled.

“I'm all set, Thor,” Brad said as he led Ginger out of the stall.

“Me, too,” Sorenson said.

“Be careful, both of you,” Mike said. “I may not be here when you get back, Brad. Joe and I are going to check on the sheep to see if they will all make it to the new valley by sundown.”

“I'll find you,” Brad said. “Wherever you are.”

“Will you take Schneck to Denver if you catch him?”

“In a day or so, yes,” Brad said.

“Good. I want to see him before you take him down there to be hanged.”

“I'll have to protect him once he's in my custody, Mike. That's the law.”

“I know. I won't kill him. I just want to spit in his face.”

“I think that's legal,” Brad said. He pulled himself up into the saddle and looked down at Joe and Mike.