Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (18 page)

The tears came when he saw a small boy blown out of the wagon, his head in a cloud of blood as if he'd been smitten by an iron-studded mace wielded by some medieval warrior.

Time stopped at that moment, and everything Brad saw seemed to be some grotesque tapestry pinned to a stone wall where there was only blood and the screams of women fleeing for their very lives.

When Schneck saw the wide moraine next to the road, the bordering timber, he knew that it was the perfect place for an ambush. He found Jackson a place to set up in a choked stand of aspen that seemed a perfect hiding spot. He ordered them all to stake out their horses deep in the woods while Jackson sat there in the concealing aspens to watch the road. They took his horse and led it to a place a quarter mile from the road and hobbled the horses in a small wooded glade behind a huge outcropping of gray rocks mottled with moss and mold.

Sweeney, Wagner, and Schneck hiked back to the road.

“Halbert,” Schneck said, “you set yourself up next to the river in that cluster of alder bushes. Sit real still and keep your eyes and ears open. Jackson's off to your left, and you'll see the wagons before he does. Wait until the wagons are real close and then you shoot the horses. Shoot them dead, every one, so that those wagons can't move. Got that?”

“Sure do, Boss,” Sweeney said. He walked to the bank and lay prone in a shallow depression. He laid his rifle out and cocked a shell into the Winchester's chamber. He sighted down the barrel to a point midway between the bend in the road and its imaginary center.

Satisfied, Schneck and Wagner walked back to the line of large aspens on the other side of the road.

“We can shoot from here,” Schneck said.

“Standin' up?”

“Yes, Jim. That way, we can move around, pick our targets. Some of them might try to run away.”

“You mean the women?” Wagner said.

“Women, kids, the wagon drivers. We need to be flexible so that none of them gets away from us.”

“No witnesses, right?”

“No witnesses,” Schneck repeated.

The two men stood behind two thick-trunked aspens. They weren't concealed entirely, but they did not present silhouettes to anyone coming down the road. With the big clouds floating overhead, they were in shadow. Both levered fresh cartridges into their rifles.

Schneck also loosened his pistol in its holster, sliding it up and down to make sure he could jerk it free when he needed it.

Wagner was a few yards in front of him. From Schneck's position he could see all three men, which was the way he wanted it. He was the general, the commander in the field, and he saw himself that way. He licked his lips in anticipation of the slaughter to come, and he thought upon the effect the killings would have on Garaboxosa and the other sheepherders.

Maybe that sheepherding bastard will get the idea that I mean business, he thought. I gave him fair warning and he didn't listen. Now, maybe he'll pack up and drive his damned sheep back to Wyoming. I'd like to kill every one of his damned sheep. They have no business eating my good grass. Let all those Basque bastards go back to Spain or wherever they come from. This is America, by God, and here in the West, we raise cattle, not sheep. We don't need their damned wool, either. We grow our own cotton in the South and we got other ways to stay warm.

Schneck worked himself up into a silent frenzy with his thoughts. He held the barrel of his rifle against the tree and flexed his trigger finger just outside the guard. He sighted down the barrel, lining up the blade front sight directly in the center of the rear buckhorn, and squeezed thin air to simulate firing that first shot. He wanted to kill a woman right off. He wanted to see her body turn to stone with the shock of the bullet. He wanted to hear her scream as blood filled her lungs and throat and gushed out of her mouth.

His thoughts began to arouse him sexually. Blood and pain did that to him. He once had a fat mistress that he beat up frequently just so he could be aroused and heighten his satisfaction when he bedded her, plumbing her bruised and swollen depths while she sobbed and moaned beneath him.

He had known many women, and none of them had lasted long when he lived with them. They all left with broken arms, cracked jaws, black eyes, and bruised bodies. Those bruises were the brands he put on them, and he had once notched the ear of a German fräulein just so she would always remember him. He had used the same tool on her that he used to notch the ears of his newborn calves before they were branded.

He thought of those times and the weeping, screaming women as he waited for the wagons to round the bend and come within range of four rifles.

An hour went by, then another. Then he heard the far-off rumble, thump, and clunk of wagon wheels. He felt his heart pump faster, felt his temples throb. His mouth went dry, and he wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers, then grabbed the stock and nestled it against his cheek and sighted down the barrel.

The sounds became louder, and he heard the laughter and banter of the children, the low voices of the women trying to control their exuberance while hanging on to the sides of a rocking wagon.

Then the supply wagon hove into view, slogging along at a slow pace ahead of the passenger wagon. They seemed to be in no great hurry. Some of the children were pointing at the river and counting the small rainbows they saw dancing in the fine mist. All of them were gawking at the river, marveling at its force, its powerful surges over the rocks and boulders, the green rush of its waters as they flattened out before they crashed against rows of rocks jutting from the shallows.

Two riders flanked the passenger wagon. Two swarthy, squat men who wore pistols on their old and worn gun belts. But their rifles and shotguns were lodged firmly in their scabbards. The wagoners had no weapons showing.

Closer and closer they came, the wagons and the gabbling women, the babbling, gleeful children.

Schneck slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard and slowed his breathing so that it was steady and controlled.

The wagons rumbled close to where Jackson was waiting.

Schneck held his breath. He could not see LouDon, but he knew he was there in that small circle of aspens. He looked for the snout of his rifle but could not see it.

Then he heard the crack of the rifle. He saw a plume of white smoke spew from the trees, saw the sparks fly like golden fireflies, and heard the thud of the bullet as it smacked into the chest of the bay mare on the left of the passenger wagon. The horse tried to rock backward on its hind legs as blood spurted from a hole in its chest muscle. The horse floundered and fell to its side with a crash and a tangle of harness. The horse at its side neighed in terror and wheeled to its left. Jackson's rifle spoke again, and the other horse went down with a bleeding hole in its neck. It floundered on the ground in its death throes like some huge water mammal,  a whale flung from the sea. The children and the women screamed in terror as the two horses went down.

The driver on the supply wagon veered to his right, not sure where the shots had come from or what had happened. He looked over his shoulder, but by then, it was too late.

Jackson dropped the horse nearest to him with a shot to its heart. The bullet smashed through the horse's ribs. The horse screamed in pain, a high-pitched whinny that was laden with fear and terror. The animal collapsed at the edge of the road, and the wagon twisted behind it as the driver jerked hard on the reins. Jackson shot the other horse, and Sweeney opened fire on one of the two outriders. He dropped the man with the first shot, then swung on the other one, who was pulling on the stock of his rifle.

Wagner shot both drivers with two quick and perfectly aimed shots. They tumbled off the side and fell to the ground, their hearts smashed to a pulp, their ribs splintered over punctured lungs.

A woman stood up in the second wagon at the rear and Schneck brought his sights in line and squeezed the trigger. He heard the bullet hit, and it gave him a thrill. She dropped like a stone without a sound, and Schneck felt the splash of milky seed in his shorts as he ejaculated. His loins quivered with the ecstasy of the moment, and he levered another cartridge into the firing chamber of his rifle.

The women screamed louder than when Jackson had shot and killed the last horse. The children, bewildered, all began to cry out for their mothers and fathers.

Schneck shot another woman who had jumped down from the passenger wagon and was running headlong down the road straight toward him.

He deliberately aimed for her stomach and heard the smack of the bullet as it rammed into the soft flesh beneath her dress. She threw up both arms and staggered a few feet before she fell and doubled up in pain, unable to scream or cry out. Blood spurted from the hole in her midsection and welled up in a dark pool under her twitching form.

Jackson shot the two riderless horses just for good measure and then swung his rifle toward the women in the wagon.

Sweeney stood up and walked toward the wagons, working his lever as he held his rifle waist-high. His eyes gleamed with bloodlust as he began firing at women who had jumped from the passenger wagon and were reaching up for their children. He shot one woman who had dragged her little girl from the wagon and was trying to duck under it.

Schneck saw two small girls running back up the road as if they could find safety there. He drew a bead on the taller of the two and saw her hit the ground in a flounce of colored cloth. The other girl stopped and squatted down. Schneck shot her a second or two later, watched her little body fall and one of her legs quiver and jerk before all motion ceased forever.

Out of the corner of his eye, Schneck saw a young woman with long dark hair climb over the back of the wagon and run like a deer into the woods.

“Did you see that one, Jim?” Schneck called out.

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“We'll have to hunt her down.”

“Maybe I'll put the boots to her when I catch her,” Jim said.

“Maybe we both will,” Schneck said with a smile.

Wagner and Schneck picked out more targets and continued to shoot until they had to reload.

Jackson walked out of his hiding place and held up his hand as he faced both men.

“What is it?” Jim shouted.

“I think I hear something up the road. Horses, maybe.”

Schneck and Wagner stopped firing. So did Sweeney.

In the silence they all heard it. There was the sound of hoofbeats from up the road.

Horses coming fast, Schneck thought.

“Get to the horses,” Schneck called out and started running into the trees, his rifle trailing at his side like an extra appendage.

Sweeney ran across the road and joined Jackson. The two raced to where their horses were tethered.

Schneck and Wagner were already there. Schneck shoved his rifle in its boot and, grabbing the horn, pulled himself up into his saddle a few seconds before Wagner did the same.

“Where to, Otto?” Wagner asked.

“Just scatter into the woods until we find out who's coming down that road.”

“Where do we meet up?” Sweeney asked as he settled in his saddle.

“Upstream, where we crossed,” Schneck said. “LouDon, you better hang around and count heads, then let us know.”

“You leavin' me by myself?” Jackson complained.

“I need to know what we're facing. You take that pistol and fire two quick shots if you get in trouble. Just hide out and wait, but be ready to light a shuck if you're outnumbered or they come hunting you.”

Jackson swore under his breath as the three men rode off into the timber and disappeared. He listened for a time until he could no longer hear them.

He rode closer to the slaughtering place to get a better glimpse of the road but held his horse behind a bristling blue spruce.

He did not have long to wait.

Two men on horseback galloped up to the passenger wagon. They both had pistols in their hands.

He recognized one of the men.

It was Thor Sorenson.

He knew who the other man was. That was the man they called the Sidewinder.

Jackson's throat went dry. He wanted no part of either man.

He snaked his pistol out of its holster and wondered if he dared fire off two quick shots.

And if he did, he wondered if Schneck and the others would even come to his aid.

He held the pistol in his hand, drooping at his side.

He did not thumb the hammer back. Instead, he looked around for a place to run and hide without making any noise. A knot of fear rose up in him and clogged his throat as if it had been stuffed with a dirty sock.

Then, Jackson vomited.