Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (21 page)

Brad followed Sorenson to the place where he had shot Jackson.

“He's dead, all right,” he said. “I'm going to take his horse with us. We have to find Vivelda. She's somewhere in this timber. She's either running or she's hiding out.”

“I agree,” Sorenson said. “We've got to find that girl before Schneck hunts her down.”

“You might want to strip the dead man of his pistol and knife. Put them in the saddlebags.”

“Yeah, I'll do that,” Sorenson said.

He dismounted and walked over to Jackson's body. He unbuckled his pistol belt and picked his gun off the ground and jammed it back in its holster. The knife was attached to the belt. He rolled the leather up and stuffed them in one of Jackson's saddlebags, then mounted his horse.

“A lot of burying to do, Brad. Him and the others.”

“We may have to let this one ripen for a few days. If we can find Vivelda, she can ride this horse back up and tell them all what happened here.”

“By herself?” Sorenson asked.

“No, you are going with her, Thor. Make sure she gets back all right.”

“But what about Schneck and the two other men, Wagner and Sweeney?”

“That's only three against one.”

“Not good odds, you ask me.”

“I've had worse,” Brad said.

They both heard a noise off to their left and reined up their horses.

“What was that?” Brad said.

“I don't know,” Sorenson replied.

They both looked off into the timber. Brad saw a horse's legs through the trees. He wheeled Ginger around and held out the reins of Jackson's horse to Sorenson. “Here, hold on to the horse while I take a look,” Brad said.

Sorenson grabbed the reins. He couldn't see what Brad had been looking at, so he just held his horse there and watched as Brad rode a few yards and ducked low over his saddle horn.

Brad pulled on the leather thong around his neck and brought the set of rattles into his hand. He held them at his side in his left hand as he rode in a zigzag pattern toward the animal he had spotted.

Through the trees, he saw the man sitting his horse. He seemed to be looking toward the road and listening.

Brad rode in close and quiet.

Ginger's hoof dislodged a stone, and the iron made a scraping noise as it grazed the loose rock.

The man on the horse jerked his head in the direction of the sound, but Brad rode behind a pair of trees.

“That you, Sorenson?” Sweeney called out.

Brad did not answer.

Instead, he shook the rattles. He shook them loud and long. The man on the horse jerked upright in his saddle and swung his pistol toward the ground.

To Brad's surprise, the sound brought a rattlesnake out of hiding beneath a large flat rock. It slithered into view and then raised its tail and began to shake it so that the dozen or so rattles replicated the sound of his own.

The man on the horse became fully visible. Brad saw him staring at the ground and scanning back and forth to locate the rattlesnake.

Brad rode on past the snake and let his own rattles fall from his hand and dangle at the end of the looped thong.

Sweeney saw Brad emerge from behind a small fir tree and swung his pistol.

“Hey, you,” Sweeney said.

“You cock that pistol and it's the last thing you'll do,” Brad said, his right hand floating above his pistol butt like a hovering hawk.

“Huh?” Sweeney said.

“Drop the gun,” Brad said in a quiet, even tone.

The snake ceased its rattling behind Brad, but he could hear it wriggle though the dried pine needles as it slithered away.

“You go to hell,” Sweeney said. He raised his arm and pressed his thumb down on the hammer. There was a distinct click as the hammer locked into full cock.

Brad's hand was a blur as he jerked his Colt from its holster, cocking the hammer back as he leveled the barrel at Sweeney from his hip. He squeezed the trigger and felt the jolt of the pistol as the cartridge exploded and whirred through the grooves of the barrel. The lead spun in a spiral and left the muzzle at a high rate of speed.

With unerring accuracy, the bullet smacked into Sweeney's breastbone, splitting it apart, ripping through a lung, and tearing a hole the size of a quarter in his back as it traveled through flesh, veins, and muscle.

Sweeney's finger was on the trigger, but he could not squeeze it. All feeling went out of his hand, and his pistol fell from limp, rubbery fingers. The gun hit the ground, butt first, and toppled over.

Brad brought his pistol up to shoulder level and took aim for a second shot.

Sweeney's eyes slanted askew. His mouth opened in an O of surprise. Pain swarmed through his chest like a cloud of fire, and tears stung his eyes.

He gasped out a sound and then slumped over as a plume of blood spurted from the hole in his chest, thick and rich with oxygen. A spasm convulsed his upper torso, and more blood poured from the hole in his back as wine from a spout.

Brad did not squeeze off a second shot. It was unnecessary. He watched as the man crumpled and fell over his saddle horn, his feet still caught firmly in his stirrups. The horse beneath him took a step and then stood stock-still.

Sweeney's breath was a quiet rasp in his throat, a mere reflex in a mortally wounded man. One of Sweeney's legs jerked, and then he stopped breathing. A last gust of air escaped from his lungs and did not return.

Brad sat there for a moment, then slipped the rattles back inside his shirt. He opened the gate on his cylinder, set the hammer at half cock and spun the magazine until he saw the dimpled firing pin. He pulled the ramrod down and ejected the spent shell. He slid a fresh one from his belt into the empty channel and then closed the gate, moved the cylinder so that the hammer would fall in between and shoved his pistol back in his holster.

“Get him?” Sorenson called.

“Yeah,” Brad answered and turned his horse in a half circle.

He rode back to where Sorenson was waiting for him.

“Two down,” he said. “Two to go.”

“Let me see who it was,” Sorenson said. “You hold the reins while I take a quick look.”

Brad waited until Sorenson returned, then headed north to look for Vivelda.

“That was Halbert Sweeney you shot,” he said. “That means that Schneck and Wagner are somewhere close by or else riding away hell-bent for leather.”

“Let's find that girl and I'll see if I can't pick up the tracks of those two,” Brad said.

“Well, you're lessening the odds some,” Sorenson said. “Now it's only two against two.”

“Good odds,” Brad said, but he kept looking over his shoulder as the two scoured the underbrush, looking for Vivelda.

“Sweeney's slumped over his saddle,” Sorenson said. “Maybe the horse will carry him back to the cow camp for all to see.”

“I reckon if that horse climbs these slopes, Sweeney will fall off somewhere, and the buzzards and the worms and the coyotes will have them a feast.”

Sorenson said nothing.

A moment later, Brad jerked up straight in the saddle and pointed ahead.

“What is it?” Sorenson said.

“I saw something, I think.”

“What? Where?”

“Up in those gray rocks, off to the left. Something.”

The two men rode closer to a jumble of rocks that seemed to grow out of the earth.

“Vivelda,” Brad called. “It's me, Brad Storm. You're safe now. Come out.”

He stopped his horse and listened. Sorenson did the same.

There was only silence as the wind blew against their clothes and moved the clouds faster out over the foothills and the long prairie.

The wind moaned in the hollows and crevices of the rocks.

Brad thought it was the loneliest sound in the world as he felt the chill bumps rise on his arms and crawl up his neck like a thousand icy spiders.

Wagner and Schneck both jerked upright in their saddles when they heard the single pistol shot. It was unexpected and came from the direction where Sweeney had ridden to check on Sorenson.

The two men looked at each other. Wagner shrugged. Schneck scowled.

“You don't think Sorenson shot Halbert, do you, Otto? It did sound like Sorenson earlier.”

“Or do I think Sweeney shot Sorenson, you mean?”

“Could have gone either way, I reckon. Maybe Sweeney rode up on Sorenson and, with all them bodies lyin' there, Sorenson might have thought he was next.”

“So, you think maybe Sorenson shot Sweeney?” Schneck said.

“I ain't sayin' that, Otto.”

“No, you're not saying much. But we'd better check. Something's sure as hell cockeyed here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

“Sure, Boss. You want me to ride out there and take a look-see?”

Schneck considered that offer for a second or two and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “we'll both ride out there and see what's going on. I'm just as curious as you, Jim.”

The two rode in tandem toward the road. Schneck pulled his rifle from his boot and laid it across the pommel of his saddle at an angle. Wagner hesitated as he reached for his own rifle but left it in his scabbard.

“Seems to me you're mighty confident, Jim. Leaving your rifle in its boot.”

“I ain't confident at all, Otto. I just want both hands free in case we have to get the hell away.”

“Away from what?”

“Hell, we don't know. What if it is Sorenson, and if it is, what's he doin' down here? Or who's with him? Maybe he joined up with them sheepherders.”

“Jim, you ought to do something about that wild imagination of yours. Why would Sorenson join up with the sheepherders? They're our enemy.”

“I don't know. Might be they made him a better offer, Otto.”

“You're full of shit, Jim. Sorenson wouldn't just ride down to the sheepherders' camp and ask for a job.”

“No, I reckon he wouldn't. Maybe I am full of shit.”

They spoke no more until they saw Sweeney's horse standing hipshot a few yards in front of them.

Only the rump of the horse was showing until they rode up alongside and saw Sweeney slumped over the saddle. His pistol lay on the ground next to the horse, a dim light from the cloudy sky streaming across the bluing of the barrel.

“Hey, Halbert,” Wagner said, “you sleepin' on the job?”

He reached out to touch Sweeney on the shoulder, then saw the black and tattered hole with bits of bloody wool around it as if something had gouged his well-lined jacket with a pruning fork. The hole in his back was the size of a two-bit piece. Wagner withdrew his hand with lightning speed, as if he had touched a finger to an open flame.

“Jesus,” Wagner said. “He's dead.”

Schneck picked up his rifle and waved the barrel in a small arc as if expecting to be attacked at any minute.

“Shot in the back,” Schneck said as he glanced over at Sweeney.

“Nope. He was shot in the front. That's a damned exit hole, Otto.”

“So, Sweeney's dead,” Schneck said, as if he were speaking to himself in order to make it final.

Wagner looked at Schneck as if he thought his boss had become addled all of a sudden. The look on Schneck's face was blank. The German had no expression whatsoever. It was as if an unseen hand had wiped all semblance of humanity from his features and left a waxen image in its place.

Wagner got an uneasy feeling just then.

The Schneck he had known up until that day had been strong and resolute. Now he looked washed out and washed up, as if some force had cleaned him out and left a lifeless hulk in his place. It was just a feeling, but that one glimpse had begun to shatter Wagner's confidence that he was working for a man who was always in control.

“Get his guns and let's go after whoever shot Sweeney,” Schneck said, his voice devoid of any feeling.

“What?” Wagner said, as if the request had left him in shock.

“You heard me. Grab his pistol and rifle. We got to hunt down the man who shot Sweeney.”

“Christ, Boss, I don't want his guns.”

“I do. We can sell them if nothing else.”

“You get 'em, then, Otto. I ain't touchin' nothin' of Halbert's, and that's that.”

Schneck fixed him with dagger of a look, but only his eyes betrayed his anger at being countermanded. His face was like a cold pudding.

“I'll send someone down for his horse.”

“And to bury him,” Wagner said.