The Devil’s Laughter: A Lou Prophet Novel (13 page)

“What happened to him, Lou?” asked the Rurale captain.

“Took a Mojave arrow through the arm.” Prophet held the whiskey bottle up to the crescent moon. About a quarter remained. He uncorked it, took a shot, rammed the cork back into the lip with the heel of his hand, and stowed the bottle back in his saddlebag pouch.

“Best leave him under a tree,” Chacin said. “He'll slow us down too much.”

“Can't leave a man alone out here on foot, Chacin.” Prophet leaned down and picked up the little Mexican in his arms. “We'll take him to that village in the mountains yonder. I was through there once, long time ago. It's likely where Lazzaro's bunch is headed. Only water around.”

“San Gezo?”

“That's it.” With a grunt Prophet set the wounded Senor Bocangel on Mean and Ugly's back, atop his bedroll behind his saddle. Louisa sidled her horse up to the lineback dun, and she reached over to hold the man on the horse while Prophet climbed into the saddle. “Nice little watering hole there—the Oasis . . .”

“Salon y danza pasillo del oasis,”
offered Sergeant Frieri. He smiled in the darkness. “The Oasis Saloon and Dance Hall.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Louisa asked. “The man needs a doctor, not a drink.”

“No, but I do,” Prophet said, touching his spurs to Mean's flanks, putting the horse ahead at a slow walk. “But come to think of it, there was a doctor there. Might still be.”

“I doubt it.” Chacin put his horse up beside Prophet. “I haven't been out there in years. That town has dried up, I am told. The mine there was owned by Americans, and they pulled out.”

“The Sweet Hereafter Mine,” said Prophet with a smile.

“
Si
, that's it. But if the mine dried up, I am sure everyone left. Everyone but scorpions and Mojaves, probably. Maybe a few of the original
Mejicano
inhabitants.”

“San Gezo is cursed,” said Frieri, riding behind Chacin. “The mountains, too, are cursed. That's why no one goes there. Not even the Mojaves. Of course, the Americans didn't mind. Americans will go anywhere that is cursed. They have no respect for such things. But as I said, the mountains and the
pueblito
of San Gezo . . .” The sergeant waved his hand toward the distant, dark horizon capped with stars. “All are cursed. We should not be going there, El Capitan.”

“We're going for the money,” said Chacin, rolling an unlit cigar around between his lips. “When we have the money, we'll head the hell out.” He glanced at Senor Bocangel riding with his head against Prophet's back, snoring softly and intermittently groaning. “Did he say what he is doing out here?”

“No,” Prophet lied. He didn't think it would be in Senor Bocangel's best interest to inform the Rurale captain that the man had chosen to remain silent on the matter of his business out here. “He was too weak to say much of anything except that he and his son were attacked by Mojaves just before sundown.”

“You are wasting your time with him, Lou. Probably just some old prospector. If he lives out here in this cursed devil's land ruled by Relampago's wild Mojaves, he is better off dead.”

“DAMN, I NEVER
thought I'd be so happy to see another Mexican mountain range,” said Kiljoy. “But I sure as shit am.”

The stocky, ugly brigand rode at the head of the outlaw pack, the Montanas Muertas rising ahead of them. From this distance of a half a mile, the mountains appeared just another stark series of sawtooth peaks capping bulging, adobe-colored domes scored with deep canyons and washes and pleated with brown apron slopes. There were infrequent patches of lime green demarking mostly cactus. There didn't appear to be many trees or much grass.

The range shone bright in the midmorning sunlight. High in the washed-out sky, a large raptor hunted at the very edge of the range and above where a canyon gouged a steep slope, offering passage into the range for the four outlaws who were heading straight for the gate-like opening and the trail to San Gezo, where lay the only water that Lazzaro knew about within about fifty square miles.

“Just hope the well ain't dry,” said Red Snake Corbin. “I'm dry as a damn gourd.”

He was riding about fifteen feet behind Kiljoy and in
front of Sugar Delphi, who was leading Antonio Lazzaro's wolf dun stallion. The outlaw leader looked miserable as he rode low in his saddle, favoring his wounded right side. He had one hand wrapped around a tequila bottle; the other pressed the bandanna against his side.

“You sure there's a well?” Kiljoy asked. “I'd sure hate to ride that far and there ain't water.”

“There's water,” Lazzaro raked out painfully. “The town has a well. That's about all it's got since the American miners pulled out.”

“How long since you been here, Boss?” Kiljoy asked.

“Four, maybe five years. Holed up there when the American cavalry was after me and Heck Wallace when me and his gang robbed that freight outfit east of San Diego.” Lazzaro shook his head and winced against the pain rippling through him. “Some say the mountains, the town . . . cursed. I ain't the superstitious type, but I believe it 'bout San Gezo. Hard to get to . . . hard to get out of. It's a
trap
!”

He took a long pull from the bottle, most of the tequila dribbling down over his chin.

“We won't be there long, Tony,” Sugar said. “Just long enough to . . .” She let her voice trail off and lifted her chin, her unseeing eyes wide as she appeared to stare off toward the north. But then she swung her head toward the south. It was then that Lazzaro heard the hoofbeats and followed Sugar's blind gaze toward horseback riders pounding toward them from a hundred yards away and closing fast.

“Ah, shit,” Lazzaro said, seeing the bandannas holding black hair back from cinnamon faces, colorful shirts and lunging pintos.

“Injuns!” shouted Red Snake.

“Ah, no, Sugar!” Lazzaro fairly screamed when the woman pulled his horse into a gallop behind her dappled black. “I can't . . . I can't ride that hard . . . !”

Sugar checked her mount back down. “Fort up?”

“Yeah.” Lazzaro crawled gingerly down off his horse and slid his carbine from the boot.

“We best head for that canyon, Boss!” This from Kiljoy
staring hipped around in his saddle, sunburned cheeks above his blond mustache brick red with exasperation.

“We're gonna fort up and hold 'em off with our long guns!” Lazzaro stepped away from his horse, levering a round into his rifle breech. He took one more step before groaning and dropping to a knee. Sugar was there beside him, wrapping a hand around him. “We gotta get you to cover, Tony! Show me where there's cover!”

Rifles popped in the south. The hoof thuds of the galloping riders grew louder and louder. Both Kiljoy and Red Snake returned fire, both men cursing their frustration. Obviously, they wanted to head for the canyon, but Lazzaro was holding them back because he himself couldn't make it without his wound opening up and bleeding him dry.

Lazzaro heaved himself to his feet with Sugar's assistance, then grabbed his horse's reins. “Come on!” Sugar, her hand hooked behind the back of Lazzaro's cartridge belt, followed the gang leader ahead and toward a shallow gash in the desert floor. The wash was surrounded by spindly brown shrubs and rocks, offering the only cover short of the canyon gap.

Still cursing and snapping off occasional shots toward the Indians, Red Snake and Kiljoy leaped down off their pitching, nickering horses' backs and ran crouching toward the same gash. Lazzaro stepped gingerly into the cut, Sugar following close behind, her rifle in her hand. Red Snake and Kiljoy were the first to belly up to the side of the wash and return fire at the Mojaves. Lazzaro knelt down below the wash's shallow southern bank and raised his carbine.

The Indians were still hammering toward the wash, spread out in a ragged line, dust rising behind them. They were howling and shouting as they triggered carbines and loosed arrows, the slugs and arrows plowing up dirt around the wash. Lazzaro drew a bead on one rider and fired. His aim was off due to the hammering pain in his right side, and the rider merely dipped his head a little with a start as the bullet screeched past him.

The Indians slid down off their still-moving ponies and
hit the ground running before forting up behind rocks and low mounds of sand or in slight depressions. Lazzaro turned to Sugar, who was returning fire with her own rifle, targeting sounds since her eyes were useless. Lazzaro had always thought it amazing how accurate she could be, though he was damn glad she hadn't been accurate the day before, when he'd had to pound some sense into the blind spitfire.

The outlaw leader looked back at his horse tied behind a sheltering mound of rock and squeezed the back of Sugar's neck. “The saddlebags,” he said into her ear. “Fetch 'em!”

She looked at him, frowning.

“You heard me.”

While Sugar rose and ran back to the horse, which she was able to smell as well as hear snorting around behind the rocks, Lazzaro turned and began pumping slugs toward the howling Indians.

“Tony!”

Lazzaro turned toward the blind woman standing near his horse with the saddlebags bulging with the stolen loot slung over her right shoulder. Sugar threw an arm out toward the southeast. Lazzaro shunted his gaze in that direction and saw two separate dust clouds—one angling toward Lazzaro from the southeast, the other moving like a vast swarm of bees from straight east.

He gritted his silver teeth and pumped another round into his Winchester's breech. “Like I said, the place is cursed, all right. And so is anyone who comes near it!”

A half hour before, Prophet turned to Senor Bocangel, who was now riding with Louisa, the man's hands wrapped around her waist. He had Prophet's bottle in one hand, and he'd been taking conservative sips from it since he'd regained consciousness just before dawn, when they'd all stopped to rest their horses.

The mountains they were heading for grew large before them, but Prophet figured they were still nearly an hour away. He knew they were headed in the right direction,
however, as he'd picked up Lazzaro's gang's sign at the first blush of dawn. He was glad, because this was a hell of a place to find oneself on a wild-goose chase. No one journeyed to the forbidden island range of the Montanas Muertas without a damn good reason.

“Senor Bocangel,” the bounty hunter said, “you're welcome back aboard my hoss any ole time.”

Bocangel turned his drunk-bleary eyes on Prophet, and slurred, “If it is just the same to you, Senor Lou, I will remain for a bit longer with the senorita.” He grinned lustily.

Louisa kept her implacable face pointed straight ahead.

“Have it your way, senor,” Prophet said with a sigh. The pinto was probably strong enough to ride double for another half hour at least. Besides, Louisa weighed only about half as much as Prophet did, about the same as the wounded Mexican, and her pinto didn't seem to be straining.

“Lou, take a look!” This from Captain Chacin riding off to Prophet's left, pointing off into the desert.

Prophet kept his horse moving as he followed the Rurale's finger out toward a large organ pipe cactus standing alone amidst the tan-and-cream desert that reflected the sun's relentless heat. The lower trunk of the cactus had an odd shape. Prophet glanced at Louisa, then reined Mean and Ugly off to the left. “Best tell your men to stay here,” Prophet told the captain. “No point in all of us riding into a trap.”

“Who the hell you think is running this show, Lou?” Chacin glared at the bounty hunter, then turned to shout over his shoulder at the four lower-ranking Rurales and said in Spanish, “Stay here in case it's a trap!”

Prophet and Chacin rode toward the cactus. Louisa followed at a distance, holding her rifle across her saddlebow and looking around warily. Prophet stopped Mean in front of the cactus and stared grimly down at the naked man who'd been tied with his back to the cactus's stout trunk. He had long, black hair and a beard.

Prophet couldn't see his face, because he stood with his
chin tipped toward his chest. His hands were tied behind the cactus. What was keeping him upright were the cactus's stiletto-like thorns.

His body looked like freshly ground burger. Blood oozed from dozens of deep cuts on his chest, arms, and legs. Blood oozed from an especially deep gash across his belly, and dripped down to cover what was left of his crotch.

“Damn savages,” said Chacin, palming his pistol and looking around.

Prophet heard a grunt and the crunch of gravel behind him. He glanced back to see Senor Bocangel walking toward him and Chacin, his rheumy, dark eyes riveted on the man tied to the cactus.

“That's far enough, Bocangel,” Prophet warned, swinging down from the dun's back and stepping in front of the short, old Mexican. Chances were good that the dead man was Bocangel's son. “He's beat up pretty bad. Let me get him down and cover him up with a blanket before you look at his face.”

The Mexican looked up uncertainly at Prophet. His deeply lined mouth corners were drawn down. “Joaquin?”

“Prob'ly.”

Sitting her horse behind Senor Bocangel, Louisa said, “No time, Lou.”

Prophet followed her gaze eastward toward the separate dust clouds hanging above swarthy-skinned riders crouched low over their mustangs' lunging heads. The patter of hoofbeats rose quickly, until Prophet could feel the vibration through his boot soles.

Prophet grabbed the old man's arm and led him brusquely toward his horse. “We gotta move, senor!”

“No, I . . .”

“No doubt about it,” Prophet said as he swung up into his saddle, then extended his hand toward the Mexican.

Chacin shouted at his men and then all five Rurales tore off across the desert, heading toward the mountains rolling up like giant mounds of bread dough in the west.