The Savage Curse (7 page)

“I never heard that before.”

“Me, neither. I just thought of it.”

Ben snorted.

John continued to survey the land, an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Giant saguaros stood like green sentinels, silent and strangely sentient, as if they could see and feel in their mute-ness, their deafness, and their blindness. They seemed alive and somehow comforting as they stood amid the seeming desolation of that barren landscape. Off in the distance, John could see shadowy monuments rising up from the plain, their rock walls like fortresses, their secrets lost to time and an emptiness he could feel deep inside him. He drew a deep breath and knew he could never explain the feelings he had just then. They were too complicated, too hazy and unformed, like snatches of a dream he could reach for but never touch.

Ahead, Crudder rode on and John could see that his head was drooping, as if he were half asleep, dozing in the saddle.

The bastard, John thought, he feels safe with the two outriders and a man on point, Ben and John covering his rear. Complacent, perhaps.

He could feel the land rising under him, so gradual it was barely discernible, but he sensed a subtle shift in the air, somehow a half a degree cooler than it had been. He wondered if they were climbing toward higher ground, ascending from the desert ever so slowly.

A trick of the mind? He didn't know, but he looked at the western horizon and it seemed higher than it had before, as if they were riding toward a small summit. He looked behind him and it seemed to him that he was looking down, down into that long gradual valley they had just traversed. They were climbing. He was sure of it. The walls of the canyon where they had been were now only dim and small battlements reduced to rubble and ruin as if they were sinking out of existence.

There had to be a way to escape Crudder and his men. It was too bad they couldn't talk to Ward and bring him along. Another gun to go up against Hobart and the bloodthirsty men he gathered around him. How many men, he did not know. But Hobart was, for all his faults, a leader, a man who surrounded himself with heartless and greedy cohorts who would do his bidding.

“You're awful quiet, John,” Ben said after they had ridden for another half hour. “Workin' on a plan?”

“Maybe,” John said.

“If we come close to one of them high-walled mesas, we might have a chance to make a run for it.”

“They'd shoot us right out of the saddle. Too open, Ben.”

“Then, where? Hell, the old sun's already fallin' away from high noon.”

John gave Ben's question some moments of thought before he answered.

“We're riding an outlaw trail, Ben. Way off the old Butterfield Stage Trail to Benson. There has to be some reason owlhoots picked this route. There are mountains yonder, and we're close to the Mexican border. Somewhere, between here and Tucson, we'll find a way to light a shuck away from these jaspers. Let the sun fall. The closer we get to dark, the closer we get to a place that will suit us just fine.”

“Boy, Johnny, you sure give a man confidence. Ever had any luck a-wishin', bettin' on horse races?”

“I believe this, Ben. You make your own luck. Good or bad.”

And that was where they left it as they both looked for opportunity's bold knock on their door.

When it came, John Savage would jerk the door right off its rusty hinges.

9

THE LAND AROUND THEM CHANGED AS THE LONG VALLEY DISAPPEARED behind them. Ahead and all around lay hills and small mountains, broken country. The kind of country, John thought, where a man might make a break for it and disappear behind any number of hills. To the south lay Mexico, and perhaps safety. A good day's ride, maybe thirty miles or so, two days at the most.

He looked at Ben, whose eyes were as wide as an owl's.

“You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?” Ben asked.

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of John's stomach. He knew that he was on the verge of having to make a life-or-death decision. If he made the wrong choice, he and Ben could be killed. They were outnumbered and they had to traverse a considerable distance to outrun both bullets and men on horseback. But the prospect of being with Crudder when he met up with Hobart was almost as distasteful as risking his life.

“We can't run the horses much, Ben,” John said. “This heat has sucked out all their energy.”

“I know,” Ben said. “But if we're going to break away from this bunch, this looks like pretty good country for it.”

“Ever been to Mexico?” John asked.

“Nope.”

“We might have to hole up over the border for a while.”

“Makes no nevermind to me.”

John scanned the country to the south. More and more hills rose up and there were jagged peaks beyond, low mountains that looked forbidding. And, maybe, sheltering.

“When we get close to a bunch of those hills, we'll light a shuck,” John said. “You stay right on my heels. I'm going to zigzag in case we have to dodge bullets.”

“I can zig and I can zag,” Ben said, the crinkle of a smile on his lips.

“Don't follow my exact route, Ben. When I zig, you zag.”

And John was smiling when he said it. But Ben knew he was dead serious.

“I'll do that, Johnny. You just say the word.”

A half hour later, John said the word.

“Now,” he said and wheeled Gent into a tight turn, not forty yards from a peaked hill. Ben clapped his spurs to Blaster's flanks and the two men rode toward the east end of the hill, gobbling up ground in a furious gallop.

They heard a shout from Crudder. When John looked over his shoulder, he saw the man stop his horse, back it down. He pointed in their direction, then jerked his rifle from its scabbard.

“Get 'em,” Crudder yelled, and his voice carried across the plain, rippling with his anger and determination.

Ten yards from the corner of the hill, John heard the whip-crack of a rifle. The bullet spanged off a rock a few yards behind him and caromed off into the air with a nasty whine. John pulled hard on the left rein and Gent swerved a few yards before John reined him back to a straight line. He drew his pistol, turned slightly in the shadow, aimed high at Crudder, and fired off a shot. He knew the bullet had little chance of hitting its target, but it might give the man a reason to hold off his pursuit for a few moments. And it might slow down his reloading of another cartridge into the firing chamber.

John rammed his pistol back in its holster and rounded the end of the hill. There were many more hills ahead of him and all around him. He rode into the maze, Ben hot on his heels.

Just as Ben reached the end of the hill, another shot rang out and John heard the bullet slam into the hill. He looked back and saw that Ben was still coming. He was bent over the saddle horn and seemed untouched and unhurt.

John raced toward another hill and turned Gent so they could round it. He slowed the horse after passing the hill and Ben caught up to him.

Both men were panting, out of breath. The horses' sides were heaving.

“Enough of that fast gallop,” John said. “From now on, we pick our way south real slow.”

“Think Crudder will come after us?”

“He might for a ways, but he'll give it up. If we go real slow, we won't leave much sign on this hard ground. Unless he's a damned good tracker, he'll give up.”

They rode through a series of narrow passes, through small and slightly larger hills, varying their direction, putting more hills behind them. John watched their backtrail and drew his rifle. If he saw Crudder or any of the others come around a hill, he would stop and draw a bead, try to drop the pursuer.

“Crudder fire that last shot at you, Ben?”

“I—I think so. Couldn't tell. What are you thinkin'?”

“Jake was on the flank. I hope he didn't shoot at you.”

“Aw, he wouldn't do that. He's on our side.”

“He might have loosed a bullet to throw Crudder off. Jake won't want to show his hand.”

“Hell, he should be ridin' with us.”

“No. Better that he stay with Crudder and that bunch. If we get to Hobart, he might come in handy.”

“Yeah. He might.”

They heard pounding hoofbeats, shouts. It was difficult for John to determine how close Crudder and his men were because of the hills. He and Ben walked the horses south for several moments, cut in and out of saguaros and hills, their horses sleek with sweat, their foreheads dripping wet. They sopped up the moisture with their bandannas and rode on, keeping quiet, listening, looking over their shoulders.

“These horses need rest, John,” Ben said, his voice a croak in his parched throat.

“I know. I don't see any shade, do you?”

“Can't we just stop and give 'em a rest?”

“Might be our last stop, Ben. No telling where Crudder is. He might know this country. Hell, he could be waiting just up ahead for us.”

Ben swore.

“Hey, don't talk that way, Johnny. My stomach's still tied up in a hundred different knots.”

“Just keep quiet and keep riding, Ben. We'll stop when we've lost Crudder for sure.”

John headed toward a low hill, crossing a patch of rocky land dotted with prickly pear, saguaros, ocotillo. Something caught his eye and he turned suddenly in the saddle to seek out the source. A glint of light, like a spear, needled him in his right eye. He raised a hand to shade his face. He looked upward, toward a peak jutting up, its top framed by blue sky.

“Ben,” John said, his voice pitched low, “watch it.”

Ben turned and looked at that same peak and swallowed hard.

“We been snookered,” Ben said, shading his eyes with a hand.

One of the riders, John didn't know which at that distance, was at the top of the peak, looking down on them. Sunlight glinted off the barrel of his rifle as he brought it to his shoulder and took aim. The horse under him sidled on unsure footing and the rifle came down for a moment, then rose again to the man's shoulder. John saw him sighting along the barrel.

In the fraction of seconds it took for the man to steady his horse and take aim, John judged the distance between him and the muzzle of that rifle.

At least two hundred yards, maybe more, he figured.

A hundred thoughts flashed through John's brain in those meager seconds. Distance. Trajectory. Angle. Windage. All useless, all numberless. But he thought of them and wondered if the man on the hill was a marksman. If it wasn't Crudder, he would have sent his best shot up there, a man who could drop game at four hundred yards or maybe five hundred yards. Who could shoot a running rabbit, bark a squirrel, take a turkey's head off with a .30-30 at one hundred and fifty yards.

That was likely who was up there on that peak, and he and Ben were out in the open, no cover that would stand up to a lead bullet that could go through a saguaro and tear a man's heart to shreds.

“Zigzag,” John barked and wheeled Gent just as he saw a puff of white smoke belch from the muzzle of that rifle.

Ben rode off in one direction. John rode off in another.

He heard the crack of the rifle after the bullet struck near the spot where he had just been a split second before. He didn't look back and rode for the little hill, twisting Gent back and forth like a corkscrew. A few seconds later, he heard the whine of a second bullet as it caromed off a rock, and the rifle report sounded like an afterthought in the stillness.

He reached the hill and reined Gent behind it as another shot sounded. He did not hear the bullet and hoped it had not hit Ben.

Ben rounded the other end of the hill and John pointed straight south. The horses were struggling to keep up speed, and he knew they could only go a few more yards before one or both of them foundered.

It was a dangerous time.

More figuring in his head. How long would it take the shooter to ride down that hill and give chase? How stout was the man's horse, how much wind did it have left?

Questions and more questions, hurtling at lightning speed through his mind as if any of the answers could save them.

And where were the other three men?

“We got to hold up, John,” Ben said. “Or we'll kill these horses.”

“Do it,” John said, hauling on the reins. Gent stumbled to a halt and hung his head, gasping for breath, the air wheezing in his throat, his sides heaving with the effort to draw cool air into his lungs. Only the air was not cool, but hot and thick, burning already tortured tissue.

“He'll be comin' after us, John.”

“Probably. Let's walk them south and we'll make a stand behind the next hill.

Both men looked ahead as their horses plodded along, out of breath, out of strength, and out of fight for survival. It pained John to hear Gent struggling for breath and feel him walking on wobbly wooden legs that were about to turn to rubber.

There was nothing but empty plain ahead.

The landscape was as desolate as if a giant thrasher had swept it clean of all life. The hills were on either side and far away. South were gullies and washouts and stately saguaros standing mute as statuary.

John jerked his rifle from its scabbard, then hauled on the reins, pulling Gent to a full stop.

“What're you gonna do, Johnny?” Ben asked.

“I'm going to shoot the first sonofabitch that rides around that hill.”

Ben stopped, turned Blaster around, and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.

Neither man said a word as they waited. Waited for whatever was bound to come.

10

FAR OFF IN THE DISTANCE, TO THE SOUTH, JOHN SAW SOMETHING that startled him. It was so far away he could not be sure what it was. The only thing about it that caught his eye was the color. Green. He felt as if he was looking at a far-off sea, the way the light bounced off the verdant patch of land. He closed and opened his eyes as if to clear his brain of mirages, false images.