Twisted Hills (21 page)

“Which you did, as fate would have it.” Galla grinned and said to Burke, “Stay here. I'll go make sure he's not lying. Soon as I lay my hands on the gold, stick a bullet in his head.” He pulled a thick candle from his shirt pocket and walked across the grown-over stone-tiled floor.

“My pleasure,” Burke said to Galla, staring down at Sam from behind a cocked rifle.

Both Sam and Clyde Burke waited and watched as Galla leaned his rifle against a stone and climbed the vine-covered wall. Atop the wall, he stood up in the purple moonlight, lit the thick candle and held it out on the wall's far side. He looked back and forth along a deep tangle of brush, dirt slope, stone, scrub pine and ironwood.

“Damn, what a mess,” Galla called out. Looking down, he walked along the bed of vines capping the wall.

Sam almost held his breath, getting ready for his chance to make a grab for Burke. He knew there was no more than a fifty-fifty chance at best that the panther would be lurking on the other side of the wall. But it was the only plan he could come up with at the time, his nose pouring blood, his mind still cloudy from the rifle butt he'd taken to the forehead.

“See anything over there?” Burke called out, watching Galla take a step down the brush-covered slope on the other side.

“There's nothing
to see
down there,” Galla replied. “Jones is lying. Put a bullet in his head.”

Burke looked down at Sam with a thin, cruel grin.

“You heard the man, Jones,” he said. He leveled the cocked rifle an inch from Sam's face. “Tell the devil in hell to save us a place,” he said with a dark chuckle.

Sam had nothing to lose. He tensed, ready to make a grab for the rifle barrel and shove it away. But before he could, Galla called out, “Wait! I do see something—saddlebags, I believe. They're stuck down deep under some brush.”

Saddlebags?

Sam stared up toward the wall in disbelief.

“Are you sure?” Burke called out.

“Pretty damn sure,” Galla said, sounding excited, picking his way down the steep slope. “They're tan, sand-colored, you could say.”

Tan, sand-colored?
Sam had no idea. . . .

“Lucky for you, Jones,” Burke said to Sam. “You can stand up if you want. But this won't change nothing. You're still going to die.”

Sam pushed himself to his feet and stood beside Burke.

“I'm going to have to reach through some brush and pull them up,” Galla called out over the wall to them.

“Get it done,” Burke shouted in reply.

Sand-colored?
It suddenly struck Sam what Galla was about to grab from down in the brush.

At the same time the realization struck Sam, he and Burke heard the snarl of the big panther on the other side of the wall. With the snarl came the chilling scream of Galla as the cat locked itself around his arm when the muscle-bound gunman had reached down and tried to grab its hunkered-down back.

“Holy Joseph!” Burke cried out toward the sound of man and panther fighting it out beyond the wall. “I'm coming, Mick!” he shouted.

But before he knew what had hit him, Sam was at his back. He threw an arm around Burke's neck and yanked him backward off his feet. A shot from Burke's rifle exploded wildly in the air. Then the rifle left Burke's hands and turned around quickly in Sam's.

“Don't shoot!” Burke pleaded, having to raise his voice above the raging loud melody between man and cat.

“Then don't move,” Sam replied. He reached down, jerked his Colt from Burke's waist and cocked it in his face. He clamped a boot down on Burke's chest. Over the wall, the cat battle raged. Galla screamed; the panther snarled and growled. The sound of brush breaking filled the ancient marketplace. Tree limbs and brittle dry vines thrashed and snapped. A black cloud of bats rose from the brush and screeched off into the night.

“For God's sake, Jones!” Burke pleaded. “You've got to help him. You can't just let that thing kill him!”

“Oh, I don't know,” Sam said calmly, speaking above the terrible snarling, thrashing and screaming. “They're both holding their own.”

“Burke! Help!” Galla shouted. They saw him throw a naked bloody arm up over the top of the wall and start to push himself up. Then his eyes opened wide, as did his mouth. He screamed as the two watched a big tan paw swing up over his shoulder and pull him back down. A deep, vicious growl resounded behind him.

“Please, Jones, do something!” Burke said.

Sam considered it for a second. He couldn't just let the man get eaten alive.

“All right,” he said. He watched as Galla struggled all the way atop the wall, naked, save for a torn boot and what remained of a shredded shirtsleeve hanging down his bloody back. Sam watched as Galla jumped to the ground. He took aim on the panther as the she-cat sprang atop the wall behind Galla and perched there for a moment.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Burke shouted.

Sam had the cat in his sights, though he pulled his shot up, hoping to scare the cat away. But the cat would have none of it. The bullet hit the top of the wall, the shot resounding loudly in the night, and the sound only appeared to enrage the big cat more. Instead of vanishing with her tail down, she leaped from the wall and landed ten feet from Galla, who was having a hard time getting to his rifle.

“Jesus!” Burke mused. “That is one bad, angry cat.”

Sam didn't reply. He stood watching as Galla got his rifle and faced the crouched, growling cat.

Sam felt a little sorry for the cat, seeing the naked, bloody gunman aim down the rifle barrel, ready to pull the trigger. But amazingly the panther, unimpressed with the pointed rifle, leaped forward onto Galla's chest as the bullet zinged past her head.

Galla went down, the cat on his chest, mauling, biting, scratching. She held his head in her forepaws for a moment and ran in place on his stomach as fast as she could with her rear paws. Blood flew. Galla bellowed in pain. Burke couldn't watch. He turned his face away. Sam took aim on the moss- and dirt-covered stone floor, only inches from the cat.

His shot sent dirt and rock chips from the floor, stinging the cat's sides. This time the cat turned to run. But Galla, dazed and seeming to forget that his main objective was staying alive, instinctively grabbed the cat's tail with both hands and pulled her back into the fray.

“The son of a bitch has lost his mind!” Burke remarked. “He's wanting more!”

Hoping Galla realized what a mistake he'd made grabbing the cat, Sam fired again. This time the cat stopped, ducked and looked squarely at him and Burke.

“Don't draw her over here!” Burke bellowed.

Sam held his aim, the rifle hammer cocked and ready, now level on the cat herself. As much as he hated to do it, the cat had to be stopped.

The cat snarled at him and Burke as Galla lay inching himself away, across the ancient marketplace. Then, as quickly as the cat had struck, she turned instantly, raced away twenty feet and stopped and sat in the outer edge of the lantern light. She sat for a moment licking her bloody front paw. A second later she was gone—vanished with the flick of her long tail.

Sam and Burke looked at each other.

“All right, Jones, I'm just going to say this—see what you think,” Burke said with a hand spread. “I'm betting that there's not a man in ten thousand ever seen something like we just saw right here.”

Sam shook his head slowly.

“I can't argue it,” he said.

From the ancient marketplace floor came a pained whimpering sound.

“Help . . . me,” Galla said.

Burke looked at Galla, then at Sam.

“All right,” Sam said. “I'll help you get him cleaned up and comfortable before I leave. How far ahead of me are Segert and the woman?”

“Four hours, more or less,” Burke said.

“Okay.” Sam nodded and said, “Here's the deal. I'm not going to kill you.”

“Obliged,” Burke said.

“But I'm taking your guns and horses when I leave,” Sam added.

Burked shrugged and said, “Hell, that goes without saying, I suppose.” He paused and said, “What if the 'pache is headed this way, us without guns and horses?”

“Hope for the best,” Sam said. “I'm taking them anyway.”

•   •   •

In a glowing circle of the lantern light inside the cavern, Sam stood watching Burke sew up open claw gashes and deep teeth marks on Galla while the big gunman lay trembling in pain. Sam watched, as did the dun and the two gunmen's horses, their heads lowered, seeming interested in watching needle go through bloody flesh and pull it back together.

“I—I won . . . didn't I?” Galla said in a weak and shaky voice.

“Yeah, you sure did,” Burke agreed. He gave Sam a skeptical look.

“A fair fight . . . and I won,” Galla mumbled. “How's . . . the cat doing?” he asked, as if to sound gracious in his victory.

“Oh, I'd say she'll get over it well enough,” said Burke, sticking the needle through more gaping bloody flesh. “Funny thing, she didn't even ask about you,” he added.

“I won . . . I won, I won . . . ,” Galla repeated, growing weaker with each word. He slumped back against a rock and gazed off to the darkness of the cavern.

Sam watched Burke continue with his sewing for a few minutes longer. Then he leaned around and studied Mickey Galla's dull blank eyes.

“You can stop sewing anytime,” he said to Burke. “The man's dead.”

Burke stared at Sam, his fingertips and the front of his shirt covered red with Galla's blood.

“But I'm almost done,” he said.

“I know,” said Sam. “But he's dead. Stop sewing on him.”

“Oh . . . ,” Burke said. He let out a breath and blotted his sweaty forehead with the cuff of his shirt. “I hate getting so close and having to stop.” He looked all around. “But I guess I ought to anyway.”

Sam nodded and stood back by the horses.

“I would,” he said.

Burke stood up and sighed, the threaded needle hanging in his hand.

“I have to stay here by myself until somebody comes along with a horse for me?” he asked.

Sam considered it.

“How long have you been outlawing, Burke?” he asked.

“Long as most anybody you'll ever meet,” said Burke. “I've rode with all of them, both sides of the border.” He grinned. “Man oh man, the tales I could tell and the hangings they would cause.”

“Is that a fact?” Sam said, thinking about what he'd just said.

“Not that I would, though,” Burke said quickly. “Leastwise not to anybody outside our own circle.”

“I hear you,” Sam said. “Want to ride along with me toward Agua Fría, break off before I get to Segert's place?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” said Burke. “To tell the truth, I never liked this place.” He gave Sam a curious look. “You're going to go kill Raymond Segert first thing, aren't you?” He looked Sam up and down appraisingly.

“That is my plan,” Sam said. “Can you blame me, after everything he's done to me?”

“Naw, I can't blame you,” said Burke. He gestured his bloody hand toward Galla's body. “Any reason we can't leave him lying here?”

“None that I can think of,” Sam said.

They turned to the horses. Before getting into their saddles, Burke uncapped a canteen, washed blood from his hands and dried his hands on the front of his shirt.

“Not that it matters, Jones,” Burke said, “but what about that gold?”

“What about it?” Sam asked him.

“If it's not here anywhere, where is it?” Burke asked.

“It's where I told you and Galla the first time,” Sam said. “I left it in the crevice. When the Apaches hit the camp, I lit out.”

“You wasn't just making that up?” Burke said.

“Not a word,” Sam said.

“Damn, we should have listened,” said Burke, chastising himself and Galla. “Now that things are more or less settled between you and me,” he said, “how would you feel about going back there and finding that gold? Split it right down the middle?”

“I don't think so,” Sam said. “The Apaches will be crawling all over the hills for a while. Anyway, like we said, I've got a score to settle with Segert.”

Burke stopped short and said, “I hope you're not harboring a mad-on at me, for being in on that dragging.” He gave a slight shrug. “I was only doing my job.”

“Naw,” Sam said dismissingly. “What's a dragging more or less?”

“It's big of you to feel that way,” Burke said, taking Sam's words seriously. “Fact is, we was told not to kill you, just scare you some, make you think we was go-ing to.”

Sam just looked at him.

“It's true,” said Burke. “Segert said teach you a lesson about stirring things up at the Fair Deal, costing him the money Graft paid every week for us for keeping down trouble.”

“All about business, huh?” Sam said.

“Yep,” said Burke. “Most likely had things gone on the way they were meant, you'd be riding for Segert right now.”

“But it was Lilith—” Sam stopped and corrected himself. “I mean the peddler woman who saved me,” Sam said.

“Only because Segert told her to,” said Burke.

“Then she set me up?” Sam said.

“I figure Segert got jealous of you and her, saw she was falling for you, decided to get rid of you in the end,” Burke said. He shrugged and grinned. “Just my opinion, for what it's worth.”

“Falling for me . . . ?” Sam murmured. “She was going to let them kill me.”

“I have learned in life that none of us are perfect,” Burke said in a sage tone.

“I'm with you there,” Sam said.

On their way to Agua Fría, Clyde Burke told Sam about all the banks, railroads and payrolls he and the other men riding for Segert and Madson had robbed over the past two years. Sam listened to names, banks, towns, gunmen involved, men murdered. He tried to absorb as much of it in his memory as he could as they rode on through the night. Burke also told him about how the two gangs were set up. In truth, there were not two gangs at all, he'd admitted. As Sam had suspected, Madson was the real leader. Sam had already decided as much. It was going to take some time getting to Madson.

Segert was just Madson's
segundo
—his second-in-command, Burke had gone on to tell him.

“Anyway, none of it matters much now,” Burke said finally. “Madson's taken his best men and pulled out of here. Built himself a fine hacienda somewhere thirty miles west above Twisted Hills. I've never been there, but they say it's built like a fortress, stone walls and all. It would take an army to get inside it.”

They rode on through the night. Near dawn they had stopped at a water hole to water their horses and fill their canteens. While the horses drew water, Burke stood beside Sam, the two of them gazing off across the desert. In the east a silver-gold mantel crested the horizon.

“It's too bad how things turned out here between Segert and me,” Sam said. “I really wanted to ride for him. Still would, if he hadn't treated me the way he did.”

“If you don't mind me saying so, Jones, you came on a might too strong to suit Segert. He's used to people bowing and scraping. You come in kicking ass and thumping heads.”

“Yeah,” Sam conceded to him. “I think you're right, looking back on it,” he said. “I'll remember that the next time I go looking for gun work.”

“I can't help thinking that you wouldn't be looking for gun work for a good long time, if you played your cards right,” Burke said. He gave Sam a wry grin as they rode along.

“You're still talking about the gold for the rifles, huh?” Sam said.

“I can't turn it loose,” Burke said. “It's too much gold just lying there, nobody getting any good out of it. He took a sidelong step away from Sam. A small gun cocked in his hand.

Sam turned, facing him.

“Don't try nothing, Jones,” Burke said. “I'll kill you graveyard dead.”

“Um-umm,”
Sam said. “After me not killing you, giving you a horse . . .” His disappointment expressed itself in his voice.

“It was
my
horse to begin with,” Burke reminded him. “You just gave it back to me.”

“Still,” Sam said.

“Still, nothing,” said Burke. “I ain't leaving gold to waste. You ought to understand that, being an outlaw yourself.”

“I'm not taking you to it,” Sam said. “So put it out of your mind.” He tried to dismiss the matter and turn away.

“You say that now,” Burke replied, reaching out, poking his arm with the gun barrel, causing Sam to turn back to him. “But you'll think about it along the way, all the whores you can diddle in Vera Cruz, all the dope, the whiskey. We'd be living in what they call
ex-tasy
.” His eyes grew excited just talking about it. He smiled to himself and let his gaze drift upward toward the sky.

Sam's rifle butt came around and smacked his gun hand soundly. His hideout revolver flew into the water. He yelped like a kicked dog. He started to charge at Sam, but he saw Sam's rifle cock and level at his chest.

“Hold on, Jones! Let's talk this thing out,” he pleaded.

“I thought we just did,” Sam replied. “I've gone as far as I can with you.”

“Please, no, don't kill me!” said Burke. He fell to his knees, clenching his throbbing hand. He sobbed and bowed his head. “Please don't . . . ,” he said, weak and pitiful.

Sam glanced all around the black jagged silhouettes on distant hill lines.

“This whole country sits around waiting to hear a gunshot,” he said. “Get on your feet. I'm not going to kill you.”

“You're not?” Burke sniffled and stood up, dusting his knees, looking embarrassed. “You could have said so to begin with,” he said stiffly.

“I'm saying so
now
,” Sam countered. “I'm taking your horse. You're on your own.”

“My
horse
?”
said Burke. “Jesus, Jones! I'd've been better off if you took it at the ruins. What am I going to do now?” He swung his arms around, gesturing at the vast endless desert hills.

“You can sit here and figure it out,” Sam said. “Fish your gun out and dry it. If I catch you near me again, I'll kill you before we say howdy.”

“Even if I can find the gun, it's a Navy cap and ball,” said Burke.

“If you live long enough, you'll find another gun,” Sam said reassuringly. “They seem to drift around everywhere.” He turned to the dun and swung into the saddle as Burke cursed and bent and pulled off his boots.

“I ain't forgetting this, Jones,” Burke warned, rolling up his trouser legs. “You'd better
hope
you never see me again.”

“I'm already there,” Sam said. He turned the dun, rifle in hand, and batted his boots lightly to its sides. He heard splashing and cursing behind him as he rode away.

•   •   •

At midmorning, Reuben Grafton stood out in front of the Fair Deal Cantina, looking at the single rider coming into town from the hill trail leading down to the desert floor. Grafton's eyes were still puffy and purple from a beating he'd taken at the hands of Jon Ho and some other Segert men after Burke, Dolan and the two Mexican vaqueros had dragged Sam away on the end of the lariats.

As Grafton stared, he watched the lone rider pull his horse over to the hitch rail out in front of the mercantile and step down and spin its reins. Only as the rider stepped out onto the street did Grafton recognize him.

“Oh, hell, Jones—” Grafton said under his breath, seeing Sam tip his hat up on his forehead. The cantina owner rubbed his hands nervously on his bar apron and looked around at his cantina with a grim worried expression. Seeing no one watching from the cantina's brand-new wooden double doors, he ran along the middle of the street, keeping silent, but waving his arms at Sam.

Sam walked on, rifle hanging in one hand, his right hand close to the butt of his bone-handled Colt standing behind the leather bullet belt around his middle.

When Grafton got close enough to not be heard in the cantina, he called out to Sam in a guarded tone.

“Jones, go back, go back! Four of Segert's men are in the Fair Deal. They'll kill you!”

Sam kept walking.

“
Buenos días
, Grafton,” he said without slowing a step.

“Good morning,
yourself,” said Grafton, tagging alongside backward beside him. “Do you hear me, Jones? Four of them, four of his best—half drunk and killing mean.”

Sam kept walking.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Tom Mullins,” said Grafton. “Dirty Tommy . . . ?” He continued tagging along backward, facing Sam.

“Don't know him,” said Sam.

“Sudio Arpai, the Argentine?” said Grafton.

“Never had the pleasure,” Sam said, still walking.

“Jon Ho, the Chinese half-breed?”

“I've got him,” Sam replied.

“Some new man,” said Grafton. “I've never seen him before.”

“That's four all right,” Sam said, staring straight ahead.

“Wait, Jones, damn it!” said Grafton. “You can't go in there. They'll kill
me too
!” He grabbed Sam's arm.

Sam stopped and looked at Grafton's hand. Grafton dropped it quickly. Sam looked at his bruised, mending face.

“Kill you for what?” Sam said.

“Jon Ho told me if I ever see you coming and don't warn them, I'm a dead man,” he said firmly.

“So what are you doing here?” Sam asked.

“What do you mean?” Grafton asked.

“I mean, get on in there and warn them,” Sam said. “Do us all a favor.”

Grafton gave him a stunned look.

“You mean . . . ?” His words trailed.

“Yep, that's what I mean,” Sam said. He started walking again.

Grafton stood in the street, watching him walk on.

“Don't you go fighting and shooting inside the Fair Deal, though,” he called out. “I've got myself new oak doors, a brand-new mirror—this one has a fancy Spanish frame. Wait till you see it.”

“I'm happy for you, Grafton,” Sam said flatly over his shoulder. “I'll be real careful.”

But before he'd gone three more steps, a shotgun blast from inside the Fair Deal sent the middle of the big double doors flying in chunks and splinters out onto the street. What was left of the doors swung back until one fell off its hinges. A hand shoved the other broken door open and three men walked out and spread out along the street facing the Ranger.

“Looks like they know I'm here,” Sam said.

“There was no call for doing that,” Grafton said angrily. “All's they had to do was walk out.”

“Better clear out, Grafton,” Sam said, still walking, “unless you want some of this.”

“For two cents, I would take them on with you,” Grafton said, seething in anger. But when the tall Argentinean with the smoking shotgun broke the gun open to reload one of its double barrels, Grafton slunk away to the side and called out to the three. The Argentinean stared at Grafton, then at Sam from beneath a lowered black sombrero brim trimmed in silver and red embroidery.

“Believe it or not,” Grafton called out to him, “I was on my way to find Jon Ho just when you fellows stepped out,” he said quickly as he moved away toward an alley. He offered a wide, frightened grin. “How's that for coincidence?”

Jon Ho . . .
Sam looked at the gunmen as Grafton disappeared around the corner of an alley. There were only three, he reminded himself. Where was Ho? He looked all around. Jon Ho was not in sight. But on a balcony on the second floor of the adobe and stone hotel, Sam saw the woman and Raymond Segert, the two having come out to investigate the shotgun blast.

“Well, well, look, darling, it's Jones,” Segert called out aloud for both Sam and Lilith's benefit. “I bet he come to save you from me.” His voice had a slurred whiskey edge to it. An Army Colt conversion hung in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

Sam kept the three gunmen in the corner of his eye and looked up at Segert.

“Where's my gold, where's my men?” Segert asked bluntly, his hands spread out on either side supporting him on the balcony rail.

“The gold is where I left it,” Sam said. “Your men got attacked by Apaches. My guess is they're all dead.”

“Damn the luck,” Segert said. He pounded a fist on the railing.

“Joe, I am so pleased that you're alive,” Lilith said, near tears, her voice trembling.

Sam just stared up at her. He wanted to hear what she said, but he wasn't going to let the three gunmen catch him off guard.

“Me and this she-bitch has fought all night and all morning over you, Jones,” he said. “All she's done is cry and take on over you—me, the one who's given her everything!”

“You gave me
nothing
!” Lilith screamed. “Nobody has ever given me anything!” She swung her arm wildly. “Except for this man.” She pointed down at Sam. “He is the only man who has done anything for me without demanding something in return. I'm only a peddler girl! Who cares what happens to me?” She swung her arm again, as if to wipe the world away. “All of you, go to hell.”

Sam could see that she too had consumed her share of whiskey.

“Nothing,
ha
!” Segert screamed in reply. “Look what she done to me, Jones!” He half turned, his arms spread wide. Sam saw the handle of a dagger sticking out of his shoulder, a wide stream of blood down the back of his wrinkled white shirt.

“Please tell me you came here to kill this pig,” Lilith called down to him.

Sam didn't answer her. But he did say to Segert, “You need to put something on it, Segert, and get on down here.”

“Put something
on it
,” Segert said as if in disbelief. “You mean some salve, some ointment?” He laughed aloud. “A poultice maybe?”

Sam just stared at him.

“You still make me laugh, Jones—whatever the hell your name is,” Segert said.

“Come down, Segert. It's time,” Sam said with finality.

“Please! Please kill him, Joe,” Lilith sobbed. “Please kill him for me. . . .”

Sam only stared, keeping watch on the three gunmen who had also started watching the spectacle play itself out on the balcony above them.

“Listen to her, Jones!” Segert raged. “But I warn you now, she is no angel. Not this one! Angels can fly!” He grabbed her and lifted her over his head in spite of the knife stuck deep in his shoulder. “She can't fly!”

Lilith screamed long and shrill as he hurled her off the balcony. Sam winced as she hit the hard stone-tile street out in front of the hotel. Her scream halted. She lay as still as the stones beneath her.

Sam turned his rifle up and aimed at Segert. His shot sliced through Segert's throat and took out the intricate nerves and tendons that served to hold his head erect. His head fell onto his shoulder like some broken child's toy. Blood, tendon and bone matter splattered on the adobe behind him.

Sam wasted no time. He spun toward the three gunmen, his big Colt coming up fast from behind the bullet belt, cocked and ready.

The gunmen looked stunned, stunned at what Segert had done to the woman, stunned at what Sam had done to Segert—all of it happening so fast it wouldn't be easy to recall except as one instinctive reflex, relentless and mindless in its violent conclusion, even to men such as these.

Yet, as Sam's Colt leveled at them, the three gunmen snapped out of it. Sudio Arpai, the Argentinean, fired first. The shotgun bucked in his hand, even as Sam fired and put Dirty Tommy Mullins flat on his back beneath a looming mist of blood.