Valley of Fire (3 page)

Footsteps stopped, and the doorknob squeaked. I grimaced. The door opened, but Sister Geneviève didn't even look away from me. I was about to risk getting my eyes shot out, or my head blowed off—those “Ladies Companions” are known to misfire and shoot all five rounds at once—but stopped myself as a man entered the room, and quickly shut the door behind him.

“It's not my room,” she said. “It's his.”

The long-legged gent swept off his wide-brimmed black hat and stepped into the candlelight. He wore a black robe, and a silver cross hung from his neck. I was only beginning to suspicion that Sister Geneviève wasn't a nun, but I damned sure knowed this guy wasn't no priest, and not because of the Texas-sized spurs he had strapped to his boots.

“Hello, Bishop,” Sean Fenn said.

Me? I faced the hangman's noose here in New Mexico, but only on account of some misunderstanding and having killed a relative of a powerful hombre. Unjust decision, if you ask me. But Sean Fenn? That son of a bitch deserved to die.

“You're a lucky man, Bishop.” Sean Fenn moved to the dresser, opened a drawer, fetched out a bottle of Jameson and two tumblers.

I hadn't felt too lucky when I recognized Fenn, but sight of that Irish whiskey—providing it was Irish and not forty-rod poured into a Jameson bottle—made me feel a mite better . . . till Fenn poured two fingers in one of the glasses, and handed it to the nun. The second, he filled with four fingers, and took that one for his ownself.

“I don't feel lucky,” I said.

Outside, it sounded like the entire population of Las Vegas was running around. I could hear Felipe Hernandez barking orders in Spanish, then English. I could still hear a lot of cussing.

“You should.” Fenn sipped his drink. “First, Hernandez wanted to bring in a lot of his relatives to see you swing, including his sister and cousins in Santa Fe. That's how we found out you were in jail. Hadn't been for Felipe's sense of honor, of justice, you'd be dead by now, and we wouldn't know what to do.”

I ran my hand over the beard stubble on my face. “The Valley of Fire.”

“That's right.” Fenn downed the rest of his Irish.

“Even you could find it, Sean. It's pretty hard to miss. It's a big valley.”

Sister Geneviève hadn't touched her whiskey, so Fenn, smiling, took the tumbler from her hand and passed it over to me. I barely tasted the peat as I shot down that Irish.

“Big valley,” Fenn said, “but what's buried there isn't big.” He moved to the window, pulled back a curtain, peered outside. “The train will be arriving directly. We should be at the depot.”

Shaking my head, I almost laughed. “We? I think Señor Hernandez might object to that.” I was getting tired of making that point and nodded at his getup “Even that outfit won't help you, Sean, not after you got a nun to bust me out of jail. They won't trust nobody.”

Fenn was moving, kneeling by the bed, reaching underneath. With a grunt, he began dragging something across the plank floor.

I got off the bed.

Kneeling beside him, the nun helped pull a long pine box from underneath.

I frowned. “A coffin?”

Geneviève pulled off the lid, leaning it against the dresser.

“Get inside,” Fenn told me.

Now, I don't never try drawing to inside straights. I don't put my hat on a bed, don't bet on a horse with four white feet, and such things like that, but it ain't on account that I'm of a superstitious nature. But lie down in a coffin?

“I'll do no such thing!” I said, all indignant-like.

About that time, we heard the hotel's front door open, and a bunch of boots downstairs, more shouts, and the proprietor saying something that nobody could make out on account of the cussing and commotion.

“Alive now,” Fenn said, “or dead after they hang or shoot you. Your choice, pard.”

I pulled off my hat, grumbling, but a moment later found myself lying inside that box.

“You too, Sister Gen,” Fenn said.

She protested worser that I'd done.

“They know you busted him out of jail,” Fenn said. “They'll be looking for you, or any nun.”

“How about a priest?” I said, but Fenn was already shunning his robe and crucifix.

“Get in,” Fenn snapped at the nun. “We don't have much time.”

He was right about that. Boot steps sounded on the stairs.

Geneviève climbed in on top of me. She was small. I wasn't that big, but it got to be a tight fit . . . yet, rather pleasurable. I mean, I could smell that lilac real good. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. I moved my arms, put them around her back. Our faces were close, but she turned hers, pressed it against my shoulder, and sighed.

“Y'all look might cozy,” Fenn said, and I watched him head to the door. The fool hadn't put the lid on yet.

The door opened, closed almost immediately, and I caught the scent of something that didn't smell nothing like lilac. Fenn appeared over me and the nun again. Geneviève? She couldn't see on account that she was lying facedown, but I'd clumb into the pine box like a dead man. Fenn held up a flour sack. He was smiling at first, till he opened the sack.

His face turned into a mask, and he started to lower the sack, then just plain dropped it. It landed on the nun's back, then slid down to my right.

“God!” I sucked in my breath, tried to hold it.

Sister Geneviève gagged, almost threw up.

Even Sean Fenn had trouble speaking. “Be . . . quiet.” His eyes was watering, before I squeezed mine shut, trying not to breathe, trying not to smell, trying not to gag or lose my breakfast. He moved away, came back with a shell belt and a Winchester rifle, put those in the coffin, too. The barrel leaned toward me, making it harder for me to fetch, especially once the lid was on. And soon it covered us, trapping us inside darkness with the smell of dead, putrefying rats.

A drawer opened, and moments later, Fenn began working a screwdriver quickly. Boots and cusses came down the hall, doors opening and shutting all along the second floor. I had to breathe again. The nun sucked in a lung-full, and gagged.

“You”—I tried to whisper, tried not to send Jameson and coffee and the slop they served me in jail all over the sister's habit—“should have . . . just run for . . . the livery. Could've stole some horses . . .” I couldn't smell her lilac anymore.

“That”—she spit, gagged—“was never . . . our plan.”

“And this was?”

“Quiet, damn it. Quiet or we're all dead.” Sean Fenn spit. Spit again. Tried to spit out the taste of dead rats that filled the air. It sure filled the coffin.

Might be,
I thought briefly,
this is Hell.
In close confines with a beautiful, young woman, her lying on top of me, and us both trying to keep from retching, the stink of dead rats strangling us.

The door busted open. To keep the bile down, I bit into the coarse wool of the sister's outfit. I don't know what Geneviève bit into.

“Good, you've finally arrived,” Fenn was saying. “This is my brother's coffin. Take it down to the depot.”

“Gawd-a'mighty! What's that—”

“My dead brother,” Fenn said. “Killed. Butchered by Comancheros on the Texas Panhandle.”

Idiot. Comancheros hadn't acted up since the Comanches pretty much quit fighting years ago. Sean Fenn talked like he wanted them boys to find me.

“I am taking his remains home to our dear mother in San Diego, California.”

“Good,” came a voice, followed by a spit. “Get him out of here.”

“But”—Fenn poured it on too thick—“aren't you here to assist me in my hour of need?”

One fellow gagged, and I heard boot steps staggering down the hallway. Didn't hear him vomiting, which was a good thing, because that sound would likely have been too much for the nun and me.

“We're looking for an escaped killer.”

Boots shuffled.

“But,” Fenn begged, “for the love of God, I need—”

Them boys was gone.

“You can vomit now,” Fenn said. “But not too loud. Be back in a few minutes.”

And the bastard left us there.

Well, we didn't lose our supper. Didn't speak. Scarcely breathed. Summer nights still get cool in this part of New Mexico, but that coffin became a furnace. Made them dead rats smell even worser.

A few minutes later—that felt like a week—the door opened again, and I heard Fenn directing a couple boys to take the coffin to the depot. One of the gents muttered a prayer in Spanish, then the coffin came up—and after a loud
“¡Maldita sea!”
from one of the hired men—our head end came crashing down. It's a miracle the lid didn't pop off, what with only four screws in place. Even a bigger miracle that the hired pallbearers didn't hear my grunt and Geneviève's gasp, then us choking at the stench, sucking in air, holding our breath, praying. Sean was cussing them boys for their stupidity.

“Señor,”
came a pleading voice. “Heavy.
Es muy pesado.
”

“Yes, brother Gus was a large man. Pick it up. Gently.”

Our heads were lifted. The men spit, gagged, sucked in breaths, started inching, grunting their way out of the room.

“The back stairs,” Fenn directed them.

And so we went. Bumping. Cussing. Slipping. A couple times they lowered the casket, spit, prayed, grunted, and hoisted us back up. We could hear the commotion caused by everyone searching for me and the nun, but nobody bothered to stop us. Oh, I guess a couple fellows come by to see what was going on, but the sight of the coffin and the smell coming from what was inside doused their curiosity.

Finally, we got lowered gently onto the depot, and I heard Fenn thanking the fellows, the jingle of coins as he paid them off, and then, the most glorious sound.

A train whistle.

“Brother Gus,” Fenn said, “we'll have you on your way home soon.” Fenn's footsteps moved away from the platform, and there was nothing for me and Sister Geneviève to do but shift our bodies a bit (my arms having gone to sleep and my left thigh cramping), suck in more of that foul air, spit on each other to try to get the taste of dead varmints out of our mouths, then fall silent as the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe train pulled into the station.

Well, all sorts of folks come to the platform. Most of them, I warrant, was under the direction and employment of Felipe Hernandez. Nobody would be getting aboard that train without some inspection.

“I am Sean McMurtry,” I heard Fenn telling somebody, “bound for San Diego with the body of my dear brother, Gus. Murdered in Texas a week back.” At least he had dropped the bit about Comancheros.

“I see, señor.”

That voice caused me grave concern. It was Felipe Hernandez.

“I know what it is like to lose a loved one. To have a loved one murdered.”

“Yes, indeed,” Fenn said. “I heard about that. Your brother-in-law, correct?

“Shot down in cold blood by that cowardly murderer Micah Bishop.”

“Have you seen a nun during your time here, señor?”

“No. I have spent much of my time in my hotel room, awaiting the train. Spent this evening telling my brother all the things I should have told him while he lived.”

That was another thing I disliked about Sean Fenn. He fancied himself an actor, but, for my money, he wasn't no Lawrence Barnett. John Wilkes Booth, maybe.

“And you have seen no strangers?”

“Señor Hernandez. I am a stranger in this town.”

“
Sí.
Forgive me.”

Merciful God, somebody was calling Felipe Hernandez. He must have left while the locomotive coughed and belched, because the next voice I heard was not that of Hernandez. It had a German accent.

“You ship your dead relation home?”

“That's right, Conductor.” Fenn was talking. “To California. Here is my bill of lading.”

“It is in order. Load”—he got a whiff of the rats—“it in the last boxcar.”

We got hoisted again, began tilting one way, then the other. I just prayed those dead rats wouldn't fall out of the flour sack.

“I will ride with my brother.”

“
Nein.
Against the railroad's policy.”

“I was very close to Gus.”

I couldn't hear, but am certain Fenn slipped the conductor a greenback or two because I heard the door open to the boxcar, felt us being slid in among sawdust or straw or hay or something. Another sound came from inside the car. It sounded like . . . but I couldn't make that one out. Then came a man's grunt, followed by Fenn thanking the boys who had loaded the coffin into the car.

The train jerked back, then I heard the conductor yelling, “All aboard!”

Sean Fenn said, “Leave the door open, if you please, gentlemen.” He laughed. “So I can breathe fresh air.”

Moments later, two long blasts of the horn, then hissing, squeaking, and we were moving.

Heading south. Away from Felipe Hernandez and this bloodthirsty town.

Almost.

“Señor!”

“Yes, Señor Hernandez?” Fenn didn't sound too friendly. That wasn't acting.

“Perhaps you could answer this question for me. . . .”

I didn't hear the question—too much noise from the train, bells ringing, the locomotive grunting, and a pounding within the boxcar.

Couldn't make out Fenn's reply, either.

The train was moving mighty slow.

“I didn't quite catch that, Hernandez.” Heard that plain. Fenn had dropped the
señor
.

Some other shouts were lost in all the commotion, then I heard something I did recognize.

The report of a pistol.