Vengeance Road (19 page)

The Salt bows ahead of us, disappearing behind a section of rocky terrain. I picture the maps I examined this morning, calling up the river's course. It will curve round that rough land ahead, then cut east again, driving straight through the Superstitions. Most of the clues leading to the mines gave directions approaching by way of Peralta Trail, as I'd told the Coltons, almost as if the original gold seeker had come from Tucson or farther south. Seeing how many of the pages were written in Spanish, it wouldn't surprise me if the journal once belonged to a Mexican. But with our current course, following the river to Waltz's and then turning into the mountain canyons once we're north of the mine . . . I'll have to reverse all them clues, use other landmarks mentioned among the pages to find our way. Least I got Lil to help.

If the Rose Riders are following the journal's clues sure and precise, it means they'll be coming from the south, riding their steeds north into the canyons, and this'd be ideal. We won't be coming up on their heels; we'll be cutting 'em off, taking 'em by complete surprise. But if they're ahead of us . . . I don't want to think 'bout the sort of race we'll end up in.

We decide to call the day quits when we reach the bow in the river. The day's fading and we're all beat and covered in sweat and dust. The spot'll make a fair camp—water nearby. But there's upheaved rocks at our backs and 'cross the way, making me feel trapped. There's four of us, though, and we'll keep watch like always.

While Jesse sketches in his notebook and Will muses aloud 'bout how much farther it is to Waltz's, I catch Lil wandering from camp. Worried she's 'bout to run off, I chase after her.

“Where you going?”

“To find dinner,” she says.

“We got some cured meat already. And biscuits.” I don't mention they're hard and stale.

“To find
fresh
meat,” she amends. My mouth waters at the thought of it.

“Hang on, I'll come with you.”

By the time I's raced back to Silver and grabbed my rifle, Lil's already disappeared among the dense vegetation. “Thanks for waiting,” I mutter to myself, and take to tracking her between shrubs and cactuses. When I finally catch up, she's crouched low behind a boulder, some sort of net clenched in her grasp.

She puts a finger to her lips and nudges her head toward the other side of the boulder. It's then I see the quail—maybe a dozen of 'em, pecking at the dry earth for what I reckon must be insects. I creep forward, but gravelly earth crunches beneath my heel. There's a flutter of feathers and a chorus of squawks, and the birds go scampering deeper into the thickets of shrub.

Lil glares. “You walk like your feet are made of stone.”

“Oh, is that something else Tarak taught you? Not just riddles but how to float above the ground?”

“You have to look where you put your feet, not just charge forward blind.”

“There ain't nothing but dirt and rubble here,” I says, pointing to the earth.

“Lead with your toes—stay light. Keep throwing all your weight into your heels and even the grub will hear you coming.”

“Grub don't have ears.”

She raises her brows as if to say,
Precisely.

Frowning, I load my Winchester and crank the action so I'm ready next time. I ain't 'bout to scare them birds away twice.

“We will not need that,” Lil says, nodding at the rifle. “They stay in groups, quail. Shoot and you may hit one, but the rest will scatter. But this . . .” She raises the net. “Come.”

I follow her round the boulder and past a thicket of prickers, between cactuses and beneath the limbs of a rather large palo verde tree. She points out the quail's tracks as we go. I don't know how she's doing it—tracking 'em, stepping sure and quick, not making a single sound. Every time I look where to put my feet, I feel like I'm 'bout to run headlong into a cactus. And when I stay on my toes, my balance feels shoddy, 'specially with my sore ankle. I like my heels. They're sturdy and firm. I ain't never noticed how much noise my clothing makes as I move, how my trousers scratch when I walk and my flannel brushes beneath my underarms.

But then there's Lil. Silent, like she's made of mist. Like she ain't even really here.

When we finally close in on the quail, I'm sweating something fierce, every muscle in my body tense. I realize I's been holding my breath to try to make less sound, and exhale quiet.

We crouch behind a low and sprawling cholla cactus. My calves are already tired from all the tiptoeing, and they don't fancy this position at all. Lil quietly unfurls the woven net. It's made like a giant cobweb, with stones secured round the exterior so the edges will be weighted to the ground once thrown. She must've had it packed on her pony all this time.

Lil extends the net toward me, as if I should make the toss.

“I don't wanna scare 'em off again,” I says at a whisper.

“Then throw well.” She demonstrates. Net held at her side and stretched wide, then to be released like yer tossing a basket over the birds. I still ain't sure why she's trusting the job to me, and decide its 'cus her burned and bandaged hands ain't up to the task. I take the net and give her my rifle.

When I stand, I do it so slow, it seems to take a year. I don't wanna startle the quail, and if I pop up fast, or too loudly, I know they'll bolt. And I gotta be able to clear the cholla cactus with my throw.

The birds don't seem to see me, or if they do, I'm unthreatening enough that they don't care. They go on pecking at the earth, beaks nipping, brown heads bobbing. Slowly—painfully slowly—I unfurl the net, position my arms for the toss.

And then, just like during my shooting lessons with Jesse, I picture it all: the extension of my arms, the point of release, the path the net will take. Before I can lose my nerve or doubt my injured shoulder or think too hard on how soured Lil'll be if I mess this up again, I throw.

A dull pain throbs where that bullet grazed my arm, but the net flies out and over the cholla cactus, propelled by its weighted edges.

The quail hear it coming, or maybe sense the shadow. They scatter, but not before the net comes thumping to the earth, trapping three of the birds beneath its webbing.

“Ha!” I says, leaping upright. Lil walks calmly to the birds and wrings their necks, then scoops them up in the net and slings it over her shoulder.

“Time to eat.” She hands me my Winchester and heads for camp.

She's silent as we walk. She don't congratulate me or smile or say I done good. And I don't care. I'm too busy staring at my rifle, wondering how in my right mind I turned my back on an Apache who was holding a loaded weapon.

We cook the meat over a small fire and dish it out evenly, 'long with a bit of jerky and the stale biscuits.

Jesse makes some comment 'bout the quail being poisoned and I answer him by taking a huge bite and chewing while looking at him.

He mumbles something I can't make out—unkind, I'm sure—but after I swallow and don't drop dead, he tears in. Even Jesse ain't so proud he'd pass up this meal. We ain't had variety since leaving Wickenburg, and the quail tastes like heaven.

We got another day's worth of travel to Waltz's, according to Will. He goes on talking 'bout a temporary home built into the nook of a hillside, right 'long a deep, flowing section of river. It sounds like a fool's wish. The Salt ain't running very wide here, and when I look at the parched and rugged land surrounding us, it's hard to imagine her opening into anything substantial. But he swears it's true, and Jesse nods in agreement, though he don't take his eyes off Lil. He's been scowling at her all night, but she don't seem to mind. She licks her fingers clean, hums a tune, pretends like he ain't even there.

I finish off my last few bites of quail and set my mess plate down. “God bless you, Lil. That's the best meal I had all week.” But she's drifted off again. I spot her down by the water, washing her hands. “Girl's quieter than snowfall,” I says.

“Apache are good at sneaking,” Jesse says.

I shoot him a look.

“It's true. They're murderous and bloodthirsty and sneaky.”

“Maybe we're just noisy and clumsy. Besides, both kinds've been attacking each other long as I can remember, so it ain't like we're the more virtuous people.” I don't know why I'm sticking up for Lil so fiercely. She ain't a friend. Hell, she ain't much but a stranger. I reckon I just ain't fond of this side of Jesse—the hate and the grudge and the anger. I liked him better when he were nagging me at White Tank, when he thought he knew everything but there was still a bit of laughter in his squinty eyes.

“We should let the fire die out,” Jesse says, standing. “Who knows where them Riders are at, and we don't need to be announcing our location come dusk. Help me with the horses, won't you, Will?” He stalks away from camp and don't look back.

After I's cleared my plate
and skillet and cleaned my weapons of dust, I roll out my bedroll. Then, propped up 'gainst my saddle and using it like a backrest, I pull out Pa's journal.

Getting to the mine sounds so easy on paper: Head south into Boulder Canyon and pass the three pines. Find the rock form shaped like a horse's head and wait for the sunrise from a specified bluff. When the light shines over the horse's neck in late summer, it will fall on the location of the mine. On one of the maps, the location is also marked by a small
x,
supposedly within the shadow of Weavers Needle. But this is where things no longer sound so simple.

Pa made a whole page of notes on Weavers Needle, the massive column of rock that rises outta the mountains like a spire. He reckons the summit is a couple thousand feet high. I gaze beyond the foothills to the dark shadows of the Superstitions. I can't see the Needle from camp, but the journal claims it's visible from many vantage points within the mountains, and if it's as massive as Pa says, knowing the mine lies in its shadow don't help much. Early or late in the day, that shadow could stretch forever. I reckon it's good there's the horse-head clue, then. That is, assuming I can find the rock form. The boulders 'long this bow in the Salt are so mangled, I bet I could see any number of creatures in 'em if'n I stared hard enough.

Supposing the whole light-over-a-rock-form method fails, there's still a few other clues. One haphazard map drawing shows a large palo verde tree noted to be a few hundred paces from the mine. Scrawled at the bottom of the page is a note claiming that a few saguaro cactuses west of the mine shaft have been altered by knife so the limbs point the way toward the gold.

I keep reading after the fire dies, till the sky's lost most of its light and my eyes are starting to smart. Snapping the journal shut, I tuck it into the back of my pants. Ain't no use obsessing over details and landmarks now. I reckon they'll all make more sense when I can see 'em. And besides, I got something Rose don't: a scout.

Lil's down at the Salt now, enjoying a bath. 'Cus she ordered the Coltons far outta peeping view, and 'cus Jesse decided to be agreeable for once, the boys're on the other end of camp, observing the mountains and having a smoke. I figure now's as good a time as any to tell 'em 'bout Lil's issue with gold. I push to my feet and make my way over. They don't say nothing when I tell 'em not to mention their side of our deal round Lil, which is a relief. I half expected Jesse to shout it to the heavens in hopes that she'd leave. Maybe he thinks she'll slit their throats while they sleep if she knew the truth. Either way, the boys both agree to keep quiet.

When I head back to my bedroll, they follow, only Jesse don't stop at his. He trails me clear 'cross camp and plops down at my side.

“I's been wondering,” he says, a rolled cigarette still stuck between his lips, “how a deaf gal like you coulda heard something I ain't said.”

“Huh?”

“'Bout my ma,” he clarifies. “That raid in Wickenburg and how she died.”

“Will told me back at White Tank, while you were sleeping.”

He exhales and nods, not looking at me.

“I'm sorry. It ain't right when we lose folks before we're ready.”

“That ain't what's bothering me,” he says. “It's just . . . maybe I ain't the best at letting the past be. Maybe I
don't
heed my own advice. But either way, I don't like digging up what's already done—speaking on it, reliving it. And I certainly don't like my brother doing it for me. 'Specially with someone we barely know.”

I frown at that. Uncertain what to say, I look 'cross camp to where Will's playing with Mutt. The hair on my neck goes all prickly, and when I glance back to Jesse he's looking dead at me, features serious.

“You were right earlier, 'bout how I was blaming yer scout for crimes that ain't her doing,” he says.