Vengeance Road (22 page)

“The ghost shooter,” Will says.

“That's a laughable legend,” Jesse says. “How many times I gotta say it? Spirits can't pull triggers.”

“Then who was shooting?” Will argues.

Waltz rubs at his gray beard. “Apache, maybe.”

“White Eyes are always blaming us for their troubles,” Lil says. “You were not pulling gold from the earth, and so my people would not have bothered you. One lone man? He is no threat. Sounds like you faced your own kind.”

“Don't matter who it were,” Waltz counters. “All I'm saying is, it ain't safe and you gotta be ready for anything. Those shots have been ringing for as long as I's been coming here—years now—and no one stays in them canyons that long. It ain't prosperous land—little water, jagged earth. Might not even be human, that shooter. I'm certain these parts are haunted. Ghosts and demons. Spirits unable to rest 'cus of their lust for blood and gold.”

“Superstitious tales,” Jesse says with a shrug.

A gunshot cracks somewhere deep in the mountains, and the skin on my arms goes prickly. As the blast echoes beneath the purple-bruised sky, I start wondering if all them tales 'bout the ghost shooter might hold water. That, or it's just Waylan Rose, slowly killing off his own crew so there'll be more riches for him when he gets to the mine.

“Superstitious tales in the Superstition Mountains,” Waltz repeats, nodding. “Sounds fitting to me.”

He retires to bed soon after, leaving us uneasy and anxious. Me, Jesse, and Will, at least. Lil don't seem fazed one bit. Heck, she's already dozing with her nose pointed at the stars.

“You mind company?”

I jerk toward Jesse's voice and find him holding his saddle and bedroll. He nods at the level patch of sandy dirt beside me. I glance through the flames to where he'd been set up originally. Will's cleaning his pistols and glaring back something fierce.

“What's wrong with yer side of the fire?” I ask.

“Uneven and rocky,” Jesse says. “Plus, Will's being a grumpy pest.”

“And here I thought I were the grumpy one. Least that's what you lot said back at White Tank.”

“Yeah, well, when Will's mood turns, it goes 'bout as sour as yers.” He drops the saddle and starts rolling out his bed.

I can feel Will's eyes on us, sense his scowl.

“I didn't say I wanted company,” I says to Jesse.

But he's already flopping down and stretching out. “Neither does Will. He insulted me enough times in the last ten minutes to last a month.”

“Jesse, I ain't sure what yer looking for, but I don't think I got whatever it is.”

He glances my way so I can see those squinty eyes. “I want a peaceful night's sleep. Why? What do you want?”

Something goes tight between my ribs.

Just tell him to leave. Tell him he can't sleep here.

But my mouth's dry and my tongue feels swollen.

Jesse shrugs and looks back to the sky. “Sleep well, Kate,” he says, then tips his hat down to shield his face.

He don't see my eyes well up or my lip start to tremble. I ain't heard those words since Pa died. I were certain I'd never hear 'em again, and now here I am in the middle of Arizona wilderness, an orphan and a loner, feeling not so alone after all. I don't know what to make of it. Or of the tear that trails down my cheek and settles into the corner of my smile.

Jacob Waltz sees us off
come dawn. We's got the bulk of our gear loaded up on the burro he's loaning us, and he promises to take good care of our horses till we return.

“Still think yer crazy,” he says.

“I don't got much of a choice,” I says. I'm starting to wonder if that's a guarantee with revenge: yer brain ignores all sorts of logic till you see justice achieved with yer own two eyes.

“Yeah, but these lot do.” Waltz points at the boys. “They don't got no need to follow you into those cursed canyons.”

“We got an arrangement,” Will says, “but I still think the whole thing's reckless.”

“More like a deal,” Jesse explains. “Family friends helping each other out.”

“Fine, I won't pry,” Waltz says. “I can tell when the details ain't meant for my ears. And what 'bout you, girl?”

“Liluye,” she says.

“Huh?”

“My name is not
girl.
”

“She's going home,” I answer for her.

Waltz frowns. I get the feeling he ain't too fond of Apache. Last night, he mentioned a few run-ins with Lil's lot, instances where he barely escaped with his life. The stories seemed too dramatic to be completely honest, like he enjoyed building 'em up for a fresh audience.

“If you or the boys ain't back within a week, I'm selling yer horses and heading home for Phoenix,” Waltz says. “Ain't no reason to stay out here half starving and poor when gold don't want to be found, and gunshots and gangs terrorize the landscape.”

“Sounds fair,” I says. “Say, you wouldn't be able to point us to Boulder Canyon, would you?”

He motions east, toward land obscured by the rock buttes surrounding his house. “Follow the river till she comes to a sharp bow and you'll see the canyon to the south. Some of the Salt drains right into Boulder Canyon, but fill up yer canteens before heading far on foot. Water ain't easy to come by once yer in those mountains.”

“Thanks, Waltz,” I says. We shake and the boys tip their hats and Lil gives the old man a curt nod. He watches us go, but soon we're skirting round rocks and outta view.

We find the start of the canyon easy enough—prolly woulda been damn near impossible to miss. The Salt comes to a sharp bend before continuing northeast, but some of it do indeed leave course here, drilling into the mountains and carving out Boulder Canyon. It were definitely smart to leave the horses. Silver had nickered something sorrowful this morning when I patted her farewell, but the land before me ain't made for a mare. The canyon walls are ragged and heaving, the ground pocked with holes and craters. Besides the burro Waltz lent us, only the pony's making the trip, and that's 'cus Lil ain't coming back out.

We fill up on water as suggested and then head into the canyon. Soon as we're in its belly I feel trapped—prey in a corner, fowl already snared. Rust- and dirt-colored rock rise up round us. I ain't never had such little sky overhead. After days on the plains, the thin strip of blue above feels like a knife, a reckoning 'bout to come crashing down on my back. I try to keep calm, but I ain't fond of this path—narrow and getting skinnier still, with nowhere to run. Prime land for an ambush. How Apache feel at home in this sorta world is a mystery.

It don't take long before the runoff from the Salt's dried up and swallowed by the canyon floor. Cactuses and shrubs grow where they can find purchase, but the earth looks brittle and bare and parched. Lil leads on her pony and I stay on her heels with the burro. Will's arguing with Jesse behind us, but I don't bother trying to eavesdrop. It'll be over things I don't wanna hear anyway. Something 'bout me or this trek or where Jesse's head's at.

We hike all day, but I don't think we get more than three miles. Too often we gotta slow to pick our way through a cactus-strewn gully or round a particularly vicious section of uneven rock. Long before sunset, the canyon starts slipping into shadow. Count that as another thing I ain't fond of—losing light to a ridge 'stead of the horizon like's natural.

Relatively speaking, it ain't awful, though. Boulder Canyon's forking ahead, and according to the journal, we gotta stay to the left for Needle Canyon. There'll be a good place to camp for the night up ahead if Pa's notes are accurate.

“This way,” I says, pointing the group in the right direction. “We're looking for a marker: three pines.”

“Pines?” Lil echoes.

“Yeah, pine trees. Tall and straight with needles green all year.”

“I know what they are,” she says. “But they do not grow in these mountains.”

“They grow in the Bradshaws.”

“Well, we ain't in the Bradshaws now, are we?” Will says.

I pull Pa's journal from the back of my trousers and flip to the map. “It says three pines. They're drawn here and everything.”

“Swell. One landmark in, and the course's already shot. Why are we trusting this map again?”

“The Rose Riders killed my pa for it, Will. They murdered him!”

“And maybe they're as dense as him for believing it held any water.”

“You no-good son of a bitch, you take that back!” I shove him in the chest, and he's so startled, he nearly topples over. When he catches his footing, he straightens, glaring as he adjusts the pale, paisley-print kerchief at his neck.

“I ain't saying nothing other than what the rest of the group's thinking,” he says slow.

“My pa weren't crazy,” I snarl.

“Yeah,” Will says, “maybe that's just
you.
”

I lunge at him again, only this time I ain't aiming to shove. If it weren't for Jesse launching himself between us and pulling me back, I'd've clocked Will square 'cross the jaw.

“Jesus, Kate,” Jesse says, struggling to keep me still. “Stop it. Cool down.”

“Just like I'm sure you'd keep cool if'n someone went insulting yer deceased.”

Jesse frowns but knows I got a point. He turns toward his brother. “Why you trying to cause trouble?”

Will spits dip at a sickly looking cactus. “You know damn well why.”

“Aw, Christ,” Jesse growls. “That's enough. From the both of yous. I reckon noise carries in this canyon, and I ain't fond of our voices reaching any Rose Riders. So shut pan and get along. I don't care what you gotta do to make it so, just quit the bickering.” He stoops and picks up his hat, which got knocked off in the tussle. After smacking dust from the brim, Jesse sets it back on his head. “Now, maybe the maps've got a few flaws. But this is just one landmark outta many, right, Kate?”

I nod.

“So we stay left like you said and hope the next one shows true. It ain't like the pines marked nothing we didn't already know.”

“'Cept water,” I says.

“Huh?”

“Water. Only bit for the next few miles.”

“Aw, hell.” Jesse exhales heavy. Suddenly, I got a fearsome thirst and scratchy throat. The canteen slung over my shoulder feels mighty light.

“White Eyes are hopeless,” Lil says. “There is always water if you know where to look.”

“Sass,” Jesse mutters. “How helpful.”

Lil inclines her chin and points up Needle Canyon. “I see a cottonwood.” She walks ahead a ways and then calls over her shoulder, “I see three.”

“So?” Jesse says.

“Three pines, three cottonwoods. Could be the same marker, only the mapmaker did not know his trees.” When no one reacts, she sighs. “The cottonwood drinks much from the earth. Where their roots dive, water can be found.”

I perk up. “See that, boys? Precisely why I got myself a scout.” I head after Lil, smiling, not caring that Will mutters something rude at my back, or that Jesse's complaining 'bout all-knowing, overbearing Apache.

The cottonwoods ain't much to look at. Struggling to grow in a well-shaded area of Needle Canyon, the poor things ain't much taller than me. Their trunks are wide enough to suggest they ain't young, but they look days away from dying. Mangled, cracking bark. Limbs that grow like broken arms.

As me and the boys pick a spot to make camp for the night, Lil takes to digging round the cottonwood trunks with a sharp rock. Once she gets past the hard surface dirt, the earth goes darker and wetter, till suddenly water's pooling in the shallow hole she's carved.

“They drink plenty, cottonwoods,” she says, smacking her hands clean on her smock dress. “During the rainy season, water trickles through these canyons. When the sun dries the creek, the trees still drink from below.”

I dip my cupped hands into the small pool and splash some water on my face. It's warm and slightly clouded. We'll have to run it through a makeshift sieve of some sort—a shirt, maybe—and boil it. But we's got ourselves drinking water. I'm so darn pleased, I don't bother pointing out the hypocrisy of it all: Lil can dig round in Mother Earth for water, but not gold? Prolly 'cus this is the ground and not the mountains, so the spirits don't care. Or maybe 'cus if the tree roots dig for it, human hands can too. I ain't interested enough to ask.

We're back to our typical meal of cured meat and stale biscuits. The meat ain't awful after having variety the past two nights, but the biscuits taste like ash. We finish off our water, washing down the meal and knowing we'll be able to refill our canteens come morning.

The sky ain't fully dark after dinner, but our little camp is already overrun with shadow. I still feel trapped, and the way the firelight dances over the canyon walls ain't comforting in the same way it flickers over flat plains. I keep seeing shadowy figures in the folds of the rock—monsters and murderers. No wonder legends like the ghost shooter exist.