Wraiths of the Broken Land (19 page)

“You are correct,” replied Nathaniel.

Gris looked sternly at his sons. “We shall deliver the gringo to his associates.” In Spanish, he added that he did not want one more innocent person killed because of two foreign whores. “We shall conclude this business immediately.”

Diego and his silver-haired sibling nodded.

The white-haired Spaniard looked at whomever stood behind the captive. “Xzavier.”

Bright metal slid across the ropes that held Nathaniel’s left and right wrists to the arms of the stone chair, and the bindings sloughed. Unbound, the gringo raised a tremulous hand to his mouth and wiped away blood, bile and black oil. Although he still doubted his purported release, a small hope glimmered.

The flashing knife sliced through the fetters that bound his ankles, and dammed arterial blood surged toward his numb feet. For the first time since the painful dinner had begun, Nathaniel saw the person who had braced his head and inserted the wooden ruler. Xzavier was a muscular Mexican with curly black hair, a nose like wet clay and a large ‘X’ branded upon his neck.

Diego covered the wooden bowls, removed his canvas glove, rose to his feet and announced that he would escort the foreigner to the parlor.

Gris told his son to comply with the intruders.

“Si.”

Diego and Xzavier placed their hands beneath Nathaniel’s armpits and hoisted him from the stone chair. Hard things that felt like hot coals, needles and broken glass shifted within his belly.

From their seats at far end of the oaken dining table, Gris and his silver-haired son appraised the risen captive. Presently, they returned their attentions to quivering flan.

“Walk,” ordered Diego.

Xzavier slapped a palm in-between Nathaniel’s shoulder blades, and the gringo stumbled forward, holding his stomach.

The trio strode past tapestries of Spanish galleons, underneath two elaborate candelabra and to the double door on the far side of the room. Diego twisted the silver doorknob, pushed and motioned for the captive to precede him through the open portal. Compelled by Xzavier’s hand, Nathaniel walked into a torch-illumined hallway.

Diego exited and shut the door. “Continue.”

The three men traversed a long hallway of grayish-ochre stone; Nathaniel’s stomach alternately burned and grew cold, and his bruised right eye throbbed.

Presently, they entered a broader passageway, upon the far side of which waited a petite Mexican woman, clothed in a modest brown and green dress. She held an unborn child in her swollen stomach and a small revolver in her right hand. Nathaniel wondered if he was about to be executed by a pregnant woman.

“Halt,” Diego ordered.

The men stopped. Xzavier grabbed Nathaniel’s collar and screwed his fist clockwise; the fabric tightened around the gringo’s throat, and he wheezed.

“Vengo, Rosalinda.” Diego walked to the petite woman and from her received the small firearm. He kissed her upon the mouth, and they embraced.

Nathaniel saw that the couple wore matching gold bands upon their ring fingers.

“Gracias, mi amor,” said Diego. “Gracias.”

Rosalinda said that Gris never should have kidnapped the white women.

Diego stated that his father had fairly acquired the gringas.

The pregnant woman told her husband to be careful.

“Si.” Diego kissed the palm of his hand, pressed it to Rosalinda’s swollen stomach and said that he would be very cautious.

The woman asked her husband what he intended to do with the pistol.

Gris’s son said that he would not employ the firearm unless the intruders fired upon him.

“Si.” Nodding, the woman wiped fearful tears from her eyes. “Cuidado.”

Presently, Diego kissed his wife, slid the revolver into his left jacket pocket and looked at Xzavier. “Continue.”

The Mexican released Nathaniel’s collar and prodded him forward. Presently, the captive walked, followed by his captors; Rosalinda remained behind.

The trio entered a wide hall and turned to the left. At the far end of the passageway, Nathaniel saw a rectangle of amber light—the entrance to the parlor.

A shotgun blast resounded.

The trio paused, and Diego withdrew his revolver. Nathaniel’s heart raced.

“No!” boomed a stentorian voice. “He dies slow.” Nathaniel recognized the speaker as John Lawrence Plugford.

A piteous mewling sound emanated from the adjacent room.

“Where’s our damn associate!?!” shouted a man who was either Stevie or Brent Plugford.

“We are bringing him to you!” Diego yelled up the hall.

“You have one minute,” said a cold and certain voice that Nathaniel knew belonged to the tall gunfighter, Long Clay. “Each additional minute will result in another execution.”

Muttering an imprecation, Diego secreted his weapon. “We are coming now!” He gripped the captive’s left shoulder and pulled. “¡Rapidamente, rapidamente!”

Nathaniel clutched his burning stomach and hobbled forward. Xzavier hastened his strides with indelicate shoves. In front of the advancing men, the amber portal grew.

Nathaniel, Diego and Xzavier reached the end of the hallway and entered the vast funereal parlor. Opposite them stood Long Clay, wearing an iron tabard and a weird rubber mask atop his usual black clothing.

Xzavier stood Nathaniel upright.

Diego said, “We have done exactly as you—”

Long Clay’s guns flashed.

Chapter XV
Your Whole Goddamn Life is Over

Two muzzles glared upon the clear disks that were Brent Plugford’s goggles. Across the parlor, the left hand of the bearded Spaniard exploded, as the head of the Mexican with the branded neck jerked back. The perfectly concurrent shots resounded as one loud report within the parlor.

Presently, the cowboy adjusted his grip upon his sister, whom he shielded from the tableau.

Long Clay’s gleaming barrels blazed a second time. The eyes of the bearded man turned black, and gore erupted from the rear of his twice-pierced head.

Gurgling, the Hispanic men fell to the nonagonal clay tiles.

The dandy, covered with dark fluids, stumbled forward, saw the blasted guards and was stunned.

Brent shouted at Nathaniel, “Get to the exit!”

“Over here!” yelled Patch Up from his position beside the stairwell.

Overwhelmed by the tableau, the dandy stared blankly at the negro.

“Go to him!” shouted Brent. “Now!”

“Get!” prompted Stevie.

A loud wail resounded in the hallway behind the dandy, and he turned around.

“Clear out!” yelled Brent.

A woman raced up the passage, toward the bearded man. “¡Diego!” she yelled. “¡Diego, mi Diego!”

The stunned dandy backed away, and the woman, who was pregnant, fell upon the body. Brent felt ill—he knew that the gunfighter had just killed the husband of the expecting mother.

“¡Diego, mi Diego!”

“Get away from her,” Brent shouted at the bewildered dandy, “and go!”

The widow reached into her husband’s jacket.

Long Clay pointed his guns at her face and heart.

“Don’t let her draw!” yelled Brent.

The dandy lunged at the pregnant woman.

Nathaniel’s back obscured the struggle for whatever weapon laid within the dead man’s pocket.

“I kill, I kill!” the Mexican woman yelled, “¡Diablos—estan diablos!”

Long Clay pointed his revolvers at whatever parts of the pregnant widow were visible to him.

Ubaldo looked at gunfighter. “You no can kill the pregnant woman.”

The dandy yelled at his bereaved adversary in Spanish.

Long Clay aimed at the woman’s forehead and shoulder.

Stevie walked to the edge of the dais and pointed his shotgun at the entangled duo.

“Hold,” John Lawrence Plugford commanded his youngest child.

The dandy won a small revolver from the woman’s grasp, stumbled backwards and fell onto his buttocks.

Brent relaxed, as did Dolores.

“¡Vas al Infierno!” The widow threw a hard fist into the dandy’s stomach.

Shrieking, the tall gentleman dropped the gun. The firearm clattered against the tiles.

The widow lunged for the weapon.

“No!” yelled Brent.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Patch Up.

Dolores hid behind her brother’s iron tabard.

The widow grabbed the revolver.

Long Clay fired.

The pregnant woman shrieked.

Brent’s stomach twisted, and Dolores gasped.

The revolver and two curled fingers struck the tiles.

“Get the gun,” Long Clay said to the dandy. “Quickly.”

Nathaniel clasped the weapon and collapsed onto his stomach. Beside him, the widow clutched her bleeding hand and wailed.

“Don’t let her get it again.” Long Clay switched out his guns for two fully-loaded replacements.

The prone dandy, pale and convulsive, grunted a reply, and Brent surmised that he had been tortured during his captivity.

“Let’s make our departure,” announced John Lawrence Plugford.

Upon the dais, Stevie faced the prostrated captives. “Stay flat on the ground ‘til we’re gone. ¿You Comprende?”

“Si,” said the whores and gentlemen.

The young man leapt from the dais and walked toward the dandy. Long Clay monitored the dark catacomb portals with oscillating guns.

Patch Up shouted across the hall, “Once I’ve made a survey, I’ll signal.” The negro turned to the stairwell, pointed his repeater rifle into the darkness and ascended.

“Get that gun ready,” Brent said to Dolores.

The redheaded woman clasped the nickel-plated revolver with both hands and pointed it forward. “Okay.”

Then, the cowboy carried his sister past the blasted guards, toward the exit. The vast subterranean parlor was quiet, but for the sounds of footsteps and sobs. Brent tried not to think about the widow.

After ten strides, the twins reached the gunfighter and his captive.

“Look at me!” yelled Dolores.

Ubaldo turned around and looked at the redheaded woman.

“You hurt me for eight months,” Dolores said, “but I’m leavin’ this place, and you’re whole goddamn life is over!” She aimed the revolver at the man’s lower abdomen and squeezed the trigger. Gunpowder exploded flashing white.

A jet of urine sprayed from Ubaldo’s pierced bladder, and he dropped to his knees, whimpering like a puppy. He shut his shiny eyes, and pink tears dripped from his open nasal cavity. His face slammed against the clay tiles.

Dolores aimed at the prostrated man’s back and fired.

Ubaldo’s vertebrae cracked. He choked and twitched, facedown in the puddle of blood and urine that his punctured body grew.

Brent saw that Dolores’s hands were shaking.

“Get going,” ordered Long Clay.

As the cowboy carried his sister toward the stairwell, which was less than fifteen yards away she cracked her gun in half, replaced the spent cartridges and sealed the weapon.

A dog barked.

“Get off of him!” shouted Stevie.

Brent looked over his shoulder and saw that the widow had fastened her bloody hands to the dandy’s neck.

“I’ll get her.” Stevie set the heel of his right boot against the woman’s neck and shoved her backwards. He pointed his shotgun at her inhabited belly.

“Don’t!” yelled Brent and Dolores.

“You wanna have that little amigo?” asked Stevie.

The pale and bleeding woman seemed to understand that the young man’s threat was real, and she remained still, clasping three red fingers with five others. Behind her in the hallway, a rust-colored mongrel growled.

Stevie hooked a hand beneath the dandy’s armpit and helped him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

The saturated gentleman clutched his stomach as if it might drop out of his abdomen and strode toward the exit.

“Grab that dog!” John Lawrence Plugford said to Stevie.

“Okay.”

Brent carried Dolores through the portal and into the dark stairwell.

“Come on up,” Patch Up shouted from above, “it’s clear!”

“Okay!” The cowboy looked down at his sister. “We’re nearly out.”

Dolores pointed the shaking gun forward.

Brent was a strong man (he did not abstain from digging latrines or breaking broncos or running fences or working tack as did most cowboy foremen), but his additional encumbrances—especially his sister and the iron tabard—made his climb up the steps an arduous journey. A minute of strained exertion brought him to the middle of the stairwell, where he paused, panted and rested his burning muscles.

“Still clear?” the cowboy shouted up the steps.

“Still clear!” confirmed the negro.

Brent resumed his ascent and heard his father enter the nether end of the stairwell.

“I can’t believe it,” muttered Dolores.

Above the siblings, the dark portal grew.

Brent transcended the final step and entered the anteroom, wherein hung the tapestry of the ancient ziggurat. Only one brass censer remained alight, and the cinnamon-and-vanilla smoke it yielded did not conceal the ripe smells of lichens and blood.

“I can’t believe it’s happening.”

The cowboy carried his sister toward the vertical blue line that shone upon the far side of the anteroom. Prone beneath the glowing slit was a dead man who clutched a blunderbuss. The colorful feathers of a sunken arrow sprouted from his left nostril like a rectilinear flower.

Dolores pointed toward the deep blue light. “That’s outside?”

“Yeah.”

Tears poured down the woman’s face.

“All clear?” inquired Brent.

“All clear!” Patch Up confirmed from outside.

“I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

Brent carried his sister past the last censer, kicked open the iron door and walked through the portal. The twins entered an azure world.

“Oh my God,” said Dolores. There was joy in her voice.

A dark blue Patch Up stood beside his dark blue wagon, pointing the bright blue barrel of his repeater rifle across the deep blue plain, toward mountains comprised of variegated blue hues. He waved a light blue palm at the siblings.

“How’d it get to be mornin’?” asked Dolores.

“I don’t know,” Patch Up said, “I thought it was still hours away.”

Brent surveyed the horizons, all of which were clear, and counted his crew’s horses, all of which were present. Sprawled nearby were seven men with arrows in their heads and hearts.

“That Deep Lakes came with you,” stated Dolores.