Chapter 8

 

Silverjack rode on until the middle of the afternoon, when he found a little shade behind an enormous boulder. It was the only boulder for miles. He tied Bess to a small clump of sagebrush. Taking out his canteen, he drank a small sip and poured the rest into his hat. Bess quickly slurped up the small amount of water. Jack sat down and leaned in against the rock. Pulling his wet hat over his eyes, he was asleep in no time.

Bess whinnied. Silverjack opened his eyes. He heard something besides the mare. Straining his ears to listen, he could barely hear voices. After listening for a minute, he decided it was two men talking in Spanish and broken English. He closed his eyes just enough so he could see through his lashes. “We should shoot this one, Juan?” said one of the men who sounded American.

“No, Blacky,” said the other, “I want his clothes. We bash in his head with a rock. Mucho sangre, pero es okay.”

“Hell, yeah, it’ll make much blood. Let me do it. Draw your gun, Juan—just in case he’s playing possum.” Blacky picked up a large rock and crept toward Silverjack. Standing over the prostrate man, he raised the rock above his head. Silverjack kicked him in the groin and rolled away, pulling his .44 as he did. Blacky doubled over and fell on his face, retching into the sand. Juan fired but missed. Jack fired and hit the Mexican in the knee. Juan dropped to the ground, firing as he fell. Jack emptied his six-gun at the fallen man. Reaching for his boot gun, Jack came to one knee and fired once more. It was a wasted bullet. Two of the rounds had buried in Juan, one in his chest, one in his throat. The chest shot had killed him.

Silverjack reloaded his pistols as he looked around for any more assailants. Finding none, he turned his attention to Blacky. The man lay in the dirt, groaning, covered with his own vomit. Jack walked over to him and removed his pistol. Then he walked over to Bess to make sure she was okay. He patted her neck and then turned back to Blacky.

“What are you two doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked.

Blacky had managed to sit up and was wiping his face with his bandana. He looked up at Jack but did not answer

Silverjack aimed his .44 and fired. Dust jumped up between Blacky’s legs, and he scrambled backwards. “I just kicked you in the balls a while ago,” he said. “If you don’t answer my question, next time I’ll shoot you down there. What are you doin’ out here?”

“We was just ridin’ around and we saw you sleepin’, so Juan decided we ought to rob you,” said Blacky, a sullen look covering his face.

“Aw, to hell with it,” said Silverjack. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m gonna shoot you in the head and be done with it.” He thumbed back the hammer on his .44 and aimed it at Blacky’s head.

“Don’t shoot!” hollered Blacky, sliding backward on his rear end. “We ride for Carlos Macias. We scout the area to make sure no laws or Federales are prowling around.”

“Are we close to where Macias stays?”

“We’re about five miles from where he is. Can I have my canteen? I need to wash this puke off my face.”

“I ain’t gonna waste no water on your face. Get up. You’re gonna bury your compadre, and then we’re gonna go see Carlos Macias.”

After the dead outlaw was placed in a shallow grave, Silverjack tied Blacky’s hands to his saddle and tied Juan’s horse behind him. He mounted Bess and instructed Blacky to lead the way to Carlos Macias.

They rode for a few hours until the outlaw halted his horse. Silverjack rode up beside him. “What is it?” he said.

“There’s a small village over the next hill,” said Blacky. “Carlos should be there.”

“That’s just fine. Let’s go see him.”

“No. You have to let me go. If he finds out I led you here, he will kill me.”

“You should have thought about that, amigo, before you tried to rob me.” Silverjack lifted his left leg and kicked the outlaw’s horse in the rump. The animal took off at a trot up the hill.

At the top of the hill, Blacky stopped again. Several stunted mesquite trees grew all over the hill. “See,” he said, “I told you the truth. Carlos is down there in the cantina. Now, you’ve got to let me go. I tell you, Carlos will kill me. He’s a ruthless cutthroat.”

Silverjack drew his .44 and rode up next to Blacky. “I’m gonna cut you loose,” he said. “You get down and walk over to that tree yonder. Make a move, and I’ll be bringing Macias your dead carcass.”

Blacky got down and trudged to the tree. Silverjack followed him. He made the outlaw face the tree, and he ran several strands of rope around it. Jack knotted up the rope just enough so that Blacky could get loose in a couple of hours if he worked hard at it. He remounted Bess and grabbed the reins of Blacky’s horse. “See you,” said Silverjack as he dug his heels into Bess’s ribs.

“Wait, you can’t leave me like this!” hollered the outlaw.

“I believe I just did,” said Silverjack, smiling.

Riding down the gentle slope of the hill, Silverjack stuffed the last of his jerky in his mouth as he scoped out the village. Maybe two dozen adobe huts baked in the afternoon sun. A larger building on the near edge of the village had tienda, or “store,” written on it in bright red letters. Riding into the village, Jack noticed a whitewashed building across from the tiny town square with cantina written on it. A wooden well stood in the middle of the square. Two women wearing colorful but faded dresses were drawing buckets of water and pouring them into large earthen jars. Jack tipped his hat as he rode up, and the women grabbed their jars and scurried up the street. Jack dismounted, drew a bucket of water, and drank his fill. He removed his bandanna and dipped it into the water. He washed his face and neck and put the bandanna back on. A small wooden watering trough stood at the corner of the well. He poured the remaining water into the trough and led the three horses to it. As the horses drank, he retrieved another bucketful of water and dumped it into the trough.

Silverjack stretched and looked around. “Hard to believe people can live like this,” he said. These Mexicans are some muy tough folks.”

After the horses were watered, he led them to the cantina and tied them to a post in front. Two other horses were tied there. Jack stretched, his muscles complaining. “Hell,” he said, “I hope I ain’t makin’ a big mistake.” He fingered the long scar on his face and stepped inside.