THE STORM MUST HAVE BLOWN itself out sometime during the night, because when Lu woke up the next morning all was bright and beautiful once more.
He was stiff and groggy as he stumbled out of the little cave. The sun was just beginning to peek over the walls of the canyon, but already it was hot. Lu splashed through the puddles that had collected on the narrow piece of ledge surrounding the cave entrance, right to the edge of the precipice, and was shocked to see the river not even a thousand feet below. He was even more surprised when he glanced to his left and saw the very same red and burnt-orange stone bridge he’d marveled at two mornings before, and with a path leading up to it as surely as if it were the finger of god pointing out, with no uncertainty what-so-ever, exactly where he needed to go.
As he chewed a bit of pemmican, Lu concocted a plan. He’d cross that bridge—if such a thing were even possible—and then head north along the opposite wall of the canyon until he found his missing friends. He laughed out loud as he imagined the looks on their faces. They’d be hungry, he guessed. Unless one of them had thought to squirrel something away in a saddlebag, Lu had all the remaining food. Henry would bless the day he’d first met Lu. Chino would swear up a storm of happiness. And Sadie would want to shower him with kisses.
The march to the bridge was a good deal farther than Lu had first reckoned it—he’d forgotten about the difference between actual and apparent distances in the canyon—but he managed to reach it at least one full hour before noon.
Looking across, Lu began to seriously question the wisdom of his undertaking. It wasn’t that the bridge lacked strength. Even at its narrowest, the stone arch was at least ten feet wide. Compared to the ledge on which the rest of the mules had met their end, this was a veritable highway of stone. And it was as thick as a pair of railway engines, stacked one atop another. A hundred horses wouldn’t have weighed enough to break that estimable stone beam. But as a bridge it had one major flaw. It was round. And not gently round either. Seen from above, the whole span resembled nothing so much as the pointy end of a chicken’s egg. Crossing it would be something along the lines of walking over the peak of a barn roof. Lu guessed he could manage well enough, but Crash’s hooves were another matter all together. It was impossible to imagine a horse balanced on a barn roof, even one as sure-footed as Crash.
But Lu couldn’t resist giving the bridge a closer look. Seeing the faces of his friends again, tears of joy running down their cheeks and kisses at the edges of their rosy lips, was just too much to give up. The very least he could do was to walk the bridge himself. Maybe once he felt it underfoot, he’d decide that it wasn’t as peaked as he’d thought.
So Lu climbed down from his saddle and started across. The first few steps were easy. The bridge was constructed entirely of sandstone, and so offered plenty of grip for the soles of his boots. It was nothing to skip over, but it was crossable. Fortunate that it was, too, because Lu had gone no more than halfway across before Crash decided to follow. And since his guide rope was fastened to Crash’s saddle, Lucky was being dragged along as well.
That decided things in a hurry. Lu guessed he might find some way to get both animals across that bridge, but turning them around, or backing them over it, would be impossible.
It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the three of them to slink across, during which time Lu stared at nothing apart from the stone that lay directly in front of his feet. Thinking back on it, there were undoubtedly places where he might’ve taken a quick look around. And in retrospect, he probably should have. But he didn’t, and so he was heartily surprised when suddenly, and with not more than ten yards left to cross, Crash let out a loud whinny and refused to go even one step farther.
“Don’t stop now,” Lu said. “We’re darned near the other—”
He was interrupted by a growl so deep and rumbling that Lu’s first thought was of thunder. When he looked up and saw two luminous gold eyes peering at him out of a tawny face, he wished it had been.
A mountain lion lay sprawled across the far end of the bridge. If it’d had a mind to, it could have covered the distance between itself and Lu in a single leap. Fortunately, the lion seemed content to do little more than pant and flick its tail.
“Shoo!” Lu hissed. “Go on.”
The lion stared at him. It looked neither hungry nor violent, but Lu couldn’t take any chances. He needed to get Crash and Lucky across this bridge, and he couldn’t do it so long as a mountain lion was blocking the path. Really, he had no choice. Very slowly, Lu reached for the revolver in his pocket.
“I don’t know what sort of a pea-shooter you got stashed, but I’d leave it set if I was you.”
Lu turned toward the voice. A cowboy, sitting atop a mottled gray charger, moseyed out from behind a fin of red stone. He wore a gray Stetson and rawhide chaps. A cigarette dangled from his bottom lip. His hair was the color of sunburned wheat.
“There’s a lion,” Lu said, fingers still gripped tight to the heel of the revolver in his pocket.
“Her?” The cowboy squinted at the mountain lion. “Pshaw. Why, she ain’t nothin’ but a pussycat. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Would you, Sweetheart?”
“Do you think she could get out of the way then?” Lu asked. “Just for a minute?”
The cowboy grinned. “Git along now, Sweetheart. Quit teasin’ the boy.”
Reluctantly, the lion rolled to her feet.
“She looks fearsome, I’ll grant you that, but there ain’t no accountin’ for looks.”
As soon as the lion had gone, Lu grabbed Crash’s reins, dragging both he and Lucky the last few meters to safety.
“That’s a fine lookin’ horse you got there,” the cowboy observed. “Wish I could ’a seen the squaw what sold him to you.”
“Crash is better than he looks.”
“Must be.”
Lu stared at the cowboy, not sure whether to thank or curse him.
“Well, mount up then,” the cowboy said. “We got a mile or two to cover yet.”
“You … You want me to come with you?”
“Lookin’ for that group of pilgrims, ain’t ya?”
“Pilgrims?”
“Them that nearly got blown up in the lightning storm.”
“Those are my friends,” Lu said.
“Well, you’re sure never gonna find ’em settin’ on your heels.”
Lu wasn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, this cowboy seemed to know exactly where his friends were, and how to reach them. But he was also a complete stranger. He could be dangerous. “I’m not sure I ought to go with you,” Lu said at last.
“Not go?” The cowboy guffawed. “You got some better option I ain’t aware of?”
Lu shook his head. He didn’t.
“Well then, get onto that nag of yours and let’s move.”
He waited until Lu was in the saddle, and then wheeled his horse around south.
“But aren’t my friends to the north?” Lu asked.
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll catch ’em.” The cowboy gave his horse a kick. “Home, Widowmaker.”
Lu trailed after that cowboy for the rest of the afternoon, until the sun had disappeared over the canyon walls. Days were short this deep in the Hell Mouth, shadows dark and ominous. Lu might have liked to talk to his strange new guide, but the cowboy offered little in the way of opportunity. His horse was a miracle of energy, alternating between a trot and a canter for hours at a clip. Crash managed to stay within shouting distance, but Lucky made even that difficult. The mule was sweating freely, droplets running off his long ears, foam bubbling around the straps of his harness.
At last they reached their destination. It was a cave not unlike the one in which Lu had whiled away the previous night, though with the opening boarded over to resemble an ordinary cottage. There was even a length of tin chimney pipe jutting through a hole over the door.
“This here’s my house,” the cowboy said, sliding down off his horse. “There’s a hitchin’ rail round that corner yonder, and a bale of fine green hay under an old overturned trough. I’d be obliged if you’d feed Widowmaker while you’re at it. I’ll start dinner. Like biscuits?”
“Sir?” Lu stammered.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“My name’s Tzu-lu.” He held out his hand. “But my friends call me Lu.”
They shook.
“Bill,” the cowboy said. His hand was as rough and horny as a snakeskin boot. “Take care of your gear, Lu. Must be wet as the grave in them bags.”
When he’d finished looking after the stock, Lu knocked on the cottage door. Bill shouted at him to “come on in.”
The cave was deeper than Lu would have guessed. Inside was a desk, a stove, a four-poster bed covered with a rag quilt, a stocked bookshelf, and a pair of oil lanterns dangling from hooks that’d been drilled into the stone ceiling. At the center of the room was a table and chairs. Fine porcelain dishes, tea cups and saucers included, were set on the table as though in expectation of friends, though Lu doubted anyone had visited in at least a score of years.
Bill stood over the stove, stirring a bubbling pot of stew. “Hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Lu pulled out one of the chairs. He was about to sit down when he noticed a rattlesnake curled up in the seat, its head reared back to strike. The shock was enough to make Lu curse, which he did, painting the entire cave, floor and ceiling included, with multiple coats of the vilest swears he knew. Not to be outdone, the snake joined in the ruckus with a half-dozen hard shakes of its tail, a noise which in no way calmed the nerves of its discoverer.
“That’s Hank,” Bill explained, once the profanity had dissipated. “Just push him off the seat. He knows he ain’t supposed to be up there. You hear me? Git along now Hank. Your place is in the hole under the bed, and you know it.”
The snake made no move to abandon the chair, and Lu had absolutely no intention of pushing him. He’d just take another chair, preferably as far from Hank as possible.
Bill set two steaming bowls of stew on the table, one for himself and the other for Lu. A third he set outside the door for Sweetheart.
“Like rabbit?” he asked. “Partial to it myself. Tastier ‘n chicken. Not so heavy as a beefsteak.” Bill took a forkful of stew and crammed it in his mouth. “T’ain’t bad.” He was about to take another bite, but instead slapped his palm down on the table. “Dang. Near forgot the biscuits.” He yanked the oven door open, pulled out a pan of golden brown biscuits, and deposited it on the table along with a tin can brim-full of what appeared to be bacon grease. “Just you slice one of these here open and slather on some drippins,” Bill instructed. “Finer eatin’ than you’ll get in any Frenchie dive.”
Bill had little to say for the next quarter-hour. He shoveled away that first bowl of stew before Lu had fairly tasted his portion, and went back for seconds. Lu liked the rabbit stew, though he didn’t think it was any better than chicken. The biscuits, on the other hand, were the best he’d ever eaten, light and fluffy and delicious. He slathered on some of the bacon grease, as Bill had suggested, and thought it tasty enough, but guessed he’d just as soon take his biscuits straight from then on.
As soon as Bill had polished off his second helping—Lu was still only half through his first—he took a cigarette from his breast pocket and stuck it in the stove. When it was lit, he sucked a voluminous cloud of smoke into his lungs. Bill was no man for half measures.
“Now then, what exactly are you folks doin’ in my stretch of canyon?” he asked.
“Just passing through,” Lu said. “We’re headed for a mining town called Silver City. Ever heard of it?”
Bill shook his head. “Must be one of them new jobbies that’re poppin’ up all over. Folks tryin’ to strike it rich without doin’ no work.” He spat on the floor. “That what you’re after?”
“Sort of. Chino, Henry, Jack and me were hired by Mr. John MacLemore. A gang of bandits killed his wife and son, and moved into his house. Mr. MacLemore wants to turn them out.” Lu considered telling Bill about the gold, but decided against it. Jack would have skinned him for telling this much. Besides, Lu figured Bill would be able to guess the rest without being told. Bill was quick.
“Must be one fine house,” Bill remarked.
Lu shrugged.
“What about these bandits? Y’all know who they are?”
“Jack does. At least, I think he does.”
“But he won’t tell you.”
Lu shook his head.
“Nope. Just like him,” Bill said. “Born poker player.”
“You know Jack?” Lu asked.
“I guess I know him ‘bout as well as anybody. ‘Course, that ain’t sayin’ much. Jack Straw plays close to the vest. Has for years beyond countin’. And I don’t reckon he’s likely to change anytime soon.”
“Do you know who the bandits are?”
“Might.” Bill pondered a moment. “You ever heard of Lucifer?” Lu nodded.
“Well, just remember this. No matter who you find in that house, it ain’t Lucifer. Not by a long shot. There’s a whole passel of underhanded devils out there, but not a one of ’em has half the power he pretends. Mostly they just use simple tricks. Find ways for folks to damn themselves. Nope. Not Lucifer by a mile. You get me?”
Lu stared. If there was any way to respond to such a wild and outrageous statement, he didn’t know what it was. There didn’t even seem to be any questions to ask. Lu gave serious thought to laughing out loud, but decided that wouldn’t do any good at all. So he just sat there, a look of puzzlement plastered over his face. He tried to think of some way to change the subject.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” Lu said. “Jack thinks the ghost-riders will hear. He thinks they’re probably working for MacLemore’s bandit.”
“Ghost-riders?” Bill scoffed. “Those rascally fiends? They don’t have any power in my house.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t because I say they don’t. That’s all.” Bill spat each word out as though it were a wad of over-chewed tobacco. “Who’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The one ridin’ with Jack.”
“Oh, that’s just Sadie. She’s MacLemore’s daughter.”
“Good rider.”
“Great rider. A good shot too.”
“Let me see your pistol.”
Lu pulled it out of his holster and handed it across the table.
“Confederate,” Bill said, turning the revolver back and forth in his hands. “Copy of a navy colt.” He squinted at the underside of the barrel. “See this mark?” He held it up for Lu to see. There was an X, stamped inside a rectangle, directly in front of the trigger guard. “The man that owned this gun was probably from the Heart of Dixie. That’s their usual mark. How does it shoot?”
“I never shot it,” Lu said, and hoped it was too dark in the cave for Bill to see him blush. “I don’t have any bullets.”
“No bullets? Well, that’s a heck of a note.”
Bill went to his desk, opening all six drawers before finding what he was looking for. It was a pistol, exactly like Lu’s, except made of steel instead of brass. Bill laid it on his desk-top, then reached into the drawer once more, pulling out a holster to fit the gun. A dozen shells were pressed into the loops on either side of the buckle. Bill thumbed the bullets into his palm. As he did so, Lu noticed that there were letters tooled into the leather across the back of the gun-belt. They spelled out a name. “Sue.”
“Load your piece,” Bill said, dropping all twelve shells into Lu’s lap.
Lu did as instructed, and was pleased to see that the bullets did in fact fit. He was about to slide a sixth bullet into the cylinder when Bill stopped him.
“Always leave the chamber under the hammer open,” he said. “Five bullets are enough to kill any man. And if they ain’t, a sixth isn’t likely to turn the trick.”
“I notice you don’t wear a gun,” Lu said, as he shoved the remaining shells into the pouch on his holster.
“Nope,” Bill agreed. “Guns have a funny way of goin’ off in your hand. Carry one long enough and you’ll wind up shootin’ somebody. If you hate him, so be it. But if you don’t?” He whistled. “Nowadays I keep my pistols under my pillow, and my rifle in a case atop the bookshelf. I dig ’em out once a month or so, to impress the Injuns mostly, but I never load ’em. Not no more.”
Lu remained silent a moment. “Who’s Sue?” he asked finally.
“My wife.” A smile stole over Bill’s lips, but not a happy one.
“Is she gone?”
“Long gone … And far away.”
Bill obviously took no pleasure in discussing his wife, so Lu changed the subject. “Think we’ll be able to find my friends tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow?” Bill shook his head. “Couple days is more likely.”
“Days?”
Bill grinned. “You’ve miles to ride afore you see Jack Straw again. But you’ll make it. Yep, you’ll make it.”
Lu didn’t get much sleep that night. He stretched out on the floor beside the stove, his head resting on Sadie’s valise, and was as warm and comfortable as if he was in his bed at home. But he couldn’t seem to relax. The last thing Bill had said to him, just before climbing into his own bed, was that Hank liked to slither around the cave in the middle of the night, “just to keep his blood movin’.” Bill said not to worry, that Hank was as quiet and personable a sleeping companion as a body could wish for. Lu had his doubts. In fact, just imagining that big old rattler wandering the room was enough to keep his eyes pinched open the whole night through. Lu may have slipped off for a moment, now and again, but his dreams were chuck-full of creeping, slithering bodies. More than once he came wide awake, convinced that Hank was crawling up his pant leg.
Lu was relieved when the sun finally peeked over the canyon wall and Bill said it was time to ride. They ate the leftover biscuits, drank a cup of bitter coffee, and were off. Crash and Lucky were glad to get back to the trail, too. They’d had almost as nerve-wracking a night as Lu. Bill assigned his mountain lion, Sweetheart, to watch over and guard them from any thieves or predators that might happen along. She sat with them from sundown to sunrise, but somehow they felt no safer for all her diligence.
To Lu’s surprise, Bill brought his rifle along for the ride. It was an older gun, oiled and polished until it gleamed like a star on a clear night, but it wasn’t loaded. Lu wondered if the cowboy even had bullets, or had pawned them off on some other traveler in need of munitions.
Their trail led due south and descended to the very edge of the river. It was a fine path, nothing like the rocky cliffs down which Lu and the others had made their descent. Even the river seemed calmer, though he’d never gotten so good a look at it before, and so had only limited impressions with which to make a comparison. In places it resembled a lake, the normally churning waters settling into a deep green. Why had Jack taken them north? Lu asked Bill, and was surprised at the answer.
“Avoiding the Mimbrachua, I expect,” Bill said.
“Mimbrachua?”
“Injuns. Warriors. Control the whole southern half o’ the canyon. Rocks ain’t the only dangers in the Hell Mouth, you know. Ain’t even the worst.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”
Bill shrugged. “Well, you’ll see ’em tonight.”
“Maybe we should go another way,” Lu suggested. “If Jack was afraid—”
“I never said he was afraid. Jack and the Mimbrachua headman just never saw eye to eye, that’s all. Speakin’ of which, I wouldn’t mention Jack Straw in their camp if I was you.”
“What should I say?”
“Say whatever you like. Just don’t mention Jack.”
They trailed the river’s edge for hour upon hour, climbing around boulders and through thickets of brush and scrub as thorny as a barbed-wire fence. Around noon they came upon a waterfall, trickling from the high granite cliffs that overhung this particular bend of the Moreno River. It wasn’t much, as cascades go. The fall was too long for the water to actually reach the surface of the stream. In fact, by the time it reached bottom it barely qualified as mist. But what the waterfall lacked in power it more than made up for in beauty. The mist was fertile soil for the cultivation of rainbows. Lu sat limp atop his horse, staring openmouthed at all the rich colors. The rainbows looked, from a distance at least, nearly as solid as the stone bridge over which he’d come the morning before. He wished his mother was there to see it. She hated rain, but loved rainbows.
“Like it?” Bill asked. “That there’s one of the wonders of the Hell Mouth. The Tears of Uruk. Beautiful as Lucifer’s Leap, if I do say so myself.”
“Who’s Uruk?” Lu asked.
“Uruk was a hunter and warrior. This was way back, before anyone paid much attention to heroes, lessen they became kings or the like. He’s all but forgotten now. Just as we’ll all be, sooner or later.”
“What about Lucifer’s Leap?”
“Hell son, you crossed it yesterday. Lucifer’s Leap is where I found you.”
“The stone bridge?”
“None other.”
They sat a while longer, marveling at the rainbows. Then Bill climbed down from his horse. “This is as good a spot as any to water the stock,” he said.
Lu guided Lucky and Crash to the river. While they drank, he took a quick look around. The path they’d been following came to an end at the waterfall. Lu asked Bill about it and received back a look of scorn.
“Don’t guess a little mist’ll hurt you none,” he said.
They rode straight through the waterfall, coming out the other side wet but refreshed. Lu licked his lips, and was surprised to find the water sweet. If he’d known, he might have used the short break to fill his water-skins. He suggested the idea to Bill, but the cowboy was unmoved. “Plenty of water up ahead. Leave Uruk his tears at least.”
The rest of that day was spent in the saddle. Dust from the trail stuck to their damp clothes, turning to mud and then drying and cracking in the sun. Lu’s shirt was nearly solid with the stuff, as was Crash’s mane. Lucky looked a nightmare. He was entirely covered in mud, but didn’t seem to mind.
By the time the sun had disappeared into the Hell Mouth’s western bank they’d covered close to twenty miles. Lu wondered if they’d be stopping any time soon, but Bill said they still had a mile or two yet to ride. Before long it was full dark. Fortunately, a waxing moon illuminated the path well enough to keep them on the trail. Without it, Lu might have been scared. He was a little bit scared anyway. Lu did wish they could stop and rinse off at least one or two layers of trail dust, but Bill said that wasn’t necessary. “These Indians aren’t likely to mind a bit of grime.”
And he was right. The first Mimbrachua they saw sat perched atop a boulder, at least a mile from the main camp. He had on a long shirt of dark blue wool, and atop his head sat a cavalry officer’s broad-brimmed hat. Lu recognized it by the gold tassels. As soon as he saw them, the scout leapt from the rock and went running up the path, easily outstripping the tired horses.
A few minutes later, a delegation of boys descended upon them, chattering animatedly in their own tongue. They’d clearly sprinted down from the camp, hoping to be among the first to stare at the strangers, but not a one of them was out of breath. The boys maintained a safe distance, jogging just far enough ahead so that they could see and be seen, but not close enough to grab. Lu counted five of them. The youngest was naked from the soles of his feet right up to the hair on top of his head. The oldest wore a shirt very much like the one they’d seen on the scout, undoubtedly a hand-me-down from a father or older brother. The other three boys were possessed of a motley haphazard of clothing bits and pieces, giving them the appearance of tramps or story-book pirates. Each and every one of them was at least twice as filthy as Lu himself, though they seemed as proud as if they were kings.
The Mimbrachua camp was alive with activity. Women, most with babies bound loosely to their breasts, were either hunched over cook-fires or kneeling over grinding blocks, turning maize into meal. The younger children, not one of whom was possessed of a single thread of clothing, or an ounce of modesty, crouched at their mothers’ feet, making dirt cakes and mud pies. The older boys and girls, including the ones Lu had seen on the path, hauled water from the river for the herd of mangy horses that occupied the far side of the camp, or else tended the fires. Dogs, each and every one of them starved near to death, skulked at the edge of the shadows, heads lowered and tails between their legs. Only the men seemed truly at ease. They sat around the smaller fires, in groups of five or six, smoking their pipes.
The instant they rode into the camp, Bill was yanked down off his horse. Lu was too. He tried to protest, but the Indians wouldn’t listen.
“Don’t worry,” Bill assured him. “They’re just havin’ some fun. It’s their way of welcoming us into camp.”
While the boys led their horses off to join the herd, the girls dragged them toward one of the cook-fires, where women forced bowls of steaming corn mush into their hands. Lu hated to scoop it up with his filthy fingers, but saw that there was no other choice. The women stared at him the whole time, smiling and nodding proudly every time he took a bite. The mud on his fingers didn’t make much difference, as it turned out. At least a third portion of the mush was just ground up sand, no doubt a result of their method for grinding corn.
“Awful, ain’t it?” Bill said. “They make me eat this mess every time I come. I used to try to tell them ‘no,’ but they’d hear none of it. Even tried to get them to let me wash up first, but the idea was as foreign as a fork or spoon.” He scooped up a finger of mash and stuck it in his mouth. “Once, I made a whole pan of good biscuits, just to show them what could be done. But you know what they did? Took my good biscuits, ground ’em down to nothin’, and made more sandy porridge.”
Lu laughed. Over Bill’s shoulder he could see a pair of Indian women roasting ears of corn over a fire. “Maybe we could get them to give us a roasted ear,” he suggested.
“Try it,” Bill said.
Lu gestured to the girls crowded around them, asking for one of the roasted ears. It took a while, but eventually they saw where he was pointing. Immediately the ears were brought. The woman who’d been so carefully roasting them over her fire held the steaming corn up for Lu and Bill to see, then took them right over to the grinding stones and started turning them to paste. Bill howled with laughter.
When they’d finally finished eating their tasteless mush—Lu could only think to describe the flavor as “gray”—the Indian girls took Bill and Lu by the arms and dragged them toward one of the many rings of pipe-smokers. The oldest of the men, a haggard scarecrow of what Lu guessed to be about 210 years old, and with fewer than four teeth, motioned at them to sit. As soon as he was settled, Lu was given a pipe and instructed to smoke. He took a long suck at the mouthpiece, expecting a breath of smoke something like what he’d had with Joseph, but was disappointed to find it a choking mixture of tobacco and something else, he dared not guess what. He was still coughing as he handed the pipe to Bill. For all their friendliness, these people in no way resembled Joseph’s fastidious village. Even so, Lu didn’t dislike these Mimbrachua. Not at all. If anything, he thought them the jolliest bunch of ragamuffins he’d ever heard tell of.
Bill took his turn at the pipe, making a far better show of himself than Lu had, and passed it along. “Where’s Gokhlayeh?” he asked, smoke still puffing out from between his lips.
The Indians looked at each other.
“Gokhlayeh?” Bill tried again.
“I am here,” a voice boomed over the heads of the seated men.
Out of the gloom padded the most grim and downcast individual Lu had ever seen, Indian or otherwise. He wore a shirt of black cloth, speckled over with dust, and his long hair was tied up in a bandanna cut from the same material. Cinched round his waist was a leather belt studded with rings and disks of silver. From one hip dangled a pistol, and on the other was a bowie knife, the sheath of which he had decorated with scalps. Gokhlayeh wore tall leather boots, tied over his knees with lengths of horsehair rope. As he strode into the firelight, his gaze was fixed on Lu and Bill. He seemed almost angry at them, Lu thought. Or maybe he was wondering how their scalps might look next to the others on his belt. Either way, Lu wished they’d never come.
Gokhlayeh said something in his own language, a long string of words that sounded to Lu like vile swears. He’d heard much of the same lingo from the boys they’d met on the trail, and the women chattered constantly, sounding lovely whatever they might be saying. But from this man the language seemed harsh and cruel.
Bill waited until Gokhlayeh was finished, then said, “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, I don’t savvy none of that gibberish. Jack Straw might, but I sure as hell don’t. I’ve no mind for languages and no intention of acquiring one just so I can talk to the likes of you.”
For an instant, Lu thought Gokhlayeh would reach out a hand and strike Bill dead. Then he laughed. “You do not visit enough, Bill,” he said. “I never tire of your stupidity.”
The other Indians scooted apart and Gokhlayeh sat down. As he did, Lu noticed a young woman. She must have been standing there the whole time, but he’d completely overlooked her. No longer. As Gokhlayeh took his place in the circle, she was for the first time fully illuminated by the fire. Lu gasped. He couldn’t help it. This young woman might have been pretty once, but never would be again. Her nose had been hacked off at the root, leaving not even a bump. All that remained was a blunt scar, spread cheek to cheek, lip to eyes, and a pair of rough holes for breathing.
She crouched in Gokhlayeh’s shadow, disappearing once more from sight. But Lu’s mind kept the image of her ruined face solidly in place. He knew that in different parts of the world they hung murderers, castrated rapists, and cut the hands off thieves. Had this girl committed some crime? What crime could possibly explain such woeful treatment? Cruelty, that’s all this was. It made Lu’s eyes water to imagine the sheer hatefulness of the devil, be it man or woman, who’d done it.
“What do you want?” Gokhlayeh asked, once he’d taken his turn at the pipe.
“Escortin’ this here boy,” Bill said.
“And where are you taking him?”
“Up top.”
“Back to the Pecos?”
Bill shook his head. “He got separated from his people. I aim to put him back.”
Gokhlayeh looked Lu up and down. “And just who are his people?”
“I’m with the MacLemore party,” Lu explained. “We’re going to Silver City. To shoot some bandits.”
“With that?” Gokhlayeh pointed at Lu’s pistol.
“We’ve got other guns.”
“And just where are these other guns?”
Lu shook his head. “I don’t know exactly.”
“I see.” Gokhlayeh leaned forward, his black eyes focused exclusively on Lu. “Were those your mules we found floating down the river?” he asked.
“Nothing comes through the Hell Mouth without my knowing it.”
“They were struck by lightning and fell.”
The headman didn’t seem particularly interested in Lu’s story. “Who else is in your party?” he asked.
“Well, there’s Henry and Chino, Mister MacLemore, Sadie and me.”
“Sadie? A girl?”
“Sadie’s a girl, but she’s a heck of a shot, too.”
“Anyone else? A famous gunfighter perhaps?”
Lu looked at Bill, and then shook his head. “Nope. Nobody else.”
Gokhlayeh smirked. “And what have you brought for me?” he asked.
“For you?”
“This is my country. My canyon. You don’t think you can just ride through without offering some kind of tribute? A white man would pay in blood.”
“Well, what do you want?” Lu asked, suddenly feeling very nervous.
“What do you have?”
Lu thought a long time. He’d give up his guns if he had to, but only if he could think of nothing else. He looked at Bill, hoping for guidance, but the cowboy just shrugged. Should he give them Lucky? Better to give them a gun, he thought. Gokhlayeh glared at him during the whole of his deliberations, which didn’t help. Lu had just decided to give them Sadie’s revolver when another thought leapt into his mind. “Let me grab something,” he said. “It’s on my mule.”
Gokhlayeh waved at him to go.
Lu raced to where the animals stood, chewing the bits of thorny brush that lined the hillside. Crash and Lucky were still tied together, the contents of the mule’s bags apparently untouched. Quick as he could, Lu untied Sadie’s valise. It was covered in mud, as was everything else, but when Lu looked inside he saw that the contents were clean.
Valise in tow, Lu raced back to the fire.
Both Bill and the Indians watched with interest as Lu unpacked the riding gloves, shirts and trousers, folding them carefully and stacking them on a rock. At last, toward the bottom he found what he’d been searching for.
“Here,” he said, and handed Gokhlayeh one of Sadie’s extra bonnets. It was the pale yellow one, with the tiny white flowers.
Gokhlayeh stared at it, puzzled.
“For her,” Lu explained, gesturing at the girl huddled in the headman’s shadow.
Apparently mystified, Gokhlayeh turned toward the girl, the bonnet dangling limply from his fingers. At first, she tried to duck back into the shadows. She only came out when Gokhlayeh explained that she was meant to have this strange frilly bandana.
Slowly, as though fearing some trick, the girl took the bonnet and held it up to the light. When she saw the flowers embroidered over it, she smiled.
“She can wear it on her head,” Lu said, and Gokhlayeh translated.
The girl put the bonnet on, tying the strings under her chin. She’d put it on backward, so that the lace went across the back of her head, but Lu didn’t correct her.
“And there’s more,” he said, pulling out the frilly ladies’ underclothes and handing them to the girl. At first, she didn’t want to take them directly from Lu’s hand, but with Gokhlayeh’s encouragement she managed.
Lu was far too embarrassed to explain the use of the bloomers, and so was gratified to see that the leg holes made an explanation unnecessary. Right out there in front of the whole world, the girl hiked up her skirt and stepped into her gift. Watching her pull them up was almost too much for Lu. He hesitated to give her the last of Sadie’s garments, but decided that a thing once begun had to be finished.
He took the gingham dress from the valise and held it up for the girl to see. This time she needed no urging. She took the dress and pressed it to her face.
After she’d cradled it a moment, she put it on. Fortunately, she slipped it on over the rough Indian skirt she was already wearing, thereby saving Lu from further embarrassment.
When the buttons had all been fastened, the girl turned to show Gokhlayeh. The look of hope in her eyes was heartbreaking. The headman said nothing. He just looked her up and down, and then gave her a pat on the cheek. She said something to him in their language, and he responded. It must have been nice, because all at once the girl went skipping across the encampment. Every man in the smoking circle watched her go. If anything, the girl’s terrible scar was made even more prominent. Lu had no doubt that the other girls would continue to make fun of her, if they did so now, but at least she’d had a moment of vanity. For one instant, the wreck of her face was overcome, in her own mind at least, by an interest in something as worthless and unnecessary as a white woman’s dress. At least for tonight she’d be a different sort of curiosity among her tribe.
The same thoughts must have been running through Gokhlayeh’s mind. “This payment of yours is worthless,” he said. “One bullet. One water-skin. Even a single grain of corn would do more for my people than this … dress.” He frowned. “It is so valueless that I can not offer even one of my warriors to escort you to the top of the canyon.”
“That’s all right,” Lu began. “If you’ll just point us to the path—”
“No,” Goklayeh cut him off. “I will take you myself.”