SNAKE
Twenty-two miles south of Dot’s delirious struggle against the effects of the venom, the Big Thompson River cascaded from its canyon mouth, spilling between rocks, frothing and filled with frigid debris from the spring thaw unwarmed by the afternoon sun. Beyond the canyon, it slowed to a more placid, meandering flow between eroded banks. Still murky from the upstream turbulence, it continued its journey toward the South Platte.
Snake stood and stepped away from the naked, middle-aged woman curled in a fetal position at his feet, her body lying amidst the ripped remnants of what had been her clothing, her skin pale in the glare of the sun.
Raising his leather loincloth to button his dirty breeches, his thin lips twisted in a mean, satisfied smile. He turned to the eight men circled around them and nodded, his meaning clear.
Tex started to step forward, his round face contorted in a demonic smile, the discolored scar on his neck pulsing. He drew his lips back, revealing only a few yellowed, blackish teeth, a gaping hole between them. He pushed his tongue between the toothless gap, drew his knife and peered hungrily down at the sobbing woman.
“Put that knife away, Tex. You can have your fun later, after the others, like you did with that banker’s wife back in Nebraska.”
The Texan nodded, light reflecting from his hairless skull, his eyes fixed on the bruised, terrified female form lying on the ground. Several of the men chuckled nervously. Snake noticed their eyes, fixed on the Texan’s blade. No doubt, remembering. Snake apprized what had, earlier that day, suddenly become his own band of thieving outlaws.
“Could I go next, Meeestir Snake?” Morales was the smallest of the men who had joined with Snake in the split from Black Feather’s band. The young Mexican, his eyes darting back and forth from the woman to Snake, was already unbuckling the worn, brown leather belt that held up the filthy canvas pants he had sewn from the top of one of the wagons they had plundered the year before.
“Please, please, good Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy, please,” she moaned in broken, panicked wheezes.
“Morales, help the poor woman out.” The group cast approving looks at Snake and broke into gales of laughter.
An hour passed. The sun was now well behind the foothills at the mouth of the canyon and the current of the Big Thompson swirled a filthy pink with the fading day’s light. Snake rifled the clothes of the woman’s dead husband, rolling the heavy man’s corpse from side-to-side in the buggy seat where he had been shot to get access to his pockets. There were only a few small coins. An old sorrel mare stood wide-eyed and trembling in the traces of the buggy.
A cottonwood twig snapped behind him and he whirled. Crazy Tex.
“Snake?” the stocky man drawled, his eyes asking the question.
Snake smiled. “Just make sure when you’re done she can’t talk to no one about nothin’ ever.”
Tex wheeled, half running back toward the cluster of men fifty yards back from the river, pulling his knife from its sheath.
“Morales, Beanpole, come on over here. Let’s torch this buggy.” The two men broke off from the group, moving obediently in his direction. At six foot six, Beanpole was the tallest of the band, his sloped shoulders always hunched forward as if in a perpetual state of apology. The two men sauntered up. Beanpole grinned. “You’re right, Snake. That damn captive girl Black Feather had was bad luck. This is the first bunch we’ve knocked off in more than a month.”
“It’s a start. Musta been on their way to neighbors for something. Sure didn’t have enough money to be making a supply run and no extra clothes with them. Beanpole, why don’t you—” his command was interrupted by a piercing scream from the woman. Snake looked up to see the rest of the men scatter and Garcia, a pudgy dark-skinned Mexican, bent over retching.
Morales turned pale and swallowed.
“Beanpole,” Snake said, turning back toward the buggy, “slit that old mare’s throat.”
“Kill the horse, Patrone?”
“Yes,” snapped Snake, “damn thing is old and half-starved. Won’t do nothing but slow us down or wander off to some neighbor by happenchance and get people riled up and looking for these two before they have to.”
“But,” protested Beanpole, “what about the fire? The smoke?”
“Let it burn for a few minutes, enough to take out anything that might be a sign leading to us. Then push the damn thing into the river.” Snake laughed. “Or hell, let the mare drag it down there and then kill her. We’ll be on our way shortly, riding all night. I want to get down to that Uncompahgre country, and I wanna be there by late June. Find some folks with gold. These two-bit outfits ‘round here ain’t gonna have no money, and we ain’t got enough men anyways. If we ride most of the dark, we’ll be long gone by the time these folks is missed.”
Morales and Beanpole exchanged looks. Beanpole shrugged and drew his knife.
“Let’s get saddled up, boys,” Snake called out.
Turning his head into the chill dusk breeze that boiled over the rocky ridge, he smiled to the southwest. We’re gonna have some good fun down there, along with gold. Them pilgrims can dig it and we can take it.