CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Seth Koenig rode through Hellfire Pass as the sun dropped lower in the sky. After the disastrous attack on the Kerrigan ranch he was in a foul mood and as dangerous as a cornered rattler. His plan was to spend the night in his blankets at the ruin of the old house and then head for Deming at first light. As he rode his mind raced, busy with schemes centering around the redheaded woman and her cattle empire. Kate Kerrigan and all she owned would soon be his and despite his seething anger the realization made him smile.
He drew rein and studied the ruins of what had been the Koenig ranch headquarters. Everything—the blackened foundations of the house and outbuildings—was as he’d left it. Probably Blade’s vengeful spirit, too. That thought didn’t trouble Seth in the least. He feared no man, living or dead.
He kneed his horse forward, scanning the empty land around him. His red-rimmed blue eyes missed nothing, the cold stare of a man holding no hint of mercy or kindness. Seth had for too long looked at life over a gun barrel, a man who lived a wild, lawless life, his attitudes framed by the all-consuming hatred he held for the father he’d murdered.
Hungry and tired, Seth unsaddled his horse then poked around the ashes and scorched timbers of the cookhouse. A pile of fire-scorched cans and several sides of bacon, burned to a blackened crisp, littered the floor. The labels had burned away, and he had no idea what the cans contained. He figured they’d be spoiled or even poisonous and let them be. With a bright future in sight, it was not the time to take chances with his health.
He spread his blanket roll and lay on his back, smoking a cigar. He watched the sky change from blue to gray and a chill wind picked up. Over the Tres Hermanas Mountains thunder rumbled high among the peaks where bighorn sheep were said to be, though none had been seen for many years.
Seth stubbed out his cigar, pulled his blankets to his chin, and shivered. Damn. It was getting downright cold. He thought about starting a fire, but decided it was too much trouble. By that time tomorrow he figured he’d be in Deming, sleeping between sheets under a quilt.
He dozed as darkness fell and night birds called out among the wild oaks behind the ruined house. In the distance, eternally optimistic coyotes hunted and yipped, searching for something to kill. Thunder still grumbled among the mountains but seemed no closer, though lightning flashed and splashed the sky with dazzling blue light.
He sat upright in his blankets. “What the hell was that?”
There, he heard it again, a rustling in the brush between the trees. His eyes probed the gloom. A glimpse of white. Fleeting. One moment there and then gone.
Seth slid his Colt out of the leather. It had been a bird or maybe a steer that had strayed off the range. Or Blade’s gibbering ghost? As he got to his feet, Seth grinned. He’d killed the son of a bitch twice . . . he could kill him a third time.
Moving warily, every muscle in his body tense, he stepped toward the oaks, his revolver up and ready. He stopped, peered ahead of him, and said, “Who’s there? Show yourself and state your intentions.”
The slow drumbeat of thunder was his only answer.
Seth walked on again. He reached the stand of wild oak and looked around him, rubbing the residue of sleep from his face. Nothing was there. A big daddy raccoon had probably passed through and rustled the dead leaves.
From behind him came a man’s hoarse whisper, not hostile, almost friendly. “Seth . . . Seth . . .”
He turned and fired, shot again, gun flares momentarily blinding him. The thunderheads finally came down off the mountains, roaring, and lightning scrawled across the sky.
“You son of a bitch!” Seth yelled. “I’ll kill you!”
From somewhere in the lightning-scarred murk came a derisive laugh, then words. “I’ve come for you, Seth.”
He almost shrieked. Was it his father’s voice? Had he come back from the fires of hell to torment the living? No! Seth refused to accept that. Out there, a man was pretending to be Blade, a mortal man who could be killed like any other.
The voice had come from a few yards to his right and maybe ten paces away. Seth pinned the man in place against the inky backdrop of the night and cut loose. Three shots hammered fast in the impersonator’s direction.
He blinked from the gun flare. After some fumbling, he managed to reload his Colt and ready himself for further action. Seth’s heart thumped in his chest and his mouth was dry as though he’d inhaled mummy dust. “Come out and let me see them hands.”
Seth listened, waiting for a reply, but heard only the sound of the lamenting wind and the boom of thunder as it brawled with the clouds. And then . . . laughter.
Behind him!
Seth spun around, his revolver coming up fast. Rain ticked around him. His eyes searched the darkness for a target, but he saw nothing. “Damn you, show yourself!” he yelled. Then, with a crafty look on his face, he said, “I got money. Big money. We can share. I can make you rich.”
“Seth . . .”
The whisper came from his left, no, his right. Damn! It was all around him.
“Pa! Is that you, Pa? I’m sorry. It was all a mistake!”
“Seth . . . I’m coming for you . . . Seth . . .”
For the first time that night, fear lanced at Seth’s belly and the hand that held his Colt was slick with sweat. He had to get to his horse, ride away from this haunted place. Yeah, that was it. He’d ride through the storm and wouldn’t draw rein until he reached Deming.
Seth stepped through the rain-lashed gloom to where he’d left his mount.
Above him the thunderstorm was in full voice. Bellowing. Lightning shimmered around him, illuminating the landscape a split second at a time and starkly revealing the charred skeleton of the ranch house.
His horse was gone!
Seth Koenig cursed, venting his spleen at God, his dead father, and the world and everybody in it. Using the spiking lightning flashes to light his way, he searched for the horse, but it was gone, nowhere to be found. Rain pounded on him and made a waterfall off his hat brim.
Something big and black hurtled through the air at him.
Seth snapped off a shot . . . and drilled a hole in his saddle.
From somewhere close the man’s voice said, “Soon now, Seth . . . very soon.”
Seth bit back his panic and charged directly at the spot where he judged his tormentor was hiding, firing as he ran. The area had recently been cleared of brush to make way for the construction of a windmill, and stacks of lumber were still in place. He ran into the open space but stumbled on something metallic that rolled under his feet, causing him to fall heavily onto his right side. Stunned for a moment, he climbed to his feet and scanned the darkness. A lightning flash revealed no sign of a man, dead or alive, but he did see the round object at his feet . . . the fire and smoke-blackened cooking pot that once hung in Ezora Chabert’s cabin.
It took a tremendous effort, but Seth forced himself to remain calm. Someone was playing dirty tricks on him—but who would know that he’d been at the old witch’s cabin? He had a few suspects in mind and—Wait! Before the last peal of thunder, he thought he’d heard something . . . and there it was again. The whinny of a horse.
Seth angrily kicked the pot away from him and turned, his eyes searching the gloom. Lightning flashed and he saw his salvation. A saddled sorrel pony stood head down in the rain, now and then visible in the flickering glare.
It was a trap, of course. Seth knew it, but one he could use to turn the tables on his taunting tormentor. With a lot of open space around the horse, he reckoned he’d see any attacker coming at him, giving him plenty of time to make a fast play with the iron. He reloaded his revolver.
The rain had let up as the thunderstorm moved to the east and the thunder died to an ill-tempered growl, leaving the night as dark as the inside of a coffin. Seth stepped carefully, leading the way with his outstretched Colt. He was being watched. Hidden eyes were on him. Hostile eyes. Maybe not mortal eyes.
He yelled into murk that smelled of damp earth and seemed as black and thick as molasses. “Yeah, I’m leaving, you son of a bitch. Why don’t you step out into the open and stop me?”
No answer. The ravaged night was suddenly silent as a tomb.
Seth threw back his head and howled the victory cry of the lobo wolf. He shoved his boot into the stirrup and then stopped. Footsteps, soft as thistledown falling on grass, came from behind him. Alarmed, he turned his head, his hand dropping to his gun. Too late. Something hard crashed into the back of his skull, and he hit the ground in an unconscious heap.
* * *
Seth Koenig opened his eyes to a pale blue, washed-out morning sky and the smell of burning wood. Slowly, as his mind began to focus, he recalled the events of the night and the blow to his head. What happened after that was a blank. He lay on his back, and when he tried to get up he was unable to move. Then, frantically jerking his head back and forth, the awful realization hit him that he’d been stripped naked, spread-eagled, and his wrists and ankles were staked to the ground. A fire, enclosed by a circle of rocks, burned nearby and what was thrust into the glowing coals made Seth’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. Red-hot irons. Pincers, pliers, rods, dehorners, awls, a wooden-handled knife with a sharp point . . . tools that had once hung on the walls of the Koenig stable.
He felt a surge of panic mixed with dread, seasoned by terror. “Where are you?” he yelled. “Untie me or by God, I’ll kill you.”
No answer, but footsteps, soft as thistledown, drew nearer.
“You!” It was a croak of fear.
Shield, the Pima scout, kneeled beside Seth. His face was painted black, his hair hung over his shoulders, and his eyes glittered. He picked up a red-hot iron . . .
Seth Koenig was a big man and strong, nourished since childhood on the best grass-fed beef in the world, toughened by years of hard work. And all that was most unfortunate . . .
It took him four days and three nights to die.