Chapter Thirty-eight
Jacob O’Brien rode through the pale light of the aborning day, his eyes searching the distance. He was following two sets of tracks, both still fresh in the windless desert. Ahead of him, he saw what he took for a pair of ancient volcanic boulders.
As he rode closer he made out a droop-tailed horse, head hanging low, standing still on a patch of open sand. Beside the animal stretched the body of a man. Before he reached the still figure, Jacob knew who it was.
Dallas Steele lay on his back, unmoving. The dun horse took a couple of steps away from Jacob, then stopped and lifted its head to look at him with curiosity.
Covered in dust, his faded blue shirt already showing arcs of sweat in the armpits, Jacob stepped out of the leather saddle, grabbed his canteen, and took a knee beside Steele. To his relief, he saw that the man was still breathing, but Steele’s hair was thick with blood and the front of his shirt was stained scarlet.
Jacob lifted the wounded man’s head and put the canteen to his lips. After a few moments, the Pinkerton drank and his eyes fluttered open. At first, all he could manage was a dry croak. Jacob gave him more water.
Steele found his voice, weak and strained though it was. “Why, Jake O’Brien, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to these parts?” After a moment’s hesitation, he coughed away the dust in his throat. “Are you just visiting?”
“I’ve been following you since yesterday, Dallas.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I’m trying to repay an old favor.”
“As I recall, the favor I did you in San Francisco was a small one. Of no account.”
“I’ve added interest.” Jacob looked for bullet wounds and found plenty of dried blood, but no holes. “What happened?”
“I was riding along, singing one of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan’s latest ditties as I recall, when a person or persons unknown took a pot at me.”
“Shaw?”
“Likely him, but it could’ve been Nate Condor. Whoever the gentleman was, he didn’t stay around to introduce himself.”
“Where are you hit, Dallas?” Jacob said. “I have to tell you, it looks bad.”
“Tell me nonetheless, Jake, though I really don’t think I want to know.”
It was the blue Colt in Steele’s shoulder holster that told the tale. The bushwhacker’s bullet had hit the revolver and driven the cylinder into Steele’s ribs with considerable force. The mangled ball had then ranged upward and torn across the Pinkerton’s scalp, stunning him.
“Hell, it’s not near as bad as I thought. You’ll live,” Jacob said.
“Am I shot through and through, Jake? You don’t need to spare my feelings, and I promise I won’t scream.”
“The bullet hit your Colt and then bounced and slammed against your head. The ball drew blood but did little damage.”
“Are you telling me I’ve got a thick head?”
“Something like that.” Jacob held up the Colt and let the shattered cylinder drop into the sand. “You may have some broken ribs and your iron is ruined.”
“Damn it all, that was a seventeen dollar Colt,” Steele said. “Cash on the barrelhead at Tam McLean’s Rod and Gun in Denver.”
“I guess it saved your life before and it surely did it again.”
“Three cheers for Sammy Colt. I always said he made the world’s best revolvers, bless his heart.”
“Let’s get you to your feet. The bump to your head has made you a little loco.” Jacob pulled Steele to a standing position.
Steele swayed and touched his bloody head. “Damn, I feel sick and I’ve got a headache. And my ribs hurt.”
“A couple maybe broken or maybe they’re just bruised,” Jacob said. “Can you ride?”
“I can ride. I sure as hell can’t walk.”
Jacob stepped to his horse, reached into his saddlebags, and produced a short-barreled Colt. “I always keep a spare,” he said, handing the revolver to Steele.
The Pinkerton felt its weight. “It’s almost as well-balanced as my old one.”
“We do what we can.”
“Strangely enough, I’m hungry,” Steele said. “How can a shot-up man be hungry?”
Jacob reached into his saddlebags again and gave Steele a strip of jerky. “It was all I could get in Recoil at short notice.”
“It’ll do,” Steele chewed on the jerky for a few moments. “Any ideas, Jake?”
“I’m studying on it. The Colonel and Luther are to the west of us, my brothers to the east, scouting for Condor’s trail. If they don’t have any luck I told them to meet me on the San Miguel River to the north of the Boca Grande. If you’re still in a mind to go after Condor, we can make our plans then.”
“I must try to get the payroll back, Jake. It’s what they’re paying me for.”
“Then so be it. It’s about a fifteen-mile ride from here to the San Miguel across some mighty rough country. Can you make it?”
“I can make it.”
“Then we’ll get going.”
“You don’t think I’ve a chance in hell of catching up with Nate Condor, do you, Jake,” Steele said as they rode south, the sun high above the Alta peaks.
The waning morning was hot and the dusty air smelled of desert shrubs and far distant pines.
“There’s always a chance, Dallas. Maybe my brother Pat will come up with something. He’s pretty good at figuring things.” Jacob smiled. “If we do find Condor, we’ll have a scrap on our hands. The man is a demon with the iron.”
“Talking about being good with the iron, you’ll never guess who I met in Denver about three months ago,” Steele said.
“I’ve no idea, Dallas. I guess you meet a lot of folks.”
“Doc Holliday. He asked after you.”
Jacob was speechless for a moment, then said, “I want nothing to do with Doc. Seems like every time we meet he brings trouble with him, usually with the law.”
“He was frail, Jake. I don’t think he’s got long to live.”
“Doc’s lucky he’s lived this long.”
“He told me he’d made only two friends in his life. One was a lawman by the name of Wyatt Earp and the other was you.”
“I’m not Doc’s friend. I never was and I never will be. He’s a menace to society is what Doc is. He mentioned this Earp feller from time to time. Who is he?”
“He was a lawman in the Arizona Territory, a place called Tombstone,” Steele said. “All I know about him is that Doc helped him out in a shooting scrape. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“If Doc calls Earp a friend, I don’t want to know about him anyway. Hell, he could be as big a damned pest as Doc.”
“He’s dying, Jake. Doc’s not the man he was.”
“Doc was never the man he was.”
“I told him about Dromore.”
Jacob shook his head. “Now what did you go and do that for?”
“Like I said, he was asking after you. I mentioned Dromore in conversation. At least, I’m sure I did.”
“It’s no matter. If Doc decided to come visiting, he wouldn’t make it as far as Dromore. The high country air is thin as a whisper. It would kill him.”
Steele smiled. “And here I thought you’d be glad to hear about an old friend.”
“Old friend, my patoot. Doc almost got me hung in El Paso for a killing that was all his work. Three years later, I met up with him again and we escaped another hemp posse up on the Picket-wire after he cut a whore the local punchers set store by. Doc’s pure poison. I want nothing to do with him, not now, not ever.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jake,” Steele said, grinning. ”He’s such a nice Southern gentleman when you get to know him.”
“Dallas,” Jacob said, “go to hell.”
After an hour, riding through a landscape distorted by heat in every direction as though painted by a drunken artist, Steele said casually, “Dust behind us.”
Jacob turned in the saddle, “It’s probably Shawn and Patrick.”
“Probably.”
“Keep your iron handy.”
“It’s always handy.”
A couple of minutes later, Steele said, “Two men running.”
“Running?”
“Looks like.”
Jacob drew rein and Steele did the same. They swung their mounts around.
“Hell, looks like Apaches,” Jacob said.
“No, it’s a Navajo and a black giant,” Steele said. “The Indian’s name is Scout and the giant is called Lucian T. Hyde. They’re shape-shifters.”
“What does that mean?” Jacob said, his hand on the butt of his Colt.
“They can themselves turn into wolves or any other animal you care to mention.”
“You joshing me, Dallas?”
“Honest truth.”
“Unless they come up on us real friendly like, I’ll shift their shapes into corpses pretty damn quick.”
“Dear old Doc Holliday taught you a lot, didn’t he, Jake?” Steele said.
Jacob ignored that and watched the two men come closer, both running with the easy, loping grace of lobo wolves.
“The giant is the one on the right,” Steele said.
“Figured that. Looks like his top half’s already turned into a wolf.”
“Changed his mind midway through, maybe.”
When the Navajo and Hyde stopped in front of Steele’s horse neither man was breathing hard nor had broken a sweat.
Not a man to mince words, Scout said, “The man Nate Condor is not in this place. You seek him in vain.”
“Where is he, Scout?” Steele said. Then, as an afterthought, “This here is Jacob O’Brien, a friend of—”
“I know who he is,” Scout said. “How do you fare, Jake?”
“Well. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
“A man changes over the years. You have not changed. Maybe your nose is bigger.”
“It’s my finest feature, Scout. That’s why it tends to grow on people.”
The Navajo gave a ghost of a smile and said, “Nate Condor fooled you. He pushed into Chihuahua for a few miles, then swung north again. I say he’s headed for Silver City where he can sell the army payroll for folding money and no questions asked. A man can’t drag around a heavy weight of gold coin without attracting unwanted attention.”
“Where is he now, Scout?” Jacob said.
“Last I saw him, he was driving his mules to the east of the Cedar Mountains. He can follow the north star to Silver City.”
“How many men with him?” Steele said.
“Only Condor and one other. We found the bodies of three men and a young woman in the desert. All had been shot. Mr. Hyde was forced to kill another at the cabin in the Apache Hills.”
“I saw that man,” Steele said.
“A most unfortunate occurrence,” Hyde said. “I feared he might discover me as I watched the cabin.”
“You tore his throat out. Now that was a mite unfriendly.”
“Yes indeed, Mr. Steele. But it is the way of the wolf,” Hyde said.
“Good a way as any, I guess.” Jacob turned to Steele. “We’ll round up the Colonel and the others and head for Silver City.”
“No need,” Scout said. “I have already told them to meet us in the village of San Mateo a mile north of Johnson Mountain.”
“Hell, Scout, for men on foot you two sure get around,” Jacob said.
The Navajo nodded. “In the desert, a man can outrun a horse.”
“What about Shaw, Dallas?” Jacob asked. “There’s no doubt in my mind that he tried to kill you.”
“Right now, getting the payroll back is more important than Shaw.”
“You heard the man, Scout,” Jacob said. “Lead the way. And don’t run too fast for the horses.”