ICY RAIN, DRIVEN by the unrelenting blast of the north wind, churned the dust of southern Arizona to a sticky mush. Roiling banks of dark cloud covered the sky from horizon to horizon, and above the distant bulk of the Dragoon mountains lightning flashed, the only source of illumination in a world become suddenly grey.
Azul pushed on into the teeth of the storm, urging the reluctant horses as much by will power as by physical effort. Given a choice, both animals would have turned their tails to the wind and simply waited out the fury of the elements. The man, however, was in a hurry; besides, there was no cover within his limited range of visibility and his slow forward progress served to take his mind off the numbing cold.
Almost a month had passed since he quit Hoyos and moved northwards to the border, crossing back into America without knowing exactly when he passed the invisible dividing line. He was equally unclear about the exact span of time taken by his journey, not carrying a timepiece or bothering to check the tattered calendars in the few settlements he had visited. He knew that the moon had been full two days after leaving the burning town and now it was approaching that same fleshy roundness. The weather had grown steadily colder as he rode farther north, presaging the advent of full winter so that he began to wonder if the two men he hunted would choose to hole up in their respective towns, or winter in Blood City. They had both had ample time to move on, and he was becoming worried that he might lose them. At each ranch and way station he visited, and in every settlement, he described Maze Lynch and Arne Nillson, asking if they had been seen. And each time he got the same answer: a shaken head and a curious look. A few people, staring at his hard- set features and travel-worn clothes, had asked if he was a bounty hunter, and he had shaken his head in turn and told them, ‘No. It’s personal.’ And after he had gone they had shrugged and felt grateful he was not hunting them.
Now Santa Rosa lay about five miles ahead as best he could estimate, tucked into a curve of the Santa Cruz river north of Tucson. He had skirted round the larger town for fear the marshal there held posters on him, and for the last two days had seen no other living thing except his horses and the high-wheeling buzzards that studied his progress with hungry interest.
He tugged the sodden collar of his coat higher around his rain-plastered face and squinted into the gloom, trying to see the way ahead.
It was more than an hour later that he saw the lights. At first he thought it simply more evidence of the storm, but instead of flickering and dancing across the ground they remained fixed. He rode towards them and came to a post leaning over at a crazy angle where the rain had undermined its foundation. There was board nailed to the top and he leaned down from the saddle, twisting his head to read the legend inscribed there: Welcome to Santa Rosa. Pop150. The figure had been amended, but the charcoal used to write the new population level was washed away by the rain. He heeled the grey stallion forwards, grunting as his movement spilled a fresh trickle of water between collar and back.
Closer in Santa Rosa looked about as miserable as a town could be with its main street flooded. It looked like the Santa Cruz had got filled up and burst its shallow banks, sending a wash of water into the town. There was a corral at the southern end with a water pump feeding a wide catchment tank. The tank was overflowing on to the flooded ground, spilling water around the legs of the few steers that huddled disconsolately in the meagre shelter of the windmill. At the far end of the street there was a church, its whitewashed spire darkened by the rain that flooded down the shingles and spattered off the bell. The water in Main Street reached almost to the horses’ knees, and several sections of boardwalk were floored. There was an eatery with sandbags spread around the door, and two saloons, both offering rooms according to the dripping signs outside. Then the usual spread of stores: a dry goods emporium, a general store, a saddlery, an undertaker’s parlor. There was a stage office with boards nailed over the windows and a sheriff’s office. The lights he had seen came from the latter and the saloons. And the church.
He reined in outside the sheriff’s office, then thought better of leaving the horses on the street and urged them up the steps on to the sidewalk. He dismounted and hitched the grey to the pole supporting the veranda roof.
He was about to open the door when an irritable-looking deputy did it for him, angling a scattergun into the rain. ‘What the goddamn hell d’you want? This ain’t no stable.’
‘That’s what I want,’ said Azul. ‘One that’s above water.’
‘Jesus! As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.’ The deputy made no move to let Azul through. ‘Past the undertaker’s there’s an alley. Tom Olsen has a livery there. It’s built up on the only goddamn high ground round here. Take ’em there, but get the hell off my sidewalk.’
‘Thanks.’ Azul climbed back on the grey and walked the big horse down off the raised planks. The water was coming in from the east and although the veil of rain hid the Santa Cruz from sight, he could see the current fighting the power of the wind so that swirls and eddies formed, sending pieces of floating timber and the odd tumbleweed drifting away down the street. Once he saw the body of a drowned cat float by, the bedraggled fur emphasizing the dulled glare of the open eyes.
To the west, the ground rose in a gentle slope and when he located the stable he saw that it was at the apex of the rise. In addition, it had been built up on piles, the actual floor level raised several feet above the ground. An earth ramp, banked in on both sides by heavy timbers, led to the doors. Azul took the horses up the slope and dismounted. There was a man-sized door built into the larger openings with a note pinned to the woodwork. The clumsy letters were getting washed out by the rain, but he was still able to discern the message.
“Gon to Silver Dollar. Bed yor horss and pay me later. Fiftey cents a day. All fownd.” It was signed with a flourish that might have meant Tom Olsen.
Azul eased the small door open and unhinged the latch fastening the main spread. He brought the two animals in and closed the door, latching it tight against the blast of the wind. Olsen clearly knew his business, because the stable was not only built up high enough to avoid any danger of flooding, but also caulked so that the walls kept out the cold blast of the norther. There were stalls set both sides of the central aisle, five of them occupied, and a pile of hay down at the far end. To one side of the entrance there was a tack room with an array of saddles and bridles hung neatly on pegs, a small table at the center with saddle soap and curry combs and brushes set out in neat lines.
He opened two adjoining stalls, pleased to see that the straw covering the floors was clean and troughs of water filled. He took the rigs off the grey and the pack horse, then doled them both a measure of oats before rubbing them down. Both horses were shivering, the heat they had generated during the ride getting lost in the wait and the cloying moisture that coated their flanks. He took the grey first, using cloths and a brush and then a curry comb. Then slung a blanket over the animal’s back and turned to the roan.
It was an hour before he felt satisfied that neither animal would take a chill and his own clothes were drying out from the heat of his efforts. He forked hay into the feed troughs and set the brushes and combs back in place on the table. Then he buttoned his coat on and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, canting the Winchester beneath them so that the leather would keep the rain off the action.
Night was fallen as he quit the stable and the temperature was even cooler. The wind was still blowing and the rain was falling and the slope down to Main Street was slippery with mud. He reached the end of the alley and jumped on to the sidewalk, heading for the lights.
The Silver Dollar was the nearest saloon, just down from the gloomy frontage of the undertaker’s parlor. It was half empty: three men who looked like cowhands sipping whiskey at the bar and three more playing pinochle at a table; four dispirited girls trying to start a conversation with a quartet of businessmen; and a thin scattering of men who might have been anything from local traders to passing drummers.
The barkeep set a whiskey in front of Azul before the half-breed’s saddlebags hit the floor.
‘On the house, friend. You look like you need it.’
Azul grinned and emptied the fierce liquor in a single swallow.
‘Thanks.’
‘Come far?’ The barkeep topped the glass. ‘You pay from now.’
Azul eased the buttons of his coat loose, feeling water drip from him like a spring thaw.
‘Up from Mexico.’
‘Warmer there, I guess?’ The barkeep chuckled. ‘What brings you to Santa Rosa.’
‘Man called Lynch. Maybe you heard of him? Maze Lynch? Built heavy with a red face. Wears dungarees. Looks like a farmer.’
The sound of the rain got louder as all other noise stopped. The barkeep’s face lost its smile and got suddenly ugly as his hands dropped under the counter. There was the sound of glasses going down fast on the wood of the bar top, and the scrape of chairs going back from tables. A woman gasped. Then there was the slurring sound of metal sliding over leather and a series of clicks.
Azul went on sipping his drink, conscious of the other clients moving closer.
‘You a friend of his?’ As the barkeep spoke there was the loud sound of a shotgun getting cocked. It came up from under the table to point on Azul’s chest: a twin-barreled Remington, cut down to little more than twelve inches. ‘You know him?’
‘No,’ said Azul, ‘I’m not a friend. Yes: I know him.’
‘What the hell you want here?’ The barkeep was confused. ‘Maze Lynch ain’t exactly popular in Santa Rosa.’
‘I came here to kill him.’ Azul emptied his glass and looked around. The entire clientele of the saloon was grouped in a circle about him, only the women without levelled guns. ‘I guess you know him.’
‘Goddamn right we know the bastard!’ The barkeep spat in his anger. ‘Murderin’ fucker!’
‘Jason.’ One of the businessmen stepped forwards. He held a storekeeper’s Colt in his left hand. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this with him.’
Reluctantly, his hands trembling, the barkeep eased the hammers of the shotgun down. ‘All right, whatever you say Mr. Tarrant.’
The man was tall and thin, dressed in a black suit that emphasized the grey of his hair. He looked about fifty and prosperous, though capable of looking after himself: as though he had earned his money the hard way.
‘We might as well talk here,’ he said. ‘In which case it will be best if you stand clear, Jason. Should this gentleman fail to answer our questions properly, we shall need to kill him. And I should hate to see you in the way of the bullets.’
The barkeep swallowed hard and moved clear of the line of fire. He sidestepped to the end of the bar and then came round the edge to join the group peering at Azul.
‘I think,’ said Tarrant, ‘that we should introduce ourselves. My name is Marcus Leander Tarrant. I have the honor to be both mayor and undertaker of Santa Rosa. Your name, sir?’
‘Matthew Gunn,’ said Azul.
Tarrant nodded thoughtfully. ‘And you claim to have come here to kill a man called Maze Lynch?’
‘Yeah.’ The sound of the rain got loud again. ‘I been trailing him from Nevada.’
‘He said he come from Mexico,’ shouted the bartender. ‘I reckon he’s with Lynch.’
‘Allow Mr. Gunn the courtesy of his own reply, Jason.’ Tarrant spoke without removing his eyes from Azul’s face. ‘We want no more needless killing.’
‘I say we lynch him,’ someone grunted from the back of the onlookers. ‘If he knows Maze Lynch, then he can’t be no good.’
‘A point, certainly, Wyatt,’ Tarrant smiled at Azul: ‘Perhaps you will explain.’
‘Tell your friends to keep quiet and maybe I’ll have a chance.’ The half-breed turned to the bar and poured more whiskey. ‘I’m damn’ froze, so let’s get this sorted out.’
‘There is only one thing I should like more,’ murmured Tarrant. ‘So perhaps you should explain your presence here, vis-a-vis your acquaintanceship with Lynch.’
‘I don’t understand that last bit,’ said Azul. ‘The veearvee.’
Tarrant shrugged. ‘Forgive me. I forget that the standard of education in the western states is so poor.’
‘Fer Chrissakes! Get on with it, Marcus. Quit fartin’ words an’ ask him some questions we can understand.’
Tarrant laughed. ‘Certainly, my friend.’ He turned back to Azul.
‘Why the goddamn hell are you here?’
The same man muttered, ‘That’s more like it. Nice an’ plain.’
‘I came looking for Lynch,’ said Azul. ‘I aim to kill him.’
‘Why?’
There seemed little point in hiding the story: for whatever reasons of their own, these people hated Lynch bad enough to hang a man on mere suspicion of friendship. Azul decided to tell the truth, and more or less nothing but. ‘He rode with a gang led by a big red-head called Arne Nillson,’ he said. ‘They framed me on a phony bank charge and left me to take the blame. I traced one of them; a man called Hart and killed him. He gave me a lead to the second one. A Mexican called Paco Camino. I had to go down into Mexico to kill him. Before he died, he told me Maze Lynch was in Santa Rosa. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Can you prove that?’ asked Tarrant. ‘Anyone could make up a story like that.’
‘Burt Hart always carried a Bible,’ said Azul. ‘Paco Camino kept a knife hidden on his shoulder.’
‘That’s right,’ said someone. ‘I heard that Hart was a Jesus-freak. Read the Good Book before he killed anyone.’
‘Open my saddlebags.’ rasped Azul. ‘You’ll find a Bible and a knife inside.’
‘Jason,’ said Tarrant, ‘would you be so good as to check the testimonials?’
The barkeep reached round the edge of the crowd to drag Azul’s bags clear. He opened them and began to fumble through the contents. A few moments later he stood up holding the Bible and the bloody knife.
‘Reckon he’s tellin’ the truth.’
‘It would certainly appear so,’ said Tarrant. ‘Unless we face a very complicated trick.’
‘How’s that, Marcus?’
‘He might simply be using these things to gain our confidence. To join with Lynch so that the murderer can escape.’
‘He is here, then?’ Azul’s voice got suddenly harsh. ‘Where?’
‘Your surprise appears genuine,’ murmured Tarrant. ‘He’s in the church.’
‘The church?’ Azul’s face was contorted by rage and shock together. ‘What’s he doing there? Why haven’t you got him out.’
‘It is not so simple.’ The undertaker lowered his Colt, easing the hammer down. ‘You appear genuine, so perhaps we should take a seat and discuss the matter.
There was a general lowering of hammers and the crowd drifted over to the table Tarrant indicated. Azul sat down and accepted the whiskey the undertaker poured for him.
‘Maze Lynch arrived here in Santa Rosa some weeks ago. He appeared wealthy, and claimed to be looking for land to buy. A gentleman by the name of Parker had land to sell and invited Lynch to his homestead. He also had a daughter. A girl called Grace. Eighteen years old and extremely lovely. Lynch raped her and when Amos Parker argued the point, Lynch shot him dead. Our late and lamented sheriff went to see the man. Lynch shot him, too. Sheriff Bridges is currently residing in my own establishment.’
‘So where’s Lynch?’ Azul interrupted the smooth flow of long words. ‘You didn’t kill him?’
‘Alas, no.’ Tarrant shook his head and poured more whiskey. ‘Lynch, you see, had two companions. Men called Jennings and Colter. After killing Sheriff Bridges, the three of them seized Grace Parker and several other women and took them to the church. They shot the pastor as they went in, and now they are forted up there.’
‘You could starve them out,’ said Azul. ‘How much food they got?’
‘Enough to last many months.’ Tarrant sighed. ‘They demanded supplies. When we refused them, they brought Emily Hanner out on to the porch and shot her. They said they would shoot another woman each time we refused their demands.’
‘So you gave them what they wanted,’ Azul’s tone implied a statement, rather than a question.
‘Yes.’ Tarrant nodded. ‘We saw little other choice. The rain set in soon after, thus denying them easy escape. With nothing else to do, they have settled into the church with the women. If we attempt to remove them they will undoubtedly murder their hostages. We have no choice but to wait them out.’
‘The hell you do!’ Azul’s voice cut like a whiplash through the silence that followed the undertaker’s words. ‘I came here for Lynch. I’ll get him out.’
‘How?’ asked Tarrant. ‘Without getting the women killed?’
‘I’ll find a way,’ rasped Azul. ‘Believe me.’
‘Easily said, my friend.’ Tarrant poured more whiskey. ‘But harder done.’
‘Give me a room and a bath,’ snarled Azul. ‘I need a night’s sleep before I go do what you can’t.’
The room was small and would have been dusty except that the rain blowing in through the cracks in the wall had set a thin miasma of mud over the rattan covering the floorboards. The coverlet on the bed was damp, but thick enough that the sheets under it were still dry. And the water in the tub was hot. Azul sank down with his knees folded against his chest and got as much of his body as he could under the surface. The water got dark as travel dirt floated from him, but he stayed hunched low until it began to grow cool, too, before using the gritty soap provided. The cold water in the buckets alongside refreshed him, and he toweled himself dry and went back to his room, where he fell into the bed. not thinking of anything but sleep.
Accustomed to hunger, he ignored the tray of food left outside the room and woke only when the basic needs of his body were satisfied.
It was close on dawn, though it was hard to tell the hour through the grey dimness of the rain. He rose and washed. Got dressed.
The tray outside was thick with flies come in from the cold, the meat and beans congealed into a glutinous mass that was hidden under the hungry black bodies that clustered thickly over the food.
The saloon was quiet, only the barkeep, Jason, and two girls sipping coffee around a table.
Azul nodded at the pot. ‘Got another cup?’
Jason stood up like a soldier on parade and scurried behind the bar to locate a clean mug.
Azul sat down and took the cup Jason offered him. The girls stared at him from under hooded, work-weary eyes.
The coffee was hot and bitter. No one spoke. After a while a fat woman brought three plates of bacon and eggs over to the table. Then grunted in Azul’s direction and went back to the kitchen. A few minutes later she came back with a fourth plate.
The food tasted good. Azul ate it and emptied the coffee pot.
Then stood up and said, ‘All right. Let’s go give Lynch a party.’