CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Just as the sun came up, Clay Kyle and his band splashed across the shallows of the Rio Bravo into the desert country of the Mexican state of Coahuila. They rode south in the shadow of the northern finger of the nine-thousand-foot-high peaks of the Sierra del Carmen, the higher slopes green with sky islands of mixed oak and pine and, growing at a higher elevation, forests of Engelmann spruce and Douglas and Durango fir. This was a vast, empty land, called by some the most remote region on earth. Part of the Chihuahuan Desert, it was the haunt of antelope, black bear, a small species of white-tailed deer, beaver, and cougar. Its rugged vistas of sand, rock, and shrub were relieved only here and there by cactus and stands of ponderosa pine and wild oak. The foothills were cut through by rugged canyons and arroyos, and in one of those, Clay Kyle hoped to find the golden fortress of Sheik Bandar al-Salam.
Clay Kyle drew rein, and the others followed his lead. They sat their horses on a low shelf of rise and stared intensely at the wilderness ahead of them, each busy with his own thoughts, appalled by the sight of endless mountains with thick islands of trees and steep limestone escarpments that rose vertically from the flat like castle walls. There was no sound, and nothing moved.
Where to find al-Salam’s hideaway in this wasteland?
Susan Stanton saw humor in the situation and called, “Little rich boy, come out, come out wherever you are.”
Zack Palmer scowled. “Damned wild goose chase,” he said. “There ain’t nothing here but rocks and cactus.”
“I say we sell the girl at the nearest village and at least make a few dollars’ profit,” Boon Shanks said. He leered at Jenny. “And she don’t need to be a virgin.”
“The price we’d get for a downright homely gal split eight ways would hardly buy us a cup of coffee,” Morris Bennett said. His one eye glittered. “Zack, how much will you pay us for the girl?”
Angry now, Kyle said, “Forget the girl for now. I told you, a dying man doesn’t lie. The Sheik’s place has got to be around here somewhere. All we have to do is find it.”
“Find it how?” Bennett said.
“By looking, damn it,” Kyle said.
Susan Stanton glanced at the sun-scorched sky. “It’s going to be hot in those canyons,” she said.
Kyle smiled. “Think of the money, Suzie.”
“Sure, I’ll think of the money,” the woman said. “And that all we have to do is find the brat and become rich. Suppose he isn’t the outdoors sort.”
“Then we’ll find another way,” Kyle said.
“Water, Clay,” Charlie Bates said. “We’ll need water.”
“Yeah, well I don’t think the Sheik would’ve built his fortress in a place without water,” Kyle said. “My guess he’s using streams coming off them treed mountains. If the worse comes to the worst, we can refill our canteens from the Rio Bravo. It’s close enough.”
“So what now?” Bates said.
“Now? Why we start searching the canyons and arroyos for something that looks like a palace,” Kyle said. “The Sheik’s riders may be about, so be careful and keep your eyes peeled for trouble. Above all, no gunfire. If you have to make a killing, use your knife.” He smiled. “Or a rock.”
“Hey, Zack,” Arlo said. “Are we gonna stick?”
“For a while,” Zack Palmer said.
“I don’t like these mountains,” Arlo said. “So how long is a while?”
“Until I tell you we’re leaving, Arlo,” Zack said. “Not until then.”
Three hours later, after fruitless searching under a burning sun, Kyle spotted two Mexican peons walking out of a narrow arroyo leading a burro loaded with picks, shovels, a pair of canvas sacks, and a shotgun in a canvas scabbard.
* * *
Probably the presence of two women made a difference, and that’s why the Mexicans showed no signs of obvious alarm as Kyle and his riders approached. The younger man was a ringer for the older one and Clay Kyle pegged them as father and son . . . fools prospecting for gold in a mountain range that didn’t have any.
The peons were small, undernourished, thin, dressed in white cotton pants and shirts, straw and rope sandals. Both wore faded green bandanas around their skinny brown necks.
Kyle drew rein, smiled, and said, “Howdy.”
The older Mexican returned the smile and said, “I speak English.” He made a space between his thumb and the tip of his forefinger and said, “Un poco.”
“He means a little,” Loco Garrett said. The man was sweating heavily, as the rest of them were, except for Susan Stanton who never seemed to feel heat or cold.
Kyle nodded. “I had that figured out for my ownself.”
“Are you hunting?” the old peon said.
Kyle shook his head. “No, we’re looking for a man they call the Sheik. You heard of him?”
“I don’t think so,” the old man said.
The younger peon stood off a ways, his face shut down, listening, thinking, his eyes now and then darting to the shotgun on the burro’s back. It seemed the mention of the Sheik had scared the hell out of him.
“Big chief,” Kyle said. “He lives in a castle and has many wives.”
“I don’t understand,” the man said.
“Try castillo,” Doug Avila said. The muscles of the half-breed’s face were bound hard. He’d grown up with peons, just like those two.
Susan Stanton leaned forward in the saddle. “Castillo,” she said. “Is there a castillo in one of the canyons?”
The peon grinned. “Ah, si, castillo.” He shook his head. “No, there is no castillo.”
“Hacienda,” Susan said. “Is there a hacienda around here?”
The younger peon hissed words that sounded like a warning, and the older man quickly said, “No hacienda.” Suddenly, his gaze was furtive, and he was obviously scared. “Now we must go home,” he said. “We found is no gold in these mountains.”
“Where is the hacienda?” Susan Stanton said.
Another muttered warning from the younger man, and the old peon said, “No hacienda here. Now we will leave.”
It’s already been established that Susan Stanton was a dazzling beauty, a woman that every man wanted to possess. But her loveliness was so flawless, so without equal that even the most ardent suitor hesitated to approach her, knowing he’d be a man competing for a prize beyond value that could never be his. What men didn’t realize, though a few women did, was behind that exquisite façade seethed a moldering mass of corruption and a soul as black as mortal sin. Western men later puzzled over the question . . . how could a woman so beautiful be so ugly and evil, such a vicious monster, the bastard child of Medusa? Susan Stanton’s childhood and early life is unknown, and there’s no evidence to suggest why she turned to the dark side, her violence surprising everyone who saw it . . . a sudden, killing flash of black lightning.
Clay Kyle and the others saw it now.
Susan Stanton stood in the stirrups and threw her knife. An instant later the blade buried itself in the chest of the young peon. His mouth agape, eyes wild, the man looked down at the bowie’s staghorn handle, horror-struck at the manner of his death. He sank to the ground as his father rushed to his side and wailed over the body of his dead son.
Susan Stanton dismounted and walked in the direction of the peons. Clay Kyle was fascinated, a slight smile on his lips, but the others shrank from her as she passed, and Boon Shanks even pulled his restless horse aside when the woman stepped past him.
The old Mexican threw himself over the body of his dead son and sobbed uncontrollably until Susan Stanton’s shadow fell over him like a dark cloak. He looked up at the woman, his eyes full of grief and hate, and spat, “Bruja!”
“Witch,” Avila said. “He just called you a witch, Miss Stanton.”
The woman ignored that and said to the peon, “Where is the hacienda?”
The old man’s only answer was the burn of detestation in his eyes.
Susan pulled the knife from his son’s chest, wiped the blade on the old man’s shoulder, leaving a streak of red, and said, “Where is the hacienda?”
He said nothing.
Susan Stanton pressed the tip of the bowie into the old man’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. She said, “Where is the hacienda?”
“Curse you to the inferno,” the peon said. He was old, he was wise, and he knew the moment of death was near. This woman with the black eyes was an evil spirit that would not let him live.
“Where is the hacienda?” Susan Stanton said.
The old man made no reply and the woman shoved the knife to the hilt into his neck, and he made a choking sound and died.
Susan turned and said to Kyle, “Well, we know the fortress is here, so all we have to do now is find it.” She nodded in the direction of the dead men. “I had to silence them.”
“With a knife,” Kyle said. “That was good work.”
Susan Stanton shrugged. “I couldn’t use a gun.”
Kyle grinned. “The Mexicans knew where the Sheik’s place is all right, and I have the notion that it’s close to where they were prospecting.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Susan said.
Arlo Palmer let out a whoop, and he and Boon Shanks leaped from their horses and ran to the burro. Shanks got there first and claimed the shotgun while Palmer ransacked the rest of the pack, and came up with some tortillas, jerky, and a bottle of mescal. Shanks stepped to the dead peons and picked up the younger man’s sombrero. For a few moments he compared it to his own battered, sweat-stained hat that he finally tossed away before donning the sombrero.
“Hey, Doug, now I look like you!” Shanks yelled.
“You look nothing like me,” Avila said. “And it’s bad luck to wear a dead man’s hat.”
Shanks grinned. “Like I care. It’s just another of your cowboy big windies.”
“You’ll see,” Avila said. “Wear the sombrero, and you’ll never have a day’s luck in your life.”
“Boon, get the sombrero the hell off your head,” Clay Kyle said. As a sixteen-year-old he’d cowboyed for Captain Richard King in south Texas, and the punchers’ superstitions survived strong inside him. “We don’t need bad luck on this job.”
“Aw, Clay . . .” Shanks said.
Even drawing from high, horseman’s leather Kyle was lightning fast with the iron. His Colt pointed at Shanks, he said, “Boon, get rid of the hat or I’ll shoot it right off’n your head.”
Boon didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the sombrero and sailed it away from him. He found his own hat and jammed it on his head. He managed a wan smile. “We don’t want any bad luck, Clay.”
“No, we don’t,” Kyle said, holstering his gun. “Especially since yours was just about to start. Now you and Arlo get mounted. We got some scouting to do.”
“And a rich man to rob,” Susan said. “First you men strip the burro and turn him loose. Poor little thing.” She stepping into the saddle beside Jenny Calthrop, who was trembling and sobbing softly. “What’s the matter, little girl, did I scare you?”
Jenny said nothing, tears staining her cheeks.
“A cutting is never a joy to watch, too much screaming, too much blood,” Susan said. “There, there, don’t cry, you’ll get over it.” She leaned over in the saddle and tried to put her arm around the girl’s shoulder, but Jenny jerked away from her. Immediately Susan shifted the direction of her hand and clamped Jenny’s jaw in her strong fingers. She squeezed hard, and the girl’s eyes fluttered tight shut in pain. “Life is tough, my little darling, but I’m tougher, and I don’t give a damn how my actions look to others . . . they feel just fine to me. I’m a cold-hearted bitch who long ago discovered all her inner demons and now wears them proudly like bat wings.” She shoved Jenny away from her. “You’re a woman and you’re stronger than any man. Remember that, you little slut, and you’ll survive.”
“I don’t want to be like you,” Jenny said, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I don’t ever want to be like you.”
“So be it,” Susan said. “Men will use and abuse you, and in the end they’ll kill you.” She looked straight ahead at where Arlo Palmer and Shanks had released the burro, her beautiful face hard. “Don’t talk to me for the rest of the day.”
“I won’t talk to you ever,” Jenny said. “You were with those others who murdered my family, and I hate you.”
“Clay,” Susan Stanton said, “time’s a-wasting. We should begin the search.”
Kyle, a man branded with his own evil and a born killer, nonetheless had sand, but after listening to Susan Stanton he said, “Sure thing, Suzie. Sure thing.”
* * *
An hour later, and after some fruitless searching, Doug Avila was riding point when two events happened simultaneously . . . a light flashed on the nearest mountain slope and Avila threw up his arm, ordering a halt.
“What the hell?” Clay Kyle said.
“Boss, it’s a signal mirror,” one-eyed Charlie Bates said, a note of alarm in his voice.
“It’s got to be the Sheik’s boys,” Loco Garrett said, just as troubled as Bates.
The light winked again, on and off, on and off, in some kind of sinister code, and a suddenly uneasy Kyle didn’t like it one bit. To his right, there was a deep recess at the base of the mountain, a rock-walled amphitheater strewn with boulders that had fallen from the surrounding slopes during some ancient earthshake. Here and there grew some stunted pines and wild oak and, around the base of some of the rock, clumps of bunch grass. Because of the angle of the retreating sun, the place was deep in shadow, in contrast to the surrounding brightness.
Kyle, blowing through his nose, snorting, made a decision and ordered everyone into the alcove. “Take cover,” he said. “Let them come to us, whoever they are. Loco, keep an eye on the girl.”
“With pleasure, boss,” Garrett said, grinning.
Normally Kyle would’ve told the man to behave himself, but as he and the others took cover behind the scattered boulders, he had other things on his mind. Apaches? Unlikely. No, it had to be the Sheik’s men. The place was guarded like a gold deposit in Leavenworth. He looked around him. Knowing that a gunfight would call for rifle work, everybody, including the six-gun-handy Susan Stanton, held a Winchester. The horses were at the rear of the recess under the shelter of a narrow rock shelf, protected from stray bullets by brush and a few wild oaks.
The day slowly shaded into evening as Kyle studied the sky . . . it would be dark soon.