CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I wish I was close enough to put a rifle bullet into Clay Kyle,” Fish Lee said. “Then we could all turn and go home with a clear conscience.”
“There are others, and they’re just as guilty as he is,” Dan Caine said. “And what about Black-Eyed Susan?”
“What about her?” Fish said. His horse shook its head at a fly, the bit chiming in the late morning silence.
“You gonna put a bullet in her?” Dan said.
“She’s a problem, ain’t she?” Fish said.
“What kind of problem?” Clint Cooley said. “Apart from her being a woman, that is.”
“Apart from her being a woman, he says.” Fish looked serious. “That’s exactly the dang problem, gambling man. You ever shot a woman?”
Cooley smiled. “I don’t think so, but I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”
“Well, I ain’t never shot a member of the female sex afore, and I never will,” Fish said. “So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“Hear that, Estella?” Cooley said. “You’re safe around ol’ Fish. He don’t hold with gunning ladies.”
“Mr. Lee is a gentleman,” Estella said. “That’s more than can be said for some around here.” And then, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Clint Cooley.”
“The Kiowa’s coming in,” Dan Caine said, smiling, his gaze reaching into the distance.
* * *
“The river is close, and there’s a shallow crossing,” the Kiowa said. “Kyle and his men forded there maybe two days ago.” He glanced at the menacing sky. “Thunderstorm coming. Lightning among those peaks will not be pleasant.”
“We’ll chance it,” Dan said. “I don’t want to lose Clay Kyle in the mountains.”
“Wiser if you’d said that you don’t want to meet Clay Kyle in the mountains,” the Kiowa said. “He has many gunmen with him.”
“Indian, answer my question with something wise,” Cooley said. “If we meet up with Kyle what are our chances?”
“None,” the Kiowa said. “I could give you advice, but the white man never listens.”
“I’m listening,” Dan Caine said.
“Then wash the warpaint from your faces and go home quietly, like beaten warriors,” the Kiowa said.
“That is not my intention,” Dan said.
The Kiowa nodded. “I know I waste my breath. White men are deaf to good advice from an Indian.”
To the north, still at a distance, angry thunder growled like a hibernating bear roused from sleep, and a rising wind rushed across the long grass. The air smelled strange, of ozone and far-off rain, and the horses grew restless, sensing what their riders could not . . . the violence to come.
“What about you, Kiowa?” Fish Lee said. “Come now, state your own intentions. Will you tuck your tail between your legs and run?”
“I told deputy Caine that I will lead him to Clay Kyle,” the Kiowa answered. “As I’ve said before, my job is not yet done.” He again glanced at the threatening sky. “When Kyle is within rifle shot, I will leave. I have no quarrel with the man.”
It was growing darker as though the too-heavy black thunderclouds were falling to earth, and a few dismal drops of rain rode the wind and cooled the scorching heat of the day.
Dan saw Estella Sweet stare at the sky, her pretty face anxious, anticipating the coming tempest.
“Kiowa,” Dan said. “we’ll flap our chaps to the Rio Bravo and cross before the storm hits. It’s going to be a big ’un, and we need to find shelter.”
“Anybody here raised a Catholic like me?” Clint Cooley said. No one answered, and he said, “Then I’ll say it for all of us . . . Jesus, Mary, and Joseph help us.”
“Amen, brother,” Cornelius Massey said. “We’re going to need all the heavenly help we can get.”
* * *
The storm hit with clangorous venom as the vigilantes were halfway across the Rio Bravo. Illuminated by lightning, the rain fell in flashing sheets as thunder bellowed and the surface of the river turned choppy and treacherous. Everyone was soaked to the skin within moments, and the horses changed color to glistening black.
Dan Caine dropped back and urged his riders to quicken their pace. “Get out of this damn water!” he yelled. But the gusting wind took his words and tossed them away, unheard, and the rain hammered relentlessly and blurred the surrounding terrain like a waterlogged Monet masterpiece.
Fish Lee gained the far bank first and went back to help a floundering Cornelius Massey keep his seat in the saddle. For a newspaperman, he had a fine vocabulary of cuss words, but his tirade was lost in the tumult, though Fish managed to get the gist of it. As Dan pushed his horse closer to Massey’s mule, thunder blasted and lightning cracked close. Dan’s spooked mount suddenly reared and threw him into the river. As he staggered to his feet in waist-high water, Clint Cooley’s horse breasted the current and, showing considerable strength, the gambler reached down and pulled Dan by the back of his shirt onto his saddle. “Damn you, Dan, this is no time to go swimming,” he yelled.
“I just took the notion,” Dan said. “Where’s my hat?”
“Right beside you, snagged on your gun,” Cooley shouted in Dan’s ear. “Keep that Colt, it’s a fine hat-snatcher, since you can’t use it for anything else.”
Dan jammed the hat on his head and tried to come up with a sharp retort . . . but he couldn’t think of anything.
Everybody reached the riverbank without further mishap and found the Kiowa waiting for them. He held the reins of Dan’s horse, and, a rare sight, a smile played around his lips. Soaking wet, his dignity bruised, Dan climbed into the saddle, and the Indian cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled above the rage of a sky being torn apart, “Arroyo.” He waved a hand behind him. “Shelter.”
Dan nodded, and he and the others fell in behind the Indian. The Kiowa silently led the way to a narrow gulch that gouged the base of a mountain like a knife cut and rode at a walk inside. The rest followed and were suddenly cut off from the wind and the worst of the rain. The rock-walled passage was so narrow, they rode in single file for about fifty yards before the arroyo opened up into a grassy area about two acres in extent, surrounded by high walls. Here the rail fell, coming straight down, but there was little wind. But what surprised Dan and the others was a small stone cabin, coarsely built, with a sagging timber and shingle roof. To the front it had a rough wood door and one small window with four dirty panes that looked like cataract eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the world. The cabin crouched low behind a slight rise, as though trying to hide, but from its iron chimney a black string of smoke rose and gave it away. It was a rundown, dreary place, but what caught Dan Caine’s attention was the man who pushed out of the cabin door, a Winchester in his hands.
He did not look friendly. In fact, he looked downright hostile.
“This,” said Fish Lee, “looks like trouble.”
“Just what we need,” Dan Caine said.