CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The day had not yet melted into evening when the Kiowa spotted two riders coming from the south. One of the men sat stiff and awkward in the saddle, like a ranny with an injured back, the other was James Duran, the dying sun glinting on the silver conchos that adorned his saddle. As the riders got closer, the Indian saw that Duran was leading the horse of the stiff man by the reins.

But the man didn’t have an injured back . . . he was dead.

Now the Kiowa could make out details and wondered, as he often did, how savage white men could be toward one another. The white rag that Kyle’s man had used as a flag had been stuffed into his mouth and the remainder hung over his chest and since his throat was cut, that part of the rag was soaked, glistening with blood. The dead man had been tied to his saddle, his back braced with a couple of wild oak branches bound into the shape of a T. His eyes were wide open, fixed, staring at nothing.

Then Duran made his presence known. Keeping his distance, he yelled, “Hey, Kyle.”

The Kiowa reckoned that the outlaw saw his dead emissary, but his voice was steady as he returned, “What the hell do you want?”

“Only this,” Duran said, “if you want to talk with Dave Shannon, don’t send a pig to stand among men. Now show me the girl.”

Kyle stepped to Jenny, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and pushed her ahead of him, making sure she was between him and the gun of Shannon’s man.

“Here she is,” he yelled. “A rancher’s daughter and never been kissed.”

“I can understand why,” Duran said. “She ain’t much. And kinda sulky.”

Kyle drew back his hand. “I’ll soon wipe that sulkiness off her face.”

“No”—a long pause then—“don’t. Dave won’t want her marked.”

“Will he talk with me?” Kyle said, shoving Jenny away from him.

Duran didn’t answer that directly. “There’s vigilantes in the mountains, Kyle, or at least, that’s what they call themselves.”

“What’s that to me?” Kyle said. “Sounds like it’s a problem for Shannon.”

“Not for him. For you, Kyle. They aim to hang you, something about the murder of the girl’s family,” Duran said.

That hit Kyle like a punch to the gut. “How many?”

“It don’t really matter. One of them is Clint Cooley.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s hell on wheels with a gun,” Duran said. “A bad man to have on your backtrail.”

“What does Shannon say about this?” Kyle said.

“He don’t want vigilantes in the Sierra del Carmen. That’s way too close to home.”

“If he helps me get rid of the vigilantes, I’ll leave the mountains and never come back,” Kyle said.

“That’s a better bargaining chip than the girl,” Duran said. “I’ll tell him what you said, and if he’s all right with it, he’ll be in touch.”

Zack Palmer had walked closer to his brother, a blue-faced corpse on a horse. Now, like a bolt from the blue, his words sounded loud and clear in the silent land. To Duran, he said, “Why did you kill him?”

“He stank up our camp, and he offered to buy the girl after Dave was finished with her, said he was willing to wait until the girl was available,” Duran said. “Dave said he was trash and told him to go to hell and your man . . . what was he called?”

“Arlo. Arlo Palmer,” Zack said.

“Well, Arlo was so annoyed about not getting the girl he gave Dave sass and backtalk,” Duran said.

“And then you cut his throat,” Zack said.

Duran shook his head. “I didn’t, not my style. We had a blade man ride in a few days ago, goes by the name of John Smith. Seems he cut a man in a saloon in Austin and has been on the dodge since.” Duran sighed as though the story bored him and then said, “Anyway Smith cut . . . what was him name again?”

“Arlo,” Palmer said.

“Yeah, Arlo. Well, Smith was tired of listening to him and cut his throat,” Duran said. “As Dave Shannon said, it saved us a twelve-cent cartridge.”

“That’s how much my brother meant to you, twelve lousy cents?” Zack said.

“I didn’t put a price on him, Dave Shannon did,” Duran said. “But by the way he looked and smelled, a lot like you, in fact, I guess twelve cents was just about right.”

“Zack . . . no,” Kyle said.

Too late. A split second too late.

Zack Palmer cursed and went for his gun. He didn’t even come close. James Duran was a named gambler/shootist, and he was fast. Palmer was still clearing leather when Duran’s first shot hit him in the middle of the chest. The follow-up shot, too hurried, missed. But by then Zack Palmer was dead on his feet. His legs went from under him, and he hit the ground in a heap, his open eyes staring glazed and empty at his crucified brother.

Duran’s Colt, hammer back, swung on Clay Kyle. But the man raised his hands and yelled, “I’m not making a play.”

Duran’s eyes moved to Susan Stanton, who stood motionless, and then searched beyond her for more of Kyle’s men. There were none.

“Kyle, what did you see?” Duran said.

“He called it.”

“You?” That to the woman.

“He drew first, and you killed him,” Susan said. “Cost you twenty-four cents, two shots of whiskey. Was he worth it?”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” Duran said.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Susan Stanton said.

“He drew down on me,” Duran said.

“Yeah, like Clay said, he called the play,” Susan said. She glanced at Zack Palmer’s body. “Who the hell cares?”

Duran looked at Kyle. “Holler for the rest of your boys,” he said.

The outlaw shook his head. “I have no boys, not any longer. Me, Suzie, and the Calthrop girl are all that’s left.”

“What happened to your men?” Duran said.

“One way or another, they each took a bullet, and Arlo got his throat cut,” Kyle said. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. Hell, it even happened to Jesse and Frank at Northfield.”

“There’s still vigilantes in the mountains and because of Clint Cooley they could be too much for you to handle,” Duran said. “Dave wants them out of here before the Rurales and Texas Rangers take an interest. Men on the scout pay Dave Shannon big money to lie low here, so you can consider him a businessman looking out for his own interests.”

“So where does that leave me?” Kyle said.

Duran thought that through for a few moments and then said, “Saddle up, Kyle, you’re coming with me. It’s time you spoke to Dave again. Maybe you and him can team up against the vigilantes, and then you leave the Sierra del Carmen and never come back.”

Then, putting words to a random thought, “There’s no gold here anyway,” Kyle said.

“And there never was,” Duran said. “Now mount up.”

“What about me and the girl?” Susan Stanton said. Her beauty was unsullied, her legs and breasts magnificent, but there were tired shadows under her eyes.

“I’ll come back for you,” Duran said. “No point in complicating matters with women. Some of those hunted outlaws ain’t to be trusted.”

* * *

The Kiowa waited until two men rode together into the gathering dusk before he left his position among the rocks and slipped away, keeping to the shadows. He recognized one of the riders as James Duran. The other was probably Clay Kyle, a big man on a fine, blood horse that would cost a Texas cowboy a year’s wages. This could only be bad tidings for Deputy Caine, the Kiowa decided. It looked like the vigilantes were headed for the fight of their lives.