Chapter 19

In the night, Beck had awakened with a start, its cause he did not know. But upon opening his eyes, he looked across the sleeping forms strewn about on the floor. Everyone, including the woman, lay wrapped in blankets, sound asleep. The exception was Soto, who sat in the glow of the hearth, staring straight at him. He wore a cold, thin smile that hinted of his having something to do with Beck’s sharp awakening.

Standing, Soto said, ‘‘Did someone just step over your grave?’’

Beck only stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘‘If they did, they were wise enough to keep walking.’’

‘‘Good one,’’ said Soto, nodding. ‘‘I’ll have to remember that answer.’’ Standing he said, ‘‘I’ll go get some wood for the fire?’’

‘‘Tell me something,’’ Beck said, keeping his voice lowered as Soto weaved his steps through the sleepers lying about on the floor. ‘‘Why is it sometimes I hear an accent when you talk and other times I don’t?’’

‘‘I have no idea why you hear whatever you hear,’’ Soto said smugly, without stopping.

Beck stood also as if poised for anything as Soto walked past the woman who slept on a long, battered sofa in the middle of the room. ‘‘You and I are never going to be friends, are we, Suelo?’’

Soto stopped at the door with his hand on the knob and said, ‘‘Is it that important to you that we are?’’ He smiled coldly again. ‘‘Or is it better that we remain business associates and become rich together?’’

‘‘I can live with that,’’ said Beck, easing to a window and looking out as Soto stepped down off the porch, picked up two fire logs, turned and came back inside.

‘‘See, I came back, all done,’’ Soto said, stepping through the sleepers atop the hearth and laying the logs into the fire quietly.

‘‘For us to become friends before riding out on this big job tomorrow, you’d have to give me that rifle in your arms, and let yourself go soundly to sleep,’’ said Soto, ‘‘instead of catnapping with your hand wrapped around the gun stock. I would consider that a true act of trust, worthy of my friendship.’’

‘‘Good night, Suelo,’’ Beck said, as if not giving Soto’s suggestion a second thought.

Three hours later as the first wreath of sunlight spread along the hill line, Beck stood up and walked out onto the front porch, hearing the sound of hoofbeats moving along the trail toward the house. ‘‘Wake up back there,’’ he said over his shoulder. ‘‘We’ve got a rider coming! Dave gave us no signal.’’

Flannery hurried to his feet and to the door first, his Colt in hand. ‘‘Somebody slipped past Arken?’’

‘‘Unless it is Arken,’’ said Carver, right behind Flannery, followed by Kirkpatrick.

‘‘It’s not Arken,’’ said Beck. ‘‘Dave always rides straight in. Whoever this is keeps stopping.’’

‘‘Wait,’’ said Carver, straining his eyes into the grainy morning gloom. ‘‘That’s Dave’s roan horse, sure enough!’’

They all watched the riderless horse move into sight, then stop and lower its muzzle to pick at a clump of trailside grass. ‘‘But no Dave,’’ said Beck. He stared at the horse warily, then said over his shoulder, ‘‘Keep me covered.’’

Stepping down and hurrying forward, Beck retrieved the big roan and led it back to the hitch rail. Having looked out along the trail and seeing no one, he said, ‘‘All clear,’’ and looked the animal over thoroughly for any sign of blood or foul play.

‘‘The horse is fine,’’ Kirkpatrick commented. He looked off toward the gray swirl adrift along the hilltops. ‘‘I never knew Dave to slip a saddle. Something’s gone wrong up there.’’

‘‘I’m going up,’’ said Flannery. He stepped over and picked up his saddle he’d slung over the porch rail the night before.

As he stepped down to the horses that had been grained and watered and spent the night at the hitch rail, Beck called out, ‘‘We’re all riding up there. If something’s gone wrong up there, it’ll be time we skin out of here anyway.’’

The whole group, ten men and the woman, rode up along the hill trail, following Arken’s tracks in the first light of morning. At the spot where Dave had fallen, Carver eased down onto his belly, crawled forward and looked down. ‘‘Oh no,’’ he said, staring down at the dismembered corpse lying in a bloody heap, the next level down, partly hidden amid a stand of low juniper.

‘‘What is it, Billy Todd?’’ Flannery asked, seeing the look on Carver’s face.

‘‘It’s Dave, the poor sumbitch,’’ said Carver. ‘‘At least, the face looks like it might be his.’’

‘‘I’m coming,’’ said Beck. Having led Arken’s horse back up into the hills with them, he passed the reins to Flannery, then stooped down and started to crawl out toward the broken edge. But Carver waved him back.

‘‘This ledge ain’t safe out here, Memphis,’’ he said, his voice stricken with grief. ‘‘Ride down to the hillside and find a way to him. We can’t leave one of our own lying here like this.’’

For the next half hour the riders searched until they found a thin path leading around the hillside to the ledge where Arken’s chopped up body lay, piled out of sight in a juniper thicket. The men carried the body out one piece at a time and laid them loosely together on the dirt path. Standing over the gruesome remains, Beck said, ‘‘Whoever did this never meant for us to find his body. Luckily, you spotted it looking down from up there, Billy Todd,’’ he said to Carver.

‘‘He was a good-natured ole boy,’’ Carver said, looking down, shaking his head. ‘‘Never harmed nobody.’’

‘‘Yeah, I know,’’ said Beck, ‘‘and to think I let him go and take my place.’’

‘‘Don’t blame yourself for this, Memphis,’’ said Flannery. ‘‘Dave asked to take your place. Neither he nor you saw anything like this coming.’’ He dropped the saddle and bridle from Arken’s roan horse and slapped it on its rump, setting the animal free. As the horse trotted away and turned to the trail leading down to the hacienda, Flannery looked all around, seeing no sign of tracks, animal or man, in the dirt or along the rocky path. ‘‘What kind of craven devil does something like this and doesn’t so much as leave its tracks in the earth?’’

‘‘Only something not from this earth,’’ Cruzan said with a look of terror. He looked all around frantically. ‘‘I’ve heard of some awful things in these hills, things that ain’t human.’’

‘‘Stop it, Cruz,’’ said Flannery. ‘‘Whoever did this to Arken is as human as you and me. Maybe they’d like for you to think they’re not human.’’ His eyes went to Soto accusingly. ‘‘That’s the way they wield power over a bunch of scared, ignorant dirt farmers. But they’re not devils. You’ll see that if we can get our gun sights on them.’’

‘‘You keep looking at me,’’ Soto said coolly to Flannery. ‘‘Is there something you’ve got on your mind? Are you blaming me for this?’’ As he spoke, his hand brushed back across his gun butt and poised there.

There it was, Beck noted, listening closely to Soto, hearing that slightest trace of an accent creeping into his voice.

‘‘Yeah, I’ve got something to say,’’ Flannery replied, his left hand answering Soto’s challenge by sweeping back his lapel and revealing a big Colt in a shoulder harness up under his arm. His right hand lay poised and ready across his flat stomach.

‘‘Get it said,’’ Soto demanded.

‘‘In all the years that there’s been a Hole-in-the-wall Gang, there’s never been an innocent person killed, and we’ve never lost one of our own,’’ Flannery said. ‘‘Now that you’re here, we’ve done both inside of two days. You’re damn right I’m blaming you.’’

‘‘Hold it, both of you. This is not the time or the place!’’ Beck said, not wanting anything to interfere with their plans. ‘‘We don’t know who did this, and we don’t know who could be on our back trail right now. One gunshot and this whole operation is off. Is that what you want, Flannery?’’ He looked all around at the grim faces. ‘‘Is that what any of you want? I know it’s not what Dave would have wanted.’’

While the men spoke back and forth, Clarimonde spotted the butt of Arken’s Colt lying half-hidden in the low-lying juniper thicket. She inched over to it, stooped and picked it up. Before anyone could notice her, she’d hidden the Colt beneath her serape, stepped back and breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever happened, she was no longer defenseless.

Settling the two men for the time being, Beck said to everyone, ‘‘Whatever differences any of us have right now, it’s time to put them away. We’ve got to get Dave into the ground and get out of here. It’s a long, hard ride to where we’re headed.’’

As the men loaded the severed remains of Dave Arken into two blankets and hauled them around the hillside to a softer bed of ground, Clarimonde sidled her horse over to Memphis Beck and whispered between the two of them, ‘‘He did it. I know he did.’’

‘‘Oh? What makes you say that?’’ Beck stared ahead, but listened.

Glancing back first and seeing Soto looking away across the rugged hills, she said, ‘‘He has talked about commanding demons from his cult following him ever since he killed Nate Ransdale, the fellow who helped him escape. I thought it was just his raving madness at first, but after seeing what happened to your man, I know it’s true. His demons are tracking us. Suelo Soto is pure evil, no less so than the devil himself. You must get rid of him.’’

Still staring ahead, Beck said coolly, ‘‘I’ve got one little problem with getting rid of him.’’ As he continued he turned a questioning gaze her way. ‘‘Once he’s gone, who’s going to handle explosives for us?’’

She understood what he was asking. Having already given the matter much thought, she swallowed a dry knot in her throat and said, ‘‘I will.’’

Beck allowed himself a hint of a smile. ‘‘Have you studied everything? Do you know what he knows? Can you do what he does?’’

Without mentioning that she’d only watched Soto go through the process twice, she said, ‘‘I know how to make the nitroglycerin, and I can combine it with the clay.’’

‘‘Are you certain?’’ Beck asked.

‘‘I am certain,’’ said Clarimonde. ‘‘I am the one who mixed the batch we tested. I mixed the batch we’re getting ready to use.’’

‘‘Good enough,’’ said Beck. ‘‘I’ll get you a pencil and some paper. You can write it all down for me. I’ll look it over.’’

‘‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Beck,’’ Clarimonde said coldly. ‘‘I didn’t realize that you thought me a fool. With the process on paper, you would have no further need of me.’’ She started to jerk the big paint horse away from his side.

‘‘Whoa, ma’am,’’ said Beck, grabbing the horse’s bridle and pulling it back beside him. ‘‘I was only testing you. I apologize.’’

Clarimonde eased down and took a deep breath. Keeping the big paint horse beside him, she asked, ‘‘Well, did I pass your test?’’

‘‘Yep,’’ said Beck, still looking straight ahead. ‘‘Help me get us through this big job. I realize that getting Soto out of prison was a mistake, no matter how badly I need an explosives man. Once this is over, he’s gone. If you can do the job, it’s yours.’’

Pushing on through the night, the ranger and Hector arrived at the Pierman spread so close behind Beck and his men that they poured themselves a cup of coffee that had been left on the cooling potbellied stove. ‘‘I say an hour at the most,’’ Sam estimated, after picking up a thin, black cigar from an ashtray, and checking the burned tip for warmth and the rear for moisture.

Hector sipped his coffee with a tired smile of satisfaction. ‘‘Then why are we stopping? We haven’t a minute to lose.’’

‘‘We’ll lose more than a minute if we don’t feed and rest our horses,’’ Sam pointed out.

‘‘Yes, you are right,’’ said Hector, rubbing his face as he began to feel the weight of the long hours in the saddle, and the effect it had started having on his judgment. ‘‘I will go attend the horses.’’

‘‘No, I’ll attend the horses,’’ Sam replied. Noting the haggard look on Hector’s face, he said, ‘‘It won’t hurt for you to slow down long enough to get a meal in your belly and close your eyes for a while.’’

"Sí, perhaps I will, just for a minute,’’ said Hector, slumping down onto a large, cushioned chair.

While the young guardia sat with his eyes closed, the ranger stepped over, took the coffee mug from his hand and set it on a nearby table. Then, he walked outside and led their horses to a water trough where he let the animals drink their fill as he searched and found grain for them inside a feed bin beside the barn.

Seeing the big, bareback roan milling shyly at the side of the hacienda, Sam walked over slowly with a handful of grain and held it out. ‘‘Come on, fellow, don’t be bashful,’’ he coaxed. ‘‘I can tell you’re hungry.’’

The horse nosed forward. Sensing no danger, he nibbled hungrily at the grain as Sam looked him over thoroughly, trying to picture the animal’s circumstances. ‘‘Why’d they leave you behind, fellow?’’ he asked. ‘‘Good horses being as scarce as they are out here.’’ He looked out along the trail—the direction the horse had ridden in from—and up along the hill line. They had lost a man up there, he deduced. Somewhere beyond the hills Beck and his gang were riding toward a robbery of some sort. They had lost a man and turned his horse loose. Why else was this animal not in a corral, he asked himself. ‘‘No reason . . . ,’’ he replied under his breath, rubbing the roan’s neck as it munched the grain from his hand.

Suddenly the roan reared its head and nickered low, looking past the ranger’s shoulder toward the hacienda. Sam spun around, his Colt coming up from its holster. But he saw nothing. Then, as he scanned both sides of the wide adobe house, through the open front door he caught sight of two ghostly white figures moving across the room and out of sight, toward the chair where Hector sat sleeping.

Running fast, the ranger sprang up onto the porch and through the open front door. With no regard for his own safety, he raced into the hacienda, his Colt up and cocked, in time to see two figures look toward him from where they stood over Hector, machetes raised high in the air. They stood hatless, their shaved heads covered with strangely colorful tattoos.

As soon as Sam’s Colt exploded, one figure flew backward onto the stone hearth. Hearing Hector’s Colt explode from the chair where he sat, Sam saw the other figure spin upward and away, his machete flying from his hand.

‘‘Hector, are you all right?’’ Sam called out as he spun in place, his smoking Colt scanning the room until he saw there were no more strange-looking figures in white ready to spring out on them.

"Sí! I’m all right.’’ Hector jumped up from the chair, his Colt also smoking. Sam saw the worried look on his face as the young lawman sided over to him quickly, half-crouched. ‘‘We must get out of here, fast,’’ Hector said, looking all around, then down at the two bodies. ‘‘There are more of them!’’ He crossed himself as he backed toward the open front door.

‘‘Who are these people?’’ Sam asked, reaching down to grab one body by its shirt collar and drag it out onto the porch.

‘‘They are demons, from the cult of Satan’s Brothers,’’ said Hector, calming down enough to drag the other body out, his Colt still cocked and smoking as he did so. ‘‘They are Suelo Soto’s protectors—you can count on it.’’

The two stepped down from the porch and spread out, putting a few feet of space between them, covering each other as they made their way to the horses. At the hitch rail, out in the open, Hector calmed down, looking all around the wide-open front yard. ‘‘Come,’’ he said. ‘‘We will get out onto the open trail. I do not like being at close quarters with these demons and the evil they embody.’’