THE HORSE SHORTAGE CONTINUED, WITH prices for available mounts doubling and tripling. Then word was received that fresh horses would be offered for sale by local ranches at the end of the month. Duane waited for the animals to arrive, made plans, and gathered equipment.
He visited the gunsmith and negotiated a slightly used no-frills .44 caliber Winchester Model 1866 with brass receiver and 24-inch barrel for accuracy at long distances. Then he crossed to the general store and purchased sturdy black leather saddlebags, an extra shirt, a blanket, and a poncho. He carried his belongings to the desert and stashed them in a cave.
He sat cross-legged in gullies for hours, shaded by cottonwood trees, and contemplated the long, harsh, hazardous journey before him. His body had become soft due to excessive food and drink during his aimless nights in Escondido, so he placed himself on a regimen of running up and down mountains for long periods each day, as when he'd lived among the Apaches.
Escondido wasn't a total loss, because now at last he knew who his mother was. Kathleen O'Shea. He'd wanted to question Dolores Goines further, but didn't dare endanger her life. I'll find out everything I need to know in the Pecos country, he promised himself.
He didn't know what form his vengeance would take, and possibly Sam Archer wasn't even alive anymore. No matter what I do, it won't bring my father and mother back. The former acolyte had killed previously only in self-defense, and couldn't imagine holding a gun calmly to a man's head, then pulling the trigger. It was opposite everything he'd been taught by learned priests and brothers. I'll worry about it when I've got Sam Archer cornered, he thought.
He suspected that the killer had left Escondido after the fire, since no further attempts had been made on his life. Meanwhile, freighters arrived from the north with loads of lumber, and the reconstruction of the stable began. Duane sat on a bench across the street and smoked one cigarette after another as he watched the building materialize before his very eyes. Outlaws and wastrels worked as carpenters, and Duane learned that they weren't completely worthless after all. Occasionally Maggie would step out of the Last Chance Saloon, issue a stream of curse-laden directives, and return to her smoky gloomy tavern.
Duane spent most of his time on the desert traveling from spot to spot so no one could anticipate his position. Sometimes he had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was stalking him, but he moved in a zigzag fashion, maintaining a low silhouette.
The only thing standing between him and old man Archer was a horse. Occasionally he thought of stealing one but didn't want to add horse thievery to his other low crimes and misdemeanors. At night he sat in the hills and gazed at the twinkling lights of Escondido in the distance, occasionally hearing the flat notes of the off-key pianist in the Last Chance Saloon. The only person he missed was Maggie, and he resolved to have a long talk with her before leaving for the Pecos country.
He slept in a cave like a coyote. The shrouded ghosts of Amos Twilby, the blacksmith, Hazel Sanders, and Marty Schlack paraded through his dreams, their mournful dirges disturbing his rest, as their poor lost souls cried for vengeance.