11

The canyon on the far side of the plain was a box canyon, just like Jake had figured, seeing it from a height. He could see clear to the end of it from the entrance. He didn’t see any obvious demons’ nest, and they’d be safe enough from the Apaches.

He told himself there was nothing to worry about—at least until they found the demons. After spending much of last night thinking about what had happened to Meacham, and almost had happened to the kid, he figured the people the demons had taken were likely dead by now. Being realistic, he figured the demons would probably kill him, and everyone with him, too.

If that didn’t bother the others, it didn’t bother him. From everything he’d heard, he should have been dead a long time ago … at least, long before he’d left Alice to demons. If the others had come here wanting justice but willing to settle for revenge, then they must all have come to the same decision, no matter how they’d arrived at it. All he wanted now was a chance to send a few demons back to Hell personally, before he died—just to let the Devil know he was coming.

But a box canyon was a box canyon: a natural trap. He felt the odd prickling run up his spine, the sixth sense that kept telling him things he didn’t want to hear. The fact that Dolarhyde kept searching the canyon rim just as intently as he was only increased his bad feeling.

Nat dismounted again, kneeling down by another demon track. “That way.” He began to raise his arm.

Rifle shots echoed from the canyon walls; bullets fired from above pocked the ground all around them. The horses spooked, and so did most of the riders who suddenly were trying to control them; a couple had to pull leather just to keep from falling off.

Jake looked up at the men with rifles trained on them, who’d appeared out of nowhere to pin them in a perfect crossfire. Not Apaches. And there was only one other thing men like these could be.

One of the men up above shouted, “Hands in the air!”

Shit, Jake thought, slowly raising his hands with the rest.

Two riders were entering the canyon mouth now, holding their rifles trained on the group. The perfect trap. Jake stared at the two men riding toward him. One of them was Mexican, the other Anglo, both as hard-looking as the land itself.

His own expression felt stuck somewhere between frustration and disgust … disgust at himself, for not trusting his instincts; frustration because they’d been so close to finding the demons—

The two outlaws reined in, sizing up their catch. The Mexican said, “I say we just shoot ‘em, and take their—” He broke off as he met Jake’s stare. “Boss?” he said, incredulous.

Jake realized that both men were staring straight at him. They lowered their guns, their hostility turning to complete surprise. The Mexican who’d called him “boss” actually dismounted, looking nervous.

“What the hell you doin’ back here, Lonergan?” the other man said. He stayed on his horse, only looking suspicious as he started toward Jake.

“Jesus, boss, Dolan’s gonna shit when he sees you,” the Mexican said. Looking past Jake at Dolarhyde and the rest, he added, “And who the hell are they?”

Now everybody was staring at him. Oh, Christ.… He could swear he’d never seen either of these men before, let alone been their leader. He had no idea what their names were. But they sure knew him: Jake Lonergan—the Scourge of the Territories.

The man still on his horse rode up alongside Jake, looking even more suspicious when Jake didn’t say anything. “What’s the matter, Lonergan? Cat got your—?”

Jake dropped his hands and smacked the man across the mouth, as hard as he could, knocking the words back down his throat. “Shut up!” he snarled, because it felt right. If Jake Lonergan was wanted, dead or alive, then nobody from his gang—nobody at all—talked to him like that. He was off the map for good, now. His instincts were all he had left to follow.

Now Ella and the others were staring at him. Dolarhyde looked at him with more disbelief than anyone; his eyes held a question that demanded an answer, one Jake couldn’t give him out loud.

Jake gave him an urgent look, willing him to understand: Just go with it. He glanced back at the outlaws who’d confronted them. They were both looking at him like he was the Jake Lonergan they remembered, now. The man on the horse beside him mumbled, “Christ, Jake … you broke my tooth.” He put a hand over his bleeding mouth.

“Then keep your mouth shut,” Jake said. “How many boys we got left?”

“’Bout the same.” The man shrugged.

Jake glanced at the sky, at the men still covering them from the ridge. “Still about, uh…”

“Thirty,” the man said.

“That’s right. Thirty. Good.” Jake ransacked his empty brain for more questions, stalling for time and information. “Where’s my stuff?”

The two men traded confused looks. “You took it with you,” the man he’d smacked in the mouth mumbled.

Oh. “Damn right I did.” Jake frowned at one and then the other. “Bring me to the camp. Time to get things straight.”

The two men nodded, and the Mexican mounted up again. “Lonergan’s back!” he shouted to the men on the cliffs. “Meet us at the camp!” The bushwhackers disappeared, as quickly as they’d showed. The two outlaws in the canyon rode off toward its mouth without looking back.

“This is your gang?” Dolarhyde finally asked, as if he had to confirm what he’d seen with his own eyes.

“So it seems,” Jake said.

Doc leaned forward in his saddle, with a look that made Jake think of a possum trying to pass for a coyote. Jake swallowed a laugh, keeping a straight face as Doc muttered, “Listen, these guys look a bit lonely to me. I think it’s time to call it a noche.”

Jake glanced at Ella, back at Doc as he realized Doc was more likely thinking about death than dishonor.

But it was his gang. “We need every gun we can get,” he said. He spurred his horse and rode away, leaving the rest of them to follow him, whether they liked it or not.

*   *   *

BACK IN CAMP, the rest of Jake’s gang were getting ready to ride out, moving in and out of tents, rummaging in piles of boxes for supplies. Horses were being saddled, weapons from their full stockpile chosen, checked, loaded. Men filled gun belts with cartridges, and canteens with water from the seepage-fed pool at the foot of the canyon wall. A few rounds of extra ammunition for shotguns and rifles went into their saddlebags, or bandoliers.

Pat Dolan slung a rifle at his back, and turned impatiently to check on the progress of the others. “The coach is on its way and we best be sober for it.” He strode through the camp, making sure everybody was prepared, and nobody who was riding out with him smelled too much like alcohol.

He paused by the man they all called Red, even though the color of his grizzled hair and beard was halfway to a memory at this point. Red had been a miner once, before most of the mines in the area had gone bust; he sat now on a crate of dynamite, surrounded by more of the same, as he rummaged in a barrel of rocks that gleamed with streaks of gold. “How’s the haul, Red?”

“Gold from the Vulture Mine looks pretty rich.” Red held out a chunk for his inspection.

Dolan nodded, glad to hear it, even though “rich” wasn’t what it used to be. They’d had a long ride just to reach two mines that weren’t played out or abandoned. It was the dynamite they’d been after; but the gold ore hadn’t hurt anybody’s morale. “How much dynamite we get?”

“’Bout fifty sticks.” Red nodded at the crates.

Dolan figured that should be more than enough to drop a good-sized rockslide in front of the overland mail coach, and blow open an ironbound Wells Fargo treasure box, if they had to … enough for two or three jobs, in fact. With this much dynamite, they could waylay a train, if the boys were of a mind to travel as far as the railroad line.

Times were hard; it might be worth the hard traveling. There wasn’t a bank in Absolution with a vault worth robbing, anymore. The only man in the area who still had enough money to put in a bank was Woodrow Dolarhyde, the owner of the only real ranch for a hundred miles. And he’d put all his money on the bullion coach, the one they’d robbed about a month ago … right before Jake up and left, taking most of Dolarhyde’s gold with him, that no-good bastard.

Dolan glanced up the hill toward the only point of entry into their well-hidden camp, searching again for the men who’d gone to check out some strangers passing through. He wondered what in hell was taking them so—

“Dolan!”

He looked up again as he heard a familiar voice call out his name, and started toward the crest of the hill, where Bronc and Hunt were just now riding through the gap in an outcrop of sandstone so weathered it looked like bad teeth.

“’Bout time you got back!” Dolan said angrily. He saw blood and a bruise on Hunt’s face. “What the hell happened to you—?”

Hunt nodded over his shoulder. “He did.”

The rest of the gang behind him parted ranks, letting Jake Lonergan ride through. Dolan stared. He’d never expected to see Lonergan again, if they both lived as long as Methuselah. And following behind Jake was the damnedest ragtag bunch of.… What the hell was that—his entire bloody clan?

Dolan put his hands on his hips, near his gun belt, as he took it all in. “Well, shit,” he said, an opinion that could’ve been an observation.

*   *   *

THE ENTIRE CAMP had fallen quiet around Dolan, every man in it staring at Jake.

Jake’s eyes ran the gauntlet of accusing stares, realizing that the reaction to his return wasn’t exactly the welcome he’d expected. At least the people with him kept their mouths shut; even Dolarhyde was smart enough for that.

Jake knew he’d heard Dolan’s name before today—which meant either yesterday or the day before. He looked hard at Dolan, a black-haired Irishman in a derby that had seen better days. Dolan didn’t look any more familiar than any of the others. But beside Dolan was a bearded man who stood nearly seven feet tall.

Suddenly Jake heard Taggart’s voice in his mind, reading off the charges from his wanted poster.… There’d been two other names: Pat Dolan, and Bull McCade. The poster said they’d robbed the bullion coach with Jake Lonergan just last month.

He still couldn’t recall a damn thing about robbing a coach. But face to face with his own gang, the circumstantial evidence had finally got so deep he had to admit he was up to his neck in it, or drown: He was Jake Lonergan … and now he was going to have to live up to his reputation.

Dolan must’ve taken charge after he’d … disappeared; and Dolan looked like by now he enjoyed being the big bug. He was the one Jake would have to face down … or take down, if it came to that. He looked like a surly son of a bitch, but Jake figured that came with the territory.

The man standing beside Dolan had to be Bull McCade: He was big as a bull, and from the way he stood, probably Dolan’s muscle. McCade wore a top hat, with a vest made of miscellaneous animal pelts over his shirt, and leather pants. Jake was glad Bull was standing downwind.

So Pat Dolan needed an enforcer, to keep order.…

He dismounted, watching Dolan the whole time, as prepared for anything as he could be. “You don’t look happy to see me, Dolan,” he said, sticking with the obvious.

“You got some balls, ridin’ back here like nothin’ ever happened.” Dolan’s face turned from wary to ugly before he’d finished the sentence. “No, Lonergan—” Dolan said, his voice dripping venom, “I ain’t happy to see you.”

Jake stopped moving, holding Dolan’s stare as he tried to figure out how to get past bad blood he didn’t even remember. “You’ll get over it,” the Scourge of the Territories said.

Jake turned away as if Dolan had ceased to exist, and looked toward the rest of the men. If he was their leader, then he better start acting like it. “Boys,” he said, “grab your guns. We’re ridin’ out.”

The rest of his gang stood glancing at one another in confusion, the way the two named Bronc and Hunt had, back in the canyon—like they didn’t know what had just happened, or what was going on.

“But Jake…” Bronc said finally, speaking for all of them. “You … you said you didn’t wanna be in charge no more.”

Jake barely kept his own eyes from going wide in surprise. He glanced at Ella. Maybe Doc had been right.… He hated even thinking about it. He felt like he’d just put a noose around all their necks, and now his gang was trying to spring the trap door under them.

“—changed my mind.” He lifted his head, and raised his voice. “So saddle the hell up!”

“They’re not goin’ anywhere with you.” Dolan had blood in his eyes now. “We’re fixin’ to rob us a coach and that is exactly what we’re gonna do.”

Jake turned back, as something about the word “coach” set off alarms from his brain down to his boots. They’d robbed a coach just last month—the one with Dolarhyde’s gold on it. It was too soon to hit the stage line again, especially after waylaying the bullion coach: The gang was still hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night. Dolan was going to get them all killed, or taken. You never let your patterns become predictable, if you wanted to stay alive.…

He frowned. The boys ought to have plenty of gold left. He wondered why the hell they were all still here, and not in Mexico, spending it.

The tension in the air was so thick now that it would have been easier to chew than to breathe. The people Jake had brought with him had dismounted when he did, and now they were surrounded again. Their looks were as surprised, but a lot more uneasy, than the looks on the faces of his gang.

Dolan moved toward Ella, getting way too close before he stopped. He looked her over with a mix of curiosity and contempt. “Are you her?” he asked.

“Am I who?” Ella stood her ground; her face was preternaturally calm.

“The whore Jake quit this gang for.”

Jake’s fists tightened as another piece of the puzzle that had been his life snapped into place. His eyes met Ella’s as she glanced toward him—both of them realizing that Dolan thought she was the woman in his picture … Alice.

Dolan turned back to Jake, checking his reaction.

“Watch your mouth,” Jake said, his voice cold.

Dolan smirked. “Or what? I run this outfit now.” Intent on proving it, he called out, “Put your guns on the whore! He so much as twitches, blow her brains out her ear!”

At once, thirty guns were leveled at Ella’s head, leaving no question in anybody’s mind who the men of Jake’s gang were loyal to now. Hunt stepped up to Jake and took his pistol. “Sorry,” he said, smiling.

Jake glanced at the others he’d brought here along with Ella … outnumbered five-to-one, and completely outgunned. Damn it—

Jake looked back at Dolan as if he hadn’t just had his own gun pointed at him. “Call her a whore again,” he said, “it’ll be the last thing you ever say.”

Dolan laughed once. “You ain’t in no position to make threats, boy. You’re unarmed.” He glanced up, nodding to the man who was standing beside Jake now. “Put him down, Bull.”

Jake followed his glance, with barely time to react as a fist the size of a ham came at his face. It hit him, hard.

He staggered and fell flat on his back. The ground was as hard as Bull’s fist. He struggled to raise his head, his eyes barely focusing. But still, he managed to push himself up onto his elbows, and then get to a sitting position. Dolarhyde and Nat Colorado were both wincing—probably the only two people who really knew how he felt, at the moment.

But Dolarhyde showed a faint smile as he saw Jake glance his way. “Got his hands full, here,” he said to the others.

Doc quit attempting to stare down the six-footer beside him, and gave Dolarhyde the most fed-up look Jake had ever seen. “Wanna step in?”

Dolarhyde shook his head, his smile widening with spiteful amusement. “He’s doing okay by himself.”

Dolan strode up to Jake like the cock of the walk. “Where the hell’s our gold?”

Gold.… That gold? Jake recalled the look on Alice’s face as gold coins spilled out of his saddlebags onto the table, in his memory from the cabin … but not before he saw Dolarhyde’s start at the mention of gold.

Jake managed to get his feet under him, and stood up. He spat blood as he looked back at Dolan, and grinned. “Don’t remember.”

Dolan nodded to Bull. Even ready for it, Jake couldn’t move fast enough to dodge a fraction of the second blow. Bull hit him in the gut, and knocked him sprawling.

Jake retched and spat this time, a lot, before he could even lift his head.

His entire existence was turning into a blur of pain. He dragged the top half of his body up to a sitting position again, not even sure why he bothered. But this time, he glanced toward the others he’d put in this fix; ignoring Dolarhyde, looking for what showed in the eyes of Ella and Doc, Charlie and Emmett.

He saw fear, and helplessness, and anger—but not anger directed at him. No hatred for what he was, no disgust at what he’d done to them … only an empathy that was hard for him even to look at, let alone comprehend.

They would have helped him, if they had any choice; fought for him if there was any way they could … not because he had a gun for demons, but because they were good people, and he was … he.… He got up on his own, stood on his own two feet again, the pain fading into background noise as Dolan came toward him … because this wasn’t finished yet.

Dolan looked at him in a way that suggested he was looking at raw meat. “Well,” Dolan said, “I do remember you tellin’ us you was leavin’ us high and dry because of some woman—”

And Bull hit him in the chest, so hard that he flew off his feet.

He hit the ground, sliding, with the wind knocked out of him. He struggled to inhale, couldn’t; his chest felt like he’d been nailed to the ground with a railroad spike. His lungs wouldn’t even work.…

He felt his consciousness slipping, his mind falling through reality … into his place of refuge.…

… the rain ran like tears down the windowpane … Alice’s arms closed around him, her voice murmuring in his ear.…

“It’d be a better life … clear your conscience. You don’t even sleep a full night anymore—”

… feeling her warmth against his skin, her longing for him … for them to start fresh … like the spring-green world where sweet rain fell, softening the pitiless land.…

… sweet rain … he closed his eyes …

You’re dreaming. Wake up—

… he opened his eyes to a sunbaked plain, where life lay dying of thirst abandoned, like hope.… Soulless predator, hopeless prey: adapt or die.… The way it had always been; would always be.…

“It ain’t that simple.”

“It is.” Alice’s body twined with his, until they formed a lover’s knot against the rain-streaked windowpane. “We can leave all this behind, make peace with our bad deeds—”

… And holding her, he could almost believe—

No, it’s all a dream. Wake up—!

It had always been too late, for him.…

“Bad’s all I was ever good at.” He shook his head.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I know you’re a good man.”

… and as she kissed him …

… Jake woke up, lying on his back in the dirt. He opened his eyes, blinking at the empty, sunburned sky. Lost.…

… a good man … Alice, his lover, the only one who’d ever believed in him. And he’d left her.… to them …

“Alice…” he whispered. He raised his head, and saw Ella. She was staring back at him with a look of grief on her face that made him hurt. The look said she knew exactly what part of him had been left aching and dizzy by a dream, a place physical pain couldn’t reach. As if somehow she even saw through into his dreams, as he’d relived every moment of—

Pat Dolan’s booted foot broke his contact with Ella’s eyes, as Dolan stood over him, looking down. “Guess you just left out the part about taking our goddamned gold from that coach.”

Oh, God— Jake let his head fall back. He caught a glimpse of the look on Dolarhyde’s face now, heard Dolarhyde mutter, “… my gold.…”

We’re all alike, Jake thought. Bastards … demons.…

“So I’m gonna ask you one last time—” Dolan said, making him look up, “where’s my gold?”

Bull caught Jake by the arm and pulled him up to his knees. Jake glared at Dolan, his hand tightened into a fist.

Dolan punched him in the face. Bull grabbed Jake’s hair as his head flew back, and yanked him upright again. Dolan hit him again. Face to face, Dolan repeated, “One last time … where’s my gold?”

Jake looked up at him with eyes that saw only blurs of motion; his mouth and throat were full of blood. He coughed rackingly and sucked in a breath that sounded like a death rattle. He remembered Meacham, dying.…

Everyone who’d made the mistake of getting close to him was going to die … or they already had. And it was always his fault. Like the desert, that was all he’d ever been good at: making things die.…

“… demons…” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” Dolan shook him, refusing to let him fade away now.

“Demons stole your gold…” Jake gasped, forcing his battered mouth to form the words clearly, “… when you get to Hell you can ask for it back.…”

Dolan tsked at him, like he was a stubborn child. Bull let go of him, and he collapsed in the dirt again.

“That’s the way you wanna do it—” Dolan looked back over his shoulder, and said, “Kill the whore.”

Jake heard the gang cock their rifles, taking aim at Ella as he fought his own body for control; tried to make himself get up, hit somebody, do something— But his body wasn’t listening anymore.

Instead, the demon-killer on his wrist suddenly came alive.

He blinked his eyes halfway clear, saw blue light on his arm—a lot of it—as the weapon opened up, wrapping itself around his wrist and hand like it was trying to drag him out of a pit.

An indescribable sensation spread up his arm, burning like invisible fire. The shockwave hit his brain, jolting him alert. It went on spreading through his whole body … almost as if he was a part of the weapon, and not just wearing it.

He sat up without realizing he had, and saw Dolan clearly—saw the disbelief on Dolan’s face, and his hand dropping toward his pistol. Jake raised his arm without thinking; as the target covered Dolan, the demon gun fired.

The beam of blue light hit Dolan before his hand reached his holster, and punched him backwards. Dolan’s body flew fifteen feet through the air before it hit the ground, stone dead.

Not for the first time, Jake found everyone in his vicinity staring at him. He staggered to his feet and stayed there, feeling stronger with every heartbeat. The bleeding had stopped; he knew he was in pain, but somehow he couldn’t feel it.

He looked toward Dolan’s body, what was left of it. “Told you not to call her that,” he said hoarsely.

And then he turned, looking from stunned face to stunned face in the circle of his former gang—the men who’d watched as Dolan and Bull nearly beat him to death, who in another second would’ve killed Ella, without a trace of regret.… He kept turning until he faced the speechless Bull McCade. He kicked Bull in the balls, doubling him over. “Everybody drop your guns—”

Hunt laid down his own gun and handed Jake’s back to him without hesitation. One by one, the others surrendered their weapons.

Jake grabbed his hat, all the while keeping his other arm high. With the demon gun still glowing on his wrist, he backed toward the handful of people he’d almost killed … and might yet, if his luck didn’t hold. “Mount up,” he said.

“—What—?” Dolarhyde said.

“On your horses—go! Those things are close!” Jake almost shouted, wondering what about the demon gun’s alarm they still didn’t understand.

This time they all moved, while he held the gang at bay.

He swung up onto his own horse. Pulling its head around, he led the others through the gap-toothed barrier of stone into the desert, leaving his old gang behind one more time.