CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Fear drove Papa Mace Rathmore.
Two of his sons were dead and only five remained. It was not enough. The next time Ben Kane and his tough punchers attacked would be the last, because he would kill everyone. In the dim morning light, Mace opened the gold sack that he kept hidden in a niche in the rock, stared hard at his stash of flakes and small nuggets, some of them still embedded in quartz. He hefted the sack. Maybe ten pounds, including some quartz. He did a swift mental calculation. Three thousand dollars, give or take, enough to keep him for a few years in . . . his destination had to be Fort Worth. The place was booming and had plenty of snap. He’d take one of the better-looking women with him, maybe Ella, his son Malachi’s wife. She hadn’t yet given birth and was still shapely and willing. Later, once he was established, he could pimp her out as added income.
His mind made up, Papa Mace put the sack back into the niche. Time was of the essence. Of the two springs in the Cornudas Mountains, one was close to his compound in the arroyo. The other was near another peak where he kept the horses. He could pick out a couple of good mounts for himself and Ella and then make some excuse to leave. On a scout maybe. He’d think of something that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.
Naked except for his loincloth and sandals, his great belly hanging, Papa Mace left what he called his throne room and walked into the compound. It was only an hour after dawn, but the cooking fire was already boiling meat, and the woman and children were up and doing. The morning light sliced into the arroyo but cast deep shadows. The mood among the surviving Rathmores was grim. The women’s faces were again blackened in mourning, and the men were still at their guard posts as they’d been all night. Two were on duty in the mine and the other three at the mouth of the arroyo.
As was his due as their savior, the women bowed their heads as Papa Mace walked past, but their eyes were not friendly. There had been too much death, and now all the slaves were gone. Who would dig for the gold that they needed so badly? It was time for Papa to do something . . . something miraculous.
When he stepped into the mine shaft, he was greeted by silence. The chip-chip-chip of picks on rock and the constant chatter of the Mexicans was gone. The morning light had not yet reached the entrance. Red Ryan lay in gloom. Buttons Muldoon, his gray face showing strain, sat beside him.
Mace stood over Red, looking down at him, hate in his eyes. “Is he dead yet?”
“Not yet,” Buttons said. “He can’t stand.”
Mace smirked. “Then I can burn him lying down.”
“Do that, and I swear I’ll kill you,” Buttons said.
“Big talk from a man who can barely stand himself,” Mace said. “I may burn you both.”
Buttons made no answer and Mace said, “How did Broussard get the gun?”
“I don’t know.”
Mace kicked him in the ribs. “How did Broussard get the gun?”
“I don’t know.”
Another kick, Mace’s horny toes thudding into Button’s side, bringing pain.
“How did Broussard get the gun?”
Gasping, Buttons said, “Go to hell.”
“Did you have a hand in it?” Papa Mace said, his small, piggy eyes vicious.
“No.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I had no hand in it.”
Mace scratched his huge, hairy belly. “Tell me who it was, and you can go free. I’ll give you a horse and a canteen, and send you on your way.”
“I don’t know who it was,” Buttons said. That earned him another kick.
But Buttons Muldoon was a fighter and he’d only take so much. Moving with the explosive speed possessed by so many short, stocky men, he reached out, grabbed Mace’s leg, and clamped his teeth on the man’s shinbone where he knew it would hurt like hell. As Buttons held on, growling like a terrier with a rat, the fat man screamed in pain and then fell, unable to balance on one leg.
But then it was over. The two guards laid into Buttons with their rifle butts as Papa Mace shrieked and stared in horror at the blood welling from his gnawed leg.
Buttons was pounded into insensibility, but his last conscious thought was Damn, I enjoyed that.
* * *
His mangled leg bandaged, Papa Mace Rathmore attended the burial of two more sons. Once again, the women wailed, but he paid them little heed, preoccupied with his plans for his escape to Fort Worth with Ella, who was not as worn out as the rest of the women. As one of his sons read from the Good Book and droned on about death and redemption, Mace’s busy brain turned to other things. Uppermost in his mind were Buttons Muldoon and Red Ryan, who had turned out to be a disappointment. He’d been told by the women that there was barely enough wood to feed the fires, let alone burn two grown men. There had to be another punishment, just as savage, and Mace was suddenly inspired.
He would ignore them . . . tie up his enemies good and tight and just leave them in the mine shaft to die of thirst. Papa Mace wanted to smile but couldn’t, not when he was burying whores’ whelps. Seven sons and every one of them born of a whore he’d used, abused, and then discarded. It was no wonder he took no pride in them. But enough of that.
He turned his thoughts to the stagecoach men again. He’d once been told by an old prospector that a man without water would start dying after three days and would be dead by seven. The visions in Mace’s mind were so exquisite, so tantalizing, that he would gladly postpone his flight with Ella to savor them. He would visit the two vile creatures every day and torment them. He would guzzle water . . . pour it into the ground beyond their reach . . . tease them with cups of water, cold from the spring, slopping over rims that almost touched their cracked, parched lips before being snatched away. Oh, the fun he’d have. He’d listen to their harsh croaks for mercy, their dusty cries for water . . . day after terrible day for seven long days.
Papa Mace gave a start. Everybody was looking at him. Why? Then he realized that the prayers had ended, and they waited on his signal to start the burial. He raised a hand and his surviving sons began to pile rocks on the grave. Ella’s face was blacked like the other women, but the glance she gave him was bold, inviting, a look that promised much.
Papa Mace Rathmore was mightily pleased.