CHAPTER 45
“Sorry to put you through this, pal,” Buckhorn muttered to Sarge. “I’ll make it up to you as soon as we land back in civilization, I promise. A week’s worth of grain and the prettiest filly I can find to keep you company. How’s that sound?”
Sarge chuffed, as if to say You’d damn well better and kept plugging along.
The this Buckhorn was putting the big gray through—as well as himself and the two horses he’d confiscated back in the nameless village—was to ride straight on through the blistering hot afternoon, without a halt during the worst of it. What was more, their route was no longer a direct one toward Verdugo Pass but rather a semicircle that looped wide to the south and then west again before converging once more on the pass. Somewhere in between was his quarry, probably motionless for the time being, waiting for the heat to subside.
For the first time since setting out in pursuit of the Wainwright party, Buckhorn had a concrete plan and a specific destination for implementing it. He’d forged it back in the bloodied cantina of the nameless little village, following the shoot-out with the banditos. A quick discussion with Pepe had confirmed some things he’d only suspected and from there the rest had fallen into place.
Pepe’s wife, a plump, bosomy, pretty little thing who seemed quite indifferent to the carnage visited upon the barroom, had tended Buckhorn’s wound. First a good dousing with tequila that burned like fire, then a gentle application of salve, then a fresh, clean bandage.
While she was treating him, Pepe had treated him with bottles of the much-discussed cold beer. True to the round-faced man’s word, if it wasn’t the coldest in all of Mexico, it had to be damn close.
By way of compensation for the care and the damage, Buckhorn offered a proposition. He would take two of the banditos’ horses and three of their sombreros. That part drew decidedly curious looks from Pepe and his wife.
The rest—the remaining horses, saddles, guns, and whatever money the men had in their pockets—were Pepe’s to sell off or utilize however he saw fit.
According to some of the things Pepe had told Buckhorn, the five scoundrels had been harassing the village and surrounding area for several months. Simply getting rid of them would have been a most welcome thing, but having them gone and gaining profit as well was a joyous proposition to Pepe and his wife.
As he rode his punishing, circuitous route away from the village, Buckhorn thought of the other things Pepe had told him about the banditos and the boastful talk they had been making before his arrival. About the small, single-wagon group they were stalking and how much they were looking forward to picking it clean after they’d easily caught up with it again following their restful and refreshing stopover at Pepe’s.
One of the things that had them most excited was the anticipation of what the inclusion of a wagon possibly meant—females among the group of travelers. That led to much vulgar talk about what would take place if it indeed turned out to be the case.
Hearing Pepe relate this, even without going into detail on everything that was said, gave Buckhorn no small amount of satisfaction for having scraped the earth clean of such scum.
* * *
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t ’ve swung into that little village and took our afternoon break there,” Abe Tarvel complained. “Everybody knows how those old adobe buildings block out the heat. Think how nice and cool it would’ve been to stretch out in one of them for a little while. What was the point? What’d we gain? A lousy three hours?”
“Three hours is three hours,” Sweetwater said sullenly. “No use bellyaching about it now. It’s spilled milk.”
“Yeah, spilled milk that would’ve been nice and cold to drink. Or better yet, a shot of tequila or some beer. For sure, something better than this piss-warm slop.” Kent brandished the canteen he’d just taken a drink from and slammed it disgustedly to the ground.
The three were sitting on the ground with their backs against a low, jagged-topped boulder. The rock was hot through their sweat-soaked shirts, even with a saddle blanket wedged up as a barrier. The steadily widening sliver of shade thrown by the boulder made it worth a little patience.
As had become routine with their afternoon rest stops, the wagon sat a short distance away, its team unhitched and picketed with the saddle-stripped riding mounts. Lusita lay in the shade under the wagon bed. General Wainwright paced restlessly back and forth under the full hammering weight of the sun.
“The general is set in his ways, that’s all I know to tell you,” Sweetwater tried to explain. “He’s made up his mind that he wants to avoid all contact with anybody who can say later on they remember us passing through.”
“Long as we’ve already come and gone, what the hell difference does it make?” Tarvel said. “One minute he’s telling you not to worry about scouting our back trail, the next he’s fretting for no good reason about us seeking a little comfort in a no-nothing town in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes he don’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“Like the way he paces out there right smack in the baking hot sun,” Kent said. “Every time we stop, all he does is pace. Almost makes you wonder if he didn’t do too much pacing in the hot sun at some point in his life and baked part of his brain or something.”
“Yeah,” Tarvel said, “you especially got to wonder about that pacing business when you consider the better option he’s got. I had something waiting for me like he’s got waiting for him under that wagon, I sure as hell wouldn’t be spending all that time and energy walking away from it.”
“Don’t even start with that kind of talk,” Sweetwater growled. “What goes on—or don’t go on—between a man and his woman ain’t no concern of ours. Same for the pacing.”
“You’re mighty touchy and protective of the old goat, ain’t you?”
“He’s the boss.” Sweetwater shrugged. “You sign on with a man and take his money, you owe him a certain amount of respect. Not to mention a certain kind of respect. Otherwise, why would you stick with him?”
“That’s a good question,” Kent said. “Why is it that any of us are sticking with him? He’s obviously on the downhill slide. First he lost that skirmish with Don Pedro, which makes you wonder about that whole general thing and how good he ever was at it. Then he sets fire to his own damn house, and has a whole passel of his cattle shot and killed, which makes you wonder what’s going on upstairs in his head. Now he’s running—exactly to what or where I don’t know. I ain’t so sure he does, either.”
“Let’s face it,” Tarvel said. “Money is what he dangled to pull us all into his private little army and that’s why we’re hanging on, even now. But I’m thinking Trident City is as far as I go, no matter what. And he’d damn well better have the payoff for me sticking that far.”
“Oh, he’s still got money. I can vouch for that much,” said Sweetwater. “I saw him haul it out of the safe back at the house before he torched the place. I’m leaning the same way as you, Tarvel. I think Trident City is where me and the general will be parting ways.”
Kent nodded. “Same goes for me. And there ain’t no leaning about it. After we hit Trident City, the only way I’ll be looking at General Wainwright is back over my shoulder.”
They were quiet for a spell. The shadow edging out farther from the rock moved with agonizing slowness. It gave precious little comfort in the shade it cast, but it was something.
At length, Tarvel said, “You’re sure he’s got a bunch of money with him, though. That right, Sweetwater? Right there in the wagon?”
“Uh-huh. Helped load it in myself.”
Another stretch of silence passed.
“Tarvel,” said Sweetwater.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t even think what you’re thinking. Until I ain’t working for the general no more, I am. You understand? That means my job, as I see it, is taking care of him. Wouldn’t bother me a whole lot to kill you. I’d just as soon not have to.”