Río Chama, page 13
The rain fell harder, slanting, pounding, and soon became mixed with hail.
* * * * *
Chloride.
He couldn’t even remember what had brought him to the town. Most likely, it had been the need of a drink, or lure of a card game. In the autumn of ’95, he still had that commission as a deputy marshal, even wore a badge, but unlike the time he had gone after Clint Paden, few people would have called him a lawman.
With the discovery of silver ore, the town sprang up and boomed in the Black Range, south of the Plains of San Agustin. There were probably three thousand people there, when he had first seen Chloride in the mid-1880s, but he doubted if there were more than three hundred when he had ridden up to The Bank Saloon on that October afternoon. The price of silver had dropped, kept dropping. Gold, the United States had declared, would be the monetary standard, and the silver market crashed. Barely worth digging up. Only the most stubborn remained, or the hardest.
Or the unluckiest.
He could remember leaning against the bar, talking to John Beeson, the saloon owner, dipping their cigars in their brandy snifters like they were wealthy, refined men.
“Who you trailing this time, Marshal?” Beeson had asked.
Lifting the bottle, Wade had smiled as he read the label. “Castarede Armagnac.” He had set the brandy down, adding while Beeson chuckled: “Mount Vernon Rye. Old Forester. Irish. Claret. Beer. The whole damned gang.” He had started to join Beeson, but a cough halted his laugh. Shaking his head, he recovered, wiped his hands on his trousers legs, and finished the brandy.
“John,” came a voice down the bar, “quit servin’ that lunger son-of-a-bitch, and give Mickey and me another whiskey.”
“Yeah,” echoed the partner.
John Beeson’s laughter stopped, and he stepped away from the bar.
Wade straightened, looked down the dusty wood, pushed back his coat to reveal the five-point star on his vest.
“You’re badge don’t scare me.” He was a stout man, with a heavy red beard, dusty, rugged, wearing duck trousers and a muslin shirt, a relic of a Colt stuck in his waistband.
The second man, pointed to the sign over the bar.
NO SCUM ALLOWED
Management
Taller than the red-bearded one, with beard stubble, a pockmarked face, and a nose that had been broken more than once. He wore a flap holster on his left hip, the butt forward. He cracked his knuckles.
Wade looked at the sign, and laughed. He was reaching for the bottle, shaking his head, when the second man spit on the floor, saying: “Damned lunger. Belongs in a sanitarium, not a saloon.”
“Or a church,” the first man said, “for his own funeral.”
The laugh died in Wade’s throat, but he poured the snifter, set the bottle in front of John Beeson’s trembling hands, and downed the Castarede Armagnac in a gulp. Then he was walking past the two miners, stopping in front of them, speaking evenly.
“I’ll be waiting for both of you in the street. I’ll give you two minutes.”
“We ain’t fighting you with no pistol,” the second one said.
They had been looking for a fistfight, but Wade wouldn’t oblige them.
“You’re wearing guns. Two minutes, or I’ll come in here, and come killing. I don’t give a damn.”
“Listen . . .” The second man wanted to apologize, withdraw the insults, but Wade wouldn’t let him.
“Two minutes.” He opened the tarnished silver Illinois watch, its ticking eerily loud in the deathly quiet saloon. “Starting now.”
Neither waited long. He had been leaning against the hitching rail across the dusty street, holding the watch in his left hand, when both men stepped outside, the taller one firing immediately with a Remington, running down the boardwalk, cocking, pulling the trigger, then slamming against The Bank’s façade, a bullet in his temple.
A scratch shot, Wade knew, although the reporter at the Black Range newspaper and the writer of that five-penny dreadful attributed it to Wade’s “coolness, coldness, and alchemy with a revolver.”
“Look, mister!” Red Beard had started to toss away the Navy Colt he had begun to pull, wetting his lips, trying to lift his hands. “I don’t want . . .”
Wade had killed him, too.
* * * * *
Now, as the hail stopped, the rain slackened, he could still picture John Beeson standing in The Bank’s doorway, looking at the dead men, looking up at him, his face pale. John Beeson, who minutes earlier had been pouring him brandy, clipping his cigar, laughing with him, sharing news, talking about the old days, now telling him: “You didn’t have to do that, Britton.”
“It was them or me.” He was drunk. Hadn’t realized it until then.
“I wish it had been you.”
Beeson had slammed the door. A crowd was gathering, whispering, pointing, wondering.
“Me, too,” Wade had said.
Raindrops rolled off the brim of his hat. He pulled the Mackinaw tight, pushed his way back against the juniper, found a little more shelter from the shower. The Black Range had published an account of the killings, the coroner’s inquest that ruled self-defense, and a scathing series of editorials against Britton Wade, killer with a badge, ruthless gunman.
He remembered words more recent, something Clint Paden had told him: You wasn’t respected, Brit. You was feared.
He recalled something else, a passage from Romans, from another life: “Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dawn broke to blue, cloudless skies, with no wind, as though the night’s storm had pushed out winter. Britton Wade lay still, listening to the gurgling water, savoring the aroma of coffee and wood smoke, smiling at the memory of a seasoned tracker who had given him sage advice on one of his first trips as a federal peace officer: Never get up first in the morn. First man up’s gotta get the fire goin’, gotta brew the coffee. Always wait for some other dumb idiot to do them chores, then roll up your sougan and pour yourself a fresh cup of Arbuckles.
He closed his eyes, but a scream jerked him to his feet, .44 in hand, slinging off his bedroll, climbing to his feet.
Clint Paden, britches pulled down to his ankles, stood hopping by the fire, spitting out a litany of curses, staggering, gripping his right leg, before tumbling to the ground.
“Shut up!” Fenella Magauran barked back at him, and dropped to a knee. “Be a man. Buck up!” Something in her hand reflected the sunlight. A container of some kind, and she poured its contents onto Paden’s leg.
He screamed.
“You want to lose your leg?” A flip of her head sent her long red hair out of her eyes. “Cole isn’t the only filthy man in this group. Yes, you’re one to talk. Lie still!” She reached down again.
Paden roared.
Standing near the horses, Stew elbowed Randy in his ribs, both of the gunmen grinning at the spectacle. Near the trees, Jeremiah Cole sat on his bedroll, scratching his hair, staring in disbelief.
Wade shoved the Merwin & Hulbert into his holster, grabbed his hat, and moved slowly to the fire. He tried to mask his amusement as he stepped over Paden’s boots, squatted, filled a cup with coffee, and took a sip as he turned.
“Good morning.” Wade lifted the cup again, stopping, though, with a grimace as Fenella finished drawing a whiskey-soaked silk bandanna through the bullet hole in Paden’s calf, Paden yelping during the entire process.
The redhead splashed the last of the whiskey from a flask over the bleeding hole, shook her head as Paden cursed, and tied another strip of her chemise over his leg, tightening it, smiling herself as Paden groaned, his fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut. She went to the river, washed her hands, returned to pour herself some coffee.
“A fine hero he is,” she said, sitting down to sip her drink.
Slowly Paden sat up, wet his lips, opened his eyes, and looked at the bandage, then climbed to his feet, pulling up his pants, almost falling over backward.
“He finds a flask of whiskey in one of those dead men’s war bags,” Fenella went on, “but does he try to clean his bullet wound? No. The fool drinks it. Drinks whiskey in the morn. Before breakfast. You’re as bad as my own father, and almost as bad as my former husband.”
“I think you had a morning bracer yourself, ma’am.” Wade tested the coffee again.
“Aye. I needed something to help me through my task. Needed something to block out the brave man’s wails.”
Paden sat down. “Fool woman liked to have killed me.”
“She probably saved your life. At least your leg.” Another sip. The others, summoning their courage, quietly walked toward the fire. “You might thank her.”
Paden glared, first at Wade, then at the woman. “Thank you, ma’am. And I’m sorry for the salty words I used during your doctoring.”
They were all in a good mood, all except Jeremiah Cole. Even Paden, although he still scowled. Maybe it was the new day, the clear skies, the sun already warm. Maybe it was something else. He wondered how long it would last.
“You scream like a catamount,” Stew said.
“I was hollering,” Paden said, “over the loss of that good whiskey I found.”
“Serves you right for not sharin’ with us,” Randy said.
Paden shook his head at his saddle pals. “Serves you right for not having the brains to look yourself. Else you could have drunk it all.”
Jeremiah Cole left the fire for the riverbank, settling on his knees and leaning over to wash his face. Widening his grin, Stew set down his coffee cup, and sneaked over behind the prisoner, then kicked him hard, laughing as Cole plunged headfirst into the Chama.
“Maybe he won’t smell like no pig no more!” Stew roared, turning to watch his companions, not paying any attention as Cole floundered, sank, came up spitting, slipping, his face masked in panic. Wade was about to stand, realizing that the young man couldn’t swim, but the water wasn’t that deep, the current not so swift, and Cole had found his footing, was climbing out of the river, swinging his bound hands hard to the back of Stew’s head.
Randy laughed so hard that he spit out his coffee, but Paden and Wade were moving in quickly, Paden stopping Stew from drawing his pistol, and Wade pushing Cole onto his backside.
“He’s no good to us dead, Stew,” Paden warned his companion.
“You keep that bastard away from me,” Jeremiah said. “My pa’ll kill him if he lays a hand on me again.”
“Your pa.” Paden shook his head in contempt as he turned from Stew. “You been riding on your pa’s reputation all your life, ain’t you? Don’t you think it’s high time you stood on your own two feet?”
“You just keep him away from me.” Water ran down Cole’s face. Like a dog, he shook his wet hair, moved to the fire, squeezing out the water from the tails of his prison shirt, shaking, from the water, and his rage. Suddenly he turned.
“You don’t know anything about my pa!” he barked back at Paden. “Or me.”
“He knows your pa’ll pay us ten thousand dollars to bring you back to him alive,” Randy said, scraping mud off his boots with a piece of wood.
“None of you know anything about me!”
“I know you murdered Father Vasco,” Fenella said, stepping back quickly from Cole’s wrath, fearing she had said too much.
He seemed to be about to lunge at her, but Britton Wade blocked his path. The killer took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and held his hands over the fire.
“You think you’re better than everybody else,” Cole said. “You, a divorced Irish strumpet.”
“My marriage was annulled, you . . .”
“I had my reasons.”
“For what? For murdering an innocent priest? Killing a man of God?”
Now Wade found himself blocking Jeremiah Cole from Fenella’s rage.
“I know what the boy means.” Randy examined his mud-covered stick, inspected the soles of his boots, then flung the stick into the river. “First man I ever wanted to kill was a preacher. Well, he was a deacon anyway. Caught me takin’ some coins from the collection plate they was passin’ around in the Methodist meetin’ house when I was, oh, eight years old, I reckon.” For once, he looked at the man he was addressing. “Is that what you was doin’, Cole? Was you stealin’ from that priest? That why you killed him?”
“Shut up!” It was Paden who spoke, shoving his way past Cole, pointing at the horses. “We got a hard ride today. We don’t know who’s coming up the trail behind us, or who’s waiting for us up in the cañon. Let’s mount up and ride.”
Wade tossed the last of his coffee on the fire, staring down at the smoke. It hadn’t taken long at all for the good mood to go up in flames.
* * * * *
This country, Wade thought, seems to swallow up time.
Steep cañon walls rose one thousand five hundred feet above the water as they picked their paths around the sandstone outcroppings. No one spoke as they rode, the only sound the roar of the rapids and the clopping of metal horseshoes against the hard rock. Gradually the walls sloped downward, and the Chama resumed its twisting path.
He had lost track of the days, wondered if he would be able to bring Cole in before his scheduled execution. What would happen if he made it—a mighty big if, he realized—after that date? He smiled suddenly at something he hadn’t thought of until now.
Jeremiah Cole was to hang on Friday the 13th.
Stew had taken the point, riding alongside Randy. Jeremiah Cole rode behind, closely followed by Paden and the girl. Wade brought up the rear.
The day turned warmer, almost hot. Maybe not truly hot, but at this elevation, somewhere between seven thousand and eight thousand feet, the sun always felt hotter.
They rode near the river, calm now, the sheer walls well behind them. Here the valley widened, the hills covered with juniper and sage, some cholla, with rugged buttes to the east, and over to the north and west cliffs rose behind a thick forest like a castle, the rocky walls painted red and yellow.
Wade had almost fallen asleep in the saddle, lulled by the sound of the hoofs, the sun, and his own weariness, when Stew cursed loudly, and water splashed.
His head jerked up, and he spurred the buckskin, charging between Fenella and Paden, the latter reaching for his Marlin, and loped past Stew and Randy. Ahead of him, Jeremiah Cole urged the chestnut across the river, making for an island. Cole leaned forward, desperate, as the chestnut struggled in the deep water.
A rifle ripped from the brush in the island, and Wade reined in.
“It’s the senator’s men!” Randy yelled.
Wade had pulled the .44, cocked it, gripping the reins in his teeth. Another bullet sang over his head. Randy must have spotted the riders, hidden on the island, and made a dash for the cover. Cole must have thought the same thing—that the men on the island were riding for his father.
“My God!” Randy yelled. “Them ain’t Cole’s men! They’re . . .”
A gunshot drowned out his warning.
A bullet splashed water near the chestnut, struggling now, snorting, panicking, then pitching Cole into the deep water.
Yips, shouts, and gunfire came from the island as four, no five Indians plunged out of the timbers. Wade fired, swallowed, ripped the reins from his teeth, tugged desperately, turning his horse away from the Chama.
“Help me!” Cole yelled, coughing, spitting out water.
“My God!” Randy’s voice again.
A bullet tore through Wade’s hat. He saw the woman, off her horse, moving through the water, lunging, catching the collar of Jeremiah Cole’s shirt, somehow stopping him before the current took him into the rapids some two hundred yards downstream. She struggled to keep his head above the surface.
One of the riders swam his horse toward Fenella and Cole, firing a double-action revolver as quickly as he could pull the trigger. Fenella screamed as a bullet singed her hair. Wade aimed at the rider, but an arrow spoiled his aim before he could shoot, caused the buckskin to buck. He yanked hard on the reins, kept his seat, heard Paden’s Marlin boom, watched the Indian with the pistol slide off his horse into the river.
Wade fired again, jumped from the buckskin, let it run into the trees. The riders stopped in midstream, firing, some at Wade, Stew, and Randy, the others at Paden, the girl, and Cole. Wade shot again. They had to find cover.
Wade spotted a giant cottonwood, its wide limbs without leaves. He wasn’t sure if the cottonwood was dead, or just slow to realize it was spring at last. A few feet below the cottonwood stretched the remains of a dead cottonwood, uprooted, reaching from the high bank to the river’s shallows, its bark long gone, trunk almost bleached white.
“Over here!” he yelled. It was the best cover he could see.
He fired, stopped, let Randy rush past him. Stew galloped past, leaping off his horse behind the dead tree. Wade fired again, stepped into the Chama. He saw one rider, closing in on Paden and the girl. How many bullets were left in the .44?
He squeezed the trigger. The rider fell off the side of his paint horse into the river.
Paden leaped out of the saddle, into the chest-deep water, near Cole and Fenella, fired the Marlin once, helped Cole to his feet, shoved him. Moving for the shore. Bullets tore into the water’s surface all around them. Smoke and sweat burned Wade’s eyes. A bullet grazed his neck. He bit his lip.
Coughing, spitting up water, Cole reached the bank.
Wade fired again, ran to help. “To the tree!” He pushed Cole, grabbed Fenella’s arm, hurried, pulling her behind him.
Paden’s rifle barked as he ran. He levered the big rifle, shooting as he raced for the dead cottonwood. The Indians returned fire. Wade pulled the trigger, heard the hammer click on an empty chamber. Running. From the shelter of the cottonwood, Randy cut loose with Stew’s pump rifle. Stew lay slumped over in the mud.
They ran, Cole staggering ahead, Paden just a few steps behind Wade and the girl.
About ten yards from their fortress, Cole grunted, stumbled, fell to his knees. He’d been hit. A rider had reached the shore, kicked a black horse, yelled while hurling a lance that thudded in the tree. Randy killed him with a rifle shot.
