Gun for Revenge Page 5

  If I didn’t need you so much, you miserable lop-eared bastard, he thought, I’d shoot you right between the goddamn eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He did not sleep well that night. Ghosts of the past haunted his dreams and he was still troubled by them when morning came.

  He crossed to the stove, listlessly stirred the embers and began breakfast. But he had little appetite and taking his plate outside, he walked around back and dumped most of his scrambled eggs, bacon and fried potatoes on the ground for the scavengers. Next he washed himself in the basin on the rock behind the cabin, lathering his face before shaving in the piece of cracked mirror that he balanced up against the wall. The straight-edge he’d stolen from a barbershop soon after escaping from the boys’ reformatory in El Paso seemed as dull as his spirits. He honed it on the old leather strap dangling from a nearby nail then carefully finished shaving. But he still nicked himself.

  He squinted at his reflection in the mirror – a reflection that was backed by a cloudless, lemony-blue sky – watching as a tiny bubble of blood welled up on his chin. He dabbed it with the towel, staining one corner; then, too depressed to care about the glory of the day or the caracaras circling hungrily overhead, he dumped out the soapy water and walked around to the front of the cabin.

  That was when he noticed the barn door was open. He realized he must have not locked it last night. Not that it mattered. The stallion could have kicked the door down any time it felt like it. Locking the Morgan up at night was merely Gabriel’s way of reminding it of who was boss, just as the stallion sometimes bucked him off for the same reason. It was a game they played to keep each other alert and in check; a game that both man and horse accepted without rancor.

  Once inside the cabin Gabriel dressed and brushed his hair. A smear of blood on his palm reminded him that his chin was still bleeding. He splashed a little whiskey onto the towel and pressed it against the cut. It stung momentarily, but satisfied his concern about infection. He went to cork the bottle but instead impulsively took a swig. The whiskey warmed his belly and made him feel better. He took another swig, then another, and another until eventually he felt pretty damned good. He chuckled, amused for no reason, and on hearing the stallion neighing went to the window and looked out.

  Brandy limped up to the door, favoring his right foreleg. Gabriel went out and studied the horse, wondering whether there was something really wrong with the leg or if it was the whiskey playing tricks with his mind. No, he thought, the leg or his hoof is definitely bothering him. Warily approaching the Morgan, which never moved but watched him with its fierce dark eyes, he knelt, lifted the leg and examined the hoof. Seeing no stone or thorn lodged there, Gabriel set the hoof down and gently felt around the leg, first checking the fetlock, then the cannon and lastly the knee.

  Finding nothing wrong he straightened up and walked slowly around the stallion. Still no sign of physical problems. Returning to his original position, Gabriel shook his head, baffled.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he asked, thinking aloud more than actually talking to the horse. The stallion snuffled softly and nudged Gabriel’s arm with its nose.

  Suspicious of the Morgan’s gentleness, Gabriel warily rubbed its forehead and spoke soothingly to it. At the same time, he grasped the thick black mane and tried to lead it forward. Let’s see you walk, he thought. Then maybe I can get some idea of what’s ailing you.

  But the stallion jerked free, and lowering its head playfully butted him in the chest sending him stumbling backward. As he sat down hard on the step the horse reared up, pawing at the air and whinnying.

  Thinking he was going to be stomped, Gabriel raised his arms to protect himself and rolled sideways. But the flailing hoofs never touched him. Instead, the Morgan whirled and galloped off, head raised, neck proudly arched, long tail feathering in the wind.

  Gabriel watched, agape, as the obviously uninjured stallion leaped the corral fence and pranced joyfully around in a circle.

  Son-of-a-gun, he thought, as he realized there was nothing wrong with the horse. That black devil’s been jerking my tail!

  CHAPTER NINE

  The day passed slowly. He had no idea why, but he felt like it was the lull before the storm.

  To keep his mind off Ellen he spent all morning catching up on his chores. There were chickens and pigs to feed (the goats ate whatever they found on the hillsides), eggs to collect and a cabin to sweep out. When he was done, he saw the wood for the stove had gotten low, so he brought in more from the pile behind the cabin. He then entered the barn, intending to clean the stallion’s stall. But the Morgan had apparently forgotten its moment of gentleness and tried to cow-kick him every time he got close. Gabriel threw the broom at the horse and plodded back to the cabin, thinking, Damn him, he can clean the stall himself.

  By now the sun was almost directly overhead. Hungry, he wolfed down three hard-boiled eggs, a cold ham steak and a bowl of refried beans. As he ate in the silence of the cabin, a silence he had never noticed before, he realized there was a big difference between being alone and being lonely. He’d been alone most of his life, but seldom lonely. Now, he missed Ellen. And not, he realized, because she reminded him of Cally. But because in a few short hours she had made such a positive impression on him that without her his life seemed empty. It was an ugly feeling and he again regretted not helping her.

  When he’d finished eating he chased his meal down with a shot of J. H. Cutter. He was not much of a day-drinker, especially when he was alone, but the whiskey boosted his sagging spirits.

  Whistling, he went out and worked in the vegetable patch all afternoon, weeding, planting black-bean seeds, watering his onions, chayote squash, bell peppers, and flowering jalapeño vines. In the oven-hot sun it was hard, back-breaking work, especially lugging buckets of water up from the stream, and when he stopped at sunset he was worn out and soaked with sweat.

  After cooling off in the stream he returned to the cabin and fixed a meal out of his lunch leftovers.

  After supper, he lit a cigar and sat on the doorstep sipping his whiskey while watching a swarm of bats hunting insects in the darkening sky.

  Dusk gradually chased away the last light. Insects whined past his ears in the darkness. A sickle moon and endless stars brightened the indigo sky. Presently, a cool breeze swept down off the Sierras. Gabriel pulled up his shirt collar and drank from the bottle. Mind drifting, he spat out a smoke-ring and idly poked a finger through it. The whiskey and a full stomach made him sleepy. His eyelids grew leaden and gradually he dozed off.

  Out of nowhere Cally’s face appeared. She smiled and said something he couldn’t hear. She looked exactly as she had when he’d ridden off that night, only minutes ahead of a posse, leaving her standing in the cantina doorway, her lovely face and long autumn-gold hair glinting in the lamplight. He’d promised her that he would be back, no matter what, and she’d smiled that sad little smile of hers and waved goodbye. He had meant what he said, but like so many other outlaws on the run, his destiny was decided for him.

  Gabriel’s dream was suddenly interrupted by a shrill neigh. He looked up just in time to see the Morgan burst out of the barn, already at full gallop, and charge off down the slope into the darkness.

  Gabriel wondered what had startled the stallion. Ten years ago it might have been a band of hostiles after livestock, or marauding Comancheros down from west Texas, the mixture of renegade whites and liquored-up Comanches ready to rob, rape or kill anyone they came upon; but now, in the summer of ’91, those types of raids were a thing of the past. Even attacks by border trash were rare. Bandidos were all a person had to worry about these days. And generally they stayed in the mountains, ambushing travelers rather than wandering out into the open and risking a fight with the well-armed Rurales.

  Still, something had frightened Brandy and Gabriel decided to investigate. Armed with his Winchester and a lamp, he crossed to the barn. Empty. Wondering if the unpredictable horse was playing gam
es with him again, he decided to take advantage of its absence and clean out the stall. He hung the lamp on a hook, he grabbed the pitchfork and began removing the soiled straw.

  At that moment the stallion returned. Gabriel heard its hoofs clatter into the barn and whirled, pitchfork raised to keep it away.

  ‘Get outta here!’ he yelled. ‘Y’hear me? Go on! Vamos!’

  But the Morgan was already charging. It swerved past the fork, slamming into Gabriel and sending him sprawling. From the floor he saw the enraged stallion rear up, screaming, forelegs flailing, and knew his time had come. But the descending hoofs weren’t aimed at him; instead they pounded at something under the straw in the stall. Again and again the stallion stamped the straw. Then at last it stopped and stood there, snorting.

  Shaken, Gabriel slowly got up and stared at the trembling stallion.

  ‘Whoa, easy now, fella, easy….’

  He inched past the agitated horse and saw the dead sidewinder curled amongst the straw, its horned head and fat body mashed by the flailing hoofs.

  ‘Judas H. Priest.’ Gabriel whistled softly and looked at Brandy. The Morgan had calmed down. Realizing that he owed the horse an apology, maybe even his life, he reached out to rub the stallion’s soft black nose – then jerked his hand back, just in time to avoid getting bitten.

  ‘Why, you ornery sonofa….’ Gabriel grabbed the lamp and stormed past the fiery-eyed Morgan.

  As he was leaving, Gabriel saw a bucket sitting by the door. He grabbed it, hurled it at the horse and ran out. Nor did he stop running until he was safely in the cabin. There, after catching his breath, he went to the window and looked out.

  The stallion stood in the doorway of the barn, silhouetted against the moon. It looked nothing short of magnificent and Gabriel couldn’t help admiring it.

  The more things change, he thought wryly, the more they stay the same.

  He went to bed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He awoke some time in the night, disturbed by something moving behind the cabin. At first he thought it might be the stallion – though he knew the Morgan seldom left the barn at night – or maybe a coyote on the prowl. Then he heard it again, recognized the familiar crunching sound made by human beings creeping along in boots and knew instinctively that the bounty hunters had returned.

  He pulled on his boots, took down the Winchester and quietly levered a shell into the chamber. He then waited, motionless, ears straining to pinpoint where each of his attackers were.

  One – no, two were approaching the door. He couldn’t place the third man and wondered whether he was after the stallion or hiding in the darkness somewhere, rifle trained on the door in case Gabriel got past his companions.

  Deciding that caution was the way, Gabriel crouched behind the table, ready to gun down anyone who tried to enter. It wouldn’t be easy for them. Stout blocks of wood, slid each night into place, kept the door and the window shutters barred. Nothing short of dynamite or a battering ram could break them open.

  Suddenly a lamp smashed against the door. Gabriel heard glass shatter, smelled kerosene and realized they intended to burn him out.

  Not waiting for the inevitable, he grabbed the blanket off his bed, dunked it in the bucket of water by the stove and wrapped it around himself. By now the door was aflame and he could hear the stallion neighing shrilly in the barn.

  He unbarred the door, jerked it open and threw the chair out first, drawing the bounty hunters’ fire. He then dived outside, hitting the ground and rolling over, firing at the two human silhouettes he saw outlined against the crackling blaze.

  One man gave a yelp and limped off into the darkness; the other took cover behind the corral fence. Gabriel jumped up and, keeping low, ran for the barn.

  A shot fired from a higher angle nicked Gabriel on his left arm, forcing him to hit the dirt. He knew now that the third man was among the rocks atop the slope, and rolling over he squeezed off two quick rounds. The bullets ricocheted off the rocks, making the sniper duck his head. Gabriel took a chance, jumped up, and dove into the barn.

  Bullets plunked into the door dangerously near his head. He returned fire, aiming directly at the flashes, and heard a grunt of pain.

  Men’s voices whispered to each other in the darkness. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but a few moments later he heard horses galloping away.

  He waited, hearing the stallion stirring restlessly behind him. When he was satisfied the bounty hunters weren’t returning, he sat up and faced the Morgan. The horse was glaring at him over the side of the stall. Its eyes were two fiery red glints. Gabriel laughed softly to himself. The goddamn brute was more angry than scared!

  Then he smelled smoke and remembered the fire. He jumped up, ran out into the moonlight and saw that the flames were licking up onto the roof. Gabriel ran to the water barrel, filled a bucket and tried to douse them.

  He made numerous trips but eventually he had to face it: the cabin was ablaze and there was no saving it. Lungs choked with smoke, he stood back and bitterly watched the last two years of his life burn to a blackened skeleton.

  He didn’t hear the stallion trot up beside him. Nor did he bother to look at it as he said grimly:

  ‘Horse, it’s time you an’ me rode north.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At dawn the next morning, before the rooster stopped crowing, Gabriel left the barn where he’d slept and breakfasted on four raw eggs and a gourd of goat’s milk. He then released the pigs and goats so they could fend for themselves, and left the barn door open so the chickens could wander in and out.

  Next he walked halfway down the slope to a pile of rocks and rolled one aside. Beneath it was a bundle wrapped in an old slicker. He unfolded it and took out the contents: a bedroll, canteen, a box of 44-40 cartridges. He’d buried everything right after he’d taken possession of the abandoned cabin for the very reason he was now going to need them: survival.

  Only this time he wouldn’t be battling just lawmen or bounty hunters; this time he’d be up against a far more powerful enemy, a man everyone feared, a man he’d once admired, even thought of as a surrogate father: Stillman J. Stadtlander.

  Gabriel pocketed the cartridges, filled the canteen from the stream, walked back up the slope to the Morgan and tied the bedroll behind his saddle. Then he mounted and rode off without once looking back at the smoldering remains of the cabin.

  His arm ached where the bullet had nicked him, but the bleeding had stopped shortly after he’d poured the last of the whiskey on it and now, except for some stiffness, it worked fine.

  He rode out across the flat scrubland, the stallion’s easy lope giving him the sense of being in a rocking-chair. In the cool dry air the Morgan was capable of keeping the pace steady for mile after mile. But Gabriel, sensing he hadn’t seen the last of the bounty hunters, reined the horse in as soon as they reached the end of the valley.

  Ahead, the trail climbed through several big rocky outcrops, then sloped down into a vast desert of greasewood and cholla. The latter, a cactus that grew in strange, twisty shapes, was covered with sharp clingy spines that stuck to boots and clothing and were painful as hell to dig out once they got under the skin.

  It was getting hot and Gabriel slowed the Morgan to a walk. To cross the desert in summer heat was dangerous, often fatal. Known as Viaje del Muerto, or Dead Man’s Journey, the land seemed harmless enough until one noticed the numerous bleached-white bones poking up through the reddish dirt. Rider and horse had to be especially careful where they trod, as stones and ruts and pockets of quicksand could cause a broken leg or a twisted ankle – dooming the victim, man or beast, to eventually die of dehydration.

  But today Gabriel knew he had more to worry about than the desert. As he rode slowly across the wasteland he rested the Winchester across his arm, ready to fire at anything threatening.

  After an hour or so he approached a mile-long gully walled on both sides by boulders. His intuition honed by a life on the run, he knew this
was where the bushwhacking would take place. Glancing up at the sun he saw that it glared down on his left side. Now he knew where the bounty hunters would be hiding. But from high up and at so steep an angle, it wouldn’t be an easy shot.

  Making a run for it was out of the question: even if they missed him with every shot they might still hit the horse. And once he was on foot they could wait him out until he died of thirst.

  It was then that he remembered a coyote he’d once hunted. The wily creature had kept exposing itself for a second before ducking out of sight. Each time Gabriel fired at it and missed. It was a daring ruse but it worked. After a dozen shots, Gabriel decided to look for easier game and gave up. The coyote’s mocking yip-yipping had rung in his ears as he rode off.

  Now, hoping that the bounty hunters were watching, he dismounted and examined the stallion’s left foreleg. Then pretending the horse had gone lame, he switched the rifle to his right hand, grasped the reins with his left and started walking.

  To make himself less of a target he kept changing his pace from fast to slow, slow to fast, now and then weaving and stumbling as if fatigued by the heat.

  He’d covered about fifty yards when a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his shoulder, and before there was time for another shot Gabriel whacked the Morgan with the rifle butt and dived behind the nearest rock. The startled horse galloped off along the gully before the bounty hunters could shoot it.

  Relieved, Gabriel kept ducked down as a steady hail of bullets chipped the rock near his head. Eventually, when the firing stopped, he poked his head up for a second, then ducked down again, drawing another volley of rifle fire. He repeated the maneuver several times, each time getting a glimpse of where the three men were hiding.

  When the next lull came he had his target already marked. Quickly resting the Winchester atop the rock, he took aim and fired three rounds.