survive was not to fight back. “ Hermano ,” he choked out, staring into glittering black eyes that were so like their father’s it made his stomach clench. “It is me. Paco. Your brother.”
Sancho thrust him away. “Half brother, pendejo . Do not forget.” He sheathed his knife, then turned, his attention caught by activity at the rancho.
A woman came out the door in the courtyard wall. Paco couldn’t see her face, but he recognized the lurching gait.
Sancho must have seen it, too. “ Puta ,” he spat out. “This time I kill her.”
At a sound, both men turned to see a lanky, bearded man watching them from the boulders. “We gonna jaw all day or find someplace to hole up?”
There was a moment of confusion, as if Sancho didn’t recognize Haskins, the mean-eyed Texan they’d recruited in a San Pedro cantina. Then his face cleared. “ Vámonos, ” he said, shoving Paco ahead of him toward the waiting horses.
“Where we going?” Haskins asked as Sancho swung into the saddle.
Sancho gave a cackling laugh that made the skin between Paco’s shoulder blades quiver. “To a place where even el diablo cannot find us.”
Four
MOONLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH TALL PINES LIT THE TRAIL as Brady’s weary horse clattered through a dry wash in front of Jamison’s cabin. Because he approached from upwind, Brady wasn’t prepared for what he found, and when the smell hit him, it triggered such an onslaught of images he went spinning backward in time.
Flames. The cabin. Inside, two bodies entwined like lovers, matching bullet holes in their foreheads. Outside, Jacob’s voice rising into the fiery night sky. “Jesus God, what have I done?”
The horse shied, snapping the hold of the past. By the time Brady brought him under control, he realized the smoldering cabin wasn’t the line shack at the ranch, and the bodies on the porch weren’t those of Don Ramon and Maria Ramirez, but Lemuel Jamison and his wife.
Shaken, he leaned over to spit the stench of burnt flesh from his mouth, then reined the limping horse toward the trough. It had been riddled with bullets, and except for a scant inch of murky water, it was empty. The pump handle had been shot off, so Brady couldn’t pump more. After scooping what he could with his hands, he let the horse suck up what was left as he looked around.
The timbers in the house were almost burned through, which meant the Jamisons had died at least a day before the stage was due. So whoever did this wasn’t after the stage or its passengers, but something Jamison had, such as food or whiskey, horses, guns and ammunition.
Brady hunkered to study the ground. With the full moon almost directly overhead, he could see tracks in the damp earth around the trough—shod horses, shod men, the pinched-out butt of a Mexican cigarillo. Not Indians. White men or Mexicans.
Sancho. And this time he and Paco weren’t alone. With a sense of urgency, Brady remounted and headed northeast.
The vegetation was sparse. The soil, comprised mostly of decomposed limestone and pale caliche, reflected back the bright moonlight, so it was like riding across a thin blanket of snow at dusk. He should make good time. If the horse got him as far as Blue Mesa, he’d find a way to make the last climbs on foot. He could be on his way back with a wagon by afternoon.
The horse gave out three hours later and well short of Blue Mesa. After slipping off the bridle, Brady left the crippled animal munching withered grass and started walking toward the notch that marked the south pass into the home valley.
The day warmed. The sun burning into his back and the heat rising off the ground made him feel like a chicken on a spit. By midmorning he knew he was in trouble; his feet felt like half-cooked meat and he wasn’t sweating enough. Breaking off a prickly pear leaf, he cleared it of spines then settled in the shade of a scraggly mesquite to chew the moisture from the pulpy leaf.
He tried wiggling his toes. They
Sancho thrust him away. “Half brother, pendejo . Do not forget.” He sheathed his knife, then turned, his attention caught by activity at the rancho.
A woman came out the door in the courtyard wall. Paco couldn’t see her face, but he recognized the lurching gait.
Sancho must have seen it, too. “ Puta ,” he spat out. “This time I kill her.”
At a sound, both men turned to see a lanky, bearded man watching them from the boulders. “We gonna jaw all day or find someplace to hole up?”
There was a moment of confusion, as if Sancho didn’t recognize Haskins, the mean-eyed Texan they’d recruited in a San Pedro cantina. Then his face cleared. “ Vámonos, ” he said, shoving Paco ahead of him toward the waiting horses.
“Where we going?” Haskins asked as Sancho swung into the saddle.
Sancho gave a cackling laugh that made the skin between Paco’s shoulder blades quiver. “To a place where even el diablo cannot find us.”
Four
MOONLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH TALL PINES LIT THE TRAIL as Brady’s weary horse clattered through a dry wash in front of Jamison’s cabin. Because he approached from upwind, Brady wasn’t prepared for what he found, and when the smell hit him, it triggered such an onslaught of images he went spinning backward in time.
Flames. The cabin. Inside, two bodies entwined like lovers, matching bullet holes in their foreheads. Outside, Jacob’s voice rising into the fiery night sky. “Jesus God, what have I done?”
The horse shied, snapping the hold of the past. By the time Brady brought him under control, he realized the smoldering cabin wasn’t the line shack at the ranch, and the bodies on the porch weren’t those of Don Ramon and Maria Ramirez, but Lemuel Jamison and his wife.
Shaken, he leaned over to spit the stench of burnt flesh from his mouth, then reined the limping horse toward the trough. It had been riddled with bullets, and except for a scant inch of murky water, it was empty. The pump handle had been shot off, so Brady couldn’t pump more. After scooping what he could with his hands, he let the horse suck up what was left as he looked around.
The timbers in the house were almost burned through, which meant the Jamisons had died at least a day before the stage was due. So whoever did this wasn’t after the stage or its passengers, but something Jamison had, such as food or whiskey, horses, guns and ammunition.
Brady hunkered to study the ground. With the full moon almost directly overhead, he could see tracks in the damp earth around the trough—shod horses, shod men, the pinched-out butt of a Mexican cigarillo. Not Indians. White men or Mexicans.
Sancho. And this time he and Paco weren’t alone. With a sense of urgency, Brady remounted and headed northeast.
The vegetation was sparse. The soil, comprised mostly of decomposed limestone and pale caliche, reflected back the bright moonlight, so it was like riding across a thin blanket of snow at dusk. He should make good time. If the horse got him as far as Blue Mesa, he’d find a way to make the last climbs on foot. He could be on his way back with a wagon by afternoon.
The horse gave out three hours later and well short of Blue Mesa. After slipping off the bridle, Brady left the crippled animal munching withered grass and started walking toward the notch that marked the south pass into the home valley.
The day warmed. The sun burning into his back and the heat rising off the ground made him feel like a chicken on a spit. By midmorning he knew he was in trouble; his feet felt like half-cooked meat and he wasn’t sweating enough. Breaking off a prickly pear leaf, he cleared it of spines then settled in the shade of a scraggly mesquite to chew the moisture from the pulpy leaf.
He tried wiggling his toes. They
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