It was Rogue that won me the beating. Rogue, my dog.
That long-haired white mutt went everywhere with me, including the Hair of the Dog Saloon. He wasn’t bad looking, for a mongrel, and a nicer critter never was born. But he didn’t drink the cowboys’ brand of whisky, and that didn’t set well with them.
I’d rode into Palisade, Nevada, three days before, taking a scenic side-road on my way to Virginia City to meet my little brother, Jason. It wasn’t a detour I’d needed to take, but I’d been reading and hearing for the past couple years about this place called "Plucky Palisade," the bloodiest little town in the West, and I just had to see it for myself. The newspapers claimed daylight train robbery and murder were routine occurrences in Palisade. And Jacob West was not a man to ride within twenty miles of such a den of iniquity only to admit he’d passed it by.
I hadn’t seen brother Jason in a few years, not since a bad judgment of mine broke up our last business venture and I had to drift. But by nothing short of a miracle a letter from Jason had found me four months back, in the darkest part of a bone-chilling Kansas January. The fact that a letter could find me convinced me it was time to skin out of Kansas before people I didn’t want knowing my whereabouts also stumbled into me.
Jason had come up with a plan for a new livelihood, and now me and him had eyes for Virginia City, a burg old Samuel Clemens—getting better known these days by the moniker of Mark Twain—was quick making infamous. The booming city held potential for a freighting outfit run by two enterprising young fellers like Jason and me. And outside of drifting and drinking, gambling and carousing, horses and guns, freighting was what Jake and Jason West knew. It wasn’t the most romantic of businesses, but it was the steady source of income we had hit upon down south until trouble pinned me to a wall.
But before I could get my jaded bones to Virginia City, I’d stopped for a look-see at this "bloodiest town in the West" or to rest up, whichever Palisade ended up offering. I’d had a long road by the time I reached the bustling railroad town of Carlin, but I figured fifteen or twenty miles sidetracking to the south wasn’t going to hurt me and my horses none. For lack of money, when I reached little Palisade I slept two nights in a vacant lot at the edge of town down by the bank of the river. I tied my horses there and "borrowed" hay for them from the local livery late at night. In two days I saw none of the fabled bloodshed, and was growing tired of the boredom. But rest had been my other need, and for a while it looked like it was just what I’d get here. It didn’t surprise me much, either, for my first view of this ramshackle sprawl of fifty or sixty structures crowded along the railroad tracks and the Humboldt River didn’t hold much promise of proving any of the excitement I’d heard tell about.
About all I had money for was a drink now and then, which in most saloons came with a free lunch of some kind. I’d learned quick that the best no-pay grub in town was to be had at the Hair of the Dog Saloon, leastwise judging "best" by quantity. So the Hair of the Dog quick became my haunt. I ate once every day, whether I needed it or not.
Rogue was another reason I kept going back to the Hair of the Dog, there on the bank of the Humboldt River. My first day in town, after briefly looking over the mix of saloons and places of entertainment, I stopped at the Hair of the Dog on the hunch that a place with such a name might have a soft spot for a starving mutt. And my hunch proved correct. Chew, the bartender, gave me leave right off to bring Rogue in. He said Rogue made a good mascot—and a sign anyone was welcome. Besides, the way some of the cowboys and miners smelled—not to mention the wolfers rank with dog urine who wandered in on occasion—Rogue was a fragrant change.
When Rogue first trailed me in that afternoon I saw the four cowboys at a table eating steaks. A couple of Mex vaqueros sat at a table nearby, and although seated at separate tables I judged by the color and amount of dust on all their clothes the six of them rode for the same brand. Two more men occupied a table in a dim corner, but their narrow-brimmed dark hats and wool suits set them off from the other six. I noticed those kind of things because in entering a place I had to notice everything. I’d been a wanted man and had a hunch I still was—and not in any good way.
A harsh, nasally voice broke the silence. "Stinks like range maggots in here."
I stood at the bar lined up with the little mirror back of it. I’d picked my spot a-purpose to keep watch on the toughs behind me. The man with the mouth was shorter than me, but several inches bigger around the chest. One of his eyelids hung almost shut, but open enough to show the glassy white ball beneath it. Around it was a mass of ugly scars. The other eye stared out pale blue.
Two of his pards were laughing when I glanced around. The third looked me up and down solemnly from under a flat-brimmed gray hat. His drooping mustache reminded me of a frown, but his dark blue, almost purple eyes held no _expression.
I turned back to the barkeep. "I’ll take a whisky. An’ if you’d pass down that bread an’ a slab o’ ham, I’d take it kindly. I’ve got about all the nourishment I can out of road dirt and lizard tails."
Chew, whose thin, dark hair scratched pencil lines along the crown of his head, threw a nervous glance at the table of cowboys. "Sure, Jake."
Chew and me, we’d hit it right off. After filling a glass with whisky, he slid over a loaf of uncut bread, then half a ham on a plate. "Here’s the knife," said Chew. "Cut your own meat, an’ thick as you like today. Then keep the knife," he said in a hushed voice, his head lowered and his eyes locked on the bar. "You might need it for carvin’ other things."
I studied Chew’s down-turned face, what little of it I could see past his shiny dome of a head. But he didn’t look back up, so I went to slicing ham. I could feel Rogue’s eyes on me, along with others less friendly.
"Hey, Chew. Since when you lettin’ sheep in?" It was the droop-eyed puncher.
Chew laughed nervously, his eyes sliding toward where Rogue had settled down leaning against the bar, out of his sight. "Rogue’s a nice dog, Boomer. If you like dogs."
"Guess he ain’t a sheep after all," said one of the others to the man called Boomer. "Why, he says it’s a dog!" Peach fuzz rode the speaker’s lip, and a bandanna was snugged up at his throat like to choke him. He couldn’t have been much over eighteen.
I always liked to head off trouble. Another of my little brothers, James, would’ve been in a brawl by then over someone poking fun at his dog. But he liked to fight—I never had. Not to say I didn’t know how. I’d grown up with a passel of brothers, and one pretty but tough sister who’d been courted by a professional fighter for a time and taught me some of the best fighting moves of them all.
But even though I was the oldest of the brothers, I wasn’t the toughest. Silly as it sounds, my hands were intended more for dealing cards and plucking catgut than pounding heads. My lips were meant more for whistling at a pretty girl than for stopping fists. And my gun had killed enough men to satisfy me for life, which thanks to the War I couldn’t even count. I decided I’d better say something calming before these punchers worked themselves up to a row.
I turned and looked at the fellow called Boomer. "Don’t let Rogue bother you, pardner. He’s friendly. He only kills longhorn bulls and elephants, and then only if they step on his tail."
Boomer laughed, and the others copied him, all except that solemn one with the drooping mustache, and the two Mexicans. "Well, thanks for settin’ my mind at ease, boy! I was about shakin’ for fear of losin’ a leg."
I laughed quietly and nodded. "Just thought you’d like to know. Them bulls and elephants never take my advice."
Boomer was silent for a moment, trying to find something in my words he could take offense at. "Thanks for the favor, but I don’t care how friendly he is. Inside ain’t no place for a sheep."
I smiled, mostly because I was quick losing my mood to laugh. "I s’pose he could use a bath. If it comes to that, there’s prob’ly more than one of us in this room that could."
Boomer’s eyes suddenly lost all joke and settled on mine. He’d found his insulting remark. He leaned back a little in his chair. "What do you mean by that?"
"Just that I stink," I said with a smile. "I’ve smelled better wind back of a privy than what’s driftin’ up off me. It’s prob’ly me you been smellin’."
Boomer’s two laughing friends started up again, but when he remained serious their merriment died. He looked me up and down, his eye skipping past my gun belt. Yet I had the feeling it was the belt and holstered Colt he was most interested in. A man that watches people learns to see those things, and one of my favorite pastimes was people watching. Even people as ugly as Boomer were interesting.
"Don’t try talkin’ around what you meant, bucko," Boomer said. "You were sayin’ it’s me that stinks."
"That’s not what I meant at all," I lied. "Let’s just forget it. I’ll take my drink an’ my ripe dog an’ leave you in peace. I know me an’ the dog could both use a bath."
I picked up my drink, but as I started to turn back toward the door, I heard a splash, a startled yip from Rogue, then a burst of laughter.
"There’s his bath," the youth with the fuzzy lip said. He was holding an empty whisky glass, and I looked down at Rogue. The dog had his face down, wiping at his right eye with his foreleg. The liquor turned his white fur yellow where it ran off the top of his head.
They’d hurt my dog, but he could’ve been hurt a lot worse. It was my feelings that were injured most of all. Still, even though I was chock full of hell I wasn’t in the mood to have it beat out of me today. My nose had been broke too many times before. I didn’t like it much, and my nose liked it less, though it made itself a conspicuous target.
Swallowing my pride, I turned back to Chew, whose face was white. "Just give me a bottle of bourbon, pard. I’ll take it an’ leave. I don’t wanna see your place get wrecked on account of me."
Chew flashed a worried smile as he complied, and I gave him four silver dollars, picking up the bottle. I left my sandwich makings on the bar, took my empty stomach and my dog, and started for the door.
"You ain’t goin’ without yer bath," I heard Boomer say. I felt a splash against my neck, while the fuzzy-lipped one and his friend roared with laughter. The whisky ran down in cool rivulets inside my shirt. It felt good, but I wasn’t sure he meant it as a favor.
I swung sideways with the bourbon bottle, aiming for Boomer’s blocky head with all intention of ending the fight. But he’d been expecting me to move and had started to lurch to his feet before I swung. The bottle struck him along the point of his shoulder, making a dull tunk against bone. He swore and grabbed at the shoulder with his other hand.
I turned and landed a kick between his legs. He doubled over and staggered back into the table, tipping it and dumping two plates of steak on the floor. The other three were up, along with the two Mexicans, and Fuzzy Lip was grabbing for his gun, so I went for mine.
Before I could hardly blink, the solemn man with the drooping mustache had a Colt pointed at my face. He motioned with his barrel for me to take my hand away from my gun.
"Shoot ’im, Kane!" growled the fuzzy lip. "Shoot ’im ’tween the legs!" He had his gun out now, too, but even though it was pointed at me he didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
The solemn man, Kane, continued to look at me but growled to the other, "Just shut up, Dandelion. Go get his gun."
Dandelion started around the table to me, but Rogue was in his way. With more anger than he had reason for, he kicked my dog in the gut, knocking him down yelping. Rogue wasn’t a big dog. He only weighed maybe forty-five pounds and didn’t stand much chance against a full-grown man. I stepped forward, bringing my hand partway up to my gun butt again. One look down Kane’s barrel made me stop. Kane growled something at Dandelion, but I never got to hear it.
A solid weight hit me below chest level. I came up off my feet, and went down hard on my back. Gasping for breath, I opened my eyes to see Boomer on top of me, and then his first blow landed hard against my mouth. I rolled my head, dodging the worst of the next blow as it glanced across my cheekbone and ear. The force slammed my head against the floor and set it to ringing.
I hadn’t even got my wits before another fist landed, then another. I struggled against the weight on top of me. I couldn’t wrestle this man. He was too powerful. But I was wiry and quick as a snake, and after I squirmed a bit Boomer toppled sideways, and I started to come up, sucking for air.
Outside of the groin kick, I’d not had a decent strike to my name, and that made me fiercest of all. I’d not even had a chance to practice my pugilism (that’s what my sister Elaine called fisticuffs), but I had no intention to. This was a knock-down-drag-out brawl and not the time to be a sportsman. Boomer and me rose about the same time, and I landed an uppercut to his lowered face, smashing his lips against his teeth. I chopped with two solid left jabs to the forehead. Boomer staggered back, and his bad eyelid fluttered against the scars.
That’s all I saw, because right then I took a gun barrel to the side of my head. It dropped me to my knees just as the side of a boot rushed my way. The next thing I knew, I was on my back. I could hear Rogue’s half snarl, half bark, and I wished he was gone. Men without enough guts to kill another man were likely to take their hate out on a dog.
I rolled in time to see Boomer’s gun barrel smash into my dog’s head, making him yelp and crumple to his side. Boomer was squeezing his calf and swearing, holding onto the spot where Rogue must’ve bit him. I started up, eager to pursue my advantage. But before I could reach Boomer a boot toe caught me in the gut, doubling me over. I tasted the metallic tang of blood from the earlier blow to my mouth, and my ears clanged, partly from my own fury. Otherwise, the room seemed oddly silent.
I straightened up, not daring take the time to suffer my injuries properly. An arm grabbed me around the neck, jerking me back, and Dandelion came in sinking blows into my belly. I was so weak I couldn’t even kick at him. I sagged against the bulk of the man behind me, trying to suck air into my lungs, air that wouldn’t come.
Then Boomer took over, driving in blow after blow below my ribcage. My head whirling, I could see Kane standing in the haze of my vision, watching the fight. His gun was holstered now. He glanced from me to the others like he was watching an opera. He didn’t really seem to care what was happening. Not like I did, for sure. I kept waiting for the inevitable blow that would turn my nose into a strawberry. And I was helpless to stop it.
My head was full of blood from being near choked to death. My arms and legs were too weak to move. I guess I was only standing because of the man holding me.
Then I heard Boomer growling, "Hold that heathen tight, Roy. I’m ’bout to fix this mutt of his for good."
I figured Boomer would kill my dog now, and somewhere inside me I found my strength. But Dandelion had anticipated that, and he leaped at me in time to grab an arm. With him on one side and Roy on the other, even my livid anger couldn’t move me. I struggled until my new-found strength was gone.
Sick with shock, I saw Boomer pull a jackknife from his pocket and swing open a blade. He leaned over old Rogue and grabbed a hind leg, pulling it sideways.
That’s when I heard the bark of Kane’s voice, and I moved my eyes up to see him holding his gun again. Only this time it was aimed at Boomer. "You children’ve shown what tough men you are when it’s three to one. I’d suggest you let loose of the dog, Boomer. Any body parts you take off him with that knife, I’ll take off you with a bullet."
The only view I had was the back of Boomer’s head when he turned to look up at Kane, so I had to imagine the look he gave. The words he threw him weren’t happy, but they were reserved enough to tell me he was intimidated. "He bit me!"
"He should’ve ripped your stupid throat out."
Boomer raised his knife and slammed it into the floor, lunging to his feet. But instead of facing Kane, he whirled on me to release his anger. "You get yer sheep out and don’t come back!" I spit squarely into his face, much of it blood. And then Boomer drew his gun and swung at me, and everything went black.
Chapter Two
Jason: In the Company of Snakes
When I came to, the devil was staring me straight in the eyes.
No—not the devil. The wedge-like head that had reared up in my line of vision belonged to a rattlesnake. I was still a little stunned from my fall, though, and the black-slitted gold eyes looked like those of none other than Mephistopheles himself. I shook my head against a gray haze. The snake arched back dangerously as a dry rattle reached my ears.
My mind suddenly cleared. Memory came back in a torrent …
***? ? ?
It hadn’t been an hour before that I was riding across the rimrock, my thoughts on hunting mule deer and a rendezvous with new-found friends. But just over the point of the next hill waited five who were not friends. Weapons drawn, they stepped from a stand of juniper. I recognized none of these men, but they knew who I was.
"Good afternoon," greeted the one in the lead. By his manner of dress—a light-colored linen suit and plantation hat—he fancied himself a Southern gentleman. The irony lay in his deep olive complexion and hair of a lustrous blue-black. Former slave masquerading as a master? It was only ten years after the war that had won the Negroes their freedom. This one had to be a mulatto, though. The bottle-green eyes playing across me didn’t belong to any full-blooded African. It was after looking into his eyes for only a few seconds that a vague memory of his face began to surface. I had seen him long ago. But where?
"Afternoon," I returned, glancing from this living phenomenon to the four men flanking him. One was lanky and unkempt, but flashy in a scarlet shirt, with dull white hair straggling from under his hat brim. Another was stump-built, sag-bellied and cut a truly unimpressive figure under a shapeless sugarloaf sombrero.
The fourth man compared well to his tall, dark-skinned leader except he was white. His right hand held a pistol, but his left casually lifted a cigarette to his lips. His eyes flickered to the mulatto, seeming to put him under a scrutiny.
The fifth member of this motley band, whose complexion was much blacker than that of the mulatto, had all the features of a full-fledged Negro. He was large in stature, grizzled around the sideburns, and his coal-chip eyes bored at mine.
My every tendon drew tight. I had no idea what I had done to aggrieve these strangers, but it looked like they were bent on exacting the price from my hide.
Even if I’d been a born negotiator like my brother Julius, no room was allowed for words. The mulatto didn’t waste any talk. "Nothing personal, my friend," he said, in a peculiarly soft, deep voice, "but you’re due to die." It was at that bizarre moment the face came back to me, this part Negro I had seen gambling down in New Orleans. Simultaneously with the recollection, he lifted a hand, and two of the others, the man in the red shirt and the black man, opened fire.
I pitched from my saddle, down into a roiling bank of darkness …
Lances of light hit my eyes as I opened them. I was being dragged across the rocky ground on my back. The face of the man who was pulling me by the feet was indiscernible, back-lit as it was by a molten circle of sun. I heard the soft, almost melodic voice of the mulatto again. "Over there," he directed.
The one dragging me grated, "Why? Another bullet an’ it’d be done with."
The voice came again, suddenly laced with menace. I knew I would recognize it among the clamor of any crowd—if I lived beyond this day to find myself in a crowd again. "It is best this one not be found. Besides, you and Gun already squandered a number of rounds without killing him. It’s time to find a less expensive and more … fitting method."
"Like what?" the other asked, his challenge much meeker now.
"Mr. Alfino," sighed the mulatto. "Surely you know of my interest in certain cold-blooded creatures …?"
"Eh? Well, yeah, Mr. Cobra, I do, but I don’t see—"
"You soon will. Drag him to that outcropping as I told you."
The dragging began again. At length this Alfino halted, and the mulatto ordered, "Pitch him down. Help him, Mr. Maitland." Above me I heard a grunt. I was lifted by the arms, then by the feet, and suddenly wind was rushing around my plummeting weight. I was struck a tremendous blow to the body, and darkness claimed me again …
***? ? ?
Now I’d come to, only to confront that devil’s head. When the haze cleared, I recognized it for what it was and froze in place. The snake peered at me through the gloom. I lay waiting. At last the demon seemed to decide I was too inert to be a threat, and the whisper of its retreating length made me breathe easier.
For a few more moments, I kept still, thinking there must be some divine reason I was still alive. Unless, of course, this was hell … After a while I mustered the will and courage to raise myself on one elbow. The sight there to greet me in that murky light was a horror.
Hell indeed, I thought. Strewn across the floor of this rock prison I found myself in were the dim shapes of at least a dozen snakes. Most were fairly small, but I counted three as impressive as the five-foot monster that had been looking me over. Fortunately, the early spring weather had them somewhat sluggish. If I remained still it might be some time before the whole band decided to find out whether it was possible to make a meal of me. And in the meantime—what? I could starve, I supposed, waiting for one of them to make its play. When the strike came, it might be a blow of mercy.
But more likely, I would die from loss of blood long before that. It was time I took full inventory, though I felt as lackadaisical as the rattlers themselves. I groaned and stirred. Just pulling myself up to brace my back against the wall of stone seemed the greatest labor I’d ever undertaken. I began an exploration with my fingers, moving them to the places where the pain was beginning to rise as the shock wore off. One bullet had plowed through the flesh of my right shoulder above the collarbone. A second slug had tried to bury itself in my midsection, only to ricochet off my sturdy silver whisky flask and angle off in a jagged furrow instead. The flask was dented, but its burden was intact. Trembling, I removed the cap and drew a measured swallow, feeling the bracing warmth spread through me.
But instead of reviving my will to live, the clearing of my head led to the darkest of thoughts. I stared back down the cold, drab corridors of my days. Was there anything there to justify my clinging to life now? I’d done nothing more than drift for the past years … and before that? I’d been only drifting then, too, from one card table to another. The only time since before the War that I’d truly felt life stir in my grasp was when I’d fallen for a fair-haired woman in New Orleans.
If I died now, what would become of me? By and large my family had been a religious lot, but I had strayed more than a little from my beginnings in the Methodist faith. Would God forgive one who’d run off course and not paused to give him the time of day since age nineteen? If not, my home would soon be hell. The stone cell I was in now would give place to a bedlam of who-knew-what everlasting horrors … unless neither hell nor heaven really existed. In that case, the coming years would find me rolling with the wind-borne dust, no will of my own and no mind to know the difference. It sounded peaceful, in a way, but considering I hadn’t truly lived all that much, it seemed a cruel end. A man whose book-learning ran deep had recently called me a "disciple of the wind." I’d liked the sound of the phrase then, but now it rang false to me, a thin varnish of glory brushed over my shiftless ways. When it came down to bedrock, I’d been only a puppet of the wind for years.
I leaned back hard against the rough surface, shivering against the coldness that filtered through my blood. I had to fight the specter of death that was suddenly so close as to breathe in my ear. If not … well, if not there would be very little even the most accomplished embroiderer of truth could carve on my tombstone.
So I sat there, pressing a handkerchief against the wound over my collarbone, and searched the air for reasons to keep moving. Well, I had always been the malcontent, restless to discover what I didn’t know about life. If I let myself sink into death now, I would never know what lay ahead. There might be a vein of gold running through my future, but I would never be sure unless I clung long enough to uncover it. I pictured myself a ghost haunting this place, mourning my own surrender for eternity. Mourning the not knowing.
And then there was my streak of stubbornness. I might not have many reasons to fight for survival, but if someone wanted my death I should have a fierce wish to live—if for no other purpose than to defy them.
I straightened up, my mind set. The first step was to bind my wounds, and that meant a sacrifice. At first I thought I’d have to tear apart the flamboyant gambler’s vest I wore, it being my one piece of frivolous clothing at the moment. It wouldn’t yield much by way of bandages, though. In the end, I reasoned myself into tearing my shirt up instead. With the vest against my skin, and my coat over that, I should fare all right against the cold. I paused to draw again from the whisky flask, then poured some on each of my wounds, grunting through clenched teeth at the burn.
Wadding shirt-cloth against the wound on my ribcage, I strapped it in place with a length around my middle. Binding the wound over my collarbone proved more of a chore, particularly since the deepening cold that had coagulated the blood-flow a little had also slowed me, as it did the snakes.
I fell back against the stone in exhaustion.
Doom came back to whisper at my ear. So I’d come this far. Now what? It was hard to believe anyone in the world cared if I survived, when all my family and the few friends I’d ever had were unknowable miles distant. There were the two friends I’d made a few days ago, but were they friends enough to come looking for me when I never returned to their camp? I lolled my head back, musing how marvelous a thing sleep could be and wondering how I’d failed to appreciate it before. I thought I noticed a mysterious fog rolling down from above …
I woke frightened and feverish. A faint breeze fanned the film of sweat on my forehead, chilling my skin.
Where was I? I stared into the darkness, straining to remember, then stood bolt upright in fear. It was only by doing so that I discovered my leg had been damaged in the fall, and I nearly toppled sideways. A warning rattle at my left provided motive for me to stiffen every muscle and so keep myself upright. I remembered now—how well I remembered! Had I been writing a piece for the Clarion back in New Orleans, I might have described myself as a guest in an inn run by half-hidden hellions. It would never answer if I stepped on my hosts, so I’d better mind my manners. I eased myself back onto my safe perch.
If only there were enough wood scattered around, a small, warming blaze would be feasible. In my coat I carried a packet of lucifers for lighting my pipe. I fumblingly struck one of them. Dancing shadows in the feeble orange glow threw this pit of demons into eerie relief. But I was in luck, insofar as fuel was concerned. Along with the snake-shapes winding here and there across my rock-walled room, there were numerous shards of deadwood, washed down into this natural cistern.
The match-flame now reached my fingers. Grunting irritably, I tossed it down then sat for a while marshaling what little energy I had. I stood up—carefully this time—and moved toward the scattered wood. I staggered and almost fell. Close to panic, I skewed myself around and inched my way back to my perch. Evidently I was too weak to tackle such a mighty feat as building a fire.
I dozed fitfully. When I jolted alert again, moonlight was streaming into the cistern. It was bright enough that I should be able to conserve my lucifers for a while. And it was time to reconnoiter this prison of mine.
By twisting my torso, I could survey the wall behind me. It was the only possible ascent, but it held only one encouraging note. A little less than halfway up, a short ledge projected out, perhaps a foot deeper than my perch. It was no doubt exaggerated by the shadows, but there appeared to be at least enough maneuvering room for my feet. If I used my seat as a stepping-stool, it was conceivable I could reach that point. And what then? Nothing. Past that, the wall began to arch, and there were but few shadows marking usable foot- or handholds. Gravity would claim me, if I tried, and no doubt I wouldn’t be as lucky in my second fall.
Echoing the words of Shakespeare’s King Henry V, I murmured drowsily, "A rope, a rope—my kingdom for a rope." Then I managed a grim half-smile. Kingdom? What kingdom? A couple of horses and the few other trappings of a glorified saddle tramp—that was my kingdom. And even if I had a rope, it would be impossible to anchor it above.
I sagged back once more against the inhospitable stone. My conscious thoughts began to ebb; cobwebs wove themselves over the darkness before my eyes …
Ironically, I dreamed of a rope. I was climbing my way out of the cistern; somehow I had found a reata, and miraculously managed to anchor it to something up top. Then I realized the rope along which I traveled, hand over hand, was a living, writhing one. It was braided from rattlesnakes, and they were thrashing furiously under my fingers!
I think I might have screamed on snapping awake. It was something I’d never done before as far as I knew, but it might have been justified, considering the nightmare. Anyway, there were only the snakes to hear me. Resting against the rock, I listened to my pulse beat in my ears. The dream was still vivid. I felt the scaly, cold hide beneath my hands, heard the angry hissing. The humor of it occurred to me then. I smiled again, though anyone watching might have called it a grimace. Not quite the rope I had in mind.
A moment later I found myself drowsing again. I jerked awake You’re dying, I told myself. Soon there’ll be no more Jason Constantine, or Jason West, or whatever you please to call yourself. These snakes will crawl across your carcass yet …
Favoring my injured leg, I stood up. I moved my arms as much as I dared, and chafed my hands together. Then I decided there would be a fire, by hook or by crook. I counted my lucifers. Eleven left. The number was a comfort. I observed no snakes dangerously close, and knelt among the deadwood fragments, choosing a three-foot length of juniper with a gnarled thickness that promised a fairly durable torch. In a moment I had gathered enough fallen scraps to make a sizeable bundle, which I attached to an end of the torch with one of the few strips remaining from my shirt. I spattered the tinder with whisky, then set a lucifer to the torch. It crackled and burst into a reassuring blaze.
But the lucifer fluttered sideways, then flicked out. At the same time my torch danced, vacillating in the same direction as the vanished match-flame. Not a vagrant breeze coming down from the plateau overhead, but a cross-draft. That could only mean …
I lifted my torch and was only beginning to take in the significance of a black slit in the rock-face across from me when the shout carried to me from above.
"Señor Constantino? Señor, are you there?"
Amalia! Amalia Covarrubias, one of my new-found friends. It must have been my nightmare-born scream that clued her, I decided, with no small chagrin. Well, better a blow to my pride than an unhealthy helping of death. I attempted to call to her. My voice had been unused for hours, and my throat was raw from the cold and strain. At first my words emerged only as an unrecognizable croak. Clearing my throat, I managed to rasp, "Amalia? I’m here."
"Constantino!" Was it my imagination, or was there more than a tinge of gladness in her voice at hearing me alive? And this Constantino business, preceded by no "Señor"—it was certainly a sudden change. No entanglements, I reminded myself. She was too young, and … too poor, and maybe, at least one of my brothers might say, too Mexican … Still, I now had my evidence that someone cared if I remained among the living.
"I have your reata," Amalia was saying. "And your horse is here. I will tie the reata around her—her saddle. Then I will throw it down to you."
I was almost drunken with relief. In that state, my mind began to wander away from the contingencies of escaping my prison … Constantino. Not my first name, but rather the Spanish adaptation of the one I’d been using as my last. Evidently when she’d run the Jason across her tongue, she hadn’t cared for the taste of it.
"You are still there, señor? I am … I try to hurry."
The torch had begun to warm me a little, along with the renewed embers of hope. Now I found occasion to wonder why that marauding mulatto had left my horse. And, for that matter, why the mare herself had been loyal enough to stay around. What had I ever done for her, really, but feed and water her, the better to keep her carrying me?
Amalia called to me, saying she had looped the reata around the saddle horn. It swished down, slapping the stone not far from my feet. A snake plied its rattle half-heartedly. I ignored the sound, for the threat seemed distant now. With difficulty, I called up to my rescuer, "Make sure you hold the rope away from the edge to keep it from fraying. Understand? And be careful standing that close to the drop." I then took hold of the rope and began the massive, soul-wrenching labor of moving up, hand over hand, gripping with trembling fingers. Eternity rolled by. I wanted to scream against the agonizing pain in my wounded shoulder. At last I had both knees resting on the ledge I’d noticed from below.
I took a few deep breaths, then grasped the reata solidly and made for my last pull to freedom.
It was then that a mind-picture of the condition of my reata came to me.
A saddle tramp was used to mending his own gear, but I seldom had call for the rope. It was years old, and when I last looked it over there had been noticeable weak spots along its length. I should drop back to the ledge, I thought, and tell Amalia she should pull it back up to make sure it looked safe. That was when she gave a startled cry and the rope went slack in my hands. I could hear sounds of grappling and scuffling above as I dropped back, somewhat jarringly, on the ledge. Above, there was the scraping thud of some weighty object meeting the earth.
Amalia screamed. She was falling. I looked in time to see her dark shape catapulting down, my saddle preceding her. The saddle rushed by, and I heard it hit the rock-floor a second later. Amalia flailed at me in passing, clutching at me and at the reata, and then we were both in space. The cistern’s floor welcomed me with explosive impact. The wash of the moonlight and the torch-glow blended together, then receded into total blackness.
Chapter Three
Jake: The Four Seas
"Mr. McGonigal tells me he’s not always so ghastly looking."
Those were the first words I heard when I woke up. "I guess I’m supposed to work miracles and nurse him back to handsome. That could be an eternity."
The words came from a husky-voiced woman, perhaps middle-aged. I dragged my eyelids open, then shut them again as a flood of light slapped against my eyes. The voice had stopped, and as I tried again to open my eyes a different one spoke. Another woman’s voice, a younger, silkier one.
"Say, mister, they’re paying this woman fifty dollars to make sure you get better. The least you could do is open your eyes and let us see what color they are. We have the price of a new dress wagered on it."
At the mention of my eyes, I raised my hand and scrubbed at them with a thumb and forefinger. Then I squeezed them shut even tighter. I shook my head and blinked a couple of times, then tried to look up again. All I got for my trouble was a room full of dizziness, and eyes on blazing fire. It felt like a bunch of little men were walking on them—and I mean little men. I closed them again and waited. To give you a taste of how I felt, cut off your eyelids and crawl into a haystack on your back. Then turn your head back and forth. Two or three hours, your eyes would feel like mine did. Maybe you’d rather just take my word for it.
I tried to speak, then had to clear my throat and try again. I felt like someone had swabbed out my throat and mouth with a yard of muslin. This time I didn’t open my eyes. "Where am I?"
"Stubborn, huh? You can’t open your eyes and satisfy our wager?" It was the younger woman. The other one gave a little laugh. Her voice, though gruff, sounded the kinder of the two.
"Where the— Where am I?" I asked with a rasp.
"Well, well. He’s not through fighting even yet," said the younger woman. "He just isn’t going to oblige us, is he?"
After a moment’s silence, the older woman spoke. "You’re in the Occidental Hotel. Accidental would be more apt. People come here only on accident, or if they’re forced." I lifted a corner of my mouth to show I appreciated her humor; I didn’t feel much like laughing at the moment. I forced open my eyes, blinked them twice, and looked up at the first woman.
I had guessed her age wrong by her stronger voice. She was in her early thirties, maybe younger, with rich blonde hair parted in the middle and tied at the back of her head. Her nose was hooked, like mine, though not as sharp. It wasn’t a nose much seen on a woman but it only made her seem less childlike—more handsome than pretty.
"Well, I guess we both lose, Phoebe," said the younger woman. "I said brown, you said blue, but his eyes are red!"
Phoebe laughed, cocking her head a bit to one side as she looked into my eyes. "But underneath they’re blue. I’ve never seen bluer." Her own dark brown eyes crinkled at the edges when she smiled at me. "Mr. McGonigal—that’s the bartender—told us you’re supposed to be an attractive man."
"Sorry to disappoint you." I started to sit up but stopped short when fire flashed across my guts. It brought back vague memories of my thrashing in the saloon.
"You didn’t disappoint me," corrected the woman, with a laugh. "Your eyes are even bluer than I thought they’d be, and I have yet to see your face the way God intended it to look."
"I had a dog," I said, dismissing her chatter. "A dog with long white hair—went by the name of Rogue. I think they killed ’im, but I wonder if you might know where they threw his body. I’d like to tend to him." I paused, trying to get hold of my emotions. Rogue had been my traveling companion and best friend for a long time. "How long’ve I been here, anyway?"
Phoebe looked at the younger woman, and my glance flickered there, too. The younger one was pretty—surely prettier than Phoebe by worldly standards, though not by mine. She had delicately arched brows and a straight, perfect nose that couldn’t have been drawn any better by a professional artist. Her wavy blonde hair looked softer, with more golden highlights than her sister’s. Her skin looked softer, too. But her sharp crystal eyes cut into me like a stiletto.
Phoebe glanced back at me, and our eyes met. "You’ve been in this room for two days, mister. And your dog … he’s still alive. He was taken away."
I struggled to a sitting position, grimacing against the pain that struck at my middle like fists beating me all over again, this time with nails strapped to them. "Taken away?"
She nodded. "Yes. I’ll explain everything. But first, I’d like to know whose bed I’ve been taking care of."
When the implications of what she’d said hit me, I blushed hard, a foreign reaction for me. I’m usually fast enough with my tongue to put the shoe on someone else’s foot. But somebody’d been cleaning up after me, and somebody’d changed my clothes and washed me all over. I could tell it both by smell and by feel.
"Name’s Jake West."
Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "Well, that’s a start. We knew the Jake part, but not the West." She laughed at her seemingly accidental pun, and I had to join in, although laughing hurt. I liked her—her looks, her voice, her husky laugh and quick sense of humor. "I’m Phoebe, as you heard. And this is Eleanor. Everyone calls her Ellie." I was thankful she didn’t ask any more about me. Showed good upbringing. But maybe we could exchange some answers.
"Ma’am, I had a black Palouse horse tied at the saloon. He had on a silver-geared saddle with tapaderos, and a .44 Henry in the boot. There was also a red overo."
"Overo?" she repeated.
"Sorry. That’s what the Mexicans call a particular kind of paint, with white sorta splashed up from the belly."
She nodded understanding, and I went on. "The dog, like I said, he answers to Rogue. And I’d kill the man who’d steal him from me. Where might I find the dog and horses?"
"Don’t consider it a favor if she tells, Mr. Jake West," said Ellie, raising her nose a little. "It could be that the man who took your dog will kill you."
"Where’s the dog?"
"There’s a ranch some twenty miles southwest of town, toward Eureka," said Phoebe. "The Four Seas Ranch. Brandon Chamberlain owns the ranch, and he is the one who has your dog. But Ellie’s not just talking. There are men out there who like to kill and are proficient at doing so."
***
Two more long days passed before I could make the trip to the Four Seas Ranch. I tried three times, but the pain wouldn’t let me saddle a horse, much less ride. I felt like my insides had been ripped apart, and my skull throbbed every time I turned my head.
The day after meeting the women I was able to at least roll out of bed and make my way down to the street. It was already ten o’clock in the morning, and a yellow May sun threw its warm blanket all over the town and on the soft, dusty roads. Grass grew high and rank along the river wherever people hadn’t let their horses and milk cows and hogs graze it off.
Palisade lay at the mouth of a canyon shaded on both sides by five hundred-foot-high walls of rock they called The Palisades. These cliffs hung straight up over the Humboldt’s curving course as it headed down past town and on toward the west. They were home to eagles, hawks, owls and the ravens whose gurgling calls echoed back and forth throughout the day. A colony of cliff swallows also lived there, and pausing in my walk I watched them swoop and dip, nearly hitting the river, then taking to the sky again. Always, the town seemed to be plagued by buzzards that soared and hung in the air endlessly, watching. Waiting for me …?
I ventured down late that second afternoon almost to the bank of the Humboldt, where the Hair of the Dog Saloon seemed to hang on the edge of the water, the Winchester Saloon right next door. I had a few words with Chew just to let him know I had fared well after the fight, and he seemed right glad to see me, although he cringed when he first saw my battered face.
Palisade was back to its drowsy friendliness, the picture I had got of it during my first two days. Large patches of an orange flower they called cowboy’s delight prettied up the edges of town, out between the houses and white-washed businesses. Black and striped lizards sunned themselves on rocks, near as common as the rocks themselves, and because of the rocks around town I was always on the watch for rattlers, though I never saw any. I wasn’t looking for them to make friends, either. Snakes and me just didn’t see eye to eye—in more ways than one.
That couple of days was a good rest, and although I didn’t give myself a chance to get acquainted with anyone I said howdy to quite a few. But getting to know folks wasn’t why I was in Palisade.
Several times I tried to get more out of Phoebe, but she was pretty tight-lipped and didn’t come around much except to bring my food and see to my other physical needs. The only information she gave to my questions was that someone was paying her to care for me, and they were also paying for the hotel room. And she told me where to locate the stable that was keeping my horses—free of charge. While I roamed the streets, I had lots of time to contemplate who was paying for me and my horses to be cared for, and why. But I had other things on my mind, too.
Like I said before, I wasn’t a man who particularly liked to fight. But I had four men to pay a visit to as soon as I was well enough to ride. I’m a man with a long fuse. But it was lit, and it would burn until some kind of explosion—or my own death—snuffed it out. Outside of training and speed, I had little advantage in a fistfight, sporting only a hundred and eighty pounds on my close to six foot frame. But this time I had no intention of fighting with fists.
First off, I had to find my dog.
***
The morning of the third day greeted me bright and sunny, but there was no sunshine in my heart. I picked up Outlaw, my black Palouse, at the livery where Phoebe told me he was being kept. When the livery folks learned who I was, they not only brought me the horse, they saddled him, too. Yet in spite of all the courtesy, they didn’t seem any too friendly.
Leaving the overo, Partner, in the livery, I rode along the Palisades Toll Road for over twenty miles, through country whose rugged, timber-splotched mountains on my left loomed dry and broken. Yet nearer to me it was green as Kentucky pasture, sprinkled with all sorts of wildflowers, white, yellow and blue. To my right Pine Creek meandered through a meadow of lush grass. I came to the place marked by a large tan knoll on the left, due west of the bluff Phoebe had told me they called Hot Hill. Here Hot Creek crossed the road and then trickled along below grassy banks maybe four feet high. In spite of its name, the little creek looked cold and clear. I turned right into that meadowland, onto the road traced loosely by Hot Creek. Ahead, the ranch shone white as bone in the grassy valley.
I slowed Outlaw to a walk, letting him cool and giving me a chance to look the layout over.
Off to my left a half-dozen turkey buzzards sat along a fence line, a couple of them spreading their great wings to dry in the sun. They turned their bald red heads and watched me through beady eyes as Outlaw walked by.
As I rode near the main yard of the Four Seas Ranch, I noticed even the two outhouses were built better than most people’s homes. The ranch houses—I saw two—were a sight to behold, and the bunkhouse looked capable of sardining in a couple dozen men. It was all bathed in sunlight since the dozen or so trees they had planted were no more than six or seven feet tall at best.
Along the road were several horse corrals of different shapes and sizes. One of these held a handful of stock, good-looking animals a man wouldn’t see under the average cow tender. Some of them looked to have some saddlebred blood in them, and at least two of them I was sure were thoroughbreds.
One of the corrals was high-barred and round, a rope-scarred snubbing post in its center. This corral held one horse, a dark bay—what many would call a brown or a black. He wasn’t a pretty animal in the way the thoroughbreds were. He was tall in the leg, but rough and shorter-bodied and scraggly-looking in an unkempt winter coat. There was no white on him, and his matted mane and tail hung long and twisted, the mane filtering his view of the world. Everything about him marked him as a wild one, from his rugged looks to the wild-eyed way he stared at me, how he tossed his head and high-stepped around the corral.
The biggest of the ranch houses towered tall and stark-white against the grass, with three dormers drawing upside down V’s along its upper story. As I stopped Outlaw in front of it, a man stepped out and looked toward me with a bland _expression. He held a bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. His gray eyes took me in at a glance, then scanned me closer. At last the traces of a smile touched his lips.
He was a tall man, and his eyes and reddish blond hair were those of a thirty-five-year-old. But his face was gaunt to the point of being sallow, and his cheekbones stuck out like dull axe blades, the skin drawn tight and sunk in underneath. He stood straight as a rifle barrel, but I suspected that was forced, for he looked weak and pale, with the girth of a corral post for a waist. Clothes I guessed had been tailored to a once-powerful frame hung loose like hand-me-downs. They couldn’t hide whatever illness my first guess told me was eating him away.
"Hello. Won’t you step down?" His voice was deep and smooth, much stronger than his emaciated appearance had led me to expect. It would have drawn attention in any crowd.
But I didn’t step down. I wanted the height of my horse. The fellow was on his porch, and I’d not be looked down on.
"I only came to get a dog. I’m told he was stolen by a man named Brandon Chamberlain." I held my rifle tilted across the fork of my saddle, and its barrel flung a thinly hidden threat.
"You had better step down and come in, mister, and I’ll explain all of this without need of your using that." He wiggled his finger toward the rifle. "I’m Brandon Chamberlain." I lowered my eyebrows, taking him in again. In spite of his gauntness, he had the aura of a man who could handle himself, even though he had no visible weapon. In fact, the more I studied him, the more impressed I was by his bearing and the calm but hawk-like look in his gray eyes.
He turned his head and called over his shoulder into the room. "Kane, bring me the dog."
At the sound of that name, I tensed and straightened in the saddle. I watched the door, hearing footsteps inside. As Chamberlain stepped aside, another hatless man appeared. Sure enough, it was Kane, the man who’d beat me to the draw at the Hair of the Dog and then watched while his henchmen beat some of the hell out of me. With his hat off, a shiny white dome sloped back to the middle of his skull, where dark hair scratched an abrupt line. His right hand rested on the butt of that lightning-loaded gun. In the other hand, he held a leash, which Rogue was tied to. But even as much as I’d missed the dog, a glance was all I gave him. I watched Kane, and my hands closed tighter about the rifle, swinging it to bear on his head.
"You’d better budge that rifle sideways," said Kane, his _expression unchanging. "Or I’ll kill you where you sit."
Chapter Four
Jason: Flor de Hierro
I woke to the strugglings of Amalia Covarrubias beneath me. She had been my cushion in the fall—and her frame lacked the padding to be much of one. The saddle had been hers, it seemed. I groaned and levered myself up to all fours. Not surprisingly, I was feeling as shaky as a house of cards, and my ears rang. When the ringing began to fade, it was replaced by a furious dry rattle. In my dazed condition, I couldn’t place the sound.
"Cascabel," Amalia gasped.
"What?"
"Cascabel." There was a trace of hysteria in her voice. "A snake," she whispered.
I’d been about to move, but that froze me in place. "Where?"
"In … in my hands. He tried to strike me, but …"
Hauling myself to a crouch, I found the extinguished torch. I fumbled for a lucifer and put my thumbnail to it. The flare showed me her hands, which gripped a writhing length of reptile that evidently had tried for her and ended up with its back-curved fangs tangled in her skirts.
"Are you bitten?" I asked, realizing as I said it that a touch of the frantic had risen to my voice.
"No, but he tried."
I leaned forward, touching her delicate wrist. "All right. Hold on tight, niña. It’ll be fine."
"I am not a child," she shrilled. "Do not call me niña."
I ignored her outburst. It was, after all, what her grandfather generally called her. "Let go of the snake when I tell you," I said.
"Perdón?" She seemed to be edging toward hysteria now.
"Release your hold when I say. You will have to lift up on its head, though, and make certain the fangs come clear of your skirt."
I heard her draw three or four long breaths, and then her voice came, amazingly calm of a sudden. "I am ready."
"Hold on for a moment more," I urged. The torch sputtered low, and it took me more than a minute to attach and light a second piece of deadwood. A faint moan escaped her just as I was finishing; I guessed the muscles in her hands were tied in knots from being clenched so long. Setting up the new torch, I leaned forward and caught the snake’s tail. My fingers clamped on the rattle. That part of the snake’s length which was not held fast began to twitch spasmodically. "Now, Amalia. Let loose—and thrust it away from you at the same time."
She did. I jerked back, following through with the momentum she’d begun. The rattlesnake became a whip in my hand—a whip that snapped with fatal impact against the rock-face to my right. The reptile fell, its body thrashing maniacally.
Amalia sat up, brushing at her skirts. Her face showed signs of an unnatural looking fatigue. "How many of them are there?" she murmured.
I shook my head, looking a long while at her as a smile crept onto my mouth. "Enough to keep us watchful. How do you say ‘made of iron’ in Spanish?"
She returned my regard, her head canted charmingly to one side. At last she translated, "De hierro. Why should you ask that?"
I’d come to think of her as a kind of wildflower before. Now, having seen her handle a live rattlesnake, I had to enlarge on it. Flower was "flor" in Spanish … flor de hierro. "Never mind, niña," I said. "Were you hurt in the fall?"
"Please don’t call me that. Or shall I call you viejo in return?"
I shrugged. "I feel old enough for it just now. Were you hurt?"
"Not very much." Her eyelids fluttered.
"Where?"
"It isn’t important. Your shoulder is bleeding."
I looked down to see my wound had broken open in the fall. It was minor, though—I’d live, provided I ever escaped from this cage of stone. A tearing sound drew my attention back to Amalia. She was ripping at the hem of her skirt. I put out a hand to stop her. "It isn’t as bad as that."
She lifted one shoulder carelessly. "I have never liked this skirt."
I couldn’t help a full-fledged grin. The situation was grim, but for some odd reason I’d begun to feel better. In a few expert movements, she had bound my shoulder-wound good and proper.
"And now," I said, "your own wounds."
"I have none." She tried to stand, but had to sink back down with a slight gasp.
I pointed to a place low on her skirt. "Good thing you’re not fond of it—there’s a bloodstain." I moved over and pushed the skirt up to her knees. The small gash was on the side of her left calf. The thought crossed my mind that it was a nicely molded calf—and I immediately chided myself for noticing. Now was not the time to notice—nor would there ever be a time, with her. I inspected the gash, then settled back on my haunches, peering up at her. It wasn’t serious enough to have caused her lack of balance. Suspiciously, I reached up and placed my hand behind her head. It came away wet. "Hit your head on my little perch, didn’t you?" I asked.
She nodded slightly. Her eyelids were beginning to droop as if lead-weighted.
My father, Tiberias West, had been a very careful and thoughtful man. His soul-consuming passion—apart from horses—was the well-being of his wife and children. He’d been methodical and infinitely patient in teaching his own relentless work ethic, the value of life and the available ways of not only living life well but preserving it against all odds. Except, possibly, that of being thrown into a rattlesnake lair. He had learned from experience, though, about the effects of a blow to the head. If I had paid little heed to his advice on living life, at least I recalled one counsel on saving it.
"Don’t go to sleep," I told Amalia. "Not under any circumstances." She was on the verge, I could tell. She sagged back against the rock, her eyelashes fluttering again, her shoulders slack.
I reached down and caught her under the arms, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulder. Once I’d pulled her to her feet, I shook her. "No matter how tired you feel, Mali, don’t give in to it."
"Ah?" she murmured.
I slapped her soundly across the right cheek. Her eyes jolted wide. A moment later, a stinging on the side of my own face told me she’d returned my medicine with interest. "No one lays a hand on me like that, Tino," she said sharply.
Tino? When had that happened? And since when was she "Mali" to me? The stresses of the moment seemed to be breaking down our old formality. "You’re an ungrateful young lady, Amalia," I said. "You gave me no choice. You have to stay awake. Comprende?"
"Why?"
"So you won’t die. Here." Placing both hands around her waist, I tried to lift her high up onto my rock seat and almost fell myself. I was forgetting which of us was the worse wounded. But I kept trying, fighting pain and favoring my shoulder. Shifting her farther back so that her shoulders rested against the upright, I arranged her moccasined feet so that they were curled under her and off the floor—out of striking distance.
"You’re safe there, niña. From the snakes, at least. Now promise me you won’t fall asleep."
"Las … las promesas son como telaraña," she said faintly.
"What?"
"Promises, they are like … spiderwebs. They blow and blow, and then they are broken in the wind."
"My promises hold." I ignored a twinge of guilt. It was only a white lie, after all—I seldom made a promise nowadays. "One thing I will promise you, señorita. If you sleep, you will wake up dead." Her wound might not be quite that serious, but I had to make it sound definite.
"I will wake up dead? That is foolishness. The dead sleep forever, Tino. I will sleep now, I think …"
Standing in silence for a moment, wracking my brain for an answer to the whole predicament, I finally had not just one but two flashes of inspiration. Lying before me in the half-gloom was my overturned saddle, saddlebags still attached. Alert for snakes, I crossed to the leather-bound hulk. Crouching awkwardly, I untied and hefted the saddlebags, carrying them back to Amalia. I extracted a shoulder pouch and took a packet of hardtack from it. I handed her several pieces. "Chew on this. And when you’re finished, take some more. Then remember the snakes. The cascabels," I added for emphasis.
"Cascabeles," she corrected drowsily.
"Cascabeles, then. Remember them, Amalia. Think what will happen if you fall asleep, roll off that rock and land on one of them."
The whites of her eyes grew, so I knew I’d accomplished my purpose. "Now, here’s half of the lucifers I have."
"The what? Is not lucifer … is he not el diablo?"
"Not in this case." I showed her a lucifer. "My family has always called them that. I’ll give you half my matches, if you prefer. If the torch burns out before I come back, they should be a comfort to you. Don’t waste them."
"Where are you going?"
"Exploring. Maybe there’s a back door out of here."
"I will come with you."
"You’re in no condition."
"And neither are you."
I looked at her, my head cocked. "Then maybe we should both lie down and die."
She said nothing further. Something in her downcast look told me it rankled her that she had not succeeded in being the savior of the day. Having me take over that role must have been a bitter pill to swallow. She bucked up, though; I saw her chin lift, and she pointed at the cast-off carcass of the rattler I’d killed. "Bring that to me." I stared at her. "Do you think if I am holding onto it that I will be likely to sleep?"
I had to agree the reasoning was sound, mad as it might seem on the surface. Iron flower, I thought to myself as I crossed to the snake, which was barely moving now. I returned to hand the trophy to her. Amalia grasped it in both hands, a grisly, twitching talisman against the final darkness.
From the saddlebags I took some foot-long lengths of wire and a few pieces of pitch-laden wood I kept for starting fires. A drifter learned to keep small but useful particulars with him, and these would serve me now in binding a torch together more permanently and in fueling a more durable flame. I put the whisky flask and leftover bandage-cloth in my pouch.
Now my task was to navigate an uneven, poorly lit rock floor beribboned with rattlesnakes. Hesitating, I tried to gauge my own condition. I felt light-headed, and pain was searing through both my shoulder and torso. But I had a goal now. And someone who relied on me. I advanced, holding my torch at waist-level to cast the arc of its light toward the floor. By and large the snakes were still a sprawling mass of half-sleeping demons now congregated in an alcove to my far right.
It was only the scattered stragglers out on the stone floor that I had to contend with. A couple of these were the five-foot monsters, but then size was of little significance when the venom of a lesser snake was every bit as deadly. I had skirted three of them when my torch-flame began to flutter. Wind coming down some kind of chimney again, I thought. At the same time I noticed a slight stirring from the snakes around me. Either the heat from the torch or my movement seemed to be rousing them. One in particular, a foot and a half away, looked to be on the point of coiling. I backed away a step, and then a malicious breath of wind blew out my torch. Only a dim ember-glow remained to me.
My blood chilled. I wanted to edge back farther but couldn’t remember well enough the positions of the snakes already passed. I groped frantically for a lucifer.
The rattle sounded, then—off to my left, and near enough for me to call it death’s own maraca.
My father had often assured me that a rattlesnake seldom struck without provocation. However, the fact that I had disturbed their sleep might be reason enough. I waited in the cold silence of terror, the unlit lucifer pinned between my fingers.
It almost seemed that I actually heard the snake move. If not, it was a sixth sense that caused me to jerk my right knee upward. I was fully prepared to try stomping the snake before it connected with my leg. A thump against the sole of my boot told me I had raised an unintentional but effective shield. I sprang back. The lucifer came under my thumbnail, and I applied it to my smoldering torch. What I saw by its flare made my eyes go wide.
A mere three feet from me was the rattler that had attacked, doing its sluggish best to look menacing. And under my heel was the head of a second snake—one that might have had its fangs embedded in my leg but for Providence. I wasted no time in bringing my heel down harder to make certain the snake was good and dead. I watched as it became a grotesque marionette, twitching and writhing as if pulled by invisible strings.
A ragged sigh broke from my throat. My first impulse was to stop for a while and recover my nerve, but I decided against the luxury. Taking a final glance around at the rest of the snakes, I saw the black gash in the wall of stone, only a few yards ahead. I limped to it and dropped to my good knee, peering in. It was roughly two feet in height. My guess was that it had been formed, like the snakes’ alcove, by water once occupying the cistern. The water would freeze and thaw, expand and contract, over and over again, breaking wide any weak spot. So my friend Professor Tetlow—he who had christened me "disciple of the wind"—might have said.
I had no memory of ever having been in so confined a space. I didn’t know how I’d react once I began to slither into the opening. But there was only one other choice—give it all up, then and there. Possibly, with only myself to think of, I would have done just that. With Amalia’s life also hanging in the balance, I had to try.
Inserting my head and the torch, I saw the space ran back for an indefinite distance, and figured it would allow my passage. I crawled in. The surface below me was rough, of course, and in places might even be jagged. It might also be a dead end, or a chink in the rock only the wind whistled through.
The rush of energy Amalia’s appearance had given me was wearing thin. The clarity of my thoughts had begun to fray at the edges; my wounds announced themselves again with a throbbing urgency. Steeling myself against pain and possible disappointment ahead, I made ready. I took from the pouch on my shoulder enough of the remaining shirt strips to wrap them around my left elbow as padding. My mode of travel would be to hook that elbow against the rock-floor and haul myself forward a few inches at a time. A little like a snake, I mused. It would be grueling, but so far I felt no panic at being so closed-in.
I’d been crawling for some time, my mind growing noticeably more groggy than before, when a wetness on my chest told me the shoulder wound had broken open, and probably some ways back. I lay there for what seemed forever, trying to pull my mind together, to think clearly. But that now-familiar fog was rolling back in. My last act, before fainting, was to prop up the torch as best I could. I hoped it didn’t fall and set me on fire …
I came up out of a bleak and frost-bitten depth of dream, the left side of my face feeling icy from pressing against the rock. Moaning involuntarily, I pushed myself up and turned to look at the torch. It was still alight, but definitely burning down. I fought to pull from my shoulder-pouch more deadwood scraps and pitch.
And then a wind which might as well have been the breath of hell blew out my crippled torch.
Absolute darkness seemed to close in around me. In reality there was a glowing crimson tip on the torch that allowed my eyes, when adjusted, to see a little. Had it not been for that, I might have gone mad with the illusion of being buried alive.
I thought suddenly of the would-be rescuer I had left behind. Drawing a deep breath, I roared, "Amalia!" Or it was intended as a roar, at least. It came out as a guttural lurch of sound. Clearing my throat, I tried again. This time I raised a respectable bellow. "Amalia!" The echoes reeled back on me.
A moment later I heard, as if from very far off, "Tino!"
I drew another breath, infinitely relieved. "We’re alive!" I yelled triumphantly. It was a jubilation that would last only seconds, but felt good anyway. "Stay put, niña. I’m still traveling."
I went back to my struggle of rewrapping the torch. I had to shift position considerably in doing it, and of a sudden I had the terrifying sense that something was moving alongside me. I froze when I heard the warning rattle. For a moment my brain stood as motionless as my body. When its cogs clicked into operation again, I looked sideways without moving my head. And I saw a death’s-head grinning at me from a little over two feet away. It was not the human skull used to represent death in folklore, but wedge-shaped, with slit-pupiled, un-human eyes.
One of the rattlers had preceded me into the passageway.
The snake and I waited, each watching the other with a primordial distrust. Then, bringing the torch over as I rolled away, I contacted the rattler’s snout with the still-bright ember at its end. The snake recoiled just as quickly as it could have darted forward in striking. It beat a full retreat, slithering away beyond my sight. Three or four minutes later I heard a scattered splashing sound. Probably some debris moved by the snake, and not the reptile itself. But it told me that there was a pool of some kind not far ahead. If only the opening that gave on that pool was large enough to let me through …
Hastening my repairs on the torch, I re-lit it and dragged myself forward with a will. Then the rock dropped off before me. I found by lowering my left hand that the water lay only a foot or so below. I tried to see the other side of the subterranean pond, but the light only reached so far.
A leap of faith was in order. I slewed around and slid in feet first. The water lapped up somewhat above my waist, and in my crossing it never reached higher. In that I was lucky, at least. By the time I hauled myself out on the other side, however, my legs were numb and I was trembling so violently I fancied my bones were dancing out from beneath my hide. I thought belatedly that I should have stripped to the skin and carried my clothes—or the rags that remained—so as to have them dry now. Too late, you water-logged fool, I chided myself. So now you finally freeze, for all your trouble, and Amalia will eventually succumb to sleep, and then you’ll both sleep on forever …
It was done, then. I curled into a ball and took my bed as I found it. Sleep came—sleep of a kind. It was a flurry of nightmarish images intermeshed with fragments of childhood memories. I saw my sister Liberty with her dress afire. She’d always been cold-blooded, and paused too long near the stove. I wrestled, ill-advisedly, with my brawling brother James Madison, and came away with a whale of a nosebleed for my trouble. My mother scolded me roundly for having been unkind to a ragamuffin of a girl at school.
Then this gallery of family pictures began to take on new and hideous twists. I saw brother John high up aboard that favorite blue roan he’d ridden during my two years on his ranch. Around him, though, were the bizarre specters of animals that seemed to be half-cow, half-sheep.
I woke. Water dripped faintly. A breath of wind fanned my face …
I nodded off again. I was in Natchez, Mississippi, watching my brother Julius practice law in the courtroom. He used his one whole arm to good advantage in grand gestures to the jury; his tall, burly frame wheeled this way and that, caught up in the cadence of his orations. And then it struck me that there was something strange about the witness occupying the stand. I stepped closer, almost up to the rail dividing the judge from the crowd. I saw that this witness was a skeleton, under its flaxen tresses, and that on its bones clung the tatters of a dance-hall dress …
Finally my mind called a halt to the madness. It veered into a scene recently lived, telling itself as if it were happening for the first time.
I was riding down from a hunting excursion in the hills, looking for a place to hole up for the night. Had I known the world of torment I was riding into, I might have chosen another route …back to the Books page