Savage's snort cut off Doc Shaw. The captain sounded jovial when he said, “We don't have to worry about that old fool.”
Grace closed her eyes. She thought she might cry, not for her predicament, but for Don Melitón. He had always been a good man. To her, at least.
After that statement sunk in, Shaw continued. “Well, the Army will soon find out you didn't leave anyone in Fort Leatonâanyone alive, that isâand they'll be on your ass like a roadrunner on a rattlesnake. When I lit out after that wreck, there was a posse raising dust from Marathonway, and I bet Murphyville has raised a posse by now. And that big ass nigger, the one Dave Chance had with him, I spied him running alongside those rails, too.”
“The Moor?” Savage sounded skeptical. He recalled the name. “Moses Albavera?”
Opening her eyes, putting the memory of Don Melitón behind her, Grace laughed. “I told you Dave wasn't dead.”
“Shut up.”
“She's likely right, Captain,” Doc Shaw said. “I'm betting Bucky, Taw, and Eliot are either dead, or in jail. My guess is dead. They won't be joining us, Captain. It's just the two of us. To split . . . what, one bar of bullion? Eighty-four hundred dollars?”
“That's still a hell of a lot of money. More than you'd make in five years.”
“Forty-two hundred, if we split it, Captain. Split it evenly. Either way, it won't buy us nothing out here.”
Leather squeaked. She could imagine Savage resting his hands on the butts of his holstered revolvers. “You got something on your mind, Doc. A suggestion, I guess. Spit it out.”
“We've got two horses, and both are on their last legs. We've got a hard ride to the border. She'll just slow us down. Get us caught. Get us killed. Now I know how much you appreciate a good woman, and I was raised that way, too. But it would be best for us to leave her behind.”
“Let Lo Grande's men find her?” Bitterness accented Savage's statement, and the thought left Grace trembling.
“We could shoot her. Or slit her throat.”
“No. I won't harm the fairer sex, especially a fine figure of a woman like Grace Profit.”
“We could leave her here in the shade. Or hidden in the rocks up on Elephant Mountain. Maybe Lo Grande's men won't find her. Hell, we can leave her a pistol. She can defend herself better than a lot of men I know. Or, God willing, when Lo Grande's men are gone, someone will be sure to come by, looking for us. She could fire a shot, bring some men, white men, to her. Get those busted legs of hers tended to.”
More silence. The captain was considering it.
“The point is, Captain, we're three people with only two horses that are half dead. We'll never make it to Mexico that way.”
The wind blew. The water flowed.
Captain Savage let out a weary sigh. “You're right, Doc.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The body lay facedown in the creek, the head partially buried in the sand, naked, the ears cut off. When Moses Albavera turned the corpse over, he discovered another indignity.
“God,” he said, dropping the dead man. “His pecker's been cut off and stuck in his mouth.”
“I got eyes.” Chance swung off the dun, wrapping the reins around a large rock. He felt relief. When Albavera had first spotted the circling buzzards that morning, he had feared they would find Grace Profit underneath Elephant Mountain. He waded into the stream, letting the trickling water soak his moccasins, and knelt, massaging his left shoulder as he looked at what once had been Doc Shaw.
He put his hand on the corpse's head, turned it slightly. “Skull's smashed. That's probably what killed him. But Savage slit his throat just to be sure.”
“Why'd he do the . . . rest?”
Chance rose. “He didn't. That's the handiwork of some of Lo Grande's boys. Help me get him out of this creek.”
He vocalized his theory while Albavera dragged Shaw's body to an arroyo that ran alongside the mountain into the creek. “Savage, Grace, and Shaw stopped here, probably to rest and water their horses. Two horses. Three riders. Something had to give, and that turned out to be Doc Shaw's head.” Savage had brained him, but Chance had to give the captain some credit. Doc Shaw was looking at him when his skull got caved in. That meant Savage knew Lo Grande's men were close by, on his trail. He used stone and knife, rather that one of those .44s. A shot would carry a long way out there, and bring Lo Grande right to them.
“They found him anyway.” Albavera let Shaw's feet fall onto the water-smoothed rocks.
“Yeah.” Shaw climbed out of the arroyo, and made a beeline to a mound of horse apples. “Cut off his ears as trophies. Robbed him of his clothes, everything, including his dignity. That's why they cut off his dick.” He knelt, picked up a turd, and broke it open, testing the moisture with his fingers, then dropped the crap, and wiped his hands on his chaps. “They're four hours ahead of us, or thereabouts.”
“And Savage?”
Chance shrugged. “I don't know. But I doubt if he has much of a head start.” He walked to the dun, gathered the reins, and pulled himself into the saddle.
“What about him?” Albavera gestured at the dead man in the arroyo. “Should we bury him?”
“Doc didn't bother burying Ray Wickes.” Chance kicked the dun into a walk.
Albavera took a final glance at the body before walking to the blood bay mare.
About a hundred yards downstream, Chance pointed toward some tracks in the sand that pointed northeast. One of Lo Grande's ridersâhe guessed there were four others who had butchered Doc Shaw's corpseâhad taken off to find Lo Grande and the others, and let them know they had found Savage's trail.
“So”âAlbavera pulled the sawed-off Springfield from his holsterâ“this party'll be even bigger.”
Nodding, Chance drew his Schofield.
The Marlin shot high, but Chance still managed to kill a scrawny mule deer late the next afternoon. They made an early camp, resting the horses while Chance butchered the deer and roasted steaks.
“You think that fire's a good idea?” Albavera asked.
“My stomach thinks so.”
“Well, at least the weather's decent.”
Two days later, a blue norther hit, dropping the temperature forty degrees in less than an hour, turning the Big Bend region into a sheet of ice. The wind blew furiously, lashing out as Hec Savage helped Grace Profit into the saddle. Sleet stung like rock salt. Frigid air burned their lungs with each breath.
“Keep your head bent low,” Savage called to her. “We'll be inside a warm building, sipping hot coffee, eating warm tortillas in an hour.”
She looked at him. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear her over the roaring wind. Somewhere, the limb of a juniper cracked, broken by the weight of ice. Savage raised a gloved hand to his ear.
“I can't feel my legs.”
That was probably a good thing, he figured. He'd seen her legs earlier that day. The bruises, deep purple, even black in places, had reached halfway up her calves.
After transferring the contents of his coat pocket to the empty pockets of his vest, Savage pulled off his coat, and draped it over her back. “Just hold onto the horn,” he told her, and mounted his own horse. He grabbed the reins of her mount, and pulled horse and rider behind him.
The wind was at their back, pounding them with sleet and a harsh wind. They kept to a deep arroyo, the sides full of junipers, which protected them a little from the weather, but not much. For the past couple days, Savage and Grace had hidden in a cave in the Big Bend, resting their horses, resting themselves. It wasn't bad, having Grace Profit crippled with two busted ankles. He could leave her in the cave, while he went out to scout, or find some grub. It wasn't like she was going anywhere. Hell, she couldn't even mount a horse, and she knew better than to scream if she heard someone outside the cave. She understood what would happen to her if Lo Grande's men caught her.
Lo Grande. That troubled Savage. He had seen nothing of those bandits since he had killed Doc Shaw. It was like those damned Mexicans had given up, or been swallowed up by the rugged, mountainous high desert country.
Maybe the Army or a posse of Rangers had caught up with Lo Grande. No . . . no, he would have heard the gunshots. Sounds carried a long distance out there, and if Lo Grande and his men were dead, the men who had killed them would still be combing the countryside for Hec Savage.
Maybe Lo Grande had given up, crossed the border, returned to Ojinaga or San Pedro. Savage had to snort at that thought. Give up? Lo Grande? After being double-crossed? After being robbed of a fortune?
Savage couldn't risk staying any longer, though. The horses were refreshed, ready. He knew he needed to get across the border, and start heading east. Eighty-four hundred dollars was a long way from two hundred and fifty thousand, but it could buy him a lot. It could keep him from getting hanged.
He had hoped the storm would blow itself out. Instead, its intensity picked up. His fingers were numb, and he was wearing gloves. His lips were chapped, his face felt raw. He cursed his luck. His horse stepped in a hole, stumbled. Cursing again, he lurched forward and back as the horse regained its balance, then plodded along.
“How about a glass of tequila, Grace?” he yelled back. “Beefsteak and beans? Maybe even some coffee? That sound all right to you? Maybe even a nice straw bed?”
He didn't expect her to answer. He kept riding, head bent, lungs aching.
They reached the end of the arroyo. “All right, honey, you need to hang on tight to that horn. We gotta climb out of this. The river's only another mile or so. We'll be in Mexico in no time.”
Twisting in the saddle, he looked back at the horse he was leading.
“Ah, hell.”
The saddle was empty.
It was the damnedest thing. She didn't feel cold at all.
She couldn't remember slipping out of the saddle. One minute she had been riding, head low, body aching, bitterly cold, and the next thing she knew she was lying on a bed of rocks, nose seeping blood, hands scratched all to hell, ankles burning like a son of a bitch.
But she wasn't cold.
She had lost Savage's coat. Didn't recall when. She looked southwest, down the arroyo, but saw only falling sleet. She looked in the other direction, but sleet blasted her face. Rolling over, cursing from the pain in her legs, she stretched her right arm ahead, grabbed a rock, and pulled herself forward. Reaching with her left hand, she grabbed a root from a juniper, and dragged herself a little more.
Grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . .
She stopped, desperately trying to catch her breath. A tear rolled down her cheek. Her legs burned terribly, but at least they weren't numb, as they were when they'd first left the cave. She rolled over, tried to guess at the time, but saw only white and gray.
Rolling back onto her stomach, she pressed her face on the ice-covered ground. That cooled her off. It would be so easy to just close her eyes, go to sleep, let the sleet cover her. So easy to just give up.
So easy to lie there and die.
“Like hell I will.”
Her eyes shot open. She bit her lower lip. Reaching out, she found a rock slippery with ice, and dragged herself a few inches more. Then reached with her left hand.
Grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . .
She reached the edge of the arroyo, shielded partly by an uprooted juniper and mounds of sand and rocks. The wind and sleet moaned over her head. Grace pulled herself up until her back rested against the wall. Leaning forward, she put her hands on her knees.
Pain rocked her. She fell back.
Another tear stung her cheeks, and she could no longer hold the river. Tears flooded, and she choked out sobs. Snot and blood froze underneath her nostrils. She sucked in bitterly cold air through her mouth. Her teeth hurt.
She leaned her head back, and tried to figure out just what she could do.
She couldn't walk. Could barely crawl.
Looking up at the arroyo wall, three feet above her head, she knew she'd never be able to climb out there. Not with both of her ankles broken. Maybe somewhere else, but to leave the protection of the downed juniper . . . she'd never make it. It had to be twenty degrees. The wind made it feel even colder.
This is desert,
she told God.
It isn't supposed to be like this
.
This is hell. It's supposed to be hot.
She wrapped her arms around her ribs, began rocking back and forth, back and forth, shaking her head, trying to figure out how she was supposed to pray.
Rough hands grabbed her shoulder, lifted her back. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Dave?” she cried out, wanting to reach for himâwanting to kiss him.”Dave!”
“Grace.” The voice sounded so distant.
Suddenly, she shivered. “No,” she said.
“Grace,” Hec Savage said again, shattering the vision of Dave Chance. Taking off one of his gloves, Savage put the back of his hand against her cheek, against her forehead.
“Christ, Grace, you're burning up.” He stood, looked on the other side of the juniper, then turned, looking back down the arroyo. “Where's my coat? The coat I gave you?”
She shrugged.
He lifted her to her feet. She moaned, and fell back against the arroyo wall.
“Did you jump out of the saddle? Or fall?”
“I . . . don't . . . know.” She was still sobbing. Couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop shaking. Her stomach rumbled. She thought she might throw up.
“We gotta get you to a doctor,” Savage said. “Even a bean doctor. To shelter. Something. Come on. Lean on me, honey. I've got your horse. Our horses. Right over yonder.”
He lifted her over his shoulder, and like a sack of wheat, got her into the saddle. She leaned over, and sprayed vomit over the horse's withers. Savage pulled a handkerchief, and wiped her mouth. He cleaned the mess off the horn and the horsehair, and tossed the piece of cloth onto the ground.
“Here.” He cut off a string behind the saddle, wrapped it around her wrists, and secured her to the horn. “Now you won't fall off. Come on. Don't you fret none, Grace, my dear. I'll have you to some Mexican pill-roller and you'll be dancing before you know it. Maybe we'll make it down to Buenos Aires after all. Maybe I can still buy you a nice little saloon. Got to be cheap down that way. 'Course, you'll still have to be making your own whiskey. Don't think we'll be able to afford any Manhattan rye.”
He talked as he mounted his horse, kept talking as he pulled Grace behind him, back down the arroyo, then up and out. He kept talking about Buenos Aires, about his old ranch in Bexar County, about growing up in Texas, about those damned Mexicans, about his years as a Ranger, about the first time he had laid eyes on Grace Profit, about her whiskey, about Juan Lo Grande, about how he had hated to have killed Doc Shaw, even about Dave Chance.
It didn't matter that Grace couldn't hear what he said.