Mount Dragon (59 page)

De Vaca ceased singing the old Spanish song that had kept them company for the last several miles, and fell back slightly, taking a moment to breathe the desert air in deep, reverent draughts. The setting sun had tinged the desert with gold. It felt wonderful to be alive, to simply be on this horse, headed out of the Jornada and toward a new life. For the moment, it didn't matter what that life was. There were so many things she had taken for granted, and she swore never to allow herself to make that mistake again.

She looked at Carson, riding ahead on Roscoe, angling toward the high narrow gap of Lava Gate. She wondered, almost idly, how he would fit into that new life. Immediately, she dismissed the thought as being much too complicated. Plenty of time to think about that later.

Carson turned, noticed that de Vaca was no longer beside him, and slowed. He turned back with a smile as she approached, then leaned over on impulse to stroke her cheek with the back of one hand.

She felt a sudden spray of wetness across her face. The sensation of moisture in the desert was so foreign that she automatically closed her eyes against it, turning her face away and raising her hand protectively. She wiped her face and her hand came away bloody, a small jagged shard that looked like bone stuck to one of her fingers. At the same moment she heard a loud crack roll across the landscape.

Suddenly, everything began to happen at once. She looked forward to see Carson toppling forward on his horse just as her own mount bolted at the sharp noise. She grabbed desperately at the saddle horn as something whined past her ear. Another report boomed across the desert.

They were under fire.

Roscoe was heading for the base of the mountains at a dead run. De Vaca urged her horse to follow, lashing her heels into its flanks, hugging its neck, hoping to make a smaller target. She craned her neck upward, trying to steady her vision against the lurching and pounding. Ahead, she could see Carson hunched over the saddle. Blood was running freely down Roscoe's flank and shivering off in droplets, cascading into the sand. Another shot sounded, then another.

The horses dashed toward a cul-de-sac in the lava flow, and pulled up short. Several more shots came in rapid succession and Carson's horse whirled to escape, eyes wild, throwing Carson out of the saddle and onto the sand. De Vaca jumped from her horse and landed next to Carson as both animals ran blindly back out into the desert. There was another report, followed by the horrible scream of a horse in pain. De Vaca turned. Roscoe's belly had been blown open, a length of intestine spilling out between his legs like a gray streamer. The animal ran for a few hundred yards, then came to a trembling stop. There was another report, and de Vaca's horse fell kicking to the sand. Another bullet, and a fine red spray rose from its head. The animal jerked its hind legs twice, spasmodically, then lay still.

She crawled toward Carson. He was lying in the sand, curled in on himself, knees up around his chest. Blood was turning the sand around him to a slippery red paste. She turned him gently and he cried out. Quickly, her eyes searched for the wound. His left arm was completely soaked in blood, and she carefully pulled away a piece of his torn shirt. The bullet had taken a huge piece out of his forearm, shattering the radius and peeling the muscle and flesh back, exposing the ulna. In a moment the sight was obscured again by blood, which jetted freely from the severed radial artery.

Carson rolled sideways, his body stiffening in agony.

De Vaca turned quickly, looking for something she could use as a tourniquet. She didn't dare cross the field of fire toward the horses. In desperation, she ripped off her own shirt, rolled it tightly, and knotted it just below Carson's elbow, twisting it until the flow subsided.

“Can you walk?” she whispered.

Carson was speaking under his breath. She leaned closer, listening. “Jesus,” she heard him moan. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Don't crap out on me now,” she said fiercely, tying off the tourniquet and grabbing him under the armpits. “We've got to take cover behind those rocks.” With a supreme effort Carson rose shakily to his feet and staggered toward the cul-de-sac, then took a few steps into the rocks and collapsed again behind a large boulder. De Vaca crawled in behind him and examined his wound, her stomach rising at the sight. At least now he wouldn't bleed to death. She sat back and looked him over quickly. His lips looked oddly blue. There didn't seem to be any other wounds, but with all the blood it was difficult to tell. She tried not to think what it would mean if Nye hit him a second a time with that terrible rifle.

She had to think, and think quickly. Nye must have realized that he couldn't catch them by tracking. So he'd somehow guessed they were headed for Lava Gate, and gone ahead to cut them off. He'd destroyed their horses, and soon he'd be coming for them.

She tugged Mondragón's dagger out of Carson's belt. Then she dropped it in the sand in frustration. What the hell good was it against a man with an express rifle?

She peered over the rock and there was Nye, in the open now, kneeling and taking aim. Immediately a bullet whined inches from her face, striking the rocks behind her. Powdered stone stung the back of her neck in a sharp spray. The gun's report followed an instant later, echoing and bouncing among the rock formations.

She hunched down again behind the rock, then moved along behind it, peering out from another angle. Nye had risen to his feet once again and was walking toward them. His face was hidden in the deep shadow of his hat brim and she could not make out his expression. Only a hundred yards away now. He was simply going to walk up and kill them both. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.

Carson moaned and clutched at her, trying to say something.

She moved back behind the boulder, turning away from Nye, and waited. Waited for the massive blow to the back of her head that would signify the arrival of the bullet. She could hear boots crunching toward them, and she covered her head with her hands, closing her eyes tightly, preparing herself as best she could for death.

A single word appeared on the massive screen before them:

vanity

Scopes thought a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat. “‘No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human hopes than a public library.' Dr. Johnson.”

“Very good,” said Levine. “‘A man who is not a fool can rid himself of every folly but vanity.' Rousseau.”

“‘I used to be vain, but now I'm perfect.' W.C. Fields.”

“Wait a minute,” Levine said. “I've never heard that one.”

“Are you challenging me?”

Levine thought a moment. “No.”

“Then proceed.”

Levine paused. “‘Vanity plays lurid tricks with the memory.' Conrad.”

Immediately, Scopes replied. “‘Vanity was Evolution's most obnoxious gift.' Darwin.”

“‘A vain man can never be utterly ruthless: He wants to win applause.' Goethe.”

There was a silence.

“Have you run dry?” Levine asked.

Scopes smiled. “I am merely considering my selection. ‘Every man at his best state is altogether vanity.' Psalm thirty-nine.”

“I didn't know you were religious. ‘Surely every man walk-eth in a vain show.' Same psalm.”

There was another long pause.

Scopes said, “‘I only know we loved in vain; I only feel—farewell! farewell!' Byron.”

“Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I see,” Levine snorted.

“Your turn.”

There was a long silence. “‘A journalist is a kind of con man, preying on people's vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse.' Janet Malcolm.”

“I challenge you,” said Scopes instantly.

“Are you kidding?” Levine asked. “You can't possibly know that quotation. I only remember it because I incorporated it into a recent speech.”

“I don't know it. I do know, however, that to me Janet Malcolm is perhaps best known as a writer for
The New Yorker
. I doubt their grammarians would have allowed such a phrase as ‘con man.'”

“A far-fetched theory,” Levine said. “But if you want to base your challenge on it, be my guest.”

“Shall we see what the computer says?”

Levine nodded.

Using the keyboard, Scopes entered a search string into the computer. There was a pause while the vast databases were scanned. At last, a quotation appeared in large letters beneath the word

vanity

“Just as I thought,” Scopes said triumphantly. “It's not ‘con man.' It's ‘
confidence
man.' The first round goes to me.”

Levine was silent. Scopes instructed the computer to bring up another topic at random. The vast screen cleared, and another word appeared:

death

“Broad enough,” Levine said. He thought a moment. “‘It's not that I'm afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it happens.' Woody Allen.”

Scopes laughed. “One of my personal favorites. ‘Those who welcome death have only tried it from the ears up.' Mizner.”

Levine said. “‘We must laugh before we are happy, for fear of dying without having laughed at all.' La Bruyère.”

Scopes: “‘Most people would die sooner than they think; in fact, they do so.' Russell.”

Levine: “‘Misers are very kind people: they amass wealth for those who wish their death.' King Stanislaus.”

Scopes: “‘When a man dies, he does not just die of the disease he had; he dies of his whole life.' Péguy.”

Levine: “‘Everyone is born a king, and most people die in exile.' Wilde.”

Scopes: “‘Death is that after which nothing is of interest.' Rozinov.”

“Rozinov? Who the hell is Rozinov?”

Scopes smiled. “You wish to challenge me?”

“No.”

“Then proceed.”

“‘Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.' Forster.”

“How nice. How Christian.”

“It's not just a Christian idea. In Judaism, the idea of death is meant to inspire one to live a righteous life.”

“If you say so,” Scopes said. “But I'm not especially interested. Don't you remember?”

“Are you delaying because you've run out of quotations?” Levine prompted.

“‘I am become Death: destroyer of worlds.' The Bhagavad Gita.”

“Very appropriate, Brent, for your line of business. It's also what Oppenheimer said when he saw the first atomic explosion.”

“Now it sounds like you're the one running out of quotations.”

“Not at all. ‘Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.' Revelation.”

“
His
name that sat on him? That doesn't sound right.”

“Are you challenging me?” Levine asked.

Scopes was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. “‘Philosophy dies just before the philosopher.' Russell.”

Levine paused. “Bertrand Russell?”

“Who else?”

“He never said any such thing. You're making up quotations again.”

“Indeed?” Scopes looked back impassively.

“Your favorite trick in school, remember? Only I think I can spot them more easily now. That's a Scopesism if ever I heard one, and I challenge you.”

There was a short silence. At last, Scopes smiled. “Very good, Charles. One for you, one for me. Now for the final round.”

The screen cleared, and a new word appeared:

universe

Scopes closed his eyes a moment. “‘That the universe is comprehensible is incomprehensible.' Einstein.”

Levine paused. “You're not foolish enough to start making up quotes already, are you?”

“Challenge me if you like.”

“I think I'll let that one pass. ‘Either we are the only intelligent life-form in the universe, or we are not. Either possibility is staggering.' Carl Sagan.”

“Carl Sagan said that? I don't believe it.”

“Then challenge me.”

Scopes smiled and shook his head. “‘It is inconceivable that the whole universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate sun.' Byron.”

“‘God does not play dice with the universe.' Einstein.”

Scopes frowned. “Is it legal to use the same source twice in a single topic? That's the second time you've done so.”

Levine shrugged. “Why not?”

“Oh, very well. ‘Not only does God play dice with the universe, but sometimes He throws them where they cannot be seen.' Hawking.”

“‘The more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems pointless.' Weinberg.”

“Very good,” Scopes said. “I like that one.” He paused. “‘True comprehension of the universe is given only to drugged teenagers and senile cosmologists.' Leary.”

There was a silence.

“Timothy Leary?” Levine asked.