Scorpion (5 page)

“No thanks,” Ben replied dourly. His shackled wrists did nothing to improve his mood. Zion had removed his leg irons, but no matter, the man without a memory was still a prisoner.

“You really ought to eat,” Isabella told him. “You remind me of a coyote pup I once brought home. He wouldn’t eat either.”

“What happened to him?”

“Why, eventually he just ran away.”

Ben glanced at the man sitting next to him. Zion had betrayed him, and however noble the motives, Ben would not forgive him. The expression on Ben McQueen’s face spoke volumes. Like the coyote, he intended to escape at the first opportunity.

“Hold the team up here,” Zion ordered. Ben obeyed him, sensing the caution in his voice. He climbed down from the wagon and walked a few paces down the road, came to a halt and proceeded to study the narrow ravine that cut through the rolling landscape. Some of the hills were topped with rocky outcroppings and fringed with scrub oak, cactus, grama grass. All manner of birds swooped and soared through the warm, still air, flashes of redwing and black, pale blue, drab gray, and dull brown gave chase to dragonfly and cicada in an endless pursuit of dinner.

Ben took in the surrounding terrain with appreciation for the harsh but subtle beauty of Zion’s adopted homeland. The man called Alacron was another orphan for Old Mexico, a man without a past, whose future—he shook the chains binding his wrists—was seriously in doubt.

“Is the way blocked?” Josefina called out.

“Doesn’t appear to be so,” Zion said. He sauntered back to the wagon and looked up at Ben. “The earth shook … three weeks ago I’d say.”

“That’s about right,” the widow agreed.

“Shook us in Ventana. Folks in Saltillo felt it too. Figured it might have tumbled some of those limestone boulders down into the ravine, so Don Sebastien wanted to take the west road out of Saltillo on our way to Linares. It was longer, but it missed the dry washes and cut-throughs like the one up ahead.” Zion licked his lips and dry-swallowed. He didn’t relish the idea of proceeding on without checking the ravine. But he wasn’t about to leave Ben alone with the señora and her stepdaughter. “You reckon these nags have a run left in them?”

Ben shrugged. “They’ll do.”

“Then we’ll try making it through. You take the whip to these animals when we’re about twenty yards from the defile.” Zion looked back at his charges. “Señora … Isabella … you hold tight to the coffin handles and try and lay as flat as possible. I doubt there’ll be trouble, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

“What about these damn chains?” Ben said, holding up his wrists.

“When the time comes, and I can be certain you won’t be taking potshots at me,” Zion replied. He climbed back up in the wagon and bounced a pebble off the gray’s rump.

The wagon rolled forward, axles creaking, the passengers swaying from side to side as Ben seemed to find every rut in the hard earth. The echo of their progress reverberated off the hills. The noise was unsettling as they neared the ravine. It announced their presence, and with Comanches about that was the last thing anyone wanted to do. When the wagon was about twenty yards from the ravine, Zion gave the word and reached for the whip while Ben flicked the reins and shouted for the horses to run. The animals recognized his tone of voice and knew what was expected of them. Don Sebastien’s horses were the pride of Saltillo, bred for stamina and speed, and they rose to the occasion. They went from a canter to a gallop, churning billowing brown clouds of dust in their wake. Isabella squealed with joy. Josefina said a silent prayer, clung to a brass handle on the coffin with one hand, and wrapped her free arm around the ten-year-old’s waist and forced her to lie prone among the carpet bags alongside the coffin. By the time they reached the defile, the horses were running flat out. Ben leaned forward, the reins tangled in his hand. Zion’s sombrero was flapping behind his head. He would have lost his hat but for the leather tie that fastened beneath his chin.

The sound of the wagon filled their ears as it careened through the ravine, skimming past limestone outcroppings and fallen timber. Suddenly the fallen scrub oak appeared in front of them, blocking their progress as the wagon bore down on it. Ben started to apply the brake, then changed his mind and exhorted the team of horses to even greater speed.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Zion shouted. “You can’t be fixing to jump that!”

Ben did not bother to reply. Twenty feet from the blockade, then ten.

“Pull up!” Zion ordered. He clawed for the reins, but Ben fought him off. “Pull up, you son of a bitch!” His eyes widened and he abandoned trying to capture control of the horses. He tucked his rifle beneath the bench seat and held on for dear life. Ben gave the reins a sharp pull and the team responded and started up the slope. For a moment the wheels twisted and slid, the wagon nearly toppling over onto its occupants as Ben came within inches of being thrown from his seat. As the wagon lurched to the left, everyone leaned to the right. They crashed through scrub brush and upturned roots. Dust and grit stung their eyes. For what seemed an eternity the wagon hung poised, inches from disaster. Then they were clear and once more on the relatively level surface of the travel-worn road, the defile was behind them. The hills seemed to be slowly, ever slowly, receding. A couple of miles down the road, when they were well out of the pass, Ben hauled on the reins and slowed the team to a walk, allowing the horses to catch their wind. Only then did Zion turn toward Ben, his features contorted in anger.

“What the devil? You nearly killed us all. I could have moved that tree out of our path. Damn it, man, we’ve a woman and child with us.” Zion tugged the Colt from his belt. “The next time I tell you to pull up, you do as I say or it won’t go well, Alacron.” Zion jabbed the gun barrel into Ben’s side. The man’s broad chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. “Just ’cause you saved my life once doesn’t mean I aim to let you break all our necks.”

“Twice.”

“What?”

Ben reached for the segundo’s sombrero. Zion flinched back and cocked the revolver until he realized what the man without a memory was after. Ben caught the brim and tugged the hat around to the front. In the crown of the hat was a ragged bullet hole that hadn’t been there before.

“Damn,” Zion cursed, and looked back through the settling dust at the road winding among the hills. He’d felt the tug on his hat but hadn’t heard the gunshot, and assumed it was merely a stone thrown up by the wheel. Someone had tried to kill him … again. If Zion had stopped the wagon to clear the fallen timber from the road, he might be dead.

“Twice,” Ben repeated. He had indeed saved his captor yet again.

R
AUL SALCEDO WALKED HIS
sodden mount through the rainswept night. Failure didn’t sit well with him. But he was young and resilient, and was able to accept what had happened in the defile as something beyond his control. What manner of fool would send a wagon careening across a steep hillside and risk overturning and being crushed beneath axles and spokes and flailing horses?

Lightning flashed and the night shimmered with sheets of pale and ghostly illumination. He halted his mount between two mesquite trees, and looking back the way he had come, searched the briefly lit landscape until he caught a glimpse of a campfire flickering forlornly at the base of a sandstone bluff off to the north. Raúl glared at the distant encampment and muttered, “This day was yours, compadres. But there will be other days. We will meet again.”

Raúl was a proud man, and the mantle of defeat was not something he cared to wear for very long. But he consigned his anger to the back of his mind and concentrated on the things he most enjoyed, Saltillo’s willing whores, tequila, and the luck of the cards. He reveled in the respect he received and the fear he engendered in the townspeople when he’d had too much to drink and the dark mood came upon him and he prowled the
pulquerías
looking for trouble.

The seventeen-year-old killer had wearied of this chase and the discomforts it involved. He knew where to find the Quinteros and Zion—the trail to their rancho, Ventana, was well-marked. Let them think they were safe. One night, Raúl Salcedo intended to pay Señora Quintero a visit. And he’d deal with the segundo and the mysterious vaquero who seemed to have only one mission in life—thwarting his plans. Yes, it was time to return to Saltillo, he thought, and await the arrival of General Najera.

Burrowing into his serape and lowering his head to the elements, Raúl Salcedo continued down the Saltillo road, his shoulders bowed by his recent failures. The cold spring storm might have chilled him to the bone but for the anger that surfaced anew and warmed his wiry frame, forging his vengeful resolve until it was strong as steel.

Zion was awakened by a groan and reached for the Patterson. He liked the feel of the gun. It was common knowledge that all the Texas Rangers were armed with a pair of such weapons. The Rangers were said to be dangerous as coiled rattlers … men who could outride and outfight the Comanche on his home ground. Zion rolled over on his side, looked at his restless prisoner and wondered if the man called Alacron was one of those “devils on horseback.” He certainly fought like one.

Ben stirred and tossed in his sleep. His head twisted from side to side, and sweat beaded his forehead, but his eyes remained closed, and his breathing, though rapid, did nothing to affect his slumber. Outside the entrance to the cave, the downpour continued unabated. A curtain of water masked the night, a gust of wind drawing tendrils of smoke from the embers of the fire they had built at the mouth of the cave, for lack of any better ventilation. Only a trace drifted back to cloud the clammy air at the rear of the chamber in which the segundo had chosen to ride out the storm.

The gray gelding tethered just beneath the ledge pawed at the rocky floor and shook its mane. The stubborn animal, nervous about being underground, had to be hobbled before it would remain in the cave. Zion had used his bandanna to secure the gelding’s forelegs. The mare had also needed to be ground-tethered, and the segundo had tied a rag across the animal’s eyes to keep the creature from becoming unnerved by the lightning.

The wagon had been left outside. However, Josefina had insisted the coffin be brought in out of the storm. Zion could not see how it mattered. Don Sebastien was beyond caring. As the segundo’s mind turned to thoughts of death, the wind began to moan as it blew across the hillside and the mouth of the cave. The storm’s keening voice made Zion shiver. This was an old land. The Comanche, the Lipan Apache, and the Yaqui all had stories of the spirits that roamed these hills, often at night; mischief makers, demons, the haunters of the dark. Zion felt a tug on his arm and nearly jumped out of his skin. Isabella gasped and scooted back before Zion realized who had touched him, and relaxed.

“Lord, young’un, you damn near scared the bejesus out of me,” he scolded.

“I just wanted to tell you I heard something,” Isabella whispered. She looked past Zion at the man she knew as Alacron. “Is he all right?” The ten-year-old pursed her lips and her brows knotted. “Maybe I ought to wake him? He might be sick.”

“Let him be, señorita. Stay clear of him,” Zion instructed. “Such men are dangerous, and he has no use for us now. But I did what I had to do, for you and for the brand.” Today’s events proved to Zion that he had made the right choice in forcing Alacron to accompany them. Had he himself been forced to drive the team, or Josefina for that matter, the race through the defile might have ended in disaster. Alacron had more than proved his worth. The former slave scratched his stubbled cheek and wondered what nightmares plagued his captive compadre. “He must wake himself,” Zion thoughtfully observed. “Only then will he be healed.”

A black raven spread its wings, took to flight and blotted out the sun, then the wings closed around the man. But the eye of the raven began to glow and pulse with fire and became the sun, molten and burning amber, impossible to watch. Ben was not afraid. But he averted his eyes until he felt the talons on his shoulder, digging into his flesh. He turned and looked into the eyes of the raven and he said, “I am lost … lost …”

“I hear you,” the raven said. “Poor child. Poor child. My poor child.” Ben tried to catch the raven, but when he looked, he found himself alone with nothing but a whisper on the wind for company.

Laughter. Who? Ben searched the plain he was standing on, but the rain obscured his vision and he could only make out two dim silhouettes. Who was watching him?

“Better beware, younker.” A voice behind him! Ben turned and saw a grizzled long-armed man with stringy silver-streaked hair. He looked tough as braided leather. He’d been scalped at one time but he wore his lifted hair as a topknot that dangled down the side of his head. The man was dressed in greasy buckskins, and his features were protected from the downpour by a battered sombrero. He smiled, revealing yellowed tobacco-stained teeth. Ben started forward then halted in his tracks and gasped in horror. The man had a rattlesnake protruding from his left eye socket. The snake hissed and its tongue darted out between its fangs. The creature struck the air over and over, as if the rain was the enemy.

More laughter. Ben recoiled from the snake-eyed man and turned to face his tormentors. A patch of darkness in the rain became a man … no, two men. The laughter ceased and the silence was worse than what had preceded it. Ben cautiously approached. He called out for the men to identify themselves, but all he heard was the lonely echo of his own voice, hurled across the vastness of the empty plain. He stopped as the two men started forward, walking abreast of one another, slowly emerging out of the rain, drawing closer, ominously closer.

One of the men had a scar running the length of his nose. He was of average height, with stringy blond hair, square-faced, and with a mouth like a gun slit. His companion stood as tall as Ben but carried an extra thirty pounds on his hips and paunch. He was bearded and butt-ugly, with slick brown hair plastered close to his round skull. Whatever intelligence was lacking in his close-set eyes was made up for by the sheer brute instincts Ben somehow knew the man possessed.