Sidewinder (16 page)

When Carlos saw the man ride up to the barn, he knew it meant trouble.

He knew it wasn’t Brad or Julio.

He knew it was a man he had never seen before. And the man had a rifle, and he looked like he was ready to shoot.

Carlos dropped the bridle in his hand and ran out through the back doors of the barn, shoving one door open just wide enough for him to escape. He ran, and he kept running into the timber. He cursed himself for not strapping on his pistol that morning. And his rifle was still in the bunkhouse. He was defenseless.

He ran because he knew his life depended on it.

When he got to the woods, he kept on running and then he started looking for a place to hide. He stopped when he came to an old well site that hadn’t panned out, a depression in the earth that was now overgrown with scrub brush, blackberries, sumac, and alder. Thick brush. He stepped down into the shallow hole, and started pulling dirt and pine needles down into it so that it covered his legs and chest. He took off his hat, crumpled it up, and put it beneath him. Then he smeared dirt on his face and held his breath for several seconds until his pulse stopped racing.

Later, Carlos heard screams. A woman’s screams. But he did not know if the screams were from Pilar or Felicity. The sound sent shivers up his spine. He heard a gunshot, muffled, probably coming from inside the bunkhouse or from the house where Felicity lived.

There were voices. Men’s voices and the sound of hoofbeats. Then a long silence, fragments of conversation, words floating up through the timber, distorted fragments that made no sense. And the crunch of iron hooves on small sticks and stones. A man on horseback riding along the fringe of trees just below him. Baffling. Unnerving. Carlos held his breath often. To listen. Trying to decipher what the sounds meant.

The lowing of cattle, the soft breeze through the trees. The muffled voices of men. And the horse, walking along, back and forth, slow and methodical. The rustle of brush, the sudden glint of sunlight shooting through the trees, vanishing like will-o’-the-wisp. The nothingness of nothing. The silences and the low moans of cattle on the move.

It didn’t take Carlos long to figure it out. The cattle belonging to Brad Storm were being rustled, being driven from the valley toward the south. And still, the rider waited, riding back and forth, slow and steady. He pictured him. A rider with a gun, watching, looking for Carlos. But not coming into the timber, not in any hurry. Watching and waiting. Looking for him.

He was a rabbit, hiding in a hole. A rabbit with fear and a twitching nose for a mind.
Un conejo
. And much fear.
Mucho miedo
.

He thought in both English and Spanish, and he did not want to die. He did not want to be shot down like a rabbit and left for the buzzards.

Carlos began to tremble. At first the shaking was inside. Then it quivered to his skin and to his hands and legs. He was shivering as if it were winter and there was snow on the ground, frost in the wind. He could not stop shivering.

He could not stop shaking until he felt the first sting on his arm. Then he felt another on his neck. He looked down and saw them. Ants. They were crawling all over his arms, up his sleeve, and onto his neck. Then he saw the anthill, a foot or two from the sunken earth where he was hiding. Hundreds of red ants were streaming toward him, their tiny antennae twitching, their little legs pumping. He slapped at the ants on his arm, batted those on his neck, and got more bites for his trouble.

Carlos scrambled from the hole and felt stings on his crotch and belly. He was crawling with ants, and the stings were like poison needles in his skin. He slapped and brushed, clearing the ants from his trousers, off his arms, and from around his neck. He hopped away from the anthill and waddled to a large pine. He leaned against it and dropped his trousers. He began to pick ants off his body, felt a sting on his ankles. He removed his boots and socks, shook them out. Ants tumbled from his boots and off his socks.

He mashed some of them that were on his body, flicked others away until he was satisfied that he was free of the stinging creatures. He pulled his pants up, sat down and donned his socks, and pulled on his boots. He brushed himself all over, then looked through the trees.

He saw the man patrolling the strip of land just below the woods. He did have a rifle and it was straight up, the buttstock anchored to his ham hock of a leg. He wore a pistol and a cartridge belt, too. He was peering into the trees, looking for any sign of movement.

Carlos knew that as long as he stood still, he was not likely to be seen. He touched his head and realized that he had left his hat in the hole where he had been hiding. He felt naked without it, but he knew he dared not move to retrieve it. He turned his head slightly, hugging tight against the pine tree. He must not move.

It seemed to Carlos that he stood that way, unmoving, for hours. His legs ached, his neck was stiff. And the stings still hurt and began to itch. He knew he could not scratch those places where he had been bitten, and it was torture to just stand there as the poison seeped into his flesh, his veins. Small as the bites were, they were annoying. Maddening at times. He ached to scratch the itching places, but he stood there, knowing his life depended on it.

The man on horseback rode on, up the line and back, disturbing the bushes, stopping to look at something suspicious, slowing his horse every few yards. Looking, looking, always looking. Carlos cringed as one of the ant bites on his neck flared and stung again, then began to itch as if something unseen was burrowing into his flesh.

Then he felt the thirst. His throat began to dry out until it was parched. He felt hot all over his body. He felt sick to his stomach. But there was nothing in it. He had not eaten, nor taken coffee. He was empty and drying out. He licked his lips, and there was very little saliva. He wanted to stoop down and find a small pebble to put in his mouth. That would help take away the thirst. But he could not move. He would not move.

Then, after what seemed like hours, like an eternity, he heard voices.

It took him a moment, but Carlos realized they were calling out to the man who was hunting for him.

“Toad, come on down,” one of the men shouted.

“Ain’t found him yet.”

“Let it go. We’re going to burn down the whole shebang.”

“Whooeee,” Toad yelled, and Carlos saw his horse blur by him, then show his rump as it galloped down the slope toward the barn and dwellings.

“
Mierda
,” Carlos said, and scratched his neck, legs, and belly.

He walked slowly down to the edge of the timber and stood behind a tree that shielded his entire body. He peeked out and watched the stalking man ride down to the barn and dismount.

Two other men were just walking into the barn. The one called Toad entered the barn behind them. Several moments passed by, and then Carlos saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the hayloft window. Smoke leaked from the roof, spewing out from beneath the eaves on the three sides he could see. The three men emerged from the barn carrying torches. One was carrying a shovel, another a rake, and the third a bucket full of flames.

They ran down to his bunkhouse, and the one with the bucket opened the door and threw the entire bucket inside. The other two split off. One ran to Julio’s bunkhouse, the last one dashed to the main house. Soon, there was smoke rising from each of the dwellings. The three men mounted their horses and rode off toward the creek.

Carlos looked at the long valley. There was not a single head of cattle to be seen. The pasture was empty of all life. He saw dust rising from across the creek, and then he ran down to the well and pulled up a bucket of sloshing water, untied the rope, and lugged it to the main house. He opened the front door and flames leaped out at him. He threw the water through the doorway straight into the fiery wall that was just beyond the entrance.

The water hissed and went out, having no effect on the flames. Carlos backed off the porch and ran back to the well. By then, both bunkhouses were smoking, and fire was crawling through cracks and climbing the outside walls. The roofs caught on fire. He threw the bucket down beside the well, knowing it was hopeless. All he could do was watch the houses burn.

He did not know whether the fire generated the wind or if the wind came out of the high peaks and fanned the flames, but the fires whipped and lashed the houses, and Carlos watched them crumble one by one, until only the brick chimneys were standing. Smoke filled the air and rose up high in the sky in black and white columns. Then the wind died down and the smoky spires seemed to hang in the air as if they were made of granite. It was a horrible sight to see, and Carlos almost broke into tears.

He stood there, covered with soot and ashes, his face smeared with dirt, his skin pocked with ant bites, and looked down at his boots and his trousers.

This was all he had in the world now, just the clothes on his back.

Then, he remembered his hat, up in the timber, in that miserable hole where the ants swarmed.

He walked slowly up the slope and into the timber.

His hat was covered with red ants. He reached down and gingerly picked up the crushed remains of his hat. He shook all the ants off, slapped the felt against his trouser legs. When he was satisfied that he had gotten all the ants off, he tried to get the crown back in shape. When he smoothed it, he put his hat on, squared it up, and walked back down to the smoldering buildings.

It was then that Carlos wept.

Brad and Julio broke camp at dawn, when the sky was a pale wash of blue and all the stars were gone. The moon was a skeletal ghost hanging desolate in the far reaches of the horizon like some remnant of a distant world.

“You are pushing it, Brad,” Julio said, rising from his bedroll. “The horses are tired. I am tired. Do we break our fast this morning?”

Brad knew he was pushing it. They hadn’t had breakfast since they left the Arapaho village, and they had chewed on hardtack and stale jerky the past two days. The horses were tired, and so was he. But he missed Felicity and wanted to get back home. There was that matter of horse tracks down by the creek. And just Pilar, Felicity, and Carlos to keep an eye on things.

“No, Julio. We can be home by noon if we don’t dawdle.”

“It will be there a half hour after the noon.”

“Shake a leg. Ginger’s already under saddle.”

Julio stood up and stretched. Brad was standing next to his horse, feeding the gelding grain out of his hand. Every bone in Julio’s body ached after sleeping on the hard ground two nights in a row, and his stomach was pressing against his backbone. He rolled up his blanket after shaking it out, tied it to the back of his saddle. He picked up the saddle blanket and lay it on Chato’s back. He swung the saddle up and bent over to grab a cinch strap. He squared the saddle atop the blanket and began hitching up, trying to ignore the gnawing in his stomach, the desire for coffee strong enough to open his eyes and keep them open.

Brad climbed aboard Ginger and waited for Julio to finish cinching up, slide his rifle back in its boot. Brad flexed his arms and pumped his legs up and down in the stirrups. He, too, was stiff and sore, and wanted coffee, eggs, bacon, anything that Felicity might cook. But they did not have far to go, and he could wait for a hot, sit-down meal with the woman he loved. And missed dearly.

He touched the bulge in his belt. The gold. At least he could make her eyes light up with the dust. That was the only reason he had gone and left her.

But he vowed he would never leave her again for so long a ride.

They rode into the dawn with its peach and salmon sky, gilded clouds, and fresh snowy air blown down from the high ermine-capped peaks. Brad found renewed energy in the morning and zest for the coming day. Ginger’s every stride was bringing him closer to home.

“What do you think that old Arapaho brave meant when he said to you that you had ‘shoot in your eyes,’ Brad?” Julio said.

“I don’t know,” Brad said.

“I do.”

“Yeah? What was that?”

“I have seen that look before. When you drew your pistol and cocked it, you were ready to kill that brave.”

“Maybe.”

“Ah, no maybe about it,” Julio said. “That man was a centimeter from death.”

“It was close.”

“I saw the look. The ‘shoot’ look. You had it when that brown bear mauled one of the newborn calves last spring, remember?”

“I remember. Close call for the calf.”

“You tried to chase the bear away.”

“I tried.”

“Then the bear came at you. You drew your pistol. Like lightning. And I saw that look. I think the bear saw it, too.”

“The bear kept coming,” Brad said.

“And you shot it. Right between the eyes. The bear fell right where you stood.”