Strong Cold Dead (12 page)

“Seven,” Curly Bill corrected. “You're forgetting the one in our number who came to a real bad end at the hands of these Injuns.”

“You didn't answer my question about what brought you here in the first place.”

“Because it was a statement, as I recall. And maybe we're just passing through.”

“Comanche don't cotton well to that, Curly Bill. So I'd be of a mind, if I was you, to respect their wishes and get yourself gone someplace else. And if your boss, whoever he is, wants to discuss the matter further, I'm all ears.”

Curly Bill moved his mouth about as if he were gnawing at the insides of his cheeks. His eyes stayed locked on Steeldust Jack in what men of their kind referred to as a gunfighter's glare. The Ranger waited for him to break the stare, watched Curly Bill grin broadly.

“Me being from Arizona, you're the first Texas Ranger I ever met.”

“I hope you're not disappointed.”

“Still deciding.”

“Fine by me, Curly Bill, long as you do it somewhere other than here.”

Curly Bill backpedaled, the rest of the gunmen falling into step with him, toward a nearby shaded area, where they'd hitched their horses.

“This ain't over, Ranger,” he said, before turning around. “Not even close.”

“That's entirely up to you, friend.”

Steeldust Jack didn't take his eyes off the gunmen until they rode thunderously out, spraying a curtain of dust and dirt behind them.

“They'll be back,” he told Isa-tai, once the riders were out of sight.

“They're not your problem,” Isa-tai said, standing board straight and gazing off in the direction in which the gunmen had disappeared, as if he could still see them.

“Yes, they are. The body of their friend was found off the reservation, and I was witness to them threatening you on sovereign land the United States government has deeded to the Comanche. That don't sit well with me under any circumstances.”

“They will be dealt with,” said Isa-tai, still staring out into the distance.

“What's that mean?”

White Eagle fixed his gaze on Steeldust Jack. “They will be dealt with.”

“Then answer me this, Isa-tai,” the Ranger said. “What is it they came here after? What is it they want from your people?”

“Not our people; our land.”

Steeldust Jack thought of the rows of cornstalks he'd passed when he rode in. Nothing about the reservation that particularly stood out besides that.

“Which brings us back to who those boys are working for,” he said. “Think I'll have a talk with him, make sure none of these other fellas end up like the one got himself torn to bits.”

Isa-tai's expression tightened, his gaze suddenly so cold and resolute that Steeldust Jack could feel the chill all the way to his bones.

“There are some things, Ranger, that no one can control.”

 

22

B
ALCONES
C
ANYONLANDS,
T
EXAS

“I've heard of Curly Bill Brocius,” Dylan said, when the present-day White Eagle stopped his tale there. “He shot Tombstone's town marshal in 1880 and was involved in the killing of Morgan Earp. Wyatt himself returned the favor, a couple years after the infamous gunfight at the OK Corral.”

“You know your history,” the old man said, as if he wasn't impressed at all.

“I know my gunmen.” Dylan realized Ela was holding his hand, but he couldn't recall exactly when she'd taken it again. “And that boy named Jimmy, who threatened Steeldust Jack, could've been James ‘Killing Jim' Miller. He earned that nickname for good reason, since he supposedly murdered his own grandparents and shot his sister's husband in the face with a shotgun.”

“I've heard of him, too,” Ela chimed in. “I believe he went on to become a Texas Ranger.”

“A man dies as he lives, boy,” White Eagle said, before Dylan could respond. “Even I will die someday, once my granddaughter here is ready to assume her rightful place—two centuries is enough for any man. But there is one more battle to fight first.”

“So, who did send those gunmen in 1874?” Dylan asked him. “Who were they really working for?”

The old man lumbered to his feet, pushing off Dylan's shoulder and accepting Ela's help.

“Time for you to leave,” White Eagle told both of them. “The night has given all it has to give.”

“What happens now?” Dylan asked, rising and brushing the dirt and brush off his jeans, glancing toward the shed, where he was sure he'd heard something again. That made him think of the flickering shadow he'd spotted in the mouth of one of the caves overlooking White Eagle's property, but when he looked back it was gone.

“Nature has a way of setting things right. Like it did here, all those years ago.” The old man hesitated, seeming to sniff the air. “Like it will again today. Nature knows no time. Go now, boy, and don't come back until someone smarter wears your shoes.” White Eagle's eyes locked on Ela, piercing in their intensity, as she finally succeeded in dragging Dylan away. “Make sure he doesn't trip in the woods.”

 

23

A
USTIN,
T
EXAS

Daniel Cross sat on a bench in the grassy courtyard section of the Domain, a mall in north Austin, feeling the heat bleed out of the air as night settled in. He was hungry, but all the food places he could afford were still too crowded to risk standing in line. Since he couldn't return to his apartment, Saflin and Zurif had given him money for some clothes and a motel room. He'd found some jeans and shirts on sale in one of the clothing stores and sat now with a pair of bags on either side of him so nobody could share the bench, while he watched the crowd some more before checking into the motel. It wasn't like he had anything better to do right now, and he kind of enjoyed watching people coming and going from the more upscale stores he'd never set foot in.

If only they knew …

Cross was particularly enjoying himself tonight, given that this snippet of humanity reminded him so much of the kids who'd made his youth a living hell, all grown up. The kids who'd giggled and whispered as he passed, or pulled his shorts down in gym, or drew caricatures of him on the blackboard, with blotches dotting his long, narrow, cartoonish face. The kids who'd christened him Diaper Dan.

He'd have his revenge on each and every one of them now. Make their lives a living hell, just like they'd made his.

Because what they didn't know was that Daniel Cross had an IQ pushing one hundred sixty. That he was smarter than any of his science teachers by the time he hit tenth grade, already bored out of his mind. That reality instilled in Cross a smug self-assurance that made him feel superior to the faceless trolls who came and went through the doors of the assorted stores around him. His tormenters all grown up, with no conception of the power he held over them.

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo,” he said to himself, pointing to a few shoppers exiting Neiman Marcus. “Oh, that's right, you're all gonna go.”

The accidental rhyme brought a smile to his face. Making the drive out to the Comanche Indian reservation had actually saved him from the men who'd showed up at his apartment. That made him think back a few weeks to the first time he'd met Razin Saflin and Ghazi Zurif, when he responded to a knock on his apartment door.

*   *   *

“We'd like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“The posts you've been leaving on certain message boards, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.”

“Are you following me?”

Zurif and Saflin looked at each other.

“Because I've only got, like, fourteen followers.”

“We know who you follow,” Zurif said.

“That's why we're here,” Saflin added. “Because we follow Allah and nothing else.”

“He sees your message as divine providence in pursuit of His will.”

“You guys aren't cops, are you? If you are, you'd have to tell me.”

They looked at each other again.

“One of your messages said you could serve Allah,” Saflin started this time. “We'd like to know how.”

“I never mentioned Allah.”

“Our cause is His cause. Serve us, and our movement, and you serve Him.”

“Do I need to convert to Islam or something?”

“Your service is testament to your faith,” Zurif said. “Your actions before Allah are an acceptance of His grace.”

“Now explain what you wish to place before Him to fulfill His word,” Saflin added, in what sounded like an order. “How you think you can help us.”

*   *   *

Cross had told them, holding nothing back. Let it all spill out behind the pressure released from a lifetime of pent-up frustration, the only way to escape the shadow of Diaper Dan. How his expertise in chemical engineering had landed him a freelance job on the Comanche reservation. How he'd uncovered a blight of dead animals in the course of his analytical work. With his curiosity piqued, how he'd conducted his own methodological study of the land to ascertain what was killing wildlife that included birds and small game. He had been amazed by what he found, and not about to share it with a soul until he was sure—amazed to the point of giddiness when his own experiments provided confirmation that he had found an ancient, deadly, and unstoppable weapon.

Diaper Dan no more.

Let the real losers shoot up their school, take a few lives, and eat a pistol barrel when SWAT closed in. Daniel Cross set his sights on the whole country, wanted to take thousands of lives. Millions maybe. He hated them all, no exceptions. Because if they didn't hate him, they ignored him or frowned when he passed, which was even worse. Now he'd be able to show them all, each and every one, thanks to what he'd found on that Indian reservation.

Zurif and Saflin said they needed a demonstration to prove he wasn't full of shit and that he really could pull this off.

No problem.

Cross would give them a demonstration, all right. Tomorrow.

He couldn't wait.

 

P
ART
T
HREE

Four newly raised ranging companies, have all been organized, and taken their several stations on our frontier. We know they are true men, and they know exactly what they are about. With many of them Indian and Mexican fighting has been their trade for years. That they may be permanently retained in the service on our frontier is extremely desirable.

—
Victoria Advocate,
November 16, 1848

 

24

S
HAVANO
P
ARK,
T
EXAS

“Since when do you drink Hires?” Caitlin asked, rolling around in her hand the frosty bottle Cort Wesley had just given her, fresh from the fridge.

He took a seat next to her on the porch swing of his house in Shavano Park. “I've kind of developed a taste for it.”

It was the kind of place he never expected to live. His girlfriend Maura Torres's house, actually, inherited by his boys after they'd witnessed her murder. He could have moved them elsewhere, but Cort Wesley wanted Dylan and Luke never to forget what had happened here, or the impression that violence seen up close and personal can leave on a person. In his experience, those who disagreed with that thinking had never experienced violence firsthand.

“You ever do any personal appearances?” he asked Caitlin suddenly.

“Like what?”

“Like at a prestigious prep school, maybe as the graduation speaker, come May.”

“Graduation speaker?”

“Part of the deal I cut with the principal of Luke's school.”

“Do I want to know the details?”

“Luke gets to room with Zach next year. That enough?”

“What's the date of this graduation?” Caitlin asked him, and sipped her root beer.

She hadn't had root beer since she was a little girl, at a local soda fountain with her granddad. A scoop of vanilla ice cream floated amid the suds on top, on Earl Strong's recommendation.

“You got that look, Ranger,” Cort Wesley said to her.

“What look might that be?”

“The one that says something's grabbed hold and won't let go.”

“Sam Bob Jackson.”

“Is that a real person?”

“The minerals broker I went to see in Houston. If he was any more slimy you'd have to hose down his office with disinfectant.”

“Probably comes with the territory in that business.”

“This was different. Son of a bitch is hiding something, for sure. Something just doesn't feel right.”

Cort Wesley chuckled. “You being an expert on human behavioral traits.”

“This coming from somebody who takes advice from a ghost.”

Cort Wesley tipped his bottle toward her. “How's the root beer?”

“Damn fine.”

“Then it's good advice.” Caitlin watched his face grow somber. “Think I'll head back up to that Indian reservation in the morning. Something doesn't feel right there, either.”

She held his stare until a pair of june bugs buzzed between them. “You give Luke the news?”

“Nope. I'd rather he didn't know I had any part in it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want him thinking the two of us are always going to be there to win all his battles for him.”

“You mean fight, not win.”

Cort Wesley drained the rest of his Hires. “I've got the same feeling you do.”

“That the next battle's right around the next corner.” Caitlin felt her phone vibrate and found a voice mail from a call she hadn't noticed. “It's from Jones. I better see what he wants.”

“Knock yourself out,” Cort Wesley said, tipping his root beer toward her and watching her expression tighten as she listened to the message. “Bad?”