The Quantro Story (2 page)

So, the boy was still there, and there was no sign of the buckskin.

He groaned and lay back against the rocks, his strength fast deserting him. He had lost his hat during the first moments of the gunfight and now his bare head was taking the full impact of the burning sun. The shoulder wound didn't help any either. His left arm was now numb all the way down to his wrist and any attempt at movement was unbearable. To add to his troubles he realized he was fast dehydrating. Slowly, one-handed, he loosened his bandana to improvise a hat, grateful for any protection he could gain against the sun.

A hoarse cackle escaped his lips. Maybe this was the end of the line after all. A picture passed through his mind of the many sun-bleached skeletons he had seen of both men and animals sprawled among rocks bordering trails. Maybe the next one on this trail would be him.

He remembered the old Apache legend of the Scalphunters' Ledge a cowhand had told him once when they'd wintered in a line cabin in the mountains.

The cowboy'd said that down below the border in Mexico there was an amber-red plateau, and in the centre of it stood a solitary monolith of hard red stone, reaching up like a finger to the sky. The legend said a band of Apache had attacked a mule train carrying gold bullion on its way from Tayopa. At that time, round 1842, the Mexican Governor General had issued an announcement offering bounties on Indian scalps as an incentive to decrease the Indian population in Mexico. Bands of men had sprung up who became known as Scalphunters, and it was one of these bands, led by Mustang Grey, who ambushed the Apache braves after they had taken possession of the bullion. When the battle was over, they scalped all the Apache, and then they realized during the fight all the horses and mules had escaped, and all the water bags were punctured, leaving them with neither transport nor water in a land where a man could only survive with both. The scalphunters were trapped. It was said they hid the gold in a secret cave up on the ledge and then waited until death showed up to take them prisoner. The Apache said from that day on, on each dark moon the voices of the Scalphunters could be heard crying out in the night for water, and their bad spirits had never escaped from that place.

Quantro wondered if his ghost would call for water on dark nights. He determined if it did, then he would try his best to give a few travelers the horrors.

The heat and pain were almost insufferable as he slipped into a fitful doze that stretched through the remaining hours of the afternoon and into the twilight.

As the day began to ease into the black velvet shroud of the desert night he shook himself awake, angry he had forsaken his vigil. The thought he was still alive brought some relief, and he found himself shivering and staring up at the vast panorama of stars sprinkled across the sky. The sleep had done nothing to replenish his flagging energy. He could barely move, the slightest flexing of a limb sent spasms of pain shooting through his body.

He almost wished it was over. The boy could have caught him easily while he slept, but had left him alone. Why? He could only think of two answers. Either the shot from the Colt had found its target, or the boy had pulled out. But, if the boy was so determined to avenge his father why should he quit now? Perhaps he was only waiting until darkness would cover his approach. Well, Quantro was going nowhere. At least not until light. It was too dark to chance tracking the buckskin. It would be difficult enough in daylight over this type of ground, never mind in almost pitch darkness. If the boy hadn't made his move by sun-up, then Quantro was going to run slap into him. The odds were getting too short to wait it out any longer than that. If he did, he would be certain crow bait. The buzzards would find him much too easily.

***

The buzzard found him not long after dawn.

First light had laid its grey fingers across the sky, presenting the barren wasteland of the desert that stretched away bleakly to the far horizon. Quantro's eyes were red-rimmed and sore, and the last of the water scarcely relieved the pain in his throat. The shoulder wound had congealed, but there was no strength in his aching bones so he merely lay and stared at the growing day. The Colt was in easy reach, ready for the boy, but he never came.

It suddenly became important to watch the buzzard. If Willy Kilhern was lying dead on the other side of the rise, then the bird should have dropped in to eat his breakfast. Maybe the boy had caught the shot from the Colt but was still alive, maybe just maybe in as bad a state as himself?

The buzzard, remote as it was, quartering the sky above, put a chilling fear into the pit of his stomach. It was the calling card of death.

The cadaverous bird had all day to wait for his kill, but Quantro knew only too well his own time was fast running out. If he didn't make his move soon, then he would make no moves at all.

***

Wild-Horse squatted on the ridge, sniffing the morning breeze.

He watched the buzzard in the north rise and dip in its timeless soar, slowly circling, finely balanced as it rode the hot air columns that rose from the Devil's Plateau. He spent some minutes admiring the bird's casual skill then came up off his heels and walked back down into the hollow on silent moccasins. The white man was sitting by the fire drinking strong black coffee from a tin cup, warming his bones after the cold night. Even before the silent Wild-Horse was ten feet away from his back, Pete Wiltshire turned his head a fraction and spoke over his shoulder.

“See somethin', Wild-Horse?”

The Apache grinned, tossing his hair, black as a raven's wing, in silent laughter. One day he would catch out the white man, but it would have to be early in the morning. He reached the fire and squatted down on his heels, the game of surprising his friend forgotten as he turned his attention to the bacon sizzling in the skillet that stood on the hot rocks by the edge of the fire. Pete turned a jaundiced eye on him and the Indian pointed to the north.

“Buzzard.”

“It figures.” Pete sniffed, turning a chunk of the bacon in the skillet. Wild-Horse looked at him expectantly.

“Eat now?” he asked.

“Yep. Eat now,” Pete replied, his lips barely moving in the grizzled jaw that hadn't seen a razor since they'd ridden out to buy supplies for the camp, four days ago. He rubbed a hand across the grey-flecked stubble and thought how lucky the full-blood Indians were. They didn't have to shave at all. Mind you, that was little consolation when you were treated like a dog by every white man who took the notion to help himself to your land. He glanced sideways at Wild-Horse's hungry eyes.

“Yep. Eat now,” he repeated, doling out the hot bacon, “then we'll ride us a piece and see what that bird's so darned interested in.”

Not that he needed to know what was out there. He already knew. He lifted his eyes from the tin plate and gazed thoughtfully across at the picketed horses. The buckskin stallion they'd found wandering yesterday stood out like a priest in a whorehouse among the tough Indian ponies and the pack mules. It was a well bred stallion, hands higher than the rest, a cross between an Arab and a Quarter horse by the looks. It had acquired the best of both breeds too. Speed and endurance. Of course, it looked a little the worse for wear, but then the desert did that to good horseflesh. He'd never seen the brand before. A Q with a bar over both top and bottom. BAR-Q-BAR. It could only mean it was from up in the north somewhere. Colorado?

The saddle too. It was finely tooled, burnished leather that had seen good use, but it had obviously been made by a Master Craftsman and cost someone a good bankroll. The empty canteen was still hanging from the saddle horn and the rifle was still in the saddle boot. That was a beauty too. A prized 1873 model Winchester, caliber 44.40. They were the ones known as One of a Thousand. Rare and expensive. Whoever rode that horse knew what he was doing. Apparently he owned nothing but the best.

Pete looked at the lightening sky. Whoever the rider of that horse was, he wouldn't live long out there without water and his rifle. He was probably dead already. He'd been afoot since noon yesterday, but maybe not. The buzzard wouldn't still be in the sky if he was dead. He finished his share of the bacon and scrubbed the greasy plate with a handful of sand. He sniffed. Luck was a funny thing. If that feller out there had his share of it, then maybe he was alive. If the horse had thrown him and he'd managed to crawl to some shade, then maybe, just maybe.

Wild-Horse had already saddled his own pony and was checking the harness on the heavily laden pack mules when Pete came out from behind the scrub brush fastening his belt buckle. He walked to the paint pony and caught up the reins of the buckskin stallion as he mounted. He sniffed and settled into his creaking saddle, then nodded to the Apache.

“Okay
compadre
, let's ride.”

Wild-Horse gave him one of those half smiles, then swung up on to the pony's back, seemingly effortlessly. He bent over the first mule and reached down for the long lead rein, then wheeled his pony, gently prodding him in the ribs with the heels of his moccasins.

Together, they rode up to the rim of the hollow that had provided the night's shelter and faced the open desert.

CHAPTER 2

Quantro's eyes opened, startled, and he blinked in the bright sunlight. He realized he had passed out when he had tried to move. How long had he been out? He checked the sun and found it was another hour higher in the morning sky and the buzzard, his only companion apart from the constant pain, was beginning to close in. Quantro thought with anguish he might look dead from up there, but down here was another game altogether. The hungry bird only made him more determined to survive.

He tried to move his legs again. The bum one had set stiff during the night, the joint completely jammed up. He uttered a curse on the fool of a doctor who had set it for him, and as he lay in the dust, choking on his swelling tongue, he retraced his memories to the man who had broken it for him in the first place.

And the day it happened.

***

Quantro was eighteen years old, and it was a fine day. He was out in the north pasture with Sonny and Jay, rounding up the new calves for branding. His face was covered with the dust thrown up by flailing hooves, and his nostrils were full of the stench of burning hide as the red hot iron left its mark on the flank of each calf, declaring the ownership of the BAR-Q-BAR ranch. The tough quarter horse was about blown and his own throat was parched from cutting out and chasing the obstinate critters. He decided to let Sonny handle the cutting chore for a while and ride down to the ranch house where his mother would have coffee and some food ready. He reined in at the fire where Jay was heating the irons and told him where he was going. As he rode away Sonny shouted not to be long with the food because he was as hungry as a bear.

Quantro rode into the yard and saw four strange horses tied to the hitching rail. His inquisitive cowman's eyes looked first to their rumps. Three of the horses bore brands he'd never seen before and the fourth carried a crudely altered cavalry brand. Puzzled, he dismounted and walked up the steps, wondering who the callers were. Maybe they'd come to buy stock.

He was half way to the door when it swung open and he found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 Winchester. The man who so purposefully held the weapon was an evil looking, thin faced man, a half breed dressed in Mexican style bell bottomed pants. His boots carried big rowelled California spurs, and his gun belt and hatband were decorated with silver conchos, as bright as the wicked blade of the bowie knife that appeared in his left hand. Quantro's eyes flickered from the knife to the rifle when its owner prodded his belt buckle with the barrel.

“Drop it. Slowly,
amigo
.”

There didn't seem to be much choice. Quantro carefully unfastened his gun belt and let it fall to the planking.

The half-breed stood aside and gestured with the rifle for Quantro to precede him into the house. When Quantro was inside the rifleman bent down and picked up the discarded weapon, then followed him in.

Three other
pistoleros
were ranged around the big living room, laughing and swilling whiskey from his father's stocks. They were all dirty and unshaven and their clothes were in disrepair. One was eating meat from a wooden platter with his fingers, taking great delight in sucking noisily at his rotten teeth and using a sharp knife to dig out the shreds of meat that clung in the crevices. He was a swarthy man and his buckskin shirt was greasy while the smell that rose from him was almost inhuman.

Another
pistolero
was sitting with his chair tilted back against the wall, a navy Colt aimed negligently across the room. Alone of the four, he wore a ripped and dusty Cavalry shirt and breeches to match, the yellow stripes torn from the legs. His boots were badly worn down too. The most frightening thing about him was his face; the raw red scar that ran almost fully across his forehead, as though he had almost been scalped, which was in fact the truth. The incident had left him mean and vicious, and he sneered as he kicked out at the back of Quantro's legs, his heel landing in the hollow behind Quantro's kneecap. He fell over from the surprise blow and sprawled on his hands and knees on the floorboards.

The last member of the quartet guffawed loudly. He turned round, facing the newcomer, his back to his crude handiwork. Quantro's father was tied to one of the rafters, hands stretched above him as he hung limply. From his position on the floor, Quantro could see burn marks all over his father's lips and cheeks and his throat contracted with anger. As the fury seethed up inside of him he pushed himself up from the floor to punch the laughing man. His father had already read the murder in his son's eyes and weakly flashed him a warning. Quantro understood and stopped in his tracks, realizing these
hombres
would not think twice about shooting him and his family out of hand.

The fat gunman had already seen the beginnings of the attack and moved a pace or two towards him, eyebrows raised. He kicked out and his boot caught Quantro squarely in the ribs, flipping him neatly over on to his back. Nursing his stomach, Quantro lay still and studied each line of the man's face. The cheeks were like a fat baby's, lips dribbling spittle in his excitement, and his little pig-like eyes were agleam with the pleasure of inflicting pain.

It was a face Quantro was to remember the rest of his life.

The fat man stepped towards him and Quantro rolled over, away from the pointed toes of the worn-out cowboy boots. A kick in the back stopped him and he wrenched his neck round to see the half-breed Mexican standing arrogantly over him, the .44 Winchester hanging loosely in his hands.

Quantro recognized the set of the man's limbs for exactly what it was. It was the relaxed and assured stance of a professional gunfighter.

The breed's lips peeled back from his teeth in the semblance of a grin. “Tough
hombre
, eh? The son of your father?”

Quantro glowered up. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice shaking.

The half breed laughed with a brilliant flash of white teeth in his dark face and gestured to his friends.

“He asks us what we want,
muchachos
?” The smile disappeared and he swung back to peer down at Quantro. “Hey, gringo, what do you think we want?”

“Money?” Quantro frowned.

The breed laughed again, but the smile did not reach up past his cheekbones to his hard, dark eyes. He flicked a wrist casually away from the butt of his Winchester.

“Eh, intelligent too. Right first time. But we have not long to wait now, we will find out soon enough.” His eyes moved away from Quantro's face to the bedroom door beyond the fat man. The boy twisted an the floor to follow the breed's gaze.

Through the open doorway he could see one of his mother's legs at the foot of the bed. The breed grinned and stooped, transferring the rifle to his right hand, then caught hold of Quantro's shirt collar. He pulled him effortlessly upright and directed him towards the door.

The teeth flashed maliciously between the thin lips.

“Come and see what we have in here, eh ? A little
puta
.”

Shag's feet were locked hard against the floor but the breed drove an elbow into his spine and pushed him forward.

His beloved mother lay spread-eagled on top of the blankets, each ankle tied to a post, her hands lashed above her head to the bed head. Her eyes were those of a cornered animal, rolling, wild, her face blanched. Her beautiful, thick black hair was tangled about her face, strands even caught between her teeth. The old cotton frock she always wore around the house had been torn from her shoulders down to her waist, exposing the pale mounds of her heavy breasts. The bottom hem of the frock had been ripped upwards almost to her navel, leaving the dark triangle of her womanhood open for the leering eyes of the
pistoleros
. Her thighs carried smudges of blood betraying her violation, the red brown stains drying in the warmth of the afternoon.

When she saw her son her head turned away in shame, eyes tightly screwed shut above tear-stained cheeks, her voice a plaintive sob deep in her throat.

Quantro turned his own face away, disconcerted his mother should have her own son see her that way. His breathing was harsh as nausea climbed up inside of him and he fought to control it. His throat was constricted but he managed to force out the words between his twisted lips in a sick, disgusted voice he barely recognized as his own.

“Which of you did this?”

The Mexican half breed regarded him as he would a bank that had no money in it. He formed his lips into the semblance of a lopsided smile.

“Well,” he shrugged, pursing his lips, “I think my
amigo
, the Cavalryman was first. But,” he gestured offhandedly, “we all managed to take our turn.”

Quantro's mouth was a grim line. His face and neck burned. Before the breed could stop him, he twisted and dived across the room towards the Cavalryman. Even as his body arched through the smoky air the fat man with the cigar lashed out with his Colt. The barrel smashed into the side of Quantro's head, stopping his headlong flight. He crashed into the floorboards.

The buckskinned one, still sucking his greasy fingers, casually aimed a kick at his kidneys. It was as though that was the secret sign for them all to start.

His father strained uselessly against the tight knots that bound him to the rafter as he watched the outlaws land blow after blow an his son's body. Blood spurted from cuts and Quantro's skin grew dark with bruises as they systematically kicked and punched, using fists and rifle butts. Quantro's body jerked and bucked with the blows long after he had lost consciousness.

Finally he lay still.

The fat man clucked his tongue and lit another cigar. He turned again to the middle-aged rancher tied to the rafter. He gestured like a businessman making a deal, blowing on the glowing tip of the cigar, smiling faintly in anticipation.

“Now, where were we? …Oh, yes.” The faint smile grew into a broad grin, barely rippling his fat cheeks. “I think we were talking about the money?”

***

Quantro eased back to awareness and the beginnings of pain. He lay, eyes shut, on the bare floorboards, ears open to the curses and denials from his father's lips as the fat man asked the same question over and over. His nostrils caught the smell of his father's skin burning after each refusal. It was a sweet smell, different to the smell of the calves when they were branded. It was sickening. Underneath all the talk he could hear the insistent choked moans coming from his mother's lips in the bedroom.

Hatred blanked out the worst of the pain.

A chair creaked near him and he carefully opened an eye. The Cavalryman was coming to his feet, pushing the Navy Colt into its holster. From the look on his face he was going to the bedroom again.

A fresh burst of anger drove Quantro to his feet staggering. He lunged to grab the Cavalryman's pistol as the man moved past him. He grabbed the butt of the Colt, then he heard the Mexican swear.

“
Dios
! God!” he cursed, coming to his feet. In one fluid movement he swung the Winchester in a vicious sideswipe that caught Quantro's leg. The steel of the barrel meshed with flesh in a hideous splintering of bone. Pain exploded inside Quantro's head. He screamed and fell, the pistol all but forgotten in his agony.

He was back on the floor again.

But the fat man was growing tired of the interruptions to his cigar game. Irritably he turned and scowled at the prostrate form of the boy on the floor.

“Get him out of here, for God's sake.” He motioned vaguely in dismissal and the buckskinned man came to his feet. He caught Quantro's boot heel and dragged him out into the yard, leaving him to die within earshot of his parents' torture.

In his defeat, the blood covering Quantro's face and the bruises that discolored his body seemed to be the laurels of the beaten.

But the broken leg was the worst.

He lay in the dust, sobbing and retching from the nausea, the sun bright in his eyes. But for the harsh laughter that invaded his brain, he would have stayed there bleeding and broken.

Instead, he began to crawl. The jagged white bone sticking obscenely out from his flesh was ignored as he forced his mind to think coherently. It took him the best part of an hour to reach the inside of the barn. It was all of twenty feet, each inch a mile of torment and pain.

But he made it.

Inside the barn, eyes stinging from tears, body numb, he scrabbled with bleeding fingers at a loose board. The little pain the splinters gouging into his flesh gave him was nothing to what he had already suffered. He worked at it with clenched teeth, his pain-fogged brain already planning for the future. When the board eventually came loose, he had gained a view of the tethered horses in front of the porch. If he'd had a rifle at that moment, he would have lined it up on the front door and shot them as they came out, like the vermin they were. But he had no weapon to caress, no cold blue steel with which to seek reassurance.

Only the hatred.

Time passed and the front door opened. The four
pistoleros
emerged into the sunlight, reeling and swearing, bragging about the woman they had all taken their pleasure of, before they slit her throat. They slapped each other on the back, clutching fresh whiskey bottles in their grimy hands.

The swarthy one, dressed in the buckskins, tripped and fell headlong into the yard. He was drunk and the others began to taunt him. Now there were no witnesses, they were freer with their slurred talk. As they laughed and sneered Quantro listened to every word, each slight remark, and as names were dropped he began to fit them to the faces.

The Mexican half-breed was Zeb, the swarthy one Jack. The fat, baby-faced one was Mace, and the scarred Cavalryman was Purdy. They talked of splitting up on the trail and Quantro heard the one called Mace say he was heading north to Cheyenne.

In his pain, Quantro grinned. That would make it a little easier. Cheyenne. A corner of the haystack where he could start looking for the needles.