Vengeance Road (24 page)

I scramble outta the cart and go racing toward him. It takes my little legs forever to get there, and when I do, I can see there ain't no bottom to the grave. It's already filled in, the dirt fresh and dark and nearly level with the grass. I only know what I'm looking at 'cus I helped him bury our barn cat not a week back.

“I wanted to see her!” I scream at Pa, pounding his thighs with my fists. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

“She didn't look like herself no more,” he says when I'm through attacking. “I thought this would be best. She'll rest easy beneath this tree—sheltered in the winter and shaded in the summer. We can visit her together.”

“I wanted to see her,” I says again.

“I know. But remember her like this: healthy, smiling.” He passes me a photograph taken when I were still a baby. I's seen one just like it in a lunch box Pa uses to store important papers.

I don't take the picture from him.

I get up and stomp to the barn and cry by myself in Libby's stall.

Later that night, I find Pa's put the photograph under my pillow. I keep it there for years, till Pa buys me a copy of
Little Women
and the photo starts serving as a bookmark. It stays tucked between those pages till it burns up in the fire, and I swipe Pa's copy from his lunch box, 'long with all that remains of his life.

When I wake, back turned to camp and last night's dreams still fogging my head, the sun's already up. For how long, I ain't sure, but the sky sure is light enough. I reckon I woulda woken earlier if it weren't for the canyon walls leaving our camp in shadow.

I shove to my feet and stumble farther beyond the cottonwoods, till I find a private spot to relieve myself. As I'm fastening my trousers I notice footprints in the dry dust. The toe of a boot, the gouge of a heel. My heart goes a thumping in my chest. Someone were here, this close to camp. Definitely one man. Maybe even two. Apache? No, not with those pointed boot toes. Maybe Rose himself. Or the ghost shooter.

I follow the tracks best I can, but they're half scattered by the wind and disappear where the canyon floor becomes mostly rock.

Rounding a bend, I come to an abrupt halt.

Far to the south and climbing toward the sky like a church steeple is Weavers Needle. It's a beacon among the ragged terrain, a marker you couldn't miss if you tried. I hold up my hand, gauging its size 'gainst my fingers. I reckon it's another three or four miles off still, but that would mean the horse-head landmark is within our grasp. If'n we get to it tonight, we'll be in position to watch the sun rise tomorrow morning and mark the mine's location when it shines over the rock steed's neck.

It should make me happy, this progress, but every hair on my person is suddenly standing on end. I get the feeling I'm being watched, that I ain't alone. I turn the way I came, expecting Lil to be sneaking up on me, but the canyon's empty. When I turn back toward Weavers Needle, there ain't nothing but wilderness as far as I can see.

Still, something ain't right. The tracks, the stillness, this feeling in my chest. Just like that time with Ma, I can sense something foul.

I spin round and race back to the cottonwoods.

I stumble into camp. Lil's there, loading up her pony, and Waltz's burro grazes nearby, but otherwise she's alone. Their beds, their pistol belts, their gear—all gone. There ain't a sign of 'em.

My hands go to my lower back, but no—I gave Jesse the journal last night, let him look. I scramble for my bedroll, digging frantically through my gear, hoping in vain he put it back after reading it. But it ain't there.

The journal's gone, and the Coltons went with it.

“They left early,” Lil says. “The stars still shone.”

“Why the hell didn't you stop 'em?”

“I want them far from me. They seek to destroy everything I value.”

“Damn it, Lil, they took my journal!”

It shouldn't be a shock. We were using each other, the Coltons and me. That's all it ever were, our deal, and the boys ran when they no longer needed my help, when they secured the means to their end. They got the maps now. They don't gotta put up with me or Lil. If they travel swift, they might not even have to face the Rose Riders. They could beat 'em to the gold and leave these mountains rich men without raising their pistols once.

Lil swings a makeshift sack over her shoulder and nudges her pony to action.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Home.”

“And our arrangement? Yer supposed to be my scout!”

“You lied to me. Our arrangement no longer has worth.”

“Lil, you can't leave me here. You can't leave me alone.”

The canyon walls seem to be closing in on me, collapsing and tumbling. I won't last by myself in this place. Plains are one thing, but I ain't prepared for this.

“I have a little farther to go before I leave this canyon,” Lil says. “Will you continue or turn back?”

For one dark moment, I consider giving up, just hiking back to Waltz's and riding Silver home. But then I catch the scent of tobacco smoke on my flannel, feel a shiver of a breeze curl round my neck, and it's like Pa's right here. Like his ghost has followed me all the way to these blasted mountains and is whispering in my ear. I can't go home. There ain't nothing to go home to anyway, and I didn't come all this way to fail him. I didn't come all this way to quit. I know my way to the horse-head marker, and if I find that, maybe I don't need the journal. Maybe I can make do on my own. And if I can't, I'd rather die out here trying to do something honorable than crawl back to Prescott with my tail between my legs.

I check Waltz's burro. The Coltons've taken the bulk of their gear, but I'm glad they left me the creature. Not that I'm daft enough to think it were an act of kindness. Those boot prints beyond camp are theirs. They crept out on foot, didn't want to risk waking me as they passed by.

I load up my gear fast and don't bother with eating. I got two scores to settle now. I'll find Rose with or without the journal, and if I find the Coltons 'long the way, I'll have some choice words for the both of 'em. They'll be lucky bulls if the only thing I throw their way is curses.

With the sun spilling over the ridgeline, we leave camp. I guide Waltz's burro on foot. Lil rides the pony but stays close on my heels.

There ain't much of a breeze today, and by midmorning the heat's getting unbearable. Sun-basking lizards scamper outta our way as we wind through the canyon. I tip my hat lower so my skin don't roast in the sun, and scan for signs of the Coltons, fantasizing 'bout what I might say if'n I catch up with 'em. Should I shoot first and holler second, or the other way round? I reckon cocking my pistol and aiming might be enough of a threat. I don't actually wanna kill 'em, and I'll prolly be shaking with so much rage, my barrel'll be as twitchy as a jackrabbit.

Spineless cowards, sneaking off like that in the middle of the night.
Stealing
from me. By God I could . . . I will . . . I bite down so hard, my teeth grind.

The mountains surrounding us seem endless. At every curve or crest in the trail, I think they might start leveling out, despite what the journal maps have told me. When I start hearing things on the air, I consider the possibility that the canyon leads straight to hell. Some of the noise is natural, like screeching hawks, or weak wind whistling over rocks. But then there's the stuff that makes my skin crawl: men screaming and shouting, bloodcurdling yelps. These cries are so faint, so distant, I worry they might be in my head.

This is cursed land for sure. Haunted. Unnatural. Waltz were right.

I take a long swig of water, concerned the heat's getting to me.

Another scream reaches my ears, no louder than a whisper.

“You hear that, Lil?”

She regards me quiet, then turns her attention back to the path.

“Now you ain't talking to me? Well that just shines. What'd I ever do to you, other than save you from a burning saloon, huh? What'd I do to deserve this?”

Nothing.

“Come on, Lil. I'm going crazy out here—the heat and the Riders and the Coltons running off. Say something. Say anything.”

It's silent awhile. Finally, without bothering to look at me, she says, “I want to tell you a tale.”

“I'm sure that'll fix everything.”

She continues in an even tone, as though she ain't heard my grumbling.

“Long ago, only those called Fireflies possessed fire. One night, Flies held a ceremony and Coyote came there. He danced at the edge of their fire and poked his tail into the flames. ‘Friend, your tail will burn,' the Flies warned. But Coyote laughed. ‘Let it burn!' he said, and put his tail in until it flared up.

“The Flies tried to stop Coyote, but he jumped up and over them and ran far away with the fire. He scattered it among the mountains and gave fire to Eagle to spread. Everywhere, the world burned. The Flies tried to put out the fire, but the wind helped Coyote, blowing it until it became impossible to control. In this way, fire came to exist in the world.”

“Pretty dumb fireflies,” I mutter.

“But as the fire spread,” Lil continues, “the Flies asked the stones and earth and water to all become hot for Coyote. And so they did. Wanting relief from the burning earth, Coyote jumped into a pond and, right there, he was boiled.”

She stops, looks at me stern.

“That's it? What the devil does that got to do with anything?”

Lil frowns. “If you cannot see, nothing I say will help.”

“What's to say? The poor coyote gets us fire—a thing we'd be lost without—and dies for it.”

“Coyote the Trickster stole, and there were consequences,” Liluye says. “He will never make use of fire himself.” Her gaze trails to the back of my trousers, where the journal's usually tucked.

“You saying the boys are the coyote, Lil? That they stole from me and it's my job to make sure they ain't able to reap the benefits of having those maps?”

Her brows raise high. “You said that, not me. I only told a tale.”

A landmass Lil refers to as Black Top Mesa looms into view at midafternoon. It looks done up by a painter—rings of color marking it from base to flat, broad summit. At the top, ashy black to suit its name, then shades of cactus and shrub mixed with layers of sand-tan and rust. I remember it from the journals. We're still cutting south, running almost parallel to the mesa. By the time we manage to pass its southern edge, it'll likely be dusk. I wonder if Lil'll have turned off by then.

I ain't heard no more yelps or screams from the mountains. I ain't heard much wildlife, neither, and the vast stillness of the afternoon's making me anxious. Lil might as well be mute for how much she's said since her tale 'bout fire. I draw my Colt and sight a cactus, practice the act till my arm gets weary.

Lil keeps letting her gaze drift to the east. The journals said the mine's farther south, and in the opposite direction from where she's looking, so she must be thinking on home, searching for familiar paths. It stings in my side again—the realization that she's ditching soon. She might be a pain, but she's the only thing left between me and the dark quiet of my own thoughts.