The Judas Goat, page 6
part #6 of Breed Series
‘Yeah,’ nodded Harvey. ‘We wait. We don’t want to breed trouble.’
Chapter Five
AZUL WATCHED THE sun come up and wash the muddy shallows of the Bavispe with pale gold light.
The land around shimmered as the heat began to evaporate the heavy dew and birds chorused a greeting to the morning. He stood in silence, enjoying the tranquility of the moment, a slight smile taking the hardness from his face.
Then the birds stopped their singing and the smile left his mouth. He looked around, reaching down for the Winchester beside his saddle. He held the carbine loosely, almost casually. But his forefinger was on the trigger and his thumb tensed on the hammer. He waited for the birds to start up again, wondering if a fox or coyote had momentarily scared them.
They stayed silent.
He paced over to Bedoya and nudged the Mexican awake. The old man sat up with an oath; Azul motioned for him to keep quiet and get up. Bedoya obeyed instantly, massaging the small of his back with his left hand.
‘Listen,’ whispered Azul.
‘I hear nothing.’ Bedoya’s reply was quiet, but irritable.
‘Exactly,’ murmured Azul. ‘That’s the trouble.’
‘I’ll wake the woman,’ grunted Bedoya, easing the safety thong clear of the hammer of his Peacemaker. ‘Then get the wagon hitched.’
Azul nodded agreement. ‘Good. Saddle my horse, too. I’ll take a look around.’
He ignored the Mexican’s grumbled protest as he ambled away, his easy movements hiding the tension that was gripping his lean frame. He looked like someone taking a short walk to work off the kinks accrued during the night, maybe heading for the nearby trees in order to relieve himself out of sight of the still-sleeping woman.
He reached the timber and began to move faster. The birds were still quiet as he slipped in amongst the willows. Almost as quiet as his movements. When he was hidden from sight of the camp he cut north, following the river, moving fast. Nothing showed, so he backtracked a little, then crouched, listening. A thrush trilled anger from across the Bavispe and the half-breed got down on his belly, crawling forwards until he was almost into the water.
The trailing branches hid him from view, and he let his gaze wander from side to side: that way he would pick up movement in his peripheral vision better than by hard staring.
The man watching from the far bank of the river was less cautious.
He was a short man, with lank black hair falling to his shoulders, gathered in under a broad, blue headband. He wore a dirty yellow shirt with the tails making a loin-cloth beneath a wide gun belt that carried an old Colt’s Navy model and a long-bladed, much-honed knife. Knee-high moccasins, the match of Azul’s, covered his dark, tanned legs, and his face was flat, the eyes black as his hair.
Azul recognized a Yaqui. And knew that the first obstacle had appeared in his path south.
Knew, too, that he must kill the scout before the Indian could go back to alert his companions.
He pulled back into the cover of the willows and hurried northwards. When he thought he was far enough upstream to cross safely, he slipped out of cover and down into the water. He entered on his belly, trusting to the oil he kept filmed over the Winchester to keep the gun in workable shape. Soon the river was deep enough that he had to crawl on hands and knees, holding his face clear of the flow. Around the middle it got deeper, so that he could almost stand up, then shallow again as he climbed out on the far bank.
Scraggy-looking oaks were fighting for space with the luxuriant willows on the east side, and together with the thick grass, they provided enough cover to get him close to the Yaqui scout. He moved up near enough to sight the man, then waited a bit; listening.
A horse tried to nicker, the sound abruptly shut off. Azul grinned and drifted through the trees. The river afforded only enough moisture to carry the timber a couple of hundred yards back from the banks, and where the trees gave up the struggle for life a second Yaqui squatted, holding the single reins of two knotty-looking ponies. Azul moved to the edge of the thicket and set his Winchester carefully down on the grass.
He slipped the throwing knife clear of, his moccasin and cradled the slender blade in the cup of his right hand.
The Yaqui was staring off towards where his companion watched, turned slightly away from Azul’s position. He was dressed in much the same fashion, a Remington .36 Revolving Rifle held across his knees. His shirt was devoid of collar and his hair was pushed back over his shoulders, exposing a five inch length of brown neck between shoulder and ear.
Azul came to his feet, right hand flicking out as he rose.
Like a dragonfly, the knife shimmered in the early morning air, sparks of light flickering from the polished blade as it hurtled towards its target.
Before it struck, Azul was up and running, pulling the heavier-bladed Bowie clear of its belt sheath.
The throwing knife took the Yaqui just under the right ear. It went through his neck and stuck out from behind his jaw on the left side. He jerked his head back as it hit, lifting a hand to slap at the sudden irritation. Then the pain hit him and he opened his mouth to yell, but by then Azul was on him. The half-breed grabbed a fistful of hair, tugging back the Yaqui’s head as he reached over to drive the Bowie into the neck below the first knife. The Indian was already choking on his own blood, the initial wound enlarged by Azul’s vicious tug. The point of the Bowie drove in through his throat, opening the air tubes and the big arteries there so that a great pulse of crimson gouted out in an arc over the grass. Azul twisted the blade, cutting through flesh and cartilage to open a gaping wound that was wide enough to flop the Indian’s head back, almost cut from his shoulders.
The throwing knife fell loose, cut clear of its position by the Bowie. The Yaqui looked up, his eyes rolling into the upper rims of the sockets so that only the whites showed. His legs kicked out, stiffening, and his arms fell limp by his sides.
Azul held the head back until the flow of blood eased and he was certain that the scout was dead, then he lowered the corpse to the grass and wiped both knives quickly on the grubby shirt. The ponies were stamping around, trying to pull clear of the reins. Azul grinned tightly, thankful of the Indian caution that had prompted the Yaqui to bind their nostrils and mouths with cloth, to loop the reins tight about his wrist. He gentled them down and left them tethered to the body.
Back amongst the trees he picked up his Winchester and moved towards the first man.
The Yaqui was still crouched in amongst the shadows, watching Ramon Bedoya saddle Azul’s pony. Carmen Grieve was up and dressed, doing her best to act casual as she went through the motions of preparing breakfast. Again Azul grinned: the Yaqui was either naturally careless or it was a long time since he’d had a woman.
Either way, the half-breed had time to get close before the Indian knew he was coming and turned his head.
The long fronds of the willow were too close about the man to allow for a decent throw, and Azul didn’t want to use a bullet that might alert the raiding party the scout was surely spotting for. That left only the chance of a swift rush and a fast kill. Fast enough to stop the Yaqui from using the old Henry carbine he was holding.
Azul came through the down-hanging branches of the willow like a bull out of the gates. He held the Winchester out in front, gripping the carbine by trigger and forepiece. And as he reached the surprised Indian he swung the stock round in a savage curve.
The point of the stock hit the Yaqui in the mouth. Teeth crunched under the impact, shattering in a bloody froth as the man’s head was knocked back. Azul’s impetus was sufficient to carry him past the scout and he pivoted round, left hand swinging loose of the fore-grip so that his right brought the carbine back in a wide, flat arc.
It slammed the metal barrel into the top of the Yaqui’s back-flung head. There was a soggy-sounding crunch. The barrel came away matted with bloody hair. Azul continued to pivot, shifting his weight over to his left foot, lifting his right clear of the abruptly-stained grass.
The Yaqui was on his back with blood all over his face and a glazed look in his dark eyes, but his hands were still on the Henry. Azul swung the Winchester upright, clapping his left hand just above the right. He let his knees bend to add the weight of his whole body to the downwards drive of his arms, putting all his strength into the blow.
The metal-plated shoulder piece of the stock rammed down on to the Yaqui’s face. The nose broke, shards of fragmented bone driving up in the eyes and brain, cheekbones shattering under the impact. Warm redness gouted from the wound, splashing over Azul’s pants, filling the empty sockets of the Yaqui’s eyes. The half-breed lifted the carbine clear of the ruined face, using the smeared stock to smash the Henry out of the dead fingers.
He stood up, looking across the river.
Carmen Grieve was on the wagon, her brown eyes staring wide towards him. Bedoya was hitching Azul’s pony to the tailgate, ignoring the sounds of the fight. Azul broke from cover, shouting.
‘Bring them over! Fast!’
Bedoya went on to the wagon like a young man, lifting a long-barreled Winchester from under the seat. Carmen yelled at the horses, lashing the reins to drive them forwards into the water. They came over in a great spray of muddy foam.
Azul halted them on the east bank, snatching his pony from behind the flatbed and swinging into the saddle in the same easy movement.
‘Yaqui,’ he snapped, ‘watching us. I killed the scouts, so the best way forwards is fast. Stay close.’
Carmen whipped the horses up again. Bedoya levered the action of his rifle. Azul stretched the black horse to a gallop, leading the way.
They came out of the trees with Carmen Grieve living up to her boast about handling a team. The flatbed bucketed along with the wheels leaving the ground every time it hit a bump. Bedoya was forced to take one hand off the rifle in order to stay with the wagon, and Azul left them to make their own pace, scanning the road ahead for sign of the Yaquis’ main party.
The Indians showed soon enough. There were five of them and they came out from behind a bluff at full run, their screaming drowning out the rattle of their gunfire.
Azul took the scene in at a glance. The Indians had positioned themselves either side of the trail and were now fanning across the wagon’s path to mount a full-frontal attack. Two were firing new model Winchesters; one was using a lever-action Spencer. The remaining two carried horn bows. He snorted, draping his reins around the saddlehorn to leave both hands free to fire his own gun: Indians never learned. It was the white part of him speaking, but to a large extent it was true. It was difficult for an Indian to get hold of a gun—most got bought off of lowlife white traders or Comancheros and were shot-out, near-useless antiques. It was harder still to find ammunition, which meant that the Indians couldn’t practice like a whiteman, so they were mainly poor shots. But the possession of a gun—especially a fast-action lever gun like a Winchester—did something for an Indian’s pride; he got too exuberant about it. And that wasted bullets. In addition, firing accurately from the back of a running horse was near-on impossible for anyone.
Unlike shooting off a bow.
He swung low in the saddle and concentrated on the archers.
There were bullets blowing wild all around him, and the two groups were closing fast. He concentrated on picking off the two men swinging in to put arrows into the wagon horses.
His first four shots went wild as the Yaquis’; the fifth hit a bowman square in the chest. It went in through the man’s old, blue shirt. It came out dyeing the shirt dark red. The Yaqui lifted out of his pad saddle in a somersault, bow flying high into the warming air. The other Yaqui veered off as the racing team threatened to run him down and Azul put two bullets through his side and back as they went past one another.
The Yaqui went over the neck of his pony, dragging the animal down with him in a great rofl of dust.
Then the attackers were gone by and turning to come in from the rear.
Ramon Bedoya turned in the bucking seat, bracing his legs against the front-board with his left arm hooked under the rear slat to hold him down. Whatever hate he held for Azul was subordinated now in the need to live. And Bedoya could shoot.
He took one Indian as they passed, his shot ploughing through the man’s ribs to emerge on the far side and spook a pony with its sting. The animal began to buck, its flesh broken by the slowed passage of the bullet.
Bedoya levered the Winchester and fired again, trailing his sights to swing round and m on the warrior.
The bullet hit low on the Yaqui’s back. It broke his pelvis and lodged against his ribs. Bedoya levered and fired again. The next shot clipped through the left shoulder and the Indian’s pony stopped bucking as the weight fell from its back.
Azul dragged his horse to a slewing, swerving stop and spun it round the face back down the trail.
There was only one Yaqui still mounted, but he was carrying one of the Winchesters and he was firing as he thundered back after the wagon.
Azul sighted down the barrel of the carbine, taking his time. The Yaqui was moving too fast to shoot accurately. The half-breed let his breath out slowly, squeezing the trigger as gently as if he were touching a woman. The Winchester kicked against his shoulder, muzzle lifting as the slug blew clear. The charging warrior threw both arms high above his head. The gun flew loose from his spread fingers, landing in the dust yards behind him. He leaned back over the withers of his pony and then his legs lifted up in a wide vee and he tumbled, heels overhead, clear of the horse.
A great splash of blood covered his chest and almost before he landed there were flies buzzing in towards the wound. Azul stood his mount for a moment, watching the five bodies. None of them moved so he turned the pony and rode hard after the wagon.
When he reached it he saw that Ramon Bedoya was leaning over to grab the traces. He heeled the black horse up alongside the team and reached across to grasp the nearside bridle, hauling the big animals to a panting halt.
Carmen Grieve was slumped back halfway over the seat, still doing her best to control the runaways, but finding it difficult. Mostly because there was a hole in her left shoulder that was staining her white blouse with bright red.
Azul swung down from his pony and held the team.
Bedoya sprang clear of the wagon and reached up to help the woman climb free of the seat. He held her as gently as a child and when Azul got the team quieted and walked back to where the woman was resting on the ground, the old Mexican was murmuring softly in Spanish.
He stopped as the half-breed came close, looking up with eyes that were both tired and angry.
‘I don’t think it’s too bad,’ he said quietly, ‘but it hurts a lot.’
‘Show me.’ Azul knelt beside the woman. ‘If there’s a bullet in there we’ll have to cut it out.’
Carmen opened her eyes just then and looked up into his face.
‘What happened to the Indians?’ she asked. ‘Did we beat them?’
‘Sure,’ grunted Azul, tearing her blouse clear of her shoulder. ‘We cut them up.’
Chapter Six
CARMEN GRIEVE MADE no sound as he took the bullet out of her shoulder.
It wasn’t a bad wound by his standards, but it was painful enough to make most females cry out. The lead slug from the .44-40 Winchester carbine had gone through the soft flesh of her upper back to lodge against the shoulder blade. It must have been almost spent when it hit her, because it had failed to break the bone, leaving little more than a hole and a painful bruise.
Azul took it out with the tip of his throwing knife, sterilizing the blade in the fire Bedoya made and cleansing the hole with the tequila the Mexican produced from the back of the wagon. Carmen bit on a strip of leather while he did it and only fainted after the lead was removed, while he was bandaging her back and shoulder. They got a fresh blouse around her and then fixed up a rough bed in the back of the wagon. Bedoya handled the team while Azul rode point again, leading them south and east while the sun passed overhead and they went on their way without further interruption.
That night they camped early, alongside a tall, sandstone ridge that jutted up out of the empty landscape like a tombstone marking an unknown grave.
Carmen woke up as the moon rose, lifting over the flatlands like a pale and lonely mother waiting anxiously for her children to come on home. It shed almost as much light, it seemed, as the sun, the kind of moon a Texan would call ‘The Comanche Moon’. Azul didn’t like its brilliance: it lit them up too well.
He helped Bedoya lift her down from the flatbed, though as she touched ground she began to tell them she could stand on her own.
The Mexican argued with her like a broody hen fussing over a chick, and Azul chose to walk away to check the horses. They were well blown by the day’s hard-running—for fear of a second Yaqui attack, they had held to a fast pace—and needed a good rub down and a long night’s rest.
He didn’t mean, or want, to listen to their conversation, but he couldn’t help hearing snatches in the stillness of the lonely night ‘He should never have sent you … ‘
That was Bedoya’s rasping voice, sounding angry as usual.
‘Who else could bring it? The others are dead. He couldn’t … ‘
‘I know. I don’t have to like it. It’s too much … ‘
‘Enough for all of us. Remember … ‘
‘But what about him? When we arrive …’
‘Don’t worry. He took care of it. He hired … ‘
Azul took longer than he was used to rubbing down the horses, then took his time adjusting blankets over their still-damp backs. One of them—Bedoya, he thought—realized how much time had passed. At any rate, it was the old Mexican who turned first, calling for him to come give his opinion of Carmen’s wound.
‘I am sorry to be so much trouble.’ The woman favored him with a smile that was fractionally more than friendly. ‘It was a lucky shot. Or unlucky. For me, at least.’
