The Lonely Hunt, page 8
part #1 of Breed Series
Luis was slower, following the others across the yard with one pistol pointed back at the house, the other towards the mesquite.
Azul grinned, like a wolf grins, and sighted carefully: he would play with these men before he killed them, make them suffer as his people had suffered. He fired, laughing as Luis pitched backwards, clutching at a shattered wrist.
Kneeling behind cover it was a good shot, the target moving, the shifting hand a small enough marker, yet he hit the bone square on, silver gun dropping from limp hand as the Mexican sprawled on the sand. He wriggled away from his position as bullets tore through the bushes, levering a fresh shell into the carbine.
Sighting through the roots, he clipped the heel from Christie’s boot, pitching the man over in a welter of curses.
Nolan shouted as Azul bellied through the scrub, ushering his men back towards the ranch house, half carrying Christie in a limping run that was flanked by Manolo and Luis. Azul let them go, blasting two shots past their heads to hurry their passage: now that he knew their strength he was happy to bottle them in the ranch house. Especially with one wounded.
They hit the doorway like a stampede, and Azul laughed at their fear, moving through the mesquite scrub to angle around the house back to the window he had used for his escape.
A rifle prodded through the wooden frame, shifting nervously from side to side, tempting a shot that he couldn’t resist. It was rewarded with a cry of pain, though Azul couldn’t tell who was hit, or where. No matter: to contain them and make them suffer was enough for now.
He shifted through the covering bushes, shoving fresh loads into the carbine as he moved.
Round and round, the circle of death. Fire from shifting positions, never let your enemy know exactly where you are, and never stay in one place too long, just long enough to trigger a shot, then move on. Guessing, guessing, always keep them wondering. It was the Apache way, the way of the raiders in the night, the death-hungry way of the dead men whose corpses called out to him to avenge them.
And he would.
He circled the ranch house four times, pumping bullets through the dark mouths of the windows as he went. Then he put the carbine down and drew the Bowie knife, slashing at the mesquite thicket around him. He hacked a bundle of branches into small sections and bound them together with his leather war band, then began to wriggle towards the house.
He stopped at the fence and fired three shots through the nearest window, scrambling under the wooden rail before the echoes died.
He reached the wall before the answering shots sounded, tossing the brushwood up on to the roof and swinging lithely after the bundle. His soft-soled moccasins made no sound on the tar-paper roof, and he listened to the crashing of random fire as he padded to the chimney.
The branches were old and dry, and burst into ready flame as they landed in the stove, spilling pungent smoke around the body of Ginny Levy, filling the room with lung-choking fumes. Azul shoved them all down the narrow stack, using the last few to block it, ensuring that the smoke stayed down below, choking the defenders.
Noting the streamers of grey spilling from the shutters, he dropped to the ground, waiting for Nolan and his men to come out He paced around the building, not sure which exit they would use, but anxious to be ready wherever they came out.
It was a waiting game with death as the ending.
The house began to burn, flickering runnels of flame licking over the tar-paper of the roof, crackling across the dry timber. Bleached by the hot Mexican sun, scoured by the wind, the ranch was ready to go up in a conflagration that would drive the defenders straight on to his rifle.
Azul smiled and continued his circling. It would not be long now.
The streamers of smoke turned to heavy billows, black and choking. Inside the building Luis began to shout, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs. Nolan grabbed him as he moved towards the doorway, slapping sense into his fear-stricken mind with heavy blows. Outside, the afternoon sun shone bright, filtering dimly through the fog that filled the cabin. Nolan could see his horse, standing beside Christie’s on the far side of the yard, and he wondered if he could reach it alive.
A flaming chunk of wood fell suddenly from the roof, sparks scorching his face, and he made a fast decision.
Azul was at the rear of the building when they came out He saw Nolan and Christie hurtle through the door, firing as they ran. The two Mexicans followed, Manolo triggering a Colt as Luis clutched his shattered wrist. He let them get within a few feet of the horses, then dropped the animals where they stood.
Nolan cursed and spun around, shooting at Azul’s position. The half-breed was moving through the scrub before the bullets hit, seeking a fresh vantage point as he prepared to end the deadly game.
He was lifting the Winchester when he became conscious of a new sound, faint over the crackling of the burning ranch house and the harsh thunder of the guns. He dropped to the ground, pressing his head against the sand. And heard the pounding of hooves. It was a large party, riding fast and coming closer, heading straight for the smoke rising high into the clear sky.
Nolan and his men were forted up behind the dead horses, waiting for Azul to show himself.
He crawled swiftly through the mesquite, moving to put the house between himself and the scalp hunters. Protected, he stood up, blue eyes scanning the surrounding terrain. A quarter mile off in the direction of the Galenas trail, he saw horsemen, recognizing the faded grey uniforms of the Federales.
The troop was riding hard for what was left of the Levy spread, carbines drawn and ready to use.
Azul cursed in three languages and raced around the building. Nolan saw him coming and rose on one knee, sighting down the barrel of his Colt. Azul fired on the move and saw the lobe of Nolan’s left ear tom away by the shot. The American dropped back behind cover, clutching at his bleeding head, and Azul emptied the carbine at his position.
The Federales were close, now, spreading a random hail of bullets in the direction of the ranch. Azul ignored them, running for his horse, damning the unjust fate that had snatched the killers from his trap.
He reached the pony and swung into the saddle, racing away through the scrubland, his escape hidden by the sheltering pinon trees.
Nolan had escaped him for now, but he had, at least, taken the man’s woman from him. And that tom ear would remind him of Azul’s intentions.
‘Yes, Nolan,’ he muttered through clenched lips, ‘your ear today, gone tomorrow.’
Chapter Ten
THE FEDERALE PATROL headed back towards Galenas, the survivors of the shoot-out riding double with four troopers. Nolan talked volubly as they went, explaining to the capitan that his spread had been suddenly attacked by some crazy half-breed, backed up by Zach Levy.
The young officer knew nothing of Levy’s relationship with Nolan’s woman and was content to accept the American’s version of the affair. After all, Senor Nolan was a well-known man, a friend of Ramon Padillo, a figure of some note in a place like Galenas. Yes, he nodded agreement as Nolan spoke, he would put out patrols to seek this wild indio, who was clearly a great danger to the community. He would have riders circulate the man’s description, maybe even get old Joaquin to draw a picture of the man, though he doubted the alcalde would finance the printing of posters. Odd, though, that only one man – he didn’t count that booze-sodden borrachin Levy as a man – should wreak such havoc. An Apache raid usually meant a minimum of four braves, so maybe this one was a lone renegade. He shrugged, dismissing the problem for the time being, tomorrow was soon enough to worry about the indio.
A mile away Azul watched the column straggle down the road. He had escaped them easily, outrunning the seven who chased him and then losing them in the badlands. A wide circle brought him back to a point halfway between the burned-out ranch and the town, to a low ridge that afforded both cover and a good view.
His eyes were cold, hard as the smooth, blue pebbles of the Sierra streams, as he watched. It was not difficult to guess the story the scalp hunters would spin, or the result of their complaints.
He would be wanted now, a target for any Federale patrol.
That fact, in itself, did not concern him much: his people had been laughing at the clumsy blunderings of the Mexican Army for years. An Apache could go where the Federales would never dare to ride, move like shadows in the night past watching eyes; he could evade them easily. What did make him think, was the problem of getting to Padillo. In the badlands he was free, in Galenas he would be spotted. And shot, most likely. And Padillo wasn’t about to risk his sweaty neck outside the town.
Azul turned the pony’s head and kicked it up to a canter, heading straight for Galenas.
It was dark by the time he arrived and he passed easily through the unlit streets, his hat concealing his long hair and his face kept down. He went first to the livery stable, pleased to find it deserted, and saddled the dead Mexican’s horse. He hung a blanket over the Sonora saddle and walked the animal around to Padillo’s store.
The woman answered his knock, leading him through to the kitchen with a sly, seductive smile on her face.
‘Ramon is not in,’ she murmured, pouring two measures of tequila. ‘Why not wait for him?’
The way she said it made Azul think the wait might be a long one, and not spent in the kitchen.
Her next words confirmed the thought.
‘There are rooms above where we should be more comfortable.’
‘How long will he be?’ Azul studied the rise and fall of her ample breasts, noting the quickening of her breathing as she followed his gaze.
‘He’ll not be back for hours.’ She was panting now, fidgeting with the buttons on the front of her dress. ‘He’s off drinking somewhere. Come.’
She grabbed the bottle and turned towards the door, reaching out one hand to draw Azul after her. He let her pull him up the stairs, content to let events take their natural course. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and Maria Padillo was undeniably attractive, a firm-bodied woman still a long way from middle-age and the spreading, the softening that would come with the years.
And she was Padillo’s wife. That added extra sweetness to the betrayal.
She opened a door and they stepped into a big, white-painted room dominated by the gigantic bed standing in the center of the floor. The woman turned, pushing the door closed as she pressed against him. He responded instinctively, conscious of the lascivious grinding of her hips, the warm softness of her full lips. Her arms encircled his neck and a darting tongue probed into his mouth.
The tequila fell unnoticed to the floor as he picked her up and stepped over to the bed.
She fell back against the sheets, busy fingers tugging at her clothing, careless of tearing the flimsy materials in her urgency. Her lust communicated itself to Azul, increasing his own desire, so that he hurried to shed his shirt and trousers, pulling the moccasins from his feet with a growing haste.
Naked, the woman looked up from the bed, stroking her breasts. Azul saw the nipples swell and harden, felt the stiffness in his own loins, and threw himself across her welcoming body.
Inborn caution prompted him to hook his gunbelt over the brass rail of the bedhead, the butt of the pistol hanging close, where he could reach it easily.
Then he settled down to enjoy Maria Padillo.
As his wife set the cuckold’s horns on his head, Ramon Padillo was sweating profusely and drinking too much tequila as he spoke with Nolan.
The American was angry, coldly furious with the kind of rage that made Padillo’s skin prickle with fear. He knew that Nolan was a killer, but this starkly murderous mood was something new, something he had not seen before. He hoped desperately that nothing would happen to ignite the smoldering powder keg of the man’s temper. Even the loquacious Manolo was silent, and Jude Christie sat staring moodily at his whisky. Only Luis remained talkative, bemoaning his broken wrist as he fingered the bandage wrapped around two splints, and he fell silent when Nolan looked at him.
Padillo talked on, urgently, in a low voice.
‘But who could it be?’ He hoped Nolan had not heard of his dealings with the man called Gunn. ‘Who would attack you like that?’
‘Shut up.’ Nolan’s voice was flat and deadly, silencing Padillo’s babble like a slap in the face. ‘I know who done it an’ I know why. Thing is to find the bastard.’ He swallowed his whisky. ‘An’ kill him.’
He poured a fresh slug into his glass, staring at the amber fluid as though he thought to divine the future in the alcohol.
‘Figger he’ll be long gone by now,’ Christie muttered, ‘though I’d shore as hell like to find him.’
‘He ain’t gone.’ Nolan made it a statement. ‘He wants us too bad to quit now. He’ll wait up somewhere.’
He swirled the whisky around the glass, taking a long, slow swallow as he stared bleakly across the saloon.
‘He ain’t gonna be hidin’ in town, not with the Federales lookin’ for him. No, more likely he’ll be holed up out of Galenas, watchin’ for us.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Christie.
‘Give him somethin’ to watch,’ snapped the dark man. ‘We’ll pull out come mornin’, head north to the Injun country. He’ll spot us an’ come after us. Only this time we’ll be waitin’ fer him.’
Azul stretched lazily on the big bed, aware of the woman’s head resting on his stomach. He was satisfied now, the tension inside him released, the savoring of his revenge sweet in his thoughts. He would enjoy Padillo’s wife a little longer and then, when fat Ramon came back, he would make her a widow.
He smiled as her tongue began to excite him again.
The evening grew old as he satiated his desire, meeting Maria’s demands with an animal lust that left her exhausted and smiling like a contented cat. She yawned, stroking his hip as she glanced at the window.
‘Ramon will be back soon,’ she murmured, a note of regret in her voice.
Azul nodded without speaking and began to dress.
‘Will you come back?’ Maria’s eyes flickered over his body. ‘I should like to wait with you again.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Azul, not meaning it.
He dressed quickly, checking the load in the Colt before buckling on the holster, ignoring the woman’s curious stare.
‘You are a careful man, Matthew Gunn,’ she said softly. ‘Why do you need a pistol to greet my husband?’
Azul grinned. ‘A weapon for the wife, a weapon for the husband.’
Then he hit her, hard, on the point of her jaw. Her head snapped back, eyes glazing over and she slumped on the crumpled sheets. Azul drew the Bowie knife and slashed a sheet into strips of cloth, lashing her wrists and ankles to the bed posts so that she was pinioned in an obscenely inviting spreadeagle. He gagged her and went down to the kitchen, sitting facing the door, waiting for Padillo to come home to die.
The Mexican arrived well past midnight and far gone into drunken oblivion, fumbling the door open with shaky hands and nearly falling into the room. He started when he caught sight of Azul, sudden fear showing in his eyes.
‘What happened with Nolan?’ He slurred, his tongue thickened by the tequila. ‘He knows you went after him, now he’s waiting for you.’
‘Good,’ said Azul simply, ‘it’s better that he knows. That way he can wonder when I shall find him. IPs better for a man to know when he’s going to die.’ His eyes fixed coldly on Padillo’s face. ‘To wonder when, and how. Nolan and his friends will sleep with one eye open, wondering if every little sound just might be thunder … thunder from the barrel of my gun.’
Padillo sensed the barely-contained hatred in the young man’s voice even through the dulling swill of alcohol poisoning his brain. And felt suddenly cold.
‘Who are you, Gunn?’ He moved back towards the door as he spoke, but Azul was there before him, closing it with a cold, dead smile. The soft thud sounded to Padillo like the lid of his coffin shutting. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The man standing before him seemed to grow, to fill the room with his cold presence. The pale blue eyes shone in the dim lamp light, burning with an icy intensity that probed the fetid depths of Padillo’s grubby soul. His face, handsome and usually impassive, wavered as the Mexican’s fear fought the numbing carelessness of the tequila. Padillo forced his eyes to focus, to see the face clearly, and it appeared to shift and change, to become as one of the devil masks the villagers carried in religious ceremonies.
Padillo knew with dreadful clarity that he was looking into the eyes of his own death.
The mask moved, the lips shaping words that cut through the alcohol and the fear, falling like droplets of burning rain on Padillo’s consciousness.
‘My father had me christened Matthew Gunn. My mother’s people called me Azul. They are all dead now, Padillo, their scalps taken by Nolan and Christie and Manolo and Luis.’ He spoke the names in a litany of hate. ‘They brought the hair to you.’
Padillo was abruptly aware of a wetness between his legs: fear robbed him of natural control.
‘You bought my parents hair, Ramon Padillo. You are as guilty as the others.’
A choking sob burst through the Mexican’s fat lips and he tasted the salt of tears on his suddenly dry tongue.
‘¡Madre de Dios! Caro Cristo protect me!’ He fell to his knees, mumbling forgotten prayers to a deity he had ignored for too long.
‘I wonder if my mother prayed,’ said Azul quietly.
Gently, almost lovingly, he lifted Padillo to his feet, placing one arm around the man’s shaking shoulders to guide him across the kitchen towards the stairs. The Mexican walked steadily, sobered, now, by the flood of adrenalin coursing through his veins. He let the mestizo loco push him up the steps, a faint hint of hope beginning to take shape in his mind.
Halfway up he kicked savagely back, landing a heel square against Azul’s chest. The young man tottered for a moment, then regained his balance and ran after Padillo, into the bedroom.
