Maybe tomorrow…

  Hawk forced the wagon train to maintain its fast pace down the snow-covered trail. Mothers fed the children on the move, and the adults ate whatever they had thought to bring with them that could be swallowed without cooking. They kept moving until the dull yellow sky began to turn gray, then black.

  Hawk would have liked to keep moving, but he recognized the need to rest the animals and the people, and called the wagons into a circle around a dried-out, snow-filled buffalo wallow.

  Fires were lit from the kindling the villagers had brought with them, melted snow used for water so as to conserve their meagre supplies of the real thing. Hawk told off a series of guards, posting men between each wagon so that the circle was guarded by twenty-five guns at all times. He kept the outriders back as a central reserve that wandered the perimeter ready to lend their firepower to whichever section might need it.

  No attack came that night, though when Hawk rounded the camp at dawn he saw a set of trades leading away to the west.

  The sky remained gray, bled through with yellow streaks that began to bleed snow again once the bone-deep cold of the early hours was warmed away by the invisible sun. Hawk talked Ortiz into hurrying his people through their breakfast and got the column moving again soon after dawn.

  There was no attack before noon.

  Then, as the train pushed on through the mounting snow, a driverless wagon cut clear of the line and began to overtake the column. Hawk moved out to check the vehicle, shouting for the out-riders to maintain position and keep their eyes open.

  The wagon was empty. Bloodstains decorated the seat, and one of the lead horses carried an arrow deep in its shoulder. Hawk ordered the others to go on, turning back to find the occupants of the empty wagon.

  The man was easy to find because the blood that had flowed from his corpse spread a steaming gap in the snow. Five arrows protruded from his chest and belly. His eyes were gouged out and his scalp taken. His hands and feet were severed and stuffed inside his shirt. His wife was naked. Blood decorated her thighs where multiple rape had ravaged her body, and her breasts were cut round with knife strokes. A single arrow showed between her teeth, fired at close range so that it pinned her head to the ground.

  Hawk rose to his feet, suddenly aware that his coat was blue, and thus obvious against the pervading white of the snow. He eased the hammer of the Winchester back and moved towards the pinto pony.

  Abruptly, like a corpse rising from the grave, a body lurched clear of the snow. It was joined instantly by three others.

  Hawk fired the Winchester at the first shape. And saw drifting clouds of white powder transform to red as his bullet took the Apache in the chest. It went in at the apex of the ribcage and ploughed through the left lung to emerge at the back in a thick welter of blood and bone fragments, shot through with pieces of pulpy lung matter. He twisted over and round, levering the Winchester to spray bullets at the charging apparitions that sprang up from the snow.

  One bullet took a Chiricahua in the mouth, shattering teeth before it hurled into the warrior’s neck and imbedded in the base of his brain so that he stopped running and sat down with his eyes wide open on the sight of death.

  He fired again, winging right to hit a Mimbreño with a bow that loosed off an arrow as he fired. His shot caught the Indian in the belly, plunging through the muscle to rupture the sac before erupting out through the kidneys.

  Pain hit. Like fire pressed against his leg. As though hot coals were poured over his flesh. He groaned and fired again at the last Apache.

  The warrior went down with the .44-40 slug blasting his nose backwards through his face. A huge red hole opened between his eyes, swiftly followed by the larger hole that opened at the rear of his skull. He fell down, the discharge melting the snow in a wide circle around his head.

  Hawk levered the Winchester again and listened.

  There was no further sound.

  He waited until he was sure, then lowered the carbine and studied the arrow sticking out from his thigh.

  It had gone in midway between knee and hip, striking against the bone so that shock had run through his nervous system, without the shaft doing too much damage. He clenched his teeth and grabbed the wood in both hands. Without leaving himself time to think about it, he ripped the arrow loose.

  The flint tip tore out through his pants, followed by a spurt of blood. He tossed the shaft aside and thumbed a cartridge from his belt. Bit the slug away from the brass rim, and spilled the black powder over the wound. He reached inside his coat for a match that he struck against his holster and then pressed to the powder. There was a brief flare of light and pain, leaving a scorch mark against his pants.

  He limped over to the pinto mustang and dragged his wounded leg into the stirrup.

  Riding back to the wagon train he saw the bodies of the rearward out-riders spread over the snow. Both men were naked, their olive skins laced with cuts that spread a dark stain over flesh and snow alike.

  The light was fading by the time he got back to the wagon train, and the pain in his leg had lifted up from a raw burning to a dull, mind-numbing throb that pulsed agony through his body with every movement. The wagons were pushing on, making use of the last vestiges of day. He rode alongside Ortiz’s vehicle and signaled for the jefe to make night camp.

  Ortiz turned his wagon, shouting orders back down the train as Hawk indicated that the out-riders should come in.

  They were on a wide, flat plain, banded to the north by a low ridge of hills and to the south by a river not yet frozen over. The snow was still falling but not so strong as during the day. Hawk stayed astride his horse until the last of the flankers rode in then sent one off to fetch Juan.

  Only when the young man was back amongst the wagons and a full detail of guards posted did Hawk dismount.

  As his right foot touched the frosty ground his leg gave way beneath him and he dropped awkwardly on to the snow.

  He groaned, feeling the pain of the arrow wound spark agony upwards into his gut. Juan Ortiz stepped forwards, his mouth curved in a satisfied sneer.

  ‘I could take you now, señor gringo. I could kill you while you twist about like a yanqui slug grubbing the dirt.’

  Anger conquered pain as Hawk heard the insult. A sullen rage filled his mind and while Juan was still sneering, enjoying his triumph, the American’s Colt lifted clear of the holster and jutted up at the Mexican’s face.

  The triple click of the hammer sounded loud in the silence.

  Juan stopped sneering and swallowed hard instead.

  ‘You got a big mouth,’ rasped Hawk. ‘I reckon it big enough for two shots. Or maybe I should put them lower. Like the gut. That way your mouth could get wider still.’

  Juan looked down at the unwavering muzzle and began to sweat.

  Hawk grinned through his pain and held the Colt steady on the Mexican’s bruised face.

  ‘Get down on your knees and tell me how sorry you are. Say it loud enough that everyone hears you.’

  ‘Go to hell, gringo!’

  Hawk lowered the angle of the Colt until the barrel was pointed at Juan’s groin.

  ‘You’ll be there first, boy, but you won’t be good for much hellin’ around.’

  There was a long silence. Juan stared at Hawk, his hand hovering above the butt of his pistol like a predatory bird about to strike. Hawk went on grinning his death’s-head smile with the Colt pointed up at the Mexican’s crotch.

  Manuela Ortiz interrupted the moment.

  ‘Are you both mad?’ she asked. ‘We are surrounded by Apaches, but you two fight together. Aren’t there enough for you to kill? We need you both, so why destroy one another?’

  Juan shrugged and turned away.

  Hawk waited until he was sure the girl had control of the situation, then eased the hammer of his Colt down and dropped the gun back inside the holster.

  ‘Stupid men,’ murmured Manuela. ‘All you ever do is fight.’

  ‘Not always,’ grinned Hawk. ‘Sometimes I use other weapons.’

  Manuela blushed and turned to her father. ‘He needs tending. Will you take him to our wagon?’

  Arturo nodded and helped Hawk to his feet. The American found that he was unable to set any weight on his right leg, and lent against the Mexican, hopping cautiously over the snow-covered ground to the rear gate of the Ortiz wagon. Arturo helped him inside and Manuela climbed in after them.

  Take your pants off.’ Her voice was authoritative. ‘I need to see the wound.’

  Hawk grinned and unbuckled his gunbelt. He spread the leather out on his left side, taking care to angle the butts of Colt and shotgun towards him, close enough that he could draw fast. Then he opened his pants and allowed Manuela to ease them down his legs.

  The sticky drag of cloth parting from bloody wound took away the pleasure of the girl’s touch. Then two older women appeared to detract further from the excitement. They brought a bucket of hot water with them and soon Hawk was wincing as the scalding water splashed around the hole in his thigh.

  Manuela and the other women bathed the wound and applied poultices to the hole, covering it with a wad of lint that they fastened in place with a heavy bandage.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll sew your pants.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Hawk nodded. ‘One good turn deserves another.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Manuela looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You took my pants off,’ said Hawk. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘I had to.’ The girl began to blush. To get at the hole.’

  ‘Yeah,’ was all Hawk said.

  ‘You must not talk like that.’ Manuela frowned. ‘If my father heard you, he would kill you.’

  ‘I thought Juan was the pistoleer in the family.’ Hawk eased back against the cushions, adjusting his gunbelt so that Colt and scattergun were both close to hand. ‘Leastways, he likes shooting off his mouth.’

  Manuela shook her head. ‘He is young and hot-tempered, señor Hawk, that is all.’

  ‘Call me Jared,’ Hawk corrected. ‘After all, you got the drop on me.’

  ‘Perdón?’ She shook her head, tumbling auburn waves about her face. ‘Again, I do not understand.’

  Hawk grinned. ‘You caught me with my pants down.’

  Chapter Seven

  EL CICATRIZ WAITED until all his people were ready before going after the villagers. He already had word of the scouts killed by the wagon train, and wanted to be sure of governing sufficient warriors to make a single, lethal strike. The memory of Aguila Roja and his rancheria burned bright and hot in the Mimbreño’s brain, goading him on to extract bloody vengeance from his brother’s killers.

  Two days after the wagon train had left Santa Maria he had upwards of one hundred and fifty warriors waiting on his call to pursue the runaway Mexicans.

  He decided against a frontal attack, preferring to let the escapees sweat their journey out. Preferring to let them know slowly how they would die.

  He split his warriors into four groups. One cut out from Santa Maria on a hard ride to Mantegara, to block the trail off. Another was sent south, matched by the band riding to the north, to flank the column of wagons. The last group, led by El Cicatriz himself, took up the rear, pressing hard against the tail of the Mexican cavalcade.

  The day was cold and gray, snow falling from an iron sky that hid the sun behind banks of lowering cloud.

  Hawk woke with a numb pain throbbing in his thigh and a fever that beaded sweat over his face. He cursed and dragged himself to a sitting position, fighting against the delirium that threatened to trick his senses. His body was drenched in perspiration, the blankets covering him clammy and uncomfortable. He pushed them away. Then snatched them back into place as the cold air transformed the moisture on his body to an icy sheath and set his teeth to rattling. For a moment he could not recall where he was, then Manuela’s face appeared over the tailboard of the wagon, her dark eyes worried. She lowered the hinged flap and climbed inside, followed closely by Arturo Ortiz.

  The girl was carrying a bowl of hot water and a wad of fresh bandages. Her father held a mug of coffee and a hunk of bread. He looked as concerned as his daughter.

  The arrow was poisoned,’ he said, without preamble. ‘I have ordered the wagons to wait here until you recover.’

  ‘The hell you have,’ grunted Hawk. ‘We wait here, we may as well dig our graves. The Apaches won’t hold off for my sake.’

  ‘You can’t ride,’ Manuela draped a blanket about his shoulders and shifted the other to expose his leg. ‘You must rest until the poison works out.’

  ‘I’ll rest up front,’ Hawk said. ‘We move out now.’

  ‘You’ll die,’ murmured the girl. ‘You can’t risk it.’

  ‘We’ll all die if we stay here,’ grunted the gunfighter. ‘And I’ve got a thousand dollars due me. Two if Morros is still in Mantegara.’

  Manuela began to peel the first bandage clear of his leg. The lint came away with an ugly yellow stain discoloring the material. Hawk looked down and winced as he saw the red lips of the arrow wound. The flesh was torn where he had dragged the shaft clear, and although blood showed around the edges, the skin was puckered and swollen, shading from red into a yellowish-gray color that encircled the central wound.

  Manuela began to bathe the flesh, washing away the blood and the pus. Hawk gritted his teeth as she touched the swollen area.

  ‘You bring any liquor with you?’ He turned to Ortiz. ‘Whiskey’s be best.’

  ‘I have tequila.’ The Mexican set the coffee down. ‘Does it hurt that much?’

  Hawk grinned, unaware that the fever transformed the expression into a leering grimace. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not that much. I just need a bottle of tequila and a sharp knife.’

  Ortiz nodded and reached around to open a small trunk lashed against one wall of the wagon. He produced a bottle of clear liquid that he passed to Hawk, then rummaged through several other packages until he came up with a kitchen knife.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Hawk. ‘It’ll have to.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Manuela demanded. ‘The poultices will draw the poison out.’

  ‘Not fast enough,’ said Hawk. ‘And like I said: anyone slows us down, they get left behind.’

  He dug his teeth into the cork and dragged it clear. Then he splashed the alcohol over his thigh and the knife. Took a long swallow. Then drove the blade into his leg, probing the tip deep above the central hole before slicing down to open the whole swollen area.

  Pain hit his nervous system like a kick to the belly and his teeth clashed together as he fought the urge to scream. His eyes opened wide and his face got pale. A surge of grayish pus burst from the cut. Manuela groaned in sympathy. Hawk upended the bottle, letting the tequila splash over the wound. Then lifted it to his lips and swallowed hard and deep.

  A strange calm hit him, like the sudden stillness that follows a storm. He passed the bottle back to Ortiz and dropped the knife to the floor of the wagon. Very carefully he lifted the coffee cup and drank the bitter brew down in three long gulps.

  Then he said, ‘Get the wagons moving. Keep Juan on point, and send two men to replace the guys at the tail. Move them out fast.’

  Then he passed out.

  He awoke to the steady rocking of the vehicle, hands moving automatically to his guns. He sat up, seeing Ortiz framed against the skyline with the canvas ring of the wagon’s hood forming the border. He looked back, and saw Manuela nestling against the tailboard with a Winchester rifle cradled over her knees. When he shifted the blanket he saw that his leg was wrapped in fresh bandages. His pants were folded neatly beside his pillow, the powder marks scrubbed clean and the tear sewn up.

  His movement caught the girl’s attention and she turned to stare at him. Hawk grinned and shoved the blanket wide of his body.

  ‘I have to get dressed,’ he said. ‘It’s only decent.’

  Manuela began to smile, then replaced the expression with a look of angry disapproval. ‘Decency is not flaunting yourself.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hawk. Standing up to tug his pants over his legs. ‘But there’s times a man has to do things in public. Besides, you know my private parts.’

  Manuela flushed and swung back to study the snow-covered terrain.

  Hawk belted his pants and swung the gunbelt around his waist. The familiar weight of Colt and shotgun imparted a reassurance as effective as his crude surgery. His leg was stiff, and the bandage made an awkward lump under his trouser leg, but he felt good as he moved up to join Ortiz on the seat of the wagon.

  ‘Where’s my pony?’

  Ortiz ducked his head backwards. ‘I put it with the remuda.’

  ‘Guards?’

  ‘Posted like before. I replaced the men who were killed.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Hawk. ‘Is Juan still on point?’

  Ortiz nodded. ‘Sí. But I think he should be replaced. That’s a dangerous position, and I think we should rotate the men.’

  Hawk shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the Mexican. ‘Do you want the Apaches to kill Juan?’

  The American wondered if the youngster had said anything about their date in Mantegara, then decided not. ‘I need someone alert,’ he said. ‘Someone who can handle trouble. Besides, your son is concerned enough about you and his sister that he won’t take crazy chances.’

  He omitted to say that Juan was determined to kill him, thus providing the young Mexican with another reason for staying alive. Ortiz shook his head and sighed, but he appeared to accept the explanation. Hawk cradled the Winchester against his chest and studied the terrain.

  The snow had stopped falling, most of the cloud cover blown away during the night to reveal a sky akin to the frozen crust of a water bucket. The blue had a metallic sheen pitched midway between gray and azure, and a watery sun showed mistily ahead. The ground on this section of the trail was flat, broken about five miles to the front by a low ridge and to the north by a series of mesas. Everything was white, the only discoloration stemming from the marks left by the wagon train. Ruts and hoofprints were driven deep into the frosted snow, steaming patches showing where the animals had voided their bowels. To either side of the column the out-riders were huddled shapes, their horses fighting through the deeper drifts flanking the road to Mantegara. The wagons were slowed to little more than a walking pace, Ortiz using his whip to drive the lead team onwards, breaking trail for the following vehicles.

 

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