A pair of men stood at the mouth of the cleft cut between the hills. One, leaning on a flintlock rifle, was a white man with a seamed, scarred face. The other was a very young Amerindian, an arrow already nocked into the string of his bow.
Autry stopped at the pass, and the others entered,
Ryan in the lead. The noonday sun filtered its rays through the clouds, playing with the colors of the gorge walls. Rock streaks of green melted into pale blues, which lightened into sandstone yellows. Ryan was reminded of the light he had seen in his dream.
At the curve in the gorge, Ryan halted and slowly poked his head around. A lone man stood on the sandy ground, holding a rifle. Attached to the barrel was a scrap of dirty white linen. No one else was in sight.
“Stay here,” Ryan whispered, then stepped around the bend in the gorge wall.
Hatchet Jack didn’t move. He watched his enemy’s confident approach with no expression on his face. Ryan’s gaze swept him up and down in a swift appraisal.
He appeared to be about the same age and height as Ryan, but built along heavier, massive lines. Dark blond hair flowed from beneath a feather-decorated slouch hat. A matted beard of the same hue clothed his face. His buckskin tunic and leggings were fringed and beaded with Indian finery. A polished powder horn hung by a strap from his right shoulder, and a long-handled tomahawk had been thrust in at his wide belt, beside a fourteen-inch bowie knife. A metal ring was attached to the belt, and from it dangled what looked, at first glance, to be a thatch of coarse black threads. Then Ryan saw the faint pink of a human scalp shining through the hairs.
Ryan strode to within six feet of the man and halted.
Impaling him with frosty gray eyes, the man demanded, “You who I think you are, beauty?”
“Depends,” Ryan said.
“On what?”
“On who you are.”
“Name’s Hatcher, John Jacob Hatcher. Though them that speaks of me at all calls me Hatchet Jack.”
“I’m Ryan Cawdor.”
Hatcher nodded brusquely. “Seems like I’ve heard that name before.”
“Mebbe. I get around. Speak your piece, Hatcher.”
“You have my property in your paws. I want it back.”
Ryan hadn’t expected that, and it took a great deal of effort to keep the surprise from showing on his face. “Property? You mean your wind wag?”
“No, you one-eyed piece of shit,” Hatcher barked. “I mean the map you stole off one of my men.”
Ryan realized the twine-and-oilcloth-bound packet was still resting in his shirt pocket. “Assuming I have it, why is it so important to you?”
“My business,” Hatcher rumbled.
“Not the way I see it,” Ryan replied with a mocking smile. “If I do have it, it’s spoils of war. Law of Deathlands.”
“I say it’s mine, Cawdor.” Hatcher hooked his thumbs into his belt and rocked lightly on his moccasined feet. He smiled. “This don’t have to be a medley, you know.”
Instantly Ryan’s instincts flashed a triple red. “If it’s so important to you, why did one of your piss-breathed underlings have it?”
“He weren’t an underling. He was my cousin. Did you chill him?”
“Is it important?”
Hatcher snorted a laugh. “Not particularly. He never were worth much more than a catfish choked to death on a sandbar.” He grinned broadly. “A man like you is different. I could let you in on the deal. Might be you’d be real helpful in this here undertaking I got in mind.”
“What undertaking is that?”
“Hand over the map,” Hatcher said reasonably, “and we’ll talk about it.”
“We’ll talk about it now,” Ryan said stolidly, “or not at all. Mebbe we can arrange a trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“The body of the man your men murdered yesterday. Turn it over to me, and I might just consider giving you the map.”
Hatcher stared at him incredulously. “We dragged that maggot bait away. Fucking coyotes have probably already got it.”
“Then,” Ryan said coldly, “I guess we don’t have anything more to discuss.”
Hatcher bared his teeth, then took a careful step backward. “I tried, by God,” he snarled. “You can’t say I didn’t.”