Ryan put two spaced bullets into the young man, one into the stomach, just above the belt, the second a hand-span higher.
The first shot would have killed Jerry Park. Slowly.
The second one did the job a whole lot faster.
His handblaster went flying into the night sky, landing thirty yards behind him. It seemed like Jerry’s feet had broken away from him, moving under their own control, sending him staggering to his left, arms flailing, mouth open. A scream rose from his chest into his throat, never quite making it as far as his mouth. The blood that flowed from the two mortal wounds was as black as jet in the threads of moonlight.
“Done for,” Jak said, stepping out into the open at the far angle of the church’s walls.
“Why?” Mildred asked, emerging with the others from the doorway.
“Guns. Horses,” Ryan replied.
“You had no choice? You had to kill both those distressed and hungry young people?”
Ryan holstered the SIG-Sauer. “No, Mildred, I didn’t have to chill them both. I could easy have let them chill us.”
He turned away from her and walked back into the adobe building.
Chapter Nineteen
Dean Cawdor was the first of them to go out, with the earliest light of morning still an hour away. The air was fresh and cool, and the land lay under a pale pinkish glow.
Inside the Opium Wells church, the rest of the party was readying itself and all the animals for another hard day’s riding.
The boy picked his way outside, pausing to listen. His father had warned everyone that the carrion lying by the church wall could attract the desert scavengers. But there was no hint of the presence of coyotes.
Dean unzipped his dark blue pants and readied himself to urinate. He’d just started, hearing the powerful stream as it hissed into the sand, when a hard hand clamped itself over his nose and mouth and he felt the hot pain of a knife point, pressing in beneath his right ear. A ruby of warm blood inched down his neck, vanishing into the collar of his shirt.
“Still, little one,” a voice breathed. “Very, very still and those dark ones, the night winds, might not visit you for many years.”
Dean considered trying to get at his own turquoise-hilted knife, but he had enough sense to realize the utter futility of the idea.
The hand smelted of horses and was extremely strong, and there was the odor of male sweat and bear grease.
“We might not wish you harm, child. But we must know who is inside and where they go. I will slowly take away my hand, and you will answer my questions. Or you will sleep forever in the long blackness. Do you understand me?”
Dean nodded, ready to try to bite the hand, kick backward, scream like a banshee and run like hell.
The voice was calm, not unfriendly. Dean’s guess was that one of the band of Navaho had been backtracking, maybe heard the sound of the two shots from the SIG-Sauer and returned to scout out what was happening.
“My knife will drink deep if you even begin to think of a stupe plan. Now my hand is moving.”
Dean took a deep breath, filling his lungs for a warning cry to his father and the others. Then he hesitated. If the man was a Navaho, then they might even have a commonality of interest against the General.
“Won’t shout,” he whispered, pulling an embarrassed face as his voice went all high and squeaky on him.
“It is good. How many of you?”
“Plenty.”
“Blasters?”
“Plenty.”
Dean heard something that might have been a stifled laugh. “This is good to hear.”
At the side, Dean was aware suddenly of movement and a second, whispering voice, meaning that it could be the whole hunting party around him.
The man holding the knife to his throat spoke again. “There was shooting, boy. We would know what happened. And we would know what you do out here in our lands above the Grandee.”
Dean took a calculated risk, drawing in another breath. But, before he could speak, the hand was back over his mouth.
“Death is long, boy.”
The hand moved away once more. Dean licked his lips. “My Dad didn’t raise me to be a triple stupe, mister.”
“So, what do you do here?”
“We aim to chill the General and every one of his cocksucking gang of bloody murderers.”
Dean heard the gasps of surprise from all about him.
“You chase the General?”
“Yeah. And you’re the band of Navaho that we know’s been chasing the fuckers as well.”
“This is true.”
“Woman we know and her little baby” he hesitated for a moment, “and another real good friend all got chilled by the General.”
Someone else spoke at Dean’s back, in the guttural tongue of the Native Americans. Others in the band were talking excitedly. Finally the man holding him leaned closer and whispered into his ear.
“The small ranch beneath the hills?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah. We passed by it but we did not stop. We were also hurt much by this General and his murderers. If we had known there were those hurt, then we”
“Wouldn’t have done nothing,” Dean said. “Already way too late for them.”
Unconsciously he had been speaking just a little louder than before.
The point of the knife had moved away from his neck and the tension had eased.
“We had best speak with”
Out of the cool blackness, Ryan’s voice interrupted him.
“Got six blasters on you, mister.”
The hand was jammed across Dean’s mouth again, the edge of the blade laid across the front of his throat. The man holding him was so powerful that he effortlessly held the lad off the ground, his feet flailing helplessly.
“Boy dies,” the Navaho growled.
“We all will.”
“You can’t see us.”
Jak’s voice said, “I see all nine of you. Big man holding Dean got check shirt and long hair tied at back with ribbon. Want to know more?”
Something was muttered in Navaho, drawing a swift, angry reply from the man who gripped Dean.
Ryan spoke again. “You think this is a standoff, but it’s not. Worst happens to us is that you slit the throat of my son. That’d be a bad thing, but I guess that one day I’d manage to get over it. Do that and every one of you dies. Make sure the bodies get mutilated and blinded. Give you all a triple-bad time to crawl throughout eternity.”
“Boy says you after General. Tell me.”
Dean kept still, knowing that there was nothing he could do to help his father and the others. The only consolation he was able to find was the fact that not many people actually wanted to get themselves chilled.
Ryan was calm, his voice unhurried. “Friend of oursthe one sees in the nighthad a spread up north. Fine wife and baby there. Another young man was staying with them while the rest of us went hunting.”
“What is the name of the young one who can see so well in the dark?”
“Apaches called me Eyes Of Wolf,” Jak replied. “I nearly married Steps Lightly Moon.” He paused. “Name among Anglos is Jak Lauren.”
The Navaho hesitated a few moments. “You are the one with the hair like snow?”
“Yeah.”
“My people know about you. A friend to us. It is said that your woman and baby and friend were all sent into the beyond by the General.”
Ryan answered him. “That’s right. We figured that you and your people might also have a grudge. Be chasing him. Might even know where the cold-heart son of a bitch has his headquarters. Could be we could ride together on this.”
“Let me speak awhile with my brothers on this. What is your name?”
“Ryan Cawdor. Apaches called me One Eye Chills. Let the boy go before you start talking.”
“He is our only card.”
Dean could almost see his father’s grim, lopsided smile. “Not even the two of clubs, mister. Not when we got a fistful of aces back here.”
The Navaho let go of Dean’s mouth. “How many? The truth? How many of them?”
“Six. Got scatterguns and an Uzi automatic. Steyr rifle with a night scope. True what Dad says. You can chill me and nobody could stop you. But then”
“A threat from a child.” The Navaho laughed and repeated what Dean had said to the others.
“Not a threat. It’s a promise,” Dean insisted. “Best you believe me.”
The knife disappeared, and he was pushed firmly in the direction of his father.
“They let Dean go,” Jak called, the albino’s excellent night vision helping again.
“Here,” Ryan said.
The boy’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the group of six friends, standing or kneeling in a loose semicircle, about thirty paces away from the whispering Indians.