The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold Page 12

“Is that all you wanted?”

  “No, Manuelito. I came to tell you that someone is coming.”

  Manuelito turned. His hand shot out and gripped Azza-hij’s arm so tightly that the young warrior made a small sound of pain.

  “How many?”

  “One man on horseback.”

  “A white man?”

  “Or a Mexican.” Even though he lay stretched out on his belly, Azza-hij managed to shrug. “Who can tell?” He was silent for a moment while Manuelito thought about the news. Then Azza-hij asked, “Are we going to kill him?”

  “No,” Manuelito decided. “He might manage to shoot his gun, and that would warn the ones we’re after. We will let him go on his way.”

  “But what if he joins the men with the wagon?”

  It was Manuelito’s turn to shrug. “One more white man makes no difference. When the time comes, we will just kill him, too.”

  Azza-hij smiled and nodded. He was eager to atone for his cowardice, Manuelito knew. Or at least, Azza-hij claimed to be eager. The real test would be when the time for killing came again.

  Manuelito heard the hoofbeats of the horse as it approached slowly. He jerked his hand in a commanding gesture and then faded off into the night with Azza-hij following him.

  The rider stopped, though, instead of moving closer to the wagon. Manuelito watched as the man dismounted and tied his horse to a short, gnarled mesquite tree. Then the man stretched out on the ground, tipped his hat over his eyes, and appeared to go to sleep.

  It would be easy to creep up on him and cut his throat, Manuelito thought. So easy…

  But then the man shifted, and his hand drew a revolver from the holster at his waist. He settled down again with his fingers curled around the butt of the gun and his thumb looped over the hammer. Killing him without allowing him to get a shot off would be difficult, Manuelito told himself as he watched the man. Better not to risk it.

  Again he motioned for Azza-hij to follow him, then crawled off into the shadows.

  The pain made it hard for Lew Jackson to sleep, even though he was sick and exhausted. One of the shots that bastard Morgan had fired into the alley had caught him high on the left shoulder. Jackson was pretty sure the bullet had missed the bone and just torn through the flesh, but his shoulder hurt like hell, and that arm was damn near useless.

  One more mark against the son of a bitch, Jackson thought. One more score to settle.

  After the disastrous shootout in the church, it would have been easier just to ride away, to forget about everything that had happened. Forget about the men who had died. That’s what most fellas would have done if they’d found themselves in his position.

  Most men wouldn’t have even tried to get revenge for Culhane, Jericho, and Mawson in the first place. They would have just told themselves, well, it was too bad Morgan had killed those three hombres, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  The hell there wasn’t. The problem with the world was that nobody had any loyalty anymore. Nobody stuck up for a friend and tried to do what was right. Jackson could see that, even if nobody else could.

  So he and Chuck and McDermott had taken the redheaded girl hostage, along with that fat little Mex priest, and tried to avenge Culhane and the others. Chuck and McDermott weren’t too keen on the idea to start with, but they had gone along with what Jackson wanted, just like they always did.

  Then Morgan had to go and double cross them and sneak into the church through the bell tower. What a damned sorry thing to do.

  Jackson muttered curses under his breath as a throbbing pain went through his shoulder. He had tied up the wound as best he could, but it really needed a sawbones. Maybe when Morgan was dead, he could go back to Las Cruces and have it tended to properly.

  No, that was out, he told himself. They’d be on the lookout for him since he’d killed that damn popinjay of a sheriff and maybe killed the deputy. He’d have to find some other town with a doctor.

  Something in the night made Jackson’s skincrawl as he lay there trying to sleep. He felt almost like he was being watched, but he knew that was impossible. Morgan and the two with the wagon were at least half a mile ahead of him, maybe more. He had been about a mile behind them during the day, far enough back to stay out of sight as he followed the tracks left by the wagon and Morgan’s horse. Once night had fallen he had ridden on for a little while longer, then stopped so that he wouldn’t stumble right into their camp without warning. And there wasn’t anything else out there in the barren wilderness to watch him.

  He tightened his grip on the revolver anyway. It made him feel better.

  There had been so much uproar going on after he escaped from that burning church that he’d been able to duck through some alleys and then hide in the crib of a half-breed whore he knew. She wouldn’t betray him, because she knew he would kill her if she tried to. Come nightfall, he’d snuck out and waited in the alley beside the hotel, figuring that sooner or later he would see Morgan pass by in the street.

  Sure enough, the bastard had walked out there big as life, and Jackson had lined up his shot just perfect…but somehow, the bullet had missed Morgan. Just barely, but that was enough to ruin everything. Jackson’s eyes were still irritated from the smoke that had gotten in them that afternoon, and he figured that’s what caused him to miss.

  Regardless of the reason, he had missed, and then that damned deputy had come along and butted in, and then Morgan had winged him as he waited in the alley to try to get another shot. Jackson had made it out of Las Cruces by the skin of his teeth, as the old-timers said.

  Again, the smart thing to do would be to ride away and forget about Kid Morgan.

  Jackson knew he couldn’t do it. He’d hidden out at the crumbling ruins of the old fort north of town, tended to his wounded shoulder as best he could, and then waited. He knew from what he’d overheard in town that Morgan and his two companions were heading north, through the Jornada del Muerto. That would be a perfect place to ambush them, Jackson told himself.

  That morning, he’d still been hiding in the abandoned fort when they paused there. He had thought about throwing down on them then and there, but decided it was too close to town. People would hear the shots and come to investigate. Better to wait until they were miles from anywhere.

  Tomorrow, he told himself as the chill of the desert night stole over him. Tomorrow, Kid Morgan and the old priest would die, and then he could take his own sweet time dealing with the woman.

  It was such a pleasant thought that his lips curved in a faint smile as he finally drifted off to sleep.

  “Over there, Arturo,” Count Eduardo Fortunato snapped as he pointed to the hotel, which was built of adobe and had two stories with a balcony over the front porch. “That appears to be the only remotely suitable establishment in this godforsaken hellhole.”

  Arturo sent the wagon toward the hotel and brought it to a stop in front. He would have hopped to the ground and helped Fortunato climb down, but the count didn’t wait. Fortunato swung down lithely from the wagon seat with the grace of the exceptional athlete he was.

  “Stay with the wagon,” he said as he went up the steps to the porch and strode into the hotel. Someone had tried to make the place look elegant, he saw as he glanced around the lobby, with Indian rugs on the floor, paintings on the walls, overstuffed furniture, and several potted plants. But, to eyes accustomed to the glories of Continental hostelries, the hotel just looked shabby and dusty. Sand gritted under Fortunato’s feet as he approached the desk.

  “I need your finest suite,” he said to the narrow-shouldered, pale-faced clerk who stood there gaping at him.

  “Sorry, sir,” the man said. “We don’t, uh, we don’t have any suites, just single rooms.”

  “Do any of them adjoin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I shall require three rooms, two of them adjoining. Those two will serve as a suite while I’m staying here. You’ll need to have the bed moved out of one room and some extra
chairs and a table brought in. My servant will stay in the other room.”

  The clerk swallowed. “Well, I, uh, I really ought to talk to the owner about something like that before I—”

  “Nonsense.” Fortunato took an American fifty dollar bill from his coat pocket and slapped it on the desk. “That should cover the arrangements. If you need more later on, let me know.”

  The clerk’s eyes widened at the sight of the bill. He probably didn’t see very many that large. He said, “Yes, sir, I reckon I can do that!” and the money disappeared from the desk with a deft swipe of his hand. He turned his head and yelled, “Pablo! Get your sorry ass over here. We got a gentleman staying here, and he needs us to take care of him proper-like.”

  An elderly Mexican man hurried over and asked Fortunato, “Your bags, señor?”

  “My servant will get them,” Fortunato said.

  “Pablo, this gentleman needs us to change Room Seven into a sitting room so that it’ll form a suite with Room Eight,” the clerk explained.

  Pablo frowned. “Can such a thing be done?” He sounded doubtful.

  “It can,” the clerk insisted. “See to it!”

  “Si, si,” the old-timer muttered. He started toward the stairs.

  “And make sure the rooms are spotless!” the clerk called after him. Then he smiled at Fortunato and went on, “Is there anything else we can do to accommodate you, sir?”

  Fortunato grunted. “You could allow me to register.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course.” The clerk slid the book in front of him, took the pen from its inkwell, and handed it to the count. Fortunato scrawled his name, and in the place for his home address, he wrote Venice, Italy. The clerk’s already-impressed eyes widened even more when he saw that. He asked in an awed voice, “You’re a real count?”

  “Of course I am,” Fortunato said coldly. “A nobleman would not lie about such a thing.”

  “No, sir, of course not! I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Fortunato shut him up with a casual wave. “Is there a bar in this hotel?”

  “Yes, sir, right through there.” The clerk pointed at an arched doorway on the opposite side of the lobby from the dining room.

  “Send someone to inform me when my suite is ready.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Fortunato strolled through the door into the bar and took off the soft felt hat he wore. The place wasn’t very busy. A handful of men in garish suits and derby hats who were probably traveling salesmen, a pair of better-dressed men who might be the local banker and the owner of a successful business, a frock-coated gambler who was dealing the cards at a baize-covered table occupied by a couple of townsmen and three American cowboys…and a woman. She stood at the bar talking to the bartender, a chunky, middle-aged man with several dark strands of hair plastered across the otherwise bald top of his head. When Fortunato came into the room, she turned and looked at him, her gaze cool and appraising.

  Thick, honey-colored hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls. She wore a high-necked blue dress that buttoned to the throat, but it wasn’t as decorous as it might have been because the fabric hugged her body snugly enough so that her ample breasts were clearly outlined. She wasn’t very tall, but Fortunato didn’t mind that. He was attracted to her immediately, and judging by the bold look in her eyes, she returned the feeling.

  Smiling, she said something to the bartender, then came forward to meet Fortunato. “Hello,” she said in a throaty voice. “Are you staying here at the hotel?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “And you?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s the only decent place to stay in this part of the territory. They even have a bottle of cognac here that’s not too bad.”

  “I wouldn’t mind sampling it…if, of course, you would do me the honor of joining me.”

  She held out her hand. “It would be my pleasure. You can call me Jess.”

  He could tell that she was going to be disappointed if he didn’t kiss the back of her hand. He did so, bending over it and pressing his lips to the soft skin. “Eduardo,” he murmured.

  “Eduardo,” she repeated. “I adore European names. And European men.”

  If she felt that way, she would probably be so excited she’d wet herself if he told her he was a count. Later, he thought. When they were alone.

  He had no doubt that they would be. She was a prostitute, he made no mistake about that, but at least she had a certain amount of elegance and breeding about her, not to mention the fact that she was quite attractive. He missed his mistress back in Venice and the special ways she had of easing the melancholies that gripped him from time to time. He had even considered bringing her with him when he started to America but ultimately had decided against it. He had regretted that decision more than once since then.

  But he might have found an acceptable substitute in this woman who called herself Jess. As they sat together at one of the tables and enjoyed the bottle of cognac the bartender brought to them, Fortunato told himself that she might be a pleasant way of passing the time until those new gunmen Braddock was sending to him arrived in Las Cruces. He had nothing else to do. The Yaquis were trailing Dr. Dare and the priest and the stranger. When the time came, they would find him and lead him right to his prey.

  Until then, he looked forward to getting to know Jess better.

  The clerk from the desk in the lobby came into the bar. He approached the table respectfully and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Fortunato—I mean, Count Fortunato—your suite is ready now. Your servant has already taken up all your bags.”

  Jess looked across the table at Fortunato and said, “Count?”

  He inclined his head. So she learned the truth about him a little earlier than he had planned. It didn’t matter.

  “A family title.”

  “Count Fortunato,” she repeated in a voice that was almost a purr. “And you have a suite? I didn’t know they even had any suites in this hotel, except for the owner’s living quarters.”

  “They didn’t,” Fortunato said, “until I arrived.” He picked up the snifter on the table in front of him and downed the last of the cognac in it, enjoying the warmth that the fiery liquor kindled in his belly. “Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes, I would,” Jess said. “Very much.”

  Fortunato nodded. In his mind her answer had never been in doubt. He looked at the clerk and said, “Have some food sent up in an hour, along with another bottle of this cognac.”

  “The, uh, dining room is closed, Count…” The clerk’s voice trailed away as Fortunato gave him a chilly stare. “But I’ll see what I can do,” he went on hurriedly. “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it. You can count on that.” The clerk paused. “Say—”

  Fortunato lifted a hand to forestall the inevitable feeble witticism. He got to his feet, reached across the table, and took Jess’s hand. She stood and came to his side. He linked his arm with hers, and they left the bar walking through the lobby, trailed by the clerk, who stopped at the desk with a sigh of envy.

  Fortunato knew what the young man was thinking. This stranger to Las Cruces had it all—wealth, breeding, the prettiest whore in town.

  Soon he would have even more, thought Fortunato. He would have the Konigsberg Candlestick and the secret of the Twelve Pearls…and the lives of Dr. Dare and the priest and the young gunman, all in the palm of his hand, waiting for him to close it and crush them, whenever the whim struck him.

  Chapter 18

  No one bothered the camp that night. The Kid and Annabelle took turns standing guard, as usual. Father Jardine didn’t even ask to take a turn, since The Kid had made it clear that he didn’t think it was a good idea. The Father just crawled under the wagon and went to sleep instead.

  The Kid never lost the uneasy feeling that nagged at him, despite the quiet, peaceful night. It remained with him the next morning as they continued northward.

  From time to time he reined the buckskin to a halt and turned the horse
around so that he could study the landscape behind them. He even pulled his field glasses from his saddlebags and raised them to his eyes. Looking through the lenses didn’t tell him any more than his naked eyes did. If somebody was trailing them, they were damned good at it.

  Of course, following them at a distance wouldn’t be that difficult, he told himself. The wagon’s wheels left distinct impressions in the sandy dirt. A fella would have to be half blind not to be able to trail them. He began keeping his eyes open for something they could do about that.

  “What’s the matter?” Annabelle asked him one of the times when he stopped to check their backtrail. “Do you see anyone following us?”

  The Kid shook his head. “Nope. But that doesn’t mean they’re not back there. I never met the man, but from what you told me about Count Fortunato, he doesn’t sound like the sort of hombre who would give up easily.”

  Annabelle hauled back on the reins and brought the team to a stop as well. Their plan was to continue resting the horses frequently.

  “He’s not going to give up,” she stated flatly. “Not until he’s dead. And if I were the superstitious sort, I wouldn’t even be too sure of that.”

  “What do you think, padre?” The Kid asked with a grin. “If I kill Fortunato, is his ghost going to haunt us?”

  Father Jardine frowned in disapproval. “Don’t make jokes like that, my son.”

  “Yes, let’s not tempt fate,” Annabelle added. She slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and started them plodding forward again.

  The landscape was as barren and boring as it had been the day before. The Caballo Mountains still seemed to be receding ever northward. Around the middle of the day The Kid spotted something else up ahead, to the right of the trail. It was just a dark hump on the horizon, some sort of knob that stuck up from the flat land all around it.

  He pointed the shape out to Annabelle and asked, “Was that on the old maps you studied?”

  She frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “I believe it’s a landmark called Point of Rocks. A group of Spanish soldiers led by a conquistador named Oñate camped there on an early expedition through the Jornada. The waterhole at Paraje Perillo is near there.”