Man From Boot Hill (13 page)

When he looked at Joseph again, the steely resolve was back in Nick’s eyes. His face looked as if it had been carved from a slab of granite. “There’s plenty of folks out there who deserve plenty of punishment, but all the blood you spill stays on your hands. It doesn’t help tip any scales. Just remember that, no matter how bad things are right now, they could be worse. You’re alive. So’s your boy. Things will work themselves out whether we fight for it or not. Don’t fight to make them worse.”

Joseph nodded and said, “I just want to make certain they work out the way they should.”

“We’ll just have to see about that.”

J. D. had built one hell of a campfire. It burned hot enough to cook Nick and Joseph’s supper and kept burning through the rest of the night. As the first rays of the sun broke through the next morning, both men were up and saddling their horses. When he saw Nick standing for a little too long at Kazys’s side, Joseph walked closer and spotted the bottle in Nick’s hand.

Nick turned and held the bottle out. “You want a sip? It takes the chill out of your bones.”

Taking the bottle, Joseph shook it back and forth to watch the clear liquid swirl inside. He assumed it wasn’t water and took a sniff from the top just to be certain. His suspicions were correct and the liquor’s scent scorched the back of his nostrils. “What the hell is that?”

“Vodka. It’s a taste I picked up from my father. Try some.”

Reluctantly, Joseph put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back. At first, the liquid was cold and even refreshing. Then, the fire hit him as though some
one had flipped a match down his throat. The heat traced a path all they way down to his stomach and forced a wheezing breath up from the bottom of Joseph’s lungs.

Nick watched with a grin and took the bottle back. He kept right on smiling as he took another healthy sip for himself.

“You drink that?” Joseph huffed. “Seems like it’d be put to better use cleaning out a gun barrel.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Just keep it away from me.”

Nick replaced the cork in the top of the bottle, wrapped it in a towel and carefully set it in his saddlebag. “You just don’t know any better. This stuff is hard to find. Most folks would rather drink whiskey that tastes more like kerosene or beer that was brewed in some saloon owner’s outhouse.”

“Do you have any kerosene?” Joseph asked. “I could use it to wash this taste out of my mouth.”

While climbing into the saddle, Nick shook his head and muttered a few words under his breath. Although Joseph couldn’t make out most of them, he did catch
vaikeli
somewhere toward the end.

“You see?” Joseph said as he stuffed his bedroll beneath a strap at the back of his saddle. “That firewater made you forget English.”

“It’s my native language. Something else I picked up from my father. Basically it means…” Nick struggled with the translation in his head. “It’s like calling someone a tenderfoot.”

“Just because I don’t like drinking that poison?
Sounds to me like your father didn’t think of a tenderfoot the same way everyone else does.”

“Actually…what I said was closer to ‘whiny little kid.’”

Settling into his saddle, Joseph shrugged and said, “Beats drinking kerosene for breakfast.” With that, he snapped his reins and started riding.

Nick gave the other horse a small lead before flicking his own reins. Kazys took a few seconds to warm up his muscles, but the horse quickly fell into stride and got moving fast enough to overtake Joseph’s horse with ease.

The two of them thundered over the rugged terrain, heading east to meet up with the more well traveled trail that led to Perro Negro. It wasn’t a straight route by any means. Every so often, Nick had to turn north or even double back until he was able to find a spot to cross a river or cross a particularly deep gorge.

As he rode, Nick couldn’t help but think back to Doug and Sue Hemphill. He thought back to the last time he’d been to their house when there was still life and laughter within those walls. The more he thought about his younger self, the more he wished he could reach back and shake some sense into his arrogant head.

As always, that train of thought led him to the memory of when he’d revisited that house a year or so later. It had been just as he’d described it to Joseph. Actually, it had been worse.

Talking about how bad the silence was when
compared to the laughter of those little girls wouldn’t have helped matters. It would have only rekindled the fire in Joseph’s belly. That fire was for Nick alone. He hadn’t told Catherine or anyone else about the Hemphills. It was almost as if he was just as afraid of putting them in danger now as he’d been back then.

Some of the vodka’s burn still lingered in Nick’s mouth, but it wasn’t nearly enough to wash away the bloody memories that had revisited him. All Nick could do was try and move along.

Things would work themselves out.

Letting those words flow through his mind, Nick could almost hear Sue’s voice. Her tone was gentler now—more comforting.

Perro Negro wasn’t as much of a town as it was an overgrown mining camp. Ruts in the ground from the carts led into a wall of rock to the southeast. Old storefronts lined the streets and were marked with faded signs advertising supplies that were no longer needed. The town and that rock formation were now very much alike: battered husks populated by vultures that were too lazy to fly away.

As Nick and Joseph rode through town, the sun was throwing down an orange glow, but it would be night soon. The locals went about their un-seemly business as if they had the full protection of the dark. One man knifed another in one of the abandoned storefronts. Whores pulled down the fronts of their dresses to anyone who looked in
their direction. Drunks puked on the warped remains of a boardwalk and then collapsed in their own mess.

“What are we doing in this dung heap?” Joseph asked. “Looking for an outlaw here is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“More like one particular piece of hay in a haystack,” Nick corrected.

Joseph shook his head and looked around once more. “Those killers could be anywhere around here. I doubt there’s any law to point us in the right direction.”

Nick laughed and leaned over so he could speak in a whisper. “I wouldn’t even mention law around here. Besides, the men we’re after aren’t here. They would’ve moved on a while ago.”

“Then why are we wasting time?”

“There could still be something around that can help us. We needed to water the horses, anyway, so we’ll just do that here and look around.”

“Any suggestions on where to start?”

Nick rubbed his chin and shifted in his saddle. “I’m not sure. Do you see anyone that looks suspicious?”

Joseph was clearly not amused. “I think you’ve been drinking too much of your father’s liquor.”

“Looks like there’s only two main streets,” Nick said. “You poke around at the saloons on this one and I’ll take the saloons on the other. Say you’re looking for work and ask if anyone is hiring.”

“What kind of work?”

“You were a rancher,” Nick pointed out. “The men we’re after stole your herd and are probably out to sell it. What kind of workers do you think they’d be looking for?”

“Probably brand artists, most likely,” Joseph replied without much hesitation.

“Brand artists?”

“Yeah. They cover up another ranch’s brand or find some way to change it around. It’s easy enough to spot if you know what you’re looking for. Anyway, that’s the sort of talent someone would need if they’re dealing with all those stolen cattle.”

Nick nodded and said, “Learn something new every day.”

“That’s not the answer you were expecting?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything. You’re the rancher, not me. At least now I know what to ask for at those saloons. See what we can accomplish when you’re not stomping around with your dander up?”

“Yeah, sure. What kind of information are we asking about?”

“First of all, it would be good to have a better idea of how many men we’re up against. I could guess, but that won’t get us anywhere. That gang came through here looking to replenish their numbers, so we should try to find out how many took them up on their offer. If there wasn’t many takers, we might be able to ride in on them a bit faster. Also, have you ever heard of San Trista?”

Joseph thought about that for a moment and shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“It’d be good to know what kind of law they have there, how big the place is, if there’s been any trouble. Some better directions would be nice.”

“Asking that asshole back at his camp would have been a good idea.”

Nick laughed. “That fellow may have been scared, but there’s no way I’d go by any directions he gave. He could barely spit the name out. If he had any sense at all, he would have told us just enough to get us good and far away from him before turning back.”

“I do have a notion as to where the Busted Wheel Ranch is. Some of my men used to talk about it.”

“Can you get us there?”

Joseph started to nod and stopped short. “It could take a while.”

“Then we could use any information on that as well.”

“Not asking for too much, huh?”

Nick shrugged and said, “Keep your ears open about any of it. If we find a few things on one of those subjects, we’re better off than when we started.”

“Got it.”

After checking the battered watch in his pocket, Nick said, “Let’s meet back here in two hours whether we’re done or not.”

“Good. Hopefully we’ll be ready to get the hell out of this hole,” Joseph said distastefully.

“Maybe. This town actually brings back a lot of old memories.”

“Remind me to never ask you about them.”

With that, the men parted ways. Joseph rode toward the closest end of the street and Nick rounded the corner.

When Joseph tied his horse to the post outside the first saloon, he doubted he’d ever see the animal again. He stepped through the swinging doors that were rotting on their hinges and thought he’d pass out from a stench that hit him like a slap in the face.

The place was as much of a saloon as Perro Negro was a town. Fewer than a dozen bottles were kept on a shelf behind a bar tended by one Indian with greasy hair. The bar, itself, was just a pair of long tables set end to end. One of the tables was raised up so it came up to the Indian’s waist. A few small round tables were scattered about, outnumbering the chairs two to one.

The people drinking in there were loud and leaning against one another, since there was nowhere to sit. Joseph walked through them, doing his best not to touch anyone unless there was no other choice. He could see the Indian behind the bar glaring at him well before he made it to the taller of the two tables.

“I was hoping you could tell me—”

“What do you want?” the Indian interrupted.

“I need to know—”

“What to drink?”

“Nothing right now.”

“Then get out.”

Joseph recoiled as if he wasn’t certain he’d heard the Indian correctly.

“Drink or get out,” the Indian told him. “It’s not hard.”

“I’ll have some water.”

The Indian took an empty jar from under the table and then turned around. He held the jar below his waist, fidgeted with his pants, straightened up and let out a slow breath. Soon, the sound of something pouring into the jar could be heard. It was followed by a sharp, bitter smell.

The Indian fidgeted with his pants some more and then turned back around. Wearing a broad, obscene smile, he set the jar on the table and said, “Drink up.”

Joseph looked down at the jar and its pale yellow, slightly foaming, contents. Although he wanted nothing more than to knock that jar of piss straight back at the one who’d made it, he took a second to think. The Indian looked ready to fight. In fact, he looked as if he was already planning on where to dump Joseph’s body.

“I’ll have a whiskey,” Joseph said as he pushed the warm jar away. “And if you put any water in that, I’ll make you drink it.”

For a moment, the Indian was quiet. Then, his smile returned and he laughed loudly. “I wouldn’t ruin whiskey that way,” he declared, taking the jar away and dumping it on the floor.

Joseph watched the Indian like a hawk, but didn’t see anything besides whiskey go into the
glass he was given. After taking a sip, he set the glass down. The Indian stood directly in front of him.

“What else did you want to ask?” the Indian said.

“I want…a job.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Not here,” Joseph added. “I’m a brand artist.”

The Indian nodded. “You’re too late. Someone came around hiring cowboys a few days ago.”

“Did they get any takers?”

“A few. Some gun hands went along. Sons of bitches still owed me money.”

Since he didn’t know what else to say, Joseph looked down at his whiskey and then took another sip. The burn of the liquor didn’t do much to ease the frustration filling his gut.

“I don’t know how to catch up to them,” the Indian continued without missing a beat, “but Schultz might.”

“Schultz?”

“Fat man with hair that looks like a bird’s nest. He owes me money, too.”

“Tell me where he’s at and I can see about collecting that debt.”

The Indian grinned as if Joseph were a child who’d decided to stand up to him. “That’s asking for a lot of trouble. Too much trouble to be worth eighteen and a half dollars. He drinks and sleeps at the Six-Forty, down the street. One of his brothers rode off with those cowboys.”

“You sure?”

“Shultz was bragging about how his brother gave him some of the advance pay he got when he was hired on. Like I said,” the Indian added with a deadly glint in his eye, “that son of a bitch owes me. Waving money around without paying doesn’t sit right. If you see him, punch him in his fat stomach for me.”

Digging in his pocket, Joseph took out a carefully measured wad of money and set it on the table. “There’s twenty dollars,” he said. “I made the offer, so I’ll back it up.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“I’ll try to punch him at least once.”

Joseph could hear the Indian laughing even after he’d walked out of the saloon.