Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (27 page)

“What is this?” Verdugo asked.

“Get off your horse and I'll find you a shovel, Jorge,” Sorenson said.

“What are they digging?” Verdugo asked.

“You'll see.”

Sorenson led Verdugo over to where Mike was standing. The wagon had been pulled up close to the graveyard. The tarp was still on it, and it stood in the shade of the pines.

“Do you have a shovel for this man, Mike?” Sorenson asked. “He wants to do some digging.”

“There's an extra shovel on the ground next to that spruce tree,” Mike said.

“Do you pay me for this?” Verdugo asked.

“You'll get something out of it, Jorge,” Sorenson said as he walked him to where the shovel lay.

Joe put Verdugo to work. He told him where to dig and how deep. Verdugo sniffed the air as he drove the shovel into the ground and turned the soil.

“What is that I smell?” he asked Sorenson.

“That's what you're burying after you dig that hole, Jorge,” Sorenson said.

“I do not understand.”

Mike stood close by and nodded to Sorenson.

“You want to see, Jorge?” Sorenson said. “Come with me, then.”

Sorenson walked Jorge to the wagon and untied a couple of tie-down ropes. He shoved Jorge up to the tailgate and let him look at what was in the wagon.

Verdugo recoiled at the sight of the dead people lying on the bed, stiff as heavy lumber, their faces drained of blood, their eyes fixed and dull as dirty marbles. He recoiled as if he had been bitten by some unseen animal.

“That is what you did, Jorge. When you told Schneck about these people going down the canyon. Schneck, Wagner, and two others murdered these people, and now they are going to be buried. You are digging one of the graves.”

“Jesus, I did not know,” Verdugo said.

“You knew, Jorge. You told Schneck, and you knew what he meant to do.”

Verdugo buried his face in his hands.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

“Get back to digging, Jorge,” Sorenson said and shoved him back toward the graveyard.

Verdugo stumbled for a few feet and then walked to where he had been digging and picked up the shovel.

Mike came over to talk to Sorenson.

“What are you going to do with Verdugo when we are all finished here and we have said good-bye to our friends?” Mike asked.

“I'm going to tie him up and wait for Brad to return. We'll take Verdugo down to Denver, and we'll watch him hang. He's just as much a criminal as Schneck.”

“We could hang him here,” Mike said.

“It would be quicker, but if he hangs in Denver, some of those cowhands will see him die and maybe they'll think twice before they try to run your sheep out of the mountains.”

“I think you are a wise man, Thor. Let this Mexican be an example to many who would drive us away.”

Sorenson nodded and dug a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. He cut off a chunk and stuck it in his mouth.

Mike walked away and spelled one of the diggers.

He said prayers over the dead at high noon. Verdugo sobbed as the shepherds lowered the bodies, which were wrapped in linen sheets, into the ground. Some of the men dangled their beads and wept with their hats off.

Sheep bleated in the valley, and a swarm of buzzards wheeled in the sky as if they were pinned to an invisible merry-go-round, the tips of their wings like feathered fingers touching the cobalt sky.

Small birds chirped as they hopped on the grass, and a chipmunk whistled from the talus slope, sounding as forlorn as a lost waif calling its pet dog.

There was a trail leading to the strange conglomeration of iron-rich rocks where most of the stampeded cattle herd had wandered. Schneck and Loomis rode down the trail from the north. They began to see cattle in pairs, trios, and foursomes standing near small hills, their backs to the wind, their heads drooping, and their hides shedding rain.

The cattle seemed unmindful of the rolling thunder that pealed across the sky, or the occasional bolts of lightning that lanced the earth and the rocks.

When Schneck saw the huge red-hued rocks jutting at angles from the earth, he felt intimidated by their sheer size. There were cattle scattered all through the flat plain where the rocks were staggered like fallen monoliths. It was as if nature had dropped them all in a heap and then kicked them around like a child's blocks.

“Spooky place, ain't it?” Loomis said as they rode beneath a giant slab of rock that looked like the side of a large building. Rain splashed against its layered sides, and small waterfalls cascaded from every crevice and small shelf. Water ran everywhere in rippling rivulets, corkscrewing across open land, leaving puddles at every turn and twist. The noise of the rain on the gigantic rocks was loud enough, but the wind howled over and under them while lightning danced in the dark clouds like jagged lances hurled from some great height. And the thunder was amplified by the rocks. Schneck felt the concussive force of wind and thunder as Loomis lit up with lightning flashes, then became a dark silhouette atop a rain-slick horse.

They could hear cattle bawling in the recesses of the rocky terrain and, finally, they saw a man on horseback, waving a towel at several head, as if trying to drive them to some central or prearranged location.

Loomis and Schneck rode up to the harried man, and he turned and raised an empty hand.

“That you, Chet?” he said.

“Me and Mr. Schneck,” Loomis shouted above the howl of the wind and the boom of the thunder. “Where you drivin' them cows, Rolly?”

“Hell, Chet, I ain't drivin' them nowhere. But Jess Crandall's got near a thousand head down in a jumble of rocks. We're tryin' to get as much of the herd back together as we can in this damned storm.”

“We'll help you, Rolly,” Loomis said. “I want to talk to Jess anyway.”

“It's hard to turn these cows with all the noise. Only reason they don't run like hell is that they're plumb tuckered after twenty miles of runnin'.”

“Do you have a rifle, Rolly?” Schneck asked. Rolly was Earl Rollins, who worked on the Wyoming ranch and was a pretty fair hand at roping and branding.

“No, sir. The less I pack on these drives, the less my old horse has to work. You got that old single-shot .40, don't you, Chet?”

“Yeah, but I only got three or four bullets for it. I carry it more or less for ballast.”

Rolly laughed.

“Sorry, Mr. Schneck. I don't think any of the boys with me are packin' rifles. Just pistols.”

“That means you're out of luck, Otto, if you're trying to roust up ca'tridges for that Winchester of your'n.”

“I wanted to put a man on that trail to look for the Sidewinder,” Schneck said.

“Sidewinder?” Rolly asked.

“Yeah, that's what they call him,” Schneck said. “He's riding a strawberry roan and I expect him to come down that trail. I'm looking for someone to blow him out the saddle when he shows up.”

“Hard to pick off a man with a pistol in this rain,” Rolly said.

“Never mind, Rolly,” Loomis said. “Let's drive these few head down to where Jess is. Anybody else down there?”

“I don't know, Boss. We got men and cattle scattered from hell to breakfast. But I think this is far as any of the cows got. Town of Morrison's right down the way, but none of 'em run that far.”

The three men rounded up the few head and started to drive them to where Jess had a large part of the herd. Rolly rode drag, while Loomis and Schneck held in the flanks. The cattle lumbered off and joined the rest of the herd, filing into the main body with moos and throaty bellows.

“Where's Jess?” Schneck asked Loomis.

“Dunno. We'll look for him.”

They found Crandall under an overhanging rock. He squatted on the ground while another man, Will Purdy, held up a slicker to block the wind. Jess and Will had gathered some firewood from the hills above the red rocks and some squaw wood from the pines higher up to use for kindling. Jess had three burned-out matches lying at the edge of the squaw wood and was striking a fourth match on the side of a matchbox.

The three men dismounted and stood around Jess to shield him from the lashing rain and the blowing wind.

“Need any help, Jess?” Loomis asked.

Crandall looked up and saw who had ridden up.

“Howdy, Chet, Mr. Schneck. I'm tryin' to light this fire so's we can warm our hands. Look at 'em.”

He and Purdy held out their bone-white hands that were all wrinkled and puckered from the cold.

“Go right ahead, Jess,” Loomis said.

Crandall struck another match, cupped the flaming tip in both hands, and set the fire in the dry squaw wood. They heard a crackling sound, and the tiny filaments on the branches caught fire. Jess leaned down and blew gently on the fire to spread it.

“Looks like you got it, Jess,” Rolly said.

The larger branches caught fire and hissed as the rainwater evaporated into a fine mist. In a few minutes, they had a small campfire going. Purdy added more large limbs as it burned down. The men stood there for several minutes holding their wet, shriveled hands over the warmth. The smoke rose and flattened against the overhang and left a hazy smudge on its rosy surface.

“Who's tending the herd, Jess?” Schneck asked as he turned his flat hands over and raised them a bit higher away from the flickering flames.

“Ain't nobody here but me and Purdy,” he said. “Them cattle ain't goin' nowhere tonight.”

“They think they've found a home in these here rocks,” Purdy said, half joking. “ 'Sides, they're worn out, same as us.”

“Who's your best shot with a pistol, Jess?” Schneck asked.

The question caught Crandall by surprise. He looked at Rolly and Purdy, then at Loomis.

“Hell, I don't know, Mr. Schneck. We don't exactly hold matches among us, what with chasin' cows all over creation and humpin' down the trail day and night.”

“You don't need to be sarcastic, Jess,” Schneck said. “I asked a question. I need an answer.”

“Rolly?” Crandall asked, looking over at Rollins.

“I seen you shoot some airtights onc't or twice, Jess,” Rolly said. “And Purdy there, he's a pretty good shot I reckon. Seen him tumble a coyote one night and a jackrabbit or two.”

“Yeah,” Crandall said. “Purdy, he's pretty good with a pistol, come to think of it.”

“Hell, I ain't never shot nobody,” Purdy said.

“Think you could dust a man off with that pistol of yours?” Schneck asked.

“If'n I was real close, I reckon I could,” Purdy said.

“How's your eyesight, Will?” Schneck asked.

“Fair to middlin' I reckon. Say, you want me to kill this Sidewinder?”

“There's a fifty-dollar gold piece in it for you if you do, Will,” Schneck said.

“Golly, Mr. Schneck, I'd kill my own granny for that kind of money. Only she's already dead and gone.”

The men all laughed.

Schneck walked over and put an arm over Purdy's shoulder. He walked him a few feet away and put his mouth close to Purdy's ear.

“I want you to ride or walk back to the trail leading in here,” he said. “Find a good big rock you can sit on and watch to see who comes down that trail. He's riding a strawberry roan. He's a tall fellow and is probably wearing a black or yellow slicker.”

“Yes, sir,” Purdy said.

“I want you to shoot him dead. Don't call out to him or ask him to stop. Just shoot him. Got that?”

“I got that. I'll do my damndest, Mr. Schneck.”

“Get to it, then. When you get back with proof that Sidewinder is dead, I'll put a fifty-dollar gold piece in your hand.”

“Golly, Mr. Schneck, that's right generous of you.”

Purdy walked away to get his horse. Schneck returned to the campfire.

“Is he going to do it?” Loomis asked.

“I hope so. I saw a lot of big rocks by the side of that trail we rode in on. If Purdy's any kind of shot at all, he should take care of Mr. Sidewinder for us.”

Loomis bit his tongue. He wanted to say, “You mean take care of him for
you
, Otto.”

But he said nothing, and the men stood by the fire and waited out the storm as the huge rock loomed over them and poured silvery shawls of rain off its massive shoulder.

They watched the lightning streak over Denver and listened to the rumble of heavy thunder as the cattle milled and jostled each other under the drenching downpour that blackened their curly hides.