Widowmaker Jones (21 page)

The judge looked to Newt again for support, but Newt said nothing and pushed his horse past Kizzy's, not even looking her way.

Kizzy and the judge were left together while Newt was steadily putting distance on them. She kept the pistol leveled, but took a chance and made a quick look to see how far Newt was ahead of them.

“What's it going to be?” she asked.

The judge squinted at her and rubbed the gray whiskers on one sagging cheek. After a while, he kicked his gray past her, mumbling to himself while the horse shied widely around the dog.

“What's the world coming to?” she heard him say. “It ain't right, I tell you. Big grizzle dogs attacking my good horse, and Gypsy women pointing pistols at me. A judge can't get any respect down here, I tell you.”

Kizzy let him get a little ways ahead of her, then turned her horse in behind him. Newt was already a hundred yards ahead of them and disappearing over the top of a hill. All three of them were soon out of sight.

Two of the vaqueros followed behind them several miles back, and the company of rurales took another trail to the west, paralleling the main road.

K
izzy sat on the opposite side of the fire from the men. The day's ride had been a long one, but still not enough time to trust either of the pair she had set out with. The big man who called himself Newt didn't say two words all day long, while the judge—if he was really a judge—was continually chattering, making jokes, telling odd stories, insulting her dog, and filling in the rest of his time talking to himself when nobody else would listen. She found it odd that she was less bothered by the big man with the fierce face than she was by the old man. But her years on the road had taught her that bad intentions could often hide behind a glib tongue and a crafty smile.

Not that the big man didn't worry her. On first look, there was something about Newt that made her draw back. She had no doubt that he was a hard case and maybe a killer, but that wasn't all that made him seem threatening. He wasn't a bulky sort, but for a man somewhere a little over six feet tall, everything about him was outsized, from the big hands and wrists, to the spread of his shoulders. He had a broad, stout chin and jaw, and his cheekbones seemed made of stone. It might have been a handsome face, if a tad on the harsh side, but there was that nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, the battered ear, and the lacework of little scars crisscrossing both his cheekbones and chin. One brow was scarred so badly that the eyebrow was thin and all but gone.

In contrast to the dangerous demeanor about him, when he spoke his voice was deep and soft, and his eyes appeared honest, although somewhat intense. And she hadn't failed to notice the way he slowed his pace as the day grew long and the miles began to wear on her. He didn't mention it, but he did it just the same.

Kind eyes or not, she wasn't going to be fooled or caught unawares. The last thing she had wanted was to end up with two such men. It was drilled into her from the time she was old enough to talk that you didn't trust outsiders. You didn't trust the
gadje.
If you were Roma you sometimes learned that the hard way. It had been like that in England where her father came from, and it had been like that in France, the land of her mother. It had been like that all the years and in all the lands as her people moved on. The
gadje
didn't trust Gypsies, and Gypsies didn't trust them one bit more.

And despite it all, there she was alone and with two of them—rough strangers of callous ways and crude talk, and men who didn't wash their hands regularly or before a meal. She had watched from the jail door and seen Newt beat the vaquero; she had seen him enjoy hurting that man. A part of her was satisfied to see one of the men who had accosted her and Fonzo beaten, but another part of her recognized that she was at the mercy of barbarians and that life was cheap in their company.

She was tired of being at the mercy of one thing or another. She was homeless and she couldn't do anything about it. She was a Gypsy, a second-class citizen looked down on by almost everyone she met, and she couldn't do anything about that, either. Her brother was locked up and in danger of being killed, and Cortina had stolen their last means of supporting themselves. She could do something about that, or maybe not. But at least she could try. Because things were one way, or a person was one way, it didn't mean it had to stay the same. You didn't have to be at the mercy of anything if you were smart. Her father had always said that brains were what separated humans from the beasts. Being smart was the trick—being smart and being brave. She didn't know if she was brave, but she knew she was smart.

She kept a careful watch on the two across the fire. They paid her little attention other than an occasional glance her way or to offer her a share of the beans they had cooked in a little pot Newt carried tied to one corner of his saddle skirt. She had offered to help with the evening's cooking, but although the judge had seemed inclined to let her help, Newt had insisted on cooking himself. The beans ended up hard and undercooked. Manhunters, maybe, but poor cooks, certainly.

Their day's ride had brought them to the Alvarez hacienda on the banks of a shallow, narrow river, the one the natives called the Rio de San Antonio. It was a sprawling, flat-roofed adobe home with a red tile roof and little patios and courtyard gardens walled off throughout it. The walls extended higher than the roof, and the gun loopholes left in the adobe bricks testified to a time when the place was as much a fortress as a home. Around it lay a score of outbuildings, barns, corrals, and small homes for the ranch's hired help. Cattle, horses, and a few sheep dotted the countryside, and a few irrigated farm fields lay along the river. Alvarez was obviously a very wealthy man.

Kizzy had hoped they would stay the night at the hacienda. The wagon horse she rode was never meant for riding and had a rough stride to him, especially at a trot. Her backside ached and the insides of her thighs were raw and stinging. It had been long since she had ridden so far, and even longer since she had ridden astride and without a sidesaddle.

But there were still two hours of daylight left, and Newt moved them on after he and the judge had a little talk with one of Don Alvarez's hired men they came across pulling weeds out of a vegetable garden in front of the main house. From him, they learned that Cortina and Alvarez's daughter had headed west along the river. What's more, there were three more men with Cortina.

Newt was anxious to be on Cortina's trail and had pushed them hard along a narrow trail that followed the river. There were occasional thickets, but the country began to open up into brown scrublands, dotted with cactus and other spiny low brush. You could see for miles and miles, and a set of high mountains loomed up to the west. They had made camp an hour after nightfall.

Somewhere in the night, she must have nodded off for a second. Newt was still awake, sitting on his saddle and staring at their little campfire. Curled up at his feet asleep was her dog. Maybe she had done more than nod off for a wink or two, for she hadn't noticed Vlad leave her. The white dog normally stayed close to her when around strangers, and it shocked her greatly to see him so contented with the big man, and in truth it hurt her feelings a little bit.

“I think Vlad likes you,” she said when she could no longer take staring into the campfire flames without falling asleep again, and saying something was the only way to stay awake.

Newt reached down and touched the sleeping dog's broad head and ruffled the thick hair on its neck. “Dogs always like me. What kind is he? I've never seen his like.”

“I don't know what you would call his kind, or how to translate it. But my grandfather's grandfather brought them from the Carpathian Mountains in Romania,” she said. “And each succeeding generation of my father's line has bred them.”

“What's he good for, besides accosting travelers and their horses?” the judge asked.

Kizzy had thought the judge was asleep, for his eyes were closed and his hat tipped down over his face to shield it from the heat of the fire.

“They are herding dogs, sometimes, and others are used to hunt or for protection,” she said.

“Half bear and half alligator,” the judge said. “Doesn't surprise me that he likes the Widowmaker there.”

“Widowmaker?” Kizzy looked to Newt and then back to the judge, trying to catch what was meant.

“Don't mind the judge,” Newt said.

“If you want my opinion, we ought to send this Gypsy girl and her attack dog back the way they came,” the judge said. “We've already got enough trouble.”

“I didn't ask for your opinion,” Newt replied.

“You're as rude as that dog. No wonder you two get along.” The judge grunted and shifted his boots away from the fire. “And you'd best remember that you're in my custody and at the whim of my goodwill.”

“I must get our horses back.” Kizzy noticed the tension between the two men and sought to change the course of the discussion.

“You could get you some new horses,” Newt said without looking at her. “No horse, not even six of them, is worth getting killed over.”

“And where would I find six more white horses, perfectly matched? And what about the time it would take to train them?” She shook her head and fought off the urge to pull her own hair and kick and scream like a little girl. “Our show is gone without those horses.”

“Think up a new act,” said the judge, shoving his hat back on his head to reveal his face and leaning back against the saddle he was using as a backrest, both hands clasped on his bellyful of beans.

“It's not only the act. Those horses are family to us, but you wouldn't understand.”

“Speaking of horses, you'd best stake that horse out where he can graze a little,” Newt said. “He won't last long if you don't take care of him.”

Kizzy had eaten her meal holding her unsaddled horse by a lead rope, and it still stood close behind her. She wanted to let it graze, but feared that they would take it from her while she slept and leave her behind.

“I don't know what I'll do if we don't get our horses back. I don't know what Fonzo will do. They're everything to him,” she said. “I can't quit thinking about them being mistreated or one of them harmed.”

Newt and the judge glanced at each other with odd expressions on their faces and a hint of something she couldn't guess at.

“A man that will hurt a horse is pretty low-down,” the judge finally said, and then cleared his throat. He and Newt shared that same look again.

“I would think you would be more worried about your brother,” Newt said.

“That, most of all, but Fonzo will be set free if you find Cortina, and we might regain our horses in the same stroke.”

“Best we get to sleep. I intend to be riding early,” Newt said as he rolled himself in his blankets.

“Do you still intend to take this girl with us?” the judge asked. “I say we hash this out. What kind of man takes a woman when he's out after outlaws?”

“I'm not taking her anywhere, nor will I be responsible for her.” Newt lay down on his side with his back to the judge. “If she comes along it will be her own choice.”

“What if something happens to her?”

Newt rolled over enough that he could look at the judge over one shoulder. “Go ahead, stop her. I don't think she'll go back without shooting her.”

The judge hissed and mumbled something that sounded like he was cursing again. He was going to say more, but Newt was apparently asleep or feigning it. Within a few minutes, Kizzy could tell by his breathing that he was really asleep. She badly wanted to give in to weariness herself, but waited another long while until the judge was snoring before untying her single blanket from behind the cantle of her saddle. She added another length of rope to her horse's lead rope to give it a little more room to pick for grass, but she kept it clenched in her fist. One of her pistols was clenched in her other fist. If they thought they would wake up early, take her horse, and leave her behind, they were going to be in for a surprise.

* * *

Cortina's tracks were covered and all but obliterated by the numerous hoofprints of the vaqueros Don Alvarez had sent after him. However, all Newt and his party had to do was follow the vaqueros' sign, knowing that it would lead them in the direction Cortina had taken, at least until the point the posse had lost the trail and turned back. They found that quitting point barely an hour into the next morning.

Newt and the judge pulled up their horses and looked the torn ground over. Even Kizzy's untrained eye could tell that the vaqueros had stopped there, and that their horses had been milling and stomping around. The ground was chewed and churned, as if there had been some kind of confusion.

The judge rode a circle around the location, dismounted once, and came riding back with something in his hand. He pitched a brass shell casing to Newt, and then a couple more.

“Those vaqueros didn't turn back because they lost Cortina's trail,” the judge said.

Newt studied the tip of a narrow mountain reaching down toward the river. “Are you thinking Cortina and his boys took a stand up there?”

“I am.”

“I wouldn't have thought those vaqueros would quit so easy. They had Cortina outnumbered.”

“When lead starts flying, a lot of men suddenly decide there's a lot of better places to be,” the judge said. “They probably told Alvarez that they lost the trail to stay out of trouble with him.”

“You don't think Cortina is still up there?” Newt pointed at the ridge.

“No, he would have already shot us if he was.”

“You're a great comfort.”

“Worrying about where he might be waiting for you is how he wants you to think. Taking to this broken country and laying up for a potshot every now and then slows down any pursuit, and gets us stopping and worrying over every point he could ambush us,” the judge said. “But, no, he's moved on long ago. There's no water up there, and he'll be looking to put all the distance he can between Don Alvarez's vaqueros and himself.”

They rode upriver cautiously, with Newt riding fifty yards ahead, and Kizzy in the rear. They took a detour up the ridge and found where Cortina and his men had taken their stand and fired upon the vaqueros. Amid the tracks and horse droppings they found more shell casings. Looking down from the ridge, it had been no more than a two-hundred-yard shot to the river, and from the amount of empty brass they found, Cortina and his outlaws had really made it hot for the vaqueros.

Newt led them back to the river. They rode for another hour, and the river became nothing more than a few stagnant pools and then only a dry streambed. High, treeless, knife-edged mountains rose up unlike any Newt or Kizzy had ever seen. Some of them ran in odd curved shapes and others ran parallel to the next in an almost wavelike fashion, one after another, with narrow, steep canyons between them. At times, the trail slipped between those mountains, winding through them like navigating a maze or a labyrinth.