Gringos 4, p.7
Gringos 4, page 7
part #4 of Gringos Series
Onslow fired again, another two shots, fast. The leading man spun round as if kicked hard in the belly, his hands reaching towards an already spreading wound that would let his life out in a morass of intestine, of stinking, coiled guts.
McCloud jumped down to the right and turned fast. There were three men coming at him and he could see the guns in their hands. He snapped off his first shot too quickly, guessing it would be Johnson in the lead and wanting to shoot his head clean off his body. But Johnson flattened himself against the side of the wagon and McCloud stopped the leading Ranger instead, the shell taking him in the chest and driving him back into the man behind so that the pair of them crashed to the ground.
McCloud turned fast and ran to where he figured Onslow to be. He nearly stopped a .45 slug for his pains. Onslow was a fraction of a second away from blasting him all the way to hell when he recognized who it was.
The two men exchanged a glance that said everything about their betrayal and the hopelessness of their situation.
Bullets whined about them from either end of the bridge. Onslow wondered if Chavez was still behind the second wagon along with the Rangers he had sold them out to, or if he’d slipped away as soon as the shooting had started, back into El Paso to count the money again with gloating eyes.
A long splinter of wood was shorn away from the side of the wagon by a bullet and it flew into the side of Onslow’s neck. For a second he thought he’d been hit by the slug itself, then he pulled the thing clear and threw it away, blood beginning to trickle down onto his shirt.
They stood back to back firing almost at will.
Onslow grimaced and pushed another magazine up into the butt of his gun.
‘All this stuff,’ said McCloud with a savage laugh. ‘Enough to hold off an army an’ we ain’t got the men to use it.’
‘We’re goin’ t’swim for it.’ Onslow’s voice was blurred, hurried.
McCloud glanced round at him and swung back; a Ranger came between the wagons and McCloud squeezed down on the trigger. It clicked on empty. The Ranger stopped; brought his gun up, levelled at the center of McCloud’s body.
‘Duck!’ Onslow shouted, and fired over McCloud’s body an instant later. The Texas Ranger hurled his pistol high into the night air, clutching at his throat, fingers sinking into the hole torn by the .45 slug as blood and breath bubbled out.
From the far side of the wagon came the sound of men clambering up over the crates. On one knee McCloud was reloading his gun.
‘Jump for it!’ Onslow shouted. ‘Now!’
‘Together.’
Onslow shot a man off the top of the wagon and yelled at McCloud as he turned his back on him, moving away.
‘Jump!’
McCloud vaulted onto the thick wooden rail and balanced there as bullets sought to stop him. He spread his hands, the Colt .38 tight in one of them, and dived off into the darkness. It seemed he would fall forever, then came the cold slap of water and he was underneath it, submerged in it, knowing he had to keep going down before starting to swim.
On the bridge Onslow dodged his way between the mules, heading for the opposite side, drawing as many men away from McCloud as he could.
Twenty five yards on McCloud broke the surface of the river and gasped in a lungful of air. Shots burst around him and he dived under once more, striking for the Mexican shore.
Onslow ducked left and what he had thought was only shadow in the space by the corner of the wagon moved and moved fast. A rifle butt drove low into his stomach and there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from doubling forward, nearly losing his grip on his gun.
A boot slammed into his ribs and the heavy wooden stock came down on the back of his head, driving him to the boards of the bridge.
Onslow fought for consciousness, his left hand pulled at the air, his eyes blinked and he went to fire his Colt but it didn’t seem to be there. His hand was empty. A shape swayed above him. There was still the sound of shooting and shouts that seemed to be coming from farther away. A light swung over his head and Onslow levered himself back on his elbows and back, kicking up at it.
He felt a sharp pain underneath his left leg and the light moved to one side, still there. He looked past it and saw the leering face of Spencer, the knife scar jagged on his cheek. Then the top of his head seemed to cave in upon him and he saw nothing, only the bitter blackness of a new night and the sharpness of his own pain.
Chapter Eight
THE WATER RAN powerfully, fighting McCloud’s strokes as he battered against it. It swirled round his arms and surged into his face, stinging his eyes with cold. He could hear the muffled explosions of rifle fire and the sound of the shells striking through the river close behind him. He stopped swimming and trod water, shaking his head so that he could see the flashes of light from the bridge against the darkness of the land.
McCloud dived.
Minutes later his legs scraped ground in the shallows of the far bank; fingers pushed into wet mud. He scrambled up onto the side and ran, crouching low, gun still clutched in his right hand.
Reeds and then thickening bracken. Small trees with branches like whips. His left foot sank down into a hole and he was hurled headlong, the Colt .38 skittering from his grasp.
For several seconds McCloud lay on his back and gulped in cold night air. His ankle was throbbing, swelling. Tenderly he touched it through the side of his boot.
Christ!
Breathing heavily he began to feel around for his gun, searching with more and more desperation. Finally he found it and grabbed it to him, waiting moments more on hands and knees and listening for sounds of pursuit. The light on the bridge seemed far enough away and whether they would ride across the border for him he didn’t know.
McCloud headed south, away from the river. He didn’t bother to think further about where exactly he was going, nor why. The important thing was to put space between himself and them. After that he could think.
He ran slowly, conserving his energy, arms loose by his sides. A straggly path cut south-east through sparsely wooded country. After fifteen minutes the trees thinned out to the point where they simply ceased to be. In the faint light from the sky it seemed the beginning of scrub and desert.
McCloud squatted down, his breath razoring his lungs; the pain in his ankle keen and growing; when he felt the swelling through the leather boot he clenched his teeth and grimaced.
If he kept running on that he was going to have to cut the boot away.
A desert rat hurried across the dry soil less than ten feet in front of him.
For the first time he thought of Onslow and what would be happening to him; he remembered the look on the major’s face when he had told him to jump, then the way he had moved away, drawing off the Rangers and giving him cover.
Okay: McCloud started to walk south, promising Onslow and himself revenge.
It was coming light when he saw the building—little more than a shack a hundred or so yards to the west of where he was heading. A single-story place with a barn attached to it. Nothing more.
McCloud limped towards it, taking his time, not wanting to make any noise that would disturb whoever might be there. Unless the place was empty.
It didn’t feel empty.
He waited, checking the load in his Colt and resting most of his weight on his right leg. Door on the southern side, a couple of windows with sacking fastened across, probably a hole in the roof for a chimney but from this angle he couldn’t see. The barn leaned sideways, its door tied with string.
McCloud stepped up to the barn, listened. With a smile he began to unfasten the string, finally snapping it through. He prised back the metal clasp and swung the door on its hinges.
He could see the shape of the horse, its head lifted inquisitively towards him.
McCloud reached out his hand and touched the warm nose; the animal pulled his head away and snickered.
‘Ssshh.’
McCloud patted him and quietened him down, eyes searching the barn for his bridle and saddle.
He moved alongside the horse, every now and then patting his dun-colored coat and whispering to him, keeping him calm. He fixed the curb bit in place and then easily, almost gently, he dropped the headstall so that the animal’s ears pushed up through the splits in the leather. Next he grasped the leather-bound wooden saddle horn and flung the saddle onto the blanket he’d already draped across the horse’s back.
The animal shifted sideways and banged his rear hoofs against the back of the barn; McCloud hashed him again and stroked his head reassuringly.
He was tightening the cinch when a shadow fell across the light from the doorway. McCloud’s hand moved away from the leather as though it was suddenly red hot. His right hand darted towards the shoulder holster and at the same time his body spun round. Both movements were stopped by the triple click of the hammer of a Colt .45.
McCloud stared at the pistol in the man’s hand. A Colt Peacemaker with a seven and a half-inch barrel that looked to have been polished lovingly and long; what little light there was it picked up and reflected back.
‘Gringo, you steal my horse.’
The voice was low, its tone a mixture of accusation and bewilderment. The Mexican himself was well under six foot, maybe five seven or eight, and he had a belly that pushed now through the front of his hastily pulled-on shirt and hung a little over his belt. A strand of dark hair fell close to his left eye. His face was round and stubbled with several days’ growth of beard.
‘Eh, you steal my horse?’
‘Borrow,’ said McCloud slowly. ‘I was going to borrow your horse.’
The Mexican’s eyes dilated and he seemed puzzled; gradually a smile of understanding spread across the width of his face.
‘Oh, yes. Now I see.’ He pointed with the cocked gun. ‘You were not stealing the horse, you were taking him for a little while. Then you bring him back.’
The smiling face looked up at McCloud for confirmation. McCloud nodded: ‘Sure. That’s it. That’s it.’
The Mexican’s smile broadened and he gestured with his left hand. ‘Es nada,’ he said. ‘That’s all right.’
McCloud let his right hand fall away from his chest and he started to take a pace forward.
‘Pig!’
The Mexican snarled and jutted his arm forward, the end of the barrel less than five feet from McCloud.
‘You think I am stupid, eh? A fool for you to play games with. A nothing. A stupid Mexican peon. Eh? Eh?’
Each exclamation was accompanied by a movement with his gun. McCloud held his breath; beads of sweat started to run down both sides of his face. The palms of his hands itched.
‘Eh, yanqui, you think I am stupid?’
McCloud shook his head, tongue dry inside his mouth.
‘Then why you tell me this borrow? Why this, eh?’
McCloud blinked involuntarily; he was aware of the pain in his ankle and the fraction of an inch the trigger on the Colt would have to move to end that pain once and for all. That and all other pains.
‘I need a horse,’ he said. ‘Need one bad.’
The Mexican looked at the state of McCloud’s clothes.
‘You are on the run? The federales?’
McCloud shook his head. ‘From the border. Texas Rangers.’
The Mexican’s eyes widened; the light behind him was beginning to brighten as dawn approached.
‘You are friends with the federales?’ asked McCloud.
The man shook his head from side to side: ‘Only the hacendados are friends with the federales.’
McCloud relaxed a little, although the gun in the man’s hand didn’t waver. ‘I am no friend of the federales either. The Rangers were after me because I was bringing guns to Villa. My friend, he is prisoner of the Rangers. I must go for help. From Villa.’ He glanced sideways. ‘That is why I needed your horse.’
The expression on the Mexican’s face showed nothing.
McCloud waited. The atmosphere in the barn was tense, taut as fine thread.
‘An enemy of the federales is not a friend of Villa.’
‘But—’
The movement of the gun stopped him short.
‘Two months ago I had two things in this world. A wife who was with child and this animal here. Then a band of Villa’s men came. They asked for food. My wife brought it to them. They saw the rounding of her belly but that did not stop them. They did not only take food.’ He let his eyes fall away for a moment in his shame. ‘After they had gone my wife cried and cried. For two days she would not stop. Then she lost our baby.’ He looked at McCloud. ‘That night she left. I have not seen her since. Now there is nothing for me; nothing but the horse.’ The left side of the Mexican’s wide mouth twitched. ‘You will not take her.’
McCloud started to raise both hands but let them fall. He shrugged his shoulders slowly, glanced at the side of the barn.
‘I’m sorry. I mean, about your wife ... I’m sorry for what …’
He dived under the Mexican’s gun arm, right hand pushing up for his wrist, head hammering into the man’s soft belly. The two of them crashed into the edge of the doorway and the door itself swung back hard and the wood ripped clear from its top hinge.
McCloud’s fingers tightened even as the Colt went off.
The report echoed round the small barn and the horse reared and kicked and whinnied.
McCloud brought his head up fast, the top of his skull snapping back the Mexican’s jaw with a loud clack of teeth. Still gripping the man’s right hand, McCloud swung his left fist below it and into his stomach. Then he grabbed the arm with both hands and turned it fast, bringing it down against his own upstretched knee.
The Mexican let out a yell of pain and the Colt dropped from between his fingers. McCloud yanked on the arm and pulled the man back towards him, jutting out his hip and throwing the Mexican off it so that he sprawled over the hay-strewn floor.
McCloud whipped up the Colt Frontier, its weight and balance strange in his hand. There was time for him to push it down into his belt and draw the lighter .38 from its shoulder holster.
The Mexican stared up at him, balancing on hands and knees. ‘Kill me. Go on, kill me.’
‘Shut it!’ McCloud snarled.
The man moved towards him, dark eyes pleading. ‘Kill me!’
McCloud kicked out with his right foot, catching him on the point of the chin. The Mexican’s pupils disappeared up into his eye sockets as his head went back fast; he hit the wall and slumped slowly to silence, unconscious.
McCloud dropped his gun back into its holster and turned back to the horse, calming it before finishing the job of tightening the cinches. He went into the Mexican’s one-room shack and took a piece of dried, salted meat and two cans of beans. He dropped these in a small sack which he tied to the saddle horn.
When he got the horse outside the barn bands of violet light were stretching themselves across the sky from the east; the desert looked gray, the occasional patches of scrub were black. He went back into the barn and stared down at the Mexican, who still hadn’t moved. When he bent over him he could hear his slow breathing.
McCloud stood up and pulled the Colt Frontier from his belt and set it down beside the Mexican. He didn’t know why he did it—something to do with the fact that he’d lost his wife and child and now his horse. Whatever the reason it bothered McCloud for quite a while. It bit at his mind like an act of kindness and as such McCloud considered it a weakness.
He moved the animal into a trot and headed south.
‘Get up!’
The gloved fist rammed into Onslow’s crumpled body and knocked him sideways along the floor. The Ranger straightened up and lashed out with his boot, catching Onslow close to the heart.
‘Get up, you miserable Mex-lovin’ bastard!’
The Ranger swung his foot back again but the captain put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
‘That’s enough.’
‘But ...’
‘For now, that’s enough.’
The Ranger made a face and turned away, going to the far side of the room. Three other men looked on, one was Johnson, the other pair were also Rangers, one of them the man called Spencer.
‘Pick him up,’ the captain said. ‘Pick him up and throw him on that mattress. Let him sleep an hour. Then try him again.’ He stared at the man who had been kicking him. ‘But remember he isn’t going to tell us anything if he’s dead.’
Onslow didn’t move for a long time. Only slowly did he realize that he was awake and then the pain shot to his brain from so many parts of his body. He lay there with his eyes closed for several minutes, trying to control the pain, to quell it.
When he did gradually blink his eyes open he realized that he could only see through narrow slits. He reached upwards gingerly and touched his eyelids. All around the eyes the skin was puffed and swollen and he could feel a deep cut running diagonally down from the outside corner of the right eye.
Onslow winced, pushing himself up onto one elbow. The mattress he was lying on was flat on the floor, thin and stained. There was a chair in the middle of the room and nothing else. He knew that the door opposite would be locked. There were two windows, high to left and right, both narrow and barred.
It seemed to be daylight: Onslow tried to figure out what time it might be, how long he’d been there. He wondered where McCloud was, hopeful that he’d managed to get out of the Rio Grande and away.
He wondered if he’d ever set eyes on him again.
Onslow pushed his body up into a sitting position. He was wearing his shirt and pants and the shirt had been ripped down the front and at the neck. He could feel other marks, other swellings on his face but his chest and stomach were the worst. He felt as if he’d fallen under Villa’s remuda and been galloped over by more than a hundred horses.
