Shadow Man Page 11

  Taylor glimpsed Morrison sitting up against a rock, shirt bloody and his pistol raised.

  Sometime later, in a period of strange quiet, Taylor got to his feet. Bodies lay around him: Evans, Garth, Morrison, Benito, Kesus. Were they all dead? He seemed to be the only thing moving. Dazed, he made his way to the Front Rocks. A dead Apache lay on the slope below the rocks.

  He saw living Apaches too. Two men looked to be badly wounded; they were being half-carried and half-dragged down slope by more limber companions. At the base of the slope other Apaches, maybe eight or so, were climbing on to their ponies. They moved off to the west at the half-gallop, towards the canyon mouth.

  He wondered why.

  Perhaps an answer came just then. A mirror flashed silver high on the varicoloured wall of the basin. Another mirror signalled a reply from near the west canyon.

  Taylor returned to the Compound. Some of the dead had miraculously returned to life. Evans and Morrison were both sitting up against rocks. Garth stood, tying his bandanna as a bandage across his temples. Blood from a scalp wound was running down the right side of his face and on to his black shirt. Taylor told him, ‘They’re pulling out.’

  ‘Why? Is it Cameron’s party coming?’

  Taylor shrugged. He ought to feel relief, he supposed, but he was too dazed, maybe from the blow on the head, to feel much of anything.

  Garth declared, ‘It sure wasn’t us scared ’em off. They had us cold.’

  Taylor regained some sense; he managed to do a tally of the damage. He and Garth had got off lightest: Taylor had been knocked silly by a war club, whilst Garth had a bullet graze in his forehead and a bloody notch in his ear. Morrison had been shot in the side. He was in considerable pain but still lucid and reckoned he’d been shot through, the bullet wasn’t in him. It was hard to gauge how badly he was hurt but the wound didn’t look fatal.

  Evans appeared to be dying.

  The knife wound in the left side of his chest had left him soaked through in blood. His face was grey. He seemed to be trying to speak but couldn’t, only blood came from his mouth. His eyes said he knew. Taylor gazed at him and was surprised at the sorrow he felt. Evans had a pistol in his hand, the weapon resting on his thigh as if he hadn’t the strength to lift it. He gripped it so tightly his knuckles shone white, as if he expected the Apaches to return any minute.

  When Taylor heard a voice behind him he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Kesus said almost the only English words he knew.

  ‘Shadow Man.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Kesus was trying to raise his head.

  Garth lifted his rifle and trained it on the wounded man.

  Taylor said, ‘Hold it!’ He stepped between Garth and the Indian.

  Garth made a sound of disgust. ‘You’re still the same – still an Indian-lover!’

  Taylor ignored him and crouched over Kesus.

  The Apache was a stocky young man whose face was badly pockmarked. He covered this by war-painting his pockmarks in spots of white bottom-clay, so there was a snow storm raging over his face.

  Taylor remembered the last time he’d seen this man, back on the agency, a few days before Loco’s outbreak. Kesus always seemed to be smiling and laughing. He was gamble crazy, like a lot of Apaches, and had bet Taylor a good blanket on the outcome of a game of wap – where you had to throw a stick through a willow hoop being rolled along the ground. Taylor couldn’t remember who’d won the game. Now Kesus lay with his chest shattered and a line of blood leaking from each side of his mouth. His lips moved slowly; Taylor leaned closer to hear.

  Garth said, ‘Just put a bullet for him, for Christ’s sake!’

  Kesus found new strength. His voice, which had been weak, now lifted so all could hear. He was speaking in Spanish.

  Garth said, ‘What’s he saying? I only got a little cowpen Spanish.’ Taylor noted an odd expression flicker over Garth’s face. For one second fear might have shown there.

  All of them seemed to be listening intently: Garth, Morrison, Taylor. Even Evans turned his head, very slowly, towards Kesus.

  The Apache lifted his hand and pointed at Garth.

  As he listened to Kesus’s words, Taylor decided he’d made a mistake. He’d left his rifle half a dozen yards away, leaning against one of the Front Rocks. A mistake that put the taste of cold clay in his mouth and in his belly, and started fear humming through him. He glanced over at Morrison. The old man was staring at Kesus, frowning. Then he glanced at Garth. Taylor saw the rancher’s pistol lay on the earth a few yards from his hand.

  Taylor stood. He took two steps towards Garth and Morrison. That also took him two steps nearer his rifle….

  Morrison reached for his pistol.

  Garth was quicker. He kicked the gun and it skittered along the earth.

  Taylor lunged for his rifle. He got halfway to it and froze, because Garth had his rifle levelled on Taylor’s midriff. The merchant said, ‘I wouldn’t!’

  Taylor held still.

  Garth indicated with his rifle. ‘Get back over there. Sit against that rock and put your hands on your head. And don’t move.’

  Taylor did as he was told. As he sat, he said, ‘Thought it was kind of funny how that Apache hesitated before sticking his knife in you, Garth. But then again, he was surprised to find Black Shirt here. One of the two fellows who sells Loco guns! Black Shirt – that’s you!’

  Garth smiled with contempt. But when he looked at Morrison it was almost in sorrow. ‘Pity you heard that, Eli. Damn shame you savvy Spanish – that’s got you killed.’

  Morrison glared. ‘I’ll be in good company! You got all those people in Devil’s Pass slaughtered. And who knows how many others?’

  Garth shrugged. ‘Business is business.’

  ‘You dirty son of a bitch!’

  Morrison spat. Spittle caught the bottom of Garth’s leg. Garth flinched slightly, and he scowled; then some of the old arrogance returned to his face.

  Taylor said, ‘Everybody knows nobody hates Apaches like Jed Garth. Pretty good cover for a gunrunner! I should have spotted it from the start. You knew what that Apache belt was – the safe passage belt – because you used one too, going about your business with Loco. Didn’t you?’

  Morrison looked to be in considerable pain from his wound. He swallowed a few times before he spoke. ‘We might as well know all of it. I guess you killed Schim?’

  Garth said, ‘Schim was my partner in the gunrunning. He was the only one could witness against me. So, getting rid of him and pinning it on Taylor was killing two birds with one stone. Talking of which …’

  Garth drifted over to the Front Rocks, keeping his rifle on Taylor and Morrison all the time. He took one quick glance out at the basin. ‘Rescuers not in sight yet. Good.’ Garth lifted his rifle, pointed it in Taylor’s general direction. ‘Looks like they’ll find only one survivor of this attack!’

  Evans said, ‘You!’

  Garth turned, and surprise showed in his face. Evans was lifting his pistol, aiming it at the merchant. His thumb worked at the hammer and his face twisted in hatred and pain.

  But he was slow from his wound; he hadn’t got the gun cocked when Garth fired. Evans’s face dissolved in blood.

  Taylor sprang to his feet. He charged at Garth.

  Garth had got his rifle halfway towards Taylor, when the other man crashed into him. They slammed back against rocks which caught Garth behind the knees. He was driven beyond, on to the slope; Taylor spilled after him. Both of them went down in dust.

  Slowly, they came to their knees.

  Garth had lost his rifle; he glanced about him.

  A few paces down slope was a dead Apache. Garth came to his feet and sprang down the incline towards the Indian. That puzzled Taylor for a second until he saw the lance lying by the dead man. A length of cane with a rusting bayonet for the head.

  Taylor pushed himself upright. As Garth stooped and lifted the weapon, Taylor ran forward. He leapt from
the slope, yelling. His plunging body struck against Garth and bowled him over. The two bodies, entangled, half-rolled, half-cartwheeled downslope. A minute of gouging and kicking in choking, blinding dust, then Taylor was kneeling up. He felt a bar across his throat – Garth was behind him, holding the Apache lance under his chin, yanking back, choking him with it!

  Garth drove his knee into the middle of Taylor’s back. Taylor’s spine arched like a bow. He got both hands to the lance and tried to force it away from his throat. But Garth was stronger, the lance haft ground down on Taylor’s windpipe. Breath came out of Taylor in a hoarse whine; lights flashed behind his eyes and he could feel his consciousness ebbing, his tongue forced out between his teeth. Over and behind his right shoulder, Garth gave a half-gasp, half-sigh of triumph. There was suddenly no air in Taylor’s lungs, the sun flickered and was gone, he was in darkness. An instant of that, then light returned.

  Taylor called on the last of his strength; he forced the haft of the lance away from his windpipe. He twisted and doubled forward; Garth spilled headlong over Taylor’s shoulder. He rolled and lay on his back, upslope of his enemy, head pointing down.

  Taylor tried to get up off his knees and failed. Rocks had battered him, thorns had ripped him with many small cuts. Dust seared his lungs. The Apache lance was before him. He got his hands to it but felt almost too weary to lift it.

  Garth made it to his feet. He’d found another discarded weapon, this time a Winchester. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder and aimed at Taylor’s face. Taylor stared at his own death, too tired and hurt to care.

  Maybe the rifle was empty or jammed. Death didn’t come, the weapon didn’t fire. Garth took the barrel in both hands. He came at Taylor in slow, drunken strides, and then he yelled. He started to run the half-dozen yards between them, swinging the rifle as he plunged downslope. Taylor found just enough strength to lift the lance. He thrust upwards.

  Impact jolted against his arms. But he felt no blow of the rifle butt, crashing against his skull.

  Garth’s yelling became a high, peculiar sigh.

  Taylor saw that Garth had run on to the lance. The bayonet tip had entered at the base of the throat and emerged behind his head. He was dead, killed instantly, and still standing. He let the rifle drop. Then he toppled to his knees. But the lance wouldn’t let him fall. The lance butt had grounded itself against the earth, the weapon propped him up. He leaned there, dead and upright.

  Taylor stared at Garth in horror.

  He got to his feet inch by inch. He made the slow climb upslope and re-entered the Compound.

  Kesus was still managing short, ragged breaths, but the death was in his face. Morrison sat against a rock, groaning softly. He gazed at Taylor dazedly. Evans was dead.

  Taylor found one of the Front Rocks to lean on. He gazed out at the basin. He heard hoofs and then a dozen horsemen issued from the east canyon and came towards him. Haze played games with them but after a little while Taylor made out Major Cameron.

  Taylor looked again at the bodies strewn around the Compound. He glanced at the bodies on the slope below, the grim figure of Garth kneeling where death had taken him. Waiting buzzards circled overhead.

  Well, Taylor thought bitterly, at least they hadn’t gone hungry in the last few weeks. It had been a trail of death he’d followed, all the way from the Rio Grande. But a canyon wren was singing from its perch somewhere on the brilliantly coloured cliffs, reminding him that life carried on even amidst such slaughter. And there was plenty in life he still wanted to experience, from the harsh beauty of this landscape, to the music a bird made because it felt good in the morning, to the promise Taylor thought he saw in a woman’s green eyes.

  By the Same Author

  Canyon of the Dead

  Death Wears a Star

  Death Song

  The Arizona Kid

  Copyright

  © Andrew McBride 2008

  First published in Great Britain 2008

  This edition 2011

  ISBN 978 0 7090 9604 7 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7090 9605 4 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7090 9606 1 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7090 8663 5 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Andrew McBride to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988