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  Taylor felt a warm anger that was almost pleasant. There was now a nice tally of indignities to pay this man back for, if he got his chance.

  The horsemen reined in at the edge of camp. One man pushed his rosewood bay forward.

  Garth walked over to him. He said, ‘Eli.’

  Eli Morrison was a big name in this quarter of the territory, so Taylor was surprised to see a short man who didn’t seem to have much spare flesh on him. Morrison looked nearer sixty than fifty, a grey handlebar moustache dwarfing a narrow face. He had what looked like a cast in his left eye. He wore the dusty trail gear, bandanna, vest and batwing chaps of the cowhands with him; he was in no way better dressed. He swept off his sombrero and showed he was bald, a few wisps of grey hair on his scalp and around his ears. But his eyes were blue and angry, and they fixed on Jed Garth. He said, ‘You’re still not keeping any better company, Garth.’ Taylor decided Morrison’s voice had kept its East Texas origins. It also showed his dislike for Garth.

  Garth offered a slight, conciliatory smile. ‘This is a good outfit, Eli.’

  Morrison’s lips twisted with contempt. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Garth indicated Taylor. ‘We was asking this feller here how come he managed to escape the massacre. We wasn’t satisfied with his answer.’

  ‘Is that any reason to hang him?’

  ‘We figure he’s a renegade. Did a deal with the Indians to save his own hide.’

  Evans put in his two cents’ worth. In an angry, choked voice he said, ‘Then he left the rest of us to die!’

  Cameron said, ‘This man was our scout.’

  Evans nodded. ‘Yeah, and led us into an ambush!’

  ‘Damn you, Evans!’ Because of the sling on his left arm Cameron dismounted awkwardly and came forward. The wind pushed against him. His eyes were slitted against it and his bottom lip was thrust forward, his face full of indignation. ‘Being ambushed by experts doesn’t make you a renegade.’

  A muleskinner said, ‘Let’s hang this Indian-lover!’

  Morrison might be small, but Taylor decided he was plenty feisty. The rancher gave the muleskinner a look that would have withered solid rock. ‘There’ll be no lynching on my land! There’s a lot here we need to get to the bottom of, and I intend to get to the bottom of it!’

  Garth said, ‘I suggest we do it someplace else. Instead of augurin’ in the middle of a dust storm.’

  Morrison thought a moment, then nodded. ‘Your people are welcome to the hospitality of my ranch.’

  Garth said, ‘I’m obliged, Eli, but the way this wind’s building we’ll be chin-deep in sand ’fore we get there. The stage station at Agua Dulce’s only about eight miles west. A few of my boys might be there.’

  Morrison nodded again.

  Someone found a horse for Taylor. Garth observed, ‘Best tie him, Eli, in case he bolts.’

  Morrison answered with a look of some contempt. ‘I don’t hogtie folks without reason.’ At the same time he showed he had some sense of humour. He told Taylor, ‘You can ride up near me, son, keep me company. I wouldn’t want you to wander off.’

  Camp broke up, people climbed into the saddle. The party moved off. Taylor tried to catch Cameron’s eye, or more particularly his daughter’s, but both turned their horses and were lost in swirling dust.

  A few miles along they came across some more Morrison riders. As these dim figures emerged from wind-blown sand, Taylor saw there was a woman amongst them, barely clinging to her horse.

  Lifting his voice over the gale, Morrison asked, ‘What you got there, boys?’

  One cowhand told him, ‘We found her, running round in the desert.’ He gazed at Morrison and frowned.

  Fiona Cameron said, ‘Señora Sanchez!’

  Señora Sanchez slipped from horseback and ran forward. But she didn’t run to Fiona. Taylor watched in surprise as she ran to him.

  Morrison said, ‘Get down and greet her, son.’

  Bemused, Taylor did so.

  She startled him by flinging her arms around him, crying ‘Ramon! Ramon!’ and bursting into tears.

  Morrison said, ‘Now don’t take on, ma’am. We’ll soon get you back to safety.’

  Señora Sanchez clung to Taylor, sobbing and crying out in Spanish. He couldn’t make out the words at first and then he realized she was crying: ‘My boy! My boy! You’re safe! You’re safe! Thank God! Thank God!’

  Taylor took her gently by the shoulders and stepped back, gazing into her face, which appeared and disappeared behind her wind-blown hair. One glance into her eyes told him the likeliest reason she was still alive. Even if the Apaches had captured her, she would have been safe. They feared the insane, and wouldn’t harm them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Towards dusk they came into view of Agua Dulce.

  Here was an abandoned swing station for a failed stage line. There were a scatter of adobes and a well: one main building and a few smaller outbuildings and huts. In back of that was a corral with high adobe walls on three sides. Here also were three more of Garth’s muleskinners.

  Two of these men came from the main house and greeted their boss. Riders dismounted and began to enter this building.

  Garth pointed with his rifle. He told Taylor, ‘After you.’

  Taylor set off in the direction Garth indicated and the merchant followed. They passed the corral where a man, the third of Garth’s muleskinners, leaned on the mesquite bars of the fence. He was talking to the stock in the corral, making the kind of soothing noises you used to calm snuffy, wind-spooked horses. Garth said, ‘Schim.’

  Schim turned and said, ‘Boss.’ He glanced idly at Taylor and then looked more sharply, as if he recognized him. Taylor couldn’t remember seeing this man’s long, pale face but Schim seemed to know him, or thought he did. Taylor’s heart sank. He thought: maybe here’s someone else who knows me from Arizona. Knows me as Calvin Taylor, the Indian-lover.

  Taylor and Garth moved on and came to a little adobe hut with a flat roof of mesquite thatch.

  Once inside the bare, unfurnished hut Taylor was told to sit in one corner. Garth departed. A guard, one of the muleskinners, sat by the steer-hide door and laid his pistol on his lap. He took out his Bible and began to shape a cigarette, reminding Taylor of his craving for tobacco.

  There were no windows in this hut to give light so the guard lit a kerosene lamp. Taylor listened to the bleary voice of the wind outside.

  Later, Taylor had a visitor: Fiona Cameron.

  She brought him a meal, the range staple of bacon, beans and sourdough biscuits, and a cup of coffee. She didn’t speak, and barely met his eye, before leaving.

  After he ate, Cameron and Morrison came over.

  Cameron said, ‘Well, Taylor, this is a sorry state of affairs.’

  Cameron seemed to have aged ten years on the Trail of Lost Souls. The last days had deepened the lines in his face and whitened his hair. Worse, his eyes, which were once bright with confidence, now seemed either dull or bewildered.

  ‘Nobody’s told me, Major, what happened. In Devil’s Pass.’

  Cameron gazed into space. He rubbed at the sling that held his left arm. ‘It was a slaughter. A slaughter.’

  He said the last word so low Taylor could barely hear him. He went on: ‘We were first, that’s why we survived. Myself, Fiona, Buck Evans. We got up to the top of the bluff first. They hit us just as the rest were maybe halfway up. The worst possible time.’ Cameron blinked and a tear ran a red trail down his left cheek. ‘That’ll be with me long as I live. What I heard, what I saw …’ There was a little silence. Morrison reached out and rested one hand on Cameron’s shoulder. Eventually the Scot found his voice again. ‘They just shot us down. They’d got hold of a lot more guns from somewhere. Two days before, you said, they were poorly armed….’

  Morrison said, ‘Somebody sold ’em guns.’

  Taylor’s mouth twisted bitterly. ‘At least no one’s blaming me for that.’

  Morrison glared an
grily. ‘Somebody did, though; sold those Indians guns, may he burn in Hell for it for ever.’

  Cameron nodded. ‘Wasn’t for him, most of us would have climbed that bluff and got away.’

  Taylor wondered if he should tell the truth now. But that would still mean revealing why Loco’s son had set him free. That would be enough reason for Garth’s men, at least, to see him decorating a tree…. Anyway, what did he know about the gunrunner? That he wore jingle-bobs on his spurs? So did maybe a quarter of the horsemen in the territory.

  Taylor asked, ‘How did you get away, Major?’

  ‘I guess most of the Indians were down in the basin. Only a little bunch came after us up on the top. They didn’t have Winchesters and we drove ’em off. That’s when we got separated from Evans. Wandered round the desert until Morrison here found us. Saved us.’

  ‘You all right … you and Fiona?’

  Cameron touched his sling. ‘This’ll heal. Fiona didn’t get a scratch, thank the Lord.’

  The gale outside seemed to ease. A stray draught flickered the flame in the kerosene lamp and shadows stretched on the yellow adobe wall.

  Cameron said, ‘You were right, Taylor.’

  ‘Major?’

  ‘You said wait until we knew if hostiles were in this country. But I wouldn’t wait. I was another Moses, going to lead my people to a promised land. Instead … I led them all to their deaths.’

  ‘We didn’t find one dead child, Major. And some of the women are still missing. Most likely they ain’t dead: the Apaches carried them off.’

  The steer-hide door creaked as it swung open and Jed Garth entered. He said, ‘I don’t want to interrupt, gentlemen, but I wondered … you got anything out of the prisoner?’

  Morrison said, ‘We were just about to get to that.’ He turned to Taylor. ‘So what’s your story? You just fought your way through?’

  ‘I managed to pull an Indian off his pony. Rode out of the canyon.’

  ‘How’d you lose your rifle and your gun?’

  ‘I dunno. I got a knock on the head somewhere and I can’t remember everything.’

  Morrison looked at the prisoner in vague disgust. ‘That’s kind of thin, son. You’re hiding something.’

  Taylor’s temper flared. ‘I don’t even know why I’m being held here. What’ve I done, apart from getting out of Devil’s Pass alive?’

  ‘Nothing. Except I’ve got the feeling if we don’t watch you close, you’ll take off for parts unknown quicker than a scalded cat.’

  Taylor studied the low roof of the adobe rather than meet Morrison’s eye. He decided this was a shrewd old bastard, as that was just what he was thinking!

  Morrison said, ‘Soon as we get back to my ranch, we’ll find a county sheriff to hand you over to. He’ll decide if you’re a wrongdoer or not. You’ll get due process of the law.’ Morrison addressed Garth. ‘That all right by you?’

  Hostility was in Morrison’s voice but Garth managed a small smile in return. ‘Sure, Eli.’

  Garth left.

  Morrison stared after him in distaste. ‘There’s another one doesn’t seem right. Respectable businessmen … and yet … I can tell a rough customer. I wonder what his name was in the States?’

  Taylor said, ‘I’m obliged, Mr Morrison.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If you hadn’t showed, Garth’s men would have strung me up.’

  Morrison glared. ‘Don’t thank me yet. Maybe I saved an innocent man from getting lynched. Or maybe you are what Garth said – a renegade who led a lot of poor, innocent people to a cruel death. Mr Cameron’s people. And justice has just been postponed.’ The old man’s fierce blue eyes burned into Taylor’s and his thin hands clenched into fists. ‘Either way, I will, by God, find out.’

  As Garth emerged from the hut Fiona Cameron came towards him. He touched his hat and greeted her. She smiled and responded and went on into the hut.

  Normally Garth would have let his thoughts dwell on a woman like that. He was a man with an appetite for all the finer things of life. He came from a family that had known wealth, owned land, property and even people before the War destroyed the great house and the plantation, and the carpetbaggers descended like vultures on what was left. He’d been busted down to little more than a field hand and it had been a long fourteen years trying to claw his way back. In the process he became someone who’d forgotten what it was like to wear a new silk shirt each day. Now he wore black sateen, and didn’t worry if he hadn’t changed his shirt from one day to the next. A man who, to fit in with those around him, said ‘ain’t’ not ‘isn’t’. One thing that he hadn’t lost, however, was his appreciation of fine women.

  But he didn’t think about Fiona Cameron now. His throat was dry and there was sweat on the palms of his hands. He was afraid, he realized, and had been ever since he’d come across the nightmarish scene in Devil’s Pass….

  When a figure moved in the gusty darkness before him, Garth’s hand went to the cedar grip of the Colt pistol on his hip. Then he saw it was Schim. Garth told himself: Get a hold of your nerves, damn you, before a bad situation gets even worse!

  Schim said, ‘Boss, I need to speak to you. Private.’

  Garth nodded.

  They found an open-faced shed that might have been used as a smithy. A night guard patrolled nearby, a dim figure behind blown dust, his rifle cradled in his arms, but he was out of earshot.

  Schim was a tall man with hair and moustache so fair it was almost invisible, and pale-blue eyes. They called him Schim because no one could pronounce his long German name. Some of the other men took against him because of the cold deadness of his eyes, which seemed to reflect his cold-heartedness generally. But Garth didn’t care about that. He valued Schim more than anyone else in the outfit. There wasn’t much Schim was afraid of and not much he wouldn’t do, if the money was right. Which was why he was Garth’s only partner in the merchant’s latest, and most dangerous, venture.

  Garth said, ‘I think maybe we’ve got in too deep here, Schim.’

  Schim said, ‘Boss, that feller you brought in – Taylor.’ He lowered his voice so Garth had to strain to hear him from only a few paces away. ‘I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘So?’

  Schim was nervous as hell and it showed in his voice. ‘I saw him in Loco’s camp.’

  At the word `Loco’ Garth flinched. He looked for the night guard. The man was still in view, although further away now. Then Garth asked Schim, ‘When?’

  ‘When I was delivering the guns.’

  Taylor looked up as Fiona Cameron approached. She reached down for the tin plate he’d cleaned, and the tin cup. She showed nothing in her face, and she wouldn’t meet his eye.

  He saw Cameron and Morrison were in conference by the entrance. Keeping his voice low so they might not hear, he told her, ‘What they’re saying about me … it isn’t true.’

  When she replied it was low too, almost a whisper. ‘I know it isn’t.’

  ‘Except …’

  She was still reaching, but paused. He swallowed, because he didn’t want to say what he said next. ‘They call me a squaw man. Well, in Arizona, I lived with an Aravaipa Apache girl.’

  ‘White men can’t marry Apaches.’

  His mouth twisted with irony. ‘We wasn’t exactly married. So now you know. When they say I’m an Indian-lover, they’re right.’

  She held still a minute. Then she said, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Sure you don’t care?’

  She lifted the plate and cup. Somehow, doing that, she managed to brush her left hand across the top of his hands. She glanced at him; he felt a small excitement at the look in her eyes. She said, ‘I don’t care.’

  Schim said, ‘They had Taylor tied down and was all set to go to work. So how’d he get free?’

  Garth dismissed the question with a small shake of his head. ‘Thing is, did he see you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you don�
��t know.’

  Garth watched the night guard pacing the low hill above him. His thoughts were whirling, he tried to nail them down and find the one idea in there that might get him out of this mess.

  Schim said, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t’ve sold that last lot of guns. Loco used ’em a damn sight too well. And a damn sight too soon after he got ’em. Anyone finds out …’

  Garth was suddenly confident again. He knew what he was going to do. ‘Nobody’ll find out, Schim. Taylor hasn’t said anything yet.’

  ‘Not yet he hasn’t. But—’

  ‘And he won’t.’

  ‘Boss—’

  Garth smiled. ‘Down in Mexico – well, you know I hate to say anything good about them damn chilli-eaters, but even a greaser gets a good idea now and then. Like them rurales, them Mexican police. What keeps happening to their prisoners. You heard of the law of ley fuga?’

  Schim got the idea straight away. His face brightened. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re going to draw some guard duty tonight, Schim. Guarding Mr Taylor. Then …’

  ‘Ley fuga.’ Schim nodded slightly. ‘Killed while trying to escape.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Taylor woke instantly.

  He was surprised he’d managed to sleep, on this hard floor, under a few flimsy blankets, in the chill of the night, with the banshee keening of the wind outside. But he had because the darkness around him was thicker and blacker, and the wind had fallen to a sullen moan.

  So what had awakened him?

  It had been the creak of the steer-hide door opening.

  And something else, another sound.

  The air was still cold and he moved his numbed hands to get life back into them. He gazed towards the doorway and a piece of the darkness moved, formed shape and became the silhouette of a man standing over him, face and features in shadow. Taylor determined that the bar across the man’s body was a rifle.