Blood Sky at Morning

Chapter 21

Trask pulled his hat brim down to shield his eyes from the rising sun. But as he gazed at the sky ahead, he saw the first buzzard float to a point and begin circling. The bird was soon joined by two more, then, as they rode on toward the junction of the two wagon roads, several more gathered and began to circle.

“What do you make of it, Hiram?” Ben asked. “Too many buzzards for a dead jackrabbit.”

“It don’t look natural,” Ferguson said. “Must be a big chunk of dead meat to draw that many turkeys this early of a morning.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’,” Trask said.

He turned in the saddle and looked at the men riding behind until he picked the face of the man he wanted.

“Deets, come on up here,” Trask yelled, beckoning with his hand.

Deets rode up alongside Trask.

“Al, see them buzzards up yonder?” Trask said.

“Hell, you can’t miss ’em. That’s all we been lookin’ at for the past five minutes.”

“You ride on up under ’em and see what it is they’re sniffin’.”

“A dead cow, maybe.”

“You check, Al. Be quick about it. You get in trouble, you fire off a shot. Got it?”

“Sure, boss,” Deets said, and slapped his horse’s rump with his reins. He galloped off and the men in line began talking among themselves.

Trask turned around again. “Shut up,” he said, and the men fell silent.

Ferguson suppressed the urge to snort at Trask’s remark. He didn’t want to rile the man up any more than he already was. Trask had been in a foul mood all morning, snapping at the men, cursing the sunrise, the flies, the chill that rose from the earth earlier. He had a lot in his craw and the sight of the buzzards wasn’t doing his mood any damned good.

Trask watched Deets disappear over a rise. The buzzards dipped lower, circling like slow-motion leaves caught in a slow-motion whirlwind. More buzzards had flown in to take their places on the invisible carousel, and Trask unconsciously sniffed the air for the stench of death.

Deets was taking a long time, it seemed, but when Trask looked up at the sky again, he saw that the vultures were at least a quarter mile from him, maybe more. Still, he didn’t like to wait, and he put spurs to his horse’s flanks. The men behind him did the same. Ferguson frowned. They had a long ride ahead of them, days of it, and Trask was already wearing out their horses.

Ted O’Hara saw the buzzards, too, and knew that the sight of them had agitated Trask. This gave him a twinge of pleasure. Trask was a man who had to be in control at all times, he surmised. When he felt that control slipping, he turned ugly and mean. The gallop wouldn’t accomplish much over the stretch of land they had yet to cover, but he knew Trask had sent Deets up ahead to investigate, and yet, didn’t fully trust any of his men. In fact, he probably trusted no man, and that was almost always a fatal flaw. The loner could only go so far in life. Then, when he began to run out of friends, he stood completely alone, and without anyone to rely on, except himself, he was lost. Trask wasn’t at that point yet, but he was certainly headed for it. One of his men, one day, would become fed up with him and put a bullet in his back. And Trask would never know what hit him. He brooked no counsel, took no advice. From anyone, except himself.

The line of men stretched out into a ragged column as the slower riders fell behind, but nobody complained. All of them knew where Trask was headed, just under those circling buzzards, and all would eventually reach it. Some of the men exchanged knowing looks, but kept their comments to themselves.

Trask topped the rise and slowed his horse.

There was Deets, riding back and forth across the old road. He was leaning over, scanning the ground. He rode toward the regular stage road where it had veered off from the old road, then back again, beyond where two saddled horses stood and there were two dark objects on the ground that Trask could not identify as being human or animal.

The men behind him caught up and fanned out to look at what Trask was seeing. None spoke a word, at first. They all just stared at Deets, trying to figure out what he was doing.

As if reading their thoughts, Trask said, “Studying tracks.”

Julio Delgado broke the silence among the men following Trask.

“That is the horse of my wife down there,” he said. “The brown one with the blaze face.”

“I know the other one,” Hector Gonzalez said. “Do you not recognize it, Fidel?”

“Yes, I know that horse, too,” Hector’s brother said.

The Mexicans all grew very excited. They slapped each other on the arms and exchanged knowing looks.

“That is the horse of Jimmy Chama,” Renaldo Valdez said. “Ay de mi.”

“Chama, ain’t he the boy what set up O’Hara for the capture?” Trask asked.

“Yep, he’s the one. A sergeant in the army out at the fort. But he said he was going to desert as soon as my men got away clean with O’Hara.”

“What’s his horse doing there, I wonder,” Grissom said. “And him not on it.”

“Carmen, oh Carmencita,” Julio breathed, “’onde stas?”

He twisted the reins in his hands as if he wanted to strangle someone.

“Let’s go see what we got,” Trask said, and dug spurs into his horse’s flanks.

Deets rode off toward a long low hill on his left. He stopped his horse, then looked at all of the other hills, a jumble of them, rising on either side and behind. He turned his horse and rode back to where the other horses stood and where the dead bodies lay. He kept looking back over his shoulder and then he rubbed a spot behind his neck.

As he rode closer, Trask saw that the dark shapes on the ground were human. And they were dead. A man and a woman.

“Al,” he said as Deets rode up.

“Found ’em like this,” Deets said. “That’s what brung them buzzards.”

“What do you make of it?” Trask asked, looking down at the body of Chama.

“Still tryin’ to sort it all out, Ben. Near as I can figger, they was three riders—Chama, that lady yonder, and one other. He might have kilt them two lyin’ on the ground, or some other riders come up and they could have kilt ’em, but that don’t make no sense, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Three riders come from over yonder like they was ridin’ the stage road to Tucson. Then the tracks show four of them rode off toward them hills yonder.” Deets pointed in the direction from which he had just come.

“So, we’re dealing with four riders,” Trask said.

“Looks thataway. Less’n there’s more about.”

“What the hell do you mean, Al?”

“I mean, these are the onliest tracks I seen, Ben. Maybe this was some kind of bushwhack, and four people jumped these two, then rejoined their outfit. Could be the army, I reckon.”

“Shit,” Trask said.

The others crowded around to listen to what Deets had to say. Julio Delgado rode over to the body of his wife and dismounted. He bent over her and began to sob. Renaldo looked over at him and then rode his horse up close and dismounted. He patted Julio on the back. Then he, too, began to weep, so quietly the others could not hear. The other Mexicans drifted over, one by one, to console the grief-stricken Julio, who was cradling his dead wife in his arms and rocking slowly back and forth.

O’Hara suppressed a smile. This was not a military operation, but Trask was too dumb to see it.

Ferguson looked at Chama’s face, then turned away, as if death were too much for him in the harsh light of day. He gulped in fresh air to keep from gagging on the smell.

Trask looked over at O’Hara. “You know that man there?” he asked.

“He was a sergeant,” O’Hara said. “Rode with our patrol.”

“You know anything about this?”

“Not any more than you do, Trask. Two people dead. Probably killed by gunshots.”

“You’re not as smart as you might think you are, O’Hara.”

O’Hara said nothing. He kept his face blank, impassive as desert stone.

Trask turned back to Deets. “The tracks lead over yonder, right?”

“Right, boss. I figure they circled that long hill and either lit a shuck or are watching us right now.”

Trask scanned the top of the ridge. Everything looked the same. Rocks, cactus, dirt. He saw nothing move, saw no sign of life anywhere.

“Well, if there was an army waiting up there, they could have picked us off by now. We’re riding on.”

“Aren’t we going to bury these two?” Ferguson asked.

“I don’t give a damn,” Trask said. “We’ve already wasted enough time here.” He looked up at the sky. “Them buzzards got to eat, too.”

“I will bury my wife,” Julio said. “And Chama, too.” He crossed himself.

Trask fixed him with a look of contempt. “Do whatever you want, Delgado. We’re ridin’ on. You’d better catch up.”

“I will catch up,” Julio said, biting hard to cut back on his anger.

“I will help Julio,” Renaldo said. “It will not take too long.”

“I, too, will stay and help dig the graves,” Manuel Diego said.

Trask headed straight up the old road, Deets, Ferguson, Cavins, and O’Hara right behind him. The others trailed after them as Julio and Renaldo drew their knives and began cutting into the hard pan of the desert. Julio’s face was streaked with grimy tears and he was shaking as he dug.

“That bastard Trask,” he said, in English. “Un hijo de puta, salvaje.”

“Calm yourself, Julio,” Renaldo said in Spanish. “One day, perhaps, we will bury him.”

“That would give me much satisfaction,” Julio said.

He picked up the small pistol lying next to his wife, examined it and stuck it under his belt.

“I wonder where she got this pistol,” he said softly.

Renaldo shrugged.

Trask turned to Ferguson when they had traveled a short distance.

“I know who killed that Chama and Carmen Delgado,” he said.

“You do? How? Who?”

“Cody,” Trask said. “He’s in this, somewhere.”

“How do you know?” Ferguson asked.

“I just know. I know it in my gut, that sonofabitch. I figure Chama made a mistake, or maybe went for his gun. The woman, she may have thrown down on Cody, too. That bastard’s fast. Very fast. He sure as hell could have killed them both. And I know damned well he did.”

“Who are the other riders, then?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I just don’t know, damn it all.”

He rolled a quirly and stuck it in his mouth. He lit a match and drew the smoke in. Ferguson got very quiet, but kept looking off to his left at the jumble of hills and the long ridge that seemed to be the land brooding down on them.

Over on the ridge there was just the slightest movement as Cody peered down at the old road.

He moved so slowly and held his head so still, he might have been just another rock to anyone glancing up at him. He was hatless, and his face, browned from the sun, was not much different in color than the desert itself.