Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 37

Stryker splashed across the creek, flanked by Birchwood and Cantrell. The Mexican had waved his men forward and they’d galloped off to the south with Trimble. But Pierce and Dugan could easily lose themselves in this country and it would be a useless pursuit.

A bullet had plowed across the Comanche’s left shoulder, near the neck, a bloody wound that had turned the front of his shirt crimson.

“The two men we hunt were hidden in the rocks,” Thomas said, addressing Stryker. “One of them fired too soon and”—he motioned to his shoulder—“gave me this. I rode into the trees and fired back. They did not wait around long.”

Cantrell stepped closer to the Indian, his face concerned. “Can you ride, amigo?”

“Si, patrón,” Thomas answered. “I would ride with more serious wounds than this.”

He turned away and foraged among the trees for willow leaves and wildflowers. When he returned to the waiting men his shoulder was padded and the bleeding had stopped.

Thomas looked at the sky, clear blue with no cloud in sight. “Thunder is coming,” he said, “and much rain. There is an abandoned village ten miles to the south and it is my mind that the men we chase could seek shelter there.” He nodded. “Maybe so.”

A look of horror flashed in Cantrell’s face and he hurriedly crossed himself. “I know that village, Thomas. El Pueblo de la Muerte is a place of evil. We cannot go there.” He looked at Stryker. “It was a plague village, many years ago, and the ghosts of the dead still walk there.”

“Don Carlos, maybe there are things that scare Pierce and Dugan—I don’t know, but I doubt that ghosts are one of them.”

“The men we chase will not go to the village, Lieutenant. No one goes there.”

“They might, if they don’t know its reputation.”

“My vaqueros are simple men and so superstitious they will ride five miles around a place where a vaquero was struck by lightning. They will not enter the pueblo.” As the Comanche had done, Cantrell looked at the sky. “Besides, there will be no storm.”

Thomas shook his head. “Your pardon, patrón, but the thunder is coming.”

Stryker turned to Birchwood. “Are you afraid of the boogerman, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Thomas, you will enter the village?”

“I do not fear spirits.”

“And Trimble will make four of us.” Stryker looked at Cantrell. “Don Carlos, you and your men can stay at a distance and seal off the approaches to the village from the north and south. Pierce won’t head east into the desert and his way to the west is blocked by the mountains.”

“Five of us will go, Lieutenant. It is my duty. I will post my vaqueros around the pueblo as you say.”

Cantrell’s men returned an hour later. They’d seen no sign of Pierce or Dugan. Cantrell spoke to them, about the death village and the task he had for them.

Reading the expressions of the vaqueros, Stryker saw that they had no desire to get close to the place. Years before, men like these had passed on their fears of haunts and ghosts to the Texas punchers, who were now among the most superstitious group of men on earth.

One by one, a few of the older riders among them spoke up, their brown faces concerned, even frightened. All of the vaqueros had faced Apaches, outlaws and cattle rustlers without thought for their own hides. But these were men who believed that bad luck would follow if you used the same iron on an animal twice, placed your left foot in the stirrup first or put on your hat in bed. The supernatural was very real to them, and the evil reputation of the plague pueblo realer still.

In the end, and after what seemed to be a lot of convincing, the vaqueros agreed to cover the north and south approaches to the village—at a safe distance.

“They will let no one in or out,” Cantrell told Stryker.

“If a big rain comes as Thomas says, Pierce and Dugan will have reached the village before us,” Stryker said. “We’ll go in real quiet and easy, and on foot.”

Cantrell nodded. “If they are there, we will find them.”

Stryker smiled. “Or they’ll find us.”

Because of the threat of another ambush, both Trimble and the Comanche took the point. After clearing the valley, the trail along the mountains climbed upward and the country became more rugged.

Stryker calculated that they were at least eight thousand feet above the flat, and the juniper and piñon began to give way to high timber, mainly ponderosa and lodgepole pine, cut through by thick forests of oak.

As Thomas had predicted, the sky lowered on the riders like a lead roof and a stiffening breeze gusted off the mountains. It was not yet three in the afternoon, but the day was growing dark and a few splashy drops of rain were being tossed around in the wind.

Behind Stryker the vaqueros were talking among themselves and he was sure the death village and its malignant spirits was the sole topic of conversation.

It was also uppermost in Cantrell’s mind. He edged his mustang closer to Stryker. “Lieutenant, it has been said by those few who have visited the village and survived that on days like this the souls of the dead can be heard wailing, lamenting their fate. I have heard that the plague killed a hundred people in less than a week. Another week passed, and by then everyone was dead.”

Stryker smiled. “The wailing is the sound of the wind tangled in the trees, Don Carlos.”

The young man shook his head. “No, the wailing comes from the village, not the trees.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Cantrell said, “On days like this, the spirits walk. You will hear them, and see them.”

“Don Carlos, right now I’m more afraid of Pierce and Dugan than I am the ghosts of dead peasants.”

“We will kill them, Lieutenant, never fear. The spirits of my wife and father are already reaching out to me. Their spirits will not rest until they are avenged. That is what they are telling me.”

Stryker looked at him and said, “That time is close, when we’ll kill Pierce and Dugan or they’ll kill us. One way or another, the reckoning is at hand. For me at least, it’s been a long time in coming.”

“How are you with the pistola, Lieutenant?” Cantrell asked.

Stryker smiled. It was a shade late for that question. “Fair,” he said.

The young Mexican tapped the handle of his Colt in its fancy gun rig. “I’m less than fair. I use this to string wire and hammer nails.”

“Please, Don Carlos,” Stryker sighed. “Don’t give me any more good news.”

“I just thought you should know,” Cantrell said. He did not smile when he said it.