The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 30

Beau Harcourt sulked in his tent, drinking whiskey to dull the pain of the wound and the greater pain of his humiliation.

He’d folded after the deacon drew down on him. He hadn’t even tried to make a play.

The raw whiskey burned Harcourt’s throat. He watched a white moth flutter around the oil lamp, playing with fire.

His gun hand hadn’t been injured.

Damn it, he should’ve tried.

Then he remembered.

“I’ll take the other one off at the wrist, Beau.”

Harcourt watched the moth and his eyes glazed. Growling like an animal, he tore the deacon apart, limb by limb . . . but only in his pain-tangled mind.

A vaquero rode into camp just before midnight.

Harcourt watched the Mexican trot to the deacon’s wagons and step from the saddle.

Santee tumbled from the back of a wagon, yanking up his pants. An angry woman stuck her head out of the canvas and yelled something at him that Harcourt couldn’t hear.

But she was mad as hell.

“The army wasn’t at the river, señor,” the vaquero said.

The deacon’s anger flared. “What the hell do you mean?”

“No army. No money.”

The man was silent for a while, then said, “Plenty of Apache sign in the hills, though. Maybe twenty, thirty bucks, no women or children.”

“What do Gideon and Zedock say?”

The vaquero shrugged. “What the rest of us say, señor. The Apaches have broken out and the army is chasing them. They won’t be buying beef anytime soon.”

“Where is the herd?”

“On the Rio Puerco. The water is not good to drink and the graze is thin on both banks, señor. If we don’t move the herd soon, we’ll have big losses.”

“Harcourt’s men still alive?”

The vaquero nodded. “Sí, ellos todavia viven.”

“Speak American, damn your papist eyes.”

“They still live.” Then he felt the need to explain. “A big fight over no money is a useless thing.”

The deacon saw his thirty thousand dollars rapidly slip through his fingers.

Damn the Apaches and damn the damned army.

The Mexican pushed it as far as he dared. “Patrón, we must move the herd.”

“Give me time to think, damn you,” the deacon said.

South. He’d move south and take a chance that the Texas Rangers hadn’t followed him this far.

“We’ll bring the herd back here,” he said. “We’ll pick up Harcourt’s thousand head and push south.”

“To where?”

“Due south to Fort Apache. We need army money and that’s where it’s at.”

The vaquero was appalled. “Señor, the fort is nearly thirty miles south of the Rim, across high country. We can’t drive a herd due south over mountains.”

“Then we’ll keep to the valleys,” the deacon said. “It’ll only add five, six days to the drive if we push it.”

“But many of the cows are already dying on their feet. We’ll lose half of them.”

“So? There will be enough of them left to make a profit. We take the money and keep on going into Old Mexico.”

“The Apaches are out,” the vaquero said. “We may have a big fight.”

But the deacon was all through talking. “We’ll do as I say. Do you hear me?”

He pulled the Mexican closer to him by his shirtfront. “Will you stick?”

The man nodded. “I ride for the brand, señor.”

Deacon Santee smiled. “Good. Now listen well because we’ve got some killing to do.”