Mount Dragon

Then he saw it; a fat diamondback coontail coiled in an S-curve, backed up against the base of a yucca about twenty feet away, its head a good twelve inches off the ground. It was a medium-sized rattler, perhaps two and a half feet long. The snake’s coils were slowly sliding against each other while it held steady in striking position. The rattling had temporarily stopped.

“I’ve got an idea,” Carson said. “This time, one of my own.”

Giving his horse’s lead to de Vaca, he walked carefully away from the snake until he found a suitable mesquite bush. Breaking off two forked branches, he removed the thorns and stobs, then walked back toward de Vaca.

“Oh my God, cabron, don’t tell me you’re going to catch the hijo de perra.”

“I’m going to need your help in just a second.”

“I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“We used to catch snakes like this all the time on the ranch. You cut off their heads, gut ’em, and coil them in the fire. Taste like chicken.”

“Right, with a side of Rocky Mountain oysters. I’ve heard those stories before.”

Carson laughed. “The truth is, we tried it once but the damn snake was all bones. And we burned the shit out of it in the fire, which didn’t help.”

Carson approached the snake. It began buzzing again, coiling into a tense spring, its head swaying ever so slightly. Carson could see the forked tongue flickering a deadly warning. He knew the maximum length of the strike was the length of the snake: two and a half feet. He stayed well beyond that, maneuvering the forked end of the stick toward it. It was unlikely the snake would strike at the stick. They struck only when they sensed body heat.

He moved quickly, pinning the snake’s middle in the fork of the stick.

Instantly the snake uncoiled and began thrashing about. With the second stick, Carson pinned the snake at a second place closer to the head. Then he released the first stick and carefully pinned it even closer to the head, working his way up the body until it was pinned directly behind the neck. The snake, furious, opened its mouth wider, a pink cavern, each fang glistening with a drop of venom. The tail whipsawed back and forth.

Keeping the snake well pinned, Carson reached down gingerly and grabbed it behind the neck, careful to keep his thumb under the snake’s- head and his index and middle fingers wrapped firmly around the axis bone at the neck. Then, dropping the sticks, he held the snake up for de Vaca.

She looked back at him from a safe distance, her arms crossed. “Wow,” she said without enthusiasm. Carson feinted the snake in her direction, grinning as she shrank away. Then he stepped to one side, still holding the thrashing reptile. It was twisting its head, trying unsuccessfully to plant a fang in Carson’s thumb.

“Walk the horses past me,” he said. “As you go, scuff up the ground and turn over a few rocks.”

De Vaca moved the horses past. They pranced by Carson, keeping a wary eye on the snake. When both animals were safely past, Carson grabbed the snake’s tail with his other hand.

“You’ll find a flint arrowhead in the left front pocket of my pants,” he said. “Take it out and cut those rattles off. Be sure you get them all.”

“I think this is just your clever way to get my hand in your pocket,” de Vaca said with a grin. “But I’m beginning to see the idea.” She dug into his pocket, extracting the arrowhead. Then, as Carson balanced the snake’s tail on a flat piece of lava, de Vaca quickly drew the sharp arrowhead across the tail, slicing off the rattles. The snake squirmed, furious.

“Get back,” Carson said. “Releasing him is the most dangerous part.”

He bent forward and, with one hand, placed the snake back in the shade of the lava. He picked up one of the forked sticks with the other hand, and pinned it again behind the animal’s neck. Then, readying himself, he let go and jumped backward in a single motion.

The snake immediately coiled, then struck in their direction. It flopped among the rocks and retracted like a spring, coiling and swaying. Its tail was vibrating furiously, but no sound issued.

De Vaca pocketed the rattles. “Okay, cabron, I’ll admit. I’m impressed as hell. Nye will be, too. But what’s to keep the thing here? It’ll be hours before Nye comes through.”

“Rattlesnakes are exothermic and can’t travel in this kind of heat,” Carson said. “He won’t go anywhere until after sunset.”

De Vaca gave a low chuckle. “I hope it bites Nye on the cajones.”

“Even if it doesn’t bite him, I’m willing to bet it will make him go that much slower.”

De Vaca chuckled again, then leaned over, handing something to Carson. “Nice arrowhead, by the way,” she said mockingly. “Interesting thing for an Anglo to be carrying around in his pocket. Tell me, did you flake it yourself?”

Carson ignored her.

The sun was now directly overhead. They plodded on, the heads of the horses drooping, their eyes half- lidded. Curtains of heat shimmered about them. They passed a cluster of blooming cholla cactus, the glare of the sun turning the purple flowers to stained glass.

Carson glanced over at de Vaca. Like him, she was leading her horse with her head down, face in the shadow of her hat. He reflected on how lucky it had been that he’d gone back for their hats on the way out of the barn. Small things like that were going to make a big difference. If only he’d searched for more canteens to carry water, or quicked one of Muerto’s hooves. Two years earlier, he never would have made such a mistake, even in the panic and uproar of blowing up Mount Dragon.

Water. The thought of water brought Carson’s eyes around yet again to the canteens inside Nye’s saddlebag. He realized he had been glancing surreptitiously at the saddlebag every few minutes. As he watched, de Vaca turned and glanced back at it herself. It was not a good sign.

“What would be the harm in one sip?” she asked at last.

“It’s like giving whiskey to an alcoholic,” Carson said. “One sip leads to another, and soon it’ll be gone. We need the water for the horses.”

“Who gives a shit if the horses survive, if we end up dead?”

“Have you tried sucking on a pebble?” Carson asked.

De Vaca flashed him a dark look and spat something small and glistening from her mouth. “I’ve been sucking all morning. I want a drink. What the hell are these horses good for, anyway? We haven’t ridden them in hours.”

Heat and thirst were making her unreasonable. “They’d go lame if we rode in this stuff,” he said, speaking as calmly as he could. “As soon as we get off the lava—”

“Fuck it,” de Vaca said. “I’m taking a drink.” She reached back for the saddlebag.

“Wait,” said Carson. “Wait a moment. When your ancestors crossed this desert, did they break down like that?”

There was a silence.

“Don Alonso and his wife crossed this desert together. And they nearly died of thirst. You told me so.”

De Vaca looked to one side, refusing to answer.

“If they had lost their discipline, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t try to mind-fuck me, cabron.”

“This is for real, Susana. Our lives depend on keeping these horses alive. Even if we become too weak to walk, we’ll still be able to travel if we keep these horses in good condition.”

“OK, OK, you’ve talked me out of a drink,” she snapped. “I’d rather die of thirst than listen to you preach, anyway.” She pulled savagely on her horse’s lead rope. “Get your ass moving,” she muttered.

Carson fell back a moment to examine Roscoe’s hooves. There was some chipping around the edges, but otherwise they were holding up. No signs of real danger, like bruising or cracks that ran into the corona. They could go perhaps another mile on the lava.

De Vaca was waiting for him to catch up, glancing at the vultures overhead. “Zopilotes. They’re already coming to our funeral.”

“No,” said Carson, “they’re after something else. We’re not that far gone.”