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 pinon 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
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.
Chapter 38
The monsoon season comes early to northern Mexico, by mid-June, but it lasts well into the summer months. Its broad fronts push into the southwestern United States and reach as far as California, bringing torrential rains and savage winds.
One such front was stalking Stryker and the men who rode with him. The sky was dark, ugly and mean, the day swirling with rain, and the light had disappeared among the tall timber. Thunder detonated with a sound of dynamite, deafening and intimidating, and lightning cracked open the clouds like eggs.
Stryker rode with his head lowered against the downpour. The relentless rain rattled against his hat and soaked him to the skin, bringing with it a chill.
He didn’t see Trimble until the old man was almost on top of him. His face streaming, he yelled above the racket of the storm, “Village a mile ahead, Cap’n.”
Stryker abbreviated his speech. “Pierce?”
Trimble shook his head.
Cantrell heard the exchange and went back to talk with his vaqueros.
“Lead on, Clem,” Stryker yelled.
He tried to build a cigarette, but wind and rain batted tobacco and paper from his fingers. Disappointed, he gave up and threw away the shredded remains.
After a few minutes the trail dropped lower, losing a hundred feet, until it opened up on a wide, grassy valley, studded with oaks and pines that ticked rain and shimmered like silver columns in the lightning flashes.
Stryker saw four of Cantrell’s men drop out of the column and ride east until they disappeared into the gray curtain of the rain. The pueblo must be close.
Trimble swung east, motioning Stryker and the others to follow. The remaining vaqueros rode on to stake out the village from the other side. Thomas rode out of the darkness and swung his horse beside Stryker. The black paint on his face ran down his throat and chest and mingled with the rusty stain of blood on his shirt. He was quiet and withdrawn and said nothing.
The village consisted of adobe houses clustered around a central plaza where there was a church, stores and a well. Most of the buildings were ruined and the church roof had caved in years before. The shop fronts were crumbling, though a couple still had the tattered remains of canvas awnings that flapped in the wind. To the south of the village, beyond a stand of timber, lay an ancient lava flow, most of it as tall as a man on a horse. A few bushes and bunches of scrub grass struggled for life on its top, adding to the rain-swept bleakness of the place.
Stryker found shelter in the trees, then swept the pueblo with his field glasses, pausing constantly to wipe rain from the lenses. Several of the adobes still had roofs and if Pierce and Dugan had sought shelter here, they would be in one of them. No horses were in sight, but they would have taken their mounts inside with them or stabled them in another adobe.
Wordlessly, he passed the glasses to Birchwood; then he motioned Cantrell, Trimble and the Comanche closer. “The adobe on the left, under the oak. We’ll take the horses inside there, then sweep the village on foot.” He looked at Trimble. “Clem, how is the hand?”
“I’ll manage, Cap’n.”
Stryker waited until a thunderclap rolled across the sky, then said, “Both these men are good with guns, but Silas Dugan is better than most. Be careful, and keep another man in sight at all times.” He looked around at his four companions. “Any questions?”
There were none and Stryker said, “Then we’ll ride on in.”
They had to cross fifty yards of open ground, but the day was so wild and the visibility so bad that Stryker was confident they could pass unnoticed. That proved to be the case because they reached the adobe without drawing fire.
The house was small, but it was large enough to accommodate the horses and it still had most of its roof.
Trimble loosened the girth on his mount, then wiped rain off his face with his sleeve. “What do we do now, Cap’n? Start kicking in doors?”
“Thomas can see and hear better than any of us.” He turned to the Comanche, rain dripping from his hat onto the mud floor. “Can you find them?”
The Indian nodded. “If they are here, I will find them.”
“We’ll do some searching ourselves,” Stryker said.
“But if you find out where they’re at, come looking for us. Don’t try to take them by yourself.” He looked into the man’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
Thomas nodded, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and stepped outside the door. An instant later he was dead.
Stryker heard the two shots, close together and louder than the roaring of the thunder. He ran for the door, his Colt in his hand.
Rain whip-lashed through the village, and searing lightning flares followed one after another. Thomas lay sprawled on his back, splashed with mud from his fall. Rake Pierce stood ten yards away.
The man’s long black hair tossed across his bearded face and he was grinning.
“Pierce, you bastard!” Stryker screamed, all his pent-up fury turning his voice into a rabid shriek of rage. He raised his gun and fired at Pierce, who was starkly outlined by a shimmering lightning flash.
Pierce fired back, then ducked behind a low wall.
Stryker followed, his boots splashing through mud, mouth open in a soundless roar. He reached the wall, the downpour hissing around him. But Pierce was nowhere in sight.
