"Man, you must have hit your head when you hit that shed."
"It should work, Gary!"
Gary shook his head. "I thought you might have found something that would be useful to us."
Tuck looked carefully about, as though someone might be eavesdropping. "There's something else about that candle."
"Shoot!"
Tuck's blue eyes were wide in his face. "It's partly made from dead man's fat, Gary," he whispered hoarsely.
"Oh, great!"
Tuck wet his lips. "The fat from a man who was hung for murder!"
A cold shiver crept up Gary's back, even though he was used to the mad ideas of Tuck Browne. He carefully placed the candle on the table and eyed it.
"Infallible," insisted Tuck.
Gary opened two Cokes. "I think I saw that light again, Tuck," he said quietly.
Tuck's jaws stopped moving. "You sure?"
Gary shrugged. "Pretty sure."
"Isn't it likely it could be any of the local ranchers up there hunting for strays maybe?"
Gary shook his head. "You know well enough no local man would shine a light up there, Tuck."
"Yeh." Tuck chewed reflectively. "Still, someone might have lighted a cigarette or something. You could see a match flare up quite a ways off. That's it! Someone lighted a cigarette up there!"
"But who, Tuck?"
Tuck's blue eyes studied Gary. "Who do you think it is?"
Gary walked to the window and looked out toward the huge, dark mass of The Needle. "That's the fourth time I've seen it this summer. No one lives up there. It isn't a fire. It comes and goes just like that! Always in just about the same place too."
"Yes?"
Gary turned. "Just about where that light shows is the best place around for anyone to keep an eye on a person coming up toward The Needle. From where they are situated they can see which way a person goes — into which canyon."
Tuck shoved back his plate. "Come on," he said quickly. "Tell me who you really think it is."
Gary leaned against the wall. "I'm not sure."
Tuck stood up and walked to the window. "Asesino," he said softly.
Again the cold chill came over Gary. Asesino! the half-real, half-mythical outlaw of the Espectros. Many of the local people did not believe he was still alive, or thought that he had long ago left the Espectros. There were others who were sure he had never left his hide-out. A man could live in those mountains and never be seen or found if he did not choose to be seen or found.
"How old would Asesino be now?" asked Tuck.
Gary half closed his eyes. "Let's see, he was about twenty years old when he committed his first murder. That was sometime in the twenties— about 1926 I think. Thirty-five years ago. He'd be about fifty-five years old if he were still alive."
"It's possible then," said Tuck quietly.
"No one has seen him for years. There have been rumors that he has been seen. I've never met anyone yet who said he had seen him in the last ten or fifteen years."
"Yeh," said Tuck thoughtfully. "But there have been murders up in there the past ten or fifteen years."
"Murders or accidents?"
"A man can't shoot himself in the back of the head with a rifle, can he?"
Tuck had Gary there. Two men, known to be looking for the Lost Espectro Mine, had vanished, and later one of them had been found lying in the middle of his camp with a bullet from a large-caliber rifle in the back of his skull. The coroner had verified the fact that the rifle had been fired from some distance, at an angle indicating that the marksman had been higher than the camp. The other man had never been found. Some people said he had killed his partner. Others said he had been killed by the same person who had killed his partner. No one really knew. That had been about twelve years ago.
Asesino had been a half-breed, or perhaps more than a half-breed. His father had been a white man, a deserter from the Army, who had married an Apache woman, whose father had been a Negro, or so the story went. Asesino then had been part white, part Indian, part Negro, and all bad. Asesino was not the man's real name. No one was sure what his real name had been. He had murdered his young wife in a drunken and jealous rage, then had fled toward the border. A posse had stopped him, and in the ensuing fight two possemen had died and Asesino had escaped. Trapped on three sides, he had retreated north, into the Espectros, which were an almost impenetrable fortress. He had committed several other killings, thus gaining the Spanish name he bore, a name that fitted him well — Asesino… The Assassin.
Asesino was one of the many legends about the Espectros, writing his legend in letters of blood. The man had the cunning and guile of a wolf, the cold ferocity of a grizzly, the stalking skill of a she-lion, the speed of an antelope, and the killing skill of a shark. The man had been an expert with rifle and pistol, bow and arrow, and knife — a man who could be set adrift in empty country without weapons and survive as his Apache ancestors had managed to survive in that wild and isolated country.
Tuck peered from the window. "Whoever it is might be watching for anyone traveling toward The Needle. He could see them easily enough during the day, no matter how they went in. Dust would rise from hooves or wheels. On moonlit nights it's almost as clear as daylight in there. On dark nights he could see can lights, or perhaps hear wheels and hooves. That place echoes like a tomb."
"Yeh… a tomb," said Gary. "You hit it, amigo."
"Now, if two guys, say like you and me, were to sneak in there before moonrise, keeping quiet as the grave…"
"There you go again!"
"We might just spot something," continued Tuck calmly.
"Such as?"
"That loco sign you and your pa have been trying to spot all summer long."
Gary nodded. "As long as we don't go past The Needle."
"I wasn't aiming to!" said Tuck hastily.
It was an established fact that explorers, dudes, and ranchers had never been bothered south of The Needle. The canyons opened beyond the landmark, to the north, fanning out to penetrate deep into the Espectros. That was where the trouble always started. First the feeling that you were being watched. Then the warning shots. After that, you were on your own…
"We can take the jeep," said Gary. "Drive without lights. Leave it on the playa south of the canyon where The Needle is. Walk in."
"How far?"
"Maybe a mile."
Tuck groaned. "Guess it can't be helped."
Gary put out the lights after he had managed to find a half dozen cartridges for his rifle. He loaded the weapon outside and stowed it in the back of the jeep. Tuck slid his six feet into the right front seat and sat with his bony knees up under his chin. It was very dark outside. Far across the quiet desert they could see sharp pinpoints of light. Headlights could be seen on the main highway into Cottonwood Wells. The glow from the lights of the town was visible above the rocky hills just south of it. But the Espectros were dark, a forbidding mass against the northern sky.
"Where's Lobo?" asked Gary's friend.
"Quien sabe? Who knows? I haven't seen him all day."
"He often take off like that?"
"Once in a while."
"Great! We sure could use him now."
Gary grinned. "You afraid, Tucker?"
Tuck nodded. "So are you, amigo."
He was right. Gary started the jeep, drove out to the road, moving slowly because he had not turned on the headlights. He turned up a wide dry wash, and they bumped and clattered along it until they reached the playa, a place where sand, rock, and brush had been washed down the big canyon during flash floods. Gary stopped the engine and clambered out. Tuck got out and stretched. Gary took his rifle from the jeep, and the two of them stood there in the velvety darkness, listening to the dry soughing of the night wind through the mesquite.