Mondrega toppled, landed heavily on Jackson and lay still Baker rolled off the end of the chest and slammed down on the two of them, squirming and uttering liquid, choking sounds.
Jackson felt the wagon lurch and leap ahead as the terrified mules bolted. The echoing tumult fell away behind and rapidly faded. When he could no longer hear any sound of battle Jackson dragged himself out from under the inert figures of his comrades.
The mules, nearing exhaustion from their blind dash, were slowing down. He managed to catch the flying reins and whipsaw the team to a panting halt. He saw that the run had taken them out of the narrow pass and into a broad valley. For the moment he could detect no sound or sign of pursuit.
He scrambled back into the wagon bed to examine his companions. Mondrega was unconscious from a bullet crease across his skull and bled from a flesh wound in one arm. Baker was in bad shape. A rifle ball had gone through one lung and he was coughing up a steady froth of blood. He needed medical aid—and fast.
Jackson’s own wound proved no more than a painful crease in which the blood was already congealing. He got to his feet, using the chest for support, and suddenly full awareness of its contents hit him. Two hundred thousand dollars in gold...
His mouth dried out and a choking sensation caught his throat. If no one else survived the ambush—no one else could know what became of that fortune. He began to shake.
Abruptly he became aware of the background. To the right the entire slope was covered by the most immense cemetery he had ever seen. The slope was crowded with graves as far as the eye could reach. Each grave was marked by a plain wooden headboard. This could only be Sad Hill Cemetery, the military burying ground begun during the Mexican War, augmented by the Indian troubles and now being swollen by the fruits of the War Between the States.
Partway up the slope gaped the raw scar of a newly dug grave, not yet occupied. Jackson lunged up to the wagon seat and used the ends of the reins to lash the mules into movement.
Beside the open grave he sprang down and lowered the tailgate of the wagon. He caught hold of the rope handle an the end of the chest and hauled with all his might, ignoring the pain that knifed along his ribs as his wound reopened. The massive chest moved slowly—but it moved.
In the wagon bed the wounded Baker opened shock-dimmed eyes. He stared at the empty space where the chest had rested. Then slowly, agonizingly, he rolled his head far enough to see past the back of the wagon to endless rows of marked graves.
He became dimly aware of the sound of frenzied scraping and the hollow thump of pebbles and earth on wood. It was coming from somewhere close by but the sideboard of the wagon blocked his line of sight. He tried to raise himself up enough to see but the effort proved too much. With a low, gurgling moan he fell back into unconsciousness.
Mondrega’s eyes flickered open at Baker’s movement, stared blankly around far a moment, then closed again.
The court martial, held in Santa Fe’s Palace of Governors was little more than a formality. A lieutenant testified to finding the entire cavalry escort dead in the pass and bringing in the bodies for identification and burial.
Jackson was next on the stand. His story was brief and convincing. He had been the first one hit and knocked from the seat. Then Mondrega and Baker, in succession, had taken bullets and fallen across him, drenching him with their blood.
“Pretty soon the shooting stopped and the Yankees came to the wagon. I kept still and they thought we were all corpses, I guess. They hauled out the chest and were starting to chop it open when something scared the mules and they bolted.”
“Was there no pursuit, Private Jackson?”
“No, sir. I guess they figured a wagonload of corpses wasn’t worth the trouble. After a while I got loose and got the wagon stopped. I did what I could for the others and found the trail to Santa Fe. That’s all I know, sir.”
Mondrega, one arm in a sling and his head swathed in a turban of bandages, had listened intently to Jackson’s testimony. He had nothing to add on the stand.
“I saw Private Jackson falling. Then I was hit and fell on him. That’s all I remember until I awoke here in the infirmary.”
A surgeon followed him to the stand.
“Private Baker is still in critical condition and unable to appear or testify. He is out of his head most of the time but in lucid moments he recalls only seeing the others go down and then receiving his own wound. In his delirium he appears to be obessed with dying. He mumbles constantly of graves and graveyards.”
Mondrega started violently at the words. His eyes widened. He controlled himself with a visible effort and sat back, his expression carefully veiled.
The presiding officer struck the table with his gavel. “In the absence of evidence to the contrary, this court concludes that the two hundred thousand dollars fell into the hands of the enemy through no fault of Private Jackson. We hereby find him not guilty of any misconduct. Court dismissed.”
A short time later a sergeant appeared in the office of the colonel commanding. He saluted.
“Sir, it is my duty to report that Private Jackson is gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean—gone?”
“Right after the trial, sir, he gathered up all his personal belongings, stole the lieutenant’s horse and skedaddled.”
CHAPTER 2
HIS name—Sentenza—was known and feared from Texas to the Tetons. Some men crossed themselves at its mention. Others swung hastily to their horses and left the country. Still others reached for fat purses and smiled and prepared to pay off, thinking of enemies who would plague them no longer.
Sentenza was rangy, lean and hard. He possessed the lithe grace of a catamount. His wedge-shaped face was the colour of old saddle leather. His high cheekbones set off eyes of palest brown. In his long blue frock coat—his habitual costume—he could be mistaken for a circuit-riding preacher until the coat fell open to reveal the most notorious gun in the West. It rested above his left hip, the butt slanting to the right for a lightning-fast cross-draw that no man had ever matched. It featured a custom-made fourteen-inch barrel for balance and accuracy.
By profession Sentenza was a hired killer. His deadly skill was for sale to any man who could pay the price. It was said that he would gun down his own mother without a qualm if someone hired him for the task and Sentenza himself had never denied the charge. If he had ever known emotions they had long since burned to ashes. He neither loved nor hated. He only killed.
He smiled seldom. Sometimes, in fanciful moments he thought of himself as already dead. The thought sharpened his enjoyment of living.
He dismounted in front of the adobe ranch house. Leaving his handsome coal-black horse at the worn hitchrail, he stood for a moment, looking at the house.
The door was open. After a moment he walked in on silent feet.
A pretty Mexican woman was in the act of setting a wooden bowl of beans and a chunk of crusty bread before a young boy in his teens, obviously her son. She and the boy looked up, startled at the sudden appearance of Sentenza.
He stared at them, silent and unsmiling, until a look of fear came into the woman’s eyes. She caught the boy’s arm and drew him out of the chair. Watching the stranger from frightened eyes, she backed away, pulling the boy with her. She darted through an inner door.
A faint mutter of voices reached Sentenza. Then a swarthy man stepped into the room. He studied Sentenza, frowning faintly.
“What may I do for you, señor?”
“You’re Mondrega?”
The swarthy man nodded.