Just as Evans started reaching for the holster, I came out of the ground, screaming as loud as I could. The horses all spooked, trying to buck their riders and Evans froze in his tracks. I was on him in a second, cold cocking him with the butt of my rifle. I was lucky, and he went down limper than a wet rag.
Just as planned I’d come up right between the tree, my horse, and the others. The roan was both hobbled and ground-tied, and couldn’t move even if it had wanted to. On the other hand, it was a while before Reynolds and Jenkins could gain control of their horses, more than enough time for me to get behind the roan and, using it for cover, replace the holster on my hip. I stood there with my rifle cocked across the saddle and waited.
They finally settled their broncos down and turned to face the rifle I had pointed at them.
“Jenkins, you may still have a chance to get out of this with your hide intact, so, if I were you, I’d just sit there and try real hard not to flinch. If you even blink, I’ll blow you right off that kak and not think twice. It’s Reynolds I want.”
“What do you mean? Who the hell are you and what do you want with me?” Comanche asked, somewhat puzzled. He was trying to position himself as best as he could but his horse was still jumpy.
“Look, we were just riding this way when we saw your horse. Thought something was wrong and you might be hurt. Is this what we get for trying to help out?”
“Nice try,” I said. “That might’ve worked on someone else, but the truth is I don’t give a damn what the hell you were doing. You’ll likely die today, Reynolds, but it won’t be for trying to bushwhack me over a lousy card game.”
“What is it, then? What are you talking about? We never even met before today, so what’s your problem?”
I had to hand it to him, he seemed more unsure than scared.
“Happened a long time ago. About the same time you started going by the name of Comanche,” I said, walking around the horse. I switched the rifle to my left side, cocked it, and held it pointed at Ed Jenkins, who so far was just sitting still and listening.
“I don’t get it. If you aim to kill me, you can at least let me in on why.”
“I will…in due time,” I said. “By the way, that Indian necklace you wear around your neck, the one you’re so proud of.” He glanced down to his chest. “It ain’t Comanche, it’s Kiowa.”
“What the hell makes you such an Injun expert?” he said angrily. He fingered the talisman with his left hand without letting the reins drop.
“Because the boy it belonged to was my friend.”
He was still looking down at his chest as I spoke, but, when the meaning of my words sunk in, he slowly looked back up at me. From the way he stared back at me, I knew I had the right man. I could see fear in his eyes for the first time, just as I’m sure he read death in mine. Reynolds hesitated a second or two, and then went for the pistol at his side.
He started the draw but I finished it. At that range I couldn’t miss, and the last thing Reynolds ever saw before the bullet took his head off was the hatred in my eyes.
Jenkins decided to make his play, too. He must have figured I was too distracted, or that my left hand would be slower with a rifle, but he was wrong. As soon as he cleared leather, I let loose the Spencer right into his chest. He toppled off the horse and fell to the ground, flat on his back. He didn’t die right off, though, and, as I stood over him, I could see he was trying to tell me something. I leaned closer.
“It were Reynold’s idea,” he gasped. “But Pierce and I was with him. Felt bad about the boy even if he were an Injun, but we was drunk. When the kid hit Reynolds, the other two kinda went loco. Couldn’t stop ’em.” He coughed.
“Pierce who?” I asked.
“Pierce held him while Reynolds knifed him clean through.” Jenkins was dripping blood from his nose and his breathing was much heavier.
“What about the other one…Evans?” I asked.
“Pete? Talks too much. Weren’t even there, just us three. We met Evans a year later.” He was breathing so bad I was barely able to understand what he was saying.
“Where can I find this Pierce now? And what about later on? Tell me about the EH brand on Reynold’s horse, and about the herd you rustled,” I asked, but it was no use. I was talking to a dead man.
Chapter Thirteen
When Pete Evans finally came to, he found himself flat on his back with both arms and legs bound firmly to the stakes I’d driven into the ground while he was unconscious. I’d found some pigging strings in the saddlebags, the rawhide straps that cowboys use to tie cattle. It was a sure bet that, if a steer can’t break free from them, Pete sure as hell wouldn’t.
About ten feet off to his right and facing him lay the bodies of Reynolds and Jenkins. Evans awoke to find ants crawling on his face and chest.
After only a second or two, he started yapping.
“What’s going on? Get me outta here. Untie me.” He wasn’t screaming yet, that came later. For now he was just jittery.
As for me, I couldn’t have been more relaxed. The hour I’d spent whittling in the shade of that tree had a nice calming effect, until Evans woke up, that is. After that he never shut up, whining the whole time. I let him go on for a while. Before I really went to work on him, I thought I’d give him a chance to confess on his own.
“Well, Pete,” I said quietly. “Seems like you three were involved in a little rustling a short time back. Why don’t you tell me all about it. Start with where the herd is now, who’s behind it, and finish with who ambushed that scout just before the raid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said. “Any horses got stole warn’t by me. Maybe it was those two.” He nodded toward the bodies. “Hell, I just met them, don’t even know ’em that good.”
“Then how’d you know I was talking about horses? I didn’t mention it. Most folks around here would have thought I meant a herd of cattle.”
“Uh, I just guessed,” he answered unconvincingly.
I decided to speed things up a little. Taking out my Bowie knife, I bent over quickly and slashed his forearm.
“Damn, what’s that for?” he screamed.
“Ants love fresh blood. Ever see them after they finish with a body, Pete? Isn’t a pretty sight. And in case you’re wondering why you’re itching so much, you happen to be lying over an ant hill. It’s a well-known Apache cure for lyin’ and thievin’.”
“Get me outta here. I swear I didn’t rob those Mexes.” More ants began crawling around on his face, and he was struggling hard against his straps.
“Whoa, wrong answer, hoss. I didn’t say anything about who the herd belonged to. But now that you mention it, Pete, there is a whole pack of angry Mexican vaqueros after my hide. Seems they wrongly think I had something to do with them losing their herd. So you see I don’t have a whole lot of time to waste.”
I took a small piece of wood and measured it against his eyelids.
“What the hell you doing now? Are you loco? I can’t help you, honest.” Sweat poured down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
“I’m gonna prop your eyelids open with these here pieces of wood, like the Apaches do. I’m sure you can figure it out. With the sun as hot as it is, shouldn’t take more than an hour or two for you to go blind. You know, Pete, you might prefer to talk. Otherwise, I get to find out which drives a man crazy first, having his eyes burned out by the sun or being slowly eaten alive by ants. You mentioned a name during our card game. Davies, I think it was. Why don’t you start there.” I snapped a piece of wood for effect and he immediately began screaming.
“You’re right…Davies hired us, he hired the three of us. God, get these ants off of me.”