Tears of Blood Page 3

  ‘Lot of kin around,’ commented Crow to the lawman when he brought him a plate of grits and steak for his evening meal. Outside the shadows were stretching across the gray acres beyond the back of the jailhouse and the light was beginning to fade.

  ‘Sure is. You ain’t met the Mayor yet.’

  ‘Mayor?’

  ‘Yeah. Abe Verity. Brother of the banker. He runs this town. Got a small spread a mile off north. Lives with a couple of local boys to help out and his wife, Martha. They run Dead Hawk.’

  ‘He comin’ in to see the prisoner?’

  ‘If he is, he will. If he ain’t … ’

  ‘He won’t,’ completed Crow. ‘That the kind of man he is?’

  ‘Yeah. Worth a whole lot of money, the Veritys. Land down Missouri way. This is their town. They look after it. t looks after them. You get the picture?’

  ‘Yes. I see. And if he says hang him then you hang him?’

  Derekson laughed. ‘Damn right, Crow. You sure are a sharp old boy. I’m goin’ … Damn it!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Hell! It’s this boil on my ass. I swear I never had pain like it, Got a Comanche spear in my shoulder once. Broke off and they had to dig out the point. Bit clean through a leather strap while they was doin’ it,’ he said, with obvious pride. Remembering his present pain. Touching his backside with reverence. ‘But this son of a bitch is the best yet.’ They both heard steps coming their way. Two lots.

  Crow spotted them as a man and a woman.

  ‘The Mayor?’ .

  ‘Guess’ so.’ Going to leave the small corridor outside the cell. Hesitating and returning to whisper through the bars. ‘Listen and listen good. If’n it was down to me I’d turn you loose. That boy, Bart Wells, was a mean bastard. Maybe started with good intentions, but went wrong. Like a crazed wolf. But it ain’t to me.’ There was a call from the office. ‘Coming!’ Dropping his voice again. ‘You want to end up danglin’ like strange fruit from yonder tree, then give Abe plenty of lip. You understand me.’

  ‘Sure do. Thanks for the word, Sheriff.’

  ‘Derekson! You sleepin’ in there, you lazy bastard! Come on.’

  It had to be the Mayor. Crow guessed that nobody else would talk that way around a town. It was a voice that had y. spent too long saying ‘jump’ and people jumped. The sort of voice that would not be pleased if anyone didn’t jump on the word.

  The office door closed and all he could hear was the murmur of voices. He could pick out Ben Derekson’s as the deferential one. A louder one that would be Verity.

  One a woman’s voice. Asking a question. Then the door opened again, and they all trooped in to look at him. While they peered at him in the cell, Crow took the opportunity to stare back at them. Weighing them up. Noticing the way that the Sheriff kept silently in the background, nervously picking at a spot on the side of his nose. Curling his lip and shuffling his feet.

  Abraham Verity was tall, like his brother. It was hard to figure which was the older. Jacob had looked twenty years the elder. But he was clearly a dying man. Maybe been dying for ten years. Maybe go on dying for another ten. But he was living on borrowed time and one day the old man with the scythe was going to call in all the chips. Probably Abe was the older. Mayor was more important than banker.

  There were lines around the Mayor’s mouth and eyes too. But they were the fleshy lines of good living and quick obedience to his wishes. The cheeks were so red they came close to purple and even through the cell bars Crow could smell drink. Not cheap whisky. Brandy. What smelled like good French brandy.

  His wife was pretty and about fifteen years younger. Blonde hair peeking under the bonnet. Heart-shaped face and blue eyes. Eyes that never looked anywhere except at her feet. Crow guessed that Abe Verity’s insistence on getting his own way extended to his own wife. Maybe it even began with her.

  After a few seconds of mutual inspection, the Mayor cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘You called Crow?’

  ‘And you’re Mayor Verity. Guess the Sheriff’s been talking ‘bout both of us.’

  At the sound of his voice, Martha Verity finally looked at him. A startled glance, eyes wide with surprise at his soft, gentle voice. A glance that was as quickly withdrawn. Verity himself was clearly surprised by the voice, but he covered it with bluster.

  ‘You seem mighty proud for a man facing a hanging party tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t figure a Mayor of a nice town like Dead Hawk is the kind of man to allow a lynching.’ He paused until Verity was about to reply and-then went on. ‘Specially when the whole town knows that man’s innocent.’

  ‘Sheriff figures you could be a hired gun.’

  Crow laughed. ‘Sure! I’ve been paid by a wealthy mad man in Tuscaloosa to ride all the way down into Arizona and allow Bart Wells to push me into a fight just so that I could murder him.’

  There was a muffled cough from the Sheriff that might have been a laugh, and Verity’s face finally crossed the border from red into deep purple. Breath rasping in his throat with anger.

  ‘You’re a damned smart-ass, Crow!’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m not a hired killer. I’m not a wanted man anywhere in the country and you and the sworn lawman here are breaking that same law by holding me. Ask anyone in the saloon. Ask the ‘keep, Taggart. Ask the Sheriff. He saw it.’ He nearly pointed out that Derekson could also have stopped the fight if he’d wished, but he didn’t say it. It was a good idea to try and keep well in with the lawman.

  Verity turned to stare at Derekson, who shrugged his broad shoulders. Crow noticed that rage had caused the back of the Mayor’s neck to swell and hang over the tight collar.

  Crow continued talking. ‘I told Derekson there that I was passing through. Told him my name. Told him I was I leaving in the morning. Man can’t do more.’ Again he paused until Abe Verity turned back to face him. ‘All I did your town a favor.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Killing that boy. Least nobody else gotten hurt. Quick and easy.’

  ‘You blasted the child down with a scatter-gun, I hear.’

  ‘You hear right.’

  ‘He had no chance.’

  Crow was becoming angry. ‘Listen, Verity. You hold me for a night, I don’t give a damn. I spent a whole lot of nights in a whole lot of worse places. You hang me and I have friends who’ll be here in a week and they’ll nail you to the tree. Cut off your cock and shove it down your drunken throat.’

  He hadn’t got a single friend but Verity didn’t know that. And the quiet voice had never changed, making the bitter fury more frightening.

  ‘You can’t talk like that in front of my wife, Crow!’ exploded the Mayor.

  ‘Sorry, Verity. Didn’t know it was her turn,’ Crow replied.

  This time there wasn’t any doubt about it. The Sheriff did laugh, looking away when Verity spun around and glared at him.

  ‘Martha! Go wait outside until I’ve finished in here.’

  Crow watched her leave, seeing her half-turn in the doorway and glance sideways at him, before walking out of sight. They were all silent, hearing the outside office door close.

  ‘Well?’ asked Crow.

  The Mayor had managed to regain most of his control and the color of his cheeks had re-crossed the border back to red. But he was still breathing hard. Crow was willing to bet nobody had spoken to Verity like this for years. And he didn’t know how to handle it. Anyone with that much confidence must have the muscle to back up his threats.

  ‘I don’t rightly know. Seems that there might be … just might be … a little doubt about this. I’m going to ask around, Crow. Meantime, you stay here. If’n folks back up what you say, then you’ll ride free in the morning.’ He attempted to reassert his position. ‘And you better ride on and not come back to Dead Hawk.’

  ‘It’d take wild horses, Mayor,’ smiled Crow, leaning back on his bunk.

  ‘Just who are you, Mister?’ asked the Mayor.

  ‘Told y
ou. Crow.’

  ‘Yeah. But what are you? Hired gun?’

  ‘I’ll hire out anything if’n the price is right.’ He paused. ‘Well, most anything. Long as it’s close to being inside the law. But the money’s what matters.’

  ‘You ride alone?’

  ‘Most times.’

  ‘There’s Apaches all over.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Sheriff Derekson spoke for the first time. ‘And Mex bandits.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘And there’s some whites around you better watch out for.’

  Crow stood up and stretched, nearly banging his knuckles on the rough stone wall. Man could spend his whole life just watchin’ for danger. That’s not living. That’s plain surviving. You just have to take a little care.’

  ‘A little?’ asked the Mayor.

  ‘A little. And then some.’

  After some discussion behind the closed door of the office, Derekson reappeared and gave Crow a conspiratorial nod. Wiping sweat from his face as he told his prisoner is that Abe Verity had agreed to call in first thing in the morning and that Crow would be freed then. It was what he’d expected.

  But things turned out very different. ·

  Chapter Five

  Crow had the ability to sleep soundly wherever he was. There’d been times when he’d slept on pounding riverboats. On trains. Even under enemy gunfire during the War. But, more importantly, he was able to wake up immediately he needed to. During that night in the cell he woke once. Sitting up on the bunk, the blanket across his chest, straining his ears to catch again what it was that had woken him.

  There it was.

  The faint crackle of gunfire, coming distantly across the e sleeping silent land. A long way. Perhaps as much as a mile to the north of Dead Hawk.

  ‘Winchesters,’ said Crow, to himself. Standing up and hanging on the bars across the small, square window. Peering out into the star-speckled blackness. Feeling the breeze cool on his cheeks. Smelling the greening of the land. Listening to the shooting. But the wind came and went, taking the sounds with it. Making it impossible to tell how many there were.

  Then the wind fell and the noise disappeared. Though Crow waited for some time it never came back. He quickly fell asleep again.

  Derekson woke him a little after dawn had broken pinkly across the barren countryside. Jangling in the office, not bothering to shut the door. Snatching the keys off their hook alongside the racked guns. Kicking open the door into the cell corridor.

  ‘What the Hell’s up, Derekson?’ asked Crow. Rising and pulling on his boots. Ready before the Sheriff had fumbled his way past the lock into the cell.

  ‘What ain’t?’ was the reply.

  There was whisky on the lawman’s breath and he hadn’t shaved, a gray stubble showing on the hollowed cheeks. Crow noticed that the fingers were trembling a little as they withdrew the key from the lock, tossing it out into the office.

  ‘Where’s … .?’ The coin dropped in Crow’s mind and he knew something of what had happened. Putting together the shooting and the Sheriff’s worry. ‘It’s somethin’ to do with Abe Verity?’

  ‘It’s everything to do … !’ He stopped. Suddenly drawing his pistol, thumbing back the hammer and pressing it into Crow’s stomach. His voice grating and harshly suspicious.

  ‘How the fuckin’ Hell d’you know that? Come on Crow. You want to take another breath then you better damned well earn it.’

  ‘Take that gun out of my guts or I’ll ram it up your ass and fire off every chamber,’ said Crow, voice as mild as butter.

  ‘You can’t .... ’

  ‘I can. You need help. Need it so damned bad it’s hurtin’ your head. Put it away and we can talk. Maybe talk on the way out to the Verity spread.’ Adding as a shaft at random. ‘What’s left of it.’

  Derekson’s jaw gaped like he’d been kneed in the groin, but he eased off the hammer and holstered the gun, sliding the retaining leather thong over the top of it.

  ‘Just tell me how … ’

  ‘We got time to talk now?’

  ‘Hell! Hell and fuckin’ damnation! Come on, Crow. I’ll tell you on the way. Your horse is fed and watered and saddled ready. Talk while we ride?

  ‘Easy as sums,’ commented Crow as they rode northwards out of Dead Hawk. Through a morning so beautiful that it was good to be living; The lawman had returned all of his weapons, including the Purdey, now back on his hip. The Colt was in the small of his back, and the Winchester bucketed on the right of the saddle.

  ‘Sums?’ Derekson was riding awkwardly, nearly standing in the stirrups. Trying to keep his backside out of the saddle. Groaning at the pain every time he was forced to sit down.

  ‘Sure. I wake up some time … round about three or four. I guess. Hear gunfire. Sounds somewheres away north. Maybe a mile. You said Verity’s spread was out that way.’

  ‘Oh.’ The Sheriff sounded disappointed that the explanation was so simple.

  ‘And then you come in looking like all the manure in Arizona just landed in your breakfast coffee. Wasn’t hard to guess that someone had hit Verity’s.’

  ‘Yeah. Damned right. Heard from a bunch of trail hands ridin’ through on their way down to Mexico. Four of them. Came in just before dawn. Woke me.’

  ‘They see anything?’

  Derekson spat on the side of the trail, narrowly missing a tiny saguaro cactus.

  ‘Enough. Didn’t even get down off of their horses. Just hollered until I came out. Shouted they’d seen the Verity’s spread burning. Apaches they shouted. Then .... ’

  ‘They saw Apaches?’

  Derekson pondered the question. ‘They didn’t rightly say what they’d seen. But damn it, Crow! Burning house in this neck of the woods can only mean Apaches. Always trouble with the Chiricahua.’

  ‘But they saw ’em?’ persisted Crow.

  ‘Didn’t say. Just the fire. They was so damned scared you could smell ’em.’

  Crow thought that the news had been enough to scare the lawman. Scare him so that he’d had more than one glass of liquor just to stop himself shaking.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cowboys?’

  ‘Rode on. Yellin’ out they didn’t want to stick around with Apaches out killing.’

  ‘There’s smoke.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Crow. Abe Verity’s a real big man round here. Head of the family. Head of the town. Way some folks talked, he could have been on the way to bein’ head of all of Arizona and west.’

  The sky was full light. Around them were clusters of low gray hills. Rising out of the reddish land. The trail meandering among them. Crow kept his eyes open looking for any sign of a body of men. It would be easy enough to tell the tracks of unshod ponies. Like a great knife cut they could both see the thick pillar of black smoke, coiling greasily up into the blue. There was little wind and it seemed to rise on forever, until it finally thinned out into a pale gray cloud, vanishing from sight.

  ‘Come on, Crow!’

  ‘No hurry, Sheriff. If’n they’re dead, they’re dead. I’m not going to push my horse on to a gallop just so that I can do some buyin’ a few minutes faster.’

  It was sensible, and Derekson slowed his own bay mare g down to a walk. Looking across at Crow. Curious about something despite his sick worry.

  ‘Your animal?’

  ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  The lawman shook his head. ‘Don’t it have a name, Crow?’

  ‘A name? Why would I want it to have a name, Derekson? Huh?’

  ‘Most men call their horses something.’

  ‘When I was a wet kid I met a line hand. Old man came from Rhode Island of all places. I said the same to him.’

  ‘And what’d he say?’

  ‘Said there wasn’t no point in giving a name to something you might have to eat one day.’

  That finished the conversation until they reached the gates to the Verity spread.

  To Cr
ow, it was like seeing steel engravings of his past life flicked again before his eyes. In the sharp morning light, everything seemed frozen and clear. The smoke rising lazily and silently from the blackened timbers of what had once been the house. No smoke from the outbuildings or from what he guessed had been a small bunkhouse for the hands. Those would all have been fired first by the Apaches.

  The same scenes. It didn’t much matter where you went. Plains or deserts or mountains. Sioux or Comanche or Chiricahua.

  The same scenes.

  Crow heeled his horse forwards, urging it on. There was the bitter-sweet smell of scorched timbers. And above it he could detect another smell. One that you might have been puzzled at if you’d never smelled it before. But once you’d caught that tainted stench, then you’d never forget it. Not all of your life.

  Death.

  There were a few butchered animals. Steers with their intestines, greasy loops of dusty yellow, hanging from their flanks where they’d been cut apart.

  ‘That’s kind of strange, Derekson,’ muttered Crow, so quietly that the lawman didn’t even hear him speak.

  But it wasn’t just the animals.

  Close by the burning remains of the house there had been a corral. With a fence clear around it. And a gate with high sides and a long cross-piece. A sign above it that said that it was the AV Spread. Abraham Verity.

  The two cowboys looked like they’d been taken alive. From the expressions on what was left of their faces and the contorted way their bodies hung from the cross-piece.

  The Sheriff reined in and looked up at them.

  ‘Judd and Reagan. Good old boys, Crow.’ His voice was thickened with anger. And a touch of fear at the endless road of brutality that the tortured corpses revealed to him.

  ‘Took their time. And that’s not like Chiricahua. Could have taken them with them. Back to their camp. They’d give ’em to the women. That kind of work. Usually done by women.’

  Derekson looked across at him. ‘Maybe they’re just a raiding party. Few bucks. Out for sportin’. Bastards! Do it now. Not botherin’ with prisoners.’

  In the silence, all that they could hear was the faint crackling of the timbers of the Verity house and the buzzing of the flies that were gorging themselves on the blood- slobbered corpses of the cowboys.