And the Devil Makes Five by Dusty Richards

Author:Dusty Richards [Richards, Dusty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2021-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

It was close to mid-morning before the sun was too hot and Joe and his companions were too exhausted to go on. They were in a shallow valley, well southwest of Oak Grove and the Butterfield Trail. The walls looked like they had been shaken down by some ancient tremor, or several, with boulders large and small piled high against sloping walls.

They were some seventy or eighty miles from the ocean. Yet, now and then, they caught a whiff of the sea. The Mexicans were accustomed to the smell. Joe was not. Farther south, the winds from the Pacific were met and pushed aside by gusts from the desert beyond the inland sea.

The small party was certainly alone. They had not encountered a soul at night, nor seen a campfire, nor did Joe hear any sound that might have been an Indian—or, more likely, his horse. This was dry terrain, without water for miles in either direction. Joe would not have agreed to go this way if they didn’t carry the cask, which he checked with some frequency. The cart rattled, and he wanted to be sure the cask was well-secured to the solid side panels of the wagon. It was an old rum barrel, with a spigot and the smell of its former contents. Fortunately, that smell did not carry more than a few feet. No one would come seeking it.

As long as they didn’t break a wheel and have to abandon the water, they would make it out of here without drying out.

Once halfway through the valley, Joe situated them against a rock wall with a little shade for them and dry grass for the horses. He unhitched the wagon and had a look around. As the sun rose higher, the shade would shrink. He selected a spot with the largest boulders.

“I suggest you put your hat on your face to ward off flies and try to sleep,” Joe said. “That’s what I’ll be doing.”

The three Mexicans concurred, stripping to their bare chests and using their shirts for pillows. Joe removed his boots, flexed his toes to air them, and sat with his back to a rock some ten feet high. He pulled his hat low and remained dressed. He preferred to sweat than be nibbled by insects or be awakened by a small lizard running across his chest. He didn’t say anything to the others, however. Either the men would learn or they would be lucky.

Gonzalez learned almost at once.

“Madre de dios!” he cried, swatting at his chest and scraping his back against the rock wall at the same time.

Joe looked over from under his hat. He saw a tiny fence lizard airborne, courtesy the back of Gonzalez’s hand. The other Mexicans came alert to see what the fuss was about. Joe remained with his arms crossed and his hat pulled low.

“That was fast,” the frontiersman said.

“What do you mean?” Gonzalez said.

“I figgered the four-legged locals might not bother you, on account of the heat. I was wrong.

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