Hate Thy Neighbor by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.; Johnsto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Beef and beans, Kerrigan,” Slide McKenzie said. “Hell, you’re eating better than the Mexicans out there.”

“That’s because we need you alive,” Bat Boswell said. He smiled. “For the time being anyway.”

The gunman stood on the stairs, a handsome man wearing a frilled white shirt and tight pants tucked into English riding boots. A tooled cartridge belt circled his slim hips, an ivory-handled Colt in the holster. Appearances were deceptive. Boswell had the savage mind of a predator, a killer without conscience, and his brother Sky matched him in every regard.

McKenzie passed a tin plate and fork to Trace and said, “Just a few more days and you’ll be out of here. Unless I don’t get the hundred thousand from your ma, and then you’ll be dead.”

“Then that’s how it will be,” Trace said. Looking into McKenzie’s eyes was like staring into the mud of a fetid swamp. “But in the end you’ll lose, McKenzie. The Mexicans camped out there will never follow a lowlife like you onto the KK range. They’re human beings, and you can’t use them as a weapon.”

McKenzie grinned. “You’re right, Kerrigan, maybe they won’t follow me, but they will follow the Santa Muerte.”

“What the hell are you talking about, McKenzie?” Trace said.

“I found her in this very room stashed over there in a corner. I guess the Comanche took one look and left her alone. She’s like one of them Madonna statues you see in the Mexican churches, but her head is a skull. The one I got has a real skull, some gal who died hundreds of years ago, I guess. The Mexicans called it a miracle that the statue survived all these years, and I told them that Santa Muerte had come to me in a vision and swore to me that she will lead them all to the promised land.” McKenzie smiled. “And they believed me. Hell, they got down on their knees and prayed. Now the word has spread deep into Mexico that a miracle was performed here and more and more folks are arriving every day.”

“You idiot, McKenzie, Santa Muerte is the Angel of Death,” Trace said. “She’ll end up killing you. Get rid of that statue. This is a warning you should heed.”

“Like I give a damn,” McKenzie said. “A wooden idol worshiped by a bunch of ignorant popish peasants ain’t gonna kill a good Protestant like Slide McKenzie, no sir.”

“McKenzie, if the angel doesn’t kill you I’ll live to wring your scrawny neck,” Trace said. “Depend on it.”

“Big talk, kinda what I’d expect from a rich woman’s son,” McKenzie said. “Well let me tell you this, Kerrigan, a week from now your ma won’t be so rich. Fact is, she’ll have to sell her body to all comers just to buy her daily bread.” McKenzie dredged up a smile from the slimy depths of his soul. “I already offered her two dollars for a screw, and she turned me down. But soon she’ll be right glad to take it and beg for more.

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