The Edge of Hell Read online

  At first Slaughter couldn’t tell where the voice came from. Then he looked down at the sofa and realized Hermosa was awake and trying to say something. He motioned for the others to remain quiet and dropped to one knee beside the sofa so he could lean closer to the vaquero.

  “Are you trying to tell us something, Hermosa?” he asked.

  The vaquero’s eyes were mere slits of pain as his lips moved. Slaughter heard him breathe two words of Spanish.

  “Barranca . . . Sangre.”

  “Barranca Sangre,” Slaughter repeated. He looked up at the others and translated loosely, “Blood Canyon.”

  “I don’t know where that is,” Stonewall said. “I never heard of it.”

  “Nor have I,” Santiago put in.

  Hermosa whispered, “T-Tequila . . .”

  “Will it hurt him, doctor?” Slaughter asked.

  “It’ll be painful, but it won’t do any more damage than has already been done,” Fredericks said.

  Slaughter turned his head and told one of the maids, “Bring a glass of tequila.”

  The young woman hurried to obey. When she brought back the tequila a minute later, Slaughter took it and carefully held the glass to Hermosa’s mouth. He trickled a little of the fiery liquor between the vaquero’s lips.

  Hermosa sighed in apparent satisfaction. The tequila seemed to have an almost instant bracing effect. His voice was stronger as he said, “I know . . . Barranca Sangre. I heard the man say to the Apache . . . that was where they were going.”

  “How did you manage that?” Slaughter asked.

  “The Apache thought . . . he killed me. But I . . . fooled him . . . I did not die . . . and when I could . . . I crawled out of the ditch . . . and went after him.”

  “Impossible,” Fredericks said. “No man as badly wounded as this one could have been worried about going after his enemies.”

  “With all due respect, doctor, that’s exactly what I’d expect from a man like Hermosa.”

  The vaquero chuckled dryly. He said, “Hate is . . . powerful medicine, doctor.”

  “So you got close enough to hear them talking about where they were going,” Slaughter said.

  “Sí . . . but that is all. My strength . . . she deserted me.”

  “That’s all right,” Slaughter assured him. “You’ve done more good by staying alive rather than getting yourself killed. Where do we find this Barranca Sangre?”

  “I can . . . take you there.”

  “Out of the question,” Fredericks said. “And I’m not just being overly cautious. Put this man on a horse or even in a wagon and he’ll be dead before you go a mile. I guarantee it.”

  An idea occurred to Slaughter.

  “What about a map?” he suggested. “Do you think you could draw a map so we can find the place, Hermosa?”

  “Bring me . . . paper and a pencil,” Hermosa said. “I can . . . draw a map.”

  Slaughter nodded to the same maid who had brought the tequila, and once again she scurried off to fetch what Hermosa asked for.

  “What good is this going to do?” Santiago wanted to know. “You already said that the men could not follow us, Señor Slaughter, because Becker would know about it.”

  “That’s true,” Slaughter said as he looked up at the men gathered around him. “But it might be a different story if Stonewall and the others were to get there first.”

  Chapter 24

  Bodaway seemed to know where he was going, even in the dark. He led the group of riders as they penetrated deeper into the mountains across the border, in the upper reaches of the Sierra Madre Occidental.

  Viola dozed off in the saddle from time to time. It seemed like forever since she’d actually stretched out on a bed and slept. It was unlikely that she’d get the chance to do so again any time soon, she thought—if in fact she ever did.

  There was every chance in the world she was going to her death, and she knew it.

  But she wasn’t dead yet, so she still had hope. Becker was going to keep her alive as long as he had a use for her, and that meant until Santiago Rubriz was his prisoner as well.

  John might catch up to them before that happened, Viola told herself. And if she got a chance to escape on her own without waiting for him, she would seize it.

  Only if she could get the other two captives away, as well, though, and that seemed unlikely. Becker rode right beside Don Eduardo, leading the don’s horse, and the man called Woodbury, who seemed to be Becker’s second-in-command, had Belinda riding double with him, in front of his saddle.

  The blonde wore a dull, defeated expression. She had been through too much. Her pampered existence hadn’t prepared her for the danger and hardship she now faced. So she just shut her mind off to it, refused to think about what was going on. Viola could tell that by looking at her.

  Don Eduardo, on the other hand, was still angry and defiant, but he was so weak it was a struggle for him to stay in the saddle. He wore a wool serape that one of Becker’s men had given him, because when they left the ranch his only covering from the waist up were the bandages the doc had wrapped around him.

  “I tell you again, Ned,” the don said, “take me with you if you must, but I beg of you, allow my wife and Señora Slaughter to go back to the ranch.”

  “You begging me,” Becker said mockingly. “I like that. The same way you begged my mother to be unfaithful to my father?”

  “That never happened.” Don Eduardo’s voice was clear, although weak. “I never would have done such a thing to hurt my Pilar . . . or your father.”

  “You killed my father. You think that didn’t hurt him?”

  “I was defending myself. She had driven him mad . . .” Don Eduardo’s words trailed off into a sigh. “No matter what I say, you will not believe it, will you, Ned?”

  “Believe the word of a liar, an adulterer, and a murderer?” Becker let out a bark of cold laughter. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then take your vengeance on me, but spare my wife and son.”

  Becker shook his head.

  “They’re part of this,” he said. “We all are. We all have to play our roles.”

  “Mad . . .” Don Eduardo said under his breath.

  Viola heard that, but if Becker did, he gave no sign of it. He kept riding, leading Don Eduardo’s mount and following the Apache who rode about five yards in front of him.

  The terrain was flat where they crossed the border, but within a few miles hills had begun to rear up from the arid, mesquite-dotted plains. Beyond the hills rose a range of low, rugged mountains. The riders were probably ten miles deep in those mountains by now, their path winding through canyons and climbing to passes. Viola looked to the east and saw a hint of rose in the sky.

  The sun was on its way, rising as always, the universe going about its business no matter what the infinitely small creatures did who lived on this world.

  Viola always felt insignificant when she was out in the middle of nowhere like this, and northern Mexico had plenty of nowhere.

  How was John going to find her in this vast wilderness? She knew Becker planned to send a man back to meet John and Santiago and bring them to the gang’s hideout, but John was too smart for that. He would know it was a trap and would come up with some other plan. Viola wouldn’t allow herself to doubt, because doing so meant giving up hope, and she just wasn’t the sort of person to do that.

  So in the meantime she rode and wondered just how exhausted somebody had to be before they collapsed in a stupor. If she didn’t get some real sleep soon, she might find out.

  Becker called a halt every now and then so the horses could rest. During one of those breaks, Woodbury dismounted, then turned back to help Belinda down from the saddle.

  Her dispirited demeanor suddenly vanished. Her head, which had been drooping far forward, snapped up, and her foot lashed out. The heel of her slipper struck Woodbury in the chest and knocked him back a step. He still had hold of the reins, but Belinda jerked them out of his hand, le
aned forward, and kicked the horse in the sides as hard as she could. She shouted encouragement to the animal as it leaped into a gallop.

  The escape attempt took Viola as much by surprise as it did everyone else. She recovered quickly, though. All eyes were on Belinda, so Viola made a move of her own.

  No one had been leading her horse, because she was surrounded by the hardcases who worked for Becker. Now she jerked the reins to the side and sent her horse lunging into the mount of the man next to her left side. As the animals collided Viola reached out and plucked the outlaw’s revolver from his holster.

  She twisted in the saddle and triggered a couple of shots, aiming over the heads of the men around her. She didn’t want to kill any of them, just spook them so they would get out of her way.

  She wasn’t going to leave Don Eduardo behind. That meant she had to get him away from Becker. She drove through the gap in the ring of startled guards and dashed toward the vengeance-seeking madman.

  “Hold your fire!” Becker shouted as he hauled his horse around to see what was going on behind him. He must have spotted the fleeing Belinda. “Get the don’s wife!”

  He didn’t see Viola coming in time. She lifted the Colt and fired. This time she was shooting to kill.

  She knew, however, that being on the back of a galloping horse didn’t lend itself to much accuracy. Her bullet must have missed. Becker didn’t seem to be hit. He lost his grip on the reins of Don Eduardo’s horse, though, when the don jerked the animal to the side.

  Becker roared a curse and launched himself from the saddle as Viola tried to gallop past him. He crashed into her, and she couldn’t stay mounted, either. Both of them toppled to the ground, landing so hard Viola was half-stunned. She tried to wriggle away from Becker, but her muscles responded sluggishly and he was able to fasten a hand around her arm.

  “You bitch!” he yelled as he punched her in the belly with his other fist. Viola curled up around the pain of the brutal blow. She had dropped the gun when she hit the ground, so there was nothing else she could do.

  Becker came up on his knees and shouted at his men to go after Don Eduardo. Viola didn’t think either the don or Belinda would be able to get away. Becker had too many men, Belinda wasn’t an experienced rider, and Don Eduardo was too weak from his injury.

  She was right. By the time she recovered enough from the punch to sit up, some of Becker’s men had caught the escapees and were bringing them back, leading the horses. Belinda sobbed in futility. Don Eduardo just sat there, hunched over a little in his saddle.

  Becker stalked over and glared at them as he said, “That was foolish.”

  “Why?” Don Eduardo asked. “Are you not going to kill us anyway? Perhaps this way we would have died quicker and easier than what you have in mind for us.”

  “You can count on that. My father didn’t die easy with your bullet in his back, Rubriz.”

  “He shot first,” Don Eduardo said, his voice thin and reedy but filled with determination to get the words out. “He thought he had killed me. To be honest, I believed I was dying, too. I struck back at him the only way I could.”

  “Lies, all lies,” Becker snapped. “Before he died, he told my mother what really happened, and she told me.”

  “Your mother told you what she wanted you to hear, not the truth. She wanted to make you hate me and blame me for what happened, when it was really all her doing.”

  Still sitting a few yards away on the ground, Viola thought Becker was going to pull his gun and shoot the don right then and there. That was how furious the outlaw looked. But with a visible effort, Becker suppressed that impulse. He turned away and walked back over to Viola.

  As he extended a hand to help her to her feet, he said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Slaughter. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you. This is nothing personal where you’re concerned.”

  Viola gripped wrists with him and let him pull her up. She let go of him, slapped some of the dirt off her long skirt, and said, “You made it personal when you attacked my home, Mr. Becker. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “Maybe I will. Right now, though, my only interest in you is being able to persuade your husband to cooperate and deliver Santiago Rubriz to me.”

  “John Slaughter will never cooperate with you,” Viola said coldly.

  “You’d better hope you’re wrong,” Becker said. “Because if you’re not, there’s a very good chance you’re going to die sometime in the next twelve hours.”

  * * *

  Their captors kept an even closer eye on them as they rode deeper into the mountains. After a while they turned east, went through a pass, and dropped down into a valley between the ranges that ran roughly north and south. To the east, on the far side of the valley, lay a canyon that cut through the mountains on that side.

  The sun was almost up. As the group rode toward the canyon, the fiery orb peeked above the horizon. Viola caught her breath as she realized that the rising sun was framed by the notch formed by the canyon. The red sandstone cliffs and the garish crimson light made it look like the canyon was awash with blood.

  “Barranca Sangre,” Becker announced. “That’s where we’re going.”

  Viola felt a chill ripple through her at those words. The idea of going to a place called Blood Canyon would not be very inviting under the best of circumstances. As the prisoner of a madman, it was even worse.

  Even though no one had asked Becker for an explanation, he seemed to like the sound of his own voice. He went on, “Bodaway’s band lived here for a while, after they left the reservation in Arizona Territory. But the Rurales found the village and attacked it. They wiped out nearly everyone. Only Bodaway and a few warriors escaped. He spent the next year hunting down every man in that Rurale company and killing them all.”

  Viola could believe that. She had never seen any expression on the Apache’s face other than cold, impassive hatred.

  “One of the Mexicans lived for a little while after Bodaway was through with him,” Becker continued. “He told the men who found him that looking into Bodaway’s eyes was like looking into the flames of hell. That’s how he got his name, El Infierno. It fits. His real name means Fire Maker.”

  “I’m not sure who you’re talking to,” Viola said. “None of us are interested in this.”

  Becker smiled at her.

  “I just want you to know who you’re dealing with. Bodaway always settles his scores. He lost fifteen good warriors when he raided your ranch.”

  “You were the one who told him to do it,” Viola pointed out. “All to help you carry out this insane revenge scheme of yours.”

  “If you’re trying to drive a wedge between us, Mrs. Slaughter, you’re wasting your time. Bodaway and I are the only real friends either of us has left.”

  If the Apache heard that as he rode a few yards ahead of the others, he didn’t show any sign. He continued leading the way into the canyon.

  Viola could see all the way to the other end of Barranca Sangre. She estimated that it ran for a mile or more straight through the mountains. The group had covered about half that distance when a smaller canyon suddenly opened up to the left, running at right angles into the bigger one. The sandstone wall of the main canyon bulged out so that you couldn’t see the smaller one until you reached its mouth.

  The smaller canyon, fifty yards wide and maybe two hundred yards deep, ended at a blank wall of rock. A spring bubbled out of the sandstone at that point, creating a small pool and providing water for several cottonwoods and enough grass for the horses to graze. Half a dozen adobe jacales and a pole corral had been built near the pool.

  “I’ve visited your home, Mrs. Slaughter,” Becker said. “Now I have the pleasure of welcoming you to mine.”

  “This isn’t a home,” Viola said. “It’s a hideout.”

  Becker shrugged and said, “Call it whatever you want. This is where we’ll wait for your husband and young Rubriz.”

  They rode up to the huts and started to dismount.
One of Becker’s men riding beside Viola said, “You just stay right where you are until I tell you to get down, missy. Nobody else is tryin’ any tricks today.”

  Viola didn’t acknowledge the order, but she didn’t swing down from the saddle until the outlaw told her to. Once her feet were on the ground, he took hold of her arm and marched her roughly toward one of the jacales.

  Woodbury brought Belinda to the same hut. Both women were forced inside and the door closed after them. The door didn’t have a bar or a lock on it, Viola noted, but she was sure at least one member of the gang would be standing guard outside all the time.

  The jacal had no windows, but its roof was made of thatched limbs from the cottonwoods and there were enough cracks and gaps to let in some of the reddish light. Belinda looked rather sickly in that illumination, and Viola supposed that she did, too.

  The single room was sparsely furnished with a roughhewn table, a couple of equally crude chairs, and two bunks, one on each side wall. The bunks had no mattresses, only folded blankets on top of woven rope. Viola thought they looked pretty uncomfortable.

  Despite that, Belinda sat on one of them, swung her legs up so she could lie down, and rolled over with her face to the adobe wall.

  For some reason that irritated Viola. She said, “We need to talk about what we’re going to do.”

  “We’re going to die, that’s what we’re going to do,” Belinda said without looking around. “That man Becker and his pet Indian are probably going to torture me to death while they make Eduardo watch. Maybe you’ll be lucky and he’ll just put a bullet through your brain.”

  “Not if we get away first,” Viola insisted. “You tried to escape earlier. You must not want to give up.”

  Belinda began to sob quietly. Her back shook a little from the crying as she said, “I didn’t make it even a hundred yards before they caught me. That proved to me how hopeless everything is. We’re doomed and you know it.”

  Viola bit back the angry response that wanted to spring to her lips. No matter how bleak the situation looked, she wasn’t going to give up. She couldn’t. She wasn’t made that way.