Blood and Gold

During the darkest part of the night just before the dawn, a lone Apache on a magnificent gray horse galloped past the wagon, something large, flopping and bulky held in his arms.

Wingo snapped off a shot at the warrior and missed. Without slackening his pace, the Apache threw his burden to the ground and was gone, the drum of the gray’s hooves fast receding in the distance.

I stepped out behind the wagon and so did Wingo. We walked to the thing lying on the ground and soon saw it for what it was.

It was Hank . . . or what was left of him.

The man’s eyes had been gouged out and his naked, ravaged body was covered in blood from the top of his scalped head to his toes.

Hank had died hard and in unbearable pain—an end I’d wish on no man.

Wingo toed the body, looking for signs of life. There were none. “Just as well,” he said. “All I could have done for him is shot him.”

And that was when Ezra Owens made his break.

Wingo was riding my paint and he hadn’t unsaddled the animal. The saddlebags with Simon Prather’s money were still on the horse along with his blanket roll.

All this Ezra knew.

The outlaw suddenly sprang to his feet and ran for the paint. He swung quickly into the saddle and fled, dust spurting from the pony’s flying hooves.

Wingo watched Ezra go. He just stood there doing nothing, his smile real small and tight and knowing. Then, before I realized what was happening, he jerked my Winchester from my hands and threw it to his shoulder.

BLAM!

The shot shattered the fragile night into a million separate fragments of sound, the echo bouncing across the flat grassland. In the distance, half obscured by the night shadows, I saw Ezra jerk in the saddle, straighten up to his full height in the stirrups, then topple into the dust.

The paint kept on going, his hooves drumming until I could hear them no longer.

I reckoned Ezra had been at least three hundred yards away when Wingo nailed him, and that in darkness. It was a fine shot by anyone’s standards and spoke volumes of the outlaw’s skill with a rifle.

Wingo turned to me, still smiling, his eyes hard. “I figured ol’ Ezra was going to try that sooner or later.” His face took on a thoughtful look. “I guess that just leaves you and me, boy.”

“I reckon it does,” I said, wondering if I could shuck my Colt before Wingo swung the rifle on me.

But it didn’t come to that.

The outlaw merely stood silent for a few moments, shrugged and handed me back the Winchester. “And soon it will only be me. And the girl.”

When I look back on it, I knew I should have shot him then and saved myself a world of grief later. But the moment came and went because the Apache on the gray horse rode out of the newborn morning and stopped about a hundred yards from the wagon. As far as I could see, he carried no weapon.

The warrior cupped his hands around his mouth and cried out: “Matanzas con Sus Dentes!”

Kills with His Teeth. It must have been he who had given me that name after my fight with the Apache at the hogback.

“What the hell is he hollering about?” Wingo asked, his face puzzled.

“It means Kills with His Teeth,” I answered. “It’s a name the Apaches gave me.”

Wingo looked at me in surprise. “Hell, for a younker, you sure got around, boy.”

I ignored the man, mustered my Spanish and yelled: “Qué usted desea?”

“What did you say?” Wingo asked, irritation edging his voice. “I don’t speak that damned Messkin lingo.”

“I asked him what he wants, but it seems he don’t much feel like telling me.”

The Apache had given me a name, but I didn’t know his. For him, this was powerful medicine that would weaken me if we ever met in a fight.

A few moments passed, the warrior sitting his horse, never for one moment taking his eyes off me. Finally, the Apache raised his arm and pointed in my direction, aiming his forefinger like a gun.

He stayed like that for a long time, in complete silence, then swung the gray around and loped away.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Apache had just warned me. He was telling me by his sign that he knew me and had me marked as a mortal enemy, someone he must destroy.

Maybe he was kin of the Apache I’d killed among the rocks, for he sure seemed to be holding a grudge.

Wingo realized that too, because he looked at me, grinning. “Boy,” he said, “near as I can tell, you got a powerful lot of enemies and mighty few friends.”

I nodded. “Seems that way.”

The big gunman slapped me hard on the shoulder. “Well, don’t you worry about it none because very soon now it will be all over for you.”

“Go to hell,” I said, my anger flaring as I pushed him away from me.

Wingo didn’t answer. He just took a single step back and went for his gun.

Chapter 18

Ned Tryon came out of nowhere.

As Wingo’s Colt swung up, Ned dived for his arm. The old man’s forward motion slammed Wingo’s gun hand downward and the outlaw triggered a shot into the dirt at his feet.