Dead Tomorrow

Part 3: Come Full Circle

by Darcy 2006

Originally posted on Isobel’s Lair, April 2006

Tres Cruces, near the Mexican border

There is no honor among thieves. He'd been a thief long enough to realize that men who made their living on the wrong side of the law couldn't be trusted. McCabe came off as a sly one, so Cort made it his business to be at the rendezvous early. Twilight settled into the sky with the sinking sun as he pushed his horse over loose rocky ground to the crest of Tres Cruces hill. He rode the nondescript brown gelding, had chosen it over the buckskin for his night's work, because he put a greater value on his sure-footedness and even temper than on the buck's speed. He wasn't a trained cutting horse, but the brown was as stoic a mount as he was plain. When the steadiness of his mount could mean the difference between a man living to spend his share of the take or dying under the hooves of a herd of panicked longhorns, Cort reckoned he'd go for steady every time.

Both the buck and the brown pleased him well enough, but they weren't companions. He'd owned horses in the past that had been more like old friends, but Cort hadn't even troubled to name the two he'd taken from Herod's stable. There was a cold indifference in him now that kept him from feeling too much. It was as if he were dead and suspended in limbo; living, but not alive. He reckoned the day he found Ellen was the day he'd start to feel things inside again.

Stiff from hours in the saddle and his vigorous session with the Chicago whore, Cort dismounted and stretched out his back and legs before loosening the brown's saddle girth. He picketed him with enough rein to graze on the sparse grass while he waited for McCabe to show up, then took the canteen he had slung from his saddle.

The whiskey he'd drunk the night before had left him with a thirst that parched his throat and belly. Cort couldn't get enough water, seemed like. He tipped his head and drank until the water ran down his chin and wetted his shirtfront, then sat with his back against the pitted gray wood of the tallest cross and gazed out over miles of cactus-studded land to the foothills of Sonora Province, Mexico.

Hermosillo was there in the distance, two hundred miles southwest of where he sat. Guilt-tinged sorrow pricked his conscience when he thought of the little ones and the good sisters who'd worked with him at his poor mission. They'd suffered because his past had caught up and fallen on him like a pack of rabid dogs. Cort reckoned a man couldn't outrun his past, but he wished now he'd fought back when Herod's men came for him. Instead he'd gone as meek as a lamb to the slaughter, hoping to diffuse their bloodlust and save what could be saved.

'Resist not an evildoer, if thine enemy strike you, turn to him the other cheek.'

Well, he'd turned the other cheek. Let them beat and humiliate him in front of his orphans. That his submission had done no good infuriated him still, and he was sorry he hadn't killed Herod's men as soon as they'd ridden into Hermosillo.

Cort hung his head, stared at the ground between his splayed legs, and fought down his shame. He'd tried, but he wasn't able to keep to the straight and narrow path of righteousness. His convictions were weak, his faith had failed him, and pridefulness had been his downfall. He wasn't strong-willed enough to stand and let himself be killed in a gunfight when he knew he could draw faster and shoot straighter. And his own words came back to haunt him, for they'd presaged his failure: "I'd like to kill them all for what they've done…but I won't."

He’d sworn he wouldn't, but he had. Maybe it was instinct that made him do it, something natural in him, because he'd shot them down as easy as you please. And for a bright hot moment, he'd felt nothing but relief that those worthless men were dead…relief and a quick surge of pride that melted into self-hatred and disgust when Herod tore away his collar and threw it contemptuously in the dust, triumph twisting his cruel features.

'Welcome back, killer…'

He closed his eyes and took several deep calming breaths, looked inside himself and examined his conscience as he had been taught to do by the old padres. He saw nothing but failings. When the Lord had seen fit to spare him despite his sinfulness, he should have remained in Redemption to help its people rebuild their blighted town. But he hadn't. He should have returned to Hermosillo and done what he could to re-establish the mission. He hadn't. At the least, he should have gone to see if his orphans and the sisters who'd helped him were still alive.

But he had barely thought of them until now, reminded by the sight of the familiar land. And he reckoned that despite his time as a man of God, and for all that he'd tried, he'd never changed more than skin deep. Was evil in his blood, a part of him? He thought it must be, for when challenged, he'd responded with a killer's instinct. When tempted, he'd given in to sin, just like he'd always done. And now, with the need burning inside him to find Ellen, Cort knew nothing would keep him from her.

Ellen had become his mission, had taken the place of faith in his life. Consumed by a desperate need for the woman who had known what he was and taken him into her body in spite of it, he refused to give up his search. He wouldn't stop until he had her in his arms again, in his bed, would not rest until he convinced her to stop her aimless wandering and settle down with him somewhere…he didn't care where. He needed to love her. Protect her.

More than either of those things, he needed her to love him.

Fine thoughts for a man just hours from a whore's bed, but buying relief from a whore meant nothing to him and never had. Cort didn't feel the need to repent the appeasement of his lust. There were times when a man had to lay down with a woman or go loco. For too long he'd smothered his carnal nature, pushed it down and fought it with prayer, battled the pure cussedness that came with it. He thought he'd conquered his need, tempered his callousness, but it looked like he hadn't.

Still, lust was one thing, love was something altogether different. Love was what he felt for Ellen, though a part of him realized that to form such a strong attachment after only a short time bordered on the absurd. And although he knew she didn't feel the same, he was still driven to find her. With no more inspiration than a few stolen hours and the memory of the desperation in Ellen's eyes, he had given up on his struggle to become a good man, and was ready to do whatever it took to find her. Save her.

Save them both.

Cort dragged a hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe a bitter taste from his lips. He was no savior. A man can't lie to himself and the truth was, he'd given up the struggle to live a straight life pretty damned easy. The truth was, he wasn't a good man at all.

But he could be. If he had Ellen, he could be. If she'd love him enough to help him, if she'd love him enough to let him help her, they could build a life together. Marry, maybe have some young ones of their own. With the money he had left from the Oracle bank and the share he'd earn from tonight's raid, they could make a start toward a good life. Buy a spread someplace, far from the dark memories they both had of Arizona. Go north to Montana where there was fine green land for the asking, get shed of this everlasting desert. Or move farther west to California, where there was plenty of opportunity for a man and woman who needed to forget what they'd been, and learn what they could be.

Cort pulled the stopper from his canteen, took another mouthful of tepid water, and sat with his thoughts in the gathering darkness until he heard the gelding's low warning whicker, felt the infinitesimal vibration of the ground under him. He rose and surveyed the land to the northwest until he caught sight of approaching riders, their horses raising a cloud of dust that hovered and rolled behind them.

McCabe's gang. Five men riding in a tight formation, McCabe maybe a length ahead on a light dapple gray that charged out of the twilight like an avenging ghost. A snippet of scripture came to his mind, an unwanted, vaguely malevolent portent on this night when he intended to break the seventh commandment, and might be forced to violate the third as well.

And I looked, and beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

"Behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death…" Cort muttered. And suddenly he knew that once again, he was standing at another fork in the road of his life, and that this time, the wrong turning would be the end of him.

For a long moment, he stared at the approaching horsemen, his jaw tight, his conscience a torment, and then a sudden wild rush of rebellion made him throw out the dare: "So be it. Fuck you, old Satan. You want a piece of my hide, then come get some…"

He cinched his saddle and catching the reins, climbed up and nudged his horse out of the shadows to ride out and meet McCabe and the devil.

e e e

"Listen up, now. Ain't gonna tell you but once."

Cort stood, reins in hand, listening to McCabe explain his plan. He studied the faces in a semi-circle around him, saw cunning as well as stupidity as his eyes moved over the men McCabe called 'the boys'.

The plan was a simple one. They'd make the thirty mile ride to Las Huertas, the estancia of Don Esteban Reyes y Santiago in Sonora province in two hours, pushing their horses hard enough to make good time, but not so hard as to use them up. The old Mex ran ten thousand head of cattle on a ranch the size of Cochise County...had one of those old Spanish land grants that he'd managed to hold onto through the war by supporting Porfirio Díaz. The land was unfenced, the northern boundary marked by tall cairns of piled stone. His cattle were pastured in smaller herds scattered over the estancia. McCabe said they'd find one of those herds, cut out and steal as many head as they could handle, and run the longhorns back over the border into Arizona.

One of the men threw out a question: "Where we gonna keep 'em 'til we sell 'em off?"

McCabe lit a cheroot, taking his time before he answered. "I got a place staked out...box canyon, close to Bisbee. We'll barricade those cows inside until we collect our price, then deliver the herd to the buyer." He blew a lungful of smoke toward the sky, looked at Cort as if daring him. "Any more questions?"

Cort met him stare for stare, his mouth a grim line, his jaw tight. The plan was full of holes and he had his doubts about Frank McCabe. But he kept his mouth shut.

McCabe flicked his cheroot away. "Let's ride for Mexico, boys."

e e e

There was no moon, only starlight to guide them on their foray into Sonora. Cort kept his mount at a steady mile-eating lope, riding slightly behind the rest until McCabe called a halt and said they'd reached the northernmost border of Santiago's land. From there on, they walked their horses and didn't talk, for even the slightest sound could carry in the still night air and spook the half-wild longhorns, or alert Santiago's vaqueros that they were coming.

Halfway up a long slope, Cort's horse snorted and blew, his ears twitching a warning. The riders topped the low rise and there, spread out below them on a grassy plain, was a goodly sized chunk of the Las Huertas herd.

McCabe leaned forward in the saddle and rested his arm on his knee, greed prompting him to silently tot up the profit he might realize from this night's work. "By Christ, look at that," he murmured low. "Must be a thousand head."

"Near enough," agreed Cort. His eyes flickered to the horizon, where the dark sky met the even darker land. Following the ridgeline, he picked out the dim glow of a dying campfire.

"No sign of vaqueros," McCabe grunted. "I reckon Santiago feels pretty safe, the damn fool don't have sense enough to post a guard on these cows."

Cort scowled. The more he listened to him, the more he realized McCabe didn't know shit about rustling cattle, and he had poor vision to boot. He pointed to the dull orange glow far away. "He's got guards," he said softly. "There...and there." He moved his arm to indicate two men on horseback on the far side of the herd. "Those two pass each other twice, every circuit around the herd. It's how it's done...same way we did it nights on the trail from Texas to Kansas back when I was a sprout."

McCabe followed his finger, shrugged. "So I was wrong. Don't make no difference in the end."

Disgusted, Cort said, "You're going to have to shoot it out with those greasers, so let's get these damn cows moving and get the hell out of here."

McCabe had the same low opinion of Mexican cowboys as the rest of Arizona and shrugged off Cort's urgency. "If those Mex's are up for a fight, let 'em come and try to stop us. We got enough fire power to convince 'em to lay back and let us go peaceable." He looked over his shoulder and beckoned the others in a hoarse whisper. "Let's go, boys...time's a-wasting," and to Cort, "Once we get them moving, you ride drag on these cows, hombre. You and Skidmore."

"Whatever you say," Cort agreed, turning his horse with a jerk of the reins, "as long as we get the hell started."

Two of the men peeled off and rode easily into the milling, grazing cattle, cut off a few dozen head, and started them north. The longhorns nearest them followed instinctively. Another of McCabe's boys rode into the herd and waved his hat, using his horse to turn the more reluctant cows. Cort heard low-pitched whistles before the sound was muffled by the thud of a hundred hooves. He flapped his hat and used his horse's height and bulk to nudge the longhorns into motion, calling quietly, "Yeah, dogie...geeyap, cow," but he kept his eye on the pair of Mexican cowboys, and saw it when they split up. One came on to see what had his cattle moving in the night, the other turned toward the camp, running for help from his compañeros.

Beside him McCabe hissed, "Drop him, goddammit!"

Cort stared, astonished. "You loco? These broadhorns will stampede for sure."

"Goddammit, I said to drop him!"

Muttering, "It's your funeral, boss man," Cort lifted his Winchester to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel and gently squeezed the trigger. The muzzle belched a shower of sparks and Santiago's vaquero slumped to the side, then tumbled from his horse. It veered off, ran wild out into the foothills.

The other rider was too far away, but McCabe fired at him and didn't stop until Cort knocked the muzzle of his rifle toward the sky. The repeated loud reports had turned the herd from compliant cows into a seething mass of crazed beef on the hoof. Lowing in fear and swinging their wicked horns, they reacted as one and stampeded northward. In the blink of an eye, the whole picture changed. Panicked himself, McCabe sawed his mount around, dug hard with his spurs. His horse leapt ahead, plunged into the herd.
Cursing him for a bungling ass, Cort rode hard to take up the drag. A bullet whistled past his head but he didn't bother to return fire.

The night dissolved into confusion, galloping cattle, unbelievable noise. Skidmore disappeared, Cort didn't know if he'd stopped a bullet or been thrown. He raced alongside the cattle, kept the brown out of reach of their wickedly lethal horns. The noise became deafening, the ground quaked. Dust rose in a cloud to obscure his vision. The hair on the back of Cort's neck prickled as he bent low over the saddle; the certainty that he made a good target had his skin crawling. He couldn't hear and he couldn't see, but a keener sense told him the Santiago vaqueros were coming up hard on his heels.

He was sure of it a moment later when a bullet slammed through his right shoulder and blasted out just below his collarbone. The impact stunned him; he jerked the reins up short until he regained sense enough to spur his horse into a run again. Wet warmth ran down his belly, he marveled that he felt no pain. He crouched lower in the saddle and urged the brown on, thinking ruefully that he should have brought the faster buckskin after all. A twisting glance over his shoulder brought agony that set his right side afire. Through a break in the rolling dust clouds he saw that Santiago's vaqueros were after them, eight well-mounted men not half a mile away.

"Goddammit!"

There was no chance to outrun them, the brown didn't have the speed for it and Cort felt his strength fading with every drop of blood that flowed from his wounds. He looked for another way out, and found a trail behind an outcropping of rock that led up into the foothills. McCabe and his men were ahead with the herd, riding hard for Arizona and safety. His passage hidden by the rocks, Cort wagered the vaqueros would miss him in the darkness, choose to follow the herd and take the cattle back if they could. He urged his horse up a narrow defile between tumbled boulders and sheer cliffs, the sound of gunfire fading behind him. After a while he slowed, searching for a place to hole up, a ledge that would give him the advantage of height and cover if he had to defend himself. When he came upon a lateral ravine half enclosed by rock, he dismounted and left the brown to fend for himself on the canyon floor. Cort forced himself to climb until he could see the approach to his hideout. He took cover behind the rocks, reloadeded his Winchester with hands that were steady. He waited.

An hour passed and Santiago's men didn't come. Either they'd chosen to go after the cattle, or they hadn't seen him slip away. Cort looked down at his shirt front as the gray light of dawn poured over the horizon. It was stained rusty red, stiff with dried blood. He slipped his hand inside and gingerly felt the wound. It burned like fire, but his fingers came away clean. The bleeding had stopped.

As it is with all wounded men, his thirst was ferocious, torturing him as another hour went by. Full daylight came and Cort surveyed the land, saw that the canyon trail turned north and broke into open country a few miles from where he waited. He stayed hidden as long as he could ignore his need for water, and then half slid, half walked back down the rocky trail until he stood firm on the canyon floor. A whistle through his teeth brought the brown limping toward him, it was then he saw that the gelding had taken a bullet too. His flank was laid open in a long furrow that already buzzed with flies. Cort chased them off and reached for the canteen on his saddle, his thirst a bitter craving.

But the canteen was dry, punctured by the bullet that had wounded his horse. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, leaning his head against the saddle as a wave of dizziness left him reeling. An innate sense of urgency told him it was time to get out of the canyon in case Santiago's men returned to search. He put his foot in the stirrup, and murmuring a low, “Sorry boy, I got to,” Cort mounted his weakening horse.

Consciousness ebbed like the tide. He didn’t black out but at times, it was as if his face was covered with a gray blanket that kept him from seeing things clear. His strength faded as the miles passed and his wound pained him viciously, but it was his thirst that was a pure torture, as punishing as the fires of hell. He searched the land for a telltale clump of the cottonwood trees that grew near springs and creekbeds, but there was nothing but miles of empty land, with only an occasional bare-limbed palo verde or a skeletal saguaro cactus in sight. Thinking of Ellen was all that kept him doggedly following the trail toward Arizona. Sometimes Cort thought he saw her riding her big black stallion far ahead, her yellow hair spilling out from under her hat, blazing gold in the sun. He called to her, but she didn’t hear him. On and on, as the sun rose higher and the heat sapped the moisture from his body, he pushed himself and his horse. It was high noon when he saw the three crosses silhouetted against the sky, and realized he was back in Arizona. He pushed the horse up Tres Cruces hill, and through eyes blurred by pain and his body’s waning strength, he looked for some sign of McCabe and the herd.

There was nothing.

e e e

Bisbee, Arizona

“Come on, darlin’…give us a kiss. I’m dyin’ for a kiss from the prettiest girl in Arizona Territory.” He pressed into her from behind, let her know just how much he wanted her.

Sweet talk, sweeter kisses. Nothing but bullshit from a charmer, but Ellen was partial to a drawl like Rafe’s, and it was good to hear sweet things from a man again. His voice purred in her ear, and the hint of laughter floating just under the surface made her smile. Rafe Carradine had a fine sense of humor. No matter how blue she felt, he always managed to make her smile. She turned in his arms to press her lips to his.

Rafe growled into her throat, nipped at her ear. “Little filly, you got me randy as a goat again. Feel like another poke, sweetheart?”

She hid her face, hiding her reluctance to service him yet again. “Ain’t you had enough pokin’ for one day?” she asked wryly.

He lifted the mass of her hair and buried his face in it. Lord, but she smelled good. A sight better than she had the first night he’d seen her in the saloon, when the whiskey fumes had been strong enough to blister paint.

“Never get enough of my sweet Ellen,” he murmured softly. “I could fuck you all the day long – don’t you know that by now, darlin’?”

She reckoned she knew. When Rafe came into town, that was just about all they did. Hole up in her room above the Bon Ton Saloon in Brewery Gulch, share a bottle of red eye, and fuck. But Ellen had no complaints, despite the fact that she was sore by the time he left her, and she still had her portion of randy cowboys and miners to service. But it was worth it. Rafe was good to her, made her forget what she’d lost, and what she’d become.

‘You stole my life…’

It was still the truth. Killing him hadn’t changed things, even with her lover's lips on her throat and his hands stealing around to cup and massage her, she still found herself thinking of Herod. After a while Rafe's loving could distract her, but she couldn't take him again. They'd been all day in bed together, and her pussy was raw and sore. She could slick herself with sweet oil, but she'd done that once and he'd been insulted and mad, said he felt like she didn't want him enough. 'Men are damn fools,' thought Ellen. What made them think a woman wanted to fuck all day, and then all night, too? It wasn't that appealing. Still, she'd learned a few tricks in her time…a woman didn't have to screw a man to please him. Ellen kissed her lover, teased his mouth with her tongue, then crawled down his body to kneel between his legs.

As she took him into her mouth, Rafe threw his head back and groaned like a man in agony. His fingers plunged into the tumbling mass of yellow hair to gently guide her head. Lord forgive him, but there was nothing better than Ellen with his prick in her sweet mouth. The tricks she could do with her tongue made a sucking better than a poke any day. He fisted her hair, forgot his strength and pulled too hard, but she didn't complain. His Ellen knew the torturing pleasure of her mouth made him lose his sense towards the end.

Rafe grunted and swore as he spilled his seed, his shaking hands holding her head still as he pumped into her. Ellen let him fill her mouth, then got up to spit into the slop jar. He closed his eyes, grimaced at the sound of his semen splattering against the china bowl. Vaguely resentful, he wished she'd keep it with her, just once. Because sometimes, when she spat out his seed so violently, it felt like she was spitting him out, too.

e e e

An hour later, he was still lazing on her bed, smoking a cheroot and absently scratching his groin. It was plain he'd stay there all night if she'd let him, but she could already hear raucous voices downstairs in the saloon, calling for whores.

"Get up and get," she said over her shoulder as she stood in front of the mirror to pin her hair up in an untidy swirl. "I have to go work."

He stretched lazily. "I get me a little more saved, you won't be throwing me out of an evening," Rafe drawled. He tucked his arms behind his head and admired the way her breasts moved without a corset to hold them high and up-thrust, like ripe fruits on a shelf. He liked Ellen's little tits better in their natural state. Corsets made a tiny waist on a woman, but he didn't much care for them. They were troublesome to take off and the cruel grooves the whalebone left in her delicate skin made him feel bad. When he saved enough to buy his own spread and married her, he swore Ellen would never wear a corset again. She could run around all the day long in one of those loose wrappers, her tits jiggling with every step.

He didn't notice that she made no reply, kept studying her while Ellen studied herself in the mirror, wondering why Rafe wanted to marry a piece of damaged goods like her. God knew she wasn't of a cheerful nature…unlike most whores, she didn't even bother to feign a good disposition for the men who bedded her. She didn't like being a whore and she didn't care who knew it, but the miners and cowboys who bought her favors didn't seem to mind at all. She had more custom than she wanted. Sometimes she thought of her father and how it would pain him to know she'd taken up the sporting life. He'd been the kind of man who believed in marriage, but she'd marry Rafe soon enough. Until then, unless she wanted to ruin her looks and slave herself to death in a laundry or eating house, the only thing she could do to survive was whore or work the dance halls. Dancing didn't appeal to Ellen any better than whoring did, but at least her feet weren't tired every night.

Her hand stilled as she stared into the mirror. There was always the bounty hunting, she could go back to that, but just the thought of those wandering days made her eyes go flat and cold. No sense even pretending she could take up that kind of life again. Scratching out a livelihood hunting outlaws who didn't want to be found, living hand to mouth between rewards. Sleeping in the rough more often than not, her meals whatever she could kill and cook over an open fire out in the desert. Out-smarting the men she hunted, out-shooting them when it was necessary.

Those men couldn't believe a woman had been cunning enough to capture them, and they never forgot it, either. She'd made lots of enemies. Ellen leaned forward and smoothed coralline salve over her lips with her little finger. Her former prisoners wouldn't recognize her now, in her whore's finery and paint. She'd entertained two of them since she'd started sporting, and to her surprise, neither had realized they were screwing the woman who'd once brought them to justice, trussed up like plucked chickens.

Behind her, the bedsprings protested as Rafe uncoiled his lean body and stood to stretch. She returned to tucking her hair up and he began to dress methodically, his mind on the coming evening. He didn't have business until McCabe showed up, and since his sweetheart would be too busy entertaining tricks to pay any mind to him tonight, he had nothing to do but sit in the saloon and get likkered. He dug in his pants pocket, pulled out the greenbacks and silver he had left. Rafe hadn't lied to Ellen, he really was saving for his own place, and had already deposited most of his money in the Wells Fargo office before he'd come to Brewery Gulch. He knew a man could get drunk and foolish, spend a month's wages on whiskey before he went broke. Rafe swore that wouldn't happen to him; he kept his money safely out of reach when he was in the mood to drink himself stupid.

Ellen turned from the mirror and saw him counting coins. "What's that you're doing…you going to tip me for a change?" she asked wryly.

"Nope. I'm figuring how many drinks I can buy before I run out of money." Rafe grinned. "Reckon six dollars will last me until I go back to the Elkhorn?"

She turned back to the mirror. "Not if you tip me. Better hold on to it."

Rafe slid the money back into his pocket. "Here's a tip for you, darlin'..." he leaned close and whispered, "...always take an umbrella in the rain." His lips brushed the back of her neck, then plucked at a loose blonde strand that had refused to stay confined. "Wouldn't want that pretty yellow hair to get wet."

He grinned as he reached past her to grab his hat, then dropped it on his head with a glance into the mirror to make sure it had the rakish tilt he preferred. Halfway through the door he said over his shoulder, "I'll be back come sunup, honey...help you throw the last feller out of your bed."

"So you can take his place?"

He gave her a last teasing wink. "You bet. Now don't work too hard, and don't give any of those cowboys a treat like you gave me."

She smiled at him and lied without conscience. "You know I won't. That's something special, just for you, Rafe."

As the door closed behind him, she shrugged. Men were damn fools, even the good ones.

e e e

He'd lost the reins, they'd slipped out of his numb hands miles back and he rode slumped in the saddle, hanging onto the brown's mane by pure instinct. When his shuddering horse finally stopped and blew, Cort raised sun-faded eyes and squinted into the blazing light. For a moment he thought it was a trick of his mind, a vision he saw because he wanted it so bad, but he was wrong. The brown had brought them to an arroyo no bigger than a trickle, but with water enough to quench his thirst.

"Good boy..." he muttered, then half-slid, half-fell from the saddle. The horse shied, side-stepped away as Cort's spur dragged across his injured flank. He crawled to the creek and lay on his belly to lap water like a dog, disregarding the mud bugs that skittered away across the surface. When his belly felt like it was close to bursting, he rolled to his back and closed his eyes against the sun's glare, breathing deep. His shoulder throbbed, but after a moment he forced himself upright to loosen the saddle-girth and take the bit from the brown's frothing mouth. He'd turned out to be one hell of a good horse, a better companion than any other.

Cort stroked the animal's neck until his knees buckled and he sank to the ground. "Good boy...saved my life," he rasped, just before everything went black.

e e e

"You reckon he's dead?" The young cowpoke, barely fourteen, looked down from his horse at the body sprawled on the ground.

His older companion said dryly, "Ain't gonna find out from the back of your cayeuse. Git on down there and see."

The boy jumped nimbly from the saddle and bent to lay his cheek against Cort's chest. "He's breathin'." He cocked his head, lifted the blood-stiffened shirt and peered inside. He ain't bleedin' no more. Pretty big hole, though." He glanced up at his pard. "Bute? What we gon' do with him?"

"You ride back to the Elkhorn and bring a wagon. We'll load him up and take him to old Ignacio, let him doctor on the poor bastard." He leaned over and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt, looked at the youngster still kneeling beside Cort. "Well? What you waiting on...sundown? Git."

"Yessir," the boy replied, already climbing his horse.

e e e

Cort came to as soon as they lifted him. Pain shot through his shoulder and he groaned, swore out loud.

"Jesus Christ!"

"He's alive for sure," Bute said laconically, and to Cort, "Run into a bullet, did ya?"

Cort squinted them into focus, an old man a boy between hay and grass. "Who are you?"

"They call me Bute. This here sprout is Pete." He pushed up his hat brim, eyed Cort curiously. "And now I return the question, young feller. Who are you?"

"Name's Cort. Jesus..." he hissed through gritted teeth, as the pain throbbed into a knifing wrench. "Where's my horse?"

"Right here...barely strayed a yard. We'll bring him along." Bute spat tobacco juice directly at a scorpion that ventured too near his boot. It scuttled back, tail curling. "Looks like your cayeuse run into a bullet too."

"Met up with some banditos south of the border. Chased me."

Bute grinned. "Lucky you got away, ain't it?"

Cort ignored the question, asked one of his own. "Where you takin' me?"

"Back to the Elkhorn. Got a cook there who doubles as a curandero. He'll set you to rights." He looked to Pete. "Jump up there son, and get this rig moving. We ain't got all day."

The boy obeyed, clambering onto the wagon seat. He let off the brake and clucked a geeyap to the mules. The wagon started off with a jolt.

"Jeeeesus...." Cort lay back against a sack of grain and gritted his teeth as the pain in his shoulder flared higher. He looked at Bute, riding alongside on a paint mare, and saw the canteen hanging from his saddle horn. "I'd be obliged for a drink, friend."

The old cowboy passed it over. "Take all you want."

Cort wished it was whiskey, but he reckoned that was too much to ask. He raised the canteen and gulped water, and as he lowered it to wipe his mouth, Bute passed him a bottle.

"It's only forty-rod, but it'll take the edge off. Was I you, I'd drink it dry before we get back. Ignacio ain't known for his gentle hands."

e e e

Cort slumped at a scrubbed wooden table in the cook house, waiting while the curandero got his things ready. His eyes traveled over the peeled log rafters, took in the bundles of herbs and strings of dried peppers that hung from them. The place was more like a covered patio than a room, open to the air on two sides. Bake ovens of mortared stone and a high wide fireplace were built into one adobe wall. A soot-blackened coffeepot sat on a cast iron cookstove, and a kettle of chili bubbled over the fire, sending forth an aroma that had Cort's mouth watering. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd eaten.

Dried blood had stuck his shirt to his wounds, and when the curandero peeled it gently away, the bleeding began again. He leaned forward to brace his elbows on the table, wincing as Ignacio cut it off.

"I God..." breathed Bute, as the hole in Cort's back was revealed. "Reckon that hurts like the devil." He looked on as the curandero began to examine the wound with a thin metal probe, but turned away when it disappeared into the reddened flesh. Cort's body shivered, muscles twitching under the skin, but he didn't flinch away or utter a sound.

Bute coughed uncomfortably. "How bad is it, amigo?"

Ignacio shrugged. "Bad enough...I would not like to have such a hole in my back. But it is clean, and the wound will heal well. The bullet hit no bones, only muscle," the old Mexican said after a while. He laid the probe on the table top. "You are lucky, señor."

Sweat ran in rivulets down Cort's drawn face. "Was I so goddamn lucky, the goddamn bullet wouldn't have caught me in the first goddamn place," he grated.

Ignacio shook his head. Some men were unappreciative of the graces sent their way. If he were in this hombre's place, he would thank the Lord on his knees that his life had been spared. But from the scowl on the wounded one's face, Ignacio could see he was of the impatient sort who had no time for God. He moved to the stove, came back with a bowl of hot water and began to wash away the clotted blood.

Cort bit down, gritting his teeth against the pain. The wounds cleaned, the curandero took moldy bread he had soaked in water infused with herbs, and squeezed it dry. He wrapped the bread in clean cheesecloth to make two pads, then began to wind strips of muslin around Cort's upper body. When he had enough strips in place to support their weight, he tucked the pads inside against the holes in the gringo's chest and back, then wound more muslin to hold them in place. To finish, he tore the ends of the bandages into laces that he tied so tightly, his patient grunted in discomfort.

Cort sat still, breathing deep, and wondered if the pain was really lessening, or if he only imagined it was so. "What's in those pads?" he asked, looking down and touching the bandages with hesitant fingers.

"Just a poultice. It will kill the pain and make you heal faster."

Cort nodded, glanced at Bute. "You were right, he's a good sawbones. Reckon you could get me the other shirt from my saddlebag?"

"Someone could, I reckon." The old man cupped a hand to his mouth and called, "Pete!"

The boy appeared around the corner, a flea-bitten dog at his heels. "Yessir?"

"You put up this feller's horse like I tolt you?" At Pete's nod, Bute said, "Fetch his saddlebag and bring it here."

"Yessir."

Bute grinned at Cort. "No sense in an old man runnin' when a youngun is close to hand. Only reason I could ever see for having one around."

His belly growled as Cort sniffed the redolent air. "I could use a cup of that coffee," he said, as Ignacio began to clear away his instruments. "And a bowl of that chili you got cookin'."

"You should drink a lot of water and eat some beefsteak," Ignacio advised. "You have lost a lot of blood. The peppers in the chili are not good for you." He cocked his head, studied the dark rings around Cort's eyes. "A good sleep would help you, too."

In truth, he thought the loss of blood the worst of the gringo's wound. The holes in his back and chest were not so large, but if the man's clothes were anything to judge by, they had bled heavily. Ignacio knew the loss of lifeblood would weaken a man more than anything else. And with wounds so long untreated, there was always the risk of fever.

"Well, since I ain't got a beefsteak, the chili will have to do," Cort replied, short tempered from hunger and pain. "I'm so damned hungry I'm like to faint, so I'd be obliged if you'd serve some up. Pronto," he added, when the curandero didn't move.

The boy came back with the saddlebag, laid it down near his feet. Cort reached for it, but the bulky bandaging made movement difficult. "In the left pocket," he said, breathing against the flaring pain. "There's another shirt."

Bute hunkered down and unbuckled the strap, found the shirt and pulled it from the bag. "This here's a go over your head shirt," he said, shaking out the folds. "I expect you can't lift that arm."

"Cut it," ordered Cort. "I ain't walking around half shucked."

Ignacio brought scissors and used them to cut through the muslin, straight down from the buttons to the hem. He and Bute held the shirt while Cort struggled into it, his lips pressed together tight.

"I can sew it closed..." Ignacio suggested, but Cort shook his head. "I'll just fold it over, tuck it under my belt." He looked up through his hair. "You want to do me a favor, hombre viejo? Feed me."

Ignacio nodded, brought him water and a cup of strong black coffee, then returned with a bowl of chili. "Eat, señor...and then you must sleep."

"I ain't got time to sleep." Tilting his head back and opening his throat, Cort drained the water at a gulp. Saliva flowed into his mouth even before he shoveled in the first spoonful of meat and beans, so hungry he hardly bothered to chew. Ignacio brought tortillas on a tin plate, hot from the griddle. Cort took one and spooned chili inside, rolled up the thin bread and bit in.

He fixed his eyes on Bute and said between mouthfuls, "You know a man name of Frank McCabe?"

Disgust flitted across Bute's face, changing his expression from openly friendly to wary. "I know him. Why?"

"I'm looking for him. He owes me money."

"Good luck collectin' on your debt," Bute said shortly. He sat at the table across from Cort and leaned back in the splint bottomed chair. "In these parts, McCabe ain't known for bein' honest."

Ignacio brought the speckled pot and filled their coffee cups. "This McCabe...I know him. He was here today, looking for señor Rafael. I speak to him."

Cort froze, his tortilla halfway to his mouth. He set it down on the plate and said softly, "He was here?"

"Si, this morning."

"And who might this Señor Rafael be?"

"He is el jefe...the boss. Rafael Carradine," the Mexican said, R's rolling off his tongue. "Señor Barker's foreman. He go to Bisbee. I hear the cowboys talking, they say he has a woman there. She is said to be very pretty, muy lindo, with yellow hair and blue eyes.

Ellen… Her image slammed into Cort's head. Blue eyes, yellow hair. Could it be? He stared at the bemused curandero. "What about the woman? You know her?"

Ignacio shrugged. "I see her only once when he bring her to our fiesta. She rode a black horse that looked fierce as the devil."

"Tall woman?" Cort gritted. "Wears a man's britches?"

"Si," the Mexican nodded. "That is her."

Cort's fingers tightened on the edge of the table. "You say she lives in Bisbee?"

There was something in his tone made Ignacio take a wary step back before answering. "The cowboys say she works there."

There wasn't much a woman could do in a rough town like Bisbee. He knew the answer, but Cort asked the question anyway. "Doin' what?"

There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, or the anger. Ignacio backed away. "Senor..."

Cort stood up, his hand hovering near the gun on his hip. "Goddammit, answer me!"

Young Pete scrambled behind the wall for cover, but his head popped around the corner, his eyes huge. His heart hammered in excitement. Was there going to be a gunfight? He'd never seen one and almost hoped so, only something told him his old friends Bute and Ignacio would not win against the stranger.

"Here now..." Bute stood and laid a restraining hand on Cort's arm. "Don't get your dander up, pard. It ain't 'Nacho's fault if..."

Cort threw his hand off and glared at the cowering Mexican. "Answer me, old man."

Ignacio had never seen a man look as ferocious as the wounded gringo. He held the coffeepot in front of his chest like a shield and stammered, "The boys in the bunkhouse say she is a puta..."

With the utterance of the word, rage unlike anything he'd felt before possessed Cort's mind and body. It blanked his pain, invigorated his exhausted body with strength the long day had sapped. He forgot everything else as his mind filled with Ellen.

Ellen his love. Ellen, a whore...

His voice sounded dead and cold when he said, "Where?"

Bute answered him quietly. "The lady sports at the Bon Ton."

Cort bent to pick up his saddle bag, took a step to go, and remembered. "I'm obliged for the meal and the doctoring." His voice was deceptively soft as he reached into his pocket and pulled out two silver dollars. "This take care of it?"

"You should not ride with that shoulder," said Ignacio, ignoring the money. "It will bleed again if you do."

Cort tossed the coins on the table and picked up his hat, dropped it on his head. His eyes went to Bute. "I'm asking for the loan of a horse," he said. "Mine's done in."

Bute nodded. "You can take mine. Leave her at Spade's Livery. If you ain't back by sun up, I'll bring yours in to town and make the trade." He wanted to advise Cort to stay clear of trouble, but he didn't have the sand for it. There was something in the feller's eyes that told him they'd best keep out of his way. He stayed mute as Cort stalked out of the cook house, his long lean body showing no sign of weakness or pain.

"Ain't it a wonderment," Bute mused, "what a good spate of wrathfulness can do to a feller? Give him the strength of ten men, and at the same time, cloud his head until he got no more sense than a prairie chicken."

They watched Cort climb the mare and start her toward town at a lope. Bute stared after him and said dryly to Ignacio, "He's up to no good, that feller."

"He has been marked by the woman. The goodness drained out of him with his blood, and now all that is left inside is the bad." Ignacio shook his head and made the sign of the cross. "There will be trouble in Bisbee tonight."