Chapter 49: BAD TO WORSE
Somewhat earlier and further up the Trace, Aaron Goldman, tracker-in-training, was sticking like a deertick to master tracker Gabriel McClanahan in raw admiration of the mountain man's ability to read sign as casually as he, Ronnie, read the Visalia Ek Velt. He pointed out where a one-horse two-wheeled cart had come in off a pig trail to join the main road and, a little beyond that, where two riders had emerged from the brush. Then they'd followed the combined and overlaid tracks of Charlemagne, the cart, and the two horses.
Still farther on Gabe had been puzzled by a disturbance in the pattern of prints and had hopped down to investigate... for some reason the horsemen had gone off into a side canyon and the horses had returned to the road... unridden. Another day he would have been intrigued enough to check out the canyon to see what had become of the riders... but today he was on a mission and time was growing short.
Right around the next bend they came upon an even more perplexing scene—a recently expired black horse in the middle of the thoroughfare. This time Gabe motioned for them to dismount as well and join him on a hunt for clues. Vicente and Ronnie followed their team leader as he strolled here and there, inbetween expectorations of baccy juice pointing out evidence apparently salient to their mission.
The deceased and shoeless nag wore ancient tack and a Lancer brand. Vicente identified it as one the ranch's retirees, scratching his head as he questioned what it could possibly have been doing out here so far from its home pasture. Gabe noted that within the last hour or so, three other horses (none deceased) and a smaller animal that could be a pony but was probably a small mule or large donkey (hitched to the cart) had been present.
Gabe elucidated on the forensics of equine manure. This widely puddled (now dried) batter-like splatter had been literally scared out of a rapidly-moving horse whose diet was blessed with a high grain-to-hay ratio. These other meadow muffins had been dispersed by horses who'd lately consumed only grass or poor quality hay. And this neat little heap of trinkets had been deposited by the donkey or mule pulling the cart. It was fed mainly on corn.
Over there was where two bodies had been dragged to the side of the road. They must have been still alive when found, otherwise whoever moved them wouldn't have bothered to put them under the shade. Judging from the amount and location of dried blood, one had sustained a lower body perforation and the other an upper-body leak. And from the distinctively sour odor of vomitus liberally saturating the ground nearby, someone had supplied those two with substantial draughts of pulque. (Plus Gabe immediately located the not-so-well-hidden stash of mezcal and a number of empties that had held pulque.)
Gabriel had other observations to make concerning the age, gender, footwear choices, etc. of two other people who'd been present and who (judging by the drag marks) had loaded the two inebriates on their cart. Also, the horse they'd been tracking was now lame and being led on foot, with the two other horses following the cart.
The party remounted and trotted through the cleft in the rocks, Vicente Serrato's right hand clutching his St. Benedict's medal during the entire transit. (If you're an evil spirit, you don't mess with St. Benedict.) By now Gabriel McClanahan had a pretty good handle on where and how soon they were going to acquire their target. He predicted they'd be reporting in to the hacienda long about dark, mission accomplished.
Meanwhile, way down the road... The lowering sun was casting long horizontal shadows as Murdoch and Scott parted company with Val where Lancer's private drive ended at the junction with Yokut Trace. The sheriff turned south toward Morro Coyo. Father and son headed north toward Spanish Wells, each claiming a side of the road and keeping eyes peeled for tracks leading off. Scott was the first to spot where a horse had been led away from the road into a ravine. He called to Murdoch... the first time he'd deigned to speak since leaving the hacienda. Together they explored the recesses of the ravine, examining the evidence... hoofprints and bootprints around the perimeter of a pond, recently cropped grass and newly dropped manure. Murdoch found a balled-up wax paper wrapper that had skittered under a bush—odd because Johnny was usually so meticulous about cleaning up after himself on the trail. Scott grumpily acknowledged that they'd most likely picked up the right sign.
Thirty minutes and three miles further, they were coming up on the portion of the road dubbed "La Serpentina" and Murdoch was on the verge of calling a halt and turning back. He'd noticed on the ride from camp that Scott wasn't sitting his saddle with his usual grace and flair. He'd been fidgeting and squirming at the luncheon table as if his drawers were infested with fleas. Now he was openly shifting from one haunch to the other. The concerned parent in Murdoch wanted to know what the problem was, but the manly men's code advised him against calling attention to what certainly must be an embarrassingly personal affliction. Nevertheless, they were about to lose the light and that was a good enough reason for calling it off.
Before Scott could frame an objection to quittig, they spied the southbound entourage and pushed their mounts to a lope. The dust-enshrouded vision resolved into a mule cart, an old man on foot leading a familiar red horse, and two untethered saddle horses following meekly behind. As they met and pulled to a stop, Scott gingerly extricated himself from the saddle and limped over to Charlie, who nickered greetings to his master.
Dismounting somewhat stiffly, Murdoch approached Señorita Espinoza on the driver's seat, pretending not to notice the astonishing reek of horse shit and a sweet-sour slightly acidic stench he couldn't readily identify and didn't particularly want to. It was only after he'd exchanged greetings with the elderly woman that he craned his head over the sideboard of the cart to peer at its contents...
Margarita Guadalupe had cut loose with a cackling commentary in rapid Spanish... how she and Juan Sebastián had been minding their own business, driving to the market in Morro Coyo to celebrate their sixtieth anniversary... they had come across these two lying in the road... it would seem they had shot each other and one had dispatched the other's horse... she and Juan Sebastián were anxious to get their pulque to town while it was still fresh, but decided instead to take the patrón's two injured sons to their home...
Murdoch let the litany flow over and around him as he regarded his boys with wariness and relief, all too aware of how he'd gone wrong that first day, when John and Scott had walked into the greatroom to meet him... how stern and forbidding and unwelcoming he'd been. He'd almost lost them that same day... because he couldn't set aside his pride long enough to act as a parent should toward long-estranged children who've finally come home. Couldn't remember how to act as a father. He wasn't going to let that happen again...
In the dusk—and because they were both covered in filth, Murdoch couldn't immediately tell which boy was which... and then he found himself looking into a pair of incredibly green eyes. He said the first thing that came into his head...
"Hello, son. We've been looking for you."
The eyes blinked once and then, in a voice so faint Murdoch couldn't be sure he'd heard correctly, "Hello... pa."
Before Murdoch could respond, Scott scrambled up into the back of the cart and was on his knees, pummeling Jody mercilessly.
"YOU BASTARD! First you steal my horse and then you kill my brother!"
In his rage, Scott inadvertently kicked Johnny in the knee of his wounded leg. Johnny howled and sat up abruptly, knocking foreheads with Scott and flailing about, trying to pull his gun from its holster. It wasn't there—Margarita Guadalupe had removed it. Barely conscious and not quite lucid, he didn't seem to recognize either Scott or the body Scott was battering with both fists. Johnny grabbed one of the terra cotta jugs by the neck, intending to conk the nearest head. His grip was weak and the jug flew out of his hand, nailing Murdoch in the chest and shattering.
Margarita Guadalupe was standing up in the front of the cart, screaming and tottering. Murdoch was torn between running around to the back of the cart and attempting to break up the fight or staying where he was to catch the old lady if she fell, which she seemed about to do.
Murdoch shouted at them to stop but they couldn't hear him over their own yelling. One out-of-control and two disabled and slightly soused brothers were industriously hammering the pulp out of one another—to the limit of their handicapped abilities.
Scott, Murdoch realized belatedly, was still wearing his gun... which somehow ended up in Jody's hand. The father stood frozen in place, in the certain knowledge one or more of his sons was about to be shot at close range...
The gun went off. Margarita Guadalupe screeched. Four untethered saddle horses bolted in alarm. Charlemagne reared and took off after them, surprisingly spritely for a three-legged horse dragging an elderly peon who was stubbornly affixed to his reins. Flore wasn't about to be left behind and made a determined lurch forward, toppling Margarita Guadalupe and her voluminous skirts and petticoat onto the three combatants in the back of the cart. With that tiny but encouraging momentum, Flore put her all into it and the cart rolled forward... over Murdoch's foot. The knot of people in the rear, along with a goodly number of pulque jars, spilled out onto the road amid moans, groans, squalls and a solitary shriek of pain.
With her burden so lightened at that point, Flore trotted away briskly, heehawing 'Wait for me!'
For the second time that day, Murdoch lay flat on his back in the dirt—soaked in pulque and speechless. The sun was just setting.
