Robert Parker - Brimstone

“Jack a shell up into the chamber,” Virgil said. “Do it when we get closer and they might hear it.”

We did as he said, and eased the hammers off. Then, on our bellies, trying to be silent, we crawled and slithered our way downhill over the shale-littered ground to the rocks, halfway to the camp. All of us were scraped and bloody by the time we got there.

The five men looked to be Mexican. The two women sat close to each other, away from them to the left.

“Can’t ride in among ’em,” Virgil said. “Or walk in, for that matter. All them rocks underfoot, make too much noise going down the hill.”

Neither Pony nor I said anything. We both knew Virgil wasn’t talking to us. The men were passing a bottle around. The women were still.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pony, can you shoot one of those fellas from here without hitting the women?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then we’ll shoot the first three, left to right from the women. I’ll take the closest one, fella in the hat. Everett takes the next one, with the striped shirt. Pony shoots the third one, buckskin shirt.”

Virgil was silent. Neither Pony nor I said anything.

“Then I’ll shoot the fella in the black vest,” Virgil said, “and Everett, you and Pony shoot the other one. Fella with the beard. Recognize each one of them. Even if they get up and move around before we start shooting, you fire at the one I said.”

Pony murmured, “Sí, jefe.”

I said, “Yep.”

“We don’t shoot if we lose sight of anybody,” Virgil said.

He cocked the Winchester. Pony and I did the same.

“You’re sure there’s only five,” Virgil said. “I don’t want there to be some fella out taking a leak to get ruckused up and shoot them women, ’fore we kill him.”

“There are five, jefe,” Pony said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pick out your target, get him in your sights.”

All three of us took aim.

“Know who you’re going to shoot, and who you’re gonna shoot next,” Virgil said.

We waited. I had the middle button on the man’s striped shirt sitting on top of my sight.

“Ready?” Virgil whispered.

Pony said, “Ready.”

I took a deep breath and let it out.

I said, “Ready.”

Virgil said, “Fire!” and I squeezed the trigger. It all moved at the stately pace these things always seemed to. I barely heard the shots. I saw my man go down, and as I shifted to the man with the beard, I levered another round up into the chamber and settled on his chest. He was leaning forward, frozen maybe, by the shock of the surprise, looking for a place to hide. There was no place to hide. I shot him in the chest and saw his body jerk as Pony shot him, too. Beside me, Virgil was on his feet and slip-sliding down the slope toward the campsite. Pony and I followed him. The two women were flat on the ground, one on top of the other.

When we reached the campfire, Virgil took out his Colt and put a bullet through the head of the first man he passed.

“They’re dead,” he said, and walked to the women. “But make sure.”

Pony and I shot the other four men once each in the head. The smell of gunfire was strong when we finished.

Virgil was sitting on his heels beside the two women. They were still huddled, one on top of the other.

“We come to rescue you,” he said. “My name is Virgil Cole. I’m a deputy sheriff in Val Verde County, and the big fella is a deputy, too. His name is Everett Hitch. The slim gentleman is Pony Flores. He’s our tracker. He’s the one found you.”

The women didn’t move or speak. The one on top was older.

“I know you been through hell,” Virgil said. “We’ll take you up the hill to our camp, and feed you and let you sleep, and tomorrow we’ll take you home.”

The woman on top began to cry, harsh, ugly sounds that seemed to hurt as they came out. The woman underneath neither moved nor spoke. She still clung to the older woman.

“No rush,” Virgil said. “When you’re ready.”

She was still making the retching sobbing sound, but the woman looked at Virgil, and seemed to see him, and nodded her head.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you boys saddle up a couple horses, so these ladies don’t have to walk up the hill.”

AT THE TOP OF THE HILL, they were both silent as we built up the campfire and gave them some blankets. Pony made fresh coffee. I got out some cups and the whiskey jug.

It was hard to tell what they might have looked like when they were living on the farm. What was left of them was pretty straggly. The older one had red hair, and some freckles. There was the hint of plumpness vanished about her. As if she had been full-figured and lost weight during her ordeal. The girl was blonde and smaller. Half developed. More than a girl, still less than a woman. They were dirty. Their clothes were barely clothes. And they were enveloped in a glaze of terror, which made them almost unrecognizable.

“Would you like some coffee?” I said to the older woman.

She nodded.

“Whiskey in it?” I said.

She nodded again.

“How ’bout the young lady?” I said.

The young lady had no reaction. The older woman nodded. I poured coffee and whiskey into both cups and handed one to each of them. The older woman blew on the surface of the coffee, and drank some. The young woman took a careful sip, and showed no reaction.

After her second cup, the older woman began to speak. Her voice was half swallowed, and she spoke very fast. They were mother and daughter. The mother’s name was Mary Beth. The kid was Laurel. Mary Beth was thirty-seven. Laurel was fifteen. They both looked a lot older.

“My husband walked out the front door and the Indian shot him,” Mary Beth said. “Didn’t say anything, just shot him and stuck that arrow in him, then he made Laurel and me get on our horses and go with him, never even looked at my husband again, just made us ride away with him. At night he made us… do things with him… both of us right in front of each other, and he said we should get used to it because he was going to sell us to some men who would take us to Mexico…”

She stopped and drank from her cup. Laurel said nothing; she sipped at her coffee. The two women were wrapped in blankets. They sat close to the fire, more, I thought, for light than warmth. Virgil still sat on his heels beside them. Neither woman ever took her eyes off him.

“And then they came and took us and…”

She looked at her daughter. Her daughter’s face was blank, her eyes fixed on Virgil. She drank more.

“You don’t need to talk about it,” Virgil said.

She nodded.

“Anything you can tell me ’bout this Indian?” Virgil said.

“He…” She drank again. “English. He talked good English.”

Virgil nodded.

“And he was big; he was a very big Indian,” Mary Beth said.

“What did he wear,” Virgil said.

“Black coat,” Mary Beth said. “Long. And a funny hat.” Virgil nodded. Mary Beth was drunk. Laurel seemed unchanged.

“Buffalo Calf,” Mary Beth said.

“Buffalo Calf?” Virgil said.

“He said name Buffalo Calf.”

Virgil nodded again. He glanced at Pony; Pony shrugged and shook his head.

We were quiet for a time. Outside the circle of firelight, one of the horses stirred.

“Oh, God,” Mary Beth said.

“Just one of the horses,” Virgil said.

“But what if they come back?”

“Can’t,” Virgil said. “They’re all dead.”

“You kill them,” Mary Beth said.

“We did.”

“What if the Indian comes back?”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does?”

“We’ll kill him, too,” Virgil said.

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Mary Beth said.