Gabriel Hunt - Hunt at The Well Of Eternity

“Fire!” Podnemovitch bellowed. He palmed out his revolver with one hand and reached behind his back with the other. That hand came into view holding Gabriel’s Peacemaker. Both guns spurted flame.

Gabriel dropped to a knee and squeezed off a burst from the machine pistol he held. Fargo and the other men were shooting now, as was Cierra. So were Esparza’s men. The night air, which just moments earlier had been so peaceful, was filled with the sudden thundering of guns and the whizzing of bullets. Up at the top of the palace steps, the machine gun kicked in as well, sending slugs ripping through the camp Esparza’s men had set up.

Podnemovitch rolled away from Gabriel’s shots. The slugs stitched into the water barrels instead as Podnemovitch took cover behind them. Water began to spurt from the holes.

Esparza shouted in fury as he saw the water splashing on the ground—perhaps, Gabriel thought, he hadn’t entirely accepted that the water had lost its power. Esparza jerked his pistol from the holster at his waist and fired at Gabriel and Fargo, forcing them to veer apart so that the bullets passed between them.

Fargo’s gun jammed. He threw it aside, and at that moment one of his men came running up and held something out to him.

“General! We found it in the hut with the guns!”

Fargo wrapped his hand around the hilt of a cavalry saber. A smile appeared on his weathered old face. “My good friend,” he said, and Gabriel wasn’t sure if he was talking to the man who had brought him the saber—or to the blade itself.

With a chilling Rebel yell, Fargo lifted the saber and charged through the chaos toward Esparza.

Gabriel, meanwhile, went after Podnemovitch. Like Fargo, he’d already emptied his pistol, so he charged bodily into the barrels, sending them crashing against the Russian. Podnemovitch yelled as the barrels tumbled around him, knocking him over and dashing the guns from his fists.

Gabriel bounded over one of the barrels and tackled Podnemovitch as the man tried to get up. They rolled over and Gabriel realized they were just inches from the lip of the well. Podnemovitch wound up on top, and he managed to get his hands around Gabriel’s neck.

“Here we are again,” the Russian said, breathing heavily. “Just like in New York. I seem forever to be strangling you, Hunt. But this time—” he said, squeezing viciously “—I am going…to make it… stick .”

Gabriel had the fingers of one hand inside Podnemovitch’s grip, and that was the only thing that had kept the Russian from crushing his larynx—so far.

The faces of the two men were only inches apart as the desperate struggle continued. Between gritted teeth, Podnemovitch said, “Do you want to know how my shoulder healed so fast after you bayoneted me, Hunt? Do you?” A harsh laugh came from him. “I drank the water that dog Hector brought to Mexico City! The water does work. I will live forever, you fool!”

Gabriel had been gathering his strength while Podnemovitch gloated. Now he acted, using all the power in his rangy body to arch himself up from the flagstones and plant a knee in Podnemovitch’s belly. At the same time, he grabbed the collar of the Russian’s shirt and heaved as hard as he could. With a startled yell, Podnemovitch went up and over Gabriel’s head…

And into the Well of Eternity.

Gabriel rolled over onto his belly and gasped for breath as he heard the huge splash from the bottom of the well. He didn’t know how deep it was, but with its smooth, slimy sides, Podnemovitch wouldn’t be able to climb out. Unless—

Gabriel raced to the pump, struggled to detach the suction mechanism leading down into the Well. From far below, he heard Podnemovitch grab hold and slowly begin an ascent. He was climbing the hose.

“I’ll kill you, Hunt,” came the Russian’s voice, echoing from deep within the Well.

Gabriel wrestled with the end of the hose that was connected to the pump, trying to unlatch it. The thing was firmly attached, and Podnemovitch’s weight was making it impossible to loosen it.

“It won’t take me long to climb out,” the Russian taunted, “and when I do, I will kill you most painfully.” And indeed his voice was louder, closer than it had been. It wouldn’t take him long.

Gabriel searched the ground for anything he might be able to use. He saw a knife lying half in shadow and snatched it up, began using it to saw away at the hose. The damn thing was too thick to cut quickly.

“Just fifteen feet, Hunt,” the Russian jeered. Then: “Fourteen.”

Gabriel swept sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand while he kept sawing with the other. The surface of the hose was finally showing signs of stress as he ran the blade furiously across it, back and forth, pressing hard with each stroke. The material was starting to part, to separate, and as it did, the pressure of the water inside helped drive the cut open wider.

“Just five more feet, you son of a bitch,” Podnemovitch called.

Then the hose split, with a popping sound. Water went gushing everywhere, and Gabriel heard the big Russian fall once more, bellowing as he plunged. The severed hose whipped through the air, then dropped into the Well.

“Now try to climb out,” Gabriel muttered. “You son of a bitch.”

Gabriel heard another sound, a quieter cry of pain, and turned. A few yards away, General Fargo was struggling with Esparza. The general had hold of Esparza’s right wrist and was straining to keep the man’s gun aimed away from him; at the same time, Esparza was twisting Fargo’s right wrist so that the general couldn’t use his cavalry saber. It was a stalemate…but one that Esparza was slowly winning. It was Fargo who’d let out the whimper of pain that Gabriel had heard.

Suddenly, with a wrenching twist, Esparza jerked his gun hand free and swung the pistol toward Fargo. The muzzle was almost touching the general’s chest when flame spurted from it. Fargo rocked back as the bullet drove into his body.

“Granville!” Mariella screamed and ran toward him.

Fargo dropped his sword as he collapsed. Mariella scooped it up and slashed at Esparza, driving him back. He howled in pain as the blade cut across his face, laying his cheek open to the bone. Cursing, Esparza swung his gun around and fired twice, hitting Mariella both times in the chest. She staggered and fell, collapsing next to Fargo.

Gabriel surged to his feet and started for Esparza. He didn’t have a gun, just the knife, but at the moment he didn’t particularly care. He was prepared to kill the man with his bare hands if necessary.

Esparza fired again. The bullet ripped along Gabriel’s side, spinning him around and dropping him to his knees. The wound wasn’t bad—he could breathe, he didn’t think he was bleeding too badly. But it had stopped him, and now Esparza had drawn a bead on him for a finishing shot.

Before Esparza could pull the trigger, though, Cierra let go with a burst of fire that chewed up the ground around his feet. Esparza turned and dashed away into the darkness.

Gabriel struggled to his feet, one hand clamped to his wounded side, aware that the shooting was dying out around him. He saw bodies scattered around the plaza, some Esparza’s men, others wearing the rustic clothes of the Cuchatlán dwellers. He also saw the living, the few who remained standing. And those, thank God, included none of Esparza’s men.

Gabriel saw Fargo’s saber lying on the ground next to the general and Mariella. He picked it up, pausing just long enough to confirm the worst: Both of them were dead.

Before dying, Mariella had managed to reach out and take Fargo’s hand. They lay there together, hands clasped in death, just like in their wedding photograph.