Читать книгу Dead Man's Gold - J.A. Johnstone - Страница 9

The Kid felt a cold surge of anger inside him. This was the sort of thing that his father had been putting up with for years, he thought. Just because Frank Morgan had a reputation for being fast on the draw, most people believed that he could be hired to gun down anyone. That he was just a killing machine, a handy tool for whoever had the right price.

“You’ve got me mixed up with somebody else,” The Kid said tightly, making an effort to keep his anger under control. “I’m not an assassin.”

“But…I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

Annabelle shook her head. “Then I apologize. I meant no offense, Mr. Morgan. The way you helped us made me think you were the kind of man who seeks adventure, and then when you admitted that you’re a gunfighter as well…” She shrugged her right shoulder, being careful not to move the left one and make her wounded arm hurt worse. “It was a natural enough mistake.”

If she wanted to believe that to make herself feel better, The Kid didn’t care. He stood up. “This’ll be a good spot for you to camp. I’ll help the padre tend to the horses, and then I’ll be moving on.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re not going to stay here tonight, too?”

“No, I reckon I’ll get on about my business…which doesn’t include killing Italian noblemen.”

Annabelle’s mouth tightened into an angry line. “I suppose I deserved that,” she snapped. “You can at least help me to my feet and give me back my gun before you go.”

“I said I’d help with the horses, too,” The Kid responded as he reached down, grasped her upraised hand, and pulled her to her feet. Then he picked up her gun and extended it to her butt-first. It was a double-action Smith & Wesson .38, he noted with approval, small enough for a woman to handle without too much trouble, especially if she practiced with it, but a heavy enough caliber to have some stopping power, too.

She took the weapon and slid it back into its brown leather holster. Then she stood and watched in silence as The Kid helped Father Jardine unhitch the team from the wagon. They hobbled the horses to keep them from wandering off, but the animals could still drink freely from the pool and graze on the grass that grew on its banks.

“You must forgive Annabelle, my son,” the priest said quietly when he and The Kid paused on the other side of the wagon. “She means well, she truly does, but she has little patience and our mission is very important to her.”

“What’s in it for her?” The Kid asked. “If you recover this fancy candlestick for the Church, what does she get out of it?”

“It was her research that led me here. Tell me, Mr. Morgan, have you ever heard of the Jornada del Muerto?”

The Kid nodded. “It’s a stretch of badlands north of here a ways, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, but its name means Journey of the Dead Man.”

“So?”

“Have you any idea how it got that name?”

“Not really,” The Kid replied with a shrug. “I suppose it’s because the place is so hot and dry, it’ll kill you if you try to cross it.”

“Many years ago…two centuries ago, in fact…one such man did try to cross it. Unwisely, as it turned out, because he died before he reached the other side. His name was Albrecht Konigsberg.”

The Kid smiled. “The man with the candlestick?”

“Exactly. He escaped from the Inquisition in Spain and came here to this land. I suspect that he stole the candlestick thinking that he could use it to pay his way to the New World. It was made of gold, after all, and decorated with fine gems. Somehow, though, he managed to hang on to it. Annabelle set out to trace his movements. She spent three years in Mexico doing so, pouring over endless piles of old government and Church documents. She was able to find a record of his arrival in Vera Cruz, and from there she traced him to Mexico City, where he was able to take on a new identity and serve as an advisor to the viceroy in charge of what was then New Spain. Konigsberg was a scientist, you see, an astronomer and astrologer who knew a great deal about the stars. But eventually his past caught up with him. Agents of the Inquisition found him, and he had to flee, taking the candlestick with him once again.”

“So he ran north,” The Kid guessed, “into what’s now New Mexico Territory.”

Father Jardine nodded solemnly. “Yes. He hid himself again by assuming a new identity as a trader known as El Aleman. However, his enemies ferreted him out after a time and he was forced to flee yet again. This time, his luck finally deserted him. With an Indian servant, he started across what is now known as the Jornada del Muerto but never reached the other side. There is a story about how an Indian near death stumbled into a mission and told stories of his master, a German who possessed a great treasure and hid it somewhere in the wasteland. But this was during the time soon after the Pueblo rebellion, when there was still much trouble with the Indians, and the priests and the soldiers at the mission had no time to see if the man’s story was true. Eventually it was forgotten. But the story was still there, in the faded records of the mission that now reside in Mexico City.”

The Kid ran a thumbnail along his jaw. “So when Miss Dare figured all this out, she got in touch with the Church authorities and told them she thought she knew where the candlestick ended up?”

“That is right. And the Vatican…sent me. The loss of what has come to be called the Konigsberg Candlestick has never been forgotten…or forgiven.”

The Kid thought they might have picked somebody more suited to come all the way to New Mexico Territory and search for the missing artifact, but he supposed Father Jardine might be tougher than he looked.

“I reckon this Count Fortunato must have some spies who heard about the whole thing?”

“Fortunato has spies everywhere, even, although I hate to say it, in the Holy City.”

“And he wants it for himself.”

Father Jardine spread his hands. “For some men, their greed is so overpowering that it blots out everything else, including whatever decency they might have.”

The Kid nodded slowly. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, then.”

“Indeed we do. I hope you have a better understanding now, my son, of why Annabelle sought your help in this matter.”

“I reckon so, but it doesn’t really change anything—”

Annabelle came around the wagon, her eyes alight with suspicion. “What are the two of you whispering about around here?” she demanded.

“I was merely thanking Mr. Morgan for his kind assistance so far,” Father Jardine said blandly. He smiled at The Kid, clearly leaving it up to him what he would do next.

The Kid didn’t have to think very long about that. “Good luck to both of you,” he said. He walked around the wagon to where the buckskin stood with his reins dangling, contentedly cropping at the grass.

“You’re really leaving?” Annabelle said as she and the priest followed him.

“Yep.” The Kid glanced at the sky as he picked up the reins. There was only about an hour of daylight left. “If you haven’t been standing guard at night, it’d probably be a good idea if you started. There’s more out here to worry about than just Fortunato.”

“You mean mountain lions, things like that?”

The Kid swung up into the saddle. “Yeah, and some two-legged predators, too. There are still owlhoots and banditos in these parts.”

“I thought the West was civilized now.”

“You thought wrong,” The Kid told her.

With that he turned and rode away, heading higher into the hills, leaving Annabelle to glare after him.

The whole thing was like something out of a storybook, he thought that night as he stretched out on a flat slab of rock, lying on his belly with the Winchester beside him.

The Spanish Inquisition, for God’s sake!—so to speak. A golden candlestick studded with gems, a desperate escape, a dying man with a fabulous story…The Kid was a little surprised that the candlestick wasn’t supposed to have a curse on it. That was about the only thing missing from that loco yarn.

Although, he mused, if the story was true, Albrecht Konigsberg had wound up dying in a terrible wasteland and being immortalized by having it named after him—the Dead Man. Maybe that was curse enough.

Even though several hours had passed since sundown, the rock slab still retained some of the day’s heat. It was warm underneath The Kid, but not all that comfortable. It was perfectly positioned, though, for him to keep an eye on the campsite a couple of hundred yards below him at the bottom of the hill. Annabelle and Father Jardine had built a pretty big fire, and he could see them moving around it. They might as well have erected a giant arrow pointing to them. Anybody out on the flats, or even in the hills on the far side, could see that fire and know exactly where they were.

Earlier, The Kid had ridden well out of sight, then stopped long enough to build a small, almost smokeless fire to boil some coffee and cook his supper. He had eaten and put the fire out before darkness settled down over the landscape. Then he had mounted up and moved back down to this place so that he could keep an eye on the two pilgrims.

Somebody needed to look out for them, that was for damned sure. Like he had told them, Fortunato wasn’t their only problem. He didn’t think they stood a chance in hell of going up into the Jornada del Muerto by themselves and coming out alive. The Kid had never been through there himself, but he recalled hearing his father talk about it. Hard country, Frank Morgan had said. And if that’s what the man called The Drifter thought, then, brother, that country was hard!

Chances were, Annabelle Dare and Father Jardine would die of thirst or be killed by outlaws even if Fortunato and his men didn’t catch up to them. Unless somebody went along with them who knew what he was doing.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” The Kid said under his breath. He was talking himself into it. He had ridden away from their camp knowing that he was going to watch out for them tonight, but now he was persuading himself to make it a full-time job.

If he did, he’d just be beating Rebel to the punch. If he tried to abandon them, he knew good and well he’d have her ghost whispering in his ear.

He saw a shadow move, out on the flats. His hand went to the rifle next to him, drew it closer. A savage grin tugged at his mouth.

Come on, he thought. Let’s see who you are before I kill you.