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CHAPTER 26

      IT WAS so hot Rand could feel the sweat trickling along his sides under his shirt.

      His new straw hat cast a latticework shadow on his face, and his eyes, despite the hat, squinted to slits against the sun.

      He was getting into the Chevy when a truck pulled up beside him and a voice called out cheerily, "Hi! I been waitin' for you."

      It was Petrie. His nickel-plated pistol was only inches away from Rand's face. With only a little effort, Petrie could have jammed the muzzle into Rand's mouth.

      Rand liked guns - the smooth weight of them, their mechanical perfection. He liked shooting and was good shot when it came to hitting tin cans and empty beer bottles set on fence posts and rocks. But he did not like having guns pointed at him, and having one inches away from his face, cocked and ready to fire, made him angry and afraid. He hated being afraid almost as much as he hated being shot at.

      "What do you want?" He concealed his concern with a brusque voice.

      "Mr. Brennan wants to have a talk with you. Get in the truck."

      "Suppose I don't?"

      "Why, I'll blow your head off right here where you stand."

      Rand wondered if Petrie was fool enough to shoot him on a city street in broad daylight, and he decided that he was dumb and crazy enough to do anything. Then Rand thought about his last meeting with Brennan, and the old man had seemed reasonable enough.

      Rand walked around the front of the truck and got in beside Petrie.

      "Stick out your right boot," Petrie said.

      When Rand complied, Petrie reached in and pulled out the little snub-nosed .32, and stuck it in his belt. "That's in exchange for my Colt, which you stole," he said. He ran his hand around Rand's belt front and back and felt for another gun, but Rand wasn't carrying one.

      Then Petrie slugged Rand hard against the side of his head with his gun. Rand saw stars and suddenly lost the will to take Petrie on.

      Petrie laughed and gunned the motor. Rand slumped against the door, his eyes closed. He was feigning unconsciousness but his thoughts were clear. He was thinking that he shouldn't try to jump out of the car when he wasn't sure his legs would hold him up.

      When Petrie parked by Brennan's front porch and honked, the old man came out and looked in the cab.

      "Drag him out," Brennan said to Petrie.

      "I can walk," Rand said. And he could - although he was a little unsteady on his legs.

      "Come on up on the porch," Brennan said. "We got to talk."

      Petrie pushed Rand into one of the willow chairs, and ran a piece of clothesline rope around his neck to the chair.

      "I thought we were gonna talk," Rand said to Brennan.

      "We are! We are! But we don't want you jumping us, or trying to run away," Brennan said.

      Petrie was a good man with a rope. He tired Rand's hands behind him and then tied to the chair. Rand's ankles were tied together, and the rope was run behind the chair and fastened to his wrists. Rand couldn't move at all. The rope around his neck cut off his air when he moved his head forward.

      Brennan's attitude changed as soon as Rand was tied up. All pretense of civility was gone. The old man slapped Rand hard across the face. "You like that Rand?"

      "No."

      "Well, you'll get more of it, and worse, if you don't answer my questions. You workin' for Mrs. Hood and Pritchard?"

      "I suppose," Rand said. "Hey, I could give you lots of better answers if you'd untie me."

      Brennan knotted up his right hand into a fist and drove it into Rand's face.

      Rand felt blood run out of his nose and across his lips. His eyes started tearing.

      "Did you set up those three men to rob me?" Brennan asked.

      "No."

      "Who did? Pritchard?"

      "I don't know. I don't think Pritchard would do it because if he had the gold, he'd have shown in at a meeting last night."

      Brennan grunted.

      "You answer me one," Rand said. "Did you kill Hood?"

      "I told you once. No I didn't, and neither did Petrie."

      "But we're gonna kill you," Petrie volunteered, smirking.

      Brennan glared at Petrie, then turned his attention back to Rand. "Know where the gold is hidden?"

      "No."

      "Know if there's a map or anything that tells where Hood found the gold in the mountains?"

      "No."

      Brennan shook his head sadly. "Petrie, you're got a real feel for this. Why don't you get him to say yes to a couple of questions."

      Petrie towered over Rand and the tears in Rand's eyes from the punch in the nose made him look fuzzy and grotesque, part demon, part man.

      Petrie grabbed the collar of Rand's shirt and ripped it open. Then he leisurely lit a cigar and puffed it contentedly while the tip became gray ash.

      "Now I'm gonna ask you again. Is there a map where the gold is hidden?"

      "If there is, I've never seen it," Rand said.

      Petrie blew the beginning ash off the cigar and pressed the red hot tip into Rand's chest.

      Rand gasped. When he could speak again, he said, "You don't have to do that. I'm answering your questions."

      Petrie laughed, and punched Rand so hard in the jaw that Rand lost consciousness for a moment. He woke choking from the rope around his neck, and he heard Brennan admonishing Petrie. "Take it easy, we don't want to kill him before he talks."

      Rand felt a tired, sad, despair. Always before, he could somehow seize control and work his way out of a bad situation. There was always a gun in his boot, or a surprise punch, or a friend to call. But now there was nothing, and he was on the receiving end of the punches.

      "Okay, we're gonna start all over again," Brennan said. "Now, did Nick Hood leave a map of where he found the gold?"

      "Not that I know of," Rand said, trying to sound reasonable. "Why would they go to all the trouble to have a meeting and even talk about whether the gold existed if they knew where it was?"

      "I'm asking the questions, not you," Brennan said. "Petrie, I believe Mr. Rand needs another little touchup."

      Rand gritted his teeth when the red hot tip of the cigar touched his chest again. It looked like it was going to be a terribly long afternoon.

      A mile away, Hector Guzman found the sign that had pointed the way to Brennan's place. The sign was knocked down and pointed at the sky, but there was only one dirt road so Guzman followed it. He was hot and sweaty, and embarrassed for missing the turn in the first place. Tonio was restless and now held the shotgun, which was loaded with buckshot.

      After they had come about a mile, they saw the ranch house with some people on the porch.

      Guzman gunned the motor. There was no way to sneak up on them, so he figured he'd give them the shortest possible time to react. He flattened the gas pedal and the car bounced across the desert headed for the front porch as fast as it could go. So fast that when he hit the brakes, the car continued to plow through the sand with the wheels locked.

      The crash tore off the end of the porch and knocked the two standing men off their feet. Tonio was the first out of the car. He held the shotgun on them. His face showed that he was eager to use it.

      Guzman looked at the car's damage glumly, while Alberto Pacheco got out of the back seat and strolled to the porch as daintily as a ballet dancer. Looking Tonio's eyes, Petrie thought things could not get any worse, but when he saw Pacheco, he let out a little sigh of fear; he could not believe a man could be that big and not want to hurt him.

      Of the three, only Rand recognized Tonio. The others had barely seen him in the darkness the night they strung up the boy's father. Rand sat there helplessly while Guzman came over, carrying one of the pistols. He stared at Rand, bleeding and hogtied to the chair, and shook his head. Bending closer he saw the round burn marks made by Petrie's cigar and made a tisking sound with his tongue.

      "You have been torturing this man," Guzman said. "Why?"

      Neither Petrie nor Brennan answered. They stared wide-eyed at Pacheco's enormous size, and they were obviously fearful of Tonio who pointed the shotgun from one to the other, and was so obviously eager to use it.

      "No matter," Guzman said. "Sit down." He pointed to the two other chairs on the porch. When they didn't obey instantly, Pacheco picked up Petrie and slammed him into a chair, and Brennan immediately sat in the other one. Then sauntered over to the car and got the rope from the car. It was the same kind of rope Petrie had used to tie Rand, so Pacheco noted how Rand was tied, and did the same to them.

      Brennan cried out, "Leave us alone or as God is my judge, I'll have you killed."

      Tonio, who spoke no English, laughed at Brennan's discomfort.

      "You killed this boy's father!" Guzman said. "We will judge you, not God. We have come for more gold. Tell us where it is and we will not harm you."

      "We don't know," Brennan said. "We were just askin' the other gentleman if he knew where it is."

      Rand spoke thickly. "He's lying. They know where the gold is hid." Guzman was surprised to see that Rand was smiling.

      Guzman nodded to Pacheco, who decided to start with the younger man. He slapped Petrie across the face so hard the chair fell over. With one hand, Pacheco righted it. Delicately, he reached out his hand and pinched the muscle between Petrie's neck and shoulder, and the big cowboy screamed in pain.

      "Where is the gold?" Guzman asked patiently.

      "We took it off a dead man. We don't know where he found it," Petrie yelled.

      Tonio didn't like Petrie's tone. He had been remembering how, when he'd burst in on them screaming, Petrie had been slapping the horse that had pulled the rope that had lifted his father to the sky. He remembered Petrie glaring at him, swinging the rifle butt in a short arc knocking him down. And he remembered the gun muzzle lowering toward his head as Petrie got ready to kill him.

      Tonio had no more patience for this. He cared nothing about gold. He cared only for revenge.

      He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun roared. The bulk of the buckshot hit Petrie's face and head and splattered his brains on the wall of the house. The rest of him slumped in the chair, held in place by the ropes that bound him.

      Rand no longer smiled.

      "God!" Brennan cried.

      Tonio pointed the muzzle at Brennan.

      Shaken himself, Guzman decided to make the most of a bad situation. "You see, we mean business. Tell us where the gold is."

      "I don't know! I swear it - I don't know!"

      Brennan was trembling. Rand could not look at him, this old tyrant who only minutes ago was going to kill him. This old bearded monster of a man who was going to kill him. Now, in minutes, everything was overturned.

      It was inevitable that Brennan would be killed. Rand wondered when the shot would come, and if their was another shot waiting for him.

      Guzman shrugged. "If he really does not know . . ." He turned to Tonio and said in Spanish, "Do you want to do it?"

      Rand kept his eyes averted. He had see Petrie's head explode, and he didn't want to see something like it again. The roar of the shot caught him off guard. When he finally looked, Tonio was reloading the shotgun, and Brennan was dead in his chair, an enormous oozing red stain on his chest.

      Pacheco, in his soft voice, asked, "What about the other one? I can do it if you like." He raised his pistol and leveled it at Rand's head.

      Guzman said nothing, deferring to Tonio. After all, it was the boy's father whom the dead men had killed.

      Tonio squinted at Rand in the late afternoon sunlight. Pacheco cocked the gun's hammer back and waited for Tonio to tell him to go ahead.

      Instead Tonio said in Spanish, "No, not this one. He stopped the other one from killing me. This man let me go."

      "But he knows who we are?"

      "He will never find us," Tonio said.

      "Eventually he will find me," Pacheco said. "Everybody knows me. I came here to help you find gold - but there is no gold. And now this man will go to the police and describe me."

      "No I won't," Rand said in Spanish. "I swear to you."

      Guzman laughed, but Tonio's face was grave. "I say to let him live. I believe he is a man of honor, and surely he owes us this, since we saved him from torture and death."

      "That's true," Rand agreed, nodding his head emphatically.

      Pacheco shrugged, and the three men climbed off the porch and walked toward their car.

      "Aren't you going to untie me?" Rand called.

      They paid no attention. The big one got in the back seat of the Ford and the boy got in next to the driver. After backing out of the porch wreckage carefully so as not to get nails in the tires, the car bounced across the desert toward the dirt road.

      Rand twisted his wrists until the bled. Finally he decided he was not going anywhere.

      Two hours later, Rand's eyes were closed against the sunlight and he had retreated into sleep when he heard a voice say, "My God, Rand, what the hell's been going on here!"

      He opened his eyes and saw Navarette.

      "Hi," Rand said weakly. "Glad you dropped by."

      Navarette stared at the bodies. "Jesus, I here came to arrest Petrie and find him splattered all over the house!" He cut the ropes that tied Rand to the chair and helped him stand up. "Obviously you didn't do this."

      "Obviously," Rand said dryly.

      "Who did?"

      "Mexican bandits. Possibly relatives of the guy Brennan and Petrie strung up."

      "What guy they strung up?"

      "The Mexican."Then Rand remembered he hadn't told Navarette about the Mexican being strung up.

      Navarette didn't say anything for a while. Then he said, "I thought that Mexican had flown the coop and was back in deep Mexico. What's this about him being strung up?"

      "Ah, hell," Rand said. "I guess I forgot to tell you. The hay truck driver told them where to find the Mexican."

      "The hay truck driver? You mean Jackson? I thought the Mexican hung him. Was it Brennan and Petrie that did it?"

      Rand nodded.

      Navarette gave Rand a cigarette and lit it. He helped Rand sit down on the porch steps, then lit a cigarette himself. "And where was it they found the Mexican?"

      "Out near Radium Springs."

      "Mind my asking how you know all this?"

      Rand's mind began ratcheting back to reality. He decided he better not tell Navarette he was there in both places when they were killed. "Petrie bragged about it the other night. He and I had a drink together at the Palms while he was trying to get me outside so he could kill me."

      Navarette stared at Rand hard. "You're the one that stole his clothes?"

      "How did you know?"

      Some guy reported to the police that a big guy, naked as a jaybird, jumped him in the Palms and took his clothes. The guy had to be Petrie."

      Rand smiled. Then the smile faded as he thought of Petrie with his head blown half off a few feet away.

      "Wonders upon wonders," Navarette said to himself. "Why were you out here all tied up?"

      "Petrie brought me here at gunpoint. They wanted me to tell them where Hood found the gold. Stuff like that. They were going to kill me because they knew I would tell you about the Jackson and the Mexican."

      Navarette grunted. "How come this Mexican's family didn't dust you, too?"

      "I guess they figured I wasn't a close friend of Brennan and Petrie. Christ, I was being tortured!"

      "You telling me the whole story? The truth?"

      "Of course."

      "I don't believe you, Rand. I think there's more."

      Rand said nothing. His arms ached and he felt sick to his stomach. He didn't care if Navarette didn't believe him.

      Navarette said, "How long ago did these guys kill 'em?"

      Rand looked at his watch. It was about four o'clock. "A couple of hours ago. They shot them about three hours ago."

      "Shit," Navarette said. "They've had more than enough time to drive back to El Paso and cross the bridge into Juarez."

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