Heaven Is a Long Way Off by Win Blevins Page B

repeated Collarbone to Balls.
    â€œWe travel to Mission Nuestra Señora de la Soledad and other missions on business.”
    â€œI see.” His disbelief curled his lips. But the sneer was probably a pose, Sam thought. Beneath it Collarbone to Balls seemed to be accepting the story.
    â€œHave you seen other travelers on this road today?”
    Coy barked once.
    â€œNone,” Grumble answered truthfully.
    â€œThree Americans dressed as hunters? Carrying long rifles?”
    â€œNo travelers.”
    Collarbone nodded slowly, thinking. “We ask you to be on watch. We will probably see you again as you travel south.”
    â€œGlad to be of service,” said Grumble.
    Collarbone pulled his reins to the side to ride around the wagon.
    Sam breathed again.
    Flat Dog reached to his hat. Sam saw his friend’s face do funny things. Casually, he took the hat off, rubbed his hair back, and looked full face at the Mexicans.
    Collarbone’s face changed to a truly memorable look of recognition.
    Then he looked at Sumner, who was holding the scattergun. The black man gazed at Collarbone without expression.
    The sides of Collarbone’s grin turned down. His mount edged backward. He squeezed words out. “We’ll be on our way then.”
    As he rode around the wagon, Sumner turned to watch him, the gun following his body. The other three riders trailed after Collarbone with mystified faces.
    When they were out of sight, Sam growled at Flat Dog, “What the hell did you do that for?”
    â€œThat son of a bitch stole Julia. He stole Esperanza. He put me in jail. I want to kill him.”
    â€œThat’s good,” said Hannibal, “because now he intends to kill you.”
    Grumble added softly, “And the rest of us.”
    Hannibal said, “What he intends will be different from what he gets.”
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    S AM AND H ANNIBAL chose the battleground that suited them, a grove of trees along the river. It looked like a normal campsite, had a place where they could rope-corral the horses on grass, and offered a jumble of boulders for cover.
    Coy trotted around the campground sniffing, like an inspector.
    Sam, Hannibal, and Sumner made what appeared to be a normal camp, put up tents, gathered wood for a fire.
    Flat Dog walked down to the river and sat alone. No one criticized him, but there was a lot of edgy body language as they prepared.
    Grumble laid out a tarpaulin and had a picnic, pretending nothing was happening. It made Sam’s nerves worse. The cherub should know a shooting war wasn’t amusing.
    Coy cadged scraps of dried meat from Grumble. Grumble kept looking up into the cottonwood branches and smiling.
    â€œHow many men do you think Montalban will bring?” asked Sam.
    â€œAll he can get,” said Hannibal. “But not many of his Indians ride or shoot.”
    Sumner squatted and talked to Grumble. They both looked up into the trees, pointed, and whispered.
    Sam got the scattergun and handed it to his black friend. “You any good with this?”
    â€œI’m a con artist, not a gunman.”
    Sam was sure he was a good con man too, since he’d accepted Grumble’s tutelage.
    â€œLook, it fires a lot of pellets, and they spread out as they go.” Sam held his hands a foot or two apart. “You don’t aim it, you point it.” He showed Sumner how the trigger, flint, and pan worked.
    â€œThat’s all good,” said Sumner, “but Grumble and me, we got an idea. A little surprise for the bad boys.”
    Grumble and Sumner sketched out their plan for Sam and Hannibal. Heads nodded, and smiles flashed. Sam and Sumner climbed the trees and began the rigging. Sumner moved through the trees like an athlete. Sam, bulkier and more muscled, was sure a branch was going to break under him. But they got it done.
    Sam took off his robe—he wanted to fight in a man’s clothes. Then he walked down to the river to join Flat Dog.