Twisted Hills by Ralph Cotton Page A

Roden. “But I ain’t forgot all the trade goods we loaded into the peddler’s wagon either.” He puffed on his cigar. “I did sort of a running count on how much all that stuff would be worth if a man hauled it somewhere and sold it.”
    â€œYeah . . . ?” McCool stopped smoking and turned his attention to his partner. “What did you make it to be?”
    â€œI’d say a hundred dollars, easy enough,” he said. “That’s not counting the wagon itself, and that skinny horse.” He blew on the end of his cigar as he speculated. “I figure it helps make up what scalp money we lost—puts us back in the game, so to speak.”
    â€œJust how do you figure we’d do it without any weapons?” McCool asked.
    â€œCatch him dozing off guard in the night and beat him into the ground,” said Roden. “Once he’s down, we’ll take his rifle. We’ll take our guns from his belt and finish him off.”
    They sat in silence for a few seconds while McCool worked it out in his mind.
    â€œWhat about the woman?” he asked.
    â€œI knew you’d get around to her,” Roden said with a dark chuckle.
    â€œEver since I smelled her I ain’t been able to think of nothing else,” said McCool. “So, what about her?”
    â€œWe’ll have to kill her too, Ollie,” said Roden. “She’d tell the
federales
what we done, first thing, you can bet on it.”
    Ollie studied the matter, staring at the haze of cigar smoke streaking up across the purple sky.
    â€œWe wouldn’t have to kill her right away, though, would we?” he asked finally.
    â€œNo . . .
hell
no,” said Roden. “We can put it off some—kill her later, before we ride into Agua Fría. There’s no need in being uncivilized about this.” He shrugged and drew on his cigar. “We can take our time.”
    â€œThen I’m all for it,” said McCool, “the sooner, the better.” He puffed on his cigar, then gave a little cough and a grunt and fell silent.
    â€œHow about this, then?” said Roden after a quiet moment of contemplation. “You take the woman all to yourself . . . I get the man’s dun.”
    After a moment when McCool didn’t answer, Roden looked at him in the moonlight.
    â€œIf that don’t suit you, how about this?” he said. He started to unveil another option, but before he could he saw McCool lean forward and collapse onto his face.
    â€œWhat the . . . ?” He started to stand up, but a strong bare arm crooked around his face from behind. The arm twisted his face in one direction while a long blade sliced deep in the opposite direction across his exposed throat.
    From behind the rock where the scalp hunters had sat, two dark wispy figures stepped around as silent as ghosts and stood looking down at the bodies.
    The older warrior, Wallace Gomez, stooped down and picked up Roden’s cigar. He examined it in the moonlight, then took a puff. As he puffed, he held his head lowered and shielded the cigar’s glowing tip toward his chest with his cupped hand.
    The young warrior, Luka, stooped and picked up the other cigar and puffed on it in the same manner.
    Gomez said in a whisper, “By killing these two you have saved the life of the man who gave you water.”
    â€œYes, I heard them,” Luka whispered. “They were going to kill him.”
    â€œHim
and
the peddler woman,” Gomez pointed out.
    â€œYes, I heard this,” said Luka. He gazed off in the direction of the wagon.
    â€œDoes this make you and the white man
pony for pony
?” Gomez asked.
    Luka didn’t answer right away.
    â€œWe have killed the scalp takers,” Gomez said. “Will that be enough for you?”
    Still no answer from Luka.
    â€œYou have killed the men who killed our warriors, and you have saved the life of the