Generations in Agony...Texas: Chapter Twenty-two

22) The sour wind blows…
Sitting in his Buick on the blind side of the Motel, Solo Rivera stared at the highway, waiting for the inevitable arrival. His side hurt, but he was too determined to allow pain to stop what he had to do.

The Doc had been keeping an eye on the wound. “It’s still seeping,” he told Solo last night at the house. At least watching out for this man had that much benefit. Still, Solo had a couple of bad nights in which he had to question his abilities. The last killer should not have gotten off that second shot. Solo determined to keep that from happening again.

A dark Ford drove by. This time, there were two men in the vehicle. “You’re getting a little worried, aren’t you, Doyle?” Solo said to the windshield.

He waited for the car to get around the first bend in the road before he pulled out to follow. The sun was scorching; the wind blew from the southwest. The air itself stunk with that funky desert smell: sulfurous, like salted eggs gone bad. The Apache’s called it: ‘The Sour Wind’. Even with the windows up and the AC blasting, the smell hung over everything. But Solo had gotten used to that as well. The boys in the car ahead were coming into a strange land that they were not prepared for. Solo was counting on just that.

He punched down on the gas and hurtled to catch up, then pulled up beside the car in the on-coming lane. Solo took off his hat and looked over. He recognized one of the men and smiled at him. This guy was one of Doyle’s enforcers. He was not a hired killer, although Solo was pretty sure the man had made more than a few bones in his day.

When he saw the guy’s face go wide with recognition, and when the man started pointing at him, Solo punched down hard and accelerated in front of them. Looking in the rearview, he smiled when they joined the chase. “That’s right, mutherfuckers… Just follow the Buick and stay close.”

On his way out of town, Solo had stopped by an access road that was gated. He had broken the lock off the chain and swung the steel-bar gate wide. The cattle guard should keep wandering steers from getting out, but these strange beasts around Agony had a way with just stepping over fence lines when they felt like it. He had played dodge the cow with many already.

Doing seventy-eight, he saw the turn off coming and swung wide to the left, then back over to bump the right shoulder. Dust clouds flew over the Ford and he saw them over correcting back there. He smiled again. “Watch me now, watch me…” He broke into singing ‘Wooly Bully’, then laughed at himself as he suddenly hit the brakes, then slid into his turn, bumping over the cattle guard in a cloud of white dust.

He slowed for a moment to make sure the Ford was at least attempting to keep pace. “You fuckers are not even going to make it into town, ha!”

The Ford rammed over the cattle guard and Solo saw their front bumper scrape the dusty road surface. “Come on, come to pappa.”

They started to slow down. Evidently, somebody back there was not into chasing Solo. He slammed on his brakes and turned the car sideways; the driver’s door faced the slowing Ford. Quickly rolling down his window, he raised his .45 and fired off two rounds. The Ford turned hard to the left, as he figured. Any driver caught unaware will always turn to keep himself protected. The bullets struck the front bumper, but did not hit anything vital. That was good; Solo had that much planned. “Come on, you fucks. Come and get me!”

He shoved the shift back into drive and spun a doughnut around and resumed his drive, hell-bent-for-leather, along the empty, barren access that stretched across the top end of the Onyx north range. The Ford kept pace, albeit hanging back a little to keep from choking on the dust.

*

It had taken Carl Speck Sr. two days to get the herd rounded up again. They had scattered, like he figured they would, all over the section he had left them on. Once the fence was mended, he and Cleo had worked like mad to convince six hundred, bug-eyed beasts to cooperate and circle back in amongst themselves.

Then, over the last day, he had pushed them through to the middle section of the North range, the passing between the two sections took over nine hours as six hundred head squeezed, two by two between the gates. Often, one or two would baulk and hold up the process. Then Carl would have to punch through them to get the whole thing started again.

The rail-head stopped at the tip of the middle section. He could have the herd there by noon tomorrow, unless something else occurred to disrupt the work. But, Carl could not conceive of anything that would, not out here, so close to the Big Nothing. After all, who else would want to be out here except steers and Carl?

When he heard the engines roaring over the plains, he looked to the east. So far, he could only hear them. Then, he heard gun fire and had to pause in his saddle. “What in tar-nation?”

He nudged Cleo and they loped across the section, headed for the fence line on that side. There was a slight rise in the terrain just over a hundred yards past the fence and whatever was happening over there was not yet visible to Carl. He moved to the pass-thru gate and swung it open, then he and Cleo went on through, pausing only long enough to re-hook the gate.

By this time, the roar of engines was thunderous, accompanied by the staccato bursts of gunfire. Like a moth drawn to flame, Carl knew he probably should not stick his nose over that ridgeline. But he was, none-the-less compelled to at least check on things. After all, his employer would expect him to keep tabs on the land and those on it that he might encounter: a chore that Carl seldom had to comply with.

*

Solo drove like a mad man, now and then making wild, spinning turns just so he could get off a couple of rounds and keep the boys from Chicago interested enough to keep on with the chase. He hoped to lure them as far as the Big Nothing, where the other two had ended up, but time and again, they seemed to want to slow down and rethink their approach. Then, Solo would shoot at them again, something no wise guy takes without a fuss.

Just as he had them almost to the far end of this particular section, the steering on the Buick went all wobbly, as his right front tire blew. It was, Solo knew too well, probably a mesquite thorn, which was widely known in Texas as tire killer. It was just something that was as unpredictable as a dust storm. Cussing like a sailor after payday, Solo managed to bring the Buick to a dusty stop with the driver’s side facing the on coming Ford. Quickly, he slid over and got out on the passenger side, then racked a new clip into his .45. “All right, boys. Let’s do this then…”

As the dust settled, the Ford had come to a stop about fifty yards from Solo’s Buick, the engine still running, although some steam was pissing from the front grill. Smiling at them, Solo put his arms up on the top of his car and leaned there, waiting.

After a few moments, the Ford finally gunned and came at him. He waited and watched to see which side they would try to circle from. Either way, he was ready; his plan for all of this set in place days ago.

*

From the top of the ridgeline, Carl Speck watched as the Mexican in the Buick stood there like an idiot while the Ford came screaming at him, circling around to one side. As he watched, he was a little surprised at how cool the Mex remained. Not many men could stare down an enemy and wait for the right moment that way.

Sure enough, as the Ford came barreling around the Buick, the dark haired man quickly whipped out his weapon and placed two, quick shots into the driver’s side front window. The Ford began to careen out of control. There was a small gully just twenty or so feet from the Buick. The Ford’s left front tired dropped into it and the vehicle flipped completely over, landing again on its tires, but smoking and hissing steam.

Cleo jumped back a step or two at the noise generated by the wreck. “Easy, girl. Just some fools is all this is.”

The Mexican was fast. He ran the distance and closed in on the passenger side. A second later, another two rounds were fired. Carl watched as the Mexican scanned the inside of the car, then stuck his weapon into the back of his belt. As the man turned to go back to the Buick, he glanced up and saw Carl sitting on Cleo. That was when Carl dropped his hand and loosened the rawhide strip that held his rifle in place, just under his right leg. When the Mexican did not make a move for his weapon, Carl let his hand move back to his saddle horn.

He stood there a while longer, waiting to see what the man was going to do next.

*

This was not in the plans. The last thing Solo could afford now was a witness. But, there he was, sitting up there on a really nice palomino, looking like John Wayne himself. “What now…?”

After a moment or two, Solo finally decided to at least get some idea about who this was. If push came to shove, he would do what he had to do and move on. He raised his hand and waved at the rider.

The rider did not wave back.

Solo changed his motion to the international ‘come on over’ signal with his hand and arm, followed by the open armed signal of ‘I mean you no harm’. Finally, the rider started moving towards him. Solo saw the rifle in the scabbard by the man’s right knee. He just hoped it all would not end badly…

*