Echo Canyon

THE SUN WAS HIGH when they dropped into the third canyon that morning, hooves clattering loose shale, the sound echoing off rust-colored walls that offered no shade, no relief, and no end. The wind didn’t move down here. It hovered. Heat sat like a drunk on their shoulders, pressing down slow and mean.

They hadn’t spoken in miles.

The tall one, the quieter one, rode with his broad-brimmed, dark hat pulled low and his eyes behind dust-crusted lashes, scanning the narrow trail ahead. His shirt clung to his back, darkened with sweat down the spine, his left boot blood-crusted from the wound on his lower leg. He held the reins like he didn’t trust the horse any more than the man riding beside him.

The other one was broader through the chest, with a bandana gone stiff with dried blood tied tight around his upper arm. He rode slouched, shoulders forward, watching their back trail too often for comfort. Every few minutes, he removed his hat and wiped sweat from the band, then reached back and patted the bulging saddlebag slung behind him like a babe in swaddling.

They didn’t talk about what was in it. Not anymore.

Somewhere behind them, there’d been shouting. Gunfire. Smoke. Six men rode in, and only two rode out. The rest bled on the sand beside that godforsaken adobe stage stop.

And now this.

His horse stumbled. The tall man tugged back the reins and swung down, boots hitting dust with a dull thud. One more slip and they’d be walking. He stepped forward, pushing up his hat, hand to his brow. For a long minute, he stood staring at a pale-barked cottonwood, its trunk notched by time, and one small, blackened bullet hole.

He blinked. His lips moved but made no sound.

Then: “We’ve been here already.”

The other man snorted. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer right away. It took a few seconds to realize he was utterly and completely lost. Not just turned around, not just off the trail, but swallowed whole by the desert, spun and stripped and spat out into the same place he thought they’d left behind.

They made camp beneath a slant of stone that offered just enough shadow to crouch beneath after finding a small tank of water. A few gallons, maybe, enough to fill their canteens and water their weary mounts.

The sun hadn’t dropped yet, but neither man spoke of pushing on. They’d passed the same notch in the canyon wall twice, maybe three times. The tall one figured they’d been doubling back for over a day now. He didn’t say it aloud, but the wind had missed a few hoofprints in the sand, and he was beginning to recognize their own.

The horses stood lathered and trembling, ribs rising fast. The broad man’s had a cut on the fetlock, caked black now, and the other had a look behind the eyes that said she’d lay down and never get up if they didn’t find better water soon.

The tall man reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a battered tin canteen. He sloshed it gently. Not much. Maybe two inches left. He unscrewed the canteen cap with the kind of hands that didn’t shake, even after days in the heat. Not calm, but controlled. He drank without looking at the other man, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, then tossed the canteen over.

The broad one caught it and stared a beat too long. Drank, then let some dribble down his throat and splash across his collarbone, soaking the filthy kerchief he wore like a badge.

“You figure someone’s still coming?” the tall man asked. Not casual. Not urgent. Just a query tossed into the heat.

The broad man chewed on it. “They ain’t gonna take that lyin’ down, I reckon, ‘specially when they know all but two of us made away, and ain’t in good shape. If’n they are, they’re ridin’ better horses and are better outfitted.”

Silence. The kind that stretches wide in the open desert.

“We split up,” the tall one offered after a while, voice gone low and dry. “If we split now, they can’t follow both.” He couldn’t agree to this plan, but needed to gauge the broad man.

“They might could, with enough fellers. And besides, leave you with half the take?” The broad man smiled, flat and toothless. “You got the better horse.”

“I’ve got the busted leg.”

“Then you ain’t goin’ far alone,” the broad man said. “Besides, I’m the one knows the desert.”

“Lotta good that’s doing us.”

The tall one looked at his traveling companion. They both knew they needed each other, for now, but the broad man had let slip his thoughts on splitting the take. Wasn’t that always the plan? And now it was just two instead of six. No, they each knew the other was waiting for the moment to take it all for themselves, as soon as they lost any pursuers and found a way out of the desert canyons alive.

They stared at each other over the narrow glow of a fire built from dried brush and twisted grass. It burned fast, hissed with sand, and gave no warmth. But the night would come cold. Already, the sweat on the tall man’s back was turning chill, and his teeth clicked once before he clenched his jaw.

The day had been endless. Now, the night stretched longer.

The broad man stood and walked in a circle, restless. He checked his revolver and spun the chamber slowly. Not in a showy way, just something to do. The tall man watched the reflection of firelight flicker off the cylinder and thought of how many ways things could go wrong.

“You didn’t fire during the job,” the broad one said, turning back toward him. Voice low. “Not ‘till you had no choice to save your bacon. You were close to that first old fella that tried to stop us. Close enough to draw. But you didn’t.”

“Didn’t have a clean shot.”

“Uh-huh.” The broad one sat down again, brushing sand from his trousers. “What was your name again?”

“Didn’t give it.”

“Right. But you knew Briscoe?”

“Brought me on the job, didn’t he? We met in El Paso. He was in a bit of a jam and I helped him outta town. Asked me if I needed work.”

“Yeah,” the broad one said, contemplating. “He did bring you on, even though none of us knew you.”

“Briscoe said it’d be smooth,” the tall one said. “A simple job on the way to the bank. Just scare the driver, grab the box, no one hurt. Next thing I know, Buckner’s shootin’ the shotgun rider in the back and your dumb ass is killin’ a man trying to raise his hands.”

The broad man bristled. “Jobs go that way. Slow men end up in the dirt.”

Another beat of silence. Crickets started up somewhere in the rocks. The music you only hear when you’re too far from anything else to be saved.

“You think we’ll make it out?” the broad man asked. Not mockingly. Just tired.

The tall one didn’t answer. He was watching the stars. Cool wind now. The canyon sighing. Somewhere behind them, down the winding trail of dead ends and blind drops, a horse might be moving. Might be gaining. They’d emptied their water sources, and at this rate, wouldn’t come to new ones anytime soon. He needed a new plan. The broad man helping him make it out no longer appealed to him.

They were down to a few pieces of jerky. The last of the water. And every time one of them closed their eyes, the other’s gun hand got a little closer to resting in his lap.

They broke camp, such that it was, before the sun touched the canyon rim, the small, smokeless fire long gone to ash, and their legs stiff from sleep they didn’t trust. The wind had shifted in the night. It carried a taste of stone and rot and something old. Possibly them.

The tall one led now, his horse’s gait a haggard limp as he regularly looked over his back. He studied the gullies and outcroppings with the care a man gives to a land that might decide to kill him. The broad one followed, slower, more deliberately, the saddlebags slung across his horse like a second rider.

Twice, they stopped to check their bearings, and twice, the tall one looked around and cursed low under his breath.

“Somethin’ wrong?” the broad man asked.

“No.” Then, after a moment: “We’ve been here.”

“You said that yesterday, and the day ‘fore that.”

“’Cause this is the same damn stretch,” the tall one shouted, louder than he should have.

The big man looked up, scanned the line of stone above. Same buzzard-pecked tree. Same chalk-scar on the canyon wall. “You said we were headin’ east.”

“We were, or I thought we were.”

“So why’s the sun in our eyes?” The broad one asked.

They both stood still then. Listening.

There was nothing. Just the clink of a bridle chain in the wind. No hoofbeats. No voice. But something crawled under the tall man’s skin and settled there.

They were being hunted. No doubt now.

When they moved again, it was slower. Tighter. The horses were struggling. The canteens were half-full now, but would be empty by sundown if they intended to be alive. He knew they’d need to find fresh water before the sun rose again.

By mid-afternoon, they reached a rise in the canyon, a slanted, rocky path that climbed to a low saddle. From there, they saw a trail cutting between two distant buttes. Wagon scars. The first sign of direction in days.

They stopped.

“I’ll be damned. That’s it,” the broad one said, as he pulled off his hat and wiped his brow. “I’ll cut through there, and I can be at Red Mesa by tomorrow. Water on the way, I reckon.” He grinned and moved back down the rise to their horses.

The tall man said nothing. Just stared a moment. There was no more we from his companion. The broad man only said I. He let the weight of it settle as he moved slowly down the path, eying the broad man. He stopped at the bottom, and they glared at each other.

And that’s when the broad one drew.

Fast, but not fast enough.

A single shot cracked, loud in the canyon, echoing off the walls. The tall man’s revolver had fired before the broad one cleared leather. The broad man hit the dirt with a grunt, hand still clawing for the pistol he hadn’t cleared.

Blood soaked into the sand.

He wasn’t dead yet. One leg kicked once. He tried to sit up, but the pain pinned him.

The tall man stepped forward, gun steady, breathing hard through his teeth.

“You son of a bitch,” the dying man growled.

The tall one stood over him a moment, then kicked away his pistol before grabbing his canteen and drinking everything it contained. He wiped his mouth and sighed, then spoke.

“Name’s Davin Ross. Pinkerton Detective Agency. Followed your outfit all through Texas. A blessing when I encountered Briscoe alone. I was supposed to bring you all in, or at least get some help doin’ so, but you fellas got too big for your britches and planned that stage job on short notice.”

The big man’s face twisted. Confusion. Rage. Then laughter. He choked on it. Coughed once. Then went still.

Ross stood there, gun still in hand. Shoulders rising and falling. He let out a slow breath, the first in hours that wasn’t clenched tight. Then a sound caught his ear, and he saw a few small rocks slide down the canyon wall. He looked to the ridge up above, the metal of his gun catching the sun as he raised his hand to shield it.

A crack split the air. A rifle. A new echo.

Ross dropped, shot clean through the chest. He hit the ground harder than the broad man had. Kicked once. Then didn’t move.

A man stood slowly on the ridge, dusty and alone. For a moment, he kept his rifle aimed at Ross before disappearing.

He reappeared on horseback, and dust sifted from the ledge above as he made his descent. He came slowly, cautiously, the nose of his horse picking carefully along the slope. His pistol was out, resting against his thigh, hammer back. No hurry. No call out.

The two men lay still in the sand. Swinging down carefully, the rider’s boots crunched on the gravel. The heat had not abated, and he was glad he’d soon be out of the desert. He walked past the first body, the lean one in the trail-worn coat, with a quick glance, heading instead to the heavier man who lay face up, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack.

The rider gave a low whistle.

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered. “Didn’t even clear his holster.”

He crouched, wiped a bit of blood from the man’s cheek, and tugged a folded paper from his vest pocket. He unfolded the paper and lifted the dead man’s head by his matted black hair.

“Elias Boone,” he said aloud. “Five hundred dollars, dead or alive.” He let his head fall back to the sand. “Dead it is.” He turned and looked at the tall man’s body. “Thanks, pard.”

This one had a look about him. Same trail grime and cracked lips as any other rider in the desert, but there was something different about him. His beard was neater than most of these desert bandit types. He looked like he took better care of himself. A coat, while filthy, that was too well-made for an outlaw.

The bounty hunter rifled through the man’s pockets and saddlebag. Nothing of note, save for the gold coins.

“So, who are you?” he asked the corpse.

No answer came.

“No paper on you, friend. Whatever you were, nobody’s payin’ me for it.”

He stood, straightened his back, and looked over the scene again. Two dead men. Two saddlebags of coins. One wanted poster.

“You boys had a good haul,” he said. “Shame you didn’t learn to share.” He removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow, then stuck it back on his head suddenly while he grinned. “Or maybe you did.” He looked around and chuckled. “Guess one got away.”

He studied the two horses, one swaybacked and panting, the other tall and strong-eyed. Given the conditions, it was in good shape. He went to that one, took the reins, and led it over to Boone’s corpse.

“You’ll do,” he said, patting its neck. “You’re haulin’ this poor soul and his share of the coins into Red Mesa.”

He slung Boone across the saddle, arms and legs dangling, and lashed him down. He then hoisted the other saddlebag onto his own horse, placing it underneath the one he already had, covering it as best he could. The weight made his horse shift, but he rubbed her neck and assured her it’d be worth it. He climbed aboard and clicked his tongue, the other horse following on a loose line.

By the time he was descending the back side of the saddle, the buzzards had begun to circle behind him. The canyon held its heat. The canyon held its silence. The canyon held its secrets.