Prologue

Prologue

New Mexico Territory

Summer 1883

“This thing you are looking for, Boss,” began Jorge, in heavily accented English, “you think it might be over there, at that rock?”
The sun was sinking slowly along the horizon and nighttime was coming to the desert, bringing with it a whole host of things that made most of the men worried. Things like coyotes or, worse, wolves. It had been a long, dry summer and the hungry carnivores had been spotted hunting in large packs, some numbering as many as twenty, and the men were worried that they might be hungry enough for a human meal. Their leader, however, was unafraid.
The Boss was a tall, thin man whose haggard looks told of a life spent in the saddle. He was dressed entirely in black, despite the hot desert sun and his ragged shoulder length black hair fanned out behind him in the hot breeze. He stoked his sparse goatee, a mistake, perhaps, but he favored the look nonetheless.
The man stopped and sat still in his saddle, staring at the gigantic rock formation that loomed over the desert and thought That’s where it must be. He’d been looking for a long time, far longer than any of his vagabond men could imagine and he hoped that tonight, he would find it. The other men rode up behind him and he heard the creak of the wooden wheels of the supply wagon slow to a stop.
The Boss looked back at Jorge who was peering at him from under his wide brimmed hat with equally wide eyes. The man had an innocence about his baby face that was deceptive, but the Boss wasn’t fooled. He knew Jorge’s sins, knew that he had killed men, women and children, had raped and pillaged his way through a small village in Mexico. Then he and his bandito brothers had stolen the money, ate the food and burned the buildings to the ground. They had all fled the Mexican authorities that had orders to kill them on site. Only Jorge had survived and lived to join up with the Boss. It was simple: The Boss owned him and would for all eternity though he doubted that Jorge had come to that realization yet. The other five men in the group were the same, each hiding some atrocity or another, each carrying the same black marks on their souls that would damn them forever. But, for now, they would help the Boss.
“I have searched this desert for many years, amigo, under every rock and in every hole and this,” he gazed at the large rock that resembled a ship with wings, “this is where it has to be.”
“You know there’s been injuns around here, Navajo and Apach,” said Will, the Texan, spitting tobacco juice as he spoke and wiping the remainder out of his bushy mustache. “A lot of ‘em.”
“I’m not worried about that,” replied the Boss. “Whatever we run into, we can handle.”
“I just sayin’, this is a lot of shit to go through just on your say so, Boss,” Will continued. “This treasure, are you sure it’s here? I mean, I don’t want to take no arrow based on your best guess.”
“Are you questioning me, William?” The Boss turned to him, his eyes blazing. “Because, if you are, you won’t have to worry about the Indians.”
The threat hung in the air between them. Will had seen what the Boss had done to others who had questioned him. He’d tied them out, naked under the desert sun and covered them with molasses then watched as they writhed in agony as the fire ants devoured their living flesh.
“No, Boss. Just askin’.”
“Uh-huh,” replied the Boss and spurred his horse in the direction of the large rock. The others followed.
The group rode in silence for nearly a quarter of an hour, into the setting sun when Will spoke again.
“We’ve got riders, Boss.” He spat more tobacco juice. “Shit. A war party, looks like about a dozen. They’ve spotted us.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the other rides turned and rode hard for the rocks, their only hope for cover. As the Boss turned his mount, he pulled his gun and shot the horse pulling the wagon, leaving both it’s contents and it’s driver to slow the pursuing marauders.
“Boss, don’t leave me here,” cried Gus, the wagon’s driver, knowing that it would mean a certain, horrifying death for him. He leapt for the Boss’ horse. The Boss saw him coming and caught him in the throat with the heel of his boot, leaving the man gagging and sputtering to face his fate.
The Boss followed his men, riding for the sanctuary of the rocks. He looked behind him and noticed that even as the riders and their ponies descended on the nearly defenseless wagon that they weren’t riding as hard as they should be, not if they wanted to catch he and his men. As he listened to Gus squeeze off two, then three defensive rounds, followed by the man’s screams, he was worried that they might have stumbled into a trap.
As the Boss and his men came to the top of the next hill, his fears were proven correct. Waiting for them, on the other side was another war party. The arrows flew. One of his men was hit in the throat and died instantly, another took a shot dead center in the chest. The four remaining riders pulled their horses in hard and ran, firing back over their shoulders at their pursuers when they had the chance.
They ran until they were out of ammunition and their horses were lathered and near exhaustion. The day had been hot and their ride long, and the Boss knew their animals would not last long. Finally, they came to a stop in an arroyo, nearly six feet deep and carved by the rains out of the desert floor. In their panic, they’d allowed themselves to make the worst possible mistake. They’d let their attackers drive them into a corner. There was no way out.
The men leapt off of their exhausted horses, using them as shields.
“Any bullets left, Boss?” Will asked.
“Two. You?”
“Just one and I’m not wasting it on one of them,” he said, his voice a growl.
Arrows flew through the darkness and suddenly there were only two of them, Will and the Boss. They could hear, but not see their attackers creeping closer in the twilight.
“See you in Hell, Boss,” said Will, cocking his pistol and placing the barrel under his chin.
“That you will, William,” the Boss replied and Will pulled the trigger, sending a cascade of blood and brains onto the rocks behind him. “That you will.”
The Boss stepped from behind his horse to look at what remained of his men. Jorge lay on his back next to Will. He was still alive, though he was clutching the arrow that protruded from his stomach.
“Boss,” he whispered, blood running from the corner of his mouth, “por favor.” He motioned at the Boss’ gun. The thin man sighed.
“Jorge,” he said, switching to flawless Spanish so the other man would not miss the meaning of his words. Jorge’s eyes widened in surprise as he had not known that the Boss knew his native language, “You are a piece of filth. Perhaps, not as much as others I have known, but a piece of filth all the same.” The Boss tossed his gun into the darkness. “Die like the dog you are, Jorge. I will not help you, but I will see you on the other side for an eternity of pain and suffering that will make this seem like a picnic with your best girl.”
“El Diablo,” Jorge whispered his eyes filled with fear that had nothing to do with the pain in his gut.
The Boss laughed and turned to walk out of the arroyo. As he did so, he was met with a hail of arrows. He stumbled but did not fall and continued walking. The arrows stuck out of his body, making him appear grotesquely like a human pincushion. He walked to the nearest Navajo, who had pulled a small hatchet from his belt and buried in the Boss’ midsection. The Boss didn’t seem to notice but took the man by the throat and lifted him out of his hiding place.
“You,” he said in the man’s native tongue. “You will help me. You will help me or you will die. Choose now.”
“Ch'99dii,” the brave replied in a trembling voice as he gazed into the Boss’ eyes, now completely black. Another language, but still the same word Jorge had spoken. Diablo. Devil.
The man laughed again.
“Really?” he said. “I suppose the Catholic missionaries have managed to work their way into this Godforsaken land. They’ve done a good job, I see. I did not know that you knew me, boy.” The man’s eyes flashed, dangerously. “Nevertheless, it will not save you. I said, choose.”
“Run,” the brave cried to his brothers. “It is the white man’s Devil. He is here. Run, run and do not look back!”
“You little shit,” exclaimed the Boss. “You’ve scared them off, dammit. Now, I can’t force you to do my will, but I can kill you for your little stunt.
The brave’s struggle intensified, his fists impacting, but having no effect on the Boss.
“I’ll take it that you won’t help, then. Well, your choice. Your cousins to the south used to enjoy this little trick. You must tell me how you like it”
With that, he thrust his hand through the boy’s stomach and reached under his ribcage. The brave screamed as the Boss’ fist closed around his still beating hear and tore it first free from artery and vein and finally from his body, with a wet, sucking sound. He held it in front of the boy’s face as his eyes began to glaze.
“Bet you never thought you’d see that, did you , boy?” He laughed again and tossed the heart and the boy aside, wiping his hand absently on his pants. He was out in the middle of the desert with no horse. And now he couldn’t even retrieve his treasure because he was fresh out of humans. If only Jorge had lasted a little longer.
“Shit,” he said and spat into the sand. He would have to try again. He thought for a moment, considering events that had happened and those that were yet to come and he caught a glimpse of something. It was brief, yet it was there and it told him that he would perhaps not have to uncover his treasure himself. Yes, someone else might do it for him. True, he would have to wait perhaps another hundred years, but, then, what was a century to one who would live forever? He had already waited thousands of years, a few more wouldn’t hurt. He could wait.
The Boss angled his hat back from his brow, shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk into the cool desert night, whistling a tune. No observer was watching. Had one been, he would have seen the Boss fade just a bit with each step, until nothing, not even footprints, was left.