Blood for Blood (#5 in the Claw Western Series)

By Matthew Kirk

When Tyler Wyatt tracked down the man who made his hand a claw, he was prepared to sacrifice anything—or anyone—to his lust for bloody revenge. Now the quest is over, but the price remains to be paid. Wyatt makes a deal to rescue a kidnapped land owner but it puts him in danger—which means he’s back in business. ... Savage, fast, violent business.
The only kind he knows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215290316

Matthew Kirk

Matthew Kirk holds a B.S. in Economics and a B.S. in Applied and Computational Mathematical Sciences with a concentration in Quantitative Economics from the University of Washington. He started Modulus 7, a data science and Ruby development consulting firm, in early 2012. Matthew has spoken around the world about using machine learning and data science with Ruby.

Book preview

Chapter One

‘PUT HIM THERE. So I can see his eyes when he dies.’

‘Sí, jefe.’

The vaqueros hurried to obey the order, dragging the near-unconscious man backwards over the sand to the place indicated by Don Tomas de la Plata. The man’s bare feet left long drag marks on the sunbaked Mexican soil, and when they dropped him all he did was moan for the relief of the tension that had strained his arms.

It was relief of a kind.

The death that he knew was coming would be a greater relief. His face was a mangled confusion of purple bruises, the lips swollen and split, the eyes puffed almost closed beneath lids punched large by fists and bootheels. Blood ran from the enlarged nostrils of a broken nose, joining the crusting of crimson that encircled his mouth like a beard of red.

He was naked to the waist, more bruises showing on his ribs and back, whip-marks on his shoulders. His tongue was a furred, thirst-dried thing that lolled from between the slitted lips, torn where it had rasped against broken teeth. Flies settled on him when the vaqueros let him fall, and he lacked the strength to brush them clear.

‘Up there.’

Don Tomas indicated the arch of an old wall that might once have held a mission bell in place. Now all it held was the curve of ancient adobe bricks, still standing after the mission had gone, though the metal hook that might have held the bell still hung, rusted, from the apex of the arch’s curve.

The vaqueros slung the rope through the hook.

Then they dragged it down so that its length hung from the hook, looping one end about the man’s wrists.

Don Tomas de la Plata said, ‘Haul him up.’ And a vaquero hooked the other end around his saddle horn and rode his horse out until the man was lifted off the ground to dangle in the air, his feet half a man’s height clear of the sand.

‘Tie it,’ said Don Tomas. ‘Fix him there.’

And the mounted man turned his horse round to bring the rope close to what was left of the wall. His companions took it from him, hauling on the slack as others lashed the tail around the aged stone.

Don Tomas said, ‘Bueno.’ And climbed down from his horse.

The hanging man groaned as his own bodyweight stretched his arms agonizingly high above his head. Don Tomas passed the reins of his horse to a vaquero and lifted a whip from the saddle.

‘Strip him.’

Three vaqueros ran forwards to haul the boots from the man’s feet. One produced a knife that he used to slash through the man’s belt and pants, letting the others drag the severed material away from the limbs until the man was totally naked.

Don Tomas stepped forwards and asked:

‘How does it feel now, Felipe?’

The groan that came from the hanging man’s swollen lips was inarticulate, but still sounded like a curse.

Don Tomas smiled and flexed the whip behind him, letting the length of plaited rawhide stretch straight over the sand. He brought it forwards with a powerful movement of his wrist, lifting the stock to bring the lead-weighted tip against the hanging man’s belly.

The blow cut thin streamers of scarlet from the flesh.

The man called Felipe screamed. A thin, high sound that stretched the smile wider over de la Plata’s face, the fleshy lips peeling back from even, white teeth.

He was a good-looking man, this hacendado, tall, and built with a lithely muscular grace. His shoulders were broad and his waist still narrow, with only the faint beginnings of a paunch to mark his age and the years of good living. His hair was a raven black, the starlings of grey serving only to gloss the oiled sheen. His features were patrician: a high forehead above large, deep-set eyes as black as his hair, the nose a proud curve that might have appeared overlarge had not the eyes dominated the other features. The mouth was wide and full, the fleshiness of the lips suggesting a sensuality that now expressed itself in rampant sadism. He wore a short-waisted grey jacket over a white shirt, open at the neck and ruffed at cuffs and front. Grey pants clung tightly to his thighs, flaring below the knee over hand-tooled boots of black leather with heavy spurs jutting from the high heels.

The spurs made a little tinkling sound as he shifted his stance to bring the whip back.

‘Well?’ he asked in a voice reminiscent of a cat’s purr as it toys with a trapped mouse. ‘You have not lost your voice. Do you have nothing to say?’

The answer came in a low, pain-filled groan, the words slurring past swollen lips, strained by the hanging and the consequent constrainment of lungs and windpipe:

‘I say that you should go to hell, Tomas! I say that I hope the Devil feeds on your soul!’

A deep-throated laugh burst from the hacendado’s lips and the whip curled forwards again. It was directed with the expertise of long practice and pleasure, the rawhide swung with the full strength of the broad shoulders, the movement controlled by a flicking of the wrist. The tip, into which were sewn little balls of lead, touched the hanging man’s cheek with a vicious caress. The bruised skin opened, scarlet showing on the purple. The man whimpered, unable to control his reaction. Fresh blood ran down his jaw and a vaquero laughed.

‘You have a dirty mouth, Felipe.’ Don Tomas brought the whip back with a casual motion of his wrist. ‘A dirty mouth and a distinct lack of respect. I gave you a chance to learn your lesson—you should have heeded that.’

‘I love her.’ Blood bubbled from the edge of Felipe’s mouth along with the words. ‘She loves me. You cannot change that, Tomas.’

‘No?’ The whip snaked out again, this time opening a cut on the other side of the man’s lips. ‘Do you think she would love you now?’

Felipe could not reply. His lips no longer closed together properly, and there was too much blood in his mouth. He spat it out, sending frothy lines of scarlet over his chest.

A vaquero, older than the rest, with a grey beard covering his jaw, said: ‘Kill him jefe. Have done with it.’

De la Plata looked at him and the vaquero shut his mouth and looked away. The don sent the whip forwards again, the corded leather striking lower this time. Felipe screamed again, his legs jerking upwards as the lash cut savagely. Spittle flecked de la Plata’s lips and his black eyes glinted, evil in the hot sunlight. Sweat beaded his forehead and when he finally lowered the whip Felipe hung limp at the end of the rope with blood coursing down his thighs.

‘Not now!’ De la Plata’s voice was thick, his dark eyes excited. ‘Now no woman would love you. Now you have nothing to offer a woman.’

There was no reply from the man strung from the arch.

De la Plata’s nostrils flared as he studied the body. He curled the whip, eyes moving from Felipe to the weighted tip as his fingers got sticky with blood. He passed the whip to a vaquero and tugged a square of silk from his pants’ pocket, wiping his hands fastidiously as a second vaquero spilled water from a canteen. He dropped the silk on to the sand with an expression of distaste and gestured at the vaquero holding the water bottle.

‘Wake him. I want to see his eyes.’

The vaquero nodded and swung astride his horse. He walked the animal over to the hanging man and halted it beneath the arch. Leaning over in the saddle, he cupped a hand beneath Felipe’s chin and tilted the head back. With his other hand, he up-ended the canteen, emptying the contents over the hanging man’s face.

Felipe moaned, his eyes opening as the water filled his mouth. He began to choke and the vaquero let go his chin, letting the head tilt forwards again so that Felipe was able to spit the water clear of his choking throat.

The flies buzzed irritably.

Don Tomas de la Plata laughed.

The old vaquero who had spoken before turned away, dragging a tobacco pouch from his shirt to roll a cigarette that he lit and smoked staring fixedly across the hot Sonora plain.

The vaquero on the horse backed the animal away.

And de la Plata said: ‘No, I want to see his eyes.’

The vaquero’s face was impassive as he eased his pony close to the hanging man. He turned it so that the head was facing de la Plata and reached across to grasp Felipe’s hair, dragging the skull back so that the tortured face stared at the don.

Felipe’s eyes were open. They were reddened by pain and weeping, but they still focused on de la Plata with a gaze of pure hatred.

The don smiled his approval and stepped closer to the dangling, bloodied figure.

‘Do you hear me, Felipe?’

A low, agony-strangled moan answered him.

‘Good. I am going to kill you now. And leave you hanging here for the birds to eat. Then I shall go back and tell her what happened.’

Felipe went on staring at him. His ribs jutted out, stomach hollowed by the suspension of his body and the pain. Flies crawled over him. Very slowly, each movement re-opening the wounds that spread his mouth so that fresh crimson dribbled down his jaw, he said:

‘You will see Hell, Tomas. You have lost her now.’

De la Plata’s smile froze on his face. A rictus, in which his teeth ground together as a snarl, rumbled from his throat. He stepped back, brushing flies from his face, his eyes like black ice.

‘I am Don Tomas de la Plata,’ he said softly. ‘I am el jefe! I rule here. And I sentence you to death!’

He turned away, pacing ten long strides over the sand, then spun back to face the hanging man. The gunbelt encircling his waist was of the same fine leather as his boots. It was studded with little silver conchos, the holster patterned with the same metal in the design of an eagle and a snake. The holster contained a long-barreled Colt with ivory grips, the metalwork silvered and etched with a tracery of intertwining scrollwork. He drew the pistol. Cocked it, and said:

‘Damn you, Felipe!’

The vaquero holding Felipe’s head upright winced as the Colt detonated. His pony shuffled sideways as the body jerked.

De la Plata cocked the pistol again, his right arm thrust out as he sighted down the barrel.

Blood spurted from the stomach as the .45 caliber slug tore through the soft flesh, the muscle, and into the intestines. The body swung back, the impact of the bullet producing involuntary nervous reaction that trembled through the dying flesh.

‘Hold him still!’ De la Plata’s shout was harsh with anger. ‘I want to see his eyes!’

The vaquero struggled to bring his horse under control. The old man who had lit the cigarette dropped it on the sand and ground it out, spitting on the stub. De la Plata fired again.

And again.

Until the Colt’s hammer clicked on emptied chambers and Felipe’s face no longer existed. Only the bloody, mangled hole, bound by the tenuous lines of jaw and cranium.

In the aftermath of the gunfire there was a long slow silence.