Free Wild Wild Death by Casey Daniels Page B

town of Antonito, al right. But then, it was hard not to remember the last place I’d seen anything that even sort of resembled civilization.
    One main street, a grocery store, a couple bars, dust. Oh yeah, I remembered the dust. Colorado dust was a lot like New Mexico dust.
    “And there was a motel back that way,” I said before I glanced around again at the barren landscape. “That might be a better option than trying to find someplace to stay around here.”
    “Then what do you say? We’d better get a move on.” Goodshot was already in the car. “I’ve always liked the idea of racin’ in to save the day.”
    Yeah, I liked the idea, too. Especial y considering that I was anxious to get this whole thing over with.
    Bad enough I had to worry about seeing Dan alive again…
    I wheeled the car around and headed back in the direction we’d just come while Goodshot stared out the passenger window, his gaze riveted to Wind Mountain.
    Now I had to worry that even after I handed over the bones and saved Dan, I was stil going to feel lousy about letting Goodshot down.
    I
    t wasn’t like I actual y saw a wolf or a coyote or a buffalo or anything. But the wide-open spaces, rocky hil s, and dusty cliffs around Antonito looked like the kind of place I might, and I wasn’t taking any chances that some wild beast would strol into town. I insisted on a second-floor room at the motel. It overlooked the parking lot. At least I could easily keep an eye on the Mustang. Especial y since mine was only one of three cars there.
    The good news was that it was a short walk from the motel over to Taberna, the bar where I’d been instructed to meet the kidnappers at ten o’clock.
    Then again, it was a short strol pretty much everywhere in town. Antonito was not exactly a bustling metropolis. Aside from a couple streets where adobe houses and aluminum-clad trailers sat side by side, Main Street was pretty much it.
    It was already dark by the time I showered, changed, and headed out. A couple minutes before ten, Goodshot and I stood outside the door of the bar. I had the bag of his bones slung over one shoulder and a feeling in the pit of my stomach that was half nervousness, half guilt.
    “If there was any other way,” I told him.
    “Don’t worry.” I think he would have patted me on the shoulder if he could have gotten away with it and not frozen me solid. “I understand.”
    “But you—”
    “Me?” Goodshot didn’t give me a chance to apologize again. With two fingers, he snapped his cowboy hat back on his head. “I’m headin’ over to the local cemetery. I used to know a couple pretty little señoritas in this town. The way I figure it, I just might be able to catch up with them.”
    I watched him strol down the sidewalk and heard him whistle some old song. By the time he got to the street, he’d completely melted into the shadows and the last note of his tune faded into the night.

    I was on my own.
    And if I thought about it much longer, I’d bolt for home. Ignoring the cha-cha going on in my chest, I pushed open the door. Inside the bar, the lights were dim, the country music was loud, and I was one of exactly four patrons. Two of them were old guys slamming down shots and beers at the bar. The other one was a hippie-type with long greasy hair and a scraggly beard. He was sitting by himself near the front window, sipping a beer and reading a book.
    None of them looked like kidnapper material to me.
    I slid into a booth in the farthest corner from the door and set my tote bag beside me on the vinyl bench.
    “What’l you have?” The bartender was talking even before she was out from behind the bar, her voice loud enough to be heard over the wailing of a steel guitar. She was forty or so, a stick-thin woman with bleached-out hair and the tel tale pinched mouth of a smoker. She had a damp rag in one hand and she swiped it over the table, gave me a brief look, and did a careful once-over of the tote bag on the bench