Free Massacre Canyon by William W. Johnstone Page B

sure he would ever be able to walk normally again. Payne and his other captors gave him barely enough food and water to subsist on, which contributed to his weakened condition. His beard and hair grew, and he supposed he was starting to look like a man who had been trapped on a deserted island.
    â€œRobinson Crusoe Jensen,” he muttered one day as he remembered the character from a novel he’d read.
    The heat during the day began to grow worse, which was another indication that they were heading south. It had been chilly in Wyoming, but nothing like it would be later in the autumn and winter. The season was still early enough in autumn that the days in certain parts of the southwest could be quite warm, even hot.
    He had caught up to Mordecai Kroll in Arizona, Luke recalled. There was a good chance the gang’s hideout wasn’t too far from where Luke had captured Mordecai. So the heat made sense if Payne was really taking him to Rudolph Kroll.
    The brutal outlaw had no reason to lie about that, as far as Luke could figure.
    Luke could tell by the slant of the wagon when they were traveling through mountainous areas. They had been climbing for a full day, moving slower because of the angle, when the trail leveled out for a short distance, then began to descend slightly.
    They had just gone through a pass, Luke thought. He had no idea where and it might not matter, but he had been thinking about anything and everything, trying to keep his mind strong even as his body grew weaker. During the endless hours he had quoted poetry to himself, recounted the plots of numerous novels, even quoted Scripture. Anything to keep his brain from sinking into a mental morass.
    The quality of the light told him it was the middle of the day, but a short time later the wagon stopped. That wasn’t too unusual—Payne had called midday halts before—but Luke sensed that something was different about this one.
    One of the men unlocked the wagon. As usual, several of them stood guard, holding rifles or pistols, while two men dragged Luke out of the wagon and dumped him on the ground.
    This time, however, Dakota Charlie Payne approached Luke with an enormous Bowie knife in his hand.
    â€œI could carve you from gullet to gizzard with this, Jensen,” Payne said as he flourished the knife. “It’d be just what a lowdown bounty hunter deserves, too. But you know I ain’t gonna do it.”
    He hooked a boot toe under Luke’s shoulder and rolled him onto his belly. A second later Luke felt the tug as Payne used the Bowie to cut the rope holding his wrists and ankles together.
    That allowed his legs to straighten out. Cramped muscles screamed a protest at that. Luke tightened his jaw. He wasn’t going to let them hear a sound out of him, not even a whimper.
    A moment later, he could tell that Payne was cutting the ropes on his ankles, too. They came free.
    â€œGet him on his feet,” Payne ordered.
    Luke’s feet were so numb they might as well not have existed. He could only hope that they weren’t permanently damaged. Four men took hold of him, two on each arm, and lifted him. They set him upright. His legs folded up like strings. He would have collapsed if the outlaws hadn’t been holding him.
    â€œWalk him around some,” Payne snapped. “We got to get him movin’ again.”
    The men dragged Luke back and forth as they tried to force his muscles to work. His legs flopped limply at first, but then he felt sensations creeping into them again. Even his feet began to prickle with an intense feeling of pins and needles. He gritted his teeth again in order to remain stubbornly silent.
    While they were tormenting him like this, he looked around. They were on a lane lined with junipers, but through the gaps between the trees he saw rugged peaks rising all around. This was a high canyon in some mountain range that was unknown to him, although some of the landscape did look vaguely