Forty-nine

Jake strained against the ropes that held his wrists to two posts. He did all in his power to stand on just his good leg. The pain in his broken left leg was enough to beg God to let him die. Through a haze, he saw the fancy-dressed don approach him.

“By now you know that I am Don Jesus Ricardo de Leon,” the man sneered, “and I know you are the famous gunman from America. Soon I will report you as dead, Jake Harkner! You stole the woman who was to be my virgin mistress. They say you paid big money to spend the night with her. You took her virginity, and then you tried to steal her away. You killed the men I paid to bring her to me. No one goes against Don de Leon! Especially no American!”

Jake grimaced with the ungodly pain as the man walked in a circle around him. He wore only his denim pants, and he knew the left leg of those pants was soaked with blood from his broken leg. He’d been stripped to the waist, and he knew what was coming. He refused to speak, and he refused to cry out. God, if this man is going to kill me, just let it happen quickly!

“I see that you have many scars on your back.” The don walked around to stand in front of him again. “Scarred tissue does not heal well when it is reopened.” He leaned closer. “And I am going to reopen your scars, Jake Harkner. And then I am going to feed you to the buzzards and let them finish you off. You will die feeling them pulling the meat off your back and your leg. You will die feeling them peck out your eyes.” He stepped back, turning to someone. “Open up every scar on his back!” he ordered.

Jake had no idea where he was. Still somewhere in Mexico. That’s all he knew. God willing, Cole had made off with Annie and was well on his way north. He knew the skin on his arms and chest and back was already torn from being dragged. He’d have been killed right then if Don de Leon hadn’t ordered it to stop. He wanted Jake still alive so he could make him suffer even more.

Somewhere in the swirl of black pain, Jake knew what was coming. He gritted his teeth. He’d never once cried out when his father used the buckle end of a belt on him, and he wasn’t going to cry out when de Leon’s whip lashed into him.

That promise proved hard to keep. He knew that when the first horrible sting came. He heard the loud snap of the whip, and he forced his mind to fall deep into the world of blackness where nothing hurt and nothing mattered. He’d learned to do that as a boy, and he could do it again.

Time and the number of lashes faded into a shroud of smoky clouds around him. Randy. He had to think of Randy…another lash.

And his beloved son, Lloyd. Another lash.

And his angel of a daughter, Evie. She seemed to be full of his own mother’s spirit. Another lash.

And his precious Little Jake keeping his guns. Another lash.

And the love in Ben’s eyes for finding a man who loved him like a real father should. Another lash.

The adoration in Stephen’s eyes. Another lash.

And little Tricia and Sadie Mae. Another lash. Sadie Mae. Another. Sadie Mae…her gorgeous, dimpled smile. Another. The chickens. Sadie Mae’s giggle. Her big eyes that held secrets. Another. Sadie Mae crying over broken eggs and then laughing over her grandpa’s wild cussing when he went into the chicken coop.

Another lash.

He heard a chicken cluck. Somehow in the hideous darkness and pain, he managed to open his eyes and see it. A chicken. While he was being whipped, a chicken strutted right in front of him. Another lash.

Clucking. Pecking at grass seed. Another lash.

He actually grinned through the awful pain. Somehow Sadie Mae was with him. That chicken was a sign. Another lash.

Sadie Mae’s little hands were folded, and her saint of a mother was praying for him. Another lash.

Of course she was. Whose prayers had more power than Evie’s? Maybe the Pope. Another lash.

Randy! Was that Randy walking toward him? Was she greeting him like she always had back in Guthrie? Yes! There she was! I’m back, Randy. I can’t wait to hold you again.

That was his last thought before he passed out, unaware that his abuser continued to wield the whip until his back was completely raw.

Don de Leon smiled. “Cut him down and take him into the desert. Let the buzzards finish him,” he ordered his men. “And before you leave him there, cut off his privates!”

The two men taking Jake away looked at each other with the same thought. How could they do such a thing to a man? De Leon had never requested such a dastardly punishment.

De Leon walked away. He would report to the authorities that the famous Jake Harkner was dead, at the hands of Don Jesus Ricardo de Leon. He’d dealt his own form of justice, and now he would be famous for killing an American legend. Mexican authorities would do nothing about it. He owned them all.