A Tale Out of Luck (30 page)

“There were three or four I never saw before in my life,” Skeeter recalled. “Then the usual hands: Eddie Milliken, Joe Butts, Ham Franklin, Bill Waterford, and Johnny Webb.”

“Nine or ten,” Kenyon said. “We have nine.”

Hank watched a few more seconds. “There’s smoke comin’ from the old adobe, but I don’t see anybody movin’ around. Did they post guards, Skeeter?”

“No, sir. Everybody just pretty much stayed drunk and ornery.”

Through the brush, Hank saw a side door to the adobe fly open. “Shh!” he warned.

They watched as Eddie Milliken stepped out with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. With his other hand, he slipped a stack of poker cards into his pocket. He tipped the bottom of the whiskey bottle up, drained what little there was in it, and then commenced to piss on the dirt.

Jack Brennan’s voice came from the adobe: “Milliken! You in or out?”

Milliken pulled the cards back out of his pocket and looked at them. “I fold!” he moaned, finished his business, and stepped back into the ranch house.

“That place looks pretty well fortified,” Kenyon said.

“The walls are a foot thick,” Skeeter assured him.

“And that dog on the porch is gonna raise all kinds of hell when he sees us ride in,” Hank added.

“Let me go first and I’ll whistle at the dog,” Skeeter said. “That dog likes me.”

“Alright,” Hank agreed.

“Then we’ll need to draw them out of there somehow.” Kenyon looked at Hank. “You got any ideas?”

Hank nodded. “After Skeeter calls off the dog, you and the boys get the horses into the barn and stay out of sight. Dismount and be ready. I’ll talk ’em out of that adobe.”

Minutes later, Hank stood alone in the mixed mud, gravel, and dirt between the adobe ranch house and the wooden barn. Through the barn door to his right, he could see his men waiting in reserve, out of sight of the door to the adobe. Skeeter was petting the dog. He turned left, toward the adobe stronghold, and began shouting.

“Jack Brennan! Come out here, Jack! I want a word with you!” He waited. The door creaked open.

“Git your sorry ass out here, Jack!” For once in his life, he didn’t have to hold his temper. He
used
it. “I want to talk to you about Skeeter! And about you bustin’ my nose, you son of a bitch!”

Now the crack in the doorway widened, and John Rafferty, alias Jack Brennan, stepped out, buckling his gun belt on. He smiled as he eased farther out, seeing no one but Hank in the yard. “I figured you’d break out of your own jail quick enough.”

“Jack, what’s this nonsense you’ve been fillin’ Skeeter’s head with?” He waited and watched as Rafferty moved out into the open, followed by eight armed men, the last one staggering and rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up.

“Why, Hank, I have no idea what the hell you’re talkin’ about. But I’ll guarantee you one thing. You made a big mistake showin’ up here a-hollerin’ at my door. No man speaks to me in that tone of voice.”

Hank smiled. “Sorry, Jack. I mean, John. It is John Rafferty, isn’t it?” He glanced into the barn just long enough to signal Kenyon with a toss of his head. The men came out of the barn as a group, facing off at fifteen paces with the Double Horn outlaws.

The smile slipped from Rafferty’s face. “You sons of bitches ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

“To the contrary,” Kenyon said, “we have plenty of evidence to convict you of numerous crimes. Including the murders of Wes James and Policarpo Losoya. And that of Jim Kenyon, my father.”

Rafferty scoffed.

“It’s true,” Hank added. “We can link you with the Rafter T brand. That proves you’re John Rafferty, and we all know that John Rafferty has done a mess of killin’ over the years.” He paused to watch the reality register on Rafferty’s face. “Now, if you’ll come with us peacefully, and plead guilty to your crimes, I give you my word that I’ll ask the judge to sentence you to life instead of the gallows. It wasn’t your fault you were captured by Comanches all those years ago.”

Rafferty’s men kept their eyes darting between their outlaw boss and the posse come to collect him. Rafferty himself hadn’t budged. He just glared at Hank Tomlinson.

“You chickenshit,” he finally growled. “You could have saved me, and you quit.”

Hank shook his head. He knew exactly where Rafferty’s mind was: on a sunny summer day, some three decades past. “I never quit, John. None of us did. Our horses just gave out. We couldn’t keep up.”

Rafferty shook his head. “You left me with the same murderin’ savages who killed my whole family in front of my eyes. I had no choice but join ’em, so I did. And I dreamed of killin’ you and those other three for givin’ up on me. Three out of four ain’t bad, but I’ve been waitin’ for years to finish the job.”

“Waitin’ for me to raise Skeeter?”

Rafferty nodded. “My mistake, I guess. Looks like he abandoned me quicker than you did.”

“One thing I don’t get,” Hank said. “The Comanches adopted you. You
were
a Comanche. What happened? When did you become an Indian hater?”

“It was after that shoot-out that you and me had. I hit you with an arrow, and you gut-shot me. I got back to my Indian camp alive, but it took me a long time to heal. I wasn’t right for a year or more. Then, one day, I came down with the smallpox of all the damned things, and those Indians abandoned me. Left me to die of the fever. Some Mexican goat herders found me, and saved my life.”

“That’s it? That’s why you risked stirrin’ up an Indian war along the whole frontier?”

“You haven’t heard it all. I took up with a Mexican girl from that family that nursed me back to health. She didn’t seem to care that I’d lived like a wild, murderin’ savage, and I guess I loved that little ol’ gal for that. But one day while I was out stalkin’ game, the Comanches raided and carried her off. I went hunting for her—and huntin’ Indians. I killed some Indians, but I never found her.”

“So, you figured you could get even with everybody who wronged you. You figured you could steal my cattle, kill anybody that got in your way, pin the blame on me for the murders, and get the Comanches run out of Texas once and for all in the process.”

Rafferty shrugged. “Seemed like a fine plan to me. Except, I didn’t want you to hang. I wanted to fill you full of arrows and scalp you myself.”

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, John, it almost worked. But it’s over now. The best thing for you to do is lay your guns down, and tell your men to do the same. Let’s not get any of these boys hurt. No need to shoot it out over a lost cause.”

“Oh, we’re gonna shoot it out, Hank. That long hair of yours will make a dandy addition to my collection.” An expression of bemused surprise—one that seemed to have no explanation—appeared on Rafferty’s face. “But, right now, I’m afraid all that is gonna have to wait.”

“Wait?” Hank said, almost out of patience. “For what?”

“Look over your shoulder.” Rafferty began laughing. “Go ahead, look.”

Something had come over Rafferty’s men. Their eyes were no longer focused on the posse, but looking beyond. If they were playing along with their boss, they were doing a damn fine job.

Still, Hank wasn’t about to take his eyes off of Rafferty. “Matt?” he said.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kenyon turn.

“Glory be to God,” Matt Kenyon said in a tone of voice a man might use but once in a lifetime.

An arrow flew by Hank’s ear and stuck in the dirt between the posse and the outlaw gang, followed by the war cries of a hundred Comanches. Still, Hank did not take his eyes from Rafferty’s smiling face.

“Get in the barn!” Hank said, backing away, watching Rafferty.

“To the house, boys!” ordered Rafferty, though four men had already run there for cover. He, too, had his eyes glued to his rival. Just before he backed into the door, Rafferty drew his Colt. Hank mirrored the move and splinters leapt into both men from shattered barn wood and door framing. Hank stayed at the door just long enough to look west at the attackers. He almost smiled. A line of horses thundered toward the ranch buildings—horses of all colors, ridden by warriors bedecked in all manner of nature’s finery. Lance points jutted skyward, arrows arched with speed almost too fast to follow, white puffs of smoke preceded reports that followed. And all along the line, as if the warriors carried the charm of eagle spirits, feathers fluttered in such a way that they made a man dizzy.

Hank reached out and pulled the big hinged barn door closed as arrows rattled into it and lead slugs split lumber. Jay Blue was at his side, pulling the other barn door closed as the fastest of the warriors galloped between the house and the barn.

Hank began barking orders almost faster than he could think them. “Skeeter, you and Jay Blue get all our horses in those stalls. Tom! Americo! Cover these double doors! Build a barricade out of whatever you can find!” He turned to the opposite side of the barn. “George, you and Beto take the southwest corner. Tonk, you and Matt cover the southeast. Guard every approach. Whatever you do, don’t let the Indians set the barn on fire!”

The men took their posts, using rifle butts and boot heels to knock planks from the exterior wall, creating slots through which to aim and shoot.

“What now?” Jay Blue said, having crammed nine mounts into two broken-down stalls with Skeeter’s help.

“Gather whatever you can find to build breastworks. And, look out, here comes the second charge!”

Slugs sang weird harmonies to the war whoops that swept by outside.

“Hot damn!” Matt Kenyon yelled.

“You hit?”

“Just a flesh wound,” Kenyon growled. “I think it missed the bone.”

“Get some cover for these men!” Hank ordered, glaring at Jay Blue and Skeeter.

The two younger cowhands picked up everything they could lift and started constructing crude barricades at the three points of defense Hank had established inside the walls. They stacked up old saddles and barrels, and even tore a trough from the wall with pure adrenaline.

“What’s goin’ on out there?” Hank demanded.

“They’re keeping their distance right now,” Kenyon yelled through the pain of his wound. “Looks like their mounts are winded.”

“That’ll give us a minute or two. Make sure you’re reloaded.”

“They caught a bunch of hobbled ranch horses that were out grazin’,” Tom said, peering out between the big double doors. “They’ll be mounted on fresh stock pronto.”

“Aw, shit!” said Beto Canales from the southeast corner. “Look!”

George Powers had been reloading his Winchester rifle next to Beto. “Christ Almighty,” he said, total exasperation lacing his words.

“What the hell is it now?” Hank blurted.

“Those women. They followed us!”

“
¡Chinga’o!
” Hank cursed. He ran to the corner, looked over Beto’s shoulder, and saw the top of Flora’s buggy lurching around where the road crossed the rocky creek bed. For the first time, he felt a wave of panic rise up that he had to fight back, but when he turned around to the interior of the barn to grab a horse, he saw Jay Blue already mounted, with the reins of a second horse in his hand.

“No, Jay Blue!” he yelled.

But Jay Blue was already kicking the barn door open beside Long Tom and Americo. “Cover me!”

“Shit!” Hank yelled. “Everybody hold your fire. Maybe they won’t see him.”

“They already see him,” Tonk said. “There they go.”

Hank darted to the southwest corner and stepped in a puddle of Matt Kenyon’s blood. “Shoot their horses out from under ’em. Don’t let them anywhere near Jay Blue or those hardheaded women!”

He heard a scurrying in the rafters and looked up to see Skeeter crawling into what had once been a loft, but could now more correctly be termed a death trap. Skeeter tested rotten lumber underfoot until he reached the slope of the roof. He kicked out a few shingles and peered through the hole he had made.

“You got a good angle?” Hank said.

“Yes, sir! I can see everything up here.”

“Catch!” Hank yelled, and tossed a Winchester up to Skeeter. “Make it hot for ’em, son!”

“There they go for the creek!” Kenyon yelled. “Six of ’em!”

Hank scrambled back to the corner and added several rounds to a barrage of lead that flew from the barn. Though beyond effective range, one of the Indian ponies fell dead, the rider limping into the brush. But the other five warriors swarmed through the timber toward the buggy mired at the creek crossing.

“It’s up to you now, Skeeter!”

Smoking brass cartridges began to drop from the loft. Hank counted shots as he loaded another Winchester. When he heard Skeeter’s hammer click, he hollered, “Catch!” He tossed the new rifle up and caught the one Skeeter dropped. “Give ’em hell!”

“Jay Blue’s got the one gal mounted behind him, and Flora on the other horse!” George said. “Here they come!” He punctuated his own words with a rapid succession of pistol rounds.

“The Indians!” Long Tom cried from the barn door, still open from Jay Blue’s departure. “They’re
all
comin’!”

Hank looked west and saw the main body of the war party gathering speed for an all-out attack on the ranch buildings. He shoved two last rounds into one of his Colts as he strode out of the barn door and waited to cover his son’s return when he came around the corner. The Comanches had split into three prongs in order to swarm around and between the adobe house and the rickety old barn. Hank stood his ground as arrows whispered Comanche curses past his ears. He loosed rounds from both fists with such effect that the middle prong of warriors scattered.

The two outer waves of attackers continued, taking fire from the outlaws in the adobe and Skeeter through the barn roof. Finally, Jay Blue appeared, with Jane holding on wide-eyed behind him and Flora riding a step behind, firing a derringer beyond the adobe with one hand and holding both her reins and a leather satchel with her other hand.

“Run for the barn!” Jay Blue said to Jane as he virtually pulled her from the horse. He jumped down beside her and handed her the reins.

“What about you?” she said.

Hank turned to stand guard beside his son.

“Just go!” Jay Blue yelled.

Just as she turned, a warrior appeared around the corner of the adobe, carrying only a lance into battle, leading the left prong of the swarming attack. Hank lifted one revolver, but felt Jay Blue’s hand on his wrist.