A Time to Slaughter (10 page)

The schooner
Nawfal
had tacked against the prevailing wind and sailed north through the Gulf of California, heading for an inlet on the Sonora coast south of Mexicali. But as darkness crowded close and the danger of running aground increased, the ship dropped anchor in the Sea of Cortes and waited for the dawn.

Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim was well pleased. He'd slipped away from the American sloop in the fog and then turned back for Sonora, where he'd meet Zebulon Moss and the women he'd promised.

Not that he'd the slightest intention of paying Moss. The whisper of honed steel would be the unbeliever's only reward.

The night was a cave of darkness, moonless, and the north wind chill. Hakim heard the call of night birds from the shore rise above the rush of the surf and farther off a coyote yipped once, then fell silent. He considered having a Chinese girl sent up for his amusement, but dismissed the idea. These were dangerous waters and he'd need all his strength and cunning should the sloop reappear out of the gloom. Lying with a woman would rob him of both.

A seaman brought the sheik coffee and dates and then vanished forward into the dark. The schooner swayed on her anchor. Her boards creaked, the wind harped through the rigging, and the current murmured along her sides.

Sheik Hakim drank his spiced coffee and wished for morning.

 

 

Dawn had barely touched the sky above the Sierra Madres with violet light when the
Nawfal
raised anchor and sailed north.

During the mid-afternoon, the schooner passed Tiburon and Guardian Angel islands, then steered into an inlet two miles south of the estuary where three great rivers, the Colorado, Salt, and Gila, emptied into the gulf. It was narrow, hemmed in on two sides by steep, brush-covered bluffs. Tangles of wild oak and smoke trees grew on the flat, effectively shielding the mouth of the fiord from the casual observer. Any warship scouting from the south would scout ahead with telescopes and observe nothing but empty sea. It was also a lost, lonely place where few humans ever visited.

To Hakim's irritation, there were interlopers present.

Five men stood on the south bank, Mexican peons by the look of them, and stared at the beautiful ship as it moored in the inlet, its deck and rigging swarming with swarthy, bearded sailors.

Two small fishing boats had been pulled up onto shore and a pregnant woman with a baby in her arms squatted near them, stirring something in a pot over a small, smoky fire.

“Fishermen, lord,” Hassan Najid said. “They will leave soon.”

“Yes, and perhaps they'll meet the American sloop and tell them what they saw at this place,” Hakim said irritably.

Najid bowed his head. “God be praised, your wisdom is great, lord.” He looked at his master. “Is it your wish that I kill them?”

“It is my wish, Hassan. But the woman might bring something at the slave market.”

Najid looked to shore. “She has the sullen, stupid face of a peasant, her breasts are slack, and she's with child again. Who would want her?”

Hakim sighed. “Yes, what you say is true. She is worthless. Kill her with the rest.”

“And her baby?”

“Give it to my women. It might amuse them.”

Sheik Hakim watched the massacre from his ship.

The fishermen died like dogs and his lip curled in contempt. He had no taste for killing Mexican peons unless they were brave and showed fight like the blacksmith at the village. They screamed like women when the steel hit them and offered no defense but pleas for mercy. Their woman died better, quietly, along with her baby, the result of a careless stroke of the sword. Perhaps she was relieved that death was about to free her from a life of miserable poverty and grinding bondage.

Najid held a severed head high and grinned at Hakim. The sheik condescended to bow, acknowledging his second-in-command's prowess with the blade, though he thought it a small matter to kill an unarmed man.

“I never did cotton to night riding,” Uriah Tweedy said. “It worries a man.”

Beside him, Thaddeus Lowth, his head bent into wind and snow, smiled. His breath smoked as he said, “Worry is like a rocking horse, Mr. Tweedy. It's something to do that doesn't get you anywhere.”

“Truer words were never spoke, Mr. Lowth. But I worry just the same.” Tweedy turned to Shawn. “How about you, young feller? You've been mighty quiet.”

“Worries me that we aren't able to free Julia Davenport before Zeb Moss reaches Old Mexico and the slave ship.”

“Hell, boy, we got four, maybe five days,” Tweedy said. “We'll come up with somethin'. Hell, I'm gonna marry that little gal and I'll see no harm comes to her.”

Shawn and his two companions looked like three old men. Frost and snow whitened their eyebrows and mustaches and they rode bent over in the saddle, making themselves small to the cutting wind.

Tweedy was an excellent tracker and he read Moss's trail south with ease. The heavy John Deere left deep ruts in the snowy mud and the four mounted men made no attempt to scout their back trail.

For a while Shawn and the others rode in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. For his part Shawn wondered if he'd taken on a job he couldn't handle. The way to Mexico was long and hard and ahead of him rode half a dozen of the most dangerous gunmen in the west. With him he had an old, half-crazy bear hunter and a hangman who knew more about ladies' bloomers than gunfighting. The odds were stacked against them and they weren't going to get any better.

He decided he'd have to pick his fights, shoot and run, and try to wear down Moss and his men. No matter how the pickle squirted, it was a tall order and the prospect didn't fill him with confidence.

One thought led to another and Shawn raised his voice against the black wind. “Uriah, why is Moss making a five-hundred-mile trip to Old Mexico across some of the roughest country west of the Mississippi?”

Tweedy shook his head. “I ain't catching your drift, boy.”

“He could've sent Creeds and the rest of his boys. He'd no call to go in person.”

“Don't know.” Tweedy rubbed life into his frozen lips with his gloved hand. “It bears some studyin', I guess.”

“If I may interject, Mr. O'Brien?” Lowth asked.

“Interject away, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy answered for Shawn.

“One might suppose that Mr. Moss is undertaking such an arduous journey because there's something he covets waiting for him at his destination.”

“When a wise man is talkin', let your ears hang down an' listen, boy,” Tweedy said to Shawn. “Them's words of wisdom.”

“I'm listening,” Shawn said. “Moss covets money, but he could trust Creeds to bring it back to him.”

“Then there's something else,” Lowth said. “A thing of much more value.”

“Like what?” Shawn was intrigued.

“Like a slave ship, Mr. O'Brien. I'm not an expert on such matters, but I believe such a craft would be of great value. Certainly valuable enough for an avaricious gentleman like Mr. Moss to think it's worth a trip of five hundred miles.”

Shawn considered that, then said, more to himself than Lowth, “Kill the captain, take over the ship and crew, and go into the slave trade as a profitable sideline.” He tried to meet Lowth's eyes through the darkness and spinning snow. “It's thin, Thaddeus. I never pegged Zeb Moss as a sailor.”

“He doesn't need to sail the ship, Mr. O'Brien. His gunmen will. I imagine they can keep a crew in order. Hang one or two of the more mutinous, if you'll forgive me making a reference to my profession, and the rest will fall in line very quickly.”

“If Moss plans to take the ship, he'd want to be there in person to make sure it's done right, huh?” Shawn gave some thought to the idea.

Lowth's icy wool muffler had ridden up over his mouth. He pulled it down and said, “My sentiments exactly.”

“Moss could make a fortune in the slave trade,” Shawn said. “It's only a small step from owning a brothel to operating a slave ship.”

“And much more profitable,” Lowth pointed out. “It takes a long time to amass a fortune off the backs, for want of a better word, of two-dollar whores.”

“It's a thought—” Shawn grimaced and arched his back. “Oh my God!” he yelled, slumping forward in the saddle, his face a mask of pain.

“Damn it, boy, what ails ye?” Tweedy cried.

“My back,” Shawn said through gritted teeth. “Low down. It hurts like hell.”

Tweedy drew rein and put his arm around the younger man. “Didn't you say you was pushed down stone steps at the Lucky Lady?”

Shawn hunched his shoulders, his head tilted in pain. “Yeah, I fell down stairs. I thought I'd broken every bone in my body. Damn, this feels like a knife cutting into me deep.”

Tweedy's eyes searched a distance that looked like white streaks of paint flung across a black canvas. “Over there,” he said finally, pointing. “Into the trees.”

Still supporting Shawn, he led the way. For a moment Tweedy's horse floundered in a deep snowdrift, its knees kicking high, but the animal recovered and reached the shelter of the pines, pulling Shawn's horse after him.

Lowth followed the path cleared for him, but his mule balked and the packhorse shied, unsure of its footing. Tweedy left Shawn and went back and helped Lowth get his animals into shelter.

“A parlous path, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said, breathing hard as he clambered down from the saddle.

“To be sure, Mr. Lowth. But the young feller is in a bad way and what must be done must be done.”

In the copse of pines, Shawn sat erect on his horse, his shoulders no longer raised against pain. “It's gone. It went as suddenly as it came. One minute the knife was there, cutting me, then it was gone.”

“Boy, you gave us a scare,” Tweedy said. “You tellin' me you don't have the misery no more?”

“I feel fine,” Shawn said. “What the hell causes a pain like that?”

“Maybe,” Tweedy said after some consideration, “you've got a touch of the rheumatisms, boy. They can nip at a man, fer sure.”

Shawn nodded. “Maybe so. Let's get back on the trail.”

“Not yet,” Tweedy said. “You rest up for a spell. The trail will still be there.”

“I have coffee and sugar on the packhorse, and a pot of course,” Lowth offered. “Perhaps we should have a cup if a sufficient quantity of dry wood can be obtained for a fire.”

“Bound to be some around here, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “Unhitch that pot and I'll get something goin' to put under it.”

Shawn fretted about losing time, but the pain had drained him, and hot coffee and a cigar would be welcome.

Besides, it was a long, long way to Mexico . . . a lot of long-riding miles . . . a lot of time.

“How is he, Doctor?” Lorena O'Brien asked anxiously. Samuel stood next to her, his face a mask of anxiety. Behind them, Ironside was gray as a ghost and as menacing as the wrath of God.

“He's resting quietly,” Dr. James Glover said. “The chloroform takes a little time to wear off. Dr. Jakobs is with him.”

“Did he get it?” Ironside said. “Did he get the lance head out?”

Glover reached into a pocket of his frock coat, produced a piece of metal the size and shape of an arrowhead, and dropped it into Ironside's hand. “It's wrought iron and was slowly lodging in Colonel O'Brien's spine, hence the pressure on his spinal cord and the almost constant pain.”

“The lance head was made from a Mexican saber blade,” Ironside said. “This is the tip. It was hurting him bad, huh?”

“Worse than the colonel would ever care to admit.”

Conversation faltered. Three people stood teetering on the edge of a precipice, afraid of the answer to the question they had to ask.

Finally Lorena spoke for them all. “Will the colonel recover, Doctor?”

Glover shook his head. “I'm afraid only time will answer that question.”

“Hell, doc, you must have some idea,” Ironside said. “Tell us something, anything.”

“I'm sorry. We'll have to wait and see.”

“Damn it, there is no
we
,” Ironside protested. “The Dutchman left and soon so will you. Who's gonna be here for the waitin' and seein'?”

Glover smiled. “I'll be here, Luther. Mrs. O'Brien has kindly prepared a room for me and I'll attend the colonel until he's on his feet again.”

“Just as well . . .” The rest of what Ironside had to say trailed off into an ill-tempered growl.

Lorena glared at him. “Luther, Doctor Glover will do his best for the colonel. Do you have nothing to do? If not, the ladies need firewood in the kitchen.”

“I got plenty to do, ma'am,” Ironside stiffened his back and walked away, muttering to himself. “Wood for the kitchen . . . I'm the only one who does anything around here . . . damned doctors . . . kill a man faster than scat . . . woman giving orders . . . never heard the like . . .”

Glover watched Ironside go. “I fear we've upset your segundo, Samuel.”

“Luther is easily upset. But he's very worried about the colonel.”

“We're all very worried about the colonel,” Glover acknowledged.

 

 

“What time is it?” Shamus O'Brien croaked.

Lorena stepped closer to the bed. “One o'clock, Colonel.”

“Day or night?”

“It's one in the morning. How do you feel?”

“It's dark outside.”

“Yes, it's dark. And it's still snowing. Drifting a little in the hills.”

“Has anybody checked on the herd?”

“Yes. Luther and Patrick are out with the vaqueros.”

“Good,” Shamus mumbled. “That's good.”

“Shamus, how do you feel?” Lorena asked again.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the neck down I can't feel my body. It's as though it's no longer part of me.”

“Dr. Glover says your recovery will take time.”

“I'm paralyzed, Lorena, like a puppet with its strings cut.”

“I'll get the doctor.”

“Wait, Lorena.” Shamus turned his head slowly and with effort to look at her. “You will soon be mistress of Dromore, as my wife Saraid once was. Samuel will take my place and you must give him all the support you can.”

Lorena opened her mouth to speak, but Shamus talked over her. “Samuel is a good son and a good man, but he lets his heart rule his head. So do Shawn and Patrick. You'll have to show them the way, not Jacob's way, but the middle road. Do you understand?”

Lorena fought back sudden tears. “You'll get well again, Colonel. You'll stand on Saraid's pink hearthstone on your own two feet. I just know you will.”

“The middle road, Lorena. Always the middle road . . .” Shamus's words drifted away as he fell into sleep.

Lorena brushed a wisp of gray hair from the colonel's forehead, her heart heavy as lead. He looked shrunken somehow, and vulnerable.