A Time to Slaughter (24 page)

Luther Ironside leaned forward in the saddle. “Well, lookee there, Colonel. I ain't seen something like that in a coon's age, with the times a-changing the way they are.”

“Stage out of Lordsburg, I'd say.” Colonel Shamus O'Brien sat upright on his horse. “Three, no, four holdup men. I missed one.”

Ironside nodded. “Any of our business, Colonel?”

Shamus considered that for a spell, then shook his head. “I don't see how it is, us being no part of the law here and with our own pressing business to attend to.”

“They're getting the passengers out.” Ironside pointed his finger in the direction of the stagecoach. “And the driver's climbing down. Keeping his hand away from his gun. Now that's savvy of him.”

“Is there a strongbox on board, you reckon?” Shamus asked.

“I doubt it, They're more likely to be carrying passengers to Recoil or down Sonora way.”

“Yes, you're right. The bandits are collecting the folks' valuables, looks like. Well, that's too bad.” Shamus glanced at the sky. “Best be on our way, Luther, if we expect to reach Recoil before nightfall.”

Ironside frowned. “I wonder if we'll ever see another one, a stage holdup, I mean.”

“It's unlikely, Luther. The West is changing fast, but for better or for worse I can't really tell. The sight you see down there is going the way of the Indian and the buffalo.”

“It's a pity, Colonel, I sure liked the old way better. Hey look, feller down there looks like he's refusing to hand over his watch or wallet or something. Even from here, I'd say he's real mad.”

A revolver shot racketed, drawing Ironside's attention back to the stagecoach. “Aw hell, now why did he have to go and do that?”

One of the outlaws held a smoking Colt in his right fist and watched a man in black broadcloth slide down the side of the stage and collapse against a front wheel, his head hanging. Another man and a couple women shrank away from the dead man and even from their position on a rise in the foothills of the Little Hatchet Mountains, Shamus and Ironside heard a woman scream.

Ironside looked at his longtime friend. “Now what, Colonel?”

Shamus sighed. “Well, a murder makes it our business, Luther. I can stand aside from an honest robbery, but not a murder.”

“There's four of them bandits down there, Colonel. How do we play it?”

“Like we've always played it, Luther.” Shamus drew his Colt. “We charge home at the gallop, of course.”

“Like I said, four-to-one odds, Colonel,” Ironside said, skinning his own revolver.

Shamus smiled that old, reckless grin Ironside remembered from the late war. “We charged Yankees at ten times those odds and scattered them.” Shamus stared at his friend. “Unless you're getting too old for this kind of horse cavalry warfare, Luther?”

“Colonel, I'll be charging so fast your buckskin's nose is gonna be stuck up my hoss's ass. Watch this old man and see how it's done.” Ironside let rip with a wild rebel yell and charged down the slope, Shamus right after him, hollering just as loudly.

They rode knee to knee as bullets split the air around them and Ironside grinned and yelled, “Just like the old days, huh, Colonel?”

“Only then I'd have a cavalry brigade behind me,” Shamus pointed out.

“You don't need a brigade when you got me, by God,” Ironside hollered.

Two of the outlaws ran from the cover of the stagecoach and for a moment watched the oncoming riders. Standing in the open scrub desert, they threw Winchesters to their shoulders.

Ironside fired and one of the bandits went down, his rifle spinning away from him. The other man fired, and Shamus's hat flew off his head. Enraged at getting a bullet hole in a new, four-dollar Stetson, Shamus charged directly at the outlaw, his Colt spitting fire. Hit hard, the surviving robber staggered, then rose on tiptoe and fell on his face.

Events crowding in on him faster than his brain could register, Shamus was vaguely aware of hearing a shot behind the stage, and of Ironside chasing a fleeing man across the brush flat.

As the outlaw ran, dust erupted from his pounding boots and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the fast-approaching Ironside and snapped off shots, his arm fully extended.

Finally, realizing he couldn't outrun a horse, the man, a gangly towhead with mean eyes, stopped, tossed away his revolver, and threw up his hands.

But grim old Ironside, a man not much inclined to mercy in the heat of battle, gunned the towhead down right where he stood. He looked around for another enemy, saw none, and trotted back to the stagecoach.

Shamus had dismounted and now, his face troubled, he kneeled beside the shot passenger, who was gasping his last.

Standing over the body of the fourth outlaw was an older, respectable-looking man with iron-gray hair and mustache. His face was ashen and he held a smoking Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun in his hand.

Ironside nodded toward the outlaw and said to the gray-haired man, “You do fer him, mister?”

The stage passenger nodded. In a tight voice he said, “I've never killed a man before.” Then for some reason he felt the need to add, “My name is Oliver Shaw. I am a merchant in Recoil.”

“Don't worry, Shaw, your second dead man will be easier.” Ironside turned his attention to the two frightened women who looked like mother and daughter, and touched his hat. “Ladies. Where are you headed?”

The stage driver answered for them. “Recoil. That is, if we ever get there.”

“You'll get there,” Ironside answered. “Me and my boss are headed to the same place our ownselves.”

“Then God help you,” the driver said. He was a tall, lanky man with sad eyes, as though handling the reins of a stagecoach team made a man downright melancholy.

“Heard you've been having trouble around this neck of the woods.” Ironside nodded in the direction of the dead outlaw. “Was this a part of it?”

The driver shook his head. “Hell, no. That there is Jud Slide, and the ranny you gunned was his brother Clay. T'other two I don't know, but a while back Jud and Clay ran with Billy Bonney and that hard crowd over to Lincoln County way. I reckon they was facing hard times and held up my stage on account of how they was trying to make a few dollars without working for it.”

“Who shot the passenger?” Ironside asked.

“Jud did that, afore the gent over there put a bullet in him.”

“Who was he? The dead passenger, I mean.”

“Him?” the driver asked, as though he was surprised at Ironside's question. “His name was Banjo Ben Barker. He did a blackface song-and-dance act and juggled Indian clubs.”

“Hell, why did Jud gun him?” Ironside asked.

“Didn't like how Ben played the banjo, I guess.”

“The passenger's done for,” Shamus said, stepping beside Ironside's horse. “He was still alive when I got to him, but he died pretty quick. Who was he?”

“A banjo player,” Ironside replied.

“That's a good enough reason as any to get shot,” Shamus said. He looked at the driver. “I didn't get your name.”

“Maybe that's because I didn't put it out. It's Tom Gill.”

“Well, Tom, let's get the dead man in the stage,” Shamus directed.

“What about the rest of them bandits?” Gill said.

“If the law wants 'em, they can come get them. You're responsible only for your passengers, dead or alive.”

“All right, folks, back into the stage, and make room for a dead man,” Gill called.

The older of the two woman, her long, angular face outraged, used her rolled-up parasol like a sword and poked it into the driver's ribs. “Young man, I'm not riding with a corpse, and neither is my daughter.”

“Then you'll have to walk to Recoil alongside the stage, ma'am.” Gill rubbed his chest.

“Indeed we will not walk, you impertinent thing,” the woman snapped. “We paid for our tickets and we'll ride in the stage. And your employers will hear of this.”

“The dead man paid for his ticket too, ma'am.” Gill's remark brought parasol blows raining down on his shoulders. He backed away, his hands up to defend himself from the woman's attack.

Shamus stepped between them, receiving a few parasol smacks himself before he was able to grab the weapon. “I have a solution.”

“You'd better have,” the woman said, her parasol poised over Shamus's head. “My late husband wore the blue and I will not be treated in this way.”

“Well, that's a pity.” Ironside looked at Shamus. “Ain't it, Colonel?”

“What did you say?” the woman demanded, her eyes bright with anger.

“I said it's a pity you're being treated this way,” Ironside lied, “and you the widow of a dead Yankee, an all.”

The woman stared at him, considering that for a few moments, but his face was empty. Finally she said, “I should think it is a pity . . . and an outrage.” She advanced on Gill again, but he backtracked hurriedly away from her.

“I have an answer, Mrs., ah . . . ,” Shamus said.

“My name is Mrs. Edith Ludsthorpe, of the Boston Ludsthorpes, and this is my daughter Chastity.”

Ironside suddenly had a coughing fit and put his hand over his mouth.

Shamus gave him a look. “We'll put the dead man on the roof and that way, dear lady, you won't be made uncomfortable by his presence.”

“And who are you, sir?” Edith Ludsthorpe demanded.

“Colonel Shamus O'Brien of the Dromore O'Briens.” He bowed. “At your service, madam.”

“You have the lineaments of a gentleman, Colonel.” Edith glared at the cringing Tom Gill. “A quality most singularly lacking in this territory, I'll be bound.”

“Indeed, madam.” Shamus tipped his hat. “Now if you and your daughter can enter the stage, we can be on our way.”

“And the deceased gentleman?”

“We'll get him on top of the coach directly, ma'am.”

Edith shook her head. “The very idea,” she huffed as she shepherded the pretty but silent Chastity into her seat.

Recoil lay a couple miles west of Hatchet Gap, surrounded by the Playas Valley, a vast, dry ocean of sand, scrub, cactus, rock, and lava beds. The town seemed to have no reason for being there, as though it had wandered across the Continental Divide from the east and lost its way in that hot, brutal annex of hell. It looked raw and new, a town thrown together from rough-sawn timber and boundless optimism. The settlement's single street was lined on both sides with buildings, some still under construction, but a few of the grander structures boasted false fronts while others were still roofed with canvas.

As Shamus and Ironside escorted the stage into town, its grim burden sprawled on the roof, Shamus saw a couple saloons, stores, and a livery stable and corrals at the far end of the street. Some shacks and a few grander, gingerbread houses, the residences of the town's merchants, lay scattered around the town's center.

A false-fronted, two-story building, the queen of Recoil, sported a painted canvas banner above the door.

 

T
HE
R
EST AND
B
E
T
HANKFUL
H
OTEL

We stock only the finest liquors & cigars

 

The stage, followed by a billowing dust cloud, jolted to a halt outside a narrow shack with a warped roof and rough timber door. But what caught Shamus's eye was the incongruous sight of a polished brass plaque, screwed to the door, that bore the word
SHERIFF
in gold lettering.

After the dust cloud caught up to the stage, sifted over the passengers, and moved on, Tom Gill cupped his gloved hand to his mouth and yelled from the driver's seat, “Hey, Sheriff, we got trouble here.”

The few people who'd braved the afternoon heat of the boardwalk stopped and watched as the lawman's door opened and a tall, slender man with the face of a warrior poet and a star on his vest stepped outside. His eyes went directly to the dead man. “What happened, Tom?”

“Four holdup men jumped us south of the dry lake,” Gill explained. “They done fer Banjo Ben and then one of the passengers and these gents”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“done for them.”

Jim Clitherow's stare flicked at Shamus and Ironside, but showed no sign of recognition. “Any idea who the holdup men were, Tom?”

“Sure I know. Well, I recognized two of them at least, Jud Slide and his brother Clay.”

“And they're dead? All four of them?” Clitherow asked.

“Dead as they're ever gonna be, Sheriff. Like I said, a passenger done for one of them and these gents gunned t'other three, including Jud and Clay.”

The lawman frowned. “I thought the Slide brothers had headed out Missouri way.”

“You thought wrong, Sheriff, and their bodies are lying out in the desert to prove it,” Gill said.

Clitherow nodded. “See to your passengers, Tom.”

He looked around at the growing crowd of gawkers. “One of you men get Elijah Doddle. Tell him I've got work for him.” He waved at Shamus and Ironside, his eyes neither friendly nor hostile. “You two come inside, and I want the passenger who did the shooting.”

Ironside angled a glance at Shamus. “I've had warmer welcomes.”

“Me, too. You sure we got the right Clitherow?”

“You clearly acted in self-defense, Mr. Shaw. I see no need to detain you further.”

Shaw stood before the sheriff, looking worried. “I never killed a man before. I'm not a gunman. I own a dry goods store, for God's sake.”

“You did well, Ollie,” Clitherow said. “No one is blaming you for what happened.”

“But what will Mrs. Shaw think? I can only imagine—”

“I'm sure she'll be proud of you, as we all are in Recoil.”

Shaw looked at Ironside and Shamus sitting in the visitors' chairs in front of the desk, “I had no choice. I mean, no choice at all.”

Ironside nodded. “Happens that way sometimes.”

“It's a hard, hard thing to kill a man.” Shaw shook his head. “Take away his life and his past, present, and future.”

“No, it ain't hard,” Ironside disagreed. “All you do is point your iron at his belly and squeeze the trigger.”

Shaw was aghast. “Have you killed a man like that?”

“Hell, sure I have. But not so many that you'd notice. Call it a baker's dozen.”

Shaw took a step back, his hands trembling. “Oh, Lord help me, I've joined the company of gunmen.”

“You got that right, Shaw.” Ironside smiled. “Now every tinhorn pistolero and wild kid hunting a rep will come lookin' for you. Hell, Shaw, you're the man who shot Jud Slide.”

A look of sheer horror crossed Shaw's face. His eyes wild, he stumbled to the door and fumbled with the handle. “Martha!” he hollered.

Ironside rose lazily and stepped to the door, smiling at Shaw as he opened it. “Call it professional courtesy. One gunman to another.”

Shaw ran outside and his feet pounded on the boardwalk. “Martha!” he shrieked. “Marthaaa . . .”

Ironside closed the door, his face split in a wide, delighted grin. “Sure spooked ol' Silas, didn't I?”

“You certainly did, you old Johnny Reb.” Clitherow said, rose to his feet, and extended his hand. “How are you, Luther?”

“Hell, Jim, so it is you.” Ironside shook the lawman's hand. “I thought fer sure you didn't recognize me.”

“Well, you've changed some, but I recognized you straight off. You're not a man easily forgotten. And come to that, neither are you, Colonel O'Brien.”

Shamus and Clitherow clasped hands. “It's been long years since the war, Jim. We've grown older, but probably no wiser.”

Clitherow nodded. “It's been long for the South, Colonel.”

“Amen to that,” Shamus agreed. “Long and mighty hard.”

“Three old comrades in arms together again. This calls for a drink.” The sheriff produced a bottle and glasses from a drawer in his desk and poured whiskey for his guests.

“If you don't mind me saying so, I see you walk with a limp, Colonel. Is that a souvenir of the war?”

Shamus smiled. “No, Captain Clitherow—”

“Call me Jim, please.”

“Then you'll call me Shamus.”

Clitherow bowed his head. “I am honored.” “The limp is a souvenir all right, but from an Apache war lance. Landed me in a wheelchair for years until a young surgeon operated on me.” Shamus tried his Old Crow and nodded. “Now I can get around just fine.”

“Riding a long distance pains him some,” Ironside put in.

Clitherow smiled. “At our age even riding a short distance pains us some.”

“How come you pretended not to know us when we brought the stage in, Cap'n?” Ironside asked.

The sheriff frowned. “The war's over and we lost, Luther. Please call me Jim.”

“All right, Jim. Same question. How come?”

“I think it would be safer for both of you if you weren't associated with me. At least for the time being.”

“You're talking about the night riders?” Shamus asked.

“Yes. I think I told you in my letter that they shot up the town about two weeks ago and killed a storekeeper named Fred Rawlings, another man who wore the gray.”

“Are they targeting only Confederate veterans?” Shamus questioned.

Clitherow shook his head. “No. Hell, they've killed and robbed miners, travelers, and a few days ago a puncher for the D-Bar Ranch over to the Hachita Valley way was murdered and the cattle he was driving were shot. At least some of those dead men were true-blue Yankees and Republicans.”

“I don't see a motive, Jim,” Shamus said. “There isn't much profit in robbing a tinpan for his poke and a drover for his horse and saddle.”

“And why shoot up Recoil, a one-hoss town in the middle of a wilderness that God started and forgot to finish?” Ironside asked. “Beggin' your pardon, Jim, you being the law here an' all.”

“No offense taken, Luther. I've asked myself that same question a thousand times and still haven't come up with an answer.” Clitherow refilled the glasses. “Some say the riders are skeleton men. They have skulls for faces.”

He read the disbelief on Shamus's face and nodded that he was telling the truth. “That's what they say.”

“Skeletons don't ride horses, men do,” Shamus pointed out. “They're wearing some kind of masks to frighten folks.”

“If that's the case, they're succeeding,” Clitherow said.

“You scared, Jim?” Ironside asked.

“Luther! What kind of question is that to ask a man?” Shamus glared at his segundo.

Clitherow smiled. “I don't mind. To answer your question, Luther, yeah, I'm scared. But not just for myself. I'm scared for the whole damned town.”