A Time to Slaughter (4 page)

After stopping overnight, the snow returned with a vengeance in the morning. Silas Creeds sat his horse on the same ridge he'd sat when he caught his first sight of Dromore. He had two men with him, a couple frontier toughs who'd both killed their man in the past. Mercy Larch was a sure-thing back shooter and petty thief and his partner, Luke Manston, was younger but of the same stripe.

“We do it fast, boys,” Creeds said. “Just in, grab the woman, then out and gone. Understand?”

“This woman, is she pretty?” Manston asked.

“Real pretty,” Creeds replied.

Larch leered. “Big ones?”

“Big enough.”

“Do we get to try her?” Manston wondered.

“Sure, boys, sure,” Creeds said. “Then she tells Mr. Moss and trust me, you'll never screw another woman again.”

Manston spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side of his horse. “You could've said it plain, Creeds. You'd no call to cut up nasty.”

“Tellin' it like it is, boys,” Creeds said bluntly. “Now are you gonna earn your fifty dollars or are we gonna sit here an' chaw the fat all day?”

“We'll see it through, Creeds,” Larch said. “But it's a hard thing to be close to a pretty woman on the trail and not get a piece of tail.”

“Well, that's the way it is,” Creeds said. “Zeb Moss don't like anybody messin' with his women.”

That was a fact well known, and Larch kept silent.

“Right.” Creeds kneed his horse into motion. “Let's get'er done.”

 

 

The thermometer on the Dromore stable door hovered a couple degrees above freezing, but ice laced both banks of the creek that ran close to the house. The day was a somber watercolor in shades of gray and black and only the snow-blurred, red tint of the schoolhouse was visible in the gloom.

Creeds, a muffler tied over his top hat and knotted under his chin, led his men directly to the school door, trusting in the murk to keep them hidden from anyone inside the house. It was unlikely people would venture outdoors too often, but he was prepared to shoot anyone who tried to stop him.

He swung out of the saddle and barged into the schoolroom, Larch and Manston close behind him. Because of the weather, only a handful of students were present, but the men ignored them and went directly for Julia.

The woman backed away from them, opening her mouth to scream. A vicious backhand from Creeds silenced her. Realizing trouble, the students ran quickly out the door.

Creeds watched the kids running away and snarled to one of his men, “Get her damned cloak. I don't want the lady to freeze to death.”

Revealing surprising strength, he draped Julia's unconscious body over his shoulder and walked out into the snow. He draped the woman over the front of his saddle, then mounted up. “Let's get the hell out of here. Those damned brats will play hob.”

The three men galloped north for Santa Fe. Ahead of them lay ten miles of rugged, broken country, the kind of terrain that discourages a posse and aids the hunted.

 

 

Julia Davenport groaned and tried to lift her head. She saw the snowy ground under her streak past at a galloping speed and felt Creeds' hand on her back, holding her down.

“Stay right where you're at, or I'll club you with the butt of my gun.”

The motion of the horse and her uncomfortable position made talking difficult, but the woman said, “Where are you taking me?”

“Hell, you know where,” Creeds said, a grin in his voice. “Zeb is pining for you something awful.”

Julia tried to struggle free of the man, but he kept her pinned down. “I swear, Trixie, I'll bash your brains in if you try that again.”

The woman quieted, but Creeds knew he had a problem. Around him lay a land of pine-covered mountains and dark gorges, all of it under a blanket of snow. This was not long-riding country and his mount would soon tire carrying its extra burden. If they were to reach Santa Fe before dark he needed to get Trixie on a horse, and the sooner the better.

Creeds turned and studied his back trail. He saw only the empty land, the falling snow, and the clouds shrouding the mountain peaks.

He eased up on his horse, slowing to an easy canter and let Larch and Manston get ahead of him. They were muffled to the ears in sheepskins, their heads bent against the keening wind, seeing little, hearing nothing.

He fired twice, his gun hand extended in front of him. The bullets hit the men in the space between their turned-up collars and the bottom of their hats. It was remarkable shooting in less than ideal conditions, but Silas Creeds was no ordinary gunman. Such gun skill came to him as naturally as breathing.

He slipped his boot out of the stirrup, raised his right knee, and pushed Julia off the saddle. The woman fell on her back onto the snow and lay stunned for a moment. Then she scrambled to her feet and tried to run in her high-heeled, lace-up boots and heavy winter dress.

Creeds put a bullet a yard in front of the woman's feet and said, “The next one will be right between your shoulder blades, Trixie.”

Julia froze where she was and Creeds ordered, “Go round up the black and lead it over here. And grab one of them sheepskins. You're going to need it if we don't reach Santa Fe by sundown.”

Stepping around the dead men, their bodies already dusted with snow, Julia grabbed the reins of the black mustang and led it toward Creeds.

“Get a coat, like I told you,” the gunman said.

Julia shook her head. “They're dead. I don't want to touch them,”

Creeds shrugged. “Then freeze.” He motioned with his hand. “Get up on the hoss. Make any fancy moves and I'll kill you.”

“What would Zeb say about that?” Julia scoffed.

“I dunno. I guess I'd have to kill him, too. Now get on the goddamned hoss.”

She picked up her cloak and placed it around her shoulders. As the day grew colder, its thin wool would provide little warmth but she would not take clothes off a dead man.

“Let's ride,” Creeds said. “We've got some hard country to cover.”

Julia heard, but said nothing. Inside she was dying a little death.

A shawled señora, holding a small boy by the hand, pounded on the door of the big house at Dromore.

The butler answered and before the man could speak, the woman said, her eyes frantic, “She's been taken.”

“Who's been taken?”

“Miss Davenport.” The woman looked down at the boy. “Tell him, Ignacio.”

“Three men came and took her away,” the boy said.

The woman crossed herself. “God help her, señor. She's gone.”

“You better come inside,” the butler said. “It's cold out there.”

Left alone in the foyer, the woman looked around her. She'd been in the house before with her vaquero husband, but the marble floors, oak paneled walls, and grand staircase never ceased to amaze her.

She recognized the men who burst out of the study and stepped quickly toward her. Mr. Samuel, tall and handsome, and Mr. Shawn, handsomer still, with his yellow hair and piercing blue eyes.

“What happened, señora?” Mr. Shawn asked.

“Ignacio was in school and—” Uncertain of her English, she broke off and looked at her son. “Tell Mr. Shawn, Ignacio.”

“Three men took her away. They came into school and grabbed Miss Julia and took her away.”

Shawn kneeled beside him and took Ignacio's cold hand. “What did they look like?”

“Two men wore big coats, sheepskin coats like
mi papá
. One had a long black coat and a hat”—the boy raised his hand above his head—“this high.”

“Silas Creeds,” Shawn said, rising. “He's taking Julia back to Santa Fe and Zeb Moss.”

Samuel glanced out a window near the door. “It's blowing up a blizzard out there and he won't get far. We'll saddle up come first light.”

“No, Samuel, I'm doing this alone,” Shawn said. “I feel I was responsible for Julia's safety and I should've realized this might happen. I'm going by myself.”

“The hell you are,” Samuel said. “You could freeze to death out there.”

“We could all freeze to death out there.” Shawn's eyes met his brother's. “I've got it to do, Sam.”

“We'll see what the colonel has to say.”

“No, don't tell Pa. Don't tell anybody until I've gone.” Shawn stepped quickly to the stairs and as he mounted the steps two at a time threw over his shoulder, “Rustle me up some grub, Sam. And don't forget the coffeepot.”

“But Shawn—”

“Do like I say. And do it quietly.”

 

 

The snow had whitewashed the land and there was no trail for Shawn O'Brien to follow. But he doggedly headed northwest, figuring he was following the same path as Silas Creeds.

An hour later, Shawn was still well south of Sun Mountain and the light was changing. The sun had long since given up the struggle and by late afternoon the darkness began to crowd close. The north wind iced the snow on the front of his sheepskin, and above the muffler around his throat and mouth, his cheeks were red and raw. Juniper and pine stood on the high country slopes like white-haired old men who had wandered into the area and lost their way in the cloud mist.

Shawn looped around a meadow, wary of open country, then swung north again along an eyebrow of game trail through the trees. His eyes scanned ahead of him, watering in the cold, as he tried to envision Creeds' every step. Was the gunman just ahead of him, watching him with his finger on the trigger?

The windswept emptiness before him gave the lie to that question. Creeds was either in Santa Fe already or he'd gone to ground for the night.

Shawn wondered how Julia was holding up. Not well, he imagined. This high country cold could be hell on a woman.

He bitterly berated himself for leaving her alone. He should've known a man like Creeds would not give up so easily. There was no one to blame but himself, Shawn decided. But beating his breast and whining mea culpa would not help anybody, especially Julia.

With his head bent to the wind and snow, he rode on, a tiring horse under him and the pitch-black night looming ahead of him.

 

 

The two mounds of snow were not a natural phenomenon of wind and weather. Nor was the paint mare standing off a ways, its saddle slung under its belly.

Shawn O'Brien dismounted and with his gloved hand scraped snow off one of the mounds. He uncovered the toes of a pair of boots, then moved to the other end of the mound, where he cleared snow off a man's face. The features were blue, and black shadows showed under the eyes and in hollows of the bearded cheeks. The frozen eyes were wide open. After doing the same to the other body, Shawn stood. Both men had been shot neatly in the back of the neck and one of their horses had been taken.

This was Silas Creeds' work. He'd needed a horse for Julia and had casually murdered two men to get it.

Snow swirling around him, Shawn stepped to the paint, uncinched the saddle, and let it fall to the ground. He removed the horse's bit and bridle, then patted the animal on the neck. “You're on your own, girl. Good luck to you.”

The paint shook its head, then trotted south.

“As good a direction as any, hoss,” Shawn said.

The bodies lay in a narrow clearing and shadows were already gathering among the pines. Shawn glanced at a sky as black as coal, here and there streaked with narrow bands of pale gray. There was no letup in the snow, and the icy wind tugged at him and snatched away his breath.

Reluctantly, Shawn decided he needed to find shelter. A man exposed to the elements overnight could freeze to death without even knowing it.

He swung into the saddle again and continued north along the game trail. After fifteen minutes, frozen to the marrow of his bones, he beheld a joyful sight, a ruined, burned-out log cabin just a hundred yards off the trail. Only two walls still stood, forming a right angle, but a huge cottonwood overhung the corner and promised a roof of sorts.

When Shawn investigated, he found that only a dusting of snow had fallen into the corner. A narrow stream was nearby, sheeted with thin ice but still flowing freely underneath.

He unsaddled his horse and led it to an area under the trees where the snow was thin. The horse was mountain bred and knew how to fend for itself and was already grazing on thin grass as Shawn walked back to the cabin.

Working quickly, he gathered up some dry, charred wood, built a hatful of fire in the corner, and put the coffeepot on to boil. He inspected his grub sack and discovered that Samuel had packed a small loaf of sourdough bread and a couple of thick slices of roast beef. He'd also wrapped three cigars in grease paper and dropped those inside.

Shawn nodded. All in all, Sam had done just fine.

At first light Shawn took to the trail again, riding north into wind, snow, and cold, roofed by clouds that looked like sheets of curled lead. Santa Fe was just five miles ahead of him and he needed an excellent plan.

The trouble was, he did not have one.