And Kill Them All (8 page)

“Yeah. Heard tell as how some of them old forty-niners laid over in that spot on their way to the West Coast back during the gold rush days. Can't say as I blame them much. Fine site for tired folks to take their ease. Rest up on the difficult way to wherever they might be headed. Location has pretty much everything going for it—shade, grass, water. Nice, real nice.”

Those words had barely passed my lips when another round of faint popping echoed down the river, ricocheted off the surface of the glass-still water, and, without welcome, bounced onto the doorstep right at our feet. The rapid burst of gunfire tickled the edges of our pricked ears. A tingling sensation crawled up my spine like a Mexican scorpion on the prowl for something it could sting to death.

I squinted and said, “Who you reckon would be doin' that much shootin' this time of the mornin', Boz? Sun's only just now gettin' up good. Got nothin' more'n a fingernail-sized sliver of moon for real light right now. Could barely see my hand in front of my own face not more'n ten minutes ago.”

I took a single step out onto the rough-and-ready veranda and cast a squint-eyed gaze along that part of the shimmering river I could see. “Be full light soon enough, I guess. Another half an hour, forty-five minutes maybe.”

“Uh-huh,” Boz grunted. “Still and all, ain't much of a time for folks to be out huntin'. Lest them as are doing all that shooting have a pack of dogs along to scare up some game. Doubt that.”

“How so?”

“ 'Cause if'n they had dogs, bet ole Bear, here, would be barking and hopping around like he was on fire. Tell you what, whoever them noisy boys are, they've gotta be damned site better shots than either one of us—if they can hunt in the dark, that is.”

I mumbled, “Beats all I've heard in a while.” Then, with considerably more force and vigor, I added, “Well, suppose we'd best get ourselves together, arm up, and go see about it. Bothers the hell out of me that people are shooting up the property. That they woke me up. And here I am a standin' in the door, in my drawers, and don't have the least idea as to who they are or why they're doing it.”

Ever the philosopher, Boz said, “As you are well aware, Lucius Dodge, I don't care for such blatantly mischievous and dangerous behavior myself. Never have condoned the thoughtless deeds of arrogant, unthinking bastards as would roust me out of a night of much-needed, rejuvenating slumber by firing off their pistols in such an unthinking and promiscuous manner.”

Shook my head and grinned in spite of myself. “Jesus, Boz. I'd ask you to repeat all that, but I know you couldn't do it on a bet.”

Tatum chuckled and slapped his leg without thinking, then grimaced and sucked in a quick, hissing breath.

“Well, guess maybe you'd best amble on back down to the corral and saddle us a couple of them bangtails, Boz. I'll ride Grizz—if he'll let you get close enough to catch him.”

“Oh, I'll catch him all right.”

“While you're doing that, I'll roust Paco out of the sack. Have him cook us up a pot of coffee thick enough to float a Colt's pistol and load us up a sack for traveling.”

“He ain't gonna like gettin' woke up this early.”

“Probably not. But, time we get ourselves dressed and armed he should have coffee cooked. Drink a cup before we set out.”

Boz rubbed his neck. “Have him throw some of the biscuits and ham from last night into a saddlebag, too. Figure by the time we get situated, should have decent enough light to travel. Head on up to Turkey Mesa. See if we can figure out what in the blue-eyed hell's going on, and why we weren't invited to the dance.”

“That'll work.”

“Oh, you want me to wake Glorious, Lucius? Might need him and that big ole shotgun of his. 'Specially if we run into anything like real trouble. Besides, he knows the area a hell of a lot better than either of us.”

Our friend Glorious Johnson had come down from Fort Worth on his own when he heard the news that the pair of us had got ourselves shot in Rio Seco. Man had turned out a godsend. Took on plenty of work around the place that we still had a spot of trouble doing.

“Might as well. Figure the more folks we have along for the ride the better. From the sound of all that gunfire, sure as hell seems to be a sight more than one or two of them doing the shooting—whoever they are.”

Boz was on his feet before I could say anything else. He hobbled down the sloped, grassless hill toward the corral, like a man walking a ship's deck on choppy seas.

I trundled my way to the back side of the dog-run house's rough, open porch. A covered deck separated the raw, divided structure's kitchen from my sleeping quarters and personal digs. The shaded portion of the open porch also served as a makeshift dining area—weather permitting.

Bear, all happy with the excitement and movement, let out a throaty snort and wagged his thick, bur-infested tail. He shot from his preferred perch on the steps and headed down the hill behind Boz.

Second or so later I could hear my friend calling to the dog, then yelling for Glorious Johnson to hoist himself the hell out of the sack and get himself on the move. And that we had a situation to look into. That's the way Boz described all the shooting and commotion of the morning, “. . . a situation.” Little could he have known just how grotesque, bloody, or god-awful that situation would prove.

7

“SOMETHIN' REAL BAD'S A-WAITIN' FOR US . . .”

HAD TO CALL the Messican's name three times before a bleary-eyed Paco Matehuala stumbled from the shelter of the lean-to shed tacked to the kitchen's board-and-batten back wall. Never one to complain because his newly acquired gringo
jefes
kept odd hours, our sleepy-eyed, muddle-headed cook wobbled up the back steps and onto the central part of the porch. He pulled a coarse, cotton shirt over splayed hair, then, without comment or protest, staggered toward his soon-to-be-stifling kitchen.

According to my big-ticking Ingersoll pocket watch, a bit more than half an hour had flown by when Boz ambled back up from the corral. He led a pair of saddled, drooping hay burners. Bear and a yawning Glorious Johnson followed.

I snapped the turnip-sized watch's silver-washed cover closed, shoved it into my vest pocket, and watched as Paco stood on the veranda's steps and poured Tatum and Johnson a steaming cup of Arbuckles aromatic Ariosa coffee, then retreated back to his oppressive workplace.

Cup of black, tonsil-searing, up-and-at-'em juice in hand, Glorious Johnson lurched, as though still not quite awake. He groped his unsteady way around a fine bay gelding, laid a long-barreled Greener across the saddle, then, finally, focused the totality of his waking concentration on the smoldering mug.

“Damn, that's good stuff,” Boz said, after his first nibble at the cup.

Johnson sipped in silence. He dipped his close-cropped, ebony head in agreement, but still said nothing and made no sound.

Fully furnished out in high-waisted pants, shotgun chaps, riding boots, spurs with Mexican rowels, and a Texas-crimped, palm-leaf sombrero the size of a wagon wheel, I hopped off the porch and jingled over to the blue roan. One-handed, I stuffed a sack of grub Paco had prepared for us into the leather bags tied behind Grizz's well-used California-style saddle.

I leaned against the ever-patient animal's muscular rump and went back to work on my own beaker of belly wash. The Messican's coffee did taste mighty good. Got to thinking as how if the day went bad Paco's stump juice might well prove the best part of our unscheduled morning.

“Tell you true, Boz,” I said, after sucking down near half the contents of my cup, “this here Arbuckles sure beats the hell out of cooking parched grain, way we've often had to do during a goodly number of our other days as rangers. Beats the hell out of that stuff we used to get from down in Mexico, too
.
Suppose we ought to stroll on down to Del Rio soon as we have a chance. Buy ourselves another five or ten pounds of these beans. Mighty tasty.”

Glorious Johnson grunted, as though still half asleep, then wordlessly went back to chewing at his still-steaming cup.

Almost to myself, since I'd got no response to my thoughtful observations, I added,
“
Paco says we're starting to run low on the wonderful stuff. Another two weeks or so, we'll be slap out.” Pointing at Boz's mount with my near-empty beaker, I added, “You bring that cut-down coach gun of yours along?”

“Hell, yes, I brung it,” my friend said, as he fussed over the buckle on one leg of his chaps.

Except for a flashy, bloodred, bib-front shirt, Boz's outfit could have easily passed for a close match of mine. “She's loaded up with heavy-gauge buckshot and ready for action. Put one of the Winchesters in your saddle scabbard, Lucius. Figured between my coach gun, your big ole rifle, Glo's Greener, and all this iron we're packing around our waists, oughta be way more'n prepared for just about any set of circumstances we might happen on. 'Course, if none of that works out, and we should all get kilt deader'n hell in a preacher's front parlor, could always use our weapon-laden corpses for boat anchors.”

A grin played across my coffee-dampened lips. “Still referring to that amputated popper of yours as Hortence, I suppose?”

Tatum and Johnson both flashed toothy grins at the shared joke. Boz shook his head. “Naw. Naw. Not anymore.”

“Oh. And why not?”

“Well, got to figurin' ...”

Glorious Johnson chuckled, then said, “Now there's a bad sign, if'n I ever heered tell of one. Ole Boz Tatum gets to figurin' and chickens is prone to stop laying. Both of 'em bad signs.”

Feigning mild irritation, Boz said, “As I was tryin' to say before bein' so rudely interrupted, got to figurin' as how a woman as wicked as Hortence Smeal don't deserve to have a damned fine English-made shooter like this 'un of mine named after her. Done took to callin' this here first-rate weapon Ezmerelda, these days. After Ezmerelda Wingfield, you see.”

I let a twisted grimace creak across my face. “That one-eyed, wooden-legged witch from Fort Stockton? One who's rumored to carry an Arkansas toothpick strapped to her fake leg.”

“You betcha. But you've got 'er all wrong, Lucius. Ezmerelda's a fine ole gal. Somewhat amputated like that 'ere Greener of mine. Yessir, she's a mighty fine piece of womanhood. Tougher'n a boiled boot heel I'll admit, but fine stuff nonetheless. Why, just thinkin' 'bout Ezmerelda, lack of genuine leg and all, gives me a case of the walkin' willies. Yessiree. You pack that gal into a split-front, leather ridin' skirt, and she's got a caboose on her that's so tight you could bounce buckshot pellets off'n it.”

Glorious Johnson shook his head, cast rolling eyes heavenward, and mumbled, “Lord, Lord.”

“Trust me now. Ole gal's one hell of a fine ride, fellers. An evenin' in her bed is close on to the same as passin' time in one of them hundred-dollar, handmade rockin' chairs from back East. Gal likes to laugh whilst she's doin' her business. Cackles like a thing possessed at times. As you are both well aware, I've always liked a laughin' woman. Yessir, surely have. 'Sides, that stumpy leg of hers sends shivers up and down my spine every time I think about it.”

Glo appeared to have finally come fully awake. Never one to waste time with discussions of one-legged wayward women, he lowered his cup and said, “You gennamans done spent way too many years chasin' iniquitous white folk, bloodthirsty Injuns, and thieving Messicans. Swear to Jesus, you're the only two fellers I ever knowed what wore a Colt's hip pistol, a cross-draw gun, and a third shooter nestled agin' yore backs. And here you are, all armed up and standin' around talkin' 'bout one-legged whores whilst there's all kinds of promiscuous shootin' goin' on within hearin' distance not five miles up the river.”

Boz chuckled. “Well, as usual, Glorious is absolutely right. We do have more important fish to fry right now, I suppose. No point standin' around jawin' 'bout the dirty-legged women I keep company with on occassion. Or them as don't have a particular leg for that matter.” He paused a second, then sliced a saucy grin Johnson's direction. “Did I just hear you say ‘promiscuous shootin',' Glo? Now where'n hell did you happen across a two-dollar word like ‘promiscuous'?”

Johnson tossed the remains of his cup aside, then gazed into the distance as though distracted. “Don't matter, Mistuh Tatum. Don't matter where I done heard the word. They's an evil wind blowin'. Can feel it in my bones. Evil, evil wind.”

“Evil. I heard you.”

“Got this here feelin', you know. A twistin' in my guts. Somethin' real bad's a-waitin' for us out there, I'd wager. Yessir, somethin' real bad.”

Gritted my teeth, for I knew when Glorious “got the feelin,” a reasonable body had best pay attention. Pulled one of the three hand cannons hanging from my waist. Flipped the loading gate open and checked all the rounds. Slapped the gate closed and snugged the pistol down inside a well-aged, oiled holster looped over a broad, double-row, military-issue cartridge belt. Then I made a show of singlemindedly examining all my other weapons as well.

Me and Boz both supplemented our three handguns with a bone-handled bowie knife that sported a heavy, ten-inch, razor-sharp blade. This nigh-on foot-long piece of Damascus steel hanging from my belt was honed to the point of being fully capable of lopping a man's hand off with the expenditure of a minimal amount of effort.

As Boz once said, when in one of his more philosophical moods, “Always better to have some kind of weapon and not need one than to need some kind of weapon and not have one. An extra two or three is even better still. 'Sides, I'm pert sure most of the badmen out there are a damn sight more afraid of gettin' gutted once than bein' shot multiple times with all three of these pistols I carry put together. Just ain't nothin' as gets a man's attention quicker'n havin' to hold his guts in with his own hands.”