The Killing Season (15 page)

Tom Horrell laughed. “I wish we'd of gone with 'em. I'd of liked to see old Estrella's face when he learned five of his border hellions was salted down in one fight. He played up them varmints like they're so tough they wear out their britches from the inside.”

“You're almighty quiet, William,” said Ben. “Cat got your tongue?”

“By God,” Clint Barkley said, “if I was a Horrell, after tonight, I'd change my name. I don't like New Mexico, I don't like sheep, I don't like Mexes, and I especially don't like Horrells.”

“Mount up, William,” said Ben. “Time we ride back to the sheep camp, it'll be first light, and you can listen to old Armijo cuss in Spanish. Then we'll have a big bowl of good old mutton stew for breakfast.”

 

The McLean riders who had been wounded groaned as they tugged on their boots, and there was nothing said as they made their way to the dining hall for breakfast. Squid had the coffee ready and there was the tempting odor of frying ham and baking biscuits. There was a grin or two from the cowboys when Cotton Blossom poked his nose into the dining room from the kitchen, since he had wasted no time making friends with the Mexican cook. Colton McLean came in, looking none the worse for the long night. Squid handed him a tin cup of steaming coffee and the rancher took a seat at one of the tables. He eyed the men as though he knew there had been words among them, but he found himself unable to get to Nathan Stone. Here was a man, he decided, who had played some poker in his time and had been damn good at it. Finally he spoke.

“Those of you who didn't pick up any lead last night are elected to dig a grave for Sandy. Right after breakfast, before it gets too hot. Any of you too stove up to ride?”

Nobody spoke, and McLean continued.

“Comin' out on the short end of that shootout last night, I look for Estrella to try and get even, but not by attacking the herd. We'll graze 'em as close in as we can and avoid losing any more riders in ambush situations because of the herd.”

“Hell,” said Vance, “they'll scatter the herd from here to yonder.”

“Maybe,” McLean said, “but I want every one of you to keep this in mind. We're dealing with bushwhackers, and attacks on the cattle are a means of luring some of you within rifle range. They'll use the cattle to trap you, to keep you always on the defensive. Wars are never won that way. You must choose your own ground. We'll fight, but we'll do it on our terms, not theirs.”

“I like that,” Gus said.

“It's the way wars are won,” said Nathan. “Keep your enemy on the defensive.”

“That's what we done last night,” Will added. “We forced 'em to fight on our terms.”

While Vance said nothing, he clearly didn't like the favorable manner in which Nathan Stone was being accepted, nor did he like McLean's reluctance to take the fight directly to Armijo Estrella's sheep camp. Nathan Stone didn't walk on water, and eventually he would draw a bad hand....

Following the gunfight in Lincoln in which Sandy Bigler had been killed, McLean split the outfit insofar as trips to town were concerned. Four of the riders were allowed to go on Saturday night, while the remaining five rode in on Sunday night. No longer did they enter or leave saloons by the front door, and they stayed together in twos or threes, when entering or leaving any establishment. Nathan, Gus, Will, and Quad were in town, and after supper, they headed for the Rio Saloon. As had become their custom, they entered through the back door, Nathan in the lead. Suddenly he froze, for Ben and Martin Horrell stood at the bar. The Horrells turned, their hands hovering over the butts of their Colts, and there was no mistaking the recognition in their eyes.

“One move out of either of you,” said Nathan, “and you're dead.”

“So you're the bullypuss that's sidin' McLean's cow nurses,” Ben said.

“I'm tempted to call you Horrells skunk-striped, backshootin' sheepmen,” said Nathan, “but that's too good for you. An egg-sucking dog would shy away from you lowdown varmints.”

“You ain't proddin' us into drawin' agin you, Stone,” Martin Horrell said. “We heard you're a man-killer. We'll choose our time.”

“I'll be careful not to turn my back on you,” said Nathan.

The Horrells sidled toward the door, careful to keep their hands clear of their guns. When they had gone, Nathan's companions looked at him with new respect.

“I reckon you know them varmints from somewhere,” Quad said.

“Texas,” said Nathan. “An outlaw relation of theirs back-shot a good friend of mine.”

“I'd not be surprised if that outlaw relation follered them here,” Gus observed wryly.

“I'm hoping he has,” said Nathan, “but he's not a Horrell. His handle's Clint Barkley or Bill Bowen. But I'll know the no-account coyote when I see him.”

“All these sidewinders goes by the name of Horrell,” Will said. “There's the two that just slunk out of here—Ben and Martin—and the others is Samuel, Thomas, and William.”

“William? I never heard of him,” said Nathan. “He could be Barkley.”

“They look related,” Gus said. “Like they was all cut out of the same cloth.”

Nathan said no more. In a way, he was glad the Horrells hadn't had the sand to draw, for McLean had cautioned them against further gunplay in town. Nathan well understood the rancher's reasoning. With just half the outfit in town, they were subject to attack by the entire bunch of Estrella riders, with no hope of assistance from Sheriff Bowie Hatcher. That, and McLean still sought to shift the blame for the continued violence on the troublesome Spaniard, Armijo Estrella. Nathan and his companions returned to the ranch without any shooting, but on Sunday night, all hell busted loose, and it started when Vance failed to obey Colton McLean's orders.

 

Hugh, Vance, Riley, Joel, and Tobe headed for town. It was Sunday afternoon and the sky was awash with big gray thunderheads.

“Come on,” Vance said, kicking his horse into a fast gallop. “Let's get there ahead of the rain.”

Reining up in front of the cafe, they dismounted and barely reached the porch before the storm broke. Ordering supper, they weren't quite finished when the Horrells—Martin, Benjamin, Samuel, and Thomas—walked in and took a table.

“Well, by God,” Vance said loudly, “there's enough sheep stink in here to gag a flock of buzzards.”

“Vance,” said Hugh quietly, “shut up.”

“You ain't my daddy,” Vance growled. “There's four of us and four of them. Ain't you man enough to shear at least one of the woolly varmints?”

The Horrells seemed not to hear, and to the relief of Vance's companions, they were able to leave the cafe without a fight.

“Damn you, Vance,” said Tobe, “the old man told us not to start anything. Shoot off your mouth one more time, and I'm ridin' back to the ranch.”

“I'll go with you,” Riley said.

“So will I,” said Joel. “It's like McLean said, we don't know that the whole damn lot of Estrella's gun-throwers ain't holed up here somewhere.”

“Hell,” Vance said, “you saw what's here.”

“We saw what was in the cafe,” said Riley. “Even a gun-slick Mejicano's got pride.”

Lincoln being a small town, there was little to do when a man grew tired of the four or five saloons. The Rainbow Dance Hall offered some variety, for there were women. The place also had a bar and several billiard tables, and the McLean cowboys were there when the Horrells arrived.

“Damn,” Vance said, “them sheep-stink Horrells is here.”

There was uneasy laughter that died quickly, and Vance's companions silenced him with murderous looks. The Horrells made their way to the bar, apparently ignoring the five McLean riders. Joel and Tobe, with intentions of keeping Vance away from the bar, led the way to a billiard table that wasn't in use. Riley racked the balls, and that seemed to have defused what might have become an explosive situation, but it wasn't over. The very first time Vance leaned across the billiard table for a long shot, a hard-flung empty bottle struck him in the back of the head. After that, it was Katy-bar-the-door, as the remaining McLean riders entered the fray. Billiard balls bounced off heads, shattered lamp globes, and toppled pyramids of bottled whiskey behind the bar. The McLean riders, swinging billiard cues, were advancing to meet the Horrells when the roar of a shotgun stopped every man in his tracks.

“The next load of buckshot goes right in amongst you varmints,” shouted the little man standing on the bar. “You ain't bustin' up my place. I don't care a damn if you kill one another, but do it outside. Now git!”

Being nearest the door, the Horrells left first. The McLean riders, as had become their habit, left by the back door. Hugh stepped out first, and a shot from the comer of the building ripped into his thigh.

“Them damn Horrells!” Vance shouted. Drawing his Colt, he lit out in a run toward the position from which the shot had come. But the Horrells were not the problem. From across the street, four Winchesters cut loose, and Vance died on his feet. Hugh, Riley, Joel, and Tobe scrambled back into the dance hall, slamming the door shut behind them. The deadly fire continued, lead tearing into the door and log walls.

“Them damn Horrells set us up,” Hugh cried.

“And Vance walked right into it,” said Riley. “The varmints can keep us hunkerin' in here the rest of the night.”

“That's what you think,” the barkeep said, shotgun under his arm. “I want the lot of you out of here, and by God, don't come back.”

“Mister,” Tobe said, “I'd rather face one shotgun in here than four Winchesters out there. We're stayin' right here until it's safe to leave.”

The remaining dance hall patrons had gathered around, and by the time Sheriff Bowie Hatcher arrived, he had to elbow his way through.

“Can't you damn fools spend one night in town without tryin' to kill one another?”

“It wasn't us that done the killin', Sheriff,” Riley said. “Vance is lyin' outside, gunned down in another ambush by them damn sheepmen. What are you aimin' to do about it?”

“I've telegraphed Santa Fe for a U.S. marshal,” said Hatcher. “Hell, I ain't standin' in the middle with killers on both sides.”

“You're a county sheriff,” Joel said, “and this is Lincoln County.”

“A county sheriff ain't responsible for a range war, with killers bein' brought in from everywhere,” said Hatcher.

“Sheriff,” said the barkeep, “I want this bunch out of here.”

“Bushwhackers don't stick around after the first volley,” Hatcher said. “I'll side you until you get your horses and load up the dead man.”

Taking only enough time for the doctor to see to Hugh's wound, the four McLean riders left town. There was no moon and the rain had ceased, leaving only a cool breeze from the northwest. Nobody spoke, for there was nothing to say. It was still early enough to arouse McLean's suspicions, so when they rode in, he would know something was bad wrong. They had to ride past the ranch house to reach the bunkhouse, so none of them were surprised to find McLean waiting on the porch. Even in the dim starlight, the grim burden roped across a saddle told its own story. The four riders reined up.

“Talk,” McLean said.

They did, taking turns, telling it true. McLean sighed.

“Damn it,” said the rancher, “I've bent just about as far as I aim to. Tote Vance into the parlor. We'll bury him, come first light, and after breakfast we'll talk.”

There was more talking to be done when the four riders reached the bunkhouse. Gus, Will, Quad, and Nathan listened in silence to a repeat of what McLean had just heard.

“Vance disobeyed the old man's orders,” Gus said, “and I reckon he asked for what he got, but we can't let this go. If McLean don't fight back, I'll take my roll and drift.”

“I kinda feel the same way,” said Riley, “but how do we fight back? We take to bushwhacking on our own, we're no better than the yellow-bellied coyotes that's squattin' over yonder in Estrella's sheep camp.”

“This is one of them porcupine problems,” Hugh said. “You just don't know where to take hold of the joker. What do you think, Stone?”

“I think I'll keep my opinions private until McLean has his say,” said Nathan, “but I'm not of a mind to take this without some retaliation.”

It was enough to draw them together, to meet McLean's argument with one of their own, if McLean's proved less than satisfactory.