William W. Johnstone (18 page)
Read William W. Johnstone Online
Authors: Savage Texas
“I came down from the north and struck Mace’s Ford. What I didn’t know was that that was where the outlaws jumped the gun wagon. Ordinarily the convoy would have crossed Flatbridge and gone straight through Hangtown west along the trail into the Breaks. But the bridge was out, forcing the gun wagon to detour north to cross Swift Creek at Mace’s Ford. That’s where bushwhackers massacred the escort and stole the wagon.
“They left behind some men to muddy the trail and erase their tracks. They loaded the dead guards on a flatbed wagon to take them and dump them in the hills. That’s when I rode in. We had a slight disagreement,” Sam said, smiling wryly.
“The horses harnessed to the flatbed wagon went wild and ran away during the shoot-out. I came out ahead, but not before catching a bullet in the left shoulder. Lost a lot of blood. I was lucky—a local rancher found me unconscious and took me in and patched me up.” Sam saw no need to go into detail here about his dealings at Rancho Grande.
“I lost a couple of days, though. Just got into Hangtown today. Since I got here I managed to do some snooping that might pay off,” he said. “So there’s your answer, captain. The bodies on the flatbed wagon, the ones you dug up, were the gun shipment guards.”
“I suspected as much,” Harrison said. “I knew it for sure when I found Lieutenant Greer among the dead. He’d been out to the fort several times before, running messages from Fort Wolters. A bit stiff-necked, but he would have made a good officer once the shine on that military academy brass wore off.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said.
“They were all good men.”
After a pause, Sam went on. “The others, the ones in the second mass grave, are the outlaws I killed at the ford. But the main gang got away with the guns. My guess is that they’re the same bunch that hit Midvale.”
Harrison nodded thoughtfully. “You don’t seem surprised, Captain,” Sam said.
“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” Harrison said. “I was at Midvale. It didn’t look like an Indian raid. It looked like the work of white men. Some but not all of the dead were burned up in the fire. Those I was able to examine had all been shot. Nothing much in that by itself. The Comanches stopped using arrows a long time ago. Not when they can get guns—and there’s plenty of renegades to sell firearms to them.
“The Midvale dead were shot, not once, but many times. Indians are sparing with bullets and powder because they’re never sure of where the next batch will come from. One shot from them is usually fatal.
“None of the dead had been scalped. That didn’t look right, either. A Comanche war party letting all those trophies go to waste? Not likely,” Harrison said. “Unfortunately, it rained after Midvale was sacked, wiping out the raiders’ trail. We wasted a lot of time scouting around trying to pick up their tracks. While we were on a wildgoose chase, the gun wagon was hit.”
“Seems more than a coincidence, Midvale coming right before a big arms shipment,” Sam said. “The raid decoyed away troops who might otherwise have helped protect the guns.”
“That’s how it worked out,” Harrison agreed. “We would have sent a detachment to meet the gun wagon at Hangtown and escort it to Fort Pardee. Then came Midvale. Instead we sent out patrols all over the map. Some to Midvale to track the raiders and run them down. Others went north, east and west to head off the war party if it went in any of those directions, to protect the towns, ranches and settlers in those areas.”
“Flatbridge was part of the plan, too,” Sam said. “The arms shipment would have crossed the Swift and come through town. But the bridge was out, destroyed. That forced the gun wagon to detour north to Mace’s Ford, where the ambushers were waiting for them.”
Harrison tossed his cigar stub to the ground and angrily ground it out underfoot. “You realize what this means,” he said. “An outlaw gang operating on a military-like basis, with planning, organization and numbers.”
“Why not? The West is full of ex-soldiers, Yanks and Rebs alike.”
“The question is, who’s the brains behind it? The leader?”
“I think I know.”
“Well? Who is it?” Harrison demanded. “Damn it, man, don’t keep me hanging!”
“Brock Harper,” Sam said.
“Harper!” Harrison’s eyes widened, then narrowed, calculating, thoughtful. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s vicious enough,” the captain said. “But the last I heard, Harper was in Mexico with a band of mercenaries, selling their guns to Emperor Maximilian.”
Sam shook his head. “He pulled out a couple of months ago, after a failed effort to steal Maximilian’s treasury from a bank vault guarded by crack French troops. He and what was left of his bunch ran north for their lives.”
Harrison was doubtful. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, I throw a wide loop, Captain. I’ve got a lot of contacts to draw on,” Sam said, smiling.
“What ties Harper into Midvale and the gun-wagon job?”
“I had a few suspected persons but no real leads as to the identity of the hidden hand behind the marauders. Not until tonight, a few hours ago, when a young fast gun named Johnny Cross laid out Killer Kimbro on the floor of the Golden Spur saloon.”
“What of it?”
“Harper’s a suspicious bird and trusts few men. But Kimbro’s been with him for years as his lieutenant. Kimbro in Hangtown means that Harper can’t be very far away,” Sam said. “There’s plenty of nervy, ruthless bandit chiefs but few have a mind like Harper’s. He’s a brute, but don’t let that fool you. He’s a cunning devil, a thinker and a planner. He’s absolutely unhindered by any shred of conventional morality. Human life means no more to him than an insect’s. Less, if it gets between him and something he wants.
“My sources said he was back in the States, but I didn’t know where, or what he was up to. I do now. He and his outfit must be laid up in the Breaks, probably less than a day’s ride outside of town.”
Harrison took off his hat, rubbed the top of his head, and put his hat back on. “The Breaks covers a lot of ground. Hard country. An army could spend a fortnight combing it and still not find what it’s looking for. Fort Pardee has hundreds of square miles of territory to protect and at most about 150 cavalry troops it can put in the field at any one time.”
“This is your bailiwick, Captain. I’ve no intention of interfering,” Sam said. He was being diplomatic. His commission gave him the authority to intervene if he thought it necessary, but he preferred to operate quietly behind the scenes if possible. “I don’t want to tread on anyone’s corns, but I have a suggestion or two, if you’re interested.”
“I’m open to good ideas from any and all quarters,” Harrison said. “Fire away.”
“The folk of Hangtree County you’re assigned to protect have only slightly less use for Brock Harper and his bunch than they do for the United States Army.”
“No argument there.”
“On the other hand, they don’t want to be murdered in their beds by a pack of murdering outlaws, either. Most of the menfolk were in the Confederate army. They’re used to bandits and Indian war parties. They’re trailwise, tough, and dead shots. Why not get them on your side, Captain?”
“That’d be a neat trick. But I’m a cavalry commander, not a magician.”
“You’ve got something that beats anything in a conjuror’s bag of tricks: gold,” said Sam.
Harrison’s laugh was bitter. “That’s a joke. You know what a soldier’s pay is like. A highbinder like Hutto—or for that matter, Harper—has more cash on hand than all the soldiers in Fort Pardee combined.”
“I’m talking about officially, Captain. Even the tightfisted politicians in Washington will open up their pocketbooks in a case like this. An army weapons shipment attacked by outlaws, its men killed and munitions plundered—why, man, they’ll call it insurrection and pay plenty to find and punish those who did it!”
“Possibly,” Harrison said. “But I have neither the authority nor the resources to post a reward.”
“I do,” Sam said. “I carry a presidential warrant directing all federal civilian and military authorities to render whatever assistance I require. Including financial. Send a wire or courier to the commanding general, Western District, stating that one Paul Pry requires the funds and they’ll be made available in quicktime.”
Harrison stared at him. “You can do that?”
“That’s why I’m here, Captain,” said Sam. “I sure didn’t come to Hangtown for my health,” he added.
Harrison’s fingers stroked his chin. “If word gets out about the stolen guns, it could start a panic.”
“It’ll get out in any case. This way, you make it work for you. Besides, these Texans don’t scare easy.”
“I’m not worried about them, I meant a panic in Washington.”
“That’ll help get the job done, too. Post a fat reward on the marauders who wiped out Midvale, and every man and boy in the county who can strap on a gun will be out in the Breaks looking for raiders.”
“It could work,” Harrison said, “provided you can do what you say you can do.”
“Try it and find out. What have you got to lose? If you don’t catch or kill the marauders, your military career will wind up right here on Boot Hill,” Sam said.
“There’s one consolation. If I’m ruined, I won’t go down alone. I’ll make sure you go along with me.”
Sam laughed out loud. “That’s the spirit, Captain.
“And one more thing: Best keep Harper’s name out of it for now. Publicly, at least. No sense tipping him off that we’re on to him yet.”
Sam had a few more ideas to go over with Captain Harrison. They spent some time scheming and planning, mapping out a campaign. Once they had it squared away, Sam took his leave. “I’ve still got a few things to do in town tonight. I’ll be in touch,” he said.
“Good luck,” Harrison said. “You’ll need it!”
“We both will.”
Sergeant Oakes escorted Sam to a shadowy section of the perimeter cordoning off Boot Hill, quietly instructing the guards to let him slip through the line without a fuss. He descended the slope and was swallowed up by darkness.
“The major ain’t changed a bit,” Oakes said to himself. “Still a ring-tailed hellbender!”
S
EVENTEEN
EVENTEEN
The Dog Star Saloon buzzed with the kind of excitement associated with a gold rush.
Ten thousand dollars! That was the reward posted by the army on the mystery gang of marauders that torched Midvale and stole the gun wagon—wanted dead or alive.
Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew occupied a side table at the saloon. A long, narrow, flat-roofed one-story wooden shed a few blocks south of Trail Street, it was sited far enough west and away from the town jail for its patrons’ peace of mind.
The narrow end fronted a side street running north-south. A scarred wooden bar, black-brown with age, smoke, stains and grime, ran parallel to one of the long walls. Johnny and Luke sat near the entrance where they could keep an eye on the comings and goings.
The place was murky, dimly lit by flickering lamps. At the rear, beyond a doorway with a dirty sheet hanging from a curtain rod to cover it, lay several cribs where paying customers could have their way with one of three house whores.
The saloon’s clientele was mostly made up of local ranch hands, cow punchers, tanners, skinners—hard-fisted, hard-headed strongbacks and cowboys. A rough bunch, but more or less honest. That’s why they hadn’t much money. To hear them talk now, though, you’d think they’d already got their hands on a piece of that federal reward money.
Gunslingers, outlaws and tinhorns generally flocked to the fancier places on Trail Street. That’s why Johnny and Luke were at the Dog Star. Anybody that came looking for them with trouble in mind would stand out.
The duo sat in straight-backed armless wooden chairs at a small round-topped wooden table. A bottle of red whiskey and two wooden cups sat on the tabletop. Wooden cups, not glass tumblers. It cut down on the breakage.
Luke held a wooden cup in both hands, staring at the liquid contained therein. Holding the cup to his lips, he tilted his head and tossed it back. He gulped, shuddering. Eyes going in and out of focus, he gasped for breath.
“Ain’t so bad once you git enough of it down,” he said, when he had recovered. “Kind of takes the sting out of my sore knee, what’s left of it, where the stump chafes against the wooden leg.”
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added quickly.
“Why not?” Johnny Cross asked. “You got plenty to complain about.”
Luke looked surprised. “Are you kidding? A couple days ago, I was out of a horse, a musket, and a wooden leg—just about all my worldly goods. Now I got me part of a string of horses, a mean sawed-off scattergun, some money in my pockets, I’m getting drunk, and I got my wooden leg back, too! No sir, I ain’t bellyaching! Fate’s been right kind to me since you turned up, Johnny.”
“Sure,” Johnny said. “All you got to worry about is stopping a bullet. You string with me and there’ll be plenty of lead slung at you.”
Luke showed a slow, sly grin. “Now who’s bellyaching?”
“Just stating a fact, hoss.”
“Folks’ve been shooting at me for the last four years. I’m used to it. ’Sides, I notice that most nearly everybody that slings lead at you winds up dead.”
“So far.”
“Let’s keep it that way, huh?” Luke refilled his wooden cup. “Ready for another yet?”
Johnny shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“This’ll make you feel even better.” Luke tossed back half a cup, his idea of moderation. After the spasms subsided and his eyes refocused, he said, “This stuff must be getting to me. These Dog Star whores is starting to look good.”
“You go with one of ’em and you’ll have plenty to complain about in a week or two, when your pecker falls off from the pox,” Johnny said. “Don’t go getting too drunk. I don’t want you shooting me by mistake in case we tangle with any of Kimbro’s friends.”
“Haw haw! Dead gunhawks got no friends,” Luke said.
“Ain’t it the truth?” a new voice said.
Luke sat up straighter. Johnny was motionless, except to look up from out of the tops of his eyes. Standing on the opposite side of the table was that redheaded gunman, Dan Oxblood. He was alone, a bottle of whiskey in his right hand. Johnny was aware that Red was a left-handed draw.
“Buy you a drink?” Red offered.
“That depends,” Johnny said.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re fixing to even up for Kimbro.”
Red shook his head, grinning. “Ornery cuss, ain’t you? Fellow wants to be sociable and you figure he’s looking for a fight.”
“That ain’t a bad way to figure in Hangtown,” Johnny said.
“A wide-awake young fellow like you must’ve seen I wasn’t siding Kimbro tonight at the Golden Spur.”
“Now that you mention it, I do sort of recollect that that was the case. So?”
“Before you did for him, I was getting ready to quit Kimbro anyhow. Never much cared for him at that, the sour bastard,” said Red. “So?”
“You’re welcome to pull up a chair and set,” Johnny said.
“Much obliged.” Red hooked a booted foot around the leg of a spare chair against the wall and slid it across the floor to the table. He sat down, placing the bottle on the table. “What’re you boys drinking?”
“House whiskey,” Luke said.
Red gave a mock shiver. “Brrrr, that’s too tough for me!” Indicating the bottle he’d brought, he said, “Here, try some of this from my own private stock. Bottled in bond.”
“After you.” Johnny said.
“Heh heh. Trusting soul, ain’t you?” Red pulled the cork, raised the bottleneck to his mouth and uptilted it, drinking long and deep. “Ah,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He slid the bottle over to Johnny, who took it. Johnny took a drink from it. “Tasty,” he said, smacking his lips.
“Have another,” Red invited.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Johnny took a long pull. “Smooth.”
“I been saving it in my saddlebags for a special occasion. Figured Kimbro biting the dust qualifies as one.”
Luke groped for the bottle. “Pass that redeye to me, I’d like a taste.” He drank deeply.
Red’s eyes widened. Luke set the bottle down, its level noticeably diminished.
“You’re a drinking son of a gun, ain’t you?” Red said admiringly.
“That’s mighty fine liquor, mighty fine,” Luke said.
“Genuine Kentucky bourbon.” Red settled into his chair, leaning forward. His manner now was confidential, conspiratorial. “Fact is, I got a little matter of business I’d like to kick around with y’all,” he said.
“Kick away,” said Johnny.
“Heard about that ten-thousand-dollar ree-ward?”
“I believe I did hear something about it,” Johnny said, too casually.
“Now supposing a fellow had a line on the possible whereabouts of those guns, just supposing mind you, where do you think that would leave him? Hmm?”
“I suppose that would leave him in the way of being a rich man.”
“That’s good figuring.”
“What I can’t figure is why that fellow wouldn’t keep the secret to hisself.”
Red looked thoughtful. “The shortest distance between two points ain’t necessarily a straight line in this wicked world.”
“You’ve lost me. I never was any good at geometry,” Johnny said.
“How’re you at triggernometry? Here’s a problem: how can you trust a Yankee to keep his word? Go blab the secret to that bluebelly captain, say, and what’s to stop him from doublecrossing you and keeping the reward money all to himself? Yanks generally being mean-minded, money-grubbing types bent on hogging the world and stealing everything that ain’t tied down?
“How does a fellow protect himself against that?”
“You’re telling it, hoss,” Johnny said.
“Possession,” Red said. “Possession is ninetenths of the law, so they say. If a fellow had them firearms in his possession, tucked away in a safe place where Billy Yank couldn’t find them, why then he’d surely have the whip hand. If the Yanks wouldn’t play fair and the deal fell through, he’d still have the rifles and cartridges. Which is just as good as money, if not better.”
“Sounds like that fellow you’re talking about is practically in the chips already. What’s stopping him?” asked Johnny.
“Well—there’s a hitch.”
“There always is, somehow. And what’s that?”
“Getting those guns is a mighty big job. Too big for one man. But a couple of men, good ol’ boys, sons of the South, Texans who know how to shoot and don’t mind pulling a trigger, could get the job done.”
Johnny was silent. Red leaned forward, intent, breathing hard. “Well? What do you say?” Red asked.
Johnny said, “We still supposing, or are we getting down to brass tacks?”
“It’s time for the nut cutting,” Red said, all serious-like. “Some might say I’m taking a long chance but I been watching you two and I like your style.”
“I’m blushing like a schoolgirl,” Johnny said.
Red scowled. “Okay, let’s grab the hot iron. I know where the guns are, but between me and them stands a passel of bad hombres. Real bad ’uns. Mean. But not so mean that a couple of smart, fast, tough fellows couldn’t steal it away from them.
“Now, you want in or not?”
“I’m still listening,” said Johnny. “How about you, Luke?”
“I’m all ears.”
“This talking is thirsty work,” Red said. He drank from his bottle.
“So’s listening,” said Luke, reaching for Red’s bottle. He uptilted it, holding the bottom parallel to the ceiling to extract the last few drops. He set it down.
Red eyed it. “You killed the bottle,” he said.
“What I want to know,” Johnny said, “is who else we got to kill?”
The long shadow of a tall man fell across them. Red started. Even Johnny’s poker face betrayed a hint of surprise that the new arrival had been able to come on them unobserved, even by him.
Red looked up at the stranger, then glanced down at his own holstered gun.
“You’re doing fine so far. Don’t lose your head and make a fool play now,” the stranger said.
Red kept both hands on the table in plain sight.
“This game sounds kind of interesting, gents. Think I’ll sit in and deal myself a hand,” Sam Heller said.
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