Stand Up and Die

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Papa?” she whispered.

  “Quiet,” he said sharply but softly. “Let me look over those hills.”

  She obeyed, even though she could not see two feet in front of her face. She couldn’t see her mother, the wagon, the livestock, the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III. She couldn’t even see her father, and he stood right beside her.

  At least, she thought he was. She could feel his presence, even hear his breathing—barely—and thought he must be turning around. But it was hard for her to tell. The other men were shouting, cursing, and their voices bounced off the rocks in the darkness.

  Her father, on the other hand, remained quiet—deadly quiet—and focused on whatever he was trying to do. He probably would have kept right on with his diligence if Winfield Baker’s father, Atticus, hadn’t called out, “Walter! Walter! Walter Homes, man, will you get over here! We need your input.”

  “Son of a—” Walter Homes bit off his curse, sighed, and Annie heard him whisper, “Stay with your mother, Annie. Let me see what these imbeciles want.”

  Footsteps sounded faintly in the darkness, and Annie turned and saw the glow of cigars and cigarettes from what must have been the assembly of the wagon train’s leaders. She took a few steps and bumped into someone.

  “Annie?” Her mother sounded petrified.

  “It’s all right, Mother.”

  “Who do you think those men are? The ones who have surrounded us?”

  At that moment, as though on cue, the voice from the darkness called out, “How long does it take you gents to make up your—”

  His profanity made Annie blush.

  “ . . . minds?”

  “Wait here, Mother,” she whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

  She fumbled her way in the darkness, trying to stay as quiet as a mouse so her father wouldn’t know she had disobeyed his orders. At least she had the small orange beacons that told her where the men had gathered, as well as their sharp debates, and the potent smell of tobacco smoke.

  She stopped about ten yards from the gathering, barely making out a few faces. Someone pulled hard on a cigarette, and she heard her father say softly, “I don’t see anything.”

  “What are you?” said a voice she couldn’t identify, “Some sort of nighthawk?”

  “Shut up,” Mr. Baker said.

  “You shut up.”

  “All of you shut up!” barked the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III.

  In the darkness, somewhere outside of the circle of wagons, laughter echoed.

  “You dumb greenhorns. I can hear you like I was hiding underneath one of your wagons.”

  The laughter resumed while the men scurried about, causing Annie to back up ten or fifteen more feet, in case someone accidentally discovered her presence.

  “He sounds white,” Mr. Baker whispered.

  “I am white!” the voice barked in the inky night.

  “Glory be to God, it’s the Devil himself!” said some whiny-voiced Arkansan.

  “Shut up.” That was her father, and Annie heard him shout, “Who are you?”

  Once Walter Homes’ echoes fell silent, the man in the dark answered casually. “A traveler. Same as you.”

  “How did you find us?” the preacher asked.

  The man chuckled. “You left a trail a blind man could follow in the dark. Now, it’s dark. I’ll give you that. But I ain’t blind.”

  “Are you alone?” the preacher asked.

  “I left my horse in the rocks. Otherwise, I’m alone.”

  “How can we trust you?” the preacher called out.

  “You can’t. No more than I can trust you. But, boys, you’re in no-man’s-land right now. Mexican bandits. Americano bandits. Apaches. Comanches. And if we don’t cease with this palavering in the middle of the night, all of those rapin’, pillagin’, murderin’ scum are gonna hear us and swoop down on us and wipe ever’ last one of us off the face of this earth.”

  “We can’t see you,” Mr. Baker said.

  “Then light a damned fire. Boys, I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. And I’m tired of shouting. I’m coming in. But the first one of you who lifts a gun in my direction, I’ll be shootin’ to kill.”

  The gunshot roared. Annie thought she saw the muzzle flash, but that could have been her imagination. She did hear the bullet whine off some rocks, but well away from the wagons and horses, though the abrupt noise caused the mules and horses to begin snorting and stamping their hooves on the hard stones.

  “Light a fire,” Annie’s father demanded.

  “But he’ll be able to see us,” Mr. Baker warned.

  “And this way we can see him,” Walter Homes said.

  Annie felt her way against a wagon, then moved to the back of it, so she’d be out of sight.

  * * *

  He wore buckskins, carried a repeating rifle, and had a holstered revolver on his right hip. His black hat was battered and dusty, just like he was, with a hard face the color of leather, and a thick mustache and weeks of beard stubble. The eyes hardly moved, but Annie figured he took everything in.

  “I’d appreciate a cup of coffee if it’s handy,” the man said as he stepped closer to the fire. The male leaders of the Dead Trout wagon train spread out.

  “We’re running a cold camp,” Walter said.

  “Why?”

  “We saw smoke signals off toward the northwest,” the preacher said.

  The man laughed. “Yeah, so did I. Utes. Lookin’ for hair to lift and ponies to steal.”

  Annie’s father said, “I thought this was too far south for Utes to raid.”

  She couldn’t see the eyes of the bearded, strong man, but she felt them boring through her father.

  “Utes go where they damned well please. Wherever they can find something of value. Like me.” He motioned to the fire the men were starting. “It’s gonna take a spell before that coffee’s boilin’. You gents wouldn’t happen to have somethin’ a mite stronger to warm a feller up, would you?”

  “Johnson,” the Reverend said. “Fetch the jug from underneath the seat of my wagon. The one for medicinal purposes.”

  Annie hoped her snort of utter contempt had not been heard.

  “You the leader of this outfit?” the stranger asked.

  “Yes. I am the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose the Third,” the prima donna answered.

  “Where you bound?”

  Instead of answering, the stranger said, “Where you bound?”

  “Rapture Valley, Territory of Arizona,” the preacher said. “We have left the poverty and ruin and disgrace that has befallen our settlement in Arkansas.”

  “Boy.” The buckskin-clad man turned to Mr. Johnson. “You don’t hear too good or somethin’? Didn’t your capt’n say for you to fetch that jug?”

  Johnson scurried off, and Annie had to slip farther behind the reverend’s wagon.

  “What about the Utes?” Annie’s father asked. “If they are around and are looking to raid someone, should not we be on guard? Isn’t this fire unwise?”

  The man laughed, but stopped when Mr. Johnson returned with the reverend’s jug of Arkansas corn liquor. No, the preacher had finished the corn brew before they ever set foot in the Indian Nations. This would likely be the last of the rotgut he had bought at Five Scalps back in the Texas Panhandle.

  After uncorking the jug and drinking greedily, the man pointed the jug at Walter Homes. “What’s your name?”

  “Homes. Walter Homes.”

  “Well, Mr. Homes.” He took another long swallow, corked the jug, and tossed it to the preacher. “You’d be right exceptin’ one fact I ain’t shared with you greenhorns.” Laughing, he reached for the strap that hung around his shoulder, and pulled it around till a beaded, fringed pouch appeared that had been hanging on his back. He fumbled to unfasten the button, flipped up the flap, and reached inside.

  What he pulled out made Annie gasp. Even from this distance, even in the darkness, and with the fire partially blindi
ng her, she knew what the man tossed to Mr. Stanton.

  He caught it, gasped, and dropped it. The stranger laughed.

  “My God,” said Mr. Johnson. “Is that a scalp?”

  “Yeah.” The stranger pulled out a handful more. “There were five of them. But one was an old medicine man. Silver hair. It’ll take all my skills to convince some alcalde that his wiry old hair didn’t belong to some Mexican.”

  “You’re”—Walter paused—“a . . . scalp hunter?”

  “I am what I am, boys,” the scalp hunter said. “But I’m also what you gents need.”

  “What’s that?” asked the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III asked.

  “A guide. Someone to get you greenhorns to Rapture Valley. As yellow-livered and ignorant you folks is, you’ll never get there in this lifetime.”

  A long silence filled the night. Only the crackling of the fire made sounds. The man in buckskins picked up the scalp that had dropped, shoved it and the others into his bag, and readjusted the pouch and strap so that it was now—mercifully to Annie’s roiling stomach—out of sight.

  “Do you know where Rapture Valley is?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “Johnson!” Walter Homes snapped. “Surely you don’t want this . . . this . . . fiend guiding us!”

  Ignoring her father, the scalp hunter looked back at the reverend. “Where’s this Rapture Valley?”

  “In the basin near Precious Metal,” the preacher said.

  The dark man’s head nodded. “Shore. I can get you there. Since I’m bound for Precious Metal myself, I can even give you my family rate. Dollar a day. Payable upon delivery.”

  A longer silence.

  “Why don’t you boys talk amongst yerselves,” the man said with a laugh. “But consider this. You need a man like me. You gents ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You been crossin’ civilized country. There ain’t no semblance of law, order, God, or mercy between here and Precious Metal. And not a whole lot in Precious Metal.”

  The Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III cleared his throat. “Let the leaders gather near my wagon and discuss the proposal by this Mister . . . ?”

  “Linton,” the scalp hunter said. “Just Linton.”

  “Mr. Linton,” the reverend said.

  “That’s a good idea. Civilized idea. Debate my merits. Now, how is that coffee cookin’, boys? And just out of curiosity? Do y’all have any women with you? Other than that fine-looking cookie with hair the color of midnight hidin’ at the back of that wagon over yonder?”

  * * *

  Streaks of yellow angled across the sky toward that lone butte as dawn emerged. Annie helped her mother with their breakfast, and she watched with trepidation as the duly elected leaders of the train still huddled. Other families cooked, and that man, that evil, wretched scalp hunter, just squatted by the fire, drinking coffee, sipping some of the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III’s liquor, and chewing on beef jerky. She did that until Linton caught her staring at him, and raised the preacher’s jug as in toast. The beast even had the audacity to wink at her.

  She almost dropped a fork into the hot coals.

  By the time the sun had emerged, and the younger men were feeding and watering the livestock, Annie and her mother had eaten breakfast without Walter, though they left him a plate. As they washed dishes, they saw him coming, head down, and Mr. Stanton, Mr. Johnson, and the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III walking toward the leathery, evil man, who slowly stood and corked the preacher’s “medicinal” jug of rotgut.

  “They voted to let that awful person guide us?” Annie said, perhaps too loud, but she couldn’t control herself. Her father did not answer, but the look of contempt on his face told the story.

  “Wonderful.” Annie laughed with sarcasm that bordered on hatred. “Him. Escorting us. To Rapture Valley!”

  “Annie,” her mother said, “That is enough.”

  Walter Homes picked up the cup of coffee, lukewarm, and sipped. “If it means anything, the vote wasn’t unanimous.”

  “Your vote?” That surprised Annie, and she looked at her mother, who had asked the question laced with harsh sarcasm.

  “I wasn’t alone. Far from it. But we agreed back in Dead Trout that we will abide by the will of the majority. Five to three. In favor of Mr. Linton.”

  “Now what?” Annie asked.

  “We leave.” Walter pointed his cup toward the road above. “Back on the trail. See what our guide has to say.”

  As though he had heard, Linton began barking orders. “All right, folks. Get your teams hitched and prepare to ride. You damned fools wasted enough time yesterday with yer palaverin’ and hidin’ in this deathtrap like a bunch of yellow-livered cowards. Prepare to ride hard all day today, ’cause we won’t be takin’ no noon break. If you can’t keep up with the pace I set, too bad. You’ll be alone, and that’s your own damned fault.”

  He laughed, and began kicking out the fire in front of him.

  “Don’t fear me too much, ’specially you, little lady.” He winked, and Betsy Stanton turned around sharply and marched to the back of her folks’ wagon. Linton laughed even harder. “We won’t push hard like this ever’ day, but you lost time cowerin’ here, and all of you know that’s the damned truth. So we move hard today, part of tomorrow, then we can slow down and you can catch your breath. But not for long. You men hired me to do a job, and that’s get you to Rapture Valley in Arizona Territory. That’s what I’ll do, unless I get kilt doin’ it. And unless you get yourselves kilt from your ignorance and cowardice.” He nodded with finality.

  The Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III said, “Let us gather around and offer our blessings to the Lord and to Mr. Linton. Come, let us pray. Will you hold hands with us, Mr. Linton?”

  “Not by a damned sight. I got to catch up my hoss.” Linton stormed away.

  Annie heard Winfield say to Hawg, “Reckon he’s right. We dawdled here too long. We got to make up that lost time.”

  “Reckon, so,” Hawg said. “Yep. I reckon so.”

  Annie began kicking out the fire. “Or that repulsive man knows he wants to put a lot of miles between him and any friends of those poor Ute Indians that he . . . scalped!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Breen and Keegan came to Purgatory City’s largest corral—usually held for beef, now filled with forty ornery, rank, and mean-looking mustangs—Matt McCulloch figured that they had sobered up enough to back out of the deal they had agreed to earlier . . . which is what any reasonable human being would do.

  “Matt,” Keegan said, and let that sheepish, double-dealing, damn Yankee Irish grin crease his face. “As much as I’d love to work with you, get those hosses up to Fort Wilmont, well . . .” He shrugged.

  “What about you?” McCulloch asked the bounty hunter.

  “I got two prisoners I’d like to get to Precious Metal,” Breen said. “I can wait here, but you know I don’t like to wait. I’m with you.”

  That surprised McCulloch, but he knew what was coming next.

  “But . . .”

  Yeah, the but. It was the but McCulloch expected from this . . . jackal.

  “You, me, and him . . .” Breen nodded at Wooden Arm, about fifteen or twenty yards down the corral, standing on the lower rail of the corral, staring at those wonderful mustangs, unencumbered by that idiotic splint McCulloch had fashioned.

  Hell, this morning, McCulloch had tried to talk to the young fool—talking, as always, with his hands and fingers—to get to a doctor. Have a real sawbones patch the boy up, but Wooden Arm adamantly refused. His brother had made this to heal him, and Wooden Arm trusted his brother’s medicine. It was second only to Broken Buffalo Horn’s power. McCulloch still wondered who the hell this Broken Buffalo Horn was—and just how powerful he might be. But he had to accept the Comanche boy’s reasoning. He felt a touch of pride that the teenager considered him a brother.

  McCulloch considered another reason he had not pursued that argument. Even
armed with a repeating rifle and a fully loaded Colt revolver, what chance did he have at persuading any doctor in Purgatory City, the county, or all of West Texas . . . even all of the Great State of Texas into being willing to treat a Comanche?

  Breen shook his head. “You and me and him,” he said again and laughed. “We couldn’t get those horses to the Pecos River ourselves. I’m not sure we could even get them out of Purgatory City.”

  Frowning, McCulloch said, “What about your prisoners?”

  “Hell, Matt, I was drunk. You know that. You wouldn’t hold me to that idiotic idea. Kruger would cut our throats the first chance he got. He’s a bank robber, a murderer, a thief in the night. He doesn’t know a damned thing about herding mustangs.”

  McCulloch spit between his teeth. “Not so hard. I learned. Just keep them moving in the general direction. Feed them. Water them. That’s all there is to it.”

  It was Breen’s turn to spit. “You left out chasing down the runaways. Keeping them from bolting at night. You also left out all those mean dogs between here and Precious Metal—white, red, copper, blue, pink, purple—who will surely want to take them from us.”

  “Then take your Kruger and your lady friend on the stage to Precious Metal. Wooden Arm and I can find someone else to do this job with us—for less money than we offered you, too.”

  Breen turned and stared at the Wells Fargo office—the windows shot out, the front door riddled with bullets from that jail-break attempt—and some schoolboys playing hooky who were pointing out the very spot where town Marshal Rafe McMillian had been cut down in a hail of bullets and buckshot.

  Suddenly he turned to Sean Keegan. “You Irish lout. Is that what they taught you in Londonderry? How to go back on your word?”

  “Londonderry?” Keegan roared. “I never set me bloody toe in Londonderry.”

  “Well, you sure act like it. You gave your word to Matt McCulloch. Now you’re going back on it!”

  “Breen, you white-haired little varmint. Let me remind you it was your bloody reasoning not fifteen minutes ago that led me out of my fine little office to tell our fine, addle-minded fool of a friend that we wasn’t going through what we said we was going through.”