Texas Gundown

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Indian full of shit. You don’t see any better than I do, and we both know it.”

  A smile broke across Sam’s face. “I think that’s the Dutchman’s place. I’ve never been there, but I remember hearing someone talk about it one time when we were in El Paso.”

  Matt cast his mind back and dredged up the same memory. “Oh, yeah. Some sort of trading post for owlhoots, right?”

  “That’s right. The Rangers have tried to close it down, but they’ve never been able to get any hard evidence against the man who runs it.”

  “I think Finch said something about it one time, too.” Josiah Finch was a Texas Ranger, small in stature but big in fighting spirit. Matt and Sam had pitched in to help him out on a couple of occasions.

  “That’s right,” Sam agreed. “Honest folks have learned to steer clear of the place and never go there.”

  “But we’re goin’, right?”

  Sam’s smile widened into a grin. “The trail those raiders left leads straight there, looks like.”

  “That answers my question then.” Matt heeled his mount into a trot. It was possible that the men they were after were still holed up at the Dutchman’s, and he was eager to find out.

  Of course, the question remained—how could he and Sam by themselves take on two dozen or more vicious outlaws?

  They would burn that bridge when they came to it, Matt reckoned.

  As they neared the place, he saw that the description Sam had remembered was correct. A thick adobe wall about ten feet tall surrounded a compound containing half-a-dozen buildings. One large building housed the trading post itself, Matt supposed, and scattered around it were smaller structures. A wooden watchtower rose in one corner, next to the wall.

  Beyond the trading post, the ground fell away, dropping some fifty or sixty feet to another plain. In some places, the slope was fairly steep but manageable; in others, the drop was almost sheer. It was as if, at some point in the dim, distant past, the land to the south and east of the jagged escarpment had dropped suddenly. Either that, or the land to the north and west had been thrust upward fifty or sixty feet by some geologic upheaval. Whatever the cause, that distinct difference in level had been left behind, and the rugged rim of the escarpment had caused people to call it the Cap Rock. The levelness of the terrain on both sides meant that a person could see for twenty miles or more from up here.

  There wasn’t much to see, of course. A lot of flat, mostly sandy land dotted with scrub brush, hardy clumps of grass, and the occasional mesquite tree.

  Sam waved a hand at the vast sweep of territory before them and said, “All of that used to be covered with water, you know.”

  “Yeah?” Matt said. “When was that? I don’t recall hearin’ anything about it.”

  “Millions of years ago. The Gulf of Mexico reached all the way up here. It was on this side of the Cap Rock, too, but whatever caused the escarpment to form caused the sea to drain, too. But that’s why you can dig down in the ground and find the fossilized remains of fish and other sea creatures the likes of which no human eye has ever seen, at least not in these parts.”

  “Learned about that in school, did you?”

  “That’s right. I also learned about the great migratory drifts that took place in those ancient eras, when entire races of people would move from one part of the earth to another, when the whole world shook and mountains rose and fell and continents were formed and broken and then re-formed. When this was an ocean, there may have been races of people who sailed on it that are completely forgotten now, entire civilizations that vanished without a trace. We just don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s mighty interestin’,” Matt said. “Learned a whole heap in school, didn’t you?”

  “I took an extensive course of study,” Sam said.

  Matt nodded toward the trading post, which was now only about fifty yards away. “Anything in those books about what to do when folks start pointin’ guns at you?”

  Sam frowned as he saw that his blood brother was right. Several men, who were evidently standing on parapets inside the adobe wall of the compound, were pointing rifles at them.

  Matt and Sam kept riding toward the heavy wooden gates, leading the two pack animals and the two extra saddle horses behind them. The gates swung open. As Matt and Sam rode in, they were aware of the men on the parapet tracking them with the rifles. More men were waiting for them on the ground inside, also armed with rifles.

  The gates swung shut behind them, closing with a ponderous crash. If this was a trap, it wouldn’t be easy fighting their way out.

  As they reined to a halt in front of the trading post’s porch with its vine-covered roof, Matt said in a low voice, “If those outlaws are still here, chances are they won’t recognize us. The only ones who got a good look at us are dead.”

  Sam’s head moved in a barely visible nod. “So we’ll pretend to be on the dodge ourselves until we get the lay of the land?”

  “Yeah.”

  A big man came out of the building and pushed through the vines that dangled from the edge of the porch roof. He was bald and had a bushy blond beard. He was also the fattest hombre Matt and Sam had seen for quite a while. Rolls of fat bulged the white shirt and brown leather vest he wore.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a deep voice that contained a trace of an accent, “welcome to the Dutchman’s. I am Hendrick Van Goort.”

  “Name’s Smith,” Matt said as he returned Van Goort’s nod. He jerked a thumb at Sam. “This here’s Jones.”

  “Ah, I see. Many of your relatives have stopped here, yah? I have only one question before you dismount and avail yourselves of my hospitality.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “You are not lawmen?”

  “Us? Lawmen?” Matt let out a laugh. “Not hardly, mister.” He was glad that he and Sam had refused to take those deputy badges that had been offered to them back in Buckskin. Chances are, they and their gear would be searched for any such tell-tale tin stars.

  “You understand, of course, that I cannot simply take your word for this.”

  Sam waved a hand in a casual gesture. “Feel free to look through our saddlebags. You won’t find any badges or anything else saying that we’re lawmen.”

  “All right then,” Van Goort said. “Step down and we shall see.”

  As Matt and Sam dismounted, the Dutchman motioned to several of his guards.

  The men came forward and pawed through the saddlebags and the supplies lashed to the packhorses, while the rest of the guards continued to cover Matt and Sam.

  Once that search was done, Van Goort’s men checked the pockets of the two newcomers, too. Matt’s eyes narrowed in anger, but he put up with the irritation.

  Finally, one of the men nodded to Van Goort, and the Dutchman broke into a gleaming smile. “Come in, gentlemen, come in. We have food and drink and almost anything else you may desire.”

  “What about women?” Matt asked.

  “Of course. Most of them have Indian blood . . .” Van Goort looked at Sam. “But I would venture to guess that so do you, my young friend.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. As they went inside the cool, shadowy interior of the trading post, Matt said to Van Goort, “I was talkin’ more about white women.” He thought it was possible the outlaws could have left one or more of the prisoners from Buckskin here.

  Van Goort tugged at his beard. Matt saw greed warring with caution in the man’s pale blue eyes. Greed won out, and the Dutchman said, “As a matter of fact, I do have several white women staying here at the moment who might be interested in some male companionship. If you’d like to see them . . . ?”

  “Later,” Sam said, his tone curt. “Right now I want a beer and some grub more than anything else.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Matt said, following his blood brother’s lead. “But maybe we’ll take you up on the other later.”

  “Of course. Have a seat at one of the tables. We have beans and stew and tortillas. Som
eone will bring the food to you, along with the beers.”

  “Much obliged,” Sam said.

  He and Matt sat down at a table in the corner, picking one so that they could both sit with their backs to a wall, as men on the run from trouble would habitually do. They seemed to be the only customers at the moment. Matt had taken a look at the corral as they came in and hadn’t seen an abundance of horses there. It was starting to appear that the outlaws who had raided Buckskin were no longer here. They had probably stopped for a night or two and then moved on.

  “Don’t rush things,” Sam said in a low voice as he and Matt waited for their food and beer. “You can’t just waltz right into a place like this and start asking suspicious questions.”

  “If we really were hardcases on the dodge, wouldn’t it look more suspicious if we didn’t want any women?” Matt countered.

  “Just don’t rush it, that’s all I’m saying. Van Goort probably has at least ten or twelve men working for him.”

  “Better odds than what we thought they might be,” Matt pointed out with a smile.

  “True. But let’s see if we can get out of here without a big fight.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” Matt muttered as a couple of Indian women appeared carrying bowls of stew, plates piled high with beans and tortillas, and mugs of beer. They set the food on the table, and the blood brothers dug in with genuinely hearty appetites.

  Van Goort came into the trading post, approached the table, and nodded to Matt and Sam. “My men are caring for your animals,” he said.

  And searching our gear more thoroughly this time, Matt thought.

  Sam waved a hand at one of the empty chairs. “Would you care to join us, sir?”

  “I believe I will.” Van Goort sat down on the chair, which creaked under his weight. He flipped a pudgy hand at the Indian woman behind the bar. She brought a huge mug of beer over to him. Foam overflowed the top and dripped down the sides. The Dutchman took a big swallow and then used the back of his other hand to wipe away the foam that clung to his mustache. He smiled at Matt and Sam and said, “I like to get to know my visitors. So, Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, what brings you to my trading post?”

  Sam scooped some beans with a rolled-up tortilla, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “We’re here for our health. We like the climate.”

  “Yeah,” Matt agreed. “It’s not too hot here.”

  Van Goort laughed. “Most people would say that West Texas is hotter than the hinges of hell itself, yah?”

  “Well,” Matt allowed, “there’s hot . . . and then there’s hot.”

  “I take your meaning, young sir. Are the Rangers after you?”

  Sam frowned. “Most folks on the frontier make a habit of not asking such personal questions.”

  “Ah, yes, but I was not raised here, my friend. And I have a stake in knowing such things. The Rangers would like nothing better than to close my business down and arrest me for giving aid and comfort to fugitives they seek.”

  Matt shook his head. “The Rangers aren’t after us.” That much was true at least.

  “In that case, you are welcome to avail yourselves of my hospitality for as long as you wish . . . and as long as you can pay.” Van Goort beamed at them. “Now, since you appear to be almost finished with your meal, shall I send those women down?”

  Matt and Sam glanced at each other, then shrugged and nodded. The Dutchman seemed to have accepted them as being owlhoots. They could risk taking a look at the women now. If they turned out to be the prisoners who’d been taken from Buckskin, Matt thought it would be a good idea to go ahead and pay for a couple of them.

  Not that he and Sam would actually bed down with them. But they needed a chance to talk to the captives in private, find out exactly what the situation was here at the trading post, and make some plans to get the women out of the Dutchman’s clutches. Matt could tell by looking at Sam that his blood brother had the same thoughts in mind. They had ridden together for so long, been through so much danger together, that their brains tended to work the same way.

  Van Goort heaved his bulk out of the chair and waddled over to the bar. He spoke to the woman there, who came out from behind the bar and climbed a narrow set of stairs to the trading post’s second floor. She returned a few moments later, and down the stairs behind her trailed several women, followed by a hard faced guard with a rifle.

  The women’s clothing was tattered and torn, as if it had been through a lot. But their faces showed that hardship even more. They had the cringing; fearful look of whipped dogs, Matt thought, and furious anger welled up inside him as he saw what had been done to them. No doubt they had been assaulted again and again until their senses—and their souls—were numb with horror.

  The women weren’t tied or chained in any way that Matt could see. They didn’t have to be restrained, because their spirits were broken.

  Van Goort stepped away from the bar and held out a hand to indicate the women. “White, as you requested,” he said to Matt and Sam. “Take your pick, gentlemen. The price will be a bit higher, but well worth it, I assure you.”

  Matt managed to put a smile on his face despite the rage he felt. Sam did likewise. They stood up and approached the women. Six in all, the youngest about fifteen or sixteen, the oldest in her thirties. Matt nodded toward a woman with tangled blond hair who appeared to be about twenty-five.

  “I’ll take her.”

  The Indian woman grasped the blonde’s arm and shoved her toward Matt. He patted her shoulder as she stood in front of him, head bowed. He tried to make the gesture reassuring, but she flinched. He couldn’t blame her for that.

  Sam selected the next-to-the-oldest woman, a brunette. Her eyes flashed briefly as the Indian woman pushed her toward Sam, a spark of defiance that was quickly extinguished by a thump to the head from the heavyset Indian woman. Matt saw the muscle jumping a little in Sam’s jaw, and knew that Sam was having trouble controlling his anger. Matt felt the same way himself.

  But they had to bide their time. Gunplay now wouldn’t solve anything.

  “Their rooms are at the top of the stairs, gentlemen,” Van Goort said. “Please, enjoy yourselves.”

  Matt took the blonde’s arm. “We intend to,” he assured Van Goort.

  That was true. One way or another, he and Sam were going to rescue these women and settle the score with the Dutchman. That would likely mean powder smoke, flame, and hot lead.

  And when that moment came, the Brothers of the Wolf were going to enjoy the hell out of it.

  Chapter 9

  “What’s your name?” Matt asked when he and the woman were alone in a small room on the second floor of the trading post. The room had nothing in it but a narrow bed with a sagging mattress and one rickety-looking chair. A candle sitting on a shelf cast a wavering glow that was the only illumination.

  The blonde didn’t answer. She kept her eyes downcast and reached for the buttons of her dress.

  Matt stopped her. “No,” he said as he touched her hand. “You don’t have to do that.”

  She spoke at last, in a thin voice. “I . . . I’ll do anything you want, mister.”

  “Listen to me.” Matt put his hand under her chin and tipped her head up until she had no choice but to look at him. He had to get through the woman underneath those dull, uncaring eyes. “My name is Matt Bodine. The folks back in Buckskin sent me to help you.”

  For a second, she showed no reaction. Then, suddenly, Matt saw something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

  Hope.

  “B-Buckskin?” she whispered. “You’re from . . . Buckskin?”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  “Oh, my God . . .”

  She sagged against him as if every muscle in her body had gone limp all at once.

  Matt had no choice but to put his arms around her and hold her up. She buried her face against his chest and began to sob in relief.

  “I . . . I prayed that
someone would come . . . for such a long time . . . and then. I gave up.”

  Somewhat awkwardly, Matt patted her on the back and tried to comfort her. He wasn’t at his best with crying women. He suspected that most hombres weren’t. But he knew somehow that the best thing he could do now was to just be patient. After a while, the blonde seemed to cry herself out. She lifted her head, sniffled, and wiped the back of her hand across her nose in an unself-conscious gesture.

  “You said your name is Bodine?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Matt Bodine.”

  “I’m Alice Fletcher.” Even though her eyes had lost the dull, uncaring look, they were still filled with worry. “What are you going to do? That awful man . . . that Van Goort . . . he has a lot of gunmen working for him. . . .”

  “Gunmen are something my brother and I have experience handlin’, ma’am.”

  “Your brother? There’s more than one of you here?”

  “Blood brother actually. Name of Sam Two Wolves. He’s in another of the rooms up here, talkin’ to one of the other women like I’m talkin’ to you. Nice-lookin’ woman a little older than you, with brown hair.”

  “That’s Cara Wilson. The poor dear. She’s married. So are Mrs. Sloan and Mrs. Lowell and Eunice Padgett. At least Billie McKay and I don’t have to worry about about going back home and facing husbands after we’ve been so . . . defiled.”

  Matt shook his head. “Don’t you even think about that right now, ma’am. What happened isn’t your fault. Not hardly. You just had some mighty bad luck, that’s all. I’m sure folks back in Buckskin will understand that.”

  Even as he spoke, he knew that wasn’t necessarily true. Not for nothing did folks say that a woman who was taken against her will was ruined. That was the way most people saw it. Too often Matt had heard stories about white women who were rescued from being held captive by the Indians, only to be shunned because they’d been forced to lay with their captors. Some of those unfortunates had even been known to take their own lives because of the shame they were made to feel. The real shame, the way Matt saw it, was that people didn’t have more sense. To maybe get Alice Fletcher’s mind off that, and because he needed the information, he asked, “What happened to the men who brought you here? Are they still around?”