by Peter Grant
He headed into the kitchen, just as a waitress came out with a steaming hot plate of food and laid it in front of Walt. He’d eaten only a few mouthfuls when Carlos returned, carrying an envelope. An unbroken wax seal showed it had not been opened.
“Here it is, señor.”
Walt nodded through a mouthful of food, took it from him, and scanned the two pages inside, reading quickly. He nodded with satisfaction. “That’s what I was waiting for. I’ll pay you for this and the meal, as soon as I finish.”
“That will be in order, señor. Tequila?”
“No, it’s too early. Do you have coffee?”
“I will have some made for you, señor.”
The coffee was just about the worst Walt had ever tasted, even including the ground acorn-and-chicory imitations inflicted on him during the Civil War. He restrained himself from spitting it out all over the floor, but only just. He grinned wryly as he thought that if he made Parsons drink it, it might be more effective than torture in making him talk. He left the rest of it in the cup as he finished his meal, contenting himself with water.
Eventually he rose, and went to where Carlos was waiting behind the bar. He counted out a hundred and ten dollars in bills. “That’s for the letter and the meal, and a little over.”
“Thank you, señor. Was the letter what you had hoped for?”
“I guess it’ll have to do.” Walt was deliberately non-committal, but inwardly he was exultant. He now knew exactly where Parsons was living, including landmarks to help him find it.
He returned to the hostelry on the outskirts of town where he’d taken a room, along with Pedro, whom he’d brought along to interpret if necessary, Taos being a heavily Spanish-speaking community. So far, he hadn’t needed him, so he’d sent him to buy food for the others, who were camped in an out-of-the-way spot a few miles outside town, and a few special items as well. Pedro was waiting when he arrived.
“You got everything?” Walt asked.
“Yes, señor. It is already loaded on the pack horse.”
“And I got what I came for. All right, let’s go.”
* * *
Three days later, Walt, Pablo and Nate left the others in their hidden camp site before dawn, and rode towards Parsons’ farm. A few snowflakes drifted from the sky as they moved, but the air was mostly clear, and much of the snow on the ground had melted.
At the foot of a hill, about a mile from the building, Walt dismounted. He took his Winchester carbine from the saddle boot and a bundle of cloth from behind the saddle, and nodded to Pablo. “All right, take Nate to his spot on the far side, then take our horses back to camp. We’ll see you after sunset.”
“Are you sure you will be all right, señor? It will be very cold.”
“Yeah, but that can’t be helped. The bushes will break the wind.”
“Very well. Until tonight, then.”
Walt slogged through the grass to the top of the gently sloping rise, trying to walk in patches where the snow had melted so as not to leave an obvious trail. He went down to his hands and knees, easing his way into a clump of brush at the top of the slope. When he reached a clearer spot near the front of the bushes, he unfolded the cloth, revealing a large white bedsheet, and wrapped it over his buffalo duster and around his head before lying down. It would prevent his dark coat from being visible as a black lump among the bushes; instead, he would look more like a snowdrift if anyone happened to glance in his direction from the farm, a few hundred yards away.
Walt arranged himself as comfortably as possible, laid his carbine ready to hand, just in case, and took his binoculars from around his neck and his spyglass from a coat pocket. He glanced at the sun as it began to rise, to the right of his position. It would cross from left to right, which should prevent any reflection from the lenses of his instruments. To make that even less likely, he’d fashioned hood-like tubes out of a piece of stiff paper, which he slipped over the front of the binoculars and spyglass.
For hours, he scanned the property. It was hard to make out fine details through the low-power binoculars, but they gave him a good overall perspective. He counted the men and women who moved from the row of workers’ cottages to their jobs and back; stable hands, a wrangler, two women and a child who went to the main building, and a white man who went from the farmhouse to the stable, then came back a short while later, presumably having checked on his horse. He matched Drake’s description.
By early afternoon, he switched to the spyglass, concentrating on the main house. It was much more powerful than the binoculars, allowing him to focus on smaller details and see through windows more clearly. From his position, he could look through double glass-paned doors into what appeared to be a study or office at the rear of the house. A man sat at a rolltop desk, flanked by a large wooden cabinet reinforced with iron. He appeared to be writing.
At one point the man stood up, took something from around his neck, and held it to the door of the cabinet, which was as tall as his head and wider than his body. That’s got to be a key, Walt thought to himself as the man opened the door slightly, then reached inside before swinging it wide. Inside, the cabinet held three sturdy wooden shelves, which he could see clearly as the man took out a document and returned to the desk. The top and second shelf held stacks of papers and files. The third shelf and the bottom of the cabinet held several boxes, but from this distance he could see no indication of what they contained. There was a vague, indistinct shape between two stacks of documents on the second shelf, and a couple of thin bundles at either end of each of the shelves, against the edges of the doorframe. He could just make them out, but couldn’t see what they were.
When he’d finished with the document, the man replaced it in the cabinet, then closed and locked the door before replacing the presumed key around his neck. He sat down, and continued writing.
Towards late afternoon, two more men rode in. They handed their horses’ reins to a stable hand, took bundles from behind their saddles, then walked stiffly towards the house, their legs clearly wearied by hours of riding. Walt got a good look at their faces, and concluded that they matched the descriptions of Travis and Shelton.
By the time the sun set, he was beset by constant shivering, unable to maintain even the pretense of warmth. As soon as he thought it was safe, he wriggled backwards until he could no longer see the lamps in the windows of the buildings, then stood up and stumbled back to the base of the hill. As he got there, he heard muffled hooves approaching. Pablo appeared out of the gloom, leading his horse.
“Is all well, señor?” he asked.
“N-n-n-no, it i-i-isn’t!” Walt managed to say, teeth chattering. “L-l-let’s g-get N-Nate, then g-g-get m-moving. I n-n-n-need hot c-c-coffee!”
The ride back to the camp warmed him slightly, but nowhere near enough. He and Nate made a beeline for the fire when they arrived, standing as close to it as they dared without igniting their clothes, shivering, warming their hands around the mugs of steaming hot coffee that Jacob thrust into them.
When the others judged he’d recovered enough to speak, Sam asked, “Did you get all you needed, boss?”
“Between Nate and I, I reckon we did.” Nate nodded his agreement from the other side of the fire as Walt went on, “Looks like three of the men in the house are Shelton, Drake and Travis. The fourth… well, he’s the right height for Parsons, and looks like the description we have of him; but he isn’t wearing a beard, and his hair’s brown rather than black, with gray in it. I reckon it’s probably him, ’cause who else would be with those three men?”
“Sounds right to me, boss. Can we take ’em, d’you think?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be tricky and dangerous, because they aren’t beginners at this game.”
“Uh-huh,” Nate agreed. “Another problem is, there’s people who work around the house an’ stable. They live in those little cottages, an’ they got families. We don’t want to hurt them, but what if the men grab guns an’ try to join in?”
“If they’re shootin’ at me, I reckon it’s my right to shoot back,” Jacob observed. There was a rumble of agreement.
“I reckon it is,” Walt acknowledged, “but put yourself in their shoes. We know their boss is a bad man. They don’t. To them he’s just the patron, the guy who pays them. They may reckon it’s their duty to help him. We need to figure out a way to keep them back or scare them off. Even if they come out and start shootin’, they don’t deserve to get killed.”
“Sounds like we need to move real fast, then,” Tom observed. “The quicker the fight’s over, the less time they’ll have to get involved. If it drags on, we’re probably not gonna be able to keep them out of it.”
“Good point,” Walt agreed. “What’s more, if we get into the house, the fight’s going to be at point-blank range. You don’t have to be good when you’re that close. All it takes is one lucky hit—or unlucky, depending which side of the gun you’re on—and that’s it. We’ll have to end it as fast as we can, or else some of us are going to die, too.
“The way the farm’s built isn’t in our favor, either. It’s got three ways in or out; the front door, the kitchen door, and a double door to what looks like Parsons’ study. By the way, we’ve got to take that room intact, with as little damage as possible, and make sure the house doesn’t catch fire. There’s a cabinet in it. I reckon it probably holds enough evidence to hang him, and clear our names, too, if anyone wants to charge us with murder for killing him.”
“The walls are adobe,” Jacob pointed out. “If we need to break ’em down, or make another way in, we can do that.” He nodded towards the pack saddles, with their cargo of dynamite.
“You’re right. Finally, we have to figure out how to do this without us all getting hurt or killed. You all knew the risks when you took on with me, but that doesn’t give me the right to send you on another Pickett’s Charge!” Everyone nodded, even as they laughed. The bloody, suicidal, disastrous attack by nine Confederate infantry brigades at the Battle of Gettysburg, less than a decade before, had already entered national legend.
Walt took another pull at his coffee. “Let me draw the layout of the place, and how I think the main house looks inside. Nate, you help me do that, based on what you saw.”
They drew lines in the dirt in the firelight, using sticks gathered for fuel. Nate did the broad outline of the farm, while Walt tackled the farmhouse; then they changed places, and corrected or added to each other’s drawings. At last they were agreed.
“All right,” Walt said. “Let’s start figuring out the best way to do this.”
* * *
In the farmhouse, Parsons poured himself another glass of brandy. “Thanks for bringing this from Taos. I’d forgotten how nice a good brandy tastes. I only got here halfway through fall, so I wasn’t able to stock up on the luxuries I used to ship to Salida.”
“Yeah, but you’re plannin’ on buildin’ a new, much bigger house come spring,” Travis reminded him, leaning back in his chair, a glass of bourbon at his side. “You can have a real big cellar, too, an’ bring in supplies to see you right through winter.”
“Yes. We can order a couple of wagonloads of good stuff later in the year, and salt it away for the cold months when no-one’s shipping stuff out this way.”
“Yeah,” Drake added, “an’ more bedrooms, too, so I don’t have to have these two sharin’ mine. They snore!”
“So do you, buddy,” Shelton pointed out with a grin.
“No, I don’t!”
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Parsons confirmed. “You all do.”
“Oh, well…” Drake shrugged. “I reckon you two must’ve had a good time in Taos. You both came back smellin’ o’ perfume!”
“We sure did,” Shelton said with a grin. “Ain’t had proper female company—the kind that don’t smell o’ sheep an’ goats, that is—for almost three months. It was good to get some for a couple of days, even if we had to pay for it. Boss, can we add sportin’ women to that list of winter supplies?” There was a rumble of amusement.
“I daresay we might arrange something. Of course, you’ll have to make sure they don’t get bored, or they’ll drive us all crazy with their whining.”
“Borin’ them, if you follow me, is exactly what I figure on doin’—all winter long!” More laughter.
“Has Morley had anything to say lately?” Drake asked.
Parsons shook his head. “He didn’t write last week; or, if he did, it hasn’t got here yet. That’s not surprising, of course. Sometimes snow closes the mountain passes out there, and mail gets delayed.”
Travis said, “How’s he doing out there?”
“He says he’s doing fine, but I think he’s bored.”
“Should one of us ride down there to pay him a visit, an’ cheer him up?”
“I thought about that, but Drake’s the only man here, and I can’t spare him.”
“What if one of us heads there, while the other goes back north? I could do that. I’ve never been out that way. Be nice to see a new stretch of country.”
“It’ll be a cold ride. Winter won’t start to break for another couple of months yet.”
“That’s all right. I can dress warmly.”
“All right, thanks, Travis. That’s probably a good idea. You can tell me how the place looks when you pass through here on your way back. It’ll be good to have a second opinion. When do you plan to leave?”
“Shelton and I figured to head back north tomorrow morning, so we’ll split up instead of riding back together.”
“That’ll do.”
They left their horses, picketed securely, at the foot of the hill where Walt had dismounted the previous day. It was a cold, starlit night, with just enough moonlight to show where they were going. The seven men gathered in a circle, checking their weapons one last time, feeling inside their coats to make sure that the fused sticks of dynamite were at body temperature by now and ready for use, fumbling in their pockets to confirm that they had matches. They left the warm buffalo dusters on their horses. They would be colder without them, but the heavy coats slowed them down too much. Rapid movement would be critical, a very short while from now.
“Everybody ready?” Walt asked at last.
Silent nods and soft murmurs answered him.
“All right. You all know where to go, what to do, and when to do it. Good luck to all of us.”
The men turned, broke into ones and twos, and melted away into the night.
* * *
Nate slipped silently up to the rear of the barn. A single door, wide enough for one horse but not for two, was unlocked. He let himself inside, stepping very quietly. Two of the six horses inside whickered softly, inquiringly. He stood still, to give them time to get used to his scent. His lack of sudden movement, and staying clear of them, eventually had the desired effect. The animals relaxed, although they watched his movements curiously.
He couldn’t see clearly in the darkness inside, so he almost tripped over the tongue of a light wagon pulled into the rear of the building. Cursing under his breath, he caught his balance, grateful that he hadn’t yet cocked the ten-gauge shotgun in his hands. An accidental shot would ruin all their plans.
The double doors at the front of the barn were closed, but not locked. Nevertheless, Nate didn’t dare try to open them, for fear they would creak and wake someone in the house. He thought for a moment, then climbed the ladder to the hayloft overhead. Its square opening had no door, and faced towards the farmhouse across the yard. He took up his position at the edge of the opening, and set out half a dozen shotgun shells in front of him. If anyone ran towards the barn from the house, trying to escape on horseback, he would stop them. From here, the spread of buckshot would be just about shoulder width in the center of the yard.
Silently, he waited for first light and the signal to go into action.
* * *
Pablo moved past the barn on silent feet, heading for a position halfway between it and the workers’
small houses. He eased himself down underneath a farm cart, between its solid wooden wheels. He wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of dung that clung to it, even in the middle of winter. The wheel at his back would provide concealment against fire from the house, while that in front would shelter him from any bullets launched from the cottages.
He reached into his jacket, touching the three sticks of dynamite that lay ready against the warmth of his body. Each had a one-inch fuse of slow match, guaranteed to burn for fifteen seconds. He didn’t trust the guarantee, so he’d assume ten seconds as an outside limit. He was too far from the little houses to reach them with a throw, but that didn’t matter. The dynamite was there to serve as giant noisemakers if need be, throwing dust and smoke high into the air, deterring the farm workers from getting any closer to the fight.
He laid his Winchester rifle on the ground, ready to hand, and eased out a box of matches from his jacket pocket. As he prepared, he wondered anew about Walt. Not many gringos, in his experience, would care if a few Mexican workers got killed in a fight such as this. They weren’t important, in their scheme of things. Walt was different. He would kill at once if necessary, and without remorse—like he had those four horse thieves he’d hunted down, or Morley; but he also tried to protect people who couldn’t possibly matter to him, like that Indian woman at the other farm, or the workers here. He’d gone so far as to detach Pablo to keep them out of the fight, even though that would put him in greater danger by having one less fighting man with him at the house. It was a puzzle.
* * *
Tom and Jack eased up to the front of the house, moving so slowly it felt like time itself was creeping alongside them. They felt very carefully ahead of them with their feet, trying to make sure they didn’t put their boots down on anything that could make a noise.
At last they reached the hitching rail. Tom reached into his jacket, and took out a bundle of three sticks of dynamite. He’d wrapped them well in a strip cut from one of his blankets, to hold in the warmth of his body and prevent them becoming too chilled to go off in the icy morning air. He reached out and touched Jack’s arm, very gently, then crept forward to lean the bundle against the heavy, strongly built front door. Satisfied with its position, he led the quick match fuse off to the side of the house. Meanwhile, Jack covered the front windows with his revolver, ready to shoot anyone who might wake up early and see them.