by Peter Grant
He slipped the hackamore over his horse’s head, adjusted it faster than he’d ever done in his life, and pulled the animal on the run to the back door of the barn. Pushing it open, he led the horse through it, then swung himself onto its bare back and kicked his heels into its sides. Startled, it jumped forward. He almost lost his balance, and had to drop his half-empty revolver as he clutched at the horse’s mane. He managed to hold on until he could wriggle into a more stable position. It was going to hurt, riding twenty miles bareback across country, and he’d be very cold—he was wearing only the union suit and bed socks in which he’d slept. Nevertheless, pain and cold sure beat the alternative.
He did not look back as he raced towards the horizon.
* * *
Walt struggled to his feet as he heard from the bedroom the sounds of a window opening. Instantly he realized what Parsons was trying to do.
Cursing, he spun on his heel and threw himself towards the shattered double doors leading outside. He ran through them, but his boot slipped on a piece of broken glass, and he tumbled painfully to the ground, winded by the impact. He rolled over, gasping for air, forced himself to his knees, and sprinted for the corner of the house.
Skidding around it, he saw Parsons pushing open the double doors of the barn, then disappearing through them. Nate was struggling to his feet in the hayloft, holding his left shoulder, blood running down his right arm; and Pablo was emerging from beneath his cart, blood on his face. Clearly, they’d both tried to stop Parsons, but failed. Walt’s blood ran cold as he recalled the speed with which Parsons had aimed and fired the shotgun at him, even with a sleep-dulled and dynamite-shocked brain. He may be the best gunman of all of us, he realized.
He dropped his revolver into his holster as he turned back to the corner of the house. Stooping, he seized his rifle, cocking it as he raced towards the barn. As he approached it, he heard another door slam back on its far side, and a rush of hooves as a horse galloped away.
By the time he reached the far side of the barn, Parsons was over a hundred yards distant, drawing further away with every moment. Walt looked around frantically. There was an old horse-drawn harrow lying on the ground a short distance away. He ran over to it, went down on one knee behind it, and rested his rifle across a protruding frame. By now Parsons was almost three hundred yards off. He had no time to adjust the rear sight to the right range setting, but he knew the rifle well enough by now to make allowance for it by eye. Aim for the biggest target, he cautioned himself as he pushed the trigger forward to set it. You may miss the man, but the horse is much larger. If Parsons is afoot, you can hunt him down in your own time.
He drew in a deep breath, let it halfway out, and held it as he squeezed the trigger. The big rifle boomed loud, kicking back into his shoulder. The projectile seemed to take an agonizingly long time to reach its target… then the meaty thump of a bullet strike echoed back to his ears. Parsons’ horse neighed shrilly as it tripped, and tumbled head-over-heels. Its rider’s yell of agony mingled with the horse’s cry as it smashed down on him.
“What a shot, señor!” Walt heard Pablo call as he ran towards him.
“Get a horse!” he yelled back. “Let’s go check on him!”
As Walt ran for the barn, he couldn’t help thinking it was grimly ironic that he’d stopped Parsons using Bart Furlong’s rifle, which the horse thief had probably bought using the proceeds of the crimes Parsons had set up for him. He noticed a revolver lying on the ground outside the barn’s rear door, and realized that Parsons must have dropped it. He picked it up, and tossed it and his rifle onto the straw in a stall. He and Pablo selected horses and threw bridles on them. They didn’t worry about saddles for such a short distance. They jumped astride their mounts, trotted them out of the double doors and around the barn, then cantered across the open ground.
As they approached, Walt could see that his bullet had struck Parsons’ mount in its rump, and ranged forward. It had broken its neck in its fall. Parsons lay half underneath the dead horse. He was mewling in agony, thrusting ineffectually at the dead weight pinning his broken pelvis to the ground. Walt looked him over carefully. No gun was visible in his hands or anywhere within his reach.
Walt pulled up his horse, slid to the ground, and handed his reins to Pablo. He walked over to the stricken man, and looked down at him for a long moment. At last he asked, “How does it feel to know you’ve come to the end of your rope?”
“I… You…”
“Your men are either dead, or soon will be. You’re finished, Parsons.”
The man found his voice at last. “Damn you! I should have had you killed the moment I realized you’d set the fire at Furlong’s place!”
“Yes, you probably should have.”
Walt bent, felt inside the neckline of Parsons’ union suit, and tugged hard. A string snapped. Parsons pawed ineffectually at his hand as he straightened up, holding a black cord with a large metal key swinging from it. “I think I’ll keep this. I reckon I might find something interesting in that big cabinet in your study.”
Parsons continued to struggle for a moment, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess you beat me. I can’t stop you.” However, from the back of his horse, Pablo could see a furious glare in the man’s eyes, giving the lie to his submissive words, and his slump looked feigned, artificial. What is he trying to hide? the Mexican asked himself.
Walt didn’t notice, because he was examining the key. He dropped it into his pocket, then drew a revolver. “Any last words?”
Parsons’ face contorted in bitter hatred. “Damn you to hell!”
“The good Lord just might do that one day, Parsons, although I’ll hope he has mercy on my soul. If he don’t, I guess we’ll meet again one day.”
He cocked the gun, aimed carefully, and fired once. The bullet smashed in between Parsons’ eyes. His head slammed back onto the ground. Every muscle in his body spasmed, as if suddenly struck by lightning, and then went limp.
Walt looked down at the corpse as he holstered his revolver. He felt drained. He’d known Parsons’ death would do nothing to bring Rose back, but he hadn’t expected this flat, dull emptiness inside. He didn’t even feel a sense of triumph. In the end, killing the man was just something that had needed doing.
At last he stirred, then walked back to his borrowed horse. Mounting, he turned to Pablo. “Go to the workers’ cottages. Find out what they’re doing.”
“They aren’t there anymore, señor. Didn’t you hear the cook shouting about Indians attacking? They all fled into the brush, scattering in all directions.”
“That’s good. It means none of them got a chance to see us up close. They won’t be able to describe us to the law. All right, head back to the barn and check on Nate. I’ll go to the house and see what’s happened to the others.”
* * *
Tom saddled one of Parsons’ horses and rode to where they’d left their mounts, to bring them to the farm. Meanwhile, Walt, Pablo and Sam helped Nate down from the hayloft, and walked him slowly over to the house. It smelled of dust from the shattering explosions, and gunpowder from the shots fired inside. They sat him down at the kitchen table.
“We’ve got to get that bullet out before we can ride,” Walt told Nate.
“I guess so, but there ain’t no doctor around here.”
“I’ll do it. There’s a reason I carry that medical kit with me. Remember, I was a scout and courier during the war. We mostly had to treat our own wounds, because we were often a long way from a hospital or doctor. Don’t worry. Taking a bullet out isn’t too hard, provided it’s not inside the chest or abdomen.”
“If you say so, boss.” Nate sounded distinctly dubious.
Walt looked around. “Sam, go outside and keep watch, to make sure the workers don’t come back. Shoot in front of them, even throw a stick of dynamite in their direction if you must, but try not to hurt any of them—just scare them. When Tom comes back, tell him I said to h
arness a team to the wagon in the barn. Help him tie lead ropes to it—long ones—then fasten every horse to them that won’t be ridden, including all Parsons’ horses. We’ll take them with us, so no-one can use them to report this. When you’ve done all that, park the wagon outside the front door, so we can load it. Pablo, give Sam your sticks of dynamite, then light the fire in the kitchen range and boil a couple of pots of water. I’ll clean up your cheek with it, then use the rest on Nate.”
When Tom arrived, Walt retrieved his medical kit from a pack horse’s saddle, and poured a measure of laudanum into a glass. “Drink this, Nate. It’ll take effect while I work on Pablo, so it won’t hurt so much when your turn comes.”
Pablo winced as Walt washed the dried blood from his cheek with hot water, then cleaned the wound with a solution of carbolic acid. “It’s not bad,” he reassured him. “It’s just a deep cut. I can stitch it closed if you like, but I’ve got to warn you, I’m no tailor. You’ll be left with a scar either way, but if I stitch it, I might make it worse.”
“Then I will do without the stitches, señor, thank you.”
“All right. Here, hold this to it until the blood stops flowing.” Walt handed him a folded cloth bandage, dampened with the solution of carbolic acid.
“Thank you, señor. Do you need me to help you with Nate?”
“No, I reckon not. I’m going to work slowly and carefully to get that bullet out. It’s going to take a while.”
“In that case, I will start gathering up all the weapons and valuables in the house, to load them on the wagon when it is ready.”
“Thanks, Pablo.”
Walt cut off Nate’s shirt, cleaned his wounds with hot water, and disinfected and bandaged the one on his right arm; then he took a pair of extractor forceps, and began to probe gently for the bullet still embedded in Nate’s left shoulder. Even though the laudanum had dulled his senses, Nate hissed sharply with pain as Walt worked. He concentrated fiercely on his task, trying to slip the forceps over the bullet and pull it out through the channel it had cut, and recover the pieces of coat, shirt and undershirt it had carried in with it.
Pablo went to Parsons’ bedroom. He collected the man’s gunbelt, shotgun, rifle and wallet, and took them through to the main room; then he went into the study, examining the big cabinet curiously. He couldn’t get out of his mind how Parsons had looked when Walt had taken the key from around his neck. “I wonder what trick señor Parsons might have put in there, to stop others looking at his secrets?” he murmured to himself.
The cabinet had obviously been built in place, using planks screwed to an internal wood frame, fastened to the wall. Its edges and corners were reinforced with metal straps, which were screwed onto the planks rather than bolted through them. Pablo hunted through the house until he found a toolbox, then used a screwdriver to remove the top and bottom straps on one side of the cabinet. He then unscrewed the planks from the frame, one by one, starting in the center, and pulled them very carefully away from the cabinet. What he found made him exclaim aloud in astonishment, and work even more delicately and carefully.
He walked through to the kitchen, to find Walt putting a dressing on Nate’s shoulder. “Is the bullet out, señor?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s out.” Walt nodded to a round lead ball on the kitchen table, accompanied by a few bloody scraps of cloth.
“When you have finished, there is something in the study you should see.”
Something in Pablo’s voice made Walt look up. “What did you find?”
“I found how señor Parsons planned to kill anyone who pried into his secrets.”
Walt’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? I’ll be right there.”
A few minutes later, he came through to the study. “All right, what did Parsons have up his sleeve?”
“This, señor.” Pablo gestured to the shelves in the cupboard. Their right side was exposed through the gap in the planks that he’d made. “Be careful not to touch anything. There are two sticks of dynamite at each end of each shelf. Their fuses all lead to the second shelf, where they are tied to a single fuse. Behind a stack of papers, I found this.” He pointed to an old Navy Colt, lying on its side, fastened securely to the shelf. A length of fuse lay next to it.
“That fuse ran all the way down its barrel into the top chamber. The gun was cocked when I found it. A cord was looped around its trigger, leading to a pulley screwed into the back of the cabinet, then forward to a hook on the inside of the door. If anyone opened it more than a little way without unhooking it, the cord would pull the trigger and fire the gun. I think it is charged with only powder, but that would be enough to light the fuse. If it is quick match…”
Walt nodded grimly. “That would set off the dynamite at once. That much of it would kill anyone standing in this room, and probably bring down the whole house on top of them. Pablo, I reckon you just saved my life. How in hell did you come to suspect something like this?”
“I watched señor Parsons when you took the key,” the Mexican said simply. “He was too ready to admit that he had lost. A man like that, who stole so much for so long from so many, and rode a hundred miles in a little over a day to try to stop Furlong… a man like that does not give up so easily. I asked myself, why didn’t he struggle? Why didn’t he fight?”
“All I can say is, I’m mighty glad you did! You just doubled your bonus, my friend.”
Pablo smiled broadly. “Thank you very much, señor.”
“All right, check the rest of the house, and the barn as well, for weapons and valuables. I’m going to pack what’s in this cabinet and the desk into sacks and boxes. We’ll load it all into the wagon, then wrap Jacob’s and Jack’s bodies in blankets and put them on top.”
“I will find something to cover the load, señor. It is beginning to snow again.” Pablo gestured through the shattered double doors to the white flakes drifting down.
“That’s good. It’ll cover our tracks.”
* * *
It was noon before everything had been loaded. Walt went through the house one last time, to make sure nothing of importance had been overlooked, then joined the others in the farmyard. “Is everyone ready?” he asked.
From the wagon seat, Nate said heavily, “I guess so.” His left arm was in a sling.
Beside him, Pablo nodded. He’d drive the wagon, his horse following along behind it. “I am ready, señor.”
Sam looked down from his horse. “I’m all set,” he said dully. He had been deeply affected by having to wrap Jacob’s body in a blanket, then load his friend and comrade-in-arms onto the wagon.
“I’m ready,” came from Tom.
“All right. We’ll cross the Colorado border by late this afternoon, then make camp, and cover the rest of the distance to San Juan tomorrow. We’ll bury Jacob and Jack in the graveyard there, then head for the last of Parsons’ properties. Thanks to a map in his study, I know where to go. We’ll recover anything he left there, and talk about what to do next.”
Walt swung into his saddle, and gathered the reins in his hand. “Let’s ride.”
“Hi, boss!” Isom yelled as Sam turned the buckboard into the farmyard. Riding beside it, Walt and Pablo waved.
“You’re lookin’ healthy again—in fact, you’re gettin’ fat,” Sam called as he braked the wagon.
“I’m feelin’ it. Damn, but Doli can cook! She’s been fattenin’ me up as if I’m a prize hawg, or somethin’.”
“How’s her leg?” Walt asked.
“Oh, it’s better, boss. She was on her feet before I was.”
“I’m surprised she’s still here, with her father and those braves. I thought they’d have headed back to the reservation by now.”
Isom hung his head. “Well, boss… I kinda told ’em they could bring some of their hosses here. There’s lots o’ hay stored, an’ not nearly enough animals to eat it. I figure the farm workers cut it themselves, plannin’ to sell it before winter an’ keep the money, but Morley arrived before they cou
ld do that, an’ stopped them.”
“No reason not to share it with the Navajo,” Walt agreed. “They helped you, after all.”
“Yeah, they sure did.”
“Did you get my letter?”
“Yeah.” Isom’s face fell. “I was real sorry to hear about Jacob an’ young Jack. They was good people—too good to die like that.”
Walt sighed. “Isn’t that always the way?”
“I guess it is. I see you’re ridin’ Jack’s horse.”
“Yes. He doesn’t have anyone to send it to, so I’ll keep it for my own.”
“I reckon he’d like that, boss—an’ you paid for it, after all. Where’s Nate an’ Tom?”
“They’re well. There’s a lot to tell you. Let’s get inside. We’ll sleep here tonight.”
“Sure, boss, iffen you don’t mind sleepin’ in the hayloft again. The house is full o’ Navajos!”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” He tossed his reins to Pablo as he dismounted. “Look after my horse, please.”
“Si, señor.”
As the others moved towards the barn, Walt said, “I’m surprised that the Navajo are hanging around, even with your offer of feed for their horses. I thought they didn’t take too kindly to soldiers, even former soldiers, after what happened to them during the Long Walk back in the ’60s.”
“Well… it’s like this, boss. Doli an’ I got on just fine together. We talked a lot while we was gettin’ better, she in that armchair, me in my bed, while the others took care o’ the place. We… we want to get married, boss.”
“That’s great! How does her father feel about it?”
“He’s all for it. Says I’m not the same as a white soldier, ’cause buffalo soldiers weren’t around at the time o’ the Long Walk. He figures I’m a warrior who’s proved myself in battle many times, which is more than most young Navajo can say today. He reckons I’ll give Doli good warrior children. She blushes when he says that, but she ain’t backed off.”