A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  In the middle ground, Thorn was finishing up the last of Eben, chopping him up alive with the ax. He’d set down his musket to do the job properly. The grisly task had splattered him with the red stuff from head to toe, but he didn’t seem to mind. Eben gurgled, choking out a death rattle.

  In line with the shuttered west front window, Greasy Grass hunkered down beside the body of Fisher, working on him with a scalping knife. Fisher’s hair was thin on top, balding, but that didn’t spare him the indignity of mutilation.

  Largely free of body hair themselves, the Comanche were amused and intrigued by its presence among whites. Sometimes along with the scalp they took the sideburns or a beard, or all three. Occasionally they took the full face, skinning it off the corpse’s skull, to make a mask of it, a cured and dried mask for their warrior society lodge. Such macabre curios made treasured heirlooms—keepsakes.

  Frowning with intense concentration, Greasy Grass leaned into his handiwork, shifting and squirming to make a series of sharp, precise cuts to take Fisher’s beard, along with much of the face that went with it.

  Ada thrust the shotgun muzzle through the loophole, pointing it at him. Greasy Grasss had time enough to look up and no more.

  Ada squeezed a trigger, the blast pulping his head. She was careful to use only one barrel. Swinging the shotgun to the left, she tried for Thorn, wielding the ax on what was left of Eben.

  Thorn was too fast for her. In one movement he flung the ax at her and threw himself to the side, diving headfirst to the ground. Ada pulled the second trigger a split second too late, hitting only empty air.

  The ax came hurtling at her end over end. Thunk! It struck blade-first, burying itself deep in the wooden shutter a handbreadth above the loophole.

  Thorn came out of his dive in a roll, grabbed his musket, and fired. A round tore through the shutter, missing Ada by inches.

  The shotgun was empty. She cleared it and grabbed two fresh shells out of her apron pocket but dropped one. It rolled in a half circle on the hardpacked dirt floor. She fumbled a shell into place, took another from her pocket and loaded it into the second barrel, ready for another go-round.

  Lydia had not gone far. Once inside the thicket, she paused at the edge. Crouching on hands and knees, sheltering beside a tree trunk, she peered through a gap in the underbrush. She could see the rear of the house and, to the left of it, part of the barn and corral.

  She was afraid to move, afraid to go and afraid to stay. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her mouth was open, panting, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

  A shotgun boomed. Lydia cried out involuntarily, clapping hands over her mouth.

  A second boom blasted.

  A Comanche rounded the rear corner of the west room, coming into view.

  Little Bells. Knife in hand, he sneaked up on the back window.

  Lydia thought it was shuttered, but she was wrong. Ada had closed it but in her haste had fastened it improperly. It hung slightly ajar.

  Little Bells put the knife between his teeth, freeing his hands to reach up and open the shutter. Taking hold of the windowsill, he boosted himself up, wriggling snakelike through the window into the house.

  Fear for herself and fear for her mother warred within Lydia. The Comanche is going to sneak up on Ma from behind and take her unawares.

  Lydia rose, parting the brush and stepping into the open field. She started toward the house. The empty black square of the open rear window was a sinister portent of ill omen. “Ma, look out! The back window!”

  Her voice sounded impossibly thin and faint in her ears, unable to carry its message of warning into the house so Ada could hear it.

  Inside, Ada peered through the loophole of the west room’s front window. The handle of the ax stuck in the shutter panel, blocking some of her narrow field of vision.

  Thorn and Firecloud had taken cover. She saw no sign of them. The shotgun was charged with a double load of shot but no targets presented themselves.

  A faint, high-pitched shrilling came to Ada’s ears. She recognized it as Lydia’s voice, though she was unable to make out the words. Her heart sank. She mumbled, “That fool girl, didn’t she have enough sense to stay hidden in the brush and keep silent? Or has she been taken?”

  Nearer, came a soft sound at the edges of her hearing. A sound innocent in itself, but infinitely dangerous in its current context, it was a faint jingling as of tiny chimes.

  At the same instant, Ada became aware of a menacing presence hovering nearby, a sensation not unlike that which seizes a rabbit when the shadow of a hawk passes over it.

  She sensed a rush of motion at her back and turned, swinging the shotgun around with her.

  A heavy, solid mass crashed into her, all but knocking her off her feet. She was swept across the floor and slammed into a wall. Little Bells crept closer to her, strong and relentless.

  Ada realized her mistakes. She’d seen four horses but only three braves and hadn’t fastened the rear window shutter properly. Two missteps in a contest where the slightest oversight could prove fatal

  Little Bells’s clawlike hands fastened on the shotgun barrel, trying to rip the weapon from her grasp, nearly breaking her finger in the trigger guard.

  He swung the barrel upward, causing Ada to jerk one of its double triggers. The gun fired, spewing deafening noise, flame, and smoke, and blowing a hole through the roof.

  Their faces were only inches apart as they struggled. A frontier woman by birth, Ada had come up in a hard school. She tried to knee her attacker, but he blocked it with his thigh.

  Little Bells rocked her with a vicious backhand, knocking the back of her head against the wall so hard she saw stars. The blow caught her in the mouth, splitting her lips and sending blood droplets flying.

  Ada fought to keep hold of the shotgun, but she could feel it slipping from her grip. He struck again, with a closed fist to her jaw. Blackness thrust inward around the edges of her awareness. There was a roaring in her ears. Her legs folded and she collapsed, sliding with her back against the wall and sitting down hard.

  Little Bells tore the shotgun from her nerveless fingers and glared at her. His white eyeballs gleamed out from the raccoon’s mask of black war paint banded around his eyes.

  The shotgun was a prize. He would keep it. Holding it in one hand, he used his other hand to grab a fistful of her hair and dragged her across the room to the door. He shrieked his distinguishing war cry, alerting his fellows that he was in control of the situation.

  Unbarring the door, he flung it open. He hauled Ada to her feet and threw her through the open doorway, out into the yard. She fell, sprawling in the dirt, dazed, semiconscious.

  Happy and exultant, Thorn and Firecloud emerged from behind cover, showing themselves. Still clutching the scalping knife, the corpse of Greasy Grass lay stretched out beside Seton Fisher.

  Little Bells had subdued the woman, and she was his by right of conquest. He shrugged. Interested not so much in womanflesh as horseflesh, he went to the corral to appraise the horses and take the best for himself, as was his right as leader. The others could do what they wanted with the woman. She was too old for him. He liked them young.

  The killing had excited Firecloud. He stood over Ada as she tried to rise from her hands and knees. He kicked her in the belly, doubling her up. She fell on her side.

  Thorn laughed, moving in to watch.

  Firecloud shucked off his bow and quiver of arrows, laying them on the ground. He flung Ada on her back and straddled her on his knees. Slapping, punching and bloodying her further excited him.

  Leering, he grabbed fistfuls of fabric at the front of her dress and tore it open. Shredding it, he bared the soft, abundant flesh of her upper body.

  He lifted her skirts, bunching them up around her middle, and pulled down her drawers, ripping them off.

  Firecloud threw himself on top of her. Under his breechcloth, he was hard. Rampant and ready, he took hold of himself and lunged into her, ripping, tearin
g, thrusting.

  Lydia stood midway between the back of the house and the treeline. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear it—the fierce exultant shrieks and agonized outcries. She’d been unable to warn her mother and save her. She now risked the same fate.

  The sound of hoofbeats broke her paralysis of will. A gut-twisting jolt of fear told her she was undone. Panicked, she turned to run for the brush.

  A lone mounted man rode east on the road north of the ranch. A white man.

  Changing direction, Lydia started toward him, terrified that he wouldn’t see her and would ride on. The road seemed a long way off. She waved her arms over her head. “Wait, wait! Help, please! Help!”

  From the corral, Little Bells heard the thin, wailing cries and things fell into place in his head. When he was in the house, he’d thought he’d heard a voice calling from somewhere outside. The woman had put up unexpected resistance, more fight than he’d bargained for, and in the excitement, he’d ignored the cries, forgetting them.

  Hearing them again, he ignored them no more. Running to his horse, he unhitched it and climbed on its back. Drawing his rifle from the saddle scabbard, he turned the horse’s head north and kicked the animal into a run. He rode between the east side of the house and the trees, breaking into the open field. A young female, a slip of a girl, ran toward the road, yellow braids streaming after her.

  Lydia’s long thin legs flashed, a blur of motion. War whoops sounded behind her. She glanced back only to have her worst fears confirmed. A brave on horseback was pursuing her, and he was closer to her than she was to the stranger.

  She couldn’t outrun a horse, but gave it a good try. Legs scissoring, she ran all out, scenery flashing by. She tripped over a half-buried root and fell forward, sprawling in the dirt and weeds.

  Not fair! It isn’t fair! Lydia got to her feet, swaying unsteadily. She looked over her shoulder and realized the Comanche was only a few horse lengths away and closing. As she stared at him, something changed in his face and he swung up his rifle.

  Tensing, Lydia braced herself for the shattering impact of a bullet.

  With Sentry Hill on his left, Sam Heller searched for a way off the south rim of the plateau. The uplands were crawling with Comanches and the sooner he was quits of it, the better the chances of keeping his hair. He’d been ducking scouting parties for several hours.

  He worked his way east on Rimrock Road, looking for a safe route down the south slope. He’d passed several ranches along the way in the last hour, and the one yonder was the first one he’d seen not burned to the ground.

  Nearing it, he heard shots.

  The mule’s-leg cleared the holster, filling his hand. Looking southward, he saw a long field leading to a ranch house.

  A girl raced across the field toward the road, waving her arms to attract his attention, crying out to him. He couldn’t make out the words but he didn’t have to. Her fear and desperation were plain to see. Sam turned Dusty toward her, angling across the field as the girl stumbled and fell.

  A Comanche swung into view, charging north.

  “Yah!” Sam put the boot heels to Dusty’s flanks, and gripped the reins between his teeth, freeing both hands to work the mule’s -leg.

  The Comanche had a rifle. Veering off from his pursuit of the girl, he changed course to meet Sam head-on.

  Little Bells fired first, his rifle bullet zooming past Sam’s ear like a fat bumblebee buzzing by. Sam fired second, but better, tagging the Comanche dead center.

  The Indian shuddered.

  A second round followed, ripping into him. A third knocked him backward off his horse, and Little Bells hit the ground hard.

  Sam hauled on the reins with his left hand. Dusty slowed. Little Bells’s riderless horse rushed past and kept on going.

  Sam reined in short of the fallen Comanche. A glance showed the brave was as dead as they come.

  Nearby, the girl stood swaying, shaken but unhit, gasping. “More of them—at the house. Ma! They’ve got her!

  “How many?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Go hide in the brush. I’ll be back for you. If not—stay there till it’s dark and then try to make it to the flat.”

  “Hurry, please! They’re killing her!”

  Sam rode toward the house, coming in on the west side, a shifty tactic that might edge the odds a hair more in his favor. He rounded the corner, entering the dirt yard.

  Firecloud was on top of Ada, raping her in the dirt. Thorn stood nearby, armed with Greasy Grass’s carbine, preferring it to the single-shot musket he’d discarded.

  Sam reined in hard, pulling Dusty up short. The horse reared, rising on his hind legs as Sam shot Thorn.

  As the hooves of Dusty’s forelegs touched ground, Sam shot Thorn again, watching as he fell in the dirt.

  Firecloud raised himself up on elbows and knees. Quickly, Ada reached under him, clawing the six-gun out of the top of his belt. She shoved the muzzle into his belly and worked the trigger, emptying the gun into him. His gut came undone, spilling entrails.

  Dying, Firecloud drew his knife and plunged it into Ada, burying it in her heart.

  Thorn was still twitching. Sam swung down off his horse and shot him again. Thorn stopped twitching.

  Ada and Firecloud were dead—leaving Sam and the girl alone in a country alive with Comanches on the warpath.

  FIVE

  Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew stopped in the Dog Star saloon, a dive on the south side of Hangtown. The saloon was a long, low, shotgun-style shed.

  Outside, it was midday, inside, twilight time. Day or night, a smoky gray dusk compounded of gloom, smoke, and whiskey fumes reigned over the place.

  A bar ran along one long wall. Tables and chairs were grouped along the opposite wall. The saloon featured raw whiskey at a low tap. A couple whores plied their trade in a back room.

  Behind the bar, drinks were served up by Squint McCray, proprietor. Two men, shiftless, lazy loafers who were reasonably honest as long as he had his eye on them, worked for him. Some joked that he’d developed the squint from watching the help closely.

  That was untrue. The squint was the result of a wound sustained in a knife fight, causing one of his eyelids to have a permanent droop. The undamaged eye glared fiercely, as if outraged at having to do the work of two good eyes.

  McCray preferred to hire relatives. The men were his cousins; one of the whores was his niece. The other whore was unrelated to him, McCray having no other female kin in that line of work. When he caught kinfolk in one of their petty dishonesties, as he inevitably did, he made allowances for them. Being family, he let them off with a roughing up or at worst, a beating. He didn’t have to bust them up bad, club them, cut them, or shoot them, as he might have felt duty-bound to chastise those with whom he shared no ties of blood.

  As for the whore who was no kin of his, she was scrupulously honest. She turned over to McCray all the money she made from rolling drunks, meekly accepting whatever portion of the loot he doled out to her in recompense.

  Such docility vexed him. It wasn’t natural. As a result he kept an even closer watch on her. He found himself wishing he could catch her stealing so he could let her off with a beating and break the tension created by her seeming integrity.

  Watchful as always, Johnny stood with Luke at the head of the bar where it made a little L-shaped jog near the entrance. Angled sideways with his back to the wall, he watched the patrons’ comings, goings, and carryings-on.

  He drank with his right hand—his gun hand—his left hanging down loose and easy near the butt of the gun holstered on his left hip. He was faster and more deadly accurate with a gun in his left hand than most men were with either hand.

  Luke leaned against the bar with his back to the door, facing the rear of the building. He could see the full length of the saloon, all but the entrance, and Johnny had that covered. Between them, they had the whole place under view.

  They weren�
�t expecting trouble, but they weren’t not expecting it, either. After all, this was Hangtown.

  At the bar, you took your drinks standing up, since there were no stools. If you wanted to drink and sit down, you took a chair at one of the tables. Had Johnny and Luke been planning to stay a while, they would have taken a table, to give Luke a chance to rest his good leg.

  Luke’s feet, the one of flesh and blood and the wooden one, were firmly planted on the sawdust-covered floor. His crutch was beside him, propped against the edge of the bar.

  The Dog Star drew a rough crowd, attracting more than its share of local hardcases. Few were out and out villains, but most were no better than they had to be. Small ranchers who weren’t above using a running iron to put their brand on other men’s cattle, cowboys too ornery or alcoholic or both to hold a job for long, horse thieves, gun hawks, drifters, tinhorns, skirt chasers, saddle tramps—a lively crew. The saloon was packed with them, thronging the bar and the tables.

  Johnny caught Squint’s eye, the good one, a round and fiercely glaring orb. He motioned for a refill. McCray nodded, reaching under the bar for a bottle of the higher-line brand of whiskey he kept for more demanding, better-paying customers.

  He filled Johnny’s cup, a wooden tumbler, and Luke’s too, while he was at it. All the cups in the saloon were made of wood. It cut down on breakage, especially during brawls. Fridays and Saturdays were usually good for a half-dozen brawls each night.

  “Have one on me, Squint,” Johnny said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” McCray grinned, showing the few teeth he had, black and broken. Setting another cup on the bar top, he poured himself a drink. Raising it, he said, “Mud in your eye.”

  He didn’t mind having fun with his name, so long as he was instigating it. Let somebody else make sport of it, though, and there could be trouble.

  “Here’s how,” Johnny said.