A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mister, they’re getting too danged close!” Lydia raised her voice to be heard over the drumbeat of galloping hooves, the whoop and shriek of fast-closing raiders.

  Her face was stiff, the pupils of her eyes blue-rimmed black dots, large and swimming. She kept glancing from the charging Comanches to Sam, to see what he was doing.

  Sam loosed the mule’s-leg from its holster. The hardware in the case was custom-designed for the cut-down Winchester. Practiced hands moving with expert sureness, Sam freed the elongated rifle barrel from its casing. Its butt end was expertly tooled, machined with spiraling grooves that ensured a perfect fit when joined to the muzzle of the Winchester’s sawed-off barrel. Sam screwed the long barrel into place, a final twist bringing its front sight post up with a click to the deadline-center vertical.

  Taking the smoothly polished wooden butt stock from its holder, he fitted its forward end over the butt end of the short-handled mule’s-leg. The stock’s open central slot fit snugly over the rear of the weapon.

  A pair of screws with flat, thumbnail-shaped ends was set in place in holes drilled in opposite ends at the head of the stock. Strong, dextrous fingers worked them, turning them in place in corresponding holes in the Winchester’s chopped handle.

  The mule’s-leg, cut-down for quick access when in the saddle or in the close quarters of a saloon or back alley, was transformed into a long rifle, with the precision and accuracy of the same.

  The wood case held a telescopic sight, too, but there was neither time nor need for attaching it; the Comanches were too close.

  Sam muttered under his breath. “Their blood is up. They’re hot for the kill, the dirty so and so’s.”

  “Hey, mister,” Lydia said, “don’t let them take me alive!”

  “Don’t be in such an all-fired hurry to die,” Sam said.

  Lydia, desperate, was insistent. “I ain’t no kid. I know what happens to girls they catch! Promise you won’t let that happen to me.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Swear it!”

  “I swear.” Sam shouldered the long rifle. Bringing it into play, he went to work.

  Black Robes. That’s what the Comanches called the Catholic priests who had first come with the conquistadors.

  In their misguided zeal the priests sought to convert the Indian tribes of the southwest. Comanches were bemused by these strange ones who clothed themselves in long black robes with high, stiff white collars, wearing crosses on chains around their necks. It was clear, though, that they were the Mexicans’ shamans and spiritual leaders, like the medicine men of their own tribes.

  The Black Robes had odd ways of doing things, even for whites—queer prohibitions and obligations—all designed to set them apart from more worldly individuals and bring them into contact with the god-devils of the Invisible World. Some had strong medicine indeed, chanting prayers of their faith while undergoing hideous tortures of cutting, burning, mutilation, and other bedevilments devised by Comanches to test the mettle of captive priests. The ironclad conquistadors came and went but the Mexicans and their Black Robes remained.

  During the summer of 1865, Red Hand had led his followers on a raid south across the Rio Grande deep into Mexico. One of his trusted henchman, a cruel and wily warrior of proven ability, killed the priest of a pueblo village during a skirmish. The pueblo was a clump of adobe houses inhabited by white-clad peasants with wicker-and-straw sandals. It yielded slim pickings, with few decent horses or weapons to plunder or captives to enslave and torment.

  The village had a church, a high-walled structure which the raiders gutted and burned. The Black Robe priest died well, hard but well. Red Hand’s henchman stripped the corpse of its black robe, donning it.

  The Comanche wore the clerical garb like a long-sleeved coat or cape, splitting and cutting it to maximize his freedom of movement. The garment gave him power, not the power of a shaman such as Medicine Hat, but still, an aura of otherworldly menace enhancing his death-dealing capabilities in the material world.

  It set the henchman apart from his fellows, who in the time-honored way of the tribe began calling him “Black Robe.” His old name, the name by which he had previously been known to one and all, was dropped, forgotten as if it never was. Henceforth he was—Black Robe.

  Now, a year later, Black Robe’s priestly vestment was somewhat the worse for wear. Weathered and bloodstained, it was ripe with the smoke of countless campfires, the burning of villages, and the blood of many foes. It was tattered and frayed, with torn seams showing at the shoulders and across the back. It was decorated with strips of buckskin fringe along the arms and brightened with beads and scraps of colored ribbons.

  Black Robe’s mission, given him by Red Hand himself, was to lead a band of scouts down on the flatland, making sure that no White Eyes from the plateau escaped the slaughter to warn their fellows in the ranches and town.

  Black Robe’s party was one of several advance parties operating deep in enemy territory, land the Comanches regarded as theirs by right. These bands would begin the encirclement and isolation of the town of the Hanging Tree.

  The tribesmen well knew the Hanging Tree and hated it. More than a few of their number had been caught in times past by the hated Texans and hung on a rope by the neck from the lightning-blasted tree at the edge of town. It was a bad thing, an evil act, for Comanche tradition decreed that any warrior slain by hanging was unable to enter the Happy Hunting Ground, his spirit condemned to wander the winds forever in bodiless, endless limbo.

  It was good that Red Hand had united the bravest of the brave under the Fire Lance to take and sack the town, killing the Texans, save for such captives to be taken as slaves or given up to the torture.

  Black Robe’s band had been busy, raiding small ranches in the Breaks, burning them out and killing their occupants. Moving east, they slew a number of hapless travelers crossing the flat. A good day in all, but the next day would be better. The next day was the Day of the Great Raid.

  For now, Black Robe and his men still had work to do, scouring the plains for such whites as they could find and take. Chance favored them with the sight of two more victims riding out in the open.

  The gods were kind, for one of the fugitives was female. She would afford Black Robe and the others some trifling amusement throughout the night before being put to death before dawn light of the Day of the Great Raid, assuming she lived through the ordeal of rape and horror.

  As for the man, he would be killed, probably outright, though if he could be taken alive, great sport would be had putting him to the torture.

  Black Robe led his band in pursuit. As always, the prey sought to escape, though their fate was a foregone conclusion. Two against twelve, miles from the nearest ranch with no cover and nowhere to run, they were doomed.

  Black Robe was surprised when the fugitives broke off the chase to stand and fight. “A great joke, eh, my brothers!” he crowed.

  How the other braves laughed! Perhaps one or two of them would be wounded or even killed during the chase, adding the spice of danger to the chase. So much the better! Each brave was confident his own personal power would protect him from harm and ensure that ill luck would befall one of the others.

  A Comanche band in full charge was an impressive sight, fearsome to those unfortunate enough to be the object of their wrath. Closing on the rocks and skinny tree where the fugitives would stage their pathetically futile defense, Black Robe was chagrined to find his pony unexpectedly faltering.

  The animal favored one leg, causing it to lose speed. From the feel of the mount under him, Black Robe guessed the cause was nothing more serious than a pebble caught under a hoof of one of the forelegs. Had the distance been greater or the foe more formidable, he would have halted to dislodge the obstruction, but his galloping band was fast nearing the two in the rocks and there was no time to waste.

  He resolved to ride the horse full out. If the hardship crippled or lamed it, he would replace it with one of the Te
xans’ horses. Still, it was irritating to lose his place at the head of the charge while his fellows overtook him on uninjured mounts. As leader he must ever be at the fore, outdoing others in deeds of valor and horsemanship.

  Furious, he kicked the horse’s flanks with his heels, cursing the animal, urging it to greater speed. His efforts were for naught. Worse, the animal’s pace slowed even further.

  In battle, in the heat of the chase, rank and precedence counted for nothing; each warrior must show himself to best effect, seeking always to surpass all others. No brave slowed to wait for Black Robe to catch up. In truth, each was secretly delighted by the ill luck suddenly afflicting their vaunted leader.

  It had all the makings of a great jest, one that would be told and retold around the campfire with relish—just the kind of reversal of fortune a Comanche delighted in, so long as it happened to the other fellow and not himself. What a joke if Black Robe was last in line to take enjoyment of the leavings of the girl, after all the other braves had had her first! Ah, the sly jokes and smirks at his impotent fury at being bested!

  Though perhaps not too openly, for Black Robe was a fierce fighter with a wicked temper, a well-respected killer. Still, he who comes first to the spoils is first served.

  Advancing in a loose, wide arc, the riders fanned out on both sides and rode rings around the two whites in the rocks. The man would be downed quickly no doubt, but not the female; she must be taken alive and intact. A slip of a girl with a pair of yellow braids bracketing a wide-eyed, ghostly face.

  Shouting and catcalling to each other to be heard over the clamor of the charge, the braves marveled. “Look, she has a rifle!”

  “Waugh! That is good! She has spirit!”

  Like Black Robe, about a third of the band were similarly armed with repeating rifles. Others had cavalry carbines or single-shot rifled muskets. Several relied on the bow and arrow and their skill at letting loose shaft after shaft in quick succession.

  The Comanches opened fire, rifles cracking. Arrows whizzed, arcing through the air, and falling well short of the mark, but getting the range.

  Sam had readied to take out Black Robe first. Kill the leader and break the spirit of the band. But when he fell behind, Sam swung his rifle toward the Indian at the head of the charge. Lining him up in his sights, he squeezed the trigger. Tagged dead center, the lead brave fell off his horse.

  Sam swung the rifle slightly to one side, sighting on the next in line. The trigger was pulled, the rifle barked, and another man went down. The riderless horse raced away.

  Sam picked off a third Comanche. He was knocking them down like targets in a shooting gallery, the deed done as passionlessly as if he were clearing a row of tin ducks. Shot followed shot in quick succession from his long rifle. Each shot hit its mark, killing a man.

  Once or twice when Sam targeted a foe, the wounded warrior remained upright, still on horseback. With barely a pause Sam shot again and that man fell and died.

  The braves focused their ire and weapons on the source of the furious firepower. Bullets smashed into the rock shielding Sam like hail peppering a flat roof. A round clipped the edge of his hat brim, nicking a half-moon shaped hole out of it.

  Arrows shattered on the slabs of the rock pile, spraying Lydia’s face with stinging splinters, but missing her eyes. That stung her into action. Drawing a bead on a Comanche, she fired—and missed.

  Taking aim again, she discovered her target’s horse was empty, the brave having been felled by Sam, who had already moved on to the next foe.

  It was done without thinking—point, squeeze the trigger, kill a man, find the next target.

  A rider on the right flank of the arc of charging braves swung farther to the right, his purpose to swing around the rocks and get behind the defenders. He was on Lydia’s left.

  Adjusting her aim to lead him, Lydia fired. Hit, the brave spasmed, the rifle slipping from his hands. He clutched his horse’s flowing mane with both hands, holding on tight. Losing his grip, he slipped off the side of the horse, spilling into the dust.

  Of the twelve braves who’d begun the charge, only six remained on horseback by the time they’d halved the distance between them and the rocks. The charge was breaking up, falling apart.

  The surviving braves were stunned by the vicious counterstrike. It was like riding full tilt into a wall of hot lead. Comanches were no strangers to the repeating rifle, more than a few of them were similarly armed. But none had ever come face-to-face with a repeater wielded by such a dead shot as Sam Heller.

  Even their best marksmen were at a disadvantage. They were on horseback, charging across uneven ground. Sam, dismounted, worked from a stable firing platform.

  He had some cover. The Comanches had none. They were being decimated by a sharpshooter with the world’s latest and most lethal application of mechanized mass death available to a lone individual.

  The braves were no fools. They were in the game to kill, not to die, but it was all happening too fast for them to break off the charge. No sooner did they realize the damage done than it was too late to turn back. They had a mountain lion by the tail. Or rather, he had them.

  That was the edge Sam Heller had been counting on. With his repeating rifle he could pick off most, if not all, of the attackers before they closed with him.

  The last of the Comanche band was very close indeed. Outriders on the flanks turned their horses’s heads, peeling off from the charge. Or trying to. Sam wasn’t going to let them circle around the rocks and get behind him. He picked off a brave at his extreme left. A beat later, he felled an outrider wheeling to the right.

  Black Robe’s rage at being undone by his lamed horse was supplanted by stunned amazement as the ranks of his band thinned visibly with each passing second. What had first seemed great sport was becoming a blistering fight for survival, one his side was losing.

  He took heart in the surety that all was not lost. His gods had not deserted him. What he had taken for a cruel jest of fate laming his mount had become the instrument of his salvation. Had he been at the head of the charge, he would have been the first to fall to the White Eyes with the Devil Gun. But luck was still with Black Robe, affording him an opportunity to turn disaster into victory.

  Holding on to the horse’s neck with one bent arm, hooking the back of an ankle around his saddle’s high wooden cantle, he hung down on his horse’s right-hand side. This put the animal’s body between him and the foeman’s Devil Gun, covering him as he swung right to get behind the rocks on Sam’s left. Half lurching, half loping, the horse was still game, still coming on.

  Black Robe clutched his rifle in one hand, the barrel protruding beneath the horse’s snout as he lined it up for a shot at Sam.

  Sam was busy burning down a last lone brave who’d almost reached the rocks on a head-long charge. He drilled him through the heart.

  Lydia saw Black Robe coming, but he was too well screened behind the far side of the horse to present much of a target to her. He glimpsed the girl with the yellow braids as she rose and turned, pointing a rifle in his direction. A flare rimmed the muzzle of her weapon as she fired.

  Thinking fast, Lydia shot not at the brave but at his horse. The horse stumbled, forelegs folding, tumbling headfirst. Black Robe was thrown, cartwheeling to the hard ground.

  He rolled to a stop, battered and dazed, semiconscious. He was empty handed, having lost the rifle in the fall. Somehow he rose, standing shakily on two feet.

  Sam shot him. Black Robe’s awareness was blotted out by the darkness of complete and illimitable death.

  Sam Heller looked around. Dead bodies lay all about; riderless horses scattered in every direction. Like himself, the girl was unhit, unhurt. She put a hand against a rock to steady herself. “Hey, mister!”

  Sam looked at her.

  “My name is Lydia—Lydia Fisher.”

  Sam realized that up till now he hadn’t known her name. “Glad to know you, Miss Fisher.”

  “Lydia,” she
said, sticking out a hand.

  He shook it. “Call me Sam.”

  ELEVEN

  It was quiet in the Golden Spur, as if the earlier outburst of violence had never been. The dead bodies had long since been carted away. Sawdust thrown down by Swamper had soaked up the blood. He swept it up, mopping the stains with a bucket of hot water, lye soap, and a scrub brush. Their washed-out shadows darkened the floorboards.

  “That’s enough,” Mrs. Frye said. “There’ll be more later—or sooner.”

  Swamper tossed the scrub brush into the bucket and put everything away, then crashed on his mattress in a corner of the kitchen to sleep off some of the booze he’d guzzled in the aftermath of the shootings.

  A long case clock stood between two windows on the west wall of the main hall. In height and shape it was not unlike a coffin standing on end. Black and gold it was, made of ebony wood with gilt trimmings. An ivory-colored clock dial was decorated with images of the sun, moon, and stars; sun and moon were depicted with the human faces of Old Sol and the Man in the Moon.

  The hands on the clock pointed to a little after seven in the evening. The interior of the case was filled with clockwork gears and a pendulum, each ticktock sounding as sharp and clear as a gun hammer being thumbed back into place.

  Damon Bolt sat in place at the table facing the front door, playing his game of solitaire. Whether it was the same game as before or a new one made no difference to him. He continued to play with an undiminished air of concentration and a steady hand, despite the fact that the level of whiskey in his bottle had declined noticeably in the last hour or so.

  Mrs. Frye had retreated to the office behind the staircase. The door had been left open to hear if anything was going on outside the room. She sat behind a desk, going over the accounts. Her steel-tipped ink pen made rustling, scratchy sounds on the ledger pages as she brought the entries up to date.

  Out front, Morrissey stood behind the bar, absently polishing up glasses with a thin towel. A double-barreled shotgun lay on its side on the countertop, near at hand. The front pockets of his white bib apron bulged with shotgun shells.