A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  In the end there was nothing for Wade Hutto to do but concede the point. The indignity of mixing with one’s “inferiors” paled against the possibility of roasting over a slow Comanche fire.

  “Cheer up,” Sam said. “If we get out of this alive, your boy Mayor Holloman will probably pick up a lot of votes in Mextown next election.”

  “Votes? We don’t let Mexes vote,” Hutto said.

  “The commanding officer at Fort Pardee’ll have something to say about that. There’ll be some changes made come Election Day. Hope we’re here to see it.”

  “You devil,” Russ Lockhart said feelingly. “Is there no end to your base Northern scheming?”

  Making no further comment, Sam joined his fellow delegation members—Latigo, Joe Delagoa and Wiley Crabbe—charged with persuading the folk of Mextown to combine rather than be conquered separately. Sam was a gringo, but it was hoped that as a generally shunned and despised outsider among the Anglo ruling class, his words might carry some weight. Coffin maker and stone carver Joe Delagoa, of Portuguese descent, made his home in Mextown. Wiley Crabbe, another cousin of the Dog Star’s Squint McCray, had a common-law Mexican wife and a couple kids by her, giving him a dash of credibility with the Hispanic community. More impressive were his credentials as a skilled horseman and dead shot, attributes well respected by all ethnic groups throughout the West.

  One of Don Eduardo’s simpatico pistoleros, Latigo had the most pull, though the folk of Mextown were of decidedly two minds concerning the master of Rancho Grande. The grandee was haughty, remote, and had never lifted a finger to help them; on the other hand he was one of their own kind and held his own against the Anglos, which counted for something.

  To Mextown rode the four, to confer with the alcalde, the headman, and the village elders. The raid earlier by the Comanches had left a number of folk killed and injured, adding urgency to the message of combine or die. No less persuasive was Black Robe’s cassock, which Sam brought to buttress his case. The weird, fearsome talisman was a tangible warning sign shrieking Danger! Red Hand is coming!

  Headman and elders immediately agreed and set about organizing the exodus from Mextown, adding their numbers to the scores of men, women, and children already assembled at the courthouse.

  Clangor boomed as long, high-backed courtroom benches were taken apart to serve as barricades. Glass was knocked out of windows, a preemptive measure to protect against injuries from razor-sharp glass shards during a battle. Backs, seats, and struts from the disassembled benches were nailed in place as bulwarks at the bottom halves of the paneless windows.

  The aftermath of the War Between the States was a time of scarcity throughout Texas and the rest of the South, but Hangtown had guns and ammunition aplenty. A sizeable arsenal was amassed, apart from the rifles, shotguns, and pistols with which the locals already went about armed.

  Foodstuffs and supplies of fresh drinking water were stockpiled against a long siege. They were kept in a storeroom under lock and key, under the watchful eyes of guards posted by Barton.

  Buckets of water were distributed throughout the building as prevention against fire. Buckets of sand were also in place to soak up slippery blood that might coat the floor.

  The fact of it being Saturday worked to the advantage of the defenders. Many ranchers had come to town with their families. A fair number were still in Hangtown when the Comanches first struck. The vast majority of them survived. Their families were intact and in town.

  A handful of families had split up earlier, with some members remaining in town while others dispersed back home to their ranches. After the attack, those in town were half crazed with fear and worry over the possible fate of loved ones at the ranch. They were in a tight spot—make a mad dash to the outlying ranches to rally their families and race back to town, risking death or capture by Red Hand’s braves or stay put in town, separated from the rest of their family.

  Hutto and the sheriff could not spare any men to assist in rounding up the outliers, not when the Comanches’ main force might hit town at any time. Volunteers to escort such a suicide mission were few ... actually none.

  No one had the right to order men separated from their families to stay in the safety of town (such as it was) while those they loved were unknowingly threatened with the horrors of rape, torture, and death. The only option suggested was that these desperate men band together as a single force and go from ranch to ranch, collecting all their families before risking the return trip.

  In the end that was done. Eight grim-faced men rode out together, vanishing over the horizon en route to the vast ranch lands along the forks of the Liberty River, wondering what they would find and if they would return.

  A super-corral was hastily thrown up around the area of Hobson’s livery stable to save as many horses from the Comanches as possible. The layout of the area lent itself to a more formidable stronghold than Hobson’s rail fence. The rear of the jail and feed store, the front of the stable, and the side of the carpenter shop/lumberyard served as bulwarks of the enclosure. Four streets formed a grid. The street mouths were barricaded, sealed by wagons turned on their sides, hogshead barrels, and stacked hay bales. Anchored with weights, the wagons were backed by lines of hay bales to serve as shooting platforms, allowing defenders to take cover behind the upended wagons and shoot across their tops.

  The longest open space was enclosed with two freight wagons turned on their sides. Gaps in the barricade were shored up with piles of tables, chairs, cords of firewood, and whatever else came to hand. The lumberyard supplied planks, beams and odd-sized pieces of scrap wood. Several openings were left at opposite ends of the enclosure, allowing quick and easy access while the barrier was being built. When the time came, they would be sealed with hay bales and hogsheads.

  The flat roofs of the jail, feed store, and carpenter shop would serve as platforms for riflemen, as would the loft of the stable barn. Quantities of hay, oats, and water for horses were massed inside the enclosure, serving a double purpose of reinforcing makeshift walls.

  Scores of horses were gathered for the penning. The Big Corral, as it was called, thronged with horses, stallions, mares, geldings, yearlings, colts, scrappy ponies, and massive quarter horses. A wealth of prime horseflesh—an irresistible target for Red Hand and his warrior braves.

  A reserve stock was set aside to serve as a mounted force against the Comanches, and to carry out errands and make the rounds around town.

  The Staffords and the Ramrod bunch were centered in the feed store. Store-owner Dickerson had grudgingly consented to house the Ramrod riders in the building. Vince Stafford had come out in favor of it and Dickerson didn’t want to go against him. Few did. A big building, it stood alone, sharing its lot with no adjacent structures, and almost directly opposite the Golden Spur and Damon Bolt, the special object (though not the only one) of Vince Stafford’s ire. It was the prime reason Vince had proposed the arrangement; he could keep the gambling house under observation while waiting out the Comanche onslaught.

  Stafford was a big customer of the store. Having the Ramrod riders lodged in the store might well protect it from being sacked and burned. On the other hand, they were rowdies and Dickerson feared losses from pilferage and vandalism. Still, he personally opted to stay in the courthouse along with his family, pinning his hopes on the sheriff’s office being next door to the store where he could keep an eye on it. Besides, if they started tearing up the place, he could do nothing to stop them.

  Ramrod men carried fifty- and one hundred-pound sacks of oats, grain, barley, and the like from the store, stacking them out in front of the building to form defensive breastworks. The Staffords were inside the store, well under cover, not showing themselves as potential targets of a well-aimed shot from the gambling house.

  “What about the ranch, Pa? They’s only a handful of the boys there,” Quent asked.

  “They got to take their chances like the rest of us. Here’s where the battle will be fought and won. R
ed Hand will go for the big prize. Take Hangtown and he can pick off the ranches later. With any luck we’ll break the Comanches here before they get to raiding the South Fork,” Vince said.

  “Hutto’s sticking,” Clay said. “You don’t see him making any damn fool run for his ranch. Not with those scalp hunters out there.”

  Quent was restless, not one to sit still for too long, if at all. He paced back and forth. “What about them Mexes in the Spur?” he fumed.

  Several dozen Mexican-Americans males, youths and adults, were housed in the gambling house.

  “What of them?” Clay said. “They’re here to fight Red Hand. When the fighting’s over they’ll go back to Mextown. They won’t mix in our feud. They don’t give a damn about white folks killing each other.”

  “I don’t like it,” Quent said.

  “Don’t get yourself in an uproar. When Red Hand’s whipped, we take the gambler,” said Clay.

  “And his whore,” Vince said quickly.

  Clay groaned. “You still harping on that? For God’s sake, Pa, let it go. It’s crazy talk.”

  “Nothing crazy about doing what’s right,” Vince said. “It’ll get done, too.”

  “I ain’t killing no woman. I got to live in these parts. Nobody’s hanging a woman-killer tag around my neck.”

  “I ain’t gone kill her, if that’s what making you go all yellow, Clay. I’m just going to make her wish she was dead, like my boy—your brother Bliss—or did you forget about him already?”

  “I didn’t forget, Pa.”

  “See that you don’t.”

  “You sweet on that gal, Clay?” Quent said, snickering.

  “I wouldn’t have had nothing to do with her, if Pa hadn’t sent me to buy her off,” Clay said, coloring. “She’d’ve took the money, too, if it’d done any good. But Bliss would’ve gone chasing after her, no matter where she went. He just had to have her all to himself.”

  “And now he’s dead, and they’s gone be a reckoning,” Vince Stafford said in a tone of finality.

  Clay fell silent, exasperated.

  Dusky shadows thickened in the feed store.

  The Dog Star Saloon regulars, a hard-core nucleus of fifteen or so, clustered in and around the jail. Most of them had had more than a passing acquaintance with the hoosegow in the past, but this time things were different.

  Using tables, chairs, barrels, and hay bales, they built a barricade in front of the stone blockhouse, with wings extending along the sides for a man’s length or so, forming a U-shape. Narrow openings at the sides allowed free passage. Finished, the men loitered around, loafing, smoking, talking, drinking, matching coins, and checking their weapons.

  The sun had set, purple dusk deepening into night. Barton stood outside the barricade, smoking a cigar. He looked around. It was risky, putting the Ramrod bunch so close to the Golden Spur, but it kept both parties well away from the women and children forted up in the courthouse.

  Closer to home, he eyed the Dog Star troops, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “What a crew! Looks like a posse should be chasing you fellows.”

  “Funny, huh? Us boys making our stand here at the jail, that is,” Squint McCray said.

  “Why not? For most of you, it’s your home away from home. I ought to charge rent for all the time you rannigans have slept off a drunk back in the cells,” Barton said.

  “Rent? What do you think them fines were?”

  Barton let it pass. “Where else are you and your crowd gonna light? Not in the courthouse with the respectable folk. They won’t have you. Not in the Spur, Damon wouldn’t chance all you booze hounds getting so close to his fine, high-priced liquor.”

  “Hard words, Sheriff, hard words.”

  “But true. And you sure don’t want to bed down with Vince and friends.”

  McCray said a dirty word, then spat. “Shoot, I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”

  “Maybe Red Hand’ll do just that, and set him on fire for you not to piss on him,” Barton quipped.

  “I can hope. Anyhow, the jailhouse’s the place to be. Good solid walls,” reasoned McCray.

  “You ought to know, you been behind ’em enough.” Barton puffed on his cigar, the smoke clouds wreathing his head.

  “Say, Sheriff, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra seegar to spare, would you?” McCray wheedled.

  Barton started to tell him where to go, then thought better of it for some unknown reason. He took a cigar out of his breast pocket. “Here.”

  “Why, thankee!” McCray said, surprised.

  “Don’t tell where you got it or all your pals’ll be trying to bum a smoke from me,” Barton warned.

  “I’m a closed book,” McCray said solemnly. He bit off the end of the cigar, spitting it out. He lit up, puffing away. “You’re a gentleman, Sheriff.”

  “Just remember to vote for me come Election Day.”

  “I always do. Several times.”

  “Make sure you keep on doing it,” Barton said. If we’re still around.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dark was the night, and long.

  Mrs. Frye knocked softly on the Spur’s back office door. “Damon?” she said, low voiced. No answer. She turned the handle. The door was closed, but not locked. She entered, easing the door shut behind her.

  A globe lamp provided the sole illumination. A window in the rear wall had plank boards nailed over it, covering it almost to the top. Above the planks, a narrow horizontal band of blackness showed through the glass. A couch stood against a side wall.

  Damon Bolt sat behind a desk, arms folded on the desktop cushioning his head, which was turned to the side. His eyes were closed, his skin flushed. A snaky blue vein stood out on his high forehead, and sweat misted his face. Slow breathing came heavily. His jacket was draped across the back of his chair. A pair of pistols lay on the desktop, along with a whiskey bottle and an empty glass.

  Mrs. Frye padded noiselessly behind the desk. She put a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking it. “Damon ... Damon.”

  His slow, heavy breathing stopped and his eyelids slitted open. He lifted his head. “I’m not sleeping, Mrs. Frye. What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty. Why don’t you sack out on the couch? You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She knew better than to argue. Crossing to the couch, she picked up a folded knit comforter that lay at one end, unfolded it, and draped it over the gambler’s shoulders.

  His head once again lay on pillowing arms. “Thank you.”

  “I’m going up to bed,” she said.

  “Tell Monk to wake me an hour before dawn.”

  “I will.” Mrs. Frye lowered the flame on the lamp, dimming the light. A cone of bronze-colored light covered the desk and immediate area; beyond it swam yellow-brown shadows. She went to the door and paused. “Good night.”

  “’Night,” he said.

  She went out, closing the door.

  Damon’s eyes opened, peering blearily at the whiskey glass. Reaching for it, his hand closed around it, pulling it to him. Less than a mouthful of liquid lined the bottom of the glass. He raised his head and drank it.

  Setting down the glass, he took hold of the bottle, tilting it to pour. The glass was three-quarters full when the bottle ran dry. Damon drank most of it, shuddering. He set the glass down, rested his head on his arms, and closed his eyes.

  Mrs. Frye crossed the floor of the main room. Wall-mounted oil lamps broke up the big, barnlike space into zones of light and shadow. To economize, every other lamp in line had been extinguished, and those that burned had been trimmed low to not waste lamp oil. Besides, best not to have the place all lit up for fear of tempting Stafford’s men into taking potshots at shadowy figures within. There was enough light to see by, and that was plenty. And, if she lived through Red Hand, she’d need every cent she could scrape up to rebuild.

  The Golden Spur had been fortified. Boards were nailed over each window head-high, with plenty of lo
opholes and firing ports let into them, but the glass panes were still intact. Mrs. Frye was resigned to the likelihood of their destruction, but she refused to hurry the process. Window glass was expensive everywhere and hard to get that far west, especially the oversized front windowpanes. Maybe the Comanches wouldn’t come; time enough to shoot out the glass if they did.

  Strangers—Mexican-Americans from Mextown—were grouped at various places along the walls. There were dozens of them, ages ranging from graybeards to beardless youths. Their women, children, and oldsters were in the safety of the stonewalled courthouse.

  Few if any of the men had ever before set foot inside the Golden Spur. It catered to those who could pay the freight. Some of the better-paid higher-ups at Rancho Grande were occasional customers, but rarely did the denizen of Mextown have enough gold in his pockets for a night at the Spur.

  They’ll have something to tell their grandkids about how they spent the night in the gilded palace of sin, Mrs. Frye thought. If they live.

  It was the Yankee, Heller, whose idea it was for the Mexicans to fort up at the place. Mrs. Frye had been against it at the start, until Johnny Cross pointed out that the Ramrod bunch would be less likely to start trouble with all those extra armed men on the premises.

  “That’s one way to hedge a bet,” Damon had remarked.

  Never one to let her prejudices get in the way of her keen eye for the main chance, Mrs. Frye had agreed to admit the newcomers. She even allowed them kitchen privileges, to cook up a mess of beans and tortillas for their crowd. Any whiskey or beer they wanted, they had to pay for, though. There were few takers as the drinkers among them passed around bottles of tequila and mescal they had brought themselves.

  Some of the men smoked and talked quietly, others slept or tried to. They sat on the floor, backs to the wall, their wide-brimmed straw hats pulled down over their eyes. Others lay stretched out on the floorboards, folded serapes cushioning their heads.

  More than a few were armed with pistols. A goodly number of shotguns, from lightweight fowling pieces to trumpet-mouthed blunderbusses were close at hand. Some had rifles, mostly single-shot long guns and more than a few had unrifled muskets. Very few had repeating rifles. Everybody had blade weapons, machetes, belt knives, Spanish daggers, or stilettoes. Sharp-edged farm implements such as axes, scythes, hand sickles, and such were in evidence as well.