The Colt was empty. Sam let it go and drew the mule’s-leg. Rising to his knees, he worked the lever, spewing lead into the side street. Muzzle flares pulsed with fiery flashes.
Three braves writhed, shrieking in a death dance as they were cut down.
On his feet, Sam advanced, levering the mule’s-leg, cutting down Comanches all the way to Commerce Street.
He watched as the two Comanches who had stayed behind to hold the horses hopped on the backs of their ponies to make their escape. Screened by a row of buildings, they were safe from Sam’s bullets.
The deadly little skirmish was over. But Latigo was dead.
TWENTY
The clock tower on the courthouse had been turned into a combination observation post and sniper’s nest. It was occupied by two Hangtown marksmen of note, Pete Zorn and Steve Maitland.
Zorn was an old-timer, a burnt-out cinder of a man, gray-haired, grizzled. A veteran of the Mexican-American War and the War Between the States, and countless shooting scrapes with Indians and owlhoots, he was a dead shot with a rifle.
Steve Maitland was a gangly, sixteen-year-old ranch kid with brown hair, a pink beardless face, and the clear cold gray eyes so often found in sharpshooters. He had finished second in the annual Thanksgiving Day turkey shoot the year before—no mean feat in Hangtown with its many top shooters.
Zorn had finished first that day and taken the prize.
The clock tower room was a square space, much of it taken up by clockwork machinery. Gears, wheels, flywheels, weights, counterweights, and pendulums were corroded with rust and thick with dust and congealed grease.
The walls had louvered side windows with adjustable horizontal wooden slats, allowing for light, vision, and ventilation. They also allowed for many and varied lines of fire covering much of Hangtown below.
The space was supplied with a couple chairs and whatnot to provide Zorn and Maitland with minimal comforts. A kerosene lamp burned smokily, trimmed low to provide illumination with minimal damage to the occupants’ night vision. Each shooter had his own rifle plus several extras supplied by the town to minimize time spent in reloading. There was plenty of ammunition, too.
Earlier, they had watched as a number of stealthy two-man teams set out from Four Corners to plant dynamite in the avenues of approach. They’d kept a ready eye out for prowling Comanches, but none had been seen. Not that they weren’t there. But if they were, they couldn’t be seen from the clock tower.
The first floor of the courthouse had seethed with noise and unrest when so many families had massed in the courtroom. The scene had quieted down with the lateness of the hour, but was still disturbed by anxious men, nervous females, sleepless kids, and squawling babies.
An office in the southeast corner of the second floor was reserved for the use of Wade Hutto, pursuant to his duties in town council and county administration. Hutto sat behind the desk, comfortably set up in a high-backed, well-cushioned chair. Seated across from him were Banker Willoughby, Alamo Bar owner Chance Stillman, and promoter Rutland Dean. Their chairs were smaller and not quite as comfortable as Hutto’s, but they were drinking his liquor and smoking his cigars.
A leather couch, useful for entertaining lady friends or for napping—stood in a corner against the wall. Boone Lassiter lay on his back, hat tilted over his eyes, awake. A lit cigar was clenched between his jaws; he held a tumbler of whiskey on his chest.
Hutto was making the best of a bad situation, but he would gladly have given plenty to be anywhere but where he was, waiting out the night hours before a full-scale Comanche onslaught.
“Good brandy,” Banker Willoughby said. “You do yourself right, friend Hutto.”
“In this job you need it,” Hutto replied. “Especially on a night like this.”
Gunfire sounded outside. There were shrieks in the distance. More shots—a death cry.
Boone Lassiter sat up, swinging his booted feet to the floor. Hutto came out from behind his desk and went to the south window. He lifted an edge of the window shade, peering outside. Lassiter went to the desk and blew out the light in the oil lamp. The room went dark, a line of light showing at the bottom of the door to the hallway.
The others crowded around Hutto at the window. It looked down on Trail Street, including the other three bulwarks of Four Corners. They could see the jail, the feed store, and the Golden Spur.
“What is it, Wade?” Dean asked.
“There’s movement down there, but the shooting came from farther up the street,” Hutto said. “Can’t quite make it out.”
Lassiter crossed the hall to the office opposite Hutto’s, and entered it. Empty and dark, the room held the southwest corner of the second floor. Standing to the side of a window facing west, he raised the curtain and looked outside.
Hutto and the others came into the room, the last one in leaving the door open.
“Close that door so we don’t show against the light,” Lassiter growled.
Willoughby shut the door, then joined the others.
The moon came out from behind a cloud, silvering rooftops and shining into the street. Motion swirled on Trail Street. Black forms of horses and men shifted and surged. A gun yammered, striking sparks of light.
A man screamed and fell. More shooting racketed up from the darkness.
The couthouse was astir. Pete Zorn and Steve Maitland went to the west wall of the clock tower, peering out and down through the wooden-slatted windows. They couldn’t make out much. The shooting had stopped, and the horsemen had fled, swallowed by darkness.
In the first floor courtroom, men started up out of troubled sleep—those with nerves strong enough to enable them to sleep, or drunk enough to have passed out for a blessed while. Women gasped, girls shrieked, children and babies fussed.
Armed men with sleep-bleared eyes staggered to the west windows for a look, only to be balked by the Golden Spur blocking their view.
Men moved around in the jail, feed store, and gambling house. Defenders made ready, but none ventured outside for fear of stepping into an ambush.
Throughout Four Corners, attention was focused on the dark, west side of town from where the shooting seemed to have come.
Red Hand and twelve followers were hidden in a dark grove of trees a hundred yards east of town. Part of a well-wooded thicket north of Hangtree Trail, it was a tangle of brush, shrubs, and tall weeds.
When the shooting started on the west side of town, Red Hand rode out alone into the open, toward the courthouse. Outfitted in full warlike regalia, he rode a strikingly colored silver horse with a white mane. A bonnet of eagle feathers crowned his head. His face was striped and masked with war paint, his torso was shielded by a chest piece made of buffalo bones, and his arms were painted red from fingertips to elbows. A round buffalo-hide shield was worn on his left arm; his right hand held a flaming spear.
Not the Fire Lance, of course. It was too valuable to be thrown away on a mere ploy, and that’s what he was engaged in. A bold stroke to steal the Texans’ courage and plant fear in their hearts.
Red Hand wielded a Comanche lance whose spear blade was coated with Medicine Hat’s inflammable compound and set ablaze. He crossed the field, charging the courthouse front.
Close to the courthouse steps, he yanked hard on the reins, the bit digging into the soft parts of the animal’s mouth. The silver stallion reared, rising on its hind legs.
Red Hand cast the fiery lance, burying it point first in one of the wooden front double doors. It stuck, quivering in a planked panel, its head burning with eerie blue ghost light.
Turning his horse to the right, he galloped away into the darkness. He shrieked a war whoop in parting.
His men in the grove opened fire on the courthouse with repeating rifles, laying down a covering fire for their chief. Once Red Hand was safely clear, they ceased fire, melting back into the woods.
Drawn by this new disturbance, the courthouse folk rushed to the east windows to see what it was all about. Wade
Hutto returned to his office, looked outside, and saw the burning spear stuck in the courthouse front door.
“What’s it all about?” asked Banker Willoughby.
“A declaration of war, I call it,” Hutto said.
“As if any were needed! They’ve already made their hostile intent clear,” Rutland Dean said.
“Comanche medicine, to scare the faint hearts,” Boone Lassiter informed them. “Hope nobody falls for it. But they will.”
The fiery spear kept on burning. Presently, some hardy souls opened the front door partway, mindful not to show themselves as targets. Somebody splashed the spear with a bucket of water. The fire was oil-based and instead of extinguishing it the water made it burn hotter and brighter.
Next, buckets of sand were thrown on it and blankets were beaten against it and the door until the flames went out. A few door planks were charred, but only on the surface, not too deep.
The door was slammed shut and bolted from the inside.
An hour or so later, the screaming started. It came from somewhere in the grove from which Red Hand had previously ventured. Thick woods and darkness hid whatever was going on there.
Shrill and piercing, the outcry was the sound of a man in mortal agony. Worse, it was only the opening note in what would prove to be an aria of anguish. It was loud and clear throughout the Four Corners.
A small lamp burned in Hutto’s office, glowing dimly. Fresh screams ripped through the stillness of night.
“Gad! What’re they doing to that poor devil?” Rutland Dean exclaimed.
“Torture,” answered Boone Lassiter.
Chance Stillman went to the east window, looking out. “I don’t see nobody. No Injins. Nothing.”
“You won’t see them until they want you to see them,” Lassiter said.
“Who is it, do you think?” Dean wondered.
“Some poor soul unlucky enough to be taken alive, Lord help him,” Lassiter said.
“Think it’s Coleman or Hapgood?” Stillman asked.
“Let’s hope not. They’re our only hope of getting word to the cavalry,” Willoughby said.
“Don’t count on the army,” Lassiter said. “We’re on our own here.”
Hutto’s face fell. “There’s a good chance that one or both of them might have gotten through ... isn’t there?”
Nobody answered. The shrieking fell off, grew silent. After a moment, Dean said, “Thank God that’s over!”
Boone Lassiter snorted. “Hell, they ain’t even started yet.” He poured himself a fresh drink.
After a while, the screaming began again, steadily rising into ever-higher registers of pain. It lost all human qualities. It was the hopeless wail of a suffering animal in mortal pain and terror.
“What do they do to make a man scream like that?” Willoughby wondered.
“Don’t think about it,” Hutto said thickly.
Lassiter gulped his drink, setting down an empty glass. “Save a bullet for yourself, if we can’t hold ’em today. Save some for your families, too.”
The shrieks rose and fell, fading, then starting up again, and again, and again.
“Why don’t he just shut up and die?” Stillman said. “Die, damn you, die!”
“Easy,” Hutto cautioned.
“Comanches know what they’re doing,” Lassiter said. “They’ll keep him alive for a long time. They’re good at that. By working on him, they’re working on us, trying to put the fear in us.”
“They’re doing a pretty good job,” Rutland Dean mumbled, grinning weakly.
Wade Hutto rose from his chair. “I better go downstairs and make a show to the folks, take their mind off things. Reassure them. They might need some shoring up.”
“I can use some shoring up myself.” Dean poured a stiff drink and tossed it down.
TWENTY-ONE
In Francine’s room of the Golden Spur, Johnny Cross slipped out of bed, his eyes already accustomed to the dimness. He’d been lying awake in bed for some time. He dressed quietly, then sat on the bed while he donned socks and boots.
Yellow light from the hallway outlined the closed door. Moonbeams shafted through lacy curtained windows, spilling onto the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled up around Francine.
She lay on her side, legs bent at the knees, one long bare leg showing outside the bed coverings. White-blond hair spilled across the pillows, partly covering her face. Her body was all shining silver and black shadow. She’s beautiful, Johnny thought.
“Running off so soon?” she murmured.
“Sky’s lightening in the east. Things’re gonna start happening. I’d best be up and doing.” Johnny was restless, couldn’t sleep. Eager to get to the showdown. He’d had the loving and was anxious to get to the killing. Usually he did it the other way around. Take care of business first, then have a woman for dessert. That’s how he liked it.
But it was fine this way, too. Just fine. He’d satisfied the lust for flesh. Now the need for action was rising in him.
His twin-holstered guns were hung over the top of the brass bedpost. He draped his gun belt over an arm.
Francine moved around in bed, reaching for him. He bent down to kiss her. Her mouth was warm, her breath sweet. After a while, he eased clear of her embrace. Taking his hat from the top of the bureau where he’d left it, he put it on his head and walked to the door.
He turned back to Francine. “See ya.”
“Be careful, Johnny. Stay alive. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He opened the door partway, light slanting into the room, laying an angled yellow rectangle on the floor and bed. Francine turned to him, raising herself up on an elbow. Her long unbound hair spilled across the smooth curve of bare shoulders down to her breasts. Her eyes shone and her lips were parted.
Johnny filled his eyes with her once more, then stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. It clicked shut. He buckled his gun belt low on his hips, settling holstered guns where the gun butts were within easy reach of his free-hanging hands.
He took off his hat and combed his hair with his fingers, pushing it back from his forehead and over his ears, out of the way. He put on the hat, tilting it to the angle he liked.
He followed the balcony to the landing and descended the staircase. The long cabinet clock on the ground floor showed the time as a few minutes past four-thirty in the morning.
It was quiet on the main floor. Most of those gathered there, Anglos and Mexican-Americans, were asleep.
Luke sat at a nearby table, slumped in a chair. A sawed-off shotgun lay on its side on the tabletop, the fingers of his left hand resting lightly on the butt of the stock. His hinged wooden leg, straightened out and locked in place, extended in front of him, resting toes-up on the seat of a second chair. His head was propped up by his right arm, the side of his face resting against an open palm. His mouth, partly open, snored softly.
Johnny smiled. He smelled fresh-brewed coffee.
Morrissey stood behind the bar, sleepy eyes heavy-lidded, resting his weight on meaty forearms pressed against the counter. Sam Heller stood by himself at one end of the bar, eating a roast beef sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee.
Johnny went to them. “Coffee smells good. Can you do me a cup?”
“Coming right up,” Morrissey said, pushing himself off the counter.
“A shot of whiskey would go nice in that.”
“You got it.” Morrissey splashed whiskey in a cup, filling the rest of it with a hot black brew from the coffeepot. He set it down on the bar in front of Johnny.
“Thanks.” Swirls of steam rose from the surface of the liquid in the cup. Johnny held it under his nose. It smelled good, the rich, pungent coffee aroma mingling with raw whiskey fumes. It tasted even better.
He picked up the cup and took it down the bar to stand beside Sam Heller. “Latigo?”
“Dead,” Sam said.
“Sorry.”
“Me, too. He died game.”
“Can’t ask for m
ore than that.”
“I reckon not.” Sam finished up his sandwich and drained his cup.
“What’s next?” Johnny asked.
“I’ll be heading for the church directly. Want to get there and be in place well before sunup,” Sam said.
“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “In a hurry to get yourself killed?”
“I’m not one for sitting around. I like to take the fight to the enemy,” Johnny said. “’Sides, a Yankee son of a gun like you is a natural-born magnet for trouble. Figure I’ll stick to you and get me my share.”
“I don’t mind. Glad to have you,” Sam said.
A Mexican youth in his early teens had volunteered to serve as a runner. Sam charged him to tell Barton to send an extra horse along with the relief for the sentries in the church tower. The kid went out the front door and ran east along Trail Street to the jail, reaching it without incident.
A quarter-hour later, two riders halted in front of the Golden Spur, one of them trailing two saddled horses behind on a lead line.
“Let’s go.” Sam and Johnny went out the door, onto the front porch. The moon was low in the west, the star-spangled sky, tending more blue than black. The street was thick with purple-gray shadows. The early morning air was cool and fresh. The east end of Trail Street framed a vertical oblong of empty sky paling at the horizon.
Johnny glanced at the courthouse, wondering how Fay Lockhart was doing. Funny—he hadn’t thought about Fay once since he first laid eyes on Francine. He wondered what Fay was like in bed, hoping he’d live long enough to find out.
He carried a repeating rifle. In addition to two guns holstered at his hips, he wore a pair of gun belts slung over his shoulders, the guns holstered butt-out under his arms. Another pair of six-guns were stuck in the top of his waistband at his sides. It was how he armed, pistol-fighter style, when he rode with Quantrill. It was how he armed when he made war.
The high, tight feeling in his chest and the top of his belly was a not unwelcome tension. It contrasted with the relaxed looseness of his shoulders and arms, and his easy, catlike tread.
A Good Day to Die Page 25