Death Rattle tb-8

by Terry C. Johnston

  “We wait,” Elias Kersey told him.

  But even Titus itched to know what was going on by the time Jake Corn revealed in a rasp, “Gate’s opening!”

  “Is he coming?” Purcell inquired, squinting in the harsh sunlight. “The Injun coming?”

  The gate swung clear, and two horsemen left the compound.

  “Nawww,” Adair responded, disappointment heavy in his voice. “It’s just a couple of soldiers—”

  “Be-gawd!” Corn said little too loudly. “Them soldiers’re draggin’ the Injun off somewhere!”

  Behind those two Mexicans a third horse emerged from the gate. Frederico sat astride its bare back, his arms held out straight, lashed to a narrow tent pole laid across the top of his shoulders, wrists tied to either end. His brown ankles were lashed to another tent pole that hung underneath the belly of the horse. Trussed up like a hog for the slaughter.

  “T-they gonna kill the Injun?” Kersey asked.

  “Could’ve done that in their fort,” Bass said, wagging his head in angry consternation. “He must’ve done something wrong—said something wrong, for them soldiers to be cartin’ him off.”

  “Where they taking him?” Corn inquired. “Back to the mission where they near killed ’im last time?”

  Titus nodded as another pair of soldiers brought up the rear of the short procession behind their prisoner. “I think they’re taking the Injun to them holy padres as a gift. A wild Injun for them padres to make a slave.”

  Kersey wondered, “They can’t have no way of knowing he’s their whores’ brother?”

  “Hope not,” Scratch said with a long sigh, “C’mon, fellas. We gotta bust that Injun free.”

  “Shit,” Purcell grumped as he crawled off his knees. “I just knowed you was gonna say that.”

  They had no choice but to make a race out of it.

  Mission San Bernardino wasn’t all that far away, through a short string of tree-lined hills. No time to gallop ahead and set up an ambush.

  When the soldiers came in sight ahead of them, the adobe walls and flying buttresses of the mission off in the distance beyond the Mexicans, Scratch kicked his heels into the horse and roared, “It’s a stand-up ride-through, boys!”

  As he shot away, the five others yipped or grunted as they jabbed their horses into a hard gallop. Now and then across those last moments as they raced up on the Mexicans, the soldiers disappeared around a bend in the wagon road, or were momentarily hidden by a stand of leafy trees. They were taking a leisurely pace with their prisoner and their march.

  With less than sixty yards separating the trappers from the enemy, one of the soldiers suddenly turned and peered over his shoulder. He nearly spilled off his horse when he twitched in surprise and fear, whirling back around in the saddle so quickly that one of his boots slipped out of its stirrup. He called out—the man next to him jerked around to look back down the trail.

  Then they both started yelling to the pair in front. Frederico did his best to turn at the waist, unable to accomplish much with his legs tied under the horse’s belly. When the two guards in the lead slowed up, the Indian’s horse nearly collided with them. With a struggle Frederico managed to keep himself upright as the animal lurched to the side of the road. All four of the soldiers reined their horses around, putting themselves between their prisoner and the Americans.

  Bass figgered the soldiers had to be surprised to see the Americans show up. They must have believed all the trappers were wrangling the stolen herd right about then, on their way up to the mountain pass. Besides, the guards could have no idea why the Norteamericanos were bearing down on them, yip-yipping like coyotes on the prowl. But when the Mexicans brought up their firearms, Titus decided it didn’t matter if they knew he had come to rescue the Indian or not. The six of them had the upper hand, and it was time to throw down their call.

  “Empty their saddles, boys!” he bellowed as he brought up the long flintlock.

  Tugging on the back trigger to set the front, Titus attempted to match the bob and surge of the horse beneath him. Finding a target—

  But the Mexicans fired first. A ball whirred past Scratch’s shoulder like an angry hornet. One of the horses behind him cried out. Then came the loud clatter as the animal went down. In a fury again at the scorching, weepy flesh wound on his side, Scratch squeezed down on the front trigger, felt the rifle’s sharp-edged butt plate slam back against his chest.

  Passing through the billow of gray gunsmoke at a gallop, he watched the lead ball knock the soldier heels over head, spilling the man backward out of the saddle onto the hot, dusty road. Weapons were popping around him. Gunsmoke and dust turned yellow, hazing the slanted afternoon light.

  Another soldier clutched a red blossom on his chest, slowly keeling to the side of the road into some brush. A third cried out and sagged forward across his horse’s withers, arms akimbo.

  That was enough for the last Mexican. He yanked the reins aside and brutally jabbed his big rowels into the animal’s ribs. Turning tail and running.

  “Who’s got a loaded gun?” Kersey shouted.

  “I’ll take ’im!” Adair vowed and hammered his moccasins into the horse’s flanks, bursting away from the others.

  As the fourth guard dashed past Frederico’s mount, the Indian’s horse shied backward, twisting in fear, its eyes as big as bean platters.

  Swaying clumsily, unable to maintain his balance any longer, Frederico spilled to the side, the end of the long, smooth tent pole striking the ground, his legs yanked upward, twisted by the other pillory lashing them together. The prisoner’s horse needed no more reason to bolt than that. As the frightened animal brought its hind hooves up to attempt to gallop away, the legs and hooves clattered against Frederico and the pole where his bare arms were slashed. He was about to be dragged down the rutted mission road—

  Bass closed the distance in two heartbeats. Gathering his reins into his left hand with his rifle, he attempted to lean out of the saddle and seize the halter knotted around the horse’s head. But the terrified animal wouldn’t allow Titus close enough to grab the halter as Frederico grunted with every bump, cried out in agony, the horse skidding to a sudden halt, prancing round and round in a tight circle to stay away from the trapper.

  In angry frustration, Scratch jerked up straight in the saddle, pulled out his pistol, and fired a ball into the animal’s head.

  As the air gushed from its lungs, the horse wheezed in death, settling immediately onto its forelegs, the rear half of its body slowly twisting to the side as the dying animal came to rest in the short grass at the side of the road—pinning Frederico’s leg and hip beneath its ribs.

  The Indian was shrieking in pain, terror too, as Scratch pitched himself out of the saddle. The instant his feet hit the ground he was stuffing the pistol into his belt and throwing a shoulder into his own horse. As it sidestepped out of his way, Titus dropped his empty rifle to the road and bolted over the dead animal, pulling a knife from its scabbard at the back of his belt.

  Slashing at the ropes binding Frederico’s ankles, he first freed the leg that lay twisted atop the dead horse’s ribs. Once he slid back over the animal, Bass sawed through the ropes binding one wrist, then the other as the Indian slowly quieted. The moment his arms were freed from the pillory staff, Frederico attempted to sit up, only to cry in pain.

  “This here’s gonna hurt,” Titus growled at him in English as he stopped at the Indian’s back, stuffed his hands under Frederico’s armpits. Then he clamped his eyes closed—and pulled. Leaning back with all his might, he tried to shut the Indian’s screams out of his ears as he dragged the youth from beneath the dead horse.

  The air went out of Frederico in a whimper. Opening his eyes, Scratch found he had freed the leg. Letting go of the Indian, he crouched beside the leg and gently palpated along the bones.

  “Don’t feel nothing broke,” he said to the guide, then looked up at Kersey, who sat atop his horse just behind Frederico.

 
Elias asked, “That Injun ride?”

  Bass asked Frederico, then looked up at Elias. “Yeah. Says he can ride.”

  “We better get back to that fort if’n we’re gonna free them women,” Corn said.

  Adair came to a halt by Elias. “The longer we take, the behinder we’re gonna be from the rest of the fellas and that herd.”

  Titus helped Frederico stand, then said, “Rube—get one of the soldier horses for the Injun.”

  “Let’s get going,” Corn prodded.

  “Wait,” Scratch suddenly declared.

  “Wait?” Purcell whined as he yanked a soldier horse over.

  “Get the clothes off these here soldiers,” Titus ordered.

  Adair repeated, “Their clothes?”

  Scratch started to explain, “Four of us gonna be soldiers when we go riding in there proud as prairie cocks—”

  “What about the other two of us?” Corn asked. “How we gonna get all of us in there?”

  “A couple of gringos got caught by the soldados—that’s how we’re all gonna get in there.”

  Elias Kersey’s face lit up like a full winter moon illuminating a fresh snow in the northern Rockies. “Four soldiers guardin’ their two prisoners! Yee-awww! If that won’t be a yank on the devil’s short-hairs!”

  Scratch was the first to spot the lone sentry posted atop the adobe wall as the seven horsemen approached the soldier post.

  “They’re watching us now,” he warned the others in a low voice.

  “Hope them Mex buy this,” Kersey growled.

  Dressed in the stolen uniforms, Elias and Coltrane were riding just in front of Frederico, who was flanked by Jake Corn and Reuben Purcell, both of whom still wore their buckskin leggings and poor cloth shirts. All three had short sections of rope looped, but unknotted, around their wrists, making it appear they were bound prisoners. Behind these three rode the last pair of impostors: Titus Bass and Silas Adair.

  Back at the scene of the fight, the trappers discovered that neither the round-bellied Corn or the gangly-limbed Purcell could fit into any of the bloodied uniforms. As it was, the four who did strip out of their buckskins to pull on pantaloons and soldier jackets found the Mexicans’ clothing a trifle snug. But, Scratch reminded them, they would be undertaking their ruse for no more than a short ride: only until the gate was open and they were inside the compound.

  It wasn’t until they were within the shadow of the front wall when Corn suddenly asked, “What if they got ’em a password?”

  Shit—why hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t Jake asked about it before. Bass was angry with himself.

  But that lone sentry stationed atop the wall’s interior banquette did not call out. All he did was slowly walk along the top of the wall, staying right above the horsemen, moving toward the gate, holding that musket and bayonet across his chest. When he stopped directly over the gate, he called out to those inside.

  “What’d he say?” Adair demanded in a harsh whisper.

  “Told ’em open up,” Bass growled, the hair at the back of his neck prickling with warning.

  Wood scraped against wood as the huge bolt was withdrawn, then massive iron hinges creaked as one side of the gate in the wall swung open.

  “This is it, boys,” Titus whispered to them.

  Kersey and Coltrane started their horses forward together, but that sentry on the ground shouldered back the gate only far enough to admit one horse at a time. Titus felt himself sweating. This precaution wasn’t a good sign of an open-armed welcome. Next through was Frederico, followed by the two white prisoners.

  A voice called out in Spanish. Another voice hollered in reply. He damn well knew it wasn’t any of the trappers. Hurry, hurry, his mind raced—wanting to get inside to hear what was being asked of the first impostors.

  Scratch was the last to slip through the narrow opening, finding the others strung out in the compound. He turned quickly in the saddle—a guard behind him at the gate. The only other guard in sight on the low, narrow banquette above them. As the gate swung closed with a thunk and the guard leaned his rifle against the wall so he could manhandle the log bolt into place, Scratch told himself his wariness was getting far too old. It had played him for a fool this time. From the looks of things, this was going to be prime pickin’s.

  At the exact moment the guard at the gate picked up his rifle again, the sentry atop the banquette leveled his weapon on the horsemen and cried out in a shrill voice.

  Eight soldiers suddenly appeared in doorways on three sides of them. In that blink of an eye, ten old Spanish muskets were pointed at them.

  “What’d he say! What’d he say!” Purcell demanded with a shriek.

  “They want us to drop our guns,” Bass translated.

  “We’re rawhide if we do,” Corn grumbled from the corner of his mouth.

  “These greasers damn sure gonna hang us later,” Scratch said boldly. “Or we can die here and now like men.”

  Kersey said, “You heard ’im, fellas—”

  One of the soldiers interrupted with a shrill shout: demanding the Americans drop their weapons.

  “On three, fellas,” Bass ordered in a calm voice that would give no warning to the soldiers, “we’ll make our play. One. Two … three!”

  Up came all their weapons as the trappers ducked aside. The Mexicans had an advantage in the brief standoff: their muskets were already aimed at the Americans. Like parched corn rattling in a frying pan, the guns popped on all four sides of them—the trappers’ weapons booming as Bass watched smoke and flame and shredded patches jet from the muzzles of the enemies’ smoothbores. The horses cried out, lead landing among them—wheeling, rearing, shoving against another.

  One of the men in front of Titus grunted; the breath was driven from the lungs of another. They still had an advantage, he told himself as he slapped the rifle into his left hand and the horse started backing up, bumping into another. He and his friends were loaded for bear. While the soldiers only carried those muskets, the trappers all had more than one weapon.

  Pistols came out of belts and sashes, held at the end of their arms as those soldiers still alive disappeared back into darkened doorways. All of them yelling at one another. The sentry on the banquette and the guard at the gate did not fare so well.

  “We’ll have to hunt ’em down one at a time!” Corn cried out.

  Whirling in the saddle, Scratch aimed his pistol at the sentry and fired. As the ball struck him, the soldier was slammed back against the adobe wall, then bounced forward, pitching off the low banquette to strike the ground flat, unmoving.

  Purcell was hit, clutching his side as he slumped against the withers of his horse. Adair was sprawled on the ground, the fingers of both hands interlaced over a nasty wound in his thigh.

  “Don’t give ’em time to reload!” Titus warned, sprinting for one of the doors.

  Instinct told him and the others that they needn’t race for those doorways where a soldier lay blocking the entrance, or sat crumpled against the doorjamb. The empty doorways meant the trappers would have to go in after the others.

  In the lamp-lit, shadowy interiors, a fleeting drama was played out as metal and wood collided, men grunted in exertion, groaned in pain, boots and moccasins scuffing the hard-packed clay floors.

  Mule-eyed, the soldier caught reloading in the corner of the room looked up as Bass rushed him, raising up his musket to parry the long skinning knife Scratch waved in front of him. The musket knocked the knife hand aside and the ball of a fist slammed low into the trapper’s gut.

  More than mere pain, the fist drove the air out of his lungs. Gasping, Scratch stumbled back two steps, blinking against the flash of shooting stars. He saw the soldier turn and pitch the musket aside, scrambling for the wall where a long scabbard hung from a peg. The saber grated free of its sheath at the moment Bass lunged forward, arm high overhead, bringing the skinning knife down in a blur.

  The blade caught the Mexican in the top of the shoulder. H
e buried it to the hilt as the soldier struggled to get the other arm raised, to bring the saber into action. Just when the saber reached chest level, Titus seized the man’s wrist in his left hand.

  Using the buried knife for leverage, Scratch drove his left knee into the enemy’s groin. As the Mexican stumbled back a step, whimpering in pain, Scratch shoved the enemy’s arm up, up with that saber until it lay across the soldier’s neck.

  Then brutally ripped it sideways.

  Hot blood splattered over them both as the air in the man’s lungs wheezed from the gaping, bubbling wound.

  Letting go of the soldier, he watched the Mexican fall, the eyes growing glassy and lifeless. Bass placed his foot on the man’s shoulder and pulled his knife free. Wiped it on the soldier’s jacket, turned, and crouched at the doorway, peering into the afternoon sunlight.

  With the next heartbeat he was astonished to see a shabby, disheveled woman appear at a nearby doorway.

  “Celita!” cried Frederico.

  The woman took one step, then a second into the courtyard, wearing a loose-fitting, smudged, sooty dress that many times had been ripped and torn.

  With that second step she suddenly stopped and peered over her shoulder furtively. Out of the shadowy rectangle behind her emerged Celita’s sister.

  “Mayanez!” the Indian sobbed and started toward the two women. Then immediately halted in his tracks.

  Right behind the small female stood a large, bare-chested man, his muscular arm locked around Mayanez’s throat. In that hand pressed against her ear he clutched a knife, while at the end of the other outstretched arm, he held a pistol pointed at the back of Celita’s head.

  Frederico growled something in Spanish as he rocked onto the balls of his feet, both hands flexing into fists and claws, fists and claws.

  “What’d he say?” Kersey demanded.

  “The Injun says that’s the blacksmith,” Bass translated.

  Corn demanded,“How’s he know that?”

  “When Frederico come here a while back,” Scratch declared, “that bastard was dragging one of the sisters off by herself for a little fun.”