Snake River Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s funny,” Matt said. “According to what I hear about Terrell, he never plays cards with anyone but himself. Who were the three who were playing cards with him on the night Prew was shot, and his two friends were killed?”

  “Sam Logan, Al Madison, and Ken Jernigan.”

  Matt laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “All three of those men tried to kill me.”

  “And all three of them are dead, which means their testimony can no longer be challenged,” Marcus said.

  “So, as you can see, your assertion that Poke Terrell is trying to kill you would never be sustained in a court.”

  “Are you actually saying that I can’t prove in court that Terrell is trying to kill me?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying,” Kincaid replied. “You can bring charges if you want to, but it will go nowhere. You have no collaborative testimony.”

  Matt laughed out loud.

  “What is it?” Marcus asked. “What do you find so funny?”

  “Kincaid, you don’t understand, do you?” Matt asked.

  “What is it I don’t understand?”

  “I don’t need any collaborative testimony. I don’t have to prove it in court.”

  “Then you are right, I don’t understand. Why don’t you have to prove it in court?”

  “Because I only have to prove to me. In this case I am the court, I am the judge, I am the jury, and when the time comes, I will be the executioner.”

  “Oh, my,” Marcus replied, obviously unnerved by Matt’s declaration. “If you don’t mind, I would like to give you a word of advice, Mr. Jensen.”

  “By all means, feel free to do so,” Matt invited.

  “I, uh, would be careful about making threats toward Poke if I were you. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would take such threats easily.”

  “I’m not making threats, Kincaid,” Matt said. “I’m simply stating fact.”

  “Oh, what is that I smell?” Marcus asked, breaking off the conversation. “It smells divine.”

  “I told Frederica to have Maria prepare a pot roast for lunch,” Kitty said. “You are welcome to stay.”

  “Why, thank you, Kitty. I just believe I will accept your kind invitation,” Marcus said.

  Because the roast beef was too large for two people, or even three, considering the unexpected arrival of Marcus Kincaid, Kitty invited Tyrone Canfield to dine with them.

  “Oh, Matt, I’ve got those numbers for you,” Tyrone said as they were eating, “I meant to give them to you as soon as I came in, but this meal is so good that it plumb slipped my mind.”

  “What numbers are you talking about, Tyrone?” Marcus asked.

  Tyrone looked over at Marcus, but didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced back toward Kitty.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I seem to have stepped into something that isn’t any of my business.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I reckon that’s about it,” Tyrone said. “I figure if Mrs. Wellington wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Kitty said. “He’s talking about horses, Marcus. The horses we’ll be shipping to Chicago next week.”

  “That’s the contract you were telling me about earlier?” Marcus asked. “The army contract?”

  “Yes. Matt will going into town tomorrow to arrange for railroad cars.”

  “Twenty horses per car,” Matt said.

  “You can get a lot more than that in a car,” Kincaid said. “Heck, when I ship cattle, I can get fifty to a car.”

  “I’m not shipping cattle,” Kitty said, resolutely. “I’m shipping purebred horses, and if you put any more than twenty in a single car the chances are likely that some might be hurt. In fact, they might be hurt so badly that you would have to put them down.”

  “Even so, you should be able to at least double the number per car,” Kincaid said. “I’m just looking out for you, Kitty. The cars are going to cost you at least one hundred dollars per car.”

  “I figure it’s going to take a minimum of twenty-five cars,” Kitty said. “That would be with twenty head per car. Now, suppose I doubled the number of horses in each car, and suppose a minimum of two horses per car are hurt. In fact, I would say that the number is too low. I could wind up with a many as three or four, or even five horses hurt, per car. I could be looking at four thousand dollars in losses. On the other hand, if I go along with the idea of limiting it to just twenty horses per car, it will cost me no more than twenty-five hundred dollars in railroad fees, which in the long run could be much cheaper. Also, we will more than likely transfer every horse without injury, and despite the money consideration, there is something to be said for the welfare of the horses.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Marcus said. He lifted his wineglass in toast. “To my beautiful stepmother and all her horses.”

  “I’m not your stepmother,” Kitty said, speaking the words in the flat monotone that suggested she had discussed this very subject with him dozens of times before now.

  “Very well, then,” Kincaid said, lifting his glass a second time. “To your horses.”

  The others lifted their glasses to the toast.

  “What time are you going in tomorrow?” Kincaid asked, conversationally.

  “I’m going to help Tyrone and Prew select the horses that will be shipped, then put them in a separate field before I start into town. I’d say about mid-morning. Why do you ask?”

  “I have some business in town tomorrow as well,” Kincaid said. “Perhaps you would like to have lunch with me.”

  “Maybe I will,” Matt agreed.

  “Good, I shall look forward to it,” Kincaid said. Pushing the plate away, he stood up. “Kitty, I must be going back into town,” he said. “I know it is poor manners to leave immediately after having eaten, but I really must get back, and you can’t blame me for staying through lunch. It was delicious.”

  “You are welcome anytime, Marcus,” Kitty said.

  “I don’t like that man,” Matt said after Marcus Kincaid left.

  “I feel sorry for him,” Kitty said. “He was so certain that he would inherit everything, and then I came along. I’m sure it was quite a blow to him when Tommy left Coventry to me.”

  “Mrs. Wellington, I don’t mean to be talkin’ out of turn,” Tyrone said. “I mean, bein’ as this is sort of family and all. But I’ve known Marcus Kincaid a lot longer than you. I’ve known him since he was a sprout. Sir Thomas had a heart that was just too big, so he either couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t see it, but the fac’ is, even as a boy Marcus Kincaid wasn’t no good. He wasn’t no good then, and he ain’t no good now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning

  Cooter climbed up onto a rock from which he could see for nearly two miles back across the desert. A small rise hid everything beyond that point.

  “See anything?” Mole asked.

  “Nothin’ but sand and rock,” Cooter answered.

  Mole, a short, hairy man with gray eyes and a pug nose, took the last swallow from a whiskey bottle, then tossed it against a nearby rock. The bottle broke into two pieces.

  “Damn, I shouldn’t of broke that,” Mole said. “I wasn’t thinkin’, I guess. I could of got myself a penny for it back in town.”

  “A penny,” Cooter snorted. “A penny ain’t no money. Not compared to what we’re goin’ to be gettin’ for this job.”

  “Yeah, well, if you remember, we tried to kill this feller once before and it didn’t work out all that well,”

  Mole said. “What happened is Logan got hisself kilt. That’s what happened.”

  “That’s ’cause we didn’t know who we was messin’ with then. Logan didn’t tell us nothin’ about him, so we wasn’t ready for him when he snuck up on us like he done.”

  “I don’t intend to let ’im sneak up on us this time,” Mole said. “You might not of seen nothin’ yet, but he’s
close. I know it.”

  “How do you know it?” Cooter asked.

  “’Cause I can feel it in my gut, that’s how I know it. He is out there, and he’s close.”

  Cooter climbed down from the rock and walked over to his horse. He slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.

  “What are you fixin’ to do?” Mole asked.

  “If he really is comin’ and he’s all that close, like you say he is, I don’t aim to let him get any closer than a rifle shot.”

  “Yeah,” Mole agreed. “Yeah, now that’s the best idea you’ve had yet. We’ll just shoot the son of a bitch down, soon as he comes into range.”

  The two men, with rifles in hand, climbed back up onto the largest rock that afforded them, not only a good view of the approaching trail, but also some cover and concealment. They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.

  “Let ’im come up to no more’n about a hundred yards,” Cooter said. “That way, he’d more’n likely be out of pistol range.”

  “What if we miss?” Mole asked. “A hunnert yards is a pretty long shot.”

  “It ain’t all that long a shot, and with both of us shootin’, one of us is bound to hit him.”

  “What if we don’t?” Mole asked. “What if all we do is just let the son of a bitch know that we’re here. Next thing you know, he’ll be on us like a fly on a horse turd, just like he was back at the canyon. And there won’t be nothin’ we can do about it.”

  “The thing to do is not to miss,” Cooter said.

  “I don’t know. I’m beginnin’ to think we shouldn’t of took this job,” Mole said.

  “You ever had five hundred dollars before?” Cooter asked.

  “Hell, you know damn well I ain’t never had that much before. I ain’t ever even seen that much money before,” Mole answered.

  “Then shut up your yappin’ and just do what has to be done. Anyhow, we got all the advantage. He’s out in the open, and we got good cover here, what with the rocks and all. Besides which, he don’t have any idea we’re even here at all.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Mole agreed.

  “Damn right, I’m right.”

  At that moment, a rider came into view over a distant rise.

  “Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Mole said. “I told you he was close!” He raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Hold it!” Cooter said, reaching out to pull Mole’s rifle back down. “Be patient. You shoot now and you won’t do no more’n spook him. Let him get close, like I said. Besides, you was the one sayin’ you didn’t think you could hit him at a hundred yards.”

  “All right,” Mole said, nervously.

  They waited as the distant rider came closer, sometimes seeming not to be riding, but rather floating as he materialized and dematerialized in the heat waves that were rising from the desert floor.

  On he came: a mile—half a mile—a quarter of a mile—two hundred yards. Cooter raised his rifle and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim. “Just a little closer,” he said, quietly. “A little closer before we fire.”

  Mole shifted position to get a better aim. As he did so he dislodged a loose stone, and the stone rolled down the rock, right into the largest, unbroken piece of the whiskey bottle. The stone pushed the glass out into the sun.

  As Matt approached the ridgeline ahead of him, a sudden flash of light caught his attention, and he stopped, looking toward the flash.

  “What the hell did he stop for?” Mole asked.

  Looking down, Cooter saw the sun flashing off the broken whiskey bottle. “You dumb bastard, when you pushed that whiskey bottle down like you done, it commenced to flashin’ in the sunlight. You just gave away our position!” he said angrily. He raised up and fired his first shot.

  “I didn’t do it of a pure purpose,” Mole said. “You got no call comin’ down on me like that.”

  “Where is he, anyhow?” Cooter stuck his head cautiously over the rock and looked down where the target had been. “Where is he? I can’t see him.”

  “I don’t know,” Mole admitted. “I seen him get behind that rock, but I ain’t seen him since.”

  “There’s a dry creek bed down there. I seen it when we come through,” Cooter said.

  Mole looked toward him. “A dry creek bed? Damn, he could be right on us before we even knew it.”

  Cooter shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It curves away a long time before it ever gets up here.”

  No sooner were the words out of Cooter’s mouth than there was a puff of smoke and the bark of a rifle from a clump of bushes not too far distant. The bullet hit the rock right in front of them, then hummed off, but not before shaving off a sliver of lead to kick up into Mole’s face.

  “Ow! I been hit, I been hit!” Mole called, slapping his hand to his face. “I been shot right in the jaw!”

  Cooter looked at him, then laughed.

  “I’d like to know what the hell you think is so funny?” Mole complained.

  “You are. You are funny,” Cooter said. “You ain’t been hit. That ain’t nothin’ but a little ole scratch.”

  Two more bullets hit the rocks then and chips of stone flew past them.

  “I don’t like this,” Mole said. “He’s gettin’ too damn close.” Mole fired a couple of shots toward the bush just below the puff of gun smoke.

  “Hey, Mole, look down there,” Cooter said. “Ain’t that his horse comin’ back up the road?”

  “Yeah,” Mole said. He giggled. “This is great! Shoot the horse! We’ll just leave the son of a bitch afoot.”

  Both men started shooting at the horse, but the animal was still a couple of hundred yards away and slightly downhill. As a result, it wasn’t hit, though the bullets striking the ground nearby caused the horse to turn and run toward the shelter of a bluff, a quarter of a mile away.

  “Damn it! We missed!” Mole said.

  Another bullet hit the rock, very close beside them.

  “Come on, Cooter, let’s get the hell out of here!” Mole shouted. He started running for his own horse.

  “Mole! Mole, come back here!” Cooter called, chasing after him.

  Seeing the two men start to run, Matt tracked them with his rifle, firing at the second man. That man went down, but the one in the lead made it to his horse. He kicked his horse into motion and in just a few seconds was behind a rocky ledge, out of the line of fire.

  “Don’t leave me, you bastard!” the one on the ground shouted. “Don’t you leave me!”

  Matt approached the man on the ground, holding his weapon pointed toward him. Seeing him, the man sat up and threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” he cried out. “I’m shot. You can see that I’m bad shot.”

  Matt picked up the rifle Cooter had been using, jacked all the bullets out of it—there were only three left—then threw the rifle over the edge of the hill so that it landed more than a hundred feet below.

  “Mister, that rifle cost me sixty dollars!” Cooter complained.

  “Give me your pistol,” Matt said, holding out his hand. “Butt first,” he added.

  “You ain’t goin’ to throw it away too, are you?” Cooter asked as he complied with Matt’s request.

  Matt stuck Cooter’s pistol down into his waistband.

  “Your name is Cooter?” Matt asked.

  Cooter looked surprised. “Yeah, it is. How do you know my name?”

  “This is the second time you’ve tried to ambush me, Cooter,” Matt said. “I remember you from before, when you were with Logan. Then, you said Logan paid you. But Logan is dead, so who is paying you now?”

  “You got to get me to the doctor,” Cooter said, without answering Matt’s question. “If this wound ain’t treated, I could wind up losin’ my leg.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could,” Matt said laconically. Kneeling beside Cooter, he tore the trouser leg away and saw the entry wound. Th
e bullet was still in the leg and the wound was still bleeding.

  “Take off your belt,” Matt ordered.

  “What do you mean, take off my belt?”

  “You want to bleed to death?”

  “No.”

  “Take off your belt. I’m going to use it to make a tourniquet.”

  Cooter took off his belt, and Matt looped it around the leg above the entry wound, then cinched it down tight.”

  “Ouch, that hurts.”

  “Does it?”

  “Do you know what you’re a’ doin’? I ain’t never heard of nothin’ called a tourniquet.”

  “It’ll keep you alive, and more than likely let you keep your leg,” Matt said.

  “I need a doctor.”

  “This will do for now,” Matt said.

  “What do you mean, this will do for now? You ain’t no doctor.”

  “Who paid you to ambush me?”

  “Nobody. We just done it ’cause you kilt our friend a few days ago.”

  “Mister, if Sam Logan was your friend, all I can say is, you have a piss poor choice of friends. Now I’m going to ask you again. Who paid you to ambush me?”

  “Why the hell should I tell you that?”

  Matt pulled his gun and put the barrel of his pistol to Cooter’ forehead.

  “Because I will shoot you if you don’t.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Matt cocked his pistol. “When you get to hell, say hello to your friend, Logan, for me,” he said, matter-of-factly. His finger twitched on the trigger.

  “No, wait!” Cooter screamed.

  Matt eased the hammer down on his pistol.

  “Who paid you?”

  “You got to understand that if I tell you who paid me, he’ll kill me.”

  Matt shook his head. “Cooter, have you ever heard the term, first things first?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me tell you what it means. It means that you need to take care of the problem you’ve got now, before you start worrying about any problem you might have in the future. You are worried about someone killing you if you answer my question. But that is in the future. I am right here, right now,” Matt said. “And if you don’t tell me who paid you to ambush me, I am going to kill you, right here, and right now. Do you understand that?” Once again, Matt cocked the pistol.