The two of them carefully heaved their homemade bomb up to the top of the slope. The wagons below were only two hundred yards or so away. ‘Let’s do it, then!’ said Cutler.
Archie took out an old-fashioned tinder box and struck the steel, setting sparks into a little wad of dried moss. He had to do this three times before it caught flame. Then he applied the fire to the fuse, which had already been attached to the barrel. It sputtered and then began burning fiercely. He said, ‘On the count of three, boy. One, two, three!’
They both gave the device a shove, which sent it over the rim of the slope.
Incredible to relate, the two lookouts at the camp had still not noticed anything amiss. They were now sitting with their backs to Cutler and Archie. Cutler said anxiously, ‘I hope they get out of the way.’
‘It’s all the same to me if they don’t,’ said his companion indifferently. ‘They know what’s afoot, same as the rest of them. You make your bed hard and lie on it.’
While Archie was talking, Cutler watched as the rolling keg slowly picked up speed and began to careen down the rocky slope, heading straight for the wagons. It was throwing off sparks and was now clearly audible as it scattered stones and dirt in its wake. At last, one of the young men slouching against a wagon turned round to see what was causing the noise. He leaped up in alarm when he saw the cause, tugging at his companion’s arm to alert him too to his peril. They both ran from the spot where the barrel looked likely to strike.
The effect of their strategem was all that Archie and his young assistant could have hoped for. When it smashed into the wagon, the keg split open, spilling lamp oil in all directions. Almost immediately this ignited, throwing up a sheet of smoky flames. The young men had no idea at all how to deal with this crisis. They ran back and forth shouting and swearing, before one of them thought to fetch some water. By this time, two of the wagons were covered in burning oil and the sensible dodge would have been to manhandle the third cart to safety. This evidently did not occur to either of them. It was when the older of the two boys went over to the blazing wagons with a bucket of water that the first of the jars packed with powder exploded. He was only ten feet away and the pieces of rusty iron scythed through the air, some of them catching him full in the face. He fell back with an agonized scream, one eye a sightless, bloody pit.
The second of the mines went off almost at the same time as the first and this proved too much for the youngsters. The one who was uninjured rushed up to his friend, placed an arm round his shoulders and helped him away from the flames. The explosions had spread oil over the third wagon and this too was now burning along with many of the various supplies which had been lying around the place. Looking down at the carnage they had wrought, Archie said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t o’ thought that those carts’ll be used to take anybody anywhere.’
‘I guess you’re right. I’m sorry about that young fellow, though.’
‘He shouldn’t o’ been there in the first place. He got what was comin’ to him.’
CHAPTER 7
The dispirited gaggle of girls had been encouraged to get down from the wagons in which they had made the uncomfortable journey south through the territory to the High Peaks. It was beginning to dawn on some of these unfortunate young women that things were not as they had been led to believe when they accepted the offer of new clothes and train tickets down towards New Mexico. They none of them had any cash money to speak of and all had given their signatures to promissory notes for their travel and clothing. Those who had showed any inclination to cut and run had been warned that if they could not pay for the goods and services which had been provided for them, then they would be taken to court and most likely end up in a debtors’ gaol until the money expended on them had been fully repaid with interest.
There is a natural human tendency to hope for the best and despite their misgivings, none of the eleven girls who got down from the wagons suspected for a moment the horrible truth about the fate that awaited them. They stood around stretching their limbs and expressing the desire for a little privacy in order to answer calls of nature. Meanwhile, the men who had accompanied them this far conducted some dealings with a new group of rough-looking men. It was when these negotiations were just about at an end that there were two sharp explosions, which reminded the older men of cannon fire. They looked round uneasily and saw a column of smoke rising into the evening air.
One of those who had delivered the girls said, ‘Something’s afoot. Anything to do with you men?’
‘No …’ began one of the men who had been camping nearby, ‘except that that smoke is nigh to where we’re staying.’
‘Shit,’ said another man, ‘that’s right over by the camp.’
There was general consternation among the comancheros, as it gradually became obvious that there had been fire and explosions at their camp. The members of the other band of comancheros stood laughing at the predicament in which the others found themselves. Then they began preparing to head back north.
‘You bastards going to lend a hand?’ asked one of the men getting ready to investigate the fire.
‘Not our business!’ came back the cheerful response.
Six of the men vaulted into the saddle and set off at a gallop to see what was happening, leaving the other ten to shepherd the girls up into the hills on foot. The evening was not turning out in the least how they had expected it to.
At about the same time that the girls were changing hands up by the foothills of the High Peaks a dozen grim-faced men were saddling up outside Greenhaven’s livery stable. Their aim was simple and direct. They hoped to run to earth a man by the name of Brent Cutler and when once they had done so, the intention was to hang him from the nearest tree.
It wasn’t often these days that it proved necessary to raise a posse in this way. Most people knew of the reputation of Greenhaven’s safety committee and took care to avoid committing any crimes in the general vicinity of the town. Even the comancheros tended to act a little cautiously when they were operating nearby. All but two of the twelve men assembled on this particular occasion were veterans of the War Between the States and it would have been a rash man, or a desperate one, who would have stood in their way this night.
Before they rode out, Seaton addressed a few words to them. He said, ‘This man is as slippery and dangerous as they come. I had word of his being in this area and sent four good men to give him a warning. They were going to strip him and turn him loose naked. He chose to shoot them. Well, their deaths are on my conscience and I won’t rest easy ’til I’ve avenged them. One thing I’d say is don’t listen to a word this devil says. He might claim to be a sheriff, a lawyer, a senator or I don’t know what-all else. Don’t any of you pay any heed. We catch him and kill him and there’s an end to it.’
The only man in the posse who took no notice at all of this fine speech was Jack Carlton. He knew full well that Seaton was lying through his teeth and, what’s more, he had a shrewd suspicion as to what lay behind those lies. Whatever chanced this night, he was sure that he now had a weapon to use against the chief of the vigilance men.
Once they were on the road to Fort James, Carlton rode up until he was alongside Seaton, ‘How’ll we know this Cutler fellow should we come across him?’
‘That’s no difficulty,’ said Seaton. ‘Bob Andrews was there when Ezra was shot. He’s with us tonight.’
In fact Carlton had already noticed Andrews’ presence and was only using this as a conversational gambit to bring the subject round to Brent Cutler. He said, ‘Where’d you hear about this Cutler fellow? You get a letter or something?’
Mark Seaton was not a practised liar and Carlton was pleased to remark that his supposed friend looked distinctly uncomfortable about being asked an outright question in this way. He affected not to notice this and waited patiently to hear what lie Seaton would be able to devise to explain his knowledge of the man from Pharaoh.
After an awkward silence, Seaton coughed and said,
‘No, there was no letter. Fellow from Fort James gave me the signal.’
‘What, he come by here especially to tell you?’ asked Carlton innocently. Although he was gaining a good deal of amusement from the situation, hearing old sober-sides being forced to tell a string of lies, there was more to Carlton’s purpose than mere malice. He wished to sow doubt in Mark Seaton’s mind and make him feel discomforted. Judging by the look on the lay preacher’s face, he was succeeding already in this endeavour. All this was laying the grounds for the time in the not too distant future when he put the bite on Mark Seaton.
After having assured themselves of the complete success of their mission, Archie and Cutler slithered back down the scree and then mounted up. Archie said, ‘Well, you did good for a man who don’t look to get his hands dirty all that often. I’d say we done as much to put a stick in those boys’ wheels as any of your paperwork might have done up at Pharaoh.’
‘I suppose I ought to be getting on now. I still have to get to Greenhaven. I only hired this horse for seven days and I’m going to be cutting it a bit fine if I don’t get to Greenhaven this night.’
The older man thought this over for a bit and then said, ‘Tell you what, son, I could do with visiting town myself. Why not come back to stay another night with me and then we’ll both ride over there in the morning. You’d not be getting much in the way of your work done there at this time of night.’
‘It’s a kind offer, but I feel that I’ve imposed upon your hospitality too long already.’
Archie snorted in derision. ‘Imposed nothing! I been enjoying your visit. Don’t see all that many folks, truth to tell. Come on, stay tonight and we’ll ride to Greenhaven tomorrow, first thing.’
‘Well, if you’re sure that I won’t be in the way—’
‘That’s settled then.’
The half dozen riders who reached the site of the attack first were appalled by what they saw. All three of the wagons were charred to cinders and most of their other gear had also been reduced to ashes. It was when attention turned to the two youngsters who had been left to guard the base that feelings really began to run high. When one of the oldest and toughest of the men, the closest thing they had to a leader, saw the ruined face of the boy who had been caught in the blast, he swore violently and at great length. ‘This,’ he announced in a deadly voice, ‘this, as you all know, is my sister’s son. She wanted me to make a man of him. Look what those beasts have done to him!’ The others gazed upon the empty eye socket from which blood trickled down the boy’s face like tears.
‘It was the vigilantes,’ shouted one of the men. ‘Those bastards from Greenhaven did this, without a doubt.’
There was silence at this. The very same idea had struck them all, but this man was the first to speak it out loud. Nobody said anything for a few seconds, then the man whose nephew had been so grievously injured, spoke again, saying, ‘I call on all gods and men to hear this oath. I will hunt down those who did this and kill them with my own two hands. Who is with me?’
It is strange, the mental gymnastics that even an honest and God-fearing man can perform with his conscience when the need arises. Mark Seaton was hoping that the man called Cutler would be dead before the dawn, but he was squeamish about getting blood on his own hands. His wish was that they might come upon the lawyer and that he would make a fight of it and be killed in the process. Then Seaton would be able to persuade himself in a short while that he was guiltless of the fellow’s death and perhaps be able to forget about the matter.
The twelve riders approached the low hills which marked the approach to the High Peaks, when one of them remarked, ‘Anybody else smell smoke?’
They reined in and everybody sniffed, until it was agreed that there was indeed something burning, not far from them. ‘Could it be a camp-fire?’ asked Seaton. ‘If so, we’re maybe on the right track.’
‘Wouldn’t o’ thought so,’ said Bob Andrews. ‘Smells like oil as well. Something’s to do up yonder in the hills. You want that we should look into it?’
Before he was able to frame an answer, there came the drumming of hoof beats and, as they watched, a small body of riders came down from the nearby hills and began cantering towards them.
When the rest of the comancheros arrived with the girls, plans had already been laid. A couple of men would be enough to take care of the girls. Allowing that the young man who had lost an eye could be left out of the reckoning fifteen men were left to go after those who had caused such damage to the interests of the band; it was becoming tolerably clear to all of them that there was no way on earth that they could get these girls to walk something over sixty miles on foot to the border. All else apart, all it would take would be for some busybody to spot what they were about and then there might be trouble. Keeping the young women out of sight in wagons was not just to save their shoe-leather; it prevented folk asking what these men were up to with such young girls, where they were taking them and a whole host of other, similar such foolish questions.
‘There was nobody down on the plain other than those men we dealt with,’ said the uncle of the wounded boy. ‘Means that those that did this were up there, on the slopes. The boys say that something rolled down from up in that direction.’ He gestured towards the ridge where Brent Cutler had lately been crouching. ‘I say that five men ride fast, down to the plain and then round the hills. The rest of us will go on foot, climb up the slopes and see if we can find any sign of those vigilantes.’
Some of the men thought privately that those who had caused this destruction would most likely be long gone by now, but it seemed worth a try. Five of them mounted up and then set off at a brisk canter, leaving the little valley and heading down to the lower ground at the foot of the hills. They struck lucky, or so they first thought, almost at once, finding a group of riders at rest, watching the hills. Without a word, they spurred on their horses and headed for these men, to see what they were about.
There was a horrible inevitability about the course of events, when once the comancheros became aware of the vigilance men sitting there on their horses, seemingly waiting for them. They reined in about forty feet from the other men and one of them called out, ‘You sons of whores think that you can behave so and not suffer for it?’
This was so unexpected, that for a moment, Mark Seaton was speechless with surprise. Then he recollected himself and shouted back sternly, ‘We’ll have no cursing or anything of that sort. What ails you?’ Like the other men in the posse, he had no idea what all this tended towards, but he was surely not going to allow these rough-looking characters to insult him with impunity.
The sun had now dipped entirely below the horizon, but it was not yet dark. The two groups of riders faced each other and for a brief moment, things could have gone either way. But one of the comancheros had not the patience or wit to play things slowly and he went for the pistol at his hip. Whether he was intending to start shooting or was perhaps simply making a show of bravado, nobody would ever know. As he drew his gun, Bob Andrews slid his rifle out of the scabbard at the front of his saddle and worked the lever to put a round in the breech. The metallic click acted as a declaration of intent, because the rest of the posse went for their weapons as soon as they heard it. Seeing the men in front of them all pulling iron, the other four comancheros also went for their guns and by then it was obvious to everybody that there was going to be a firefight.
Later that night, not one of the men who took part in the brief and bloody battle could say with any degree of confidence which side began the shooting. Not that it really mattered. When the crash of gunfire began, it was not possible to discern individual shots; the sound was like one continuous roll of thunder; a sustained roar, which stopped as abruptly as it had started. Three of the comancheros were dead and two of the posse had also been hit; one was mortally injured. For all the comancheros’ familiarity with firearms, it was the ex-soldiers who proved to be the deadlier shots. The two surviving members of the gang were suddenly
and shockingly aware that they were now outnumbered better than five to one. They turned tail and galloped back towards the hills.
The pall of smoke hung about the posse like a fog. Bob Andrews had fallen from his horse and lay on the ground without moving. Another man had taken a ball through his shoulder. These two were the only casualties. A few yards away, a third horse was wandering aimlessly round with its rider slumped forward, groaning piteously. Mark Seaton said, ‘Fetch that wounded man nigh to me.’
One of the others went over, took the reins of the horse and led it to Seaton. The man was barely able to remain in the saddle, swaying to and fro as though he might at any moment plummet to the ground. His shirt was dark with blood and from the look of it the ball had probably taken him through a lung. He was breathing rapidly and shallowly and if Mark Seaton was any judge of such things, then here was a man who was not long for this world. ‘Well,’ he said to the man, ‘it’s all up with you. Tell me, why did you and your friends fire on us?’
‘You screwed us.…’
Seaton leaned forward in the saddle, because the man’s voice was feeble and reedlike. He had been taken through the lung for sure. ‘Screwed you?’ asked Seaton, wincing at the obscenity, as though it left a bad taste on his tongue, ‘I don’t follow you. What do you say we did?’
‘Burned … burned us out’.’
‘What? What are you talking of?’
But the man didn’t speak again. Instead, he slumped forward even more and one of the posse dismounted swiftly and eased him down to the ground, where he proceeded to die.
‘What d’you make of it?’ somebody asked Seaton.
‘I don’t rightly know,’ he said slowly, ‘but something’s amiss. I don’t know if there’s any more of those scoundrels up there in the hills, but I say we’d best get back to town and rally more people in the morning. There’s mischief afoot.’ For some reason, he felt profoundly uneasy, as though he had a presentiment of his own death. It was absurd, but he felt the need to get back to his own home as soon as he was able. Brent Cutler could wait; there was something worse in the wind and he didn’t have any notion as to what it might be. As if to echo his sombre mood, there was a rumble of distant thunder and a brief, flickering purple light somewhere over the mountains.
The Vigilance Man Page 7