A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Then I’ll charge you extry an’ if you can’t pay is when I introduce you to a Greener scattergun that’s both wife and child to me.” The old man stared at Jacob. “What you got in your poke?”

  “Grub.”

  “Hell boy, there’s plenty grub in Santa Fe.” The oldster gave Jacob a measuring look. “Unless you’re dead broke.”

  “I plan to ride on at first light. Figured I might need the grub.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Sure is.” Jacob gave the hostler some coins. “I figure that will cover the hay and the oats.”

  “Two scoops, mind.”

  “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “That there’s a grain-fed hoss,” the old man said. “I figure you an’ him has seen better days.”

  Jacob smiled. “Yup, old-timer, you might be right about that.”

  Jacob forked hay for the mustang and added oats and got a painful kick in the shin for his troubles.

  When he returned to the front of the barn, the old-timer said, “Got coffee on the bile, if’n you’re interested, young feller. If you ain’t, the best place for whiskey and women is the Lucky Lady Saloon just down the street a piece.”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Jacob said. “Then whiskey. As for the women, some other time I guess.”

  “Then pour yourself a cup.” The old man motioned with his head. “In the office there.”

  When Jacob came back the oldster pushed a wooden box close to him with his foot. “Set, if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’m inclined to take a load off.” Grateful, Jacob sat down on the box.

  “Name’s Miles Marshwood. I’m the proprietor of this establishment.”

  “And a fine one it is, too,” Jacob said, lighting a cigarette.

  “What brings you to Santa Fe? If it ain’t any of my business, just say. By times I’m a talking man, you understand.”

  “I’m looking for a man.”

  Marshwood nodded. “Figured you fer some kind of lawman. Seems that every lawman I ever knowed had a big beak like your’n. Helps ’em smell out badmen, I guess.”

  Jacob smiled and shook his head. “I’m not a lawman. I’m looking for my brother. His name’s Shawn O’Brien.”

  The oldster was surprised. “Here now, is he a well setup young feller, smiles a lot, and rides with crazy old Uriah Tweedy the bear hunter?”

  “I don’t know Tweedy, but it sounds like Shawn.”

  “How come neither of you favor your pa?”

  “I don’t know. My brother Pat does, but I’m the ugly one of the family.”

  Marshwood nodded. “Saw that right off my ownself.”

  “Do you know where Shawn is?” Jacob asked.

  The old man’s eyes darted to the door, then he said, “You didn’t hear this from me, understand?”

  “I didn’t hear you say a word.” Jacob waited for Marshwood to gather his thoughts and speak again.

  “The feller who owns the Lucky Lady saloon goes by the name of Zeb Moss. Now it seems like he had your brother’s woman, a gal named Trixie Lee who oncet worked for Zeb at the Lucky Lady.”

  Jacob waited a few moments for more. When it didn’t come, he asked impatiently, “Well?”

  “Well, Zeb took off with her, or so Willie Wide Awake says.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Willie never sleeps, stays awake the whole time. That is he did, until your brother gave him money to go see a doctor about his problem. The doc gave Willie sleeping powders, and now he sleeps all the time.” The old man sighed. “We don’t call him Willie Wide Awake no more.”

  “Where did he go, this Moss?” Jacob said.

  “South, that’s all I know. Willie said Zeb pulled out of town with a wagon and half a dozen hired toughs. Includin’ Silas Creeds, an’ he’s a bad one.”

  “Heard of him,” Jacob said. “Did Willie have any idea where Moss was headed?”

  “No. South was all he knew.”

  “Why would Moss leave his saloon and light a shuck with Shawn’s woman?”

  “I don’t know. But he surely did.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A week, I guess. It’s hard to keep track of time around here.”

  “Would anyone at the Lucky Lady know where Moss was headed?”

  “Maybe. But a man could sure get hisself shot fer askin’.”

  Jacob rose to his feet. “I’m asking.”

  “Suit yourself, young feller. Is there anybody I can send your hoss an’ traps to when you don’t come back?”

  “Keep them,” Jacob said. “They’re yours, on account of how you’re such a sweet-natured old cuss and make such lousy coffee.”

  “Hell, boy, coffee always tastes good when it’s free.”

  Jacob settled his gun belt in place and stepped to the door.

  “One thing, young feller,” Marshwood added “I hear that a ranny from Arabia visited the Lucky Lady pretty frequent before Zeb left.”

  “Arabia!” Jacob exclaimed. “Where the hell is Arabia?”

  “Overseas, boy. It’s a foreign country where them Arabs an’ their camels live.” The old man shrugged. “Thought I’d tell you fer what it’s worth.”

  “It isn’t worth much,” Jacob said.

  “No, I reckon not, but I figgered I’d tell you anyhow.”

  Jacob bought a drink at the Lucky Lady and then, as casually as he could, asked after the whereabouts of Zeb Moss. Coming from a tall, hard-featured man wearing shotgun chaps and a mackinaw open to reveal a high-carried gun, the question was not easy to take. He was met with blank faces or calculating, silent stares of men who looked mean enough to have been up a dozen outlaw trails and back.

  After an hour, Jacob realized he was deadheading on a track to nowhere.

  He decided to go with the prevailing wind and said, friendly like, to one of the four bartenders on duty, “No piano player tonight?”

  “Sick. Seems like he’s always down with something.”

  “Mind if I tickle the ivories?”

  “Why not? Everybody else does.”

  Realizing there were some mighty hard eyes on him, Jacob sat at the piano, played a riff, and was pleasantly surprised the ornate Chickering grand was in tune. It had been a while, and he took sensual pleasure in the silken feel of the keys under his fingertips as though he was caressing the neck of a beautiful woman. With his black depression weighing on him like a damp cloak, he began to play Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor, a beautiful piece initially clouded by the same darkness and inner tension possessing him.

  Western men and women, even the hardcases in the Lucky Lady, had an appreciation for music, and a quiet settled on the saloon, broken only by the clink of glasses and the thud-thud of the saloon girls’ high heels on the timber floor.

  When Jacob reached the middle passage of the nocturne leading into a more exultant mood before the chordal section expanded into a moment of fleeting happiness, a slim, pretty Mexican woman in a yellow silk dress stood by the piano, her eyes fixed on his long-fingered hands.

  The piece ended and with it Jacob’s depression fled and he glanced up at the woman. Her face was enraptured, captivated by the soul of the composer. Jacob expected her to say something, but to his surprise she threw herself into his arms and hugged him close. He felt her hand slip into the top pocket of his mackinaw, and then she was gone.

  The bartender ambled over to the piano and handed Jacob a glass of deep amber whiskey. “You can play here anytime, mister. This one’s on the house.”

  Jacob returned to the bar with his drink, uncomfortably aware that he was the center of attention, men and women staring at him as they tried to figure who and what manner of man he was.

  After a decent interval, he left the saloon and took to the boardwalk. Halfway to the livery stable, when he was walking past a darkened dry goods store, a rifle shot hammered through the night. The bullet plowed into the brim of his hat, kept on going, and punched a small c
ircle in the store window.

  Jacob sprinted to the end of the boardwalk just a few yards beyond the store and dived for the shadows in the alley. He rolled away from the entrance as two more probing shots buzzed over him like angry hornets.

  People were yelling and feet pounded in the street. Somewhere a man yelled, “Here, that won’t do!” and another voice cried, “Get the sheriff!”

  Jacob had a deep distrust of lawmen and the last thing he wanted was to answer a bunch of fool questions. He rose to his feet and was relieved to see that no one was looking in his direction as overly excited people ran around like headless chickens.

  Keeping to the shadows he made his way back to the livery and left the hubbub behind him.

  Miles Marshwood stood at the stable door. “What’s all the shooting about?”

  “Beats me.” Jacob shrugged his shoulders.

  “You got mud on you.”

  “I tripped. Drank too much, I guess.”

  Under his ragged mustache, Marshwood’s mouth pruned in disapproval. “Sonny, in my time I seen more drunk men than I care to remember. You’re not drunk or even close.”

  “All right then. Somebody took a shot at me.”

  “Who?”

  “Hell if I know. It’s dark out there.”

  “Was you askin’ too many questions at the Lucky Lady?”

  “Just one too many, about Zeb Moss. So, yeah, I guess I did.”

  “I warned you, didn’t I? Did you get any answers?”

  “No. But a gal in the saloon tried to pick my pocket.”

  “She get your poke?”

  “I don’t keep money here.” Jacob’s fingers strayed to the pocket of his mackinaw. He heard a brief crinkle of paper. “Hey, maybe she gave me money.”

  But it wasn’t a banknote. The wrinkled scrap of paper had a single word written on it. SONORA.

  Marshwood looked over Jacob’s shoulder. “Hell, boy, that’s in Old Mexico. Why would she write that?”

  “Maybe it’s where Zeb Moss was headed . . . and probably my brother.”

  “I’d guess that little gal at the saloon likes you.”

  “I doubt it.” Jacob said. “More likely she doesn’t like what Moss does to women.”

  “Well, I can tell you this, young feller, Zeb Moss had no reason to head fer Sonora, no reason at all. Hell, boy, there’s nothing there but mountains and deserts. Seen it with my own eyes years ago, and I doubt if the place has improved since.”

  “It’s the only lead I’ve got,” Jacob said. “And the woman risked her life to give me this paper. That means something.”

  “Unless she wanted to throw you off the track.”

  “Then why be so secretive about it? All she needed to say was that Zeb Moss is headed for Sonora and I would’ve believed her.”

  “You’re rolling the dice, O’Brien. But hell, take the chance. You sure as hell ain’t going to get anywhere pokin’ around here. And next time the ranny who tries to bushwhack you won’t miss.”

  Jacob stuck the note back in his pocket. “Where do I get a train for Sonora?”

  The older man glanced at his watch. “There’s a flier leaves here for Albuquerque in an hour. From there you can catch a southbound on the Santa Fe line. I don’t know any better than that.”

  “It’s enough. I’m beholden to you.” Jacob shook the hostler’s hand.

  “Hell, you didn’t stay long.”

  “Maybe too long.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Frozen stiff by a cutting wind, his face black with soot from the locomotive’s belching chimney, Shawn O’Brien was relieved when the train clanked to a halt at a water tower a mile south of the Texas border. A couple of minutes later the Pullman’s door opened and Zeb Moss stepped onto the platform with Silas Creeds.

  Moss smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen, and how was your trip?”

  Shawn’s jaw felt as though it was frozen in place, but he managed to say, “What do you think, Moss?”

  “Uncomfortable, were we? Well, we will be at our destination soon.” Moss nodded to where the track made a V with another. “The rails that swing to the left head due south along the Magdalena River, and that’s the route we’ll take.”

  Shawn worked his jaw a few moments, then asked, “What’s your game, Moss?”

  “Game? Mr. O’Brien, it’s no game. There’s money at stake. Oh, and your life, too. But then you already know that.”

  “Why Sonora? What’s in Sonora that you want so badly?

  “You’ll learn the answer to that question soon. If you live that long, of course.”

  “Zeb, cut me loose,” Uriah Tweedy suggested. “I’m no part of this.”

  Moss shook his head. “Tweedy, Mr. Creeds informs me that you’re a nasty old man and as mean as a teased rattler. I’m sorry, but I believe you’re in cahoots with O’Brien, no matter how much you deny it.”

  “I’m a prisoner of circumstances, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy complained. “Yup, that’s what I am, a prisoner of circumstances.”

  “And a hostage to fortune, no doubt,” Moss said.

  “Whatever that means, Mr. Moss, no truer words have ever been spoke. At least in this part of the country.”

  Moss laughed. “You amuse me, Tweedy, so maybe I’ll let you live.” He slapped his hands together. “Now for some good news. I’ve ordered coffee for all three of you and one of my ladies will be here directly to serve it. Your hands will be unbound for a while. How is that for a magnanimous gesture?”

  “Mag . . . magin . . . just what you said, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy said. “It’s true blue as ever was. Can I call you Zeb?”

  “No.”

  “Magnanimous means generous, Mr. Tweedy,” Uriah Lowth explained.

  “Yeah, it was that, too,” Tweedy added.

  Moss laughed again and stepped back into his private car.

  An older man who seemed affable enough untied Shawn’s hands. “They say there are still some renegade Apaches down this way, but I don’t put any store in that talk. I fit Apaches one time, but I didn’t make a go of it and they stole my mule right out from under my nose. Those savages are right partial to mule meat and they must’ve dined well that night.”

  Shawn had the Irishman’s love of a good story and fine-sounding words and under normal circumstances he would’ve wanted to hear the gray-haired man’s tale, but he contented himself with saying, “You’re lucky you still have your hair.”

  The man nodded. “Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

  His companion was of a different breed. Barely out of his teens, he was trying to grow a man’s mustache, but only a downy shadow covered his top lip. His green eyes were older and carried the scars of ancient wounds, and he wore a two-gun rig, seldom seen at that time in the West. Shawn guessed he’d be a Kid of some kind—plenty of those around—and he’d be mighty sudden with the iron . . . and merciless.

  As though confirming Shawn’s thoughts, the affable man introduced him. “This here is the Topock Kid and he’ll be your chaperone.” He smiled. “Don’t let that baby face fool you, he’s pure pizen. Killed his own pa with a wood ax when he was barely out of knee britches. Didn’t you, Kid?”

  “Keep it up old man, and you’ll join him,” the Topock Kid growled.

  “See what I mean.” The affable man stepped into the Pullman car. He seemed glad to leave.

  “You drink your coffee and Masters will come back to tie you up again,” the Kid said. “I see any fancy moves and I’ll shoot you in the belly.”

  “Hey Kid,” Tweedy said, “did you really take an ax to your pa?”

  “No. It was a mattock. I bashed his skull in with the flat end.”

  “I guess you didn’t like him much, huh?” Shawn assumed.

  “No, I didn’t, and I don’t like you, either, O’Brien, so shut your damned trap.”

  “Ah, Mr. Topock, I think you meant to say the adze end,” Lowth put in. “A mattock is a farm tool, right?”

  “Hangman, are you tryin
g to be funny?” the Kid said, his eyes ugly.

  Lowth was spared having to answer. The car door opened and Julia Davenport stepped onto the platform, a tray in her hands. Deep shadows appeared under her eyes and she looked thinner. The dress she wore was stained and torn and the cups on the cheap tin tray rattled as her hands shook.

  Shawn tried to rise, but the Kid snarled at him to stay the hell where he was.

  “How are you, Julia?” Shawn asked carefully.

  The woman angled a short, fearful look at the Moss gunman before replying, “I’m just fine, Shawn.”

  “No you’re not,” Shawn said. “You look tired.”

  “I’m fine,” Julia said again.

  Tweedy smiled. “I’m right happy to see you again, Trixie.”

  Julia managed a slight smile in return. “How are you, Uriah?”

  “Never better.”

  Julia handed Tweedy a cup and poured coffee for him. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “That’s enough talk,” the Kid ordered. “Pour the coffee, woman, then light a shuck.”

  “Trixie, have they done something bad to you?” Tweedy said, ignoring the youngster. “Have you been abused by Zeb Moss?”

  “No, Uriah, nothing bad has happened to me, nothing at all.”

  “If they did—”

  “If they did, what would you do abut it, pops?” the Kid said, sneering.

  “Something real mean, sonny,” Tweedy snarled. “Something I done a few times afore when I felt that way.”

  “Uriah,” Julia said, “I’m fine, honestly. Look out for yourself.”

  “Listen to the little lady, old man.” The Kid grinned and slammed a boot into Tweedy’s thigh.

  It was a bad mistake.

  Moving faster than an old man with the rheumatisms should, Tweedy grabbed the Kid’s leg and sank his teeth into the gunman’s shin.

  Like the others, the Topock Kid conformed to Moss’s dress code and affected the elegant broadcloth and elastic-sided boots of a prosperous city businessman. There was no leather between the Kid’s shin and Tweedy’s strong teeth, and the old man bit deep. The Kid tried to kick him off as he would a cur dog, but Tweedy held on tight and gnawed . . . and gnawed....