by Savage Texas
“If only I had, Señor Diego!”
“My little joke, of course,” Diego said.
Pablito carried a double armful of bottles and reddish-brown jugs to the wall. He lined them up on the top, side by side in a row.
“Some of the melons too, boy,” said Diego. Several honeydew melons stood on the table. Pablito set them on top of the wall at opposite ends, bracketing the line of bottles and jugs. The melons were a pair of pale moon faces peeking over the wall.
Sam picked up the mule’s-leg, running his fingertips lightly across it, examining it. It hadn’t been cleaned since last he’d used it. That offended his sense of fitness; he was a stickler about cleaning his weapons after use. On the other hand, he preferred that no one handle the piece but himself.
The weapon’s heft, its well-wrought metal felt good in his hands. Right. The mule’s-leg was still armed from when he’d reloaded it after the dustup at Mace’s Ford.
Pablito scampered back to the patio, getting behind the firing line.
Sam took up a stance facing the adobe wall. His left shoulder and side were hurting, but that shouldn’t affect his performance. It was against his nature to show off his skills, but sometimes it was necessary to make an impression. This was one of those times. In Texas, in the West, as most everywhere, a display of marksmanship could only resound to the shooter’s credit.
Holding the leveled weapon in both hands, he fired from the hip, working the lever and squeezing the trigger in one fluid motion again and again. Working from left to right, he cleared out the bottles and jugs one after another, each of them flying into pieces.
Spear blades of flame lanced from the muzzle, accompanied by a cloud of gunsmoke.
He saved the melon at the extreme right-hand side for last. It disintegrated in a mass of spewing pulp, rind and juices. Sam ceased firing.
Reaching into the wheelbarrow, Vasquez grabbed a bottle by the neck and heaved it into the air, sending it high and arching. Winking, glittering, it pinwheeled in midair. A round from the mule’s-leg blew it to pieces.
Vasquez used both hands to toss up two bottles at a time. Sam blew them both out of the sky.
Diego gave a sardonic little bow, lightly clapping his hands. “Bravo, Señor. Most impressive.”
Lorena’s eyes glittered, spots of color glowing in her cheeks. She felt reassured that she’d forged an alliance with the right man.
Diego arched an eyebrow. “With such skills, I wonder how you happened to be wounded at the ford.”
“Bottles don’t shoot back, Señor Castillo. Badmen do,” Sam said.
“This new Winchester is the first one of its kind that I have seen. It seems criminal somehow to mutilate it by cutting off its parts, amputating it.”
“Modified, not mutilated, Señor.” Sam unlatched the brass fastenings at the front edge of the wooden box and opened its hinged lid, folding it back. Within the bottom half of the case in special mountings were a wooden stock, a long barrel, and a telescopic sight, all fitted with attachments allowing them to be fastened onto the piece.
“A few quick adjustments and the mule’s-leg becomes a long-range, precision rifle,” Sam said.
“Most intriguing. I see that you are a specialist in your line, Señor. In this land such skills should serve you well,” Diego said.
He turned to Vasquez. “Take two guns.”
“Sí, Señor Diego,” Vasquez said. He picked up two loaded guns from the table and holstered them.
“Gitano—the knives,” Diego said.
“Sí, Señor.” Gitano reached inside his red sash. Beneath it, wrapped around his flat belly like a waist cincher, was a tall leather belt, circling him from his hips to just below the rib cage. It sported a row of vertical sheaths, each holding a flat, slim throwing knife. Gitano reached in and withdrew three shiny daggers, holding them in one hand.
Diego told the boy to take two bottles from the wheelbarrow. Pablito obeyed, holding one in each hand.
“Señor Heller has been good enough to leave one melon on the wall untouched. That is for you, Gitano,” Diego said. Gitano nodded.
“Vasquez, you take the bottles. The boy will throw them both up in the air when I give the word,” Diego said. “Now!”
Pablito tossed the bottles skyward. Vasquez drew both guns and fired, two shots sounding almost as one. The bottles burst.
At the same time, Gitano’s arm was a blur of motion. Three daggers protruded from the melon on the wall. Two were placed where the eyes would be. A third stuck out from what would be the middle of the forehead.
“My compliments, gentlemen,” Sam said dryly.
“At Rancho Grande, we, too, are not without specialists, Señor Heller,” Diego said.
A hint of motion from the hacienda caught Diego’s attention, causing him to look up. Following the direction of the other’s gaze, Sam saw that Diego was staring at a second-story window overlooking the patio and grounds.
French-door windows opened out onto an ironrailed balcony. Floor-length gauzy white drapes veiled the opening. They were parted, one having been lifted by a clawlike hand. It belonged to a figure that stood framed in the portal.
An elderly man in a somber black suit, tall, slim, straight, stiff-backed. Lead-colored hair crowned a long, rawboned face, sunken-cheeked, with a silver-gray mustache and goatee. Eyes burned in the depths of hollow sockets, looking down with chill hauteur.
The hand released the edge of the curtain it had been holding, freeing it to fall in place, veiling him behind a scrim. He stepped back, swallowed up by the room’s gloomy shadows.
“Don Eduardo,” Lorena breathed.
Sam had the feeling of having been weighed in the balance. From the stiff, frozen faces of Diego and Lorena Castillo, he knew that he was not alone in experiencing that sensation of remote, icy scrutiny.
But the verdict of the padrone was yet to be determined.
Like the rest of Hangtree County, like all of Texas, Rancho Grande was open-range, free and unfenced, allowing for the unhindered passage of cattle herds to fresh pasture lands and water. But the heart of the ranch, the inner citadel of hacienda and outbuildings grouped around the central plaza, was enclosed behind adobe walls ten feet high and several feet thick.
The ramparts were a defense against Indians and bandits. The barrier was interrupted by several strategically placed portals, each sealed by massive, ironbound wooden gates.
Opposite the hacienda, across the plaza, was a high, arched main gate. Its double doors were open. Beyond the archway, a dirt road stretched straight across Castillo land, running south for miles before meeting the Hangtree Trail at a right angle. The trail ran east to Hangtown and west to the Breaks.
Lorena Castillo stood alone, inside and to the right of the portal, as Sam Heller made ready to ride out.
Sam was mounted up on Dusty. The steel-dust had been well-groomed and well-tended in the Castillo stables while his master was laid up. The mule’s-leg was once again holstered on Sam’s right side; a .36 Navy Colt was worn butt-out, tucked into the top of his pants on his left hip.
Like his horse, his belongings had been secured and looked after during his stay.
His gear was now stowed to the saddle. Inside a pouch in one of his saddlebags was his black book of circulars of the Most Wanted outlaws in the West. Topping things off, his head was covered by his battered but serviceable slouch hat, the same type worn by General Ulysses S. Grant and given by him to Sam as a gift.
Sam was free to leave. None of the folk of Rancho Grande hindered his departure. In fact, he had the feeling his hosts were eager to see him go, for various reasons.
Lorena stood just inside the main gate, waiting for him as he rode out. Sam reined to a halt, doffing his hat in a courtly gesture. “A thousand thanks, Señora. I’m in your debt,” he said.
“Indeed you are,” she said, “and I expect your thanks to exceed many thousands.”
“I always pay my debts in full, for good or ill.”
> “Your way is hard, hombre. I do not envy you. The Texans will hate you because you are a Yanqui. The Mexicans because you are a gringo. The Indians because you are a white man. Respectable folk will shun you as a killer. Outlaws will hate and fear you for the same reason,” Lorena said. “And if they really knew what you were about, none of them would rest until they killed you.”
Sam laughed. “The way you tell it, I might as well lay down and die.”
“You had your chance to do that when you were shot, but you chose to live. Make the most of it. Find the guns and we will split the reward.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
“I trust you, gringo. You know why?”
“Is it my honest face?”
“Hardly. I know what you are and you know what I am. You need friends, allies. So do I. We are joined by self-interest. One false step for either of us and we are through, finito,” said Lorena. “We can use each other, gringo.”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while,” Sam said.
“You are a man, I am a woman.”
“So I noticed.”
“More than anything else, I want to be free. Free of Rancho Grande, of House Castillo. To do that, I need to be rich,” Lorena said. “Do this for me and you will not find me ungrateful. Betray me and I will kill you myself.”
Sam let that pass without comment. “If I need to contact you, how do I reach you?”
“I will get in touch with you. Gitano will be our go-between. I trust him with my life,” Lorena said.
“But can I trust him with mine?”
“As long as you are faithful to me. Any messages you have for me, give them to Gitano and he will pass them along. As he will relay any messages I have for you.”
“How do I find him?” Sam asked.
“He will find you. He will be near. Very near,” Lorena said, smiling thinly.
“Not too near. I might take him for an enemy and shoot him by mistake.”
“If you do, make sure you kill him. The Gypsy is a bad enemy.”
“I’d rather have him as a friend.”
“Keep your bargain with me and he will serve you well.”
Sam touched his hat brim in a parting salute. “Until we meet again, Señora.”
She raised a hand in farewell. “Luck, gringo. And try not to get shot this time.”
Sam rode out.
SIXTEEN
A U.S. Army cavalry column stood halted in the middle of Trail Street. It was made up of about fifty horse soldiers, riding in tandem. The column faced west, its vanguard abreast of the Cattleman Hotel.
The troops had done some hard riding. They’d been on patrol in the field, night and day, for ten days. Horses and men alike were dirty, tired, hungry and thirsty.
The cavalrymen were not in the best of humors. A grueling, fruitless search for the raiders who’d sacked and burned Midvale had brought them to a hostile settlement.
That’s what Hangtown was to these Unionist troops: a stronghold of unreconstructed Rebels.
The war had officially ended in April 1865 with General Robert E. Lee signing the articles of surrender at Appomatox. But now, almost a year later, much of Texas was still in a state of siege.
These cavalrymen from Fort Pardee were part of an army of occupation. Their mission was as much about suppressing any flare-up of secessionist rebellion as it was about curtailing Comanche, Kiowa, and Lipan Apache war parties.
Townsfolk who crowded the boardwalks on both sides of Trail Street were surly, sullen and unfriendly at best. The troops resented having to risk their lives fighting Indians on behalf of a population that until recently had made war on them and, given half a chance, would do so again. Their bad mood was not improved by the thought of the mouthwatering nearness of mugs of frothy beer and tumblers of red whiskey available in the many saloons and bars lining the street—places now off-limits to them, since they were on duty.
As for the folk of Hangtown, they found the Yankee soldiers about as welcome as skunks at a garden party.
In command of the cavalry patrol was Captain Ted Harrison. A decorated combat veteran of the war, he was in his late twenties, with curly blond hair already thinning on top, bushy sidewhiskers and a mustache.
The unit’s top noncom was Sergeant Carlton Oakes, a tough, leathery fighting soldier who’d been in the army since the Mexican-American War.
Wade Hutto, with Sheriff Barton in tow, went to the van of the column to palaver with Captain Harrison. Hutto’s position was a delicate one. During the war, he’d been appointed chief adminstrator for the district. It was not a military but a civilian post, exempting him from the victorious Federals ban on ex-Confederate officers holding positions of authority during the occupation.
Hutto was also the preeminent man in the county, the biggest landholder and richest magnate in Hangtree—and the one who had the most gunmen at his beck and call.
But he lacked the will and the firepower to buck the United States Army.
It served his interests to position himself as the middleman, the intercessor between federal troops and the folk of the county. He had to walk a fine line between placating the Yanks while maintaining the respect of the local citizenry.
As for Barton, he was Hutto’s man. Hutto had put him in as sheriff; he’d do as Hutto told him.
Hutto and Captain Harrison had had official dealings before. Hutto went out into the street where Harrison sat on his horse. Barton tagged along, hanging back a few paces behind Hutto.
“Wade Hutto here, Captain,” Hutto said.
“Yes, I know you,” said Harrison, his neutral tone masking any feelings, positive or negative, he held about the town boss.
“What brings you to Hangtree?” asked Hutto.
“It was reported that a wagonload of dead white men was found on Tuesday on the trail west of town,” Harrison said. “Also that some other dead men were found at Mace’s Ford around the same time.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“I want to see them.”
“That’ll be difficult, Captain. They’re all buried on Boot Hill.”
Harrison frowned. “Already? That seems a bit premature.”
“Been a spell of hot weather lately. We had to get them into the ground fast,” Hutto said.
“They’ve got to come out.”
Hutto’s broad face expressed puzzlement. “Not sure I get you, Captain.”
“We’re going to dig them up.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“At nighttime?”
“This is Army business. I’m in a hurry. We didn’t come out here on any pleasure trip.”
“Anything you say, Captain. We’re cooperating.”
A fight between two dogs would have drawn a crowd in Hangtown. Dark doings on Boot Hill at night proved to be a powerful attraction. It seemed that most of the townsfolk had come out to watch the show.
The graveyard on the west edge of town was beyond the zone of light cast by the lamps and lanterns of the settlement. A waxing moon hung overhead, flooding the scene with silvery light. Thin clouds stretched streamer-like across the night sky. Torches lit up Boot Hill.
Soldiers and townspeople gathered around the knoll on the north side of Hangtree Trail. The cavalrymen picketed their mounts on a grassy field off to one side at the base of the rise, out of the way. The troopers not on gravedigging detail were massed around the horses. They were off by themselves, isolated/separated from the townsfolk.
A large number of the inhabitants had turned out to watch the cavalry dig up fresh graves. Outdoorsmen and town dwellers, cowboys and bankers, the gentry and the sporting element, respectable types and saddle tramps, gamblers and whores were among those thronging the area.
The saloons had largely been emptied of their clientele who’d come out to watch the proceedings. Many brought whiskey bottles with them and passed them around, adding a carnival-like air to the macabre setting.
That was north of the tra
il out of town.
On the south side it was quiet, peaceful and more or less unpeopled. The white-painted wooden church with its pointed steeple looked monumental in the moonlight, as if made of marble.
Standing vigil on the front steps were the pastor and sexton of the church. The pastor was there to make sure that these devilish Yankees committed no sacrilege or blasphemies in the churchyard’s hallowed ground. Let them do what they liked on Boot Hill; none of his parishioners were buried there, only outlaws and the indigent.
The sexton, a club-footed white-haired man who served as handyman and gravedigger, was charged with guarding against drunks and whores sneaking into church grounds to practice their indignities and indecencies.
On the other side of the trail, the soldiers grouped with the horses smoked, chatted and stretched their legs.
“Keep the men together, Sergeant Oakes. No wandering off,” Captain Harrison said.
“Yes, sir,” Oakes said.
He addressed the troops. “Listen up, men. I know most of you would like nothing better than a drink, a woman, or both. Any man fool enough to try is more than likely to wind up dead before getting a dozen paces away. These Rebs’d do you in with a smile and their whores would knife you in the back for your loose change.”
One of a group of whores standing nearby on the sidelines spoke up: “Hah! Everybody knows you bluebellies ain’t got two pennies to knock together in your pockets. You drink up all your pay!”
Her associates responded with shrieks and cackles. “That’s telling ’em, Madge!” one cried.
A cavalryman said to his buddy, “She’s got your number, Rourke.”
“And yours too, Bill!” Rourke replied.
Hearing the byplay, Wade Hutto frowned, turning to the sheriff. “Put a cork on that kind of nonsense,” he said. “We don’t want this turning into more of a circus than it already is.”
“Okay, Wade,” Barton said. He passed the word to Smalls. The deputy went over to the whores.
Madge, defiant, stood facing him with her hands on her hips. She had a mop of orange-red hair, a horse face, and a flat-chested, long-legged body with knobby elbows and knees. “Well, looky here, if it ain’t the li’l deppity!”