by Tony Masero
With a smack, Carter laid the flat of his hand across the dappled mare’s rump and drove it away. At the same time, he came around from behind the horse’s tail, pistol in his hand. With his expectations already roused, Diehard went for his Schofield fast.
As the dappled mare skittered away, Lorn’s bay jumped and stepped sideways, Nosey tracking the rider as he went.
Then the shooting started.
With Henfield dancing about between them it was hard for either party to get a clear shot and Carter’s first bullet caught the supper cauldron and with a sound like a church bell ringing the spent bullet winged off the metal and into the sky. Aiming to miss Henfield, Diehard fired across the preacher’s shoulder the slug riding high and passing over Carter’s head.
Simultaneously, Betterman struggled with his rearing bay and loosed off wildly at the two cowboys. Nosey firing in answer spun the hat from Betterman’s head, the bullet ripping a fist-sized hole in the fabric.
The watching crowd screamed at the sight of blazing guns, loud retorts and clouds of gunsmoke. They ran in terror, ducking and diving under wagon beds to get out of the line of fire.
Henfield closed both fists over his ears and sunk to his knees crying out prayers that no one could hear above the sound of gun shots.
Crouching, Diehard levered back the hammer and fired again. Dust puffed from Carter’s heavy coat and the tail flapped away as the .45 caliber bullet ripped through. Carter’s return of fire raked the air next to Diehard’s ear and the cowboy heard the whip-snap crack of the close miss.
Nosey was blazing away, his lip so compressed in concentration that chin and large nose almost met in the faintly comic expression of a rodeo clown. Betterman attempted to reply but the half-trained mare under him fought to escape the mayhem and almost threw him in its terror. He could neither fire his pistol nor could Nosey hit his target as the pony spun wildly about.
Henfield, on his knees, twisted around as a stray slammed into his shoulder, punching into the deltoid muscle and throwing him into the dust with a howl of pain. As the preacher dropped, Carter saw the new opening between the warring parties and threw his arm around to take a long-arm shot at the now exposed Nosey. Teeth bared in a grimace, he banged off two shots in quick succession. Hit under the ribs, the little wrangler dropped onto one knee still firing, his concentration fixed on the spinning Betterman.
Diehard saw him drop and forgetting Carter, he raced across to his partner.
In that moment, Betterman brought the bay under control and with an angry jab of the spurs headed the horse out of the clearing, leaping it over the wagon tongues and the terrified people crouching there. With a curse, Carter found he was clicking on empty brass. He had Diehard plain in his sights but his pistol was out of ammunition. Spitting vituperative curses, he caught up the reins of the gray and leapt up into the saddle quickly following Betterman fast away from the wagon ring.
‘Nosey!’ begged Diehard, falling to his knees and clasping the small figure to him.
Dazedly, Nosey stared after the departing riders. He tried to raise his gun hand but it weaved weakly and he lowered the pistol.
‘Hellfire, Diehard,’ he snuffed. ‘Damn near had the bastard.’
‘How bad you hurt, fella?’
‘Dunno,’ mumbled Nosey. ‘Took one somewhere. I’ll be okay, help me up, will you?’
‘No, you stay there. Let’s see the damage.’
Slowly, the congregation was working their way out from cover and a few loped over to help the wounded Henfield, who lay, flopping limply on the ground.
Diehard stared at them wildly, ‘Can we have some help? I have a wounded man here.’
Smoke and dust was gradually settling in the circle of wagons and the gathered men and women cast resentful glances at Diehard as they came tentatively forward.
‘For the love of God,’ he called.
‘You brought this into out midst,’ an angry voice called from the crowd. ‘Captain Henfield is hurt bad all thanks to you. Tend to your own, sinner.’
Diehard could feel Nosey sinking, his head drooping in towards his chest and Diehard looked down to see the little wrangler’s eyes glazing over.
‘Nosey! Nosey! Come on, pard. Stay with me.’
‘Hell of a ride,’ slurred Nosey, a thin smile quirking his lips. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
Then he was gone and Diehard felt the weight of the body sag in his arms as the spirit departed.
‘Oh, damn it, no!’ sobbed Diehard, the breath juddering in his chest as he held the little figure tight in his arms.
They had Henfield on his feet; his face was white and pale as a new moon. He leaned heavily against those supporting him, his arm a dripping sheet of blood.
‘Best you are gone from here, brother Diehard,’ he croaked. ‘Take your hate and sinful ways far from us for we are peaceful people.’
Diehard looked up at him sadly, ‘Will you see to my friend here?’ he asked.
‘He shall be laid to rest in God’s sight,’ Henfield promised.
‘Lay stones on his grave, bury him deep, I don’t want the prairie critters getting to him.’
‘As you wish,’ Henfield agreed weakly.
Gently, Diehard laid Nosey down and climbed to his feet. ‘I’m right sorry to bring this on you people,’ he said. But they were already turning away, ignoring him and helping their staggering leader over towards one of the wagons for treatment.
Diehard looked down at the small body at his feet. Blood leaked from the dusty clothes around the belly, the head was thrown back with staring empty eyes and the lips were parted showing the gaped teeth. Diehard crossed himself and whispered a prayer for the repose of the cowboy’s soul then he pulled the cowboy’s hat down to cover his dead face and turned and looked over towards where Carter and Betterman had vanished into the darkness. Grimness tightened his jaw and a steely look of hate filled his eyes as he secretly determined to make the two outlaws pay for this death.
Chapter Eight
The mission house was a small place. An adobe building set on a lone round-topped hill on an otherwise flat plain, its white walls shone brightly in the sunlight and the place was plainly seen and visible from far off. A raised cross topped the simple chapel entrance and stood over a small arched bell tower that fronted the high walled area behind which was impossible to see into from below. As he approached the structure Diehard wondered at the wisdom of setting up the chapel so obviously in this dangerous country. As if to prove his point, at the foot of the domed hill stood the ruined body of a burnt out stagecoach. The front and side wheels lay buckled under and the whole vehicle was canted over onto its side.
He found a brown clad figure awaiting him as he drew the buckboard up the slope and halted in front of the mission. The monk was a Franciscan brother, his brown robe tied with a knotted rope about the waist. An avuncular looking man, somewhat elderly but smiling pleasantly in welcome. The tubby friar opened his arms wide as Diehard climbed down and on closer look the cowboy realized the elderly cleric was far older than first appeared. Lines tracked the smooth skin of his brown face in a maze and through his smile Diehard could see that more than a few teeth of his were missing.
‘Bless you, my son,’ the old monk greeted. ‘A long journey, I think. Come, we have cool water here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Diehard. He was bone tired and could feel the dust that grimed his body and seemed to fill ever crease of his clothing. ‘Could sure use a sluice.’
‘The others will be pleased to have company,’ added the friar.
‘Others?’ asked Diehard, glancing meaningfully at the destroyed coach.
The monk raised eyes heavenwards, ‘Yes, I fear so. We are sometimes beset by savages. Wicked, wicked! They slew the driver and his guard, we had to bury them. Sadly it is hard work up here, the ground being so hard. I am Brother Aloysius, by the way.’
‘How do, sir. Diehard Charlie Wexford. So, did the passengers survive?’
/> ‘They did and have taken refuge here.’
‘It was Apaches, I take it?’
‘A renegade, nasty fellow, Ellio Angelino, although heaven knows how he earned such a name, for, believe me, he is no angel.’
‘Yes,’ Diehard nodded. ‘Ran into the fellow myself a while back.’
‘Then you will know what I mean.’
‘How do you survive up here, Brother? I mean this is one hell of an exposed position.’
The friar sighed, ‘We had hopes when we first came here. Hopes of a fine monastery and a way to bring enlightenment to all who came to our door, we are advised in the Good Book not to hide our light under a bushel so we built on this hilltop so all might find us easily. We were five brother monks back then and arrived with special disposition from our Abbot to build the mission house, now, sadly, I am the only one left. The rest have succumbed to either illness or misfortune.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Brother.’
‘But come in, my son. You are tired and in need of refreshment. I have a helper here, a little Negro orphan child. He will attend to the mules and that good looking mare of yours and stable them out back.’
Diehard followed him up the few steps and through the wide-open heavy wooden doors into the cool shade inside a domed vestibule.
‘You want these doors closed, Brother Aloysius?’
‘No, my boy, no need. All are welcome in God’s house.’
‘But the Apache….’
‘Ah!’ grinned the monk. ‘Therein lies our trickery. Come here, I will show you. You see there are two smaller doorways once we are inside?’ he pointed to two entrances set into alcoves on opposite sides of the foyer. ‘They are our ways of deceit,’ chuckled the monk. ‘The whole place was constructed over a natural fault, a great bubble that formed eons ago during the creation of the rock and was made use of by our brotherhood. I believe it was the Spanish brothers of our Order who first began the work some hundred years ago. They utilized the secret ways of ancient archaeology and Medieval Architecture known only to themselves. You see, each of these entrance ways opens into narrow corridors; they are built between the two outer walls and follow a devious path up and down through a complex of stairways. The corridors get narrower and narrower the deeper one goes until it is very difficult to go further. Both ways are connected and join one another at the rear of the chapel walls, above a cavern that lies below where we keep the livestock. The curious Indians come in, you see, quite boldly as the doors are always open to them as to everybody else but soon they are dumbfounded as they always end up back where they started. It is quite amusing to see their dismay.’
Diehard smiled at the cunning deception, ‘But you have an alternative, I take it?’
‘We do indeed. Here….’ He said, pulling forward a small primitive statue of Saint Francis set into a nook in the rough adobe wall. At the descent of the hidden lever a door that seemed part of the wall swung back and the monk ushered Diehard inside.
The secret doorway opened out into a long arched hallway, along one side ranged windowless cells with simple blanket-covered doorways and on the other were kitchen facilities, cook ovens and a low walled well. In the center of the narrow space between the high walls and set on stone flagstones sat a long solidly built wooden dining table occupied by three people.
‘Here, my friends,’ cried Brother Aloysius. ‘We have a visitor, this is Diehard Charlie, a passing voyager.’
‘Howdy, folks,’ said Diehard, studying the trio.
‘Allow me to make introduction,’ said the friar. ‘At the head of the table you see the lovely Miss Lilly Toussaint, a stage performer with a wonderful voice. She is deemed the ‘The Canary of the East Coast’, is that not so, Miss Lilly?’
‘I’ll sing any song you like you get the tune right,’ assured the woman, with a sly and confident smile. She was a trim looking lady dressed in a fine bustled silk dress that outlined her figure well and her unusual features were framed by a lush fall of curly dark hair that fell across her shoulders in a thick plume. But although her figure was fine, here the femininity faltered, her face had the battered look more of a pugilistic prizefighter than a songstress. A beaten face with a thickened forehead and puffy cheeks that appeared to have suffered a few hard knocks, the nose had been broken at some time and was crooked at the bridge. Diehard placed her in her twenties but she wore the attributes of a more worldly experience carrying her far beyond those years. Despite these shortcomings she was plainly of a forceful and independent nature and eyed Diehard in a forthright manner without any embarrassment.
‘To her right,’ the monk went on. ‘Is Mister Dobehard Bellamy, a gentleman of finance, I believe.’
The small figure sniffed and flicked his head sideways nervously, ‘Of the Down, Bender and Cartright Loan and Trust,’ he supplied with a tentative bow of the head. He was dressed in a tight fitting black suit; a stickpin tie and high celluloid collar and wore his thin head of oil-pomaded hair parted with a neat line down the center. Diehard could not but help noticing how he clutched a large carpetbag on his lap, his hand gripping the straps tightly as if he feared to let it out of his sight.
‘Last but not by any means the least, is Corporal Gentry, late of glorious service with the army.’
‘Sure thing,’ said the Corporal, getting to his feet and offering his hand. ‘Been up at Fort Apache but done my time and was heading on west to the coast until them damned redskins pulled us over.’
A rawboned man, brash in character and still dressed in uniform, he wore thick sideburns that bushed under his chin and turned into a bold mustache under a veined drinker’s purple nose.
‘Have you fallen foul of the Apache too, Mister Diehard?’ asked Lilly, cocking her head curiously to one side.
‘Not lately,’ supplied Diehard. ‘Chasing some no-accounts that stole my horses and killed my partner.’
‘Good Lord!’ gasped the banker, biting his lower lip. ‘You are a lawman then?’
‘No, sir. Not official, this is a personal matter.’
‘Ah!’ breathed the banker with something akin to relief.
‘Done you wrong, did they?’ asked the army man.
‘They did,’ agreed Diehard.
‘Well, now we are all introduced,’ cut in Brother Aloysius. ‘I’m sure our new companion could do with some refreshment. In fact it is almost suppertime for all of us, so let me arrange things. Our fare is poor, I’m afraid, Mister Diehard, but we will do our best,’
‘I’m obliged, Brother. Whatever you have will be most welcome.’
‘Very well, I will chase up Lothar, he is my little Negro helper and probably attending to your mules at the moment, so I’ll get things started myself. Please make yourself to home.’
As the friar bustled off Gentry nudged Diehard and pulled him down on the bench beside him, ‘The food ain’t nothing but a variety of goat and beans,’ he whispered. ‘But they got some fine wine here. There,’ he said pushing a jug in Diehard’s direction. ‘Take a cup.’
‘I will,’ agreed Diehard, glad to slake his thirst.
‘Been a long trail?’ asked Lilly, tilting her chin up and fluttering her eyelids. She was attempting a girlish tease but her battered features made a mess of it and left all the men unmoved.
Diehard nodded and sipped the wine, which he found rather rich and good to the taste.
‘I can see you are a relentless man,’ Lilly pressed on in a husky whisper. ‘Not one to give up easily.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Diehard allowed. ‘I don’t give up easy.’
She wrinkled her broken nose; ‘I do so admire a man with staying power who ain’t broken at the first hurdle.’
‘How about you folks?’ asked Diehard. ‘You all on your ways west?’
‘So we was,’ agreed Gentry. ‘Until them wretched Apache took a hand. I thought I seen the last of the beggars throughout my service time but here they comes again. Buggers is like some kind of disease.’
‘So, you’re lai
d up here now?’
‘’Deed we are, until we can find some transport out. How’d you get in, Diehard?’
‘I got me a buckboard and you’re all welcome of a ride. But I’m heading north not west.’
‘Anything to get us out of here,’ said the banker rapidly.
‘Sure thing,’ agreed Gentry. ‘If you can get us to the next town it would be appreciated.’
‘Won’t be very comfortable, I’m afraid.’
‘Hell! You think this is? Though, I tell you, once you’ve served time in a military barracks with forty other troopers anything else is sitting pretty by comparison.’
‘Sounds quite nice really,’ breezed Lilly. ‘The barracks, I mean.’
‘Aw! Cut it out, Lilly,’ growled Gentry. ‘Stop playing the winsome maid, will you? We all know what you is.’
Lilly gave him a sharp look and wrinkled her lip ruefully, ‘No need to be uncouth, soldier boy. I’ll strip your bark you get on the wrong side of me.’ Her tone was harsh and she had readily dropped the coy young maid part.
Diehard looked from one to the other and wondered what the story was between the two.
Gentry caught the questioning glance and smiled, ‘She’s just a whore,’ he supplied. ‘Worked out of Lindsay Gay’s Pleasure House, I know ‘cos I seen her there one time. Says she’s a singer to keep the monk happy, wouldn’t do for him to know he has a crib gal in his home.’
‘Please,’ butted in the banker Bellamy. ‘Can we show some restraint? Let us remember we are in a holy place and although perhaps not of the Popish persuasion at least a little respect is called for.’
Gentry, who was plainly feeling pretty full of himself, took it upon himself to expand his criteria regarding the financier.
‘This one ain’t all he makes out to be either,’ he said jabbing a finger at Bellamy. ‘Are you, Mister Banker? What you got in that bag you hold so tight? I’ll bet it ain’t all just audit books.’
‘Private papers,’ pleaded Bellamy, a little desperately. ‘Nothing but reports and inventories, that is all. Statements of mortgage and bills of repayment I am carrying to our offices in San Francisco.’