Bad Men Go to Hell

by Tony Masero

  Casually, he drew his pistol and fired off, hitting the brave high in the breast and knocking him to the ground. Scart holstered his pistol and leaned over to take up the halter rope again. At that moment the young guard loosed off an arrow from his bow that zipped past the back of Scart’s head as he bent forward.

  ‘Damn it, boy!’ cursed Scart, glaring up at the young man angrily.

  The boy was fumbling in his quiver for another arrow when Crome lifted his rifle from the scabbard and in one practiced swinging move brought it up cranking the lever as he did so and resting the rifle in his shoulder he immediately fired. The boy sailed in the air as the shot struck, legs and arms windmilling as he tumbled forward and slid a few feet face down on the rise and lay still.

  The watching tribeswomen screamed in shock and rushed forward in an angry mass attempting to get at Scart with cudgels of firewood and their knives. The men reared and whirled their ponies knocking the irate women aside.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ roared Scart, holding out the pony’s halter rope. ‘Come on girl, mount up. Let’s leave these hussies and get out of here before I have to kill the lot of them.’

  There was nothing for it, Eloise threw herself across the paint’s bare back and clung onto the mane. With a whoop, Scart led them out, the others following him and dragging the loaded mules behind. They left the batch of wailing women gathered over the fallen bodies of the two Indians and tearing at themselves in mournful anguish.

  Shulki and his band drifted in later in the day when the evening sky was ripped by purple cloud and the setting sun cast a crimson glow over the land.

  They were filled with a mixture of exultation and sadness. Their great victory had left them with many rich trophies and yet the death of Telkashay and the others they had lost, modified their success with a tinge of sadness. Still, they were greeted by ululations of appreciation by the waiting women in the village and the returning braves rode through the camp shouting out the tales of their bravery and the courage of those that had died. The best of them strode through the village generously giving away presents in the form of the loot they had pilfered from the dead soldiers. Rings and watches, religious medallions, gold coin from the pay wagon, knives, hats and shirts and firearms were passed out to the waiting villagers.

  Bottles of whiskey had been discovered and were soon cracked open and drunk. A festive air filled the wickiups and as food was prepared the men gathered and swopped stories of the fight.

  It was only Shulki who sat apart and glowered solemnly.

  He had not washed and his white stripe of war paint had smudged on his sweating face and his arms and bunched fists were still splattered with the dried blood of his victims.

  His wife had told him of the arrival of Scart and his gang and the resulting killings and carrying off of Eloise. Her departure had filled his wife with obvious pleasure in the telling which did little to appease the war chief. There was a whisper too amongst the warriors, a rumor it had seemed at first but now Shulki began to believe that maybe there had been more to it than that. Telkashay, it was said, had been shot down by a white man that looked at lot like Scart Benjamin so the word went. A warrior had glimpsed the assassination during the fighting, although they could not be certain of the killer’s identity. One of the pay wagons had been broached and sacks of gold taken, he had been told, something he had paid little heed to during the excitement of victory but now the pieces were beginning to slot together in his brain.

  Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and marched in amongst the noisy crowd holding his hands up high and barking an order for silence.

  ‘Whilst we fought the long knife soldiers,’ he cried. ‘Other of the white worms were amongst us. Those were the men that came here and promised to be brothers to us, whilst we were away they have stolen from us and killed our people.’

  There was a hush amongst the warriors and Shulki let his glinting eyes scan over them.

  ‘You drink,’ he shouted derisorily. ‘Speak of your bravery and would tell all what courageous Apache you are and yet here, amongst our homes, thieves trod and killed. They took a pony and the white girl, shot down a young man and one of our guards. And we do nothing? Is this the way of the Apache?’

  He raked them all with a fiery look and there was an answering rumble of unrest at his words.

  ‘Now you would feast, get drunk and bed your wives, still full of contented satisfaction at the big win. But I tell you; you are no more than women to behave in such a manner. If there is a snake at our door, what do we do? Let it in? No! You stamp it out and cut off its head. Well, we have had a snake in our midst and we must do something about it. Now is not the time for feasting, the battle is not yet done.’

  ‘What would you have us do, Shulki?’ called a voice from the crowd.

  ‘Those of you who’s blood still runs hot,’ Shulki replied. ‘Let them come with me. I go after these dogs that have defiled our camp and taken from us. They came with fine words and the promise of much gold but they have stolen this from us and have not shared. It is my foolishness at fault, I accept it. I am your leader and it was I who knew these men and took them at their word. For this I bear great blame, so I must make amends not only for my false trust but also for their acts of murder and deceit. Who will ride with Shulki and kill more white men?’

  There was a long silence following his words, those that were not already too drunk to understand pondered on what he had said. Many were tired and some were wounded, others thought that they had done enough already and only wanted to rest.

  Twenty-five braves pushed forward, mostly they were unmarried men and from amongst the youngest of the tribe, warriors still filled with the fire of their earlier success and hungry for yet more killing.

  The democracy of the camp forbade Shulki to press for more men, each tribesman was permitted his personal freedom to decide and Shulki accepted their wishes. He looked at the eager twenty-five, a tight smile playing on his lips.

  ‘We have taken many horses and new weapons and the taste for death is still strong in us, come brothers, let us catch these white men and rip the hearts from their bodies.’

  Whoops were uttered at his call and as Shulki strode away to fetch his weapons the braves accompanying him shouted war cries and waved their fists in the air as those remaining watched them depart in silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Senola was a small railroad siding and watering stop that serviced the local farms and ranches and also the growing local copper mining industry. In the gloom of the pale early morning the tracks shone as twin silver lines running across the flat plain into the purple shadows of distant haze. It was not much more than a slip-track off the main route and brought in supplies for the general store and mail that was dispersed from the post and telegraph office. There was little else in the township of note than a few trading establishments, a blacksmith, livery stable and a hotel. The depot itself took the form of a water tower and large barn-like storage warehouse that also acted as the station and was situated on the southern side close to the tracks with the rest of the township spread along the opposite side. Apart from the outlying adobe structures the train tracks ran so close to the buildings that they almost passed directly in front of people’s front doors. It was laziness that had been the root cause, the timbers for warehouse and hotel being brought in by locomotive flatbed and dumped over the side meant less carrying if they were built up right where they landed next to the track grades.

  The Profit Hotel was the only frame building apart from the storage depot, the rest being mainly constructed of adobe brick and gathered around the main structures on the flat and arid and otherwise empty plain except for some stands of Judas tree and clumps of mesquite and saguaro cactus. To the north and east ran a hook of molded hills that enclosed and overlooked the town on two sides and necessitated the train line to curve around the lower end of the range before entering the town.

  As Scart led his exhausted companions into the town they all look
ed forward to a rest and wash-up in the hotel with maybe breakfast and a few drinks on the side. Scart had kept them going on remorselessly throughout the night, hoping to put a good distance between themselves and any followers and the township promised a safe haven whilst they and their steeds recovered.

  They stabled the tired mules and horses at the livery with Callum Mack left to watch over the packed gold left in the storage warehouse, and then they tracked a weary way across to the hotel. Callum was still complaining about his troublesome shoulder wound, although healed some kind of infection had come with it and he looked sickly and had lost weight as a result. He was annoyed at being left as a solitary guard but his brother assured him that he would be brought over some food and could rest up untroubled, taking it easy whilst he watched over their winnings.

  Scart meanwhile, with a pocket full of stolen gold coin, felt able to push for the best rooms in the hotel and he slammed open the hotel doors and strode confidently across the lobby stomping a cloud of travel dust in his wake.

  The hotel owner, a hunch-shouldered broody fellow called Jacob Silverman, was sweeping out the lobby at the time and was on the verge of complaining about the dusty footprints on his pristine floor but one look at his new customers advised him to behave differently.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said, laying aside his broom and hurrying over to the counter. ‘Help you?’

  They appeared a sorry bunch he thought, the two men accompanying the dust-coated Scart looking as hard-faced and tired as he did. And the bedraggled young girl that followed them in was dressed in ill-fitting clothing as dirty and grubby as any Apache maid might be even though she was obviously an Anglo.

  ‘Like rooms for us all, a bath and breakfast, can you manage that?’

  ‘Sure we can. Looks like you come far, been travelling all night by the look of you,’ there was the usual curious question one might expect inherent in the observation but Scart was not about to be forthcoming. He leaned across the counter and the pale mask of his dust covered face looked hard into the owner’s eyes, ‘We’re tired and can pass on the conversation, just give us the best you got.’

  He chinked his pocket full of gold coin and Silverman raised an eyebrow in understanding.

  ‘Will do, the best in the house, sure enough. Take but a moment to boil you water for bathing,’ he said, snatching down sets of room keys from the hooks behind him. ‘I’ll have your breakfast prepared and ready for you after you’ve cleaned up. You folks want to go up to your rooms, I’ll give you a call when we’re ready.’

  Scart grunted in reply, shifted the saddlebags slung over his shoulder, hoisted his rifle and took the keys.

  ‘Up the stairs and to your left,’ indicated Silverman and the sorry looking group trudged up the stairs leaving a trail of white footprints on the newly swept staircase. Silverman tutted in irritation and then hurried out to call his Mexican help to prepare the baths and breakfast.

  As he walked across to the Mexican couple’s adobe hut he passed the railroad company’s hired pump man on his way over to the depot and Ronny Tate called out a greeting.

  ‘Morning Mister Silverman, looks like you got custom real early.’

  Silverman, a gloomy individual given to bitching, who would even complain that it was too wet if they had rain after a long dry spell, looked at him sourly, ‘Work,’ he said. ‘Don’t matter the hour there’s always plenty of work to do.’

  ‘Least it’s income,’ answered a cheerful Ronny, who was newly wed to a pretty girl and found every day a bright beginning.

  ‘Little enough for what’s involved,’ grumbled Silverman.

  ‘They looked a rough crew, saw them coming in just now.’

  ‘Don’t matter a cuss to me. We get all sorts and that’s a fact,’ growled Silverman as he hurried on without looking back.

  ‘You take care,’ Ronny waved after him.

  Ronny whistled happily as he went on his way, his thoughts full of his bride Agnes and still feeling mellow after their morning coupling. They were working hard on starting a family and Ronny, who was a virile and active young man, was content with a task that meant they were involved in the business at every conceivable opportunity. Connubial bliss, he considered, could never have been better.

  He passed the old Indian, Billy Peas, crouched with hands hooked around his bent knees and sitting solemnly under the porch cover in front of the general store waiting for the place to open. But everybody knew that old Mister Brewster was a late riser and the ancient might have a long wait before he could hustle up some work inside or bum himself some candy or tobacco.

  ‘Howdy, Billy,’ called Ronny. ‘How’re you doing?’

  Billy Peas raised his weather worn eyes, so hooded and creased with wrinkles it was hard to say where he was looking at any given moment. Billy was an Apache who had long ago fled the reservation, he should have been taken back but nobody was bothered particularly by his presence in town and he fulfilled a useful service by running errands and doing odd jobs. He was old, way old, his body a thin willow and bowed over by the years. A taciturn septuagenarian who said little and who’s sole ambition it seemed was to earn himself a bottle if he could, then he would disappear into the desert and only return days later when he was sober again.

  Billy nodded in reply, ‘Ho! Ronny Tate.’

  ‘You waiting on Mister Brewster?’ said Ronny, asking him the obvious by way of conversation.

  The old Indian nodded in affirmation.

  ‘You might have a long stay,’ grinned Ronny. ‘Mister Brewster likes his bed these days.’

  ‘Something is coming, Mister Ronny.’

  ‘What? You think Brewster’s on his way down already, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not Brewster.’ Billy lifted his nose and sniffed the cool air, it was crystalline at this time of day before the sun had heated up the earth and the morning was full of the pleasant scent of wild herbs from the hillside and manure from the livery stable. ‘No, something else. It is in the wind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ frowned Ronny.

  ‘Don’t know but something.’

  There was a tone of concern in the old Indian’s voice but Ronny could not decipher anything but an ancient’s wanderings and with the lack of even the slightest breeze, he shrugged, ‘Well, you have a nice day,’ he said, taking his leave.

  As Ronny left him, Billy Peas turned his head towards the east and the rising sun and lifted his nostrils again and drew in the air. He could not explain it but his Indian nature felt a restlessness inherent in the coming day and he feared that whatever indistinct thing it was that rubbed against his nerves foretold something unpleasant was coming this way.

  Ronny walked on across the railroad tracks and spotted the pale looking Callum Mack leaning against the open doorway of the storage facility, a rifle hanging down from his hand.

  He nodded greeting, ‘You waiting on the train, mister?’

  ‘You got one coming?’ asked Callum.

  ‘Won’t be here before noon,’ said Ronny.

  Callum sniffed, ‘I ain’t here for the train, just keeping an eye on our goods,’ he indicated the inside of the shed with his rifle barrel.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ronny. He was curious but not overly concerned, plenty of folk had a watchman placed over their more precious goods left waiting for pick up. ‘Well, I’m making coffee real soon, if you want a cup.’

  ‘Obliged, I think I will.’

  ‘Okay, just got to check the tower’s water level and I’ll be with you.’

  Callum took out a sack of tobacco from his vest pocket and watched the pump man climb the steep ladder at the side of the tower as he rolled himself a cigarette. The stiff shoulder pained him and he twisted his neck, trying to assuage the ache but it did little to ease it and he silently cursed the continuing headache it gave him.

  ‘We got a damned trickle leak somewhere,’ Ronny called down to him from the top of the ladder. ‘Can’t find it, must be a couple of sprung boards under the
barrel but danged if I can find them.’

  He patted the sides of the large circular tub and looked off towards the sunrise and saw a hazy mist of rising dust in the far distance amongst the round hilltops.

  ‘You got more in your party coming?’ he asked Callum.

  ‘Nope, we’re all here. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘Looks like somebody’s out there heading this way, that’s all.’

  Callum was about to strike a Lucifer match with his thumbnail when the thought hit him that, unlikely as it was, they might just be being followed, ‘Can you make them out?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Ronny answered, beginning his climb down. ‘Too far off, it’s probably ranch hands coming in to get the train. They always get here early so they can catch up on a few beers at the hotel before heading out. I’ve put more dead drunk cowhands on that train than I care to mention’

  Forgetting for the moment, Callum shrugged indifferently then winced as an answering pain shot through his shoulder and ran up to the base of his skull. He spat a juicy stream of spit in disgust and lit his cigarette. ‘You getting that coffee?’

  ‘On its way,’ said Ronny, with a pleasant smile. ‘Nobody gets through the day without a cup or two. Sparks off the interest, wouldn’t you say?’

  Already forgetting the distant dust cloud, Callum grimaced at the throb of the splitting headache that he felt was driving him crazy and rubbed at his painful shoulder before drawing a deep relieving drag from his cigarette.

  The Mexican’s wife served them breakfast and whilst Eloise barely touched her plate the other two tucked in with relish. Lew eyed the Mexican woman with appreciation; she was a fulsome young woman with a swooping neckline that did little to hide smooth brown skin and the soft swell of generous breasts.

  ‘Real good eats,’ he said, giving her a wink. ‘What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘I am Louisella,’ she grinned back at him, a tease evident in her arched eyebrow.