Bad Men Go to Hell

by Tony Masero

  The wounded Callum spun around as a bullet hit him, ripping a hole in his side and doubling him over.

  ‘Oh, Jesus! Not again,’ he wailed, clutching his waist.

  ‘Hold on,’ called his brother Lew, rushing to help with his revolver held out before him and firing in a blaze of fire and smoke. ‘I’m coming.’

  Suddenly Lew stopped in mid-track, gurgling and gulping as a long lance thumped into his chest. He clutched at the shaft of the spear an angry grimace on his face. Lew was attempting to pull the spear out when a brave leapt down from his horse and came towards him, a tomahawk raised ready to strike.

  Struggling against the hole in his side, Callum lifted his rifle and blasted the Indian at point blank range and threw him from his feet.

  With a scream of agony, Lew tore the slender blade of the spear from his body and the two brothers struggled to help each other into the cover of the warehouse as Scart and Crome gave them covering fire from the doorway.

  Above them, the forgotten Ronny watched with horror as the Indians surged through Senola. Guns were going off everywhere and arrows flew in whispering flushes through the air. Ronny had a birds-eye view of the whole town and surrounding countryside and could see that a party was making a run along beside the far side of the track, many of the braves leaping from their horses and crashing into the front doors and around the backs of houses and businesses. Beyond, another horde was sweeping down to join the parties already occupied with the town. He thought of Agnes and hoped beyond hope she was safe, then the color drained from his face and his heart sank as he saw old Mister Brewster brutally dragged from his store.

  The old man was still in his nightshirt and the Indians kicked and shoved him until he fell on his knees beside the track. It felt strangely uncomfortable to the see the old man exposed in such a manner, his thin pale legs blue with varicose veins. The surrounding Apaches cuffed the old man, beating him with their fists as they toyed with him. Behind them Ronny could see other of the raiders breaking windows and ransacking the store in a show of wanton destruction.

  The kneeling man raised plaintive hands begging for mercy but one snarling warrior stood over him, a short handled axe taken from the store in his hand. He brought the steel axe head down sharply, driving the blade into the old man’s body between shoulder and neck. Ronny heard Mister Brewster agonizing cry clear above all the other noise and he winced as the Indian swung back and drove the blade once more into Brewster’s neck. The old man tumbled over spouting blood as his artery was severed and the Indian, driven wild as the spurting blood splashed over him, began attacking the body with the axe as if he were a woodsman chopping timber in the forest. Ronny looked away and felt his entire body shaking with sick horror.

  Nitis and his band spread out and swept in amongst the outlying adobe huts, shooting at any head that appeared. The Mexican girl, Louisella was caught in the open on her way back to join her husband Ramon, and a warrior on horseback caught her by the hair and dragged her from her feet. Her high-pitched scream brought her husband from their hut, an elderly Navy Colt pistol held in his shaking hand.

  Levering back the hammer he raised the heavy weapon and aiming it two-handed fired at the Indian still dragging his wife along. The firing cap was as ancient as the gun and there was only a puff of smoke and the dull sound of a misfired cartridge.

  A passing brave hanging low on his pony’s back, fired his rifle at Ramon as he struggled with his pistol and the Mexican flew backwards against the wall of his hut. The white wall of the building smudged with a sudden bloom of red as Ramon’s back was torn open by the bullet. The warrior leapt from his horse and ran over, a knife flashing in his hand. The semi-conscious Ramon watched his blurred shape approach through dimmed eyes. Then the Apache was on him, the knife flashing in the bright sunlight and with a great ululating cry of victory the Indian raised up the hank of bloody hair he had lifted from Ramon’s head.

  Screaming piteously Lousiella was dumped in the dust and a few of the braves fell on her, tearing at her clothes as she struggled ineffectively against them. In the rising cloud of dust that surrounded them the indistinct forms were only dark shapes that rose and fell and uttered urgent cries as they collectively held Louisella down and systematically took their turn.

  Ronny Tate watched all this with terror, his eyes only turning away as the sound of the approaching locomotive reached his ears.

  The train driver and engineer were staring from their cab with blanched faces, hidden behind the curve of the track and the hillside they had not heard the attack above the noise of the engine and only now peered out of their cab portholes to see the mayhem taking place, both men were hauling on the brake lever in an attempt to stop the train at the town’s outskirts. But it was too late and the train slid in carried on by its weight and speed, the locked wheels squealing and casting sheets of sparks behind as it drew up directly beneath Ronny’s place on the scaffolding and issued a great gush of hissing steam. He realized then that he had a chance. He must get to Agnes before the same fate befell her as the Mexican girl. Taking hold of the long trunk-like pipe of the water hose, Ronny swung it out and amidst a gusher released from the pipe he slid down and landed on the hot metal of the locomotive’s back. He dropped quickly over the side, the waterfall from the pipe covering him and the heat of the engine metal scalding his hands as he disappeared in amongst the misty cloud of wet steam.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first Tarfay and Cornpone knew about it was when the farside window of the carriage was holed by a bullet and the tumbling shell flew straight across the passageway and shattered the window next to them. Tag awoke with a start and both Jimmy Two-Spoons and Mortimer leapt up from their seats.

  The two Rangers had their pistols out in a second and Cornpone cleared the window frame of residual glass with the barrel of his gun and began blasting away outside. Tarfay was by his side traversing his Colt and firing as racing figures of Indians on horseback flashed past the carriage, their piercing cries clearly full of battle rage.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tag numbly, his brain still full of sleep.

  ‘We’re under Indian attack,’ said Tarfay over his shoulder. ‘Keep your head down.’

  Tag was too reckless and curious to take such advice and he crawled over and away from Tarfay to peek out of the holed window opposite. Jimmy and Mortimer, the latter grinding out verses from Psalms as he boomed away with his shotgun, were both defending alongside Tag’s position.

  He peeked over the window ledge and saw only the large warehouse structure with dust flying up all around it from the rearing Indian horses, there were flashes of gunfire coming from the dark entranceway and whoever was inside seemed to be putting up a good fight going by the numbers of fallen. Bodies littered the ground outside the warehouse but Tag was deafened by the booming retorts of gunfire that racketed around behind him in the carriage. Someone was screaming back there, a high wailing note that pierced the smoke filled air, Tag looked around to see one of the female passengers staring up wide eyed at the man who held her clasped in his arms. No sound came from her gasping lips but blood gushed out from the woman’s neck and flowed in a dripping flood that covered her escort’s hands and arms. Her female companion, a younger more frenetic woman, was kneeling across, tight fists clenched to her cheeks and it was she that was emitting the terrifying scream. All, it seemed to Tag, was chaos and panic that surrounded him.

  The glimpse he caught from the corner of his eye brought him around sharply. It had been no more than a flash of fair hair in the dim warehouse doorway but it focused Tag’s attention and everything else slid away into the background.

  It was Eloise! He was sure of it, his instincts heightened by the years with Apache told him so. There was no doubt; she was over there, trapped in the warehouse. Rapidly he turned back to Tarfay. The Ranger was concentrating; his teeth clenched together as he aimed down the barrel of his Colt. The weapon jumped in his fist as he fired off and he gave a grunt of satisfa
ction at a successful hit.

  ‘Tarfay, do you have a spare gun?’ Tag asked.

  ‘No, son,’ said Tarfay, now busily reloading. ‘None handy.’

  ‘Take this,’ said Mortimer, overhearing him during a lull in the shooting and he tossed over a six-shooter. ‘Be as young David in the Bible and strike down the malefactors.”

  Deftly, Tag caught the revolver one-handed.

  ‘You know how to shoot that thing?’ asked Tarfay.

  Tag clipped back the chamber cover, spun the cylinder and checked the load; it was full with six shots. He raised an eyebrow in Tarfay’s direction, ‘I know how,’ he said.

  ‘Then take the other side,’ said Tarfay. ‘Do what you can from there.’

  Tag spun around away from him and fired directly at the wounded window, glass flew away from the carriage in silvered shards as the whole frame burst apart and fell out. Without another word, Tag leapt across the passageway, stepped up on the seat and dived out of the window.

  ‘Tag!’ gasped Tarfay. ‘What the devil you doing? Where do you think you’re going?’

  They all heard Tag’s reply from outside, ‘To get my sister.’

  ‘Goddamn that boy!’ cursed Tarfay, lurching across to the window to see the running figure of Tag loping over towards the warehouse.

  Shulki held Jacob Silverman by the throat and had him pinned to the hotel lobby wall. He jabbered at the terrified hotelkeeper in fast Apache.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ gasped Silverman. ‘What are you saying, I’ll give you anything you want.’

  Shulki hissed at him through clenched teeth like a snake poised to strike. Behind the Indian chief the rest of the band were rampaging through the hotel, overturning furniture and breaking china. Clothing was being tossed down the stairs from the upper rooms and cries of complaint and fear were coming from the few guests the Apache found hiding up there.

  There had been little resistance from the town buildings on their arrival and even less from the adobe huts and any that had been offered had soon been put down. Now all that was left was to rape, torture and pillage before burning the place to the ground yet still the vengeful Shulki had not found where Scart had gone and he was attempting to question the hotelkeeper with little success.

  ‘Scahhr, him man?’ he growled at Silverman in broken English.

  The hotelier’s mind raced trying to think what the maniacal Indian might mean.

  ‘Scart? You mean Scart Benjamin? He left, you know, gone, make trip. Oh, Lord, how can I explain….’

  ‘Gone?’ Shulki tried the word.

  ‘Yes, yes, train. Choo-choo,’ tried Silverman imitating a loco whistle.

  At last Shulki got the message and his eyes cleared, he turned from Silverman and barked a loud order that brought the other braves to gradual attention. Shulki ordered them all to leave off what they were doing and make their way outside to the rail tracks. Many were opposed to the idea, they were too well involved in the pleasures of plunder and most ignored him.

  Shulki roared at them in anger but with a disdainful curl of his lip he could see that he had lost them for the time being, only Nitis and three of his most loyal braves obediently arrived to accompany him.

  ‘There is much across the iron horse track,’ he called. ‘They have a big place where many valuable trade goods are kept.’

  That peaked their interest and soon braves were tumbling down the stairs and falling out of rooms ready to hunt down richer finds.

  ‘Come,’ he ordered and with the sixteen remaining men and Nitis by his side they ran from the hotel, leaving the bewildered Silverman to slide gracefully along the wall until he could find the back door and begin to run.

  Blindly, he ran the length of the hotel and blundered into Ronny Tate who had been forced to hide out until the way was clearer, he was heading along behind the hotel to his house when Silverman crashed into him.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ panted Silverman, once he had recognized Ronny. ‘I sent them down to the station.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ronny, looking at his sweat stained face and wide eyes.

  ‘Hell, no!’ bleated Silverman. ‘I barely escaped with my life, they’re killing anything that moves.’

  ‘I’ve got to get to Agnes, I don’t know if she’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Ronny. If they see you they’ll kill you, come with me. We’ll make it out into desert they won’t find us there.’

  Ronny tightened his jaw, ‘No, I have to find my wife.’

  ‘Well, luck to you because I’m out of here.’ With that Silverman ran off with a worried glance behind him and that was only to see if any of the Apache were in sight.

  Grimly, Ronny plodded on, moving from cover to cover to the back of the rooms he rented with Agnes.

  ‘Ah, no,’ he groaned as he saw that the back door to their ground floor apartment was battered in. It was no more than plank timbers nailed on a frame and had held little defense against the Indian onslaught. Slowly, he stepped over the jagged edges of smashed wood and cautiously made his way inside the kitchen.

  It was difficult to navigate across the room, with the drapes pulled down and hanging across the window it was dark and difficult to find his way around the overturned table and store cupboards that lay at odd angles, the floor was littered with broken crockery and dry goods that crunched underfoot in the uncanny silence. The stove, where Agnes had prepared his breakfast not a few hours before, had been pushed aside and the hot embers had spilled out and started a smoldering fire that ran a black pillar of soot up the wall.

  Something smelt bad, rich and vile and he wondered if the trash had been thrown around in there along with everything else breakable.

  ‘Agnes?’ he whispered timidly, dreading what he might find. ‘Are you there?’

  No answer came and with his heart beating loudly in his chest, Ronny pressed on.

  He found Agnes in the bedroom, lying amongst a heap of tumbled sheet and pillows between the wall and the bed. Her clothing had been ripped open down the front, the buttons torn savagely apart and her underskirts and knickers pulled away to reveal her most private parts. A deep and bloody wound started between her breasts and descended across her belly to end just below her navel. She was stained with spilled blood and there were bruised marks about her face and some of her fingers had been cut off. She had put up a fight before they had killed her.

  Ronny sunk to his knees beside the body, tears starting from his eyes as he attempted to pick at her torn clothing and cover up her nakedness. Finally he drew the surrounding sheets around her leaving only the face visible and he knelt there staring at her pale features, feeling only the emptiness of a depth of sorrow that welled up from the black pit of his loss.

  There were very few of the southern attacking band of Apaches around the warehouse left alive, between them both, Tarfay and Scart’s men had wreaked havoc amongst the opposing force. The remaining surviving Indians were hastily making their retreat around the far side of the locomotive and being potted at by the driver and engineer from the relative safety of their cab.

  Tag jogged the hundred yards safely across to the warehouse, the revolver held ready in his hand. When a shot from the warehouse whistled past his ear he realized that to the defenders inside he had all the appearance of an Apache and hollered out to them.

  ‘Hold your fire, I ain’t an Indian.’

  ‘Well, you sure look like one of them,’ replied Crome, keeping Tag covered as he came inside.

  ‘Tag! Tag!’ cried Eloise, running forward. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Sure is, sis,’ grinned Tag, accepting her into his arms.

  ‘You don’t look anything like you used to,’ she assessed, glad to feel his arms enclosing her but finding him taller, stronger and wirier than she remembered.

  ‘Been a while, I guess,’ he mumbled into her hair. ‘Thank God you’re still alive.’

  ‘Told you, didn’t I,’ said Scart, smiling grimly from the shadows. �
��Told you I’d get you to your brother.’

  Tag gave him a venomous look, ‘I’ve been waiting to meet you.’

  He raised the pistol, pushing Eloise close behind him as he did so but Crome stepped forward and Tag felt the barrel of a six-gun pressed against the side of his head and heard the ominous click as the hammer was cocked.

  ‘Wouldn’t recommend anything stupid,’ said Crome.

  Tag’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom in the warehouse after the bright sun outside and he could see that apart from Crome, Scart had two other men with him and both of them lay backed up against a wall and looked sorely wounded. The rest of the place was full of crates and boxes waiting to be collected, tarp covered packages stood racked on shelves along the walls in the windowless interior. The floor was beaten earth and the ceiling high with only the large open barn doors allowing in light.

  ‘You come on your own, boy?’ asked Scart.

  ‘That’s more than enough for the likes of you,’ growled Tag, raising his hands and letting the revolver swing down by the trigger guard.

  ‘Don’t look like it right now,’ chuckled Scart, taking out a cheroot from his vest. ‘I see you are the same sassy kid as back in Tamaloosa. Some things never change.’

  ‘Like some damned bug always buzzing around,’ grumbled Crome. ‘We should have put him down back in that bank.’

  Scart sucked air through his teeth and rolled the cheroot speculatively around between his fingers as a chilling glaze dropped over his eyes, ‘Maybe that time has come right now,’ he agreed.

  There was an explosive roar from outside in the direction of the town and they all turned to look out of the doorway. A huge blossoming pillar of flame rose as fuel oil inside the store was fired, it rose high in the air, a blooming cloud colored orange and yellow flecked with red and crowned by a simmering halo of oily black smoke.