Bad Men Go to Hell

by Tony Masero

  ‘Goddamn!’ snarled Scart. ‘Them Indians have fired the town, I thought them beggars were finished.’

  To put truth to his words a great fusillade of firing started from the town side of the tracks as Shulki and his men advanced. The withering rain of lead cut down both the railroad men sheltering in the locomotive cab and return firing started up again from Tarfay and the others still inside the train carriage.

  ‘It ain’t over yet,’ said Crome, turning again for the door.

  ‘You’d better use that gun on them out there,’ Scart advised Tag as he scurried over to join Crome.

  The two wounded brothers lay propped against each other, Lew Mack wheezing breathlessly and his brother Callum alongside moaning in pain.

  Tag gave Eloise a gentle push, ‘Go see what you can do for them.’

  She ran a hand affectionately down his arm, ‘It’s real good to see you again.’

  Tag winked at her encouragingly and moved across to the doorway.

  ‘Never thought you’d see this day, did you, boy?’ grinned Scart, cocking his pistol and peering around the doorframe. ‘You standing alongside us in a fight, bet you never reckoned on that?’

  ‘Wait ‘til it’s over,’ promised Tag bitterly.

  ‘Aw, hell!’ said Scart, taking careful aim as he saw movement between the burning building opposite. ‘You can’t live with vengeance in mind all the while, boy. It’s unhealthy. Some things you just got to let go, that’s life. I’m right, ain’t I, Jed?’

  Arrows thudded against the warehouse wall and bullets kicked dust outside the door.

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Crome answered, firing off a volley.

  Tag lay flat on his belly in the open doorway, the pistol held in two hands in front of him and waited.

  ‘How much ammo you got left?’ he asked.

  Both outlaws frowned and checked their gun belts, ‘Hell!’ cursed Crome, ‘I’m running low alright.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ snarled Scart.

  ‘Pick your shots careful then,’ advised Tag.

  ‘Ain’t you the little soldier,’ huffed Scart.

  ‘I’ve seen those Apache close up, you don’t want them taking you alive believe me.’

  The two outlaws went silent at the stern warning and eased off their firing. Tag glanced across at Eloise crouching over the wounded brothers trying to staunch the wound in Lew’s chest and he wondered what he would do about her if it looked like they would be overrun. His eye caught the gleam of stacked tins behind her in the shadows.

  ‘What’s in them tins?’ he asked.

  The outlaws glanced around, ‘Hell if I know,’ said Crome.

  ‘It’s kerosene,’ Eloise called back to him. ‘I can smell it from here.’

  ‘Damned lucky no strays ain’t hit them so far then,’ mumbled Scart.

  The fighting outside seemed to be concentrating on the railroad carriage at the moment and quickly Tag climbed to his feet, ‘Help me,’ he said.

  ‘What you aiming to do?’ asked Scart. ‘It’s no time to be playing with the junk in here.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Tag, crossing over to the high wall of kerosene tins. ‘We’ll toss them out there in front, set them up in a line. When they come for us, a bullet in the tins will set off a wall of fire that’ll keep them back.’

  ‘Hey, the kid’s right,’ agreed Crome. ‘Let’s do it, we’ll burn those bastards to hell.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  They were having a hard time of it inside the railroad carriage.

  Tarfay’s face was covered in sweat and blackened by particles of gunpowder debris. He looked around as he stuffed more cartridges into his Colt. His three companions looked no better than he and all were gathered along the town side of the carriage to face where the main assault was coming from. There was no movement from any of the other passengers and Tarfay feared they had all been killed during the battle. Broken window glass lay everywhere and arrows stuck out from the walls amongst the bullet-holed woodwork. The air was seething with a low hanging cloud of gun smoke that coiled restlessly under the roof.

  ‘We ain’t going to last much longer in here,’ said Tarfay. ‘They’ll come in force soon.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Cornpone, gingerly touching his cheek where splinters of flying glass had cut him.

  ‘We have to make it over to that warehouse,’ Tarfay answered. ‘Consolidate our forces, whoever’s in there is doing good work. Maybe they got more ammunition as well, we sure need some now.’

  ‘That’s a fair run across open ground,’ frowned Cornpone.

  ‘Ain’t nothing else for it,’ advised Tarfay. ‘It’s hell or be damned.’

  ‘I’d rather we had some kind of other diversion than damnation.’

  ‘That would sure help,’ agreed Tarfay.

  ‘You go,’ said Mortimer. ‘I will hold them back. I fear nothing and have the sword of retribution and the Lord at my side.’

  ‘No preacher-man, that’d pure be suicide,’ advised Cornpone laconically.

  ‘If anybody’s staying it’s me,’ said Tarfay.

  ‘Damn my eyes, are we all vying for who’s going to die now?’ asked Cornpone.

  ‘Someone’s got to give covering fire whilst you run for it,’ said Tarfay.

  ‘So let’s draw lots, do it fair and square.’

  ‘Are you thinking the shortest straw?’ asked Mortimer.

  ‘Sure thing, what you think on that, Jimmy? Say! Where is the Indian?’

  The three looked around to see that Jimmy had disappeared whilst they had been talking and then they heard his cry from outside.

  ‘I am Tulpsun, the son of Naikahey of the Chiricahua. Who is there amongst you who will fight Jimmy Two-Spoons?’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ sighed Cornpone. ‘He’s gone out there.’

  ‘Who will fight me as a warrior?’ called Jimmy, standing alone in the open beside the carriage. ‘Are the Chokonen chickens? I have heard it said so, that the Apache spirit in them is dead and they are no more than old women who have lost their teeth and sit around the fire and talk only of past deeds.’

  There was a rumbling growl of irritation from the Apache lines.

  ‘Dammit!’ snarled Tarfay. ‘He’s giving us a chance to make a break for it.’

  Jimmy stood tall and spread-legged and tossed his Remington pistol aside, he held his hands open and wide, ‘Come I have knife and hatchet, is there one amongst you still with the heart of an Apache brave who will face me?’

  Angry catcalls and jeers arose from the side of the tracks where Shulki’s warriors lay hidden.

  ‘You whine like girls on a wedding night,’ spat Jimmy. ‘It is true then, the Chokonen have been broken and have no courage left amongst them?’

  Then a warrior arose and stepped out into the open to face Jimmy. He was stripped down and wore only a long breechclout and moccasin boots and his muscled body gleamed in the sunlight. His glowering face was hidden in shadow from the midday sun and the lone stripe of white paint that ran across his face from ear to ear glowed in the darkness.

  ‘Lord Almighty! That’s Shulki himself,’ said Cornpone.

  ‘You!’ barked Shulki, jabbing an angry finger at Jimmy. ‘You who insult the Chokonen, you who are only a servant to the whites and whose blood is tainted. Who are you to speak in such a manner? Nothing but a mongrel dog who licks up the scraps that the whites throw him. I am Shulki, war chief of the Chokonen and I will fight you.’

  Shulki drew a knife from his belt and was handed a tomahawk by one of his men.

  ‘You have made a good fight so far, Tulpsun, you and the others in there. Now let us see if you can die just as well.’

  Inside the carriage, Tarfay saw they had little time to make their move.

  ‘Come on, we have to go,’ he said, heading for the rear door.

  ‘We just can’t leave him like this,’ complained Mortimer. ‘It is most unchristian.’

  ‘He’s doing this so we can leave,’ stressed Ta
rfay. ‘You want to waste his effort?’

  Mortimer raised his eyes heavenwards, ‘May the Lord have mercy on his heathen soul.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Cornpone, nudging him from behind. ‘Save your breath for the running.’

  They slipped out onto the platform at the end of the carriage and keeping low, lowered themselves down to far side of the tracks.

  At that moment, Billy Peas found Ronny.

  The old man had been in hiding and remained undiscovered whilst the raid progressed and only after things had quieted down considered he might explore and find any pickings amongst the remnants of what the raiders had left in the destroyed town. Most of it was burning now and he decided he must move quickly if he was to find anything left of value. The blood had stirred in his old bones as he watched the young braves pillage but it was a memory of past glories that rose in his brain rather than a desire to join in physically. Billy knew his golden days of making war were long gone and he was past anything more than scratching around for a daily feed and surviving, so he had stayed hidden until the Apaches had passed him by.

  He came upon Ronny crouching in the front room of his ruined apartment with the covered body of his wife laid out before him. Ronny had righted their dining table and stretched Agnes’s body out on it covered by a bed sheet. Hollow-faced he sat slumped against the wall, his mind empty of everything except the horror of losing the woman he loved and the destitution of their unfulfilled future.

  Billy Peas shuffled into the room, a full sack full of rifled oddments hanging from his hand. He saw the dark shape sitting against the wall.

  ‘Ho! Ronny Tate, what do you do here?’

  Ronny looked up, his eyes glazed and distant, ‘They killed my wife, Billy. Look here, they killed her most horribly.’ Silent tears began to run down his cheeks.

  ‘You are young Mister Ronny,’ said Billy. ‘There is time yet for another wife. With a long life, one may have many wives. I myself had five but all are gone now.’

  Ronny was smart enough to know that it was a poor attempt by the old Indian at some kind of commiseration. It did not occur to him for one moment that Billy represented any kind of threat; the old man had been around the town for so long he was part of the furniture to the locals.

  Sadly, Ronny asked, ‘What am I going to do without her?’

  Billy had never understood the thinking of these white people and although he made no outward move he shrugged internally. A woman was of little value to him, she cooked and bore children, she did not hunt and fight. They served a purpose that was all. One could favor them with a kind of affection it was true, but no more than one might give preference to a prized pony or good hunting dog.

  But something forgotten stirred in his tired soul, something other than indifference for the weakened figure before him. He had liked Ronny, the young man had always been polite and kindly towards him and not demonstrated any of the scornful treatment he had received from the other whites.

  ‘Does Mister Ronny consider he might fight?’

  ‘Fight?’ asked Ronny numbly.

  ‘It is what a man who is a man will do.’

  ‘Fight – who?’ asked Ronny, confused by the old man.

  Billy jerked his chin in a vague direction outside the house.

  ‘You mean the Apache?’

  ‘They have come to kill you,’ Billy answered simply. ‘They have taken from you. Do you white people not defend yourselves?’

  Ronny was taking an interest now and, pushing his back against the wall, he eased himself upright to stand on both feet.

  ‘But they are your people, Billy? How can you recommend such a thing?’

  ‘They are your enemy, not mine. I will not go to fight them.’

  Billy rummaged in his bag and brought out a gun, a Henry rifle he had discovered amongst the dead.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to Ronny. ‘Go, become a man again.’

  Ronny took the rifle in both hands; he felt the cold metal in his palm and the weight of the weapon. It was true, he had made no effort to defend the town and his neighbors, and by extension his wife. Ronny realized he had fallen short, had only ran when he should have made a stand and resisted.

  ‘Is it loaded?’ he asked.

  Silently, Billy nodded affirmation.

  What did it matter anyway; thought Ronny, he had lost the only thing that had mattered to him. Why should he not go out and make a stand against the Indians? He would probably die in the attempt but what the hell, there was little enough of anything left for him now anyway. Ronny turned away and without a word stepped out of the open front door.

  Billy watched him go with an expressionless face. He looked around the wrecked room and his gaze roved over the sheet covered corpse lying on the table, he pulled back the cover and barely glanced at the body, only raising an interested eyebrow as he noticed the gold wedding band on the dead finger.

  The dead did not need such things any longer and Mister Ronny obviously had no interest in it. The ring was there for whoever wanted it.

  Billy wanted it.

  Tomahawks clashed with a metallic crash as Shulki swung and Jimmy defended, the two blades locking together above their heads. Shulki swung in low with his knife and swiftly jabbed the blade’s tip into Jimmy’s exposed side. It penetrated no more than an inch or two but enough to cause Jimmy to leap aside, freeing the locked hatchets and bringing his down to sheer across Shulki’s shoulder. Blood marked the bare copper colored skin and ran in a stream down the Indian’s chest.

  Shulki ignored the wound and bared his teeth in a wild grin as he circled his opponent, bending low and spreading his hands wide. He was an extraordinarily fit man and he moved with a graceful ease around the larger man.

  Jimmy stood taller and more solidly built and his disadvantage was his height and weight, he moved slower yet had more stamina in reserve. He moved forward swinging the tomahawk before him from side to side as Shulki backed away. The Indian ducked in as fast as quicksilver and jabbed again with the knife, drawing blood from Jimmy’s arm.

  Jimmy gritted his teeth. He had been too long amongst the whites, he realized. He had softened and the wildness of the determined fighter in him had been suppressed by their civilizing effect. Staring at the fiery face of his opponent, Jimmy attempted to stir up again from his Apache inheritance the desire for victory over the fear of dying.

  He pressed in taking the expected knife blow as he ripped across with the tomahawk and saw with satisfaction as a chunk of flesh flew from Shulki’s arm. The war chief let loose an enraged cry of pain and lunged in whirling his own hatchet.

  Jimmy dropped low, aiming his knife for the groin but Shulki read his move and Jimmy felt the Indian’s knifepoint shove in under his chin. The blade sliced up through his tongue and was on the way to the roof of his mouth when Jimmy swung his head away and released himself from the knife. Shulki struck again, his tomahawk bouncing off Jimmy’s skull and leaving a torn flap of skin hanging loose from his forehead.

  Jimmy’s mouth was full of blood now from the knife strike under his jaw and he spat a stream of red juice away. He saw Shulki glance with consternation down at the deep wound in his arm and it filled Jimmy with hope. But the blood pouring down the side of his face demonstrated he was not winning this fight and needed to pull something from the bag if he was to get away intact. He would have to take a risk, distract the Indian momentarily so he might get in with a killing blow. There would be one chance if he could pull it off. If not, he was a dead man.

  Jimmy went to swing at Shulki’s head with the axe and the Indian brought up his own weapon in defense, Jimmy changed direction in mid-swing bringing the tomahawk across and down on Shulki’s hand where it gripped the shaft of his hatchet. The blade sliced into the Indian’s fingers, severing two of them and forcing the tomahawk to fall from the chief’s hand.

  Jimmy backed away with satisfaction, now was his chance.

  Then he felt the searing pain in the pit of his stomac
h. He looked down to see his shirtfront ripped open and blood pumping from a long slash that rode up from his belly to his sternum. As he had struck, so had Shulki, the blade so sharp and sudden it had cut without him feeling it until now.

  Jimmy looked over to see Shulki with a snarling grin written across his face. Words formed on Jimmy’s lips but nothing came out and then strangely for him at that moment his vision began to blur.

  ‘Now you die, white worm,’ spat Shulki.

  The strength went from Jimmy’s legs and he dropped forward to land on both his knees. It could not end like this, he thought, his brain struggling with the concept as the blood drained from his body. It felt like his entire inner organs were slipping from the exposed cavity of his opened gut and he clutched at the spilling intestines with cupped hands.

  Remorselessly, blood stained and with dripping wounds, Shulki moved in quickly. His good hand drew back and he brought his knife across in one swooping slash that cut across under Jimmy’s exposed chin severing his throat from side to side. With an awful glugging sound, blood poured up from Jimmy’s dissected neck and overran as if from a boiling pot.

  The veins stood out on Shulki’s forehead as his face twisted into a ghastly mask of triumph and he uttered a long deafening cry of conquest, he strutted forward reaching out with his fingerless hand ready to grasp Jimmy’s head and take his scalp before he fell.

  Before Shulki could get to his victim there was a loud poom of sound and the head vanished from the chief’s shoulders in a fibrous cloud of shredded red flesh and splintered bone. Headless, the Indian’s body toppled forward and fell to the ground, the sound of his earlier cry still echoing in the overheated air.

  Mortimer raised the barrel of his smoking shotgun and peered over the buffers at the rear of the railroad carriage.

  ‘I am the right hand and vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,’ he roared, eyes staring and full of religious zeal. ‘In blood and fire shall the sinner be struck down!’

  A deep mournful wave of wailing came from the watching Apaches. As one, they rose up and charged towards the train as Mortimer desperately cracked open the shotgun and ejected the empty smoking cartridges. The sight of the raging Indians coming at him broke through the mesmerizing effect of his moment of holy crusade and with a sudden shock he realized that he was not immortal and only had a little time left.