Tony looked up as the riders approached. The expression on his face showed that in addition to his curiosity as to why they were there, he was also a little wary of them.
“Something I can do for you gents?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Tatum answered. He pulled his pistol. “You can die.” He pulled the trigger and Tony went down.
“What the hell?” one of the liverymen yelled, and both of them started running toward the main house. Tatum’s men started shooting at them, and they were hit half-a-dozen times each. One fell facedown in a horse pile in the middle of the paddock; the other made it as far as the fence before he was hit. He fell onto the fence and hung there, half over.
Hearing the shooting outside, George and his shotgun guard came running out of the way station to see what was going on. Although both had drawn their pistols, neither got off a shot, as they were cut down by gunfire almost as soon as they set foot on the front porch.
“Let’s go get us somethin’ to eat,” Tatum said, riding over toward the main house.
The men dismounted in front, tied their horses to the porch-roof support posts, then went inside. Four women and an old man were cowering against the wall on the opposite side of the room, having gotten up from the dining table. The table itself was filled with food-laden plates.
“Who . . . who are you?” the woman with the apron asked, her voice quivering with fear. “And what have you done with Tony?”
“Tony? Would that be the name of the man who runs this place?”
“Yes. Tony Miller. I am Mrs. Miller. This is Miller’s Switch and we are host and hostess here. Where is Tony? I want to see him.”
“Oh, we shot him,” Tatum said matter-of-factly.
“No!” Mrs. Miller cried out. She started toward the door.
“Pigiron,” Tatum said, and Pigiron grabbed Mrs. Miller, then pushed her back toward the wall by the others.
“Please, let me help my husband,” Mrs. Miller pleaded.
“Lady, there ain’t no helpin’ him left,” Tatum said. “I told you, we shot him. He’s dead.”
Mrs. Miller hung her head and began weeping quietly.
“See here,” the male passenger said, speaking for the first time. “This is an outrage. An outrage. Do you know who I am?”
“No, old man. Who are you?”
“I am John Pierpoint Northington, a member of the State Legislature.”
“Is that a fact?” Tatum asked.
“It certainly is a fact, sir.”
“What is that supposed to mean to me? You expect me to vote for you?” Tatum joked. The others laughed.
“It means that I intend to see to it that you are arrested, brought to trial, and sentenced,” Northington said.
“You mean, you don’t even intend to bargain for your life?”
“I do not,” Northington said.
“Then there is no sense in going on with this conversation, is there?” Tatum pulled his pistol and shot Northington between the eyes. The women screamed as Northington’s body was thrown back, then slid down to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the wall behind him. The old legislator sat on the floor, almost as if it were by design, with his arms down to each side, his palms up, and his eyes open. It was only the ugly black hole in his forehead that belied the tranquil scene.
“My, oh, my, this looks good,” Tatum said, putting his pistol away and taking a piece of chicken from one of the plates. He popped the chicken into his mouth. “Uhm, it is good,” he said.
“You can’t eat that,” Mrs. Miller said quietly. “That food is for the coach passengers, the driver and shotgun guard, and those who work here.”
“Is it? Well, doesn’t look like any of the menfolk are around to enjoy it, does it?” Tatum asked.
“Please, if you’ll just wait a short spell, I’ll cook something for you and your men.”
“Oh, you would do that for us, would you?” Tatum asked. “Well now, that’s very . . . Christian . . . of you,” he said, laughing at his choice of words. “Especially when we haven’t been what you might call friendly since we arrived.”
“I’d do it just to get rid of you,” Mrs. Miller replied.
Tatum broke out in loud, raucous laughter. “Well, I’ll give you this. You don’t hold back your thoughts none. And it’s a right generous thing you’re doin, offerin’ to feed us all, particular seein’ as I got me a Mexican, two Injuns, and a colored fella ridin’ with me,” Tatum said. “Are you tellin’ me you’d serve their kind in here?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Miller said nervously. “If you’ll just give me time to do it, I’ll serve you and all your friends.”
Tatum laughed. “Did you hear that, Jim?” he asked the black man, who was standing back by the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “She called you my friend.”
Jim just stared impassively.
“Hell, lady, Jim’s no more a friend of mine than you are. He’s a colored man who just threw in with us, that’s all.”
“What are we goin’ to do with ’em, Tatum?” Pigiron asked.
“Kill ’em,” Tatum said.
The room echoed with the sound of gunfire as Tatum sat at the table and began eating from the plate in front of him.
* * *
At first it was just a thin wisp, like nothing more than a column of dust in the distance. But as Smoke, Pearlie, and Tom drew closer, the wisp of dust took on more substance until it became a column of smoke, growing thicker and heavier until finally it was a heavy, black cloud, filled with glowing embers and roiling into the sky.
The fire was still burning and snapping when the three reached Miller’s Switch, but there was little left to burn. The main building, the barn, and the outhouses were nothing more than collapsed piles of blackened timbers, with just enough wood remaining to support the dying flames. Not even the stagecoach had escaped, for it sat in front of what remained of the depot, burned down to the wheels.
In addition to the fires, there had been a wanton slaughter of the replacement teams. A dozen horses lay dead in the corral, and there were even several pigs killed. Animals weren’t the only victims. They found half-a-dozen bodies lying around as well, including two that were burned beyond recognition.
“Help! Help me, somebody.” The voice that called was strained with pain.
“George!” Smoke said, running toward the stagecoach driver, finding him on the ground near the watering trough.
“When did this happen?”
“’Bout noon,” George said.
“Who did it? Was it Indians?”
George shook his head. “Don’t know exactly who or what they were. They was whites, Injuns, Mexicans. They even had ’em a colored man with ’em.”
“Comancheros,” Smoke said. “I knew it. Same as hit your ranch, Tom.”
“What happened?” Tom asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” George replied. “Me’n Pete was inside havin’ lunch when we heard someone shootin’. We come out here to see what was goin’ on, and the next thing you know, they shot us. I must’a passed out then, ’cause when I come to some later, everything was on fire.”
“So you didn’t see which way they went?” Smoke asked.
George shook his head. “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” he answered. “But I can tell you the name of the fella that was leadin’ ’em. I was sort of in and out, but I heard ’em talkin’. They called him Tatum.”
“Jack Tatum,” Tom said. “Yes, it figures now.”
Smoke looked George over. He had at least three bullet holes in him, two in the thigh and one in the arm. They were painful, and he had lost a lot of blood, but he would probably live.
“Pearlie, get him patched up as well as you can,” Smoke said. “I’m going to look around for sign. This is the closest we’ve been to those bastards, and I don’t plan to let them get away.”
“What’ll we do with him after I get him patched up?” Pearlie asked.
“George, what time is the next stage
due through here?” Smoke asked.
“If nothin’ has happened to it, it ought to be here before supper time,” George replied.
“We’ll wait here with him until then,” Smoke said. “Then we’ll put him on the stage and send him back to Stonewall.”
While Pearlie attended to his patient, Smoke began looking around. After a few minutes, Tom came over to stand beside him.
“Find something?”
“They came down this way,” Smoke said, pointing to the place where a small trail joined the road. “And they left that way,” he added, pointing toward another climbing trail.
“Into the Sangre de Cristo range?” Tom asked. “They’re going higher into the mountains? That’s sort of dumb, isn’t it? Nobody goes up there this time of year.”
“That’s what they are counting on,” Smoke said. “They plan to get over on the other side before the pass is closed. If they can do that, they’ll get away.”
“Lord, I’d hate to think of those murderin’ bastards getting away.”
“Then don’t think about it,” Smoke said with a wry smile. “Because they aren’t going to get away. We’re going to find them, and they are going to pay.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
21
Quinntanna sat astride his horse and watched as the little band in his charge moved slowly by. Some rode horses, some walked, while others—the very old, and those who had been wounded but survived the attack—rode on travois that were pulled behind the horses. All were bundled against the cold. As the people passed by, they looked neither right nor left, but stared straight ahead as they moved laboriously toward the mountains rising in the distance.
Quinntanna had arranged to meet Blue Horses and Swift Bear at the place of the Howling Winds because it was on the trail and it fit in conveniently with his plans. He intended to move the entire village, or at least what was left of it, to the other side of Culebra Peak in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. If he could get them over the top before the heaviest of the winter storms came, all the passes would then be closed by snow and his people would be safe. But getting them there was easier said than done.
The little party of travelers made a pitiful sight, for there was scarcely one among them who had not lost one or more members of his or her family. There were dozens of children without mothers, mothers without their children, as well as old men and women who had survived the attack but now had no one left to care for them. Quinntanna saw Teykano coming toward him.
“The trail is clear,” Teykano said.
“Will we get through before nightfall?” Quinntanna asked.
Teykano shook his head. “I think not. The top is too far away and our people are not moving quickly enough.”
“They can’t go any faster. They are old, weak, and tired. Some are sick and injured.”
“I know,” Teykano said. “Some of the others, the young men, want to leave now. They want to find the white men who did this and fight them.”
“They would abandon our people?” Quinntanna asked.
“They say we can leave two or three to help our people get across the mountains. The rest can fight. We have guns now.”
“What do you think?” Quinntanna asked.
“I think if we did this, who would we leave behind? All want to go, but some must stay because our people cannot get over the mountain alone.”
“We will all stay until the people are safe. Then we will all go,” Quinntanna said.
Teykano smiled. “I told the young men that you would say this.”
“And do they understand?”
“Yes. They did not like it, but they understand.”
“Good.”
“We will get revenge against the evil ones who did this, won’t we?” Teykano asked.
Quinntanna sighed. “How will we get revenge?”
“How? We have guns and some bullets. We are not helpless the way the people of our village were. We will fight the whites.”
“Someone attacked the ranch of a white man and killed many of their people. The whites thought Indians did it, so they attacked our village and killed our people. They didn’t know who did it, but their blood was hot so they killed. Would you have us kill innocent whites?”
“Yes!” Teykano replied without hesitation.
“What is to be gained by that? If we kill the innocent, and the guilty go unpunished, how is our revenge satisfied?”
“We must do something, Quinntanna,” Teykano insisted. “Our young men have blood that is hot. We cannot tell them that they cannot seek revenge.”
“I will find a way to kill the ones who are responsible,” Quinntanna promised.
“How will you do this?”
“I don’t know,” Quinntanna replied. “But if you will tell our young warriors to trust me, I will find a way.”
“You are my friend, Quinntanna, and I will trust you,” Teykano said. “I will counsel the others to trust you as well. But look into your heart and into your mind and find a way to do this thing you say.”
“I will find a way,” Quinntanna said again, though even as he was saying the words, he was searching for some way to carry out his promise.
* * *
Quinntanna knew about the place where the white man’s people-wagons stopped on their journeys between Stonewall and San Luis. It was called Miller’s Switch, and it was located just as the trail started climbing into the mountains. He was certain that by now the people at Miller’s Switch would have gotten word that a white ranch was attacked and burned. If so, like everyone else, they would believe the Indians were responsible.
If he could have done so, he would have gone around the way station, but because they were following the only passable trail up into the mountain range, that wasn’t possible. Therefore, the only thing he could do would be to scout the way station, then pass by as quietly as possible and hope they weren’t seen. Informing the villagers to stay where they were for a while, he and Teykano went ahead to check out the depot. When they moved to the edge of the woods, they were surprised to see nothing but burned-out buildings and a burned-out stage.
“Ayiee, what happened here?” Teykano asked.
“I believe the ones who attacked and burned the white ranch did this,” Quinntanna said.
“It does not matter who did it. The whites will think we did.”
“Yes,” Quinntanna. “That is why we must . . .” Quinntanna stopped in mid-sentence. “Teykano, here is where we will get our revenge,” he said.
“Here?”
“Yes. It is as you said. It does not matter who attacked here. The whites will think we did it. I believe they will send their soldiers here. I believe they will send the same soldiers here who attacked our village and murdered our people.”
Teykano smiled. “And when the soldiers come, we will be here, waiting for them.”
“Yes. In the meadow beyond the first rise.”
“That is a good plan, my friend,” Teykano said. “That is a plan worthy of the warriors of old. But what will we do with our people?”
“We will find somewhere for them to stay. Then we will come back to the meadow and wait for the soldiers.”
* * *
As soon as the coach rolled into Big Rock, the driver hurried down to the sheriff’s office.
“Monte,” he called, stepping inside. “Monte, where are you?” When he saw the big hole in the back wall, he let out a low whistle. Covington was standing inside the open cell, supervising the repair work on the wall. “Oh, my, what happened here?” the driver said.
“We had a prisoner escape.”
“I’ll say you did.”
“What can I do for you?” Covington asked.
“I’m looking for the sheriff.”
“He’s in Denver. I’m in charge here now.”
“You’re in charge? Who are you?” the driver asked.
“Colonel Sam Covington, temporarily the military administrator for Las Animas and Costilla Counties.”<
br />
“Military administrator? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ve placed both counties under martial law,” Covington said. “Now, I’ll ask you again. What did you want with the sheriff?”
“Well, since you’re in charge, I suppose I can tell you,” the driver said. “Miller’s Switch has been hit.”
“Hit?”
“Attacked and burned. Miller, his wife, the men who worked for them, all the coach passengers were killed. Jeb, the shotgun guard was also killed, but looks like the driver might pull through. I dropped him off at the doc’s office back in Stonewall.”
“We’ve got ’em!” Covington said, hitting his fist in his hand and grinning broadly. “First Sergeant Dingo, assemble the troop! We’re going to Miller’s Switch.”
“What about these two?” Dingo asked, indicating the two men who were laying brick to patch the hole in the back wall.
“Them too,” Covington said. “We’ll let Sheriff Carson worry about his wall. I don’t intend to let these Indian bastards get away from us.”
“Yes, sir,” Dingo said. “Come on, men, help me round everyone up.”
“Excuse me,” the driver said after the others left. “Did you say you didn’t intend to let the Indians get away with this?”
“That’s right.”
The driver shook his head. “It wasn’t Injuns.”
“What wasn’t Indians?”
“Them people that hit Miller’s Switch. They wasn’t Injuns.”
“What makes you say that?”
“George told me. He was there, he seen it all. He said they was just a bunch of outlaws.”
“Are you trying to tell me that it wasn’t Indians who did this?” Covington asked.
“George said they might have been one or two Injuns with ’em, but it was white folks, Mexicans, they even had ’em a colored man with ’em.”
“And Indians,” Covington insisted.
“Well, yeah, that’s what I said. But accordin’ to George, there was only one or two of ’em was Injuns.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Covington said. “One Indian, one hundred Indians, far as I’m concerned, they’re the ones behind it.”
Warpath of the Mountain Man Page 38