“Damn you,” Luke Deal said. “I wanted to do her.”
“Sorry,” Bronk said.
Sweet Sally had been paralyzed by the savagery of it all. But now, her blood boiling hot in her veins, she reined the bay between Luke and the mother and father. “No more!” she wailed. “For God’s sake, no more!”
Luke motioned brusquely with his Colt. “Move.”
“No,” Sweet Sally cried. “I won’t let you!”
Luke pointed the Colt and cored the bay through the eyes. The horse shook violently, nearly pitching Sally off, then fell where it stood. Sally tried to roll clear but she was much too big and much too slow. Her right leg was pinned from the knee down. She threw up her hands, expecting the next slug to do to her what the last one had done to the bay. But Luke was not looking at her. He was looking at the mother.
A sculpture of pure horror, the woman glanced from one dead daughter to the others, tears streaming from her eyes.
The father lunged for his rifle. His fingers were wrapping around it when Luke’s shot ripped through his torso from back to front. He flopped up and down a few times, and was gone.
Luke gigged his horse over to the mother. She looked up, the embodiment of misery.
“Why?”
“Why not?” Luke shot her through the heart, then immediately began reloading. “Grutt, help the cow out from under the horse and put her on one of the oxen.”
“People can ride an ox?”
“She rides an ox or she rides your horse until we find another for her. Take your pick.”
Grutt hurriedly dismounted and scooted to the team.
Choking back great sobs, Sweet Sally sprawled on her back. Tiny mews issued from her throat.
Luke Deal finished reloading, slid the Colt into its holster, and grinned down at her. “Am I nice enough for you yet?”
18
Hot Lead
“It’s been two days,” Slim said. “Why haven’t they lit into us yet? What are they waitin’ for?”
Owen glanced at the chuck wagon, where Bill Givens, bound at the wrists and ankles, sat slouched on the seat beside Benedito. Behind the wagon, added to their string, was Givens’s mount. “Our friend there is more important than he’s let on,” Owen guessed. “It could be he’s their leader.”
“And they haven’t attacked because they don’t want anything to happen to him?” Slim surveyed the rolling sea of hills and more hills. “Could be. But how long will that hold them back?”
“Not forever.” Owen wished it were otherwise. He had no hankering to spill blood. “Only until they think up a way to get at him without losin’ any of their men.”
“Here’s hopin’ they’re all as dumb as rocks,” Slim said, and reined to the left to take up his normal position flanking the longhorns.
Alfred Pitney had been a keenly interested listener. “What’s to stop them from picking us off from a hilltop with rifles?”
“If they don’t drop all of us right away, Givens is as good as dead and they know it.”
“You would shoot an unarmed man who can’t possibly defend himself?”
“I wouldn’t like it but I would do it, yes,” Owen said. “If it was Lon, he would do it and like it.”
They both looked to where Lon Chalmers was riding point. Owen had instructed him to ride closer to the cows than he normally did, and to be ready for anything. Not that Lon needed the warning.
“I don’t quite know what to make of him,” Pitney admitted. “He can be quite vicious.”
“Only when he has to,” Owen said. “But he’s a good man. He’s walked both sides of the tracks and picked the side of decent livin’. A lot of wild ones never change their ways until they are six feet under.”
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”
“He’s my best friend,” Owen said. “I would do anything for him and he would do anything for me.”
Pitney’s mouth curled in a rueful grin. “I wouldn’t mind having a friend like that. Most of my business associates are just that. I’ve been so busy making money for the BLC, I haven’t had the time to really make friends.”
“You have now.”
Pitney blinked, then smiled self-consciously. “I must say. You cowboy types have the disconcerting habit of always being forthright. It’s enough to make a grown man blush.”
Just then Owen rose in the stirrups and stared at a hilltop to the northeast. Frowning, he sank back down.
“Something?”
“Maybe. Thought I saw a flash. Could be they have a lookout with a spyglass keepin’ an eye on us. Or it could have been the sun on a rifle.”
Alfred Pitney studied the same hill but did not see anything. “I feel like one of those targets at an amusement arcade.”
“We all do.” Owen slowed and reined aside so the chuck wagon caught up with him and he could ride beside it. “How’s our guest?”
“He is poor company, señor,” Benedito said. “Me, I like to talk, but he will not say a word except to insult me and my mother.”
“It must be his upbringin’,” Owen said. “His folks never taught him how to be polite.”
Bill Givens swore. “You think you’re so damn funny? You’ll all be laughin’ out new holes in your faces by the time we’re done with you.”
“If big talk was gold, you would be rich,” Owen said.
“Yes, sir.” Givens went on as if he had not heard. “We’re goin’ to blow out all your wicks. I want to do that smart-mouth one myself.” He fixed his glare on Lon Chalmers. “I want to stick the barrel of my revolver in his mouth like he did his in mine, and keep squeezin’ the trigger until the cylinder is empty.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Owen said, “but I doubt you would clear leather.”
Givens swiveled toward him. “Cowboys! I hate every stinkin’ one of you. Acting’ like you own the world, and all you do is smell the hind end of cows for a livin’.” He spiced his comments with a string of profanity, ending with, “The only thing I hate more than cowboys are stupid, good-for-nothin’ greasers.”
“That is most strange, senor,” Benedito said, “since you, yourself, are a stupid, good-for-nothing gringo.”
More profanity ended with, “It won’t be long! You’ll see! My boys will make coyote bait of the whole bunch of you!”
“Thank you,” Owen said.
Givens tilted his head. “For what?”
“For admittin’ what I’ve suspected all along, that you’re the head polecat. So long as we have you, those boys of yours will be gun-shy.”
“You think you have it all worked out but you don’t. One of my men is Ben Sloane. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
“I seem to recollect hearin’ the name,” Owen said. “Isn’t he the one who killed an Indian gal and made a poke out of her skin?”
“The very same,” Givens crowed. “He’s my second in command, you might say, and compared to him, your Lon Chalmers is a Sunday school teacher.”
Owen remembered more. “Ben Sloane was the varmint who robbed that stage a while back and killed all the passengers, includin’ a couple of women.”
“That was him,” Givens confirmed. “Ben likes killin’ women, likes it more than anything. He’s a woman hater through and through. I hate them, too. But not as much as I hate cowboys and stupid greasers.”
“What about blacks?” Benedito interjected.
“I hate niggers as much as greasers.”
“And Indians?” Benedito said. “Do you love them or are they on your list as well?”
“Injuns and niggers and greasers and women,” Givens hissed. “Every stinkin’ one of you.”
“What about chickens?”
“What?”
“Or ducks. I should think you must hate how they walk.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Hummingbirds? Do you hate hummingbirds? They fly so fast you cannot see them. That is a nuisance.”
“You’re loco, greaser.”
“Pigs?” Benedito went on. “Now there is an animal worth hating.”
“Injuns and niggers and greasers and women,” Givens repeated. “Pigs I like. They have those funny snouts and curly tails.”
“You have looked in the mirror, then?” Benedito said. “That is good. A man should always know what he looks like.”
Owen laughed, and they were treated to more livid swearing. He rode briskly on around Mary, Lily, and Cleopatra, past Big Blue and then on ahead of Emily. “Nice day if it doesn’t rain.”
Lon Chalmers grinned. “We’ll be out of these hills by early afternoon. My money says they’ll jump us before then.”
Owen agreed. Once they were out on the prairie, it would be that much harder for anyone to sneak up on them unnoticed. “I just heard something you might like to know.”
When the foreman did not go on, Lon said, “Do I pay you or beg or tickle your feet until you ’fess up?”
“Ben Sloane is with them.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Lon said. “Small things with a six-shooter.”
“Maybe not so small. They say his tally is a dozen or more.”
“Most couldn’t shoot back. Show me a coyote who likes them unarmed and I’ll show you a weak-kneed coward.” Lon placed his hand on his Colt. “I hope these boys don’t get cold feet. I’m lookin’ forward to swappin’ hot lead. With Ben Sloane most of all.”
“There are eight of them, remember,” Owen said. “They may not amount to much, but they’re bound to hit something.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t wait for them to make the first move,” Lon proposed. “Maybe I should go poke around and if I find them, whittle the odds some.”
“They might get lucky and whittle you and we can’t afford to lose you.”
“You’re worse than a mother hen.”
Another grassy hill reared ahead. They wound to the right around it. Beyond, to the northwest, a belt of vegetation hinted at a creek. It had been a day and a half since they struck water and the longhorns perked up at the scent. Big Blue tried to pass Emily but she would not have it and walked faster.
Lon smirked. “Females are all the same whether they have two legs or four.”
“You talk mighty big when there are none of the two-legged variety around,” Owen observed.
“I like breathin’.”
Their banter came to an end when a rider appeared out of the trees, a rifle held vertical in front of him, the stock on his knee, a dirty white cloth tied to the barrel below the front sight.
Owen raised a hand and drew rein. Lon wheeled his mount to halt the longhorns, and Slim and Cleveland closed up on either side.
The man holding the improvised truce flag rode slowly toward them. He had broad shoulders and a broad chest, and a face the ladies would like a lot. Strapped to his waist was a Colt with ivory grips. He grinned smugly. When ten feet separated them, he came to a stop. “We need to parley.”
“You must be Sloane,” Owen said.
The big man’s grin widened. His face was as flat as a plank except for a bump of a nose, his upper lip perpetually curled upward. “Heard of me, have you?” he asked, his pride flattered.
“We hear you’re partial to gunnin’ down women,” Lon said. “It’s too bad we didn’t bring one with us so you could show us how tough an hombre you are.”
Ben Sloane was not amused. “I’ll show you soon enough. In the meantime, we want him.” Sloane pointed at Bill Givens. “Hand him over and none of you will be harmed.”
“You’re a god-awful liar,” Lon said.
Forgetting himself, Sloane started to level his rifle. He stopped, though, and said testily, “Keep on flap-pin’ your gums, mister. I haven’t killed anyone in a couple of weeks and I have the itch.”
“We’re not handin’ Givens over,” Owen said. “He stays with us until we’re in the clear.”
“When will that be? When you strike Dodge?” Ben Sloan shook his head. “You’ll free him now. There are seven rifles trained on you and your friends. All I have to do is whistle and you die.”
Owen calmly twisted and gestured toward the chuck wagon.
Nodding, Benedito reached behind him and produced the scattergun. He thumbed back both barrels and pressed the twin muzzles against Bill Givens’s ribs.
“Go ahead and whistle,” Owen said to Sloane.
For a few moments the outcome might have gone either way. Ben Sloane clearly wanted to give the signal.
A yell from Givens decided the issue. “Bide your time, Ben! They’re bound to make a mistake! You and the boys be ready!”
“Don’t listen to him,” Lon said. “Fill your hand with that equalizer of yours and prove how equal you are.”
“For that,” Ben Sloane snarled, “I will deal with you myself.”
“Do I soil my britches now or later?”
Ben Sloane’s mouth worked but he did not reply.
Owen bobbed his chin at the trees. “You and your friends make yourselves scarce or I will let my pard do what he wants with your pard.”
“You know what I want,” Lon said. “The only good rustler is a dead rustler.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Ben Sloane said to him.
“Just like this,” Lon said, and grinning, he snapped his fingers.
Sloane raised his reins. “We’ll go. But this doesn’t end it. Not by a long shot.” With a quick glance and a nod at Givens, Sloane reined his horse around and made for the vegetation.
“I should shoot him in the back,” Lon proposed.
“That would make you no better than he is,” Owen said. “The gun smoke will be on our terms, not theirs.”
Sloane and his mount melted into the greenery. They heard him yell but could not quite make out the words. Other figures briefly appeared, flitting rapidly away.
“I only counted five,” Lon said.
“They won’t tempt the shotgun,” Owen said with confidence. Still, he placed his right hand on his six-shooter. “Take it slow. We’ll let the cattle drink but only a little.”
Quiet had fallen among the cottonwoods and oaks. A meandering blue ribbon wound among them, its surface sparkling where the sun filtered through. Under other circumstances it would have been enjoyable to rest in the shade a while.
Emily and Big Blue dipped their mouths to the water and seconds later so did the other three longhorns.
Lon crossed the creek and drew rein. He studied the shadows, the thicket growth, the crotches of trees, but if the rustlers had laid an ambush, they had laid it well.
Alfred Pitney sensed the cowboys were as taut as wire. But he was sure the rustlers would not try anything so long as Givens was their prisoner. He had no qualms about dismounting and sinking to one knee. Taking a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket, he held it in the creek to soak it. The water was wonderfully cool. Partially wringing the handkerchief out, he wiped it across his brow and cheeks and neck. “Sweet relief,” he said to himself.
Big Blue stopped drinking and lifted his huge head, his great horns glistening. He sniffed a few times, then stamped a front hoof.
Owen whipped around. Big Blue was staring at a thicket. No shadowy shapes lurked in its depths, and Owen had about dismissed the bull’s warning when something at the base of the thicket pricked his interest. There was a hump where there should not be one. Leaves and downed branches covered it. The rest of the ground was flat.
Belatedly, Owen realized the thicket was nowhere near a tree. “It’s an ambush!” he shouted, bringing his rifle up. But he was a few shades too slow.
The hump was rising from a shallow hole scooped out of the earth. A buck-toothed rustler cackled and fired, but not at Owen. He fired at the nearest cowboy, who happened to be Cleveland, and who also happened to have his back to the thicket.
The slug caught the Bar 40 puncher low in the back. Arching his spine, Cleveland threw both arms out, then slumped forward.
Owen sent a round into the buck teeth, and all hell erupted.
R
ustlers rose from concealment on all sides. One rushed from behind an oak, only to be stopped in his tracks by a blast from Lon Chalmers’s Colt. Lon turned and snapped a shot at another who had popped out of a patch of weeds. Pivoting at the hips, he fired at a ragged stripling with a Sharps.
Benedito Chavez had his scattergun pressed to Givens’s side. He would hold it there until Owen told him otherwise. But when a rustler hurtled out of the greenery and blistered the canopy above Benedito’s head, Benedito let the rustler have a barrel in the chest.
Slim was shooting his rifle as rapidly as he could work the lever. He had seen Cleveland hit, and he was filled with a terrible rage. He aimed at a running shape. His rifle belched lead and smoke and the shape toppled.
Up on the chuck wagon, Bill Givens had flattened on his side. He rolled to the end of the seat, glanced at the cook to be sure the Mexican was not looking at him, and rolled off the wagon. He contrived to land on his shoulders, his teeth clenched against the pain. Coiling his legs under him, he rose and hopped into the undergrowth. Triumph lit his features but only for a few seconds, until he tripped over a rock no bigger than an apple and pitched onto his stomach.
A shadow fell across him.
Out of nowhere towered Ben Sloane. “I’ll have you free in two shakes of a mare’s tail.” His left hand swooped to his boot and out came a knife. A single stroke severed the rope around Givens’s ankles, and Sloane bent to cut the rope around his wrists.
“I’d rather you didn’t, woman-killer.”
Sloane spun. Givens twisted to see the speaker. Both imitated statues, and Ben Sloane blurted, “You!”
“Me,” Lon Chalmers said. In his right hand was his smoking Colt, level and steady.
Starting to straighten, Ben Sloane reconsidered. “My pistol is in my holster. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“How about those ladies on that stage you robbed?” Lon rejoined. “Was it fair of you to shoot them?”
“I was at the other end of Texas when that stage was stopped. The law pinned it on me because they had no else to pin it on.”
“The driver lived. He recognized you.”
Sloane glanced at the knife he held and then at Lon as if debating whether to use it. Instead, he spread his fingers and let the knife drop. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” He smirked.
By the Horns Page 21