Slaughter's way

by Edson, John Thomas

  Holstering his Colt, Slaughter walked toward the Mexican. Although Hernandez was dying and knew it, he still regarded die Texan with admiration.

  ^'Youi man was right, senor,'' Hernandez breathed. TThis is not Mexico."

  Then his eyes went to the clump of mesquite behind Slaughter. Suddenly Hernandez hooked his legs around Slaughter's and brought the Texan to the ground. In the same move, the Mexican caught up his fallen gun.

  Even as he staggered forward off balance, Slaughter hardly believed such a thing could be happening. He never expected a man of Hernandez's type to take

  an unfair advantage. Now it seemed Slaughter s trust and misjudgment of a man's character woiild cost him his life.

  A shot cracked out and Slaughter heard the "splat!** of a close-passing bullet. Yet the shot did not have the deep bellow of a Colt, but sounding higher and sharper, like a rifle, and the bullet came from behind him. The thought had barely struck Slaughter when he heard the sound of Hernandez's Colt opening fire.

  Then Slaughter landed on the groimd, but he landed with his gun in his hand. Hernandez was sitting partially erect, firing shot after shot—^not at Slaughter but into the mesquite from which rose a scream of pain. A shape Ixurched upward, taking form as one of the bandidos who had sided Sanchez on Slaughters first visit to Central Springs. Before Slaughter could shoot, the man dropped his rifle and went down, rolled over once and lay still.

  Letting his revolver drop, Hernandez looked toward Slaughter.

  "M—^my apologies, senor. I forgot that Sanchez had a brother who would not easily forgive you for IdlUng him. He—he must have followed me, seen me examine th—^this—^place and guessed what I— ''

  Slaughter sprang forward to drop onto one knee by Hernandez as tiie man fell back onto the sand. For a moment the Texan thought it was over, then Hernandez opened his eyes.

  *T—^take the sabino — senor, it is a loyal friend—and I want—^it—^have—a worthy mas—^master. I apologize —^for Sanchez's brother— senor. I did not kn— ''

  With a convulsive writhe, Hernandez stiffened and then went limp.

  Taking off his hat. Slaughter paid a silent last respect to Hernandez. For all his faults and vices, the Mexican had been a man. He died the way he lived, by the gun. Yet he stayed true to his honor to the end.

  PART 4

  Tanaka Was A Bad Apache

  Tanaka was a bad Apache. Which same means he was a real bad hombre in any man s language or judged by any nation's standards. Even other Apaches regarded him as being bad; and they were a nation which produced more than its fair share of tough, able, ruthless and merciless warriors.

  When Victorio, old-man chief of the Mogollon, came in, broke the arrow and made peace with the white-eyed soldier-coats, Tanaka laughed at such foolishness and stayed out on the war trail. Nor did he stay alone. With him rode at least fifty of the toughest, meanest, most dangerous young bucks he could lay his hands on. Every one of them was tried and true, a white-hater from soda-to-hock, loved war and the loot and prestige it brought to a successful warrior.

  Yet even the fifty men who rode with him regarded Tanaka as being bad medicine and poison-mean.

  Tanaka and his men held western New Mexico and eastern Arizona in a state of terror. They ranged from the Came River and the borders of Paradise Basin out to the Dragoon Mountains. When danger threatened, or loot above the border failed them, the band struck south into Mexico and grew rich on the easier pickings open to them. But always they came back over the line. Back to the land the white-eyed brother took from their people by war, often-broken treaty and sheer weight of numbers.

  One might ask why the U.S. Cavalry did nothing about Tanaka's depredations. Surely an army which had ' such great Indian fighters as Generals Miles and Crook —and a few glory hunters like Custer—and which had

  dealt many shrewd blows to the whole Cheyenne, Comanche, Waco and Kaddo nations ought to have been able to handle a mere handful of Apaches, most of whom did not even have rifles.

  The answer was that the Army tried, and tried danmed hard, to either make Tanaka a good Indian, or bring him and his men onto a reservation where their movements could be checked.

  Given a stand-up fight, the soldiers would have ended Tanaka's badness in minutes, or hours at most, depending on the terrain on which they met. That was the trouble; Tanaka and his men might hate white-eyes, but they were not fools enough to stand and fight the soldiers.

  Then, one might inquire, why not catch up with Tanaka and his band?

  Take it this way. Arrange a horserace between a white cavalryman toting all the gear his superiors figured he needed to exist and fight with—^heavy Mc-Clellan saddle, saddlebags, blanket roll and greatcoat, mess kit, picket pin, eighteen rounds of ammunition for the revolver and a hundred cartridges to use in his carbine, food and water—and mounted on a grain-fed charger used to plenty of good food and water, and a buck Apache, who had the one set of clothes, and them not heavy, carried a rifle, some ammimition and knife for his weapons, mounted on a wiry pony used to nm-ning all day and night on a mouthful of saw-grass and a lick of brackish desert water, and somebody is going to come out a bad second. That somebody was not likely to be the Apache.

  So the Army did not deal with Tanaka for a simple, but perfectly valid reason—^they could not come within a good country mile of catclnng him.

  Tanaka might have gone on to great things, or at least lived out his life until so old that he would be willing to come off the war trail and accept the white-eyed brothers' charity, but he became ambitious.

  And his path crossed with a man who had something of a name as a tamer of bad hombres.

  Texas John Slaughter had heard of Tanaka. A man 143

  covld hardly travel across New Mexico Territory and not hear about him. However, Fort McClellan lay beyond the Came River and through the heart of Tanaka's pet stamping ground and Slaughter was dehvering a herd of cattle to the fort.

  It was not Slaughters way to let any mans reputation drive him out of his path. To go aroimd the area of Tanaka's power would take at least two months and the three thousand head of Texas longhoms Slaughter drove were needed urgently at the fort. Some old witch man on the MogoUon Reservation, stewed up with tiztoin or tulapai —^Apache brews which made raw com whisky seem rnild by comparison—^had a vision. The white-eyes had Hed, or so he claimed. They did not intend to feed the MogoUon on their ''spotted buflFalo," for where were the cattle? A few wiser and more sober heads advised doing nothing, but that they should wait and see what happened before painting for war.

  K Slaughter's herd did not arrive on time, not even the most respected Apache chief could keep the peace. So Slaughter intended to go through with his herd and even the threat of Tanaka's raiding would not make him turn aside.

  Of course Slaughter might have asked for an Army escort. A more prudent man would already have done so. Slaughter made no such request. Although the War Between the States had long ended, and Reconstmction was now only a bitter memory, tiis men would have been disgusted to think they had to ask the blue-bellies for help and protection. He had twenty-tw^o loyal, hardy and handy men, counting the cook, cook's helper; night-hawk and day wrangler, at his back and figured they would be a fighting force Tanaka might think twice before attacking.

  However, it was not Slaughter's way to ride blindly into trouble, or take foolish chances when a little forethought and precaution could avoid them. A double guard rode his herd each night and there was always at least one more man out riding wide circle during the dark hours. While Apaches might not fight in the dark, they were not averse to either traveling through

  it, or sneaking up, cutting a throat or stealing horses in the silent hours of the night. During the daytime, men rode far out on either flank and at the rear of the herd, and Slaughters keen-eyed scout kept watch ahead.

  So far the precautions had been needless, but not one man of Slaughter s crew regretted taking them. A man expected hardships and long hours on the trail.
In the face of their present conditions, they preferred the choice of extra work or the likelihood of winding up permanently dead.

  Toward noon one bright day. Slaughter and his scout, Burt Alvord, rode cautiously toward the waters of the Came River,

  A man did not need to ask where they came from, happen he could read the signs and knew the West. Those low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson hats spelled Texas men to eyes which knew the signs.

  Slaughter wore range clothes, travel-stained yet stiH retaining a hint of their customary neatness. Around his waist hung a well-made gunbelt, an ivory-butted Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the contoiured fast-draw holster at his right side. He had a strong face, tanned, intelligent and commanding and even on a trail drive kept his black beard and moustache trimmed neatly, even though his gingery colored hair—^which matched his eyebrows—^looked longer and more shaggy than it would normally be.

  If Slaughter looked like a typical cowhand from TexEis, Alvord hinted more at his work as scout. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt, faded levis pants and Indian moccasins; while a gunbelt supported a brace of 1860 Army Colts, the ri^t-side gun s butt pointing to the rear, but the left turned forward so either hand could draw it without trouble. His tanned, Indian-dark, high-cheekboned face told of a touch of Kaddo blood, but the men of the herd thought none the less of his ability as a scout, or company as a person, because of that.

  Slouching ia his saddle so that his six foot of length did not seem greater than Slaughter s five foot

  nine, Alvord threw a glance ahead of them to where, beyond the river, several turkey vultures—^misnamed buzzards by the cowhands^—SAvung on planing wings and glided in circles toward the ground.

  There must be death across the river. Yet across the river Slaughter's herd ought to find life. Beyond the Came lay trees, bushes, deep, fattening buffalo grass; a change from the harsh, poor grazing of the Paradise Basin. Over the Came, the cattle would eat their fill while w^aBdng in the direction of Fort McClellan, putting on weight and building up fat and meat which had been lost crossing the arid, near-desert basin.

  *^Von t be sorry to get across," Alvord remarked, making more conversation in one go than he had in nearly six miles of riding.

  ^^Or me," replied Slaughter who did not beheve in gabbing needlessly himself.

  Ahead of them a flock of Gambefs quail lifted from the groimd, swooping off before them and ghding across the river. Watching the birds go, xlvord opened his mouth to make some comment about wrishing he had a shotgun. The words were never said Just as die quail approached the bushes on the western bank of the Came, they changed direction suddenly and 1olently, the covey bursting apart and scattering like fragments from an exploding sheD.

  'Took with them buzzards,'' Alvord said, forgetting thoughts of cooked quail, *Td say we done got company waiting across there."

  **]Might only be a stray steer,* Slaughter replied, although he did not for a moment beheve a steer would scare off the birds. Only a predatory animal or human beings would cause the birds to scatter in such a state of panic. "Eide on do^Ti easy, like we haven't noticed anthing at all."

  The two men carried on, riding calmly toward the river. However, they edged their horses to one side so that they would come dovm to the water some fift>' yards below where the birds showed their fright, and facing an area of much hghter brush than further along.

  With the inborn instinct of men who had lived long with danger as a companion, both of the Texans instinctively knew they were being watched. Cold human eyes studied their every move and gesture. No cougar or bear would have stood its ground in the face of tibeir approach. Even knowing they were under observation, neither Slaughter nor Alvord gave any hint of being aware of the watchers; but acted as if they believed they were the only himian beings within miles of the Came.

  Swinging from their saddles, Slaughter and Alvord allowed their horses to approach the river and drink first. Both men stood apparently relaxed, but tense and ready for instant action. There was no sign of the Apaches, if it had been Apaches who scared the quail covey, so the Texans waited for the Indians to make a move and tip their hand.

  Yet for all that happened, the Texans might have been completely alone in the world. Not a soimd came from the other side of the river. Even the quail did not call to each other. That was an ominous sign. Usually a separated covey would begin to call, the dominant cock gathering the rest to him. That the birds did not call strengthened the belief in hidden men s presence among the bushes.

  Knowing Apaches, Slaughter doubted if they would make a move while he and Alvord stood on tiheir feet and ready to defend themselves. That tiie Apaches had to be brought out into the open was certain. They must be a small bunch. Scouts for a bigger party, or maybe a group of young bucks wanting to make their names as bold raiders. Whichever they were, the Apaches must be removed, killed or driven oflF before any sign of the trail herd could be seen.

  Under such conditions it was Slaughter's way to bring the business to a full boiling point as quickly as possible. It was also Slaughter's way that he put himself m aie position which would be first to meet the danger. So he had halted his horse on the side nearest to the bushes which the quail avoided.

  The horses had drunk their fill and moved back. Slaughter nodded to Alvord and said, '^Make Hke we're both drinking, Burt/'

  Widi a grunt that might have meant anything, or nothing, Alvord followed his boss's example. They went to their knees at the edge of the river and started to scoop up water to their mouths.

  It was a diance no properly constituted young Apache could overlook. Nor did the party aoross the river overlook it.

  Suddenly the fom: braves apipeaied. Squat built, dark brown-sldnned men with slightly Mongolian-looking savage faces, and lank black hair hanging shoulder-long from under the brims of their white-man style hats. The Apaches did not go in for fancy eagle-feather war bonnets, or getting duded up in buckskin and beaded finery when going to war—^but that did not make them any the less deadly.

  They came into view like a flash of light, their wiry war ponies hitting from silence and statueHke standing to full racing gallop in three strides. Each of the braves carried a single-shot .45.70 Springfield carbine—^likely looted oflE the mmxlered bodies of ambushed Cavalry men—and with knives at their belts. With but one cartridge in the chamber, and the need to reload after it had been fired, the Apaches did not come shooting.

  All in all it was a creditable display of the Apache art of making war. The silent watching and waiting, then the sudden, devastating rush the moment their victims looked unprepared enough to fall easy victims. It was a pity that such skill and enterprise should f aiL Or perhaps just retribution for the fatal mistake of im-derestimating an enemy.

  Slaughter's right hand dipped, bringing out his Colt. In the same move, he kicked back widi his feet and fell beUy forward toward the ground. He landed with his elbows in the water, but ignored it; and his left hand supported the right wrist as he took aim and fired.

  Something over forty yards away the first of the 148

  Apaches went backwards over the rump of his horse as Slaughters bullet ripped into him. The other three charged on to the kill.

  Alvord reacted almost as quickly as did his boss. Rocking himself up to his feet, he turned and sprang to where his spot-nmiped Appaloosa stallion stood like a lump of rock. No, Alvord had not deserted his boss. Nor did he aim to follow the Cavalry tradition of always fighting from the back of a horse. While he could draw his guns fast, and handle them at gunfighting ranges with better than fair accuracy, Alvord preferred a rifle in his hands when engaging an enemy at over twenty feet.

  With that in mind, and aware that his rifle hung in the Appaloosa's saddle boot, Alvord sprang away from the river s edge. He disappeared behind the big horse, sliding his Winchester Model 1866 rifle from its boot in passing. When he sprang into sight beyond the horse's rump, Alvord held the *'old yellow boy' in his hands.

  Swinging up the rifle in an effort
less move, Alvord sighted and fired his first shot. He tumbled a fast-riding Apache from a racing pony just as the brave threw down on Slaughter.

  The third brave to die was slanting down his carbine, a finger curling on its trigger, when Slaughter, having fired twice without effect, and Alvord, who had levered home another bullet after dropping his man, sent lead into him. That Apache was a tolerably good Indian when he hit the ground. He had a .45 revolver bullet in his heart and a flat-nosed .44 rifle ball splattered his brains and skull splinters in a flying cloud.

  Seeing the fate of his lodge brothers, the last warrior brought his horse aroimd in a rump-scraping, dirt-churning turn and sent it racing for the safety and cover of the thick bushes once more. Alvord's rifle sung after the brave, but he could not get a shot. Realizing his danger, the Apache swung down to hang on the side of his horse, hidden from that deadly rifle. Before Alvord could lever home a bullet and cut down the horse, the Apache disappeared from sight and once more silence fell.

  Slaughter came to his feet, holstering his Colt and running toward his big black stallion. On reaching the horse, he pulled his Winchester Model 1873 rifle from the saddle boot. With the powerful .44.40 rifle in his hands, Slaughter reckoned he could do his fair share if there were more Apaches in hiding.

  "Hey, ride-plenties I"

  The voice drifted from among the bushes some distance to the right of where the Apache disappeared. Slaughter and Alvord watched the other shore of the Came River, alert for any sign of a trick.

  'Tou hear me, ride-plenties?" went on the voice, using the Indian name for a cowhand.

  "We hear you,'' Slaughter replied.

  "One you killed is brother of Tanaka. Think long on it before you die at Tanaka's hands."

  Once again silence dropped along the banks of the Came. Not a branch stirred or rustled among the bushes, not a sound of a horse moving. Slaughter and Alvord stood with their rifles gripped ready for use, eyes and ears working overtime to pick up warning of where the Apache might be. Suddenly a wild war yell sounded and the last Apache appeared on the far side of the bushes, racing his pony across the range. He was well beyond the reach of either man s rifle.