The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  He lifted his arm and swept it forward, and they rode out to meet the oncoming riders. He counted better than sixty men before the two groups merged, and knew a disappointment. He had hoped Austin would send more. But this force was welcome, and it could be the forerunner of a greater one.

  He called, “Howdy, Lukens! Hi, Casket! We’re glad to see you.”

  He received no response to his greeting, and the harsh set of their faces momentarily worried him. He threw off the feeling. These men were riding with serious business on their minds. They were naturally in no mood for banter.

  The riders fanned out and half encircled Nelson’s men. His eyes went wide with shock as he saw guns appear in their hands.

  His tongue found mobility, and he said, “Lukens, what is this?”

  Lukens snapped, “Throw down your guns, O’Shaughnessy. And easy as you do it.” His gun, pointed at Nelson, had a mouth as big as a cave.

  Nelson stared at him, mentally cursing himself. Around him he heard small, shocked phrases as men tried to put their minds to this. His certainty that these men were coming to join him had betrayed him, had betrayed them all.

  He looked at those ready guns and the determined faces behind them. There was not a chance. At the first show of resistance they would be blown out of their saddles. A few might break and run for it, but most of them would be dead men.

  He said, “Drop them.” His fingers unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the ground. Carefully he pulled the rifle from its scabbard and dropped it. All around him, he heard the thud of weapons hitting the earth.

  His voice was steady as he asked, “Where are you taking us?”

  “Saucedo,” Lukens replied.

  Nelson’s eyes were bitter. “So Austin has thrown in with him.”

  Lukens said, “Move,” and pulled his horse aside. His lips were set in a tight line. He would talk no more about this now.

  Nelson and his men were ringed about and moved southward. His thoughts were chaotic. Each way they turned, they ran into a stone wall. Austin was with Saucedo. That much was apparent. And these riders were taking them to Saucedo. Did that mean all the way to San Antonio? If so, a long journey was ahead of them, and somewhere along the way an opportunity to escape would present itself. He could wait for that opportunity.

  He tried to garner more information, and Lukens would not talk to him. He said with a bitter edge, “Americans fighting the Mexicans’ battle.”

  Lukens gave him a murderous glance. “We’re not cutting Indians loose to pillage the country.”

  Nelson started to speak, and Lukens said, “Shut up.” He half lifted his rifle. He looked as though he would enjoy crashing the butt of it into Nelson’s mouth.

  Nelson stared bleakly ahead. These men had a distorted picture, but words would not convince them now. He had to get away and warn Nacogdoches of what was happening, and his mind worried at the problem.

  They wound around the base of a small hill, and Nelson’s jaw went slack as they came out onto the open plains again. Five hundred men were camped before him, with their horses and supply wagons and all the equipment a small army needed. He saw Mexican uniforms and streamers on the lances thrust into the ground. Saucedo was here, not in San Antonio.

  Three men came forward to meet them. Nelson’s eyes were hard as he recognized Payne. The other two were Mexicans, and though he had never seen the man, Nelson knew the one slightly in advance of the others was Saucedo.

  “Señor O’Shaughnessy,” he said, looking up at Nelson. He was a trim figure with a dignified bearing. His face was stern but without malice.

  Nelson nodded. “Don Antonio,” he murmured. He stepped down from his horse and handed the reins to a grinning Mexican trooper.

  “Much trouble you have given us,” Saucedo said.

  “I’d say it was about equal,” Nelson snapped. “You’ve listened to a lot of lies, Don Antonio.” He flashed a savage glance at Payne.

  “A caught man always screams lies,” Saucedo replied. “If what you say is true, it will come out later.” A faint smile was in his eyes. “I did not think you would fire on Americans. By sending Austin’s men, much bloodshed was saved.”

  Nelson looked around, and Saucedo interpreted his glance. “Señor Austin did not come.”

  Nelson looked at his captured men. “What will you do with them?”

  “We will hold them for several days, then turn them loose. Without their guns.”

  “And me?”

  “You will be taken to Saltillo and tried for treason. A fair trial.”

  Nelson looked at Payne, and helpless rage burned in his eyes. Payne would be a government witness. Nelson’s declaration of intention alone was enough to convict him, and with Payne’s prejudiced testimony there was no chance of a fair trial.

  “And if I’m found guilty?”

  Saucedo shrugged. “You will be shot.”

  Nelson’s hands clenched, then he forced them open. Saucedo was intently watching him. “At the moment, Don Antonio,” he said, “I can but listen to you.”

  Saucedo inclined his head. “If you will come this way…” He led the way to a small tent.

  Nelson looked back at his men. He knew the meaning of loneliness then.

  Saucedo stopped before the tent and said, “Cross your hands behind your back.”

  Nelson obeyed. A trooper sprang forward at Saucedo’s command. He used rawhide thongs, and was thorough.

  “You will forgive me for taking every precaution,” Saucedo said. “But you are the leader, and without the leader, the rebellion fails.”

  “Not yet, Don Antonio.”

  An angry flash illuminated Saucedo’s eyes. “It has failed,” he said stiffly, and turned away.

  The trooper shoved Nelson into the tent. There were no furnishings in it. The man read his look and laughed. “If the gringo gets tired standing, he can fall down.” He moved out of the tent and took up a position before it.

  Nelson learned how awkward it was for a man with hands bound behind his back to sit down. He dropped to his knees, then fell to his side. He struggled to a sitting position, then decided that lying down was easier.

  He heard the noise of a camp preparing for the night, and smelled the smoke of cooking fires. His belly stirred and rumbled. He supposed they would feed him later.

  He turned and twisted his wrists, putting pressure on the thongs. The skin on his wrists broke, and he felt them getting slippery with blood. He spent his strength, and the thongs were as secure as ever. He stopped and panted, fighting against the wildness of despair. Panic was not going to get him anywhere.

  He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then called the guard.

  The man stuck his head into the tent, and Nelson said, “I’m thirsty.”

  “Ho,” the guard said. “The gringo who would take our homes from us now begs for water.”

  Nelson let his statement stand. Additional pleas would get him nothing.

  The guard grumbled, disappeared for a short moment, then returned with a small olla. He set it on the ground before Nelson and said, “The gringo can stick his face in it and drink like a dog.”

  He derived great amusement from the struggle Nelson made in thrusting his face into the water.

  “When the level sinks so that the tongue no longer reaches it, the gringo can lie and be thirsty.”

  Nelson looked up with water dripping from his face. “Gracias,” he murmured.

  The guard muttered an inaudible reply and moved to his post before the tent. There was no enjoyment in baiting a man who would not respond.

  Nelson looked at the man’s back, cutting off the light from the fires. He raised himself to his knees and, putting his back to the olla, moved backward inch by inch, keeping his legs spread wide. It was a clumsy position in which to move, and his heart pounded so that he thought surely the guard would hear it. He did not stop until the rim of the olla touched the back of his thighs. He carefully thrust his wrists into the water, and i
ts coolness brought relief to the stinging of the torn skin.

  He held his wrists in the water for a long time, keeping steady pressure on the bindings. Rawhide stretched when it was wet, and he needed only a small expansion to slip the thongs from his hands.

  He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and flopped to his side. He inched away from the olla and lay partially on his back, hiding his wet hands. He had left a trail of moisture, but in the darkness he doubted it could be seen. He rolled his wrists, and his heart bounded at the small give in the tightness.

  The footsteps stopped before the tent, and he recognized Payne’s voice as soon as he spoke to the guard.

  “I’ll take over for you,” Payne said.

  “No, señor,” the guard answered. Nelson could visualize the man’s shaking head. “I have been ordered to stay here.”

  Payne’s laugh was an easy, natural sound. “For fifteen minutes, who would know? They’ve opened a keg of whisky at the far side of camp. I always hate to think of a man going thirsty.”

  The silence seemed to last forever, and Nelson thought, He’s licking his lips and tasting Payne’s words.

  Payne said carelessly, “If you’re not interested…”

  A slight scuffing sound told of his turning.

  “Señor. Wait.” The guard’s breathing was fast. “You will not leave? I will be gone for such a small time.”

  “I won’t leave,” Payne answered.

  Nelson wrenched at his bonds. They slipped a little, taking more skin with them. He could feel the flow of blood again.

  Payne came into the tent and stood over him. The glow from the fires poked a feeble finger into the dark interior, letting Nelson see Payne’s face as a vague white oval.

  He said, “You didn’t ride so high or far, did you?”

  “Far enough,” Nelson answered calmly. He twisted his wrists, not letting the exertion show in his shoulders.

  “You bastard!” Payne said in sudden violent rage. He kicked Nelson in the side, and the toe of the boot sent a jarring wave of pain throughout his body. “That’s for Sam.” Payne breathed hard.

  Nelson hunched his body, letting a show of pain hide the violent wrench he made on the bonds. They were across the backs of his hands now, almost touching his knuckles.

  He had to keep Payne talking, he had to draw him nearer. Much nearer than he was. For when his hands were freed, he had to catch Payne in one sure, final grip, stifling an outcry before it could arouse the camp. The minutes were running out. The guard would not dare stay away long.

  He said, “You’ll be joining Tribble, Payne.”

  Payne had a grip on his anger, and he laughed. His voice was almost admiring as he said, “I don’t mind admitting you’ve been tough. But it’s over now. You knew Hunter is dead, didn’t you?”

  The sound of Nelson’s breathing must have changed, for Payne said with great satisfaction, “That jars you. Bowles killed him. It didn’t take much to buy Bowles. A few barrels of whisky, a few trinkets.”

  The man was not lying. Some instinct told Nelson that, and the blow momentarily left him limp with helplessness.

  He marshaled his thoughts and said, “That won’t make any difference. You’ll be run out of Texas. Or killed. You know it. And that scares you.”

  Payne’s returning fury made his breathing gusty. “Why, damn you—”

  “And Saucedo isn’t going to like your kicking me around. You’re taking orders from him now.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Payne said.

  He aimed a kick at Nelson’s face, and Nelson threw up a shoulder in time to catch most of its force. But at that, the boot sole slid off his shoulder and scraped along his cheekbone, bringing an instant and fiery pain. He jerked hard on the thongs, and they slipped from his hands. He shuddered and gave a long sigh, and his body went limp.

  Payne said violently, “Don’t tell me what I can do.” He waited, then said, “Do you hear me?”

  Nelson’s head was canted to one side, and he kept his breathing shallow.

  “Hell,” Payne said. “I didn’t kick you that hard.” The sound of his breathing had a tense quality. He prodded Nelson with the toe of a boot, and the body was limp.

  “Maybe I did,” Payne muttered. “Maybe I broke his damned neck.”

  He squatted on his heels and peered into Nelson’s face. Payne seized a handful of hair and pulled on it. Nelson let his head roll with the movement.

  “I’ll be damned,” Payne said in a wondering tone. He bent his face closer.

  Nelson’s hands flashed upward. The thumbs drove hard for the hollow at the base of the throat. Payne had time for a small garbled squawk before the thumbs clamped against the soft, yielding flesh.

  Nelson exerted vicious, relentless pressure, his wrists as rigid and as powerful as steel cables. His grip was formed of many things: of hatred, of desperation, of fear and the rekindling of hope, and nothing could have torn it away at that moment. He threw Payne onto his back and smothered him with the weight of his own body.

  Payne’s nails tore at Nelson’s wrists, drawing more blood, and Nelson was unaware of the hurt. Payne’s body bucked in convulsive heaves, trying to throw off the superior weight. His heels drummed against the ground, and Nelson sensed rather than saw the swelling congestion in the man’s face.

  The ache from the applied pressure started in his fingers and worked through his hands into his wrists. It crawled up his arms, and the clawing nails that tore at his wrists grew weaker. Now they pawed and slid across his skin, rather than digging furrows.

  He knew the moment of death. Payne’s body arched in one final heave, nearly throwing Nelson off, then slumped with a queer inanimate quality that could not be mistaken.

  Even that did not satisfy Nelson. He continued to dig in his thumbs. They were hidden now by the soft, puffy flesh that had risen around them.

  He raised his head and listened, sobbing for breath. It had been a short and deadly struggle. His body was weak, and his mind seemed strangely detached. Those brief moments had demanded much of him.

  He heard no unusual sounds, no one screaming an alarm. Somewhere a man laughed, and the sound prickled Nelson’s skin.

  He looked at the dead, bloated face. His hands were still about the dead neck, and the touch of Payne’s flesh filled him with a rush of revulsion. He forced his clamped fingers open.

  He put his hands against Payne’s chest and pushed himself erect. His knees were shaking, and he could not get enough air into his lungs. He remembered the guard, and the thought drove the weakness out of him. The man might even now be on his way back.

  He stooped and dragged Payne to one side of the tent, arranging him in a natural position on his side. He removed his gun, and the hard feel of the butt in his palm gave him added strength.

  He put a fleeting glance on the tent entrance before he moved to the rear wall. He went down on his side, lifted the canvas, then froze. The guard was coming back. The sound of his footsteps was very near the tent.

  He wriggled under the canvas and dropped it behind him. He came up to a knee, his teeth bared as he waited for the guard’s shout.

  “Caramba!” the guard said. “I knew he would not wait. Who can trust a gringo?” His voice rose as he said, “Ho, gringo. Did you enjoy your visitor?”

  The silence was too long, and Nelson’s flesh crawled as he waited.

  “The gringo is asleep,” the guard muttered.

  Nelson’s breath came out in a long, trembling sigh as he heard the sound of the guard’s feet pacing back and forth.

  He dropped back to the ground, and a shadow worked its way through the camp, a shadow that sometimes moved and sometimes halted, but always blended with other shadows. Men laughed and talked about their fires, and they were never aware of the shadow that passed within a few yards of them.

  He came to a crouching position as he neared the picket line. The camp fires were behind him, and their radiance did not reach this far. A sentry came around the f
ar end of the horses and paced down the line, passing before Nelson. He muttered to himself as he walked.

  Nelson waited until the figure was out of sight, then moved to the far end of the line. Some of the horses smelled or sensed his presence. He heard the soft stamping of their hoofs and their nervous snortings. They were not frightened yet, but their jittery curiosity could grow into panic.

  He sat on his heels and waited, and his stillness reassured the animals. The stampings and snortings lessened, then died.

  The sentry came around the line again. He was aware of nothing until a shadow rose up behind him. Some instinct jerked him around. His eyes went big, and a yell was forming in his throat when a gun barrel crashed across his head. His sigh was that of a very weary man as he pitched forward. Nelson caught him and lowered him to the ground.

  The horses were moving again, and the hoof sounds were louder. He looked toward the fires. He heard no voices raised in alarm, saw no running figures. He let the silence reassure the animals.

  He moved toward the end one, hand extended, his voice keeping up a low, soothing monotone. The animal snorted and shied away from him as far as the picket rope would let it go. Nelson reached out a hand and touched the satiny neck. The flesh quivered beneath his touch, then was still. He rubbed the sensitive spot behind the ears, then moved his hand over the long nose to the muzzle. The horse blew its soft breath against Nelson’s palm, and no fright remained in the animal.

  He untied the picket rope and led the animal slowly away. He moved a soft step at a time, and the animal followed with no protest. He dared not hunt for saddle or bridle. It would be a long bareback ride to Nacogdoches, but he could fashion a crude hackamore from the picket rope.

  He walked the horse a half mile before he dared mount. He looked back at the camp, and the fires were small red eyes, watching him. From this distance they seemed benevolent eyes, watching with approval. He turned the horse toward Nacogdoches and dug in his heels.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was broad daylight when Nelson rode into Nacogdoches. Forty men lounged in the mild January sun before Stone House, and their eyes widened as they saw Nelson pounding down the street.