Slaughter's Way (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  Sand erupted into the air as bullets from Gallagher’s Colt slanted down in Slaughter’s direction. The bullet-spurts drew closer, but he twisted on his side, worked open the lever to eject the empty case and slapped it back into place under the butt, feeding a loaded bullet into the chamber. Sighting up, Slaughter fired once more. This time his aim was true.

  The .44.40 bullet tore upwards, cutting into Gallagher’s face and bursting out at the back of his skull. Down dropped the revolver from a lifeless hand. Then Gallagher’s body slid sideways from the Palomino’s saddle and fell. For a moment after the body struck the ground its left foot hung on the stirrup, but it slid free and the horse ran on, leaving its owner sprawled out and spreading his life-blood on the sandy ground of the bottom of the dry-wash.

  Coming to his feet, Slaughter levered another bullet into his rifle’s chamber. He held the rifle one handed as he bent and picked up his Colt, holstering the revolver. Changing the Winchester to his right hand, Slaughter went forward cautiously towards the clump of white flowered bushes. He did not need more than one glance at Gallagher to know the man would give him no further trouble. Nor would Sully. The gunman lay sprawled on his back, a shotgun still clutched in his dead hand, and two bullets in his chest.

  Slaughter walked back to where his big black stallion waited. Carrying the Winchester under his right arm, he pumped the empty cases out of the Colt’s cylinder and replaced them with loaded bullets.

  A shape rose from the bushes at the eastern end of the valley, but Slaughter showed no alarm at the sight. It was Burt Alvord, who had been up there from dawn, long before Bitter-Creek Gallagher and his two men arrived to set the deadly gun-trap into which Slaughter was supposed to blindly ride.

  “Go get your horse, Burt,” Slaughter ordered. “Ride into Devil City and tell the storekeeper what’s happened. He’ll know what to do.”

  The news, when carried to the storekeeper, was received with joy and as Slaughter had said, the man knew what to do. Drawing out his hidden store of arms, he gathered his friends and they chased Gallagher’s demoralized gunmen out of town. From that day on, the citizens of Devil City never again mentioned or thought of anything as foolish as ordinances banning the sale or ownership of firearms.

  From the start, Slaughter had been suspicious of Gallagher’s challenge and suspected a trick. To check out his suspicions, Slaughter had sent Burt Alvord to reconnoiter the area. On arriving, Slaughter halted his horse, apparently to study the layout of the wash, but really to hear Alvord’s report of the gun-trap laid for him.

  The selection of the bushes with the white flowers had not been a conscious error of tactics on Sully’s part. He picked the spot so that Gallagher could tell where the ambushers hid and would know when Slaughter reached them. Due to Alvord’s presence, the bushes offered a marker for Slaughter too. From Alvord’s description of the two men with Gallagher, Slaughter recognized that Gosse would be the one hidden on the right side. So he fired to the left first, cutting down the more dangerous member of the opposition. Then he went over the left side of his horse, collecting the rifle as he fell, dislodged Gosse and wrote finish to Gallagher’s town boss career.

  Even knowing that two men lay in wait to kill him, Slaughter rode into the dry wash alone. When he accepted the challenge from Gallagher, he said he alone would face the man. So he rode right on in and kept his word; for that was Slaughter’s way.

  Part Three – Hernandez’s Little Toy

  Of all the meanest, orneriest, most out-and-out miserable, gut-wrenching, back-breaking work a cowhand riding trail herd found himself doing, tailing up downers during a spell of dry-driving was the worst.

  John Slaughter’s herd of something over three thousand head of long-horned Texas cattle were headed towards Fort McClellan, an Army base just north of the Mexican border and beyond the Arizona Territory line; and there would be used to feed Apaches in the hope that a full belly made a peaceable Indian. Life went on a whole heap safer and happier when the Apache warriors stayed on the reservations and kept off the war paint.

  Before Slaughter’s herd could reach its destination, the cattle had to be taken across that hot, dried-out, miserable, ugly and misnamed land called the Paradise Basin. At any time of the year such a crossing would have been bad enough even for a very small party. Slaughter was crossing during an exceptionally dry spell, which in the Paradise Basin meant very damned dry indeed. Nor did he have a small party. Along with him went slightly more than three thousand head of cattle, over fifty horses as a remuda, a dozen mules and twenty-three assorted varieties of men. There was nowhere near enough water or grass to satisfy the needs of such a large party; but the way to Fort McClellan lay through the basin, unless Slaughter wished to make a two hundred mile detour.

  So Slaughter thought the matter out in his quiet way and made his decision. Some trail bosses might have consulted with their segundo, or even asked the hands for an opinion, before reaching a decision, leaving them with someone to share the blame if things went wrong. That was not Slaughter’s way. He owned the herd and any deciding about its handling must come from him and him alone.

  Which did not mean that Slaughter went blindly and pig-headedly forward. He took out his borrowed Army maps and studied the ground he must cross if he elected to take the Paradise Basin route, learning all he could of the lie of the land. Only one thing persuaded Slaughter to risk his valuable herd on the basin instead of making the long detour. Roughly halfway across the basin lay a waterhole, and an area where he could allow his cattle to drink their fill, spend a day or so grazing and so build up their flagging strength for the remainder of the trip.

  According to the Army maps, his herd would find all it needed at Central Springs. Fed by water from an underground river, an area of about a square mile out in the center of the basin had been irrigated to bloom into as neat a strip of range country as a man could ask for—if he did not mind looking all round it at land even gila monsters and horned toads did not regard as a desirable residence. For all that he rode in the grey and under the Stars and Bars during the War Between the States, Slaughter trusted the U.S. Army’s surveyors and knew them to be efficient men and accurate in their findings. So he reckoned he could chance taking his herd across the arid, barren, near-desert land, relying on being able to fill up with water and food at Central Springs, then pushing on to where the Carne River marked the basin’s western boundary.

  For four days now the cattle had been on the basin, plodding along through the weary long hours of poor grazing and not enough water. Already the longhorns were showing the strain. They acted nervous, spooky, just one short jump ahead of bursting off in wild stampede. Through the daylight hours the hands watched the herd, ready to leap their horses into action at the first sight of panic. Not two, but four men rode the night herd. Through all that time the cattle remained so wild-eyed and tense that one of the hands allowed a man on night herd had to ride a good mile clear of the cattle happen he wanted to cough, spit or even breathe extra hard.

  Never the smartest of animals, the longhorns were showing their usual cussed, awkward and loco habits. The fitter-stock up at the swing and point wanted to break back to where they last had decent food and water, even though they would never make it now they were so far into the basin. Showing no better sense, the weaker animals at the drag, the rear of the winding column, took another line. They just figured it best to lie down and die.

  That made the drag the most important section of the drive at the moment. On some trail drives the boss, thinking to save money, hired a poorer and cheaper type of man to ride the drag. That was not Slaughter’s way. He allowed that any man who could not ride point, swing, flank and drag was not worth hiring. So normally all his hands took turns in riding the various sections of the herd.

  The weaker stock, forced to the rear, needed careful handling, and had for the past two days. In the churned-up ground of the herd’s passage, a good half of Slaughter’s men rode with their bandanas drawn up over
their nostrils and mouths in an attempt to keep out the swirling dust. The men worked among the cattle, shoving the stronger aside so the weaker animals might have a chance at such grazing as might come along. When one of the weakened animals started to go down and die rather than carry on struggling, a cursing trail hand would ride forward, lean down out of his saddle, grip the root of the downer’s tail and haul it back to its feet.

  A man who had taken four hours of that kind of work felt relieved when his spell on the drag ended and he could ride along the line to take his place at the relatively easy flank or swing and breathe in air that was only a quarter Paradise Basin dust as opposed to the fifty-fifty mixture inhaled at the drag.

  While the men changed every four hours, John Slaughter had spent almost the entire two days eating dust and tailing up downers in the drag. His Stetson and clothes were all the same dusty shade now. Even through his bandana, the black beard and mustache had been changed to a tint which matched his ginger eyebrows and hair. Only his gunbelt, which hung just right for the swift withdrawal of the ivory-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the contoured holster, showed signs of being cleaned. That was a simple precaution. A man might forget cleaning his clothing in the stress of dry-driving, but he would never neglect to keep his armament clean and working. Not if he wished to live to be all old and ornery.

  There were men in the trail drive crew who topped Slaughter’s five foot nine by two or three inches, and who outweighed him by several pounds. Yet not one of them could truthfully claim to have out-worked his boss in the drag.

  Of all the men in the crew, the pair riding the point had the best of it. All they needed to do was ride flanking Big Bill, the lead bull, aiming him in the desired direction. The point men were free of the rising dust, although they would be returning to it and taking their fair share of the drag soon enough. Tex Burton, the drive segundo, and the regular point man, Talking Bill, were in the lead. Neither of them spoke much. Talking Bill never wasted words, and Burton had no wish to chatter. Not even the appearance of a small cloud of dust on the horizon made them start talking, although both saw it coming. The distant dot changed, took shape as a fast riding man. Both the point men recognized the rider and, while they felt curious, neither chose to discuss with the other what emergency might be bringing the herd’s scout, Burt Alvord, back to them in such a hurry.

  Turning in his saddle, Burton waved a hand to attract the attention of the first of the swing riders.

  “Head back and tell Texas John that Alvord’s coming!” Burton yelled.

  “Yo!” replied the cowhand, giving the old Cavalry answer to an order. He whirled his horse and galloped back along the line towards the drag.

  At the flank of the herd, seated on the box of his chuck wagon and allowing the four-mule team to pick their own way, Coonskin, Slaughter’s fat, jovial Negro cook, watched Alvord’s approach and ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips.

  “Lawsy me, Mr. Earp,” he said to his pet skunk which lay on the seat at his side. “I surely hopes young Burt here ain’t bringing us no bad news. I is so dry that if I wanted to send anybody a letter—allus figuring I knowed anybody’s can read if I could write—I’d have to stick the stamp on with a pin I’s so dry.”

  Despite his hopes, Coonskin did not expect Alvord to be racing his big spot-rumped Appaloosa stallion back to the herd just for the thrill of feeling the wind on his cheeks as the horse galloped. Most likely there was bad trouble ahead, and Coonskin could only think of one kind of trouble worse than they had at the moment. Only he did not want to think of it.

  Leaving the drag, Slaughter headed to the point, swinging clear of the herd and waving Alvord down to him. The young scout did not draw rein until he reached his boss’s side. From the look of it, the Appaloosa had been hard run and the Indian, a dark, tall, burly young man, showed unusual signs of concern. Most folks would have read nothing on Alvord’s face, but Slaughter knew his scout.

  “How is it?” Slaughter asked.

  “Bad.”

  That figured, happen a man knew the cattle business, the ways a trail scout worked, and Burt Alvord, as well as Slaughter did.

  “Spring still there?” asked Slaughter, having drawn down his bandana.

  “Yep,” agreed Alvord, who did not talk much, but then, neither did his boss unless there was something useful to say. “Water looks mighty clear, sweet and all tempting.”

  “That’s bad news?”

  “Nope. There’s a bunch of Mexican hard-cases squatting by it.”

  “Squatting?”

  “Right at the edge of the water, tents set up and cook making frijoles, tamales and all the frills.”

  When Burt Alvord started throwing words around wholesale like that, a man who knew him got worried. There was something bad wrong at the water hole.

  “Is huh?” Slaughter grunted.

  “Sure. About twenty of ’em, I’d reckon. Their boss is a feller called Hernandez, real haciendero in his dress. Told me real polite he’d let me water my hoss if I paid out five dollars.”

  For a moment neither man spoke, then Slaughter said quietly, “Only about twenty of them?”

  “Yep—and a Gatling gun.”

  Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Slaughter show any surprise at the words, or how hard the news hit him. It almost seemed that he had long since become blasé about having folks block his way with Gatling guns. Nor did ignorance of what a Gatling gun might be cause his attitude. Slaughter had seen Gatling guns in action during the war and knew their deadly power. The Gatling gun was one of the earliest truly successful automatic weapons, with a murderous firepower in skilled hands.

  Yet he spent no time in futilely cursing the luck which caused the only water within fifty or more miles, water he must have for his herd, to be guarded by a Gatling gun. He spent no time in idle conjecture, neither wondering where the Mexicans obtained such a gun, nor what their reason for waiting at the spring might be. The latter query did not arise. Slaughter knew damned well what the reason for waiting undoubtedly was. Alvord’s remark about the request for payment before being allowed to water his horse gave Slaughter his answer.

  “Go cut a fresh horse out, Burt,” Slaughter ordered. “And tell Young Sandy to snake back out of the remuda. Did you rile them up down there?”

  “Figured you’d want to be the one who did that,” Alvord answered, proving that while he might lack formal education, he was capable of thinking for himself.

  While waiting for Alvord to change horses, and his favorite mount to be brought up by the wrangler, Slaughter rode to the point and gave Burton the news. For a moment the segundo did not speak, but he realised the gravity of the situation and finally asked what his boss aimed to do.

  “Go and see this Hernandez hombre, learn what he wants. Keep the herd moving until sundown, Tex. I ought to be back then or soon after.”

  Burton nodded his head. While Slaughter’s words had told him very little, he had heard all he needed to know. As segundo, Burton’s main work consisted of keeping the herd moving. The handling of other problems could be left to his boss.

  After changing his saddle on to the back of his big black stallion, Slaughter rode away from his herd. With Alvord at his side, he headed across the range in the direction of the distant Central Springs. These lay some ten miles ahead and, travelling slowly as they were, the cattle would not reach the area until at least noon the following day.

  The springs came into view a good two miles across the flat, featureless land of the basin, a haven of green grass with a few trees offering welcome shade, and the sun glinting on the water of a fair sized lake. One glance told Slaughter that the Army maps had not lied. He could rest up his herd by the springs, rebuild the cattle’s strength down there before making the final, and not nearly so rough, miles to the Carne River.

  Only before he could do so, he had to get by that squat, deadly little .45 caliber, five-barreled Gatling gun which stood on its tripod ready for use, by the small tent
ed camp at the edge of the lake.

  Slaughter studied the gun as he rode forward. Although basically the same as the type he had seen and, on an occasion when one fell into his troop’s hands, fired, the gun in the Mexican hands was of a newer, improved model. It was lighter in weight, mounted on a tripod instead of the cumbersome artillery carriage. So it would be able to turn swiftly to cover the surrounding area, or be easily moved to a fresh position should an approach be made from an angle the gun could not cover where it stood—such as from behind the wagon at the right of the camp. The gun did not use the old-fashioned straight tube magazine, but one of the new-fangled, round Accles Positive Feed type which were so much more efficient.

  Two men stood by the gun, one near a box containing, unless Slaughter missed his guess, spare loaded magazines; and the other was holding the firing handle which was on the rear not at the side as on the older models. One look told Slaughter where the gun came from. He knew enough about the Mexican Army to recognize its artillery uniforms, even when they were as tattered, unkempt and dirty as those worn by the gunners. Most likely the two men were deserters from the Mexican Army and had brought along their gun to be a lucky charm in their new way of life.

  Alongside the gunners, some seventeen swarthy, hard-faced Mexicans stood in a group fingering their weapons. They were a dangerous looking bunch, wearing fancy duds far too expensive for them to be honest men, and all armed with at least one handgun, a knife and either a rifle or carbine. A man would have been hard pressed to find a meaner, more villainous looking bunch of bad Mexicans even if he searched all his life. The men were typical bandidos, merciless as a weasel in a chicken-house and cold-blooded as any diamond back rattlesnake.