by J. T. Edson
Then as the clerk done kicked him out,
He piddled through the door.
Behind him all them city dawgs
Lined up so tried and true,
To start a piddling carnival,
And see the stranger through.”
Long before Coonskin reached the end of his song, he had come so close to the group of waiting men that he stopped singing and raised his hat politely. Every eye was on him, and even the crew of the Gatling gun turned to look in his direction. Coonskin halted his team and replaced his hat.
“Howdy, gents,” Coonskin greeted. “Just dropped in to water my knobheads.”
“It will cost you five dollars a mule,” Hernandez replied.
“Mostly it’s me as gets paid for entertaining, sir,” Coonskin pointed out.
“This isn’t entertainment, it’s water for your mules.”
“I never argues with a gent as is bigger, can run faster, or’s got more friends on hand than I has, sir.”
On delivering the piece of wisdom, Coonskin dipped his left hand into his jacket pocket, took out a double eagle and tossed it to Hernandez. In the same move, the Negro flicked his mules with the reins and they started to move forward, making towards the camp and the Gatling gun.
“One minute!”
The words cracked out like the pop of a bullwhip from Hernandez’s lips and Coonskin brought his team to a halt again. He had not expected to be allowed right into the camp, but at least had made a few more yards towards the gun.
“How many people are with you?” asked Hernandez.
“Just me, sir.”
“That is a large wagon for just you.”
“I does some trading, sir. Got my gear in the back.”
Most of the men stood around in a loose half circle before the wagon, with Hernandez at the mules’ head, blocking the path.
“Check on it, some of you!” he ordered.
“Do as you likes, gennelmen,” Coonskin remarked obligingly. “Only don’t you-all go damaging any of them things I done got trading for my Voodoo Cure-All.”
The words drew every one of the bandidos past their leader and towards the rear of the wagon. A chance of loot would cause any Mexican bandidos to gather like flies around a jam pot, and Hernandez’s bunch were no different from the rest. Gathering around at the rear of the wagon, the men pushed and jostled to get up front and have first dip into whatever the vehicle contained. Two of their number grabbed hold of the covers hanging at the rear and hiding the inside of the wagon from view, then jerked them aside.
Which proved to be unfortunate for them as they disturbed Mr. Earp as the skunk rested on top of a barrel at the rear of the wagon.
In all the world there are few creatures large or small better equipped to deal with things that offend them as is the American skunk. Mr. Earp was no exception to the rule and, although a pet, still retained his large anal glands packed full of their evil-smelling, oily secretion.
Coonskin had reared Mr. Earp from a baby, and the skunk behaved himself around human beings most times. But not when human beings were strangers and burst in upon him unannounced in such a manner. Coming to his feet, Mr. Earp raised his tail and cut loose on all and sundry with the skill of Miss Annie Oakley punching holes in the center of a target.
At ranges of up to three yards, Mr. Earp could hit his mark with precision, and spray his defense around like a shotgun’s charge. The moment he cut free his discharge all was confusion around the rear of the wagon. Men yelled, cursed, gagged and spluttered, staggering back from the rear of the wagon and losing all their interest in loot.
None of the men had been able to take a good look into the rear of the wagon. If they had, all they would have seen was a line of supply boxes and the crate on which Mr. Earp had slept in comfort. The skunk, after venting his objections on the men who disturbed his sleep, dropped from his place and trotted forward, meaning to join his master. Passing between two of the boxes, he ignored the three men crouching behind them. Having emptied out his glands on the invaders of his privacy, Mr. Earp followed his namesake’s rule for when danger threatened, by getting to where a friend could defend him.
Throwing over the boxes, John Slaughter, Burt Alvord and Talking Bill leapt towards the rear of the wagon. None of the men who had caught the brunt of the skunk’s attack saw, or cared a damn about, the three Texans. None of the others, who only caught the fringe benefits of Mr. Earp’s annoyance, realized their danger until far, far too late.
The Texans bounded over the tailgate of what was usually the drive’s bed wagon, but which had been converted by means of the painted signs into a passable example of a medicine showman’s transportation. Landing before the men, Slaughter sent a bullet into one of the Mexicans who had not been close enough to get much of the skunk-juice and who showed signs of rallying to the situation. An instant later Burt Alvord, an 1860 Army Colt in either hand, cut down another man who thought to join the party.
“Get to the Gatling!” Slaughter yelled over the noise and confusion of the startled crowd.
At the front, Hernandez heard the start of the racket and sprang past the heads of the two lead mules, meaning to dash by the wagon and see what was happening to his men. In this he made a mistake, an honest mistake of ignorance it is true, but a bad mistake for all that. Those knobhead mules which drew the wagon were Coonskin’s own team, and just about as ornery, contrary and cross-grained as only their kind could be. Among the many things Coonskin’s mules would not tolerate was anybody dashing past them on foot. Hernandez discovered this unpleasant trait as a pair of steel-shod hooves smashed into his back, sent with some precision by the nearside leader. The force of the kick sent Hernandez flying forward off balance. Luckily for him, the second mule could not get at him. However, he still went forward, driving his head into the side of the wagon. The force of his arrival dropped Hernandez unconscious; and effectively deprived the bandidos of the one man who might have rallied them in the face of the surprise attack.
Grabbing up the wicked old eight-gauge shotgun he called Betsy Two-Eyes, Coonskin squeezed off the charge from one barrel at a member of the gang who had been lazing in the tents and came dashing out to investigate. The eight-gauge gun had barrels of almost an inch in diameter and Coonskin loaded his weapon with a handful of black powder topped off by a few piles of 00 size buckshot balls. When he cut loose with the old percussion-fired gun it sprayed lead out like a fire hose squirting water and was a right lethal weapon at up to fifty yards. How lethal the Mexican found out, for he caught enough of the balls to make him lose interest in everything, including life.
Leaving Burt Alvord to cover their rush, Slaughter and Talking Bill raced by the wagon, but they knew enough to keep clear of the mules. Their task was to take the Gatling gun. Left on his own, Alvord showed remarkable agility in the way he kicked his feet out behind him, landed on his stomach and wriggled back under the bed wagon, his Army Colts bellowing and keeping the bandidos on the hop.
Behind their weapon, the two gunners both grabbed for the firing handle. They saw the racing Texans and recognized the danger to their well-being. Each gunner had the same idea: to drop the Tejano nearest and most dangerous to his person.
“That one!” yelled the gunner at the left, grabbing the barrel of the gun and trying to turn it towards Talking Bill.
“Get him!” howled the man at the right, also grabbing and trying to save himself from Slaughter.
The words came at the same instant, the men were roughly the same height and weight, so neither managed to swing the gun far enough to protect and save his person from the approaching Texans.
Slaughter fired on the run, which appeared to have little effect on his marksmanship. Bringing up his Colt shoulder high, he used the sights instead of chancing instinctive alignment. While the Colt Peacemaker could not be put in the same target shooting class as a Smith and Wesson .44 Russian revolver, or a Remington Model 1871 single-shot pistol, it could still deliver its bullets with
reasonable accuracy on a man-sized target at twenty-five yards.
Struck by a .45 bullet, the man on the right spun around and went down. His co-gunner took one scared look at Talking Bill, decided that discretion was the better part of valor and took what Texans called “a greaser stand-off.” Leaving the gun, the man turned and raced off, heading for where the horses grazed. He need not have bothered, for Talking Bill was far from being an expert in the use of his Colt. Sure, the gangling Texan could shoot, but he lacked the inborn co-ordination of hand and eye necessary to make him a master hand with a six-gun.
With the gunners gone, there was nothing to stop Slaughter and Talking Bill taking over the deserted Gatling. Despite his lack of skill with a Colt, Talking Bill knew how to handle a Gatling. During the war, the troop he rode with captured such a weapon from the Yankees and Bill found himself handling it in action. Apart from the cranking handle being at the rear, there was no basic difference between the lightweight gun he now handled and the old time model. The gunners had already swung it around and pointed it in the general direction of Coonskin’s wagon, so all Talking Bill needed to do was take a swift glance along the barrel and whirl the handle around. The barrel sheath revolved and as each barrel reached the top of its circle flame spurted out. Dust erupted into the air close to the still confused and, literally, skunked bandidos.
Left without a leader, confused, nauseated by Mr. Earp’s well-directed flow, the bandidos could make no effective cohesive action. The Gatling gun stood in a position so it covered them, laying them open before its lead spray if Talking Bill traversed the barrel a few feet to the right. They might have taken cover under the wagon, but Burt Alvord lay underneath it with a Colt in either hand, blocking the bandidos’ way out.
It was death to resist; but might also be death to surrender. That grim-faced Tejano did not look like a man who would have mercy on people who endangered his cattle.
However, the Mexicans had no real choice. One after another, they discarded their weapons under Slaughter’s orders and moved well clear of the pile of firearms and knives.
~*~
Much to their surprise, the Mexicans found that they were to be set free. Not a throat would be cut, not a single body swung from a tree or the tailboard of a wagon. Free they might be, but dangerous they were not. Slaughter left them only one rifle and a magazine of bullets for protection—which was better than they ever gave their victims.
So the Mexicans rode out, taking their still-unconscious leader with them in the empty wagon they had hoped to fill with loot. The men headed south, followed from a distance by Burt Alvord. Not that Slaughter expected to see them back at Central Springs, but it was not Slaughter’s way to take foolish and unnecessary risks.
~*~
It was a well-grazed, healthy, contented herd of cattle that settled down near the springs on the third night after the capture of Hernandez’s little toy and the United States’ repossession of their territory. A longhorn steer lived a hardy and free-ranging life which left it equipped to not only survive, but to make rapid recovery after a period of privation. Given decent feeding and plenty of water, the leg-weary cattle soon put on weight and recovered their old ornery spirits.
The trail crew also blossomed and flowered in the pleasant surroundings after the grueling days of dry-driving. All climbed out of their trail-filthy clothes at the first opportunity, bathed in the lake, washed their clothes; some of them even went to the extreme of shaving.
For three days they stayed at Central Springs, relaxing, catching up on sleep, repairing the ravages of the drive. Ahead of them, more than five days away, lay the Carne River. However, the drive to the Carne would not be anywhere near so difficult as had the first stage of the crossing of Paradise Basin. While the food might not be the best and such water as they found green itself rather than being surrounded by the greenery, it was enough to sustain the herd and prevent dry-driving. So, all in all, things looked pretty fair for Slaughter’s herd.
Burt Alvord had followed the Mexicans for a full day, seeing no sign of them turning back. He did not think they would. Not while Slaughter had possession of Hernandez’s little toy, the deadly, wicked, yet so effective Gatling gun and most of their other arms.
Spirits were high around the campfire on the third night. At dawn they would start trailing their herd to market, but until then they made the most of a well-earned rest. Coonskin was called on to describe again how he and Mr. Earp saved the day, then one of the hands fetched out the Negro’s banjo and requested that the crew be treated to that classic piece of music, “The Piddling Pup.”
“But on and on went that there Bix,
Like water flows downhill,
But all them fancy city dawgs
Was wet to a standstill.
Then Bix did free-hand piddling,
With fancy flirts and flits,
Like ‘double-dip’ and ‘gimlet twist’
And all them latest hits.
And all the time this ole hound dawg,
With nary a wing or grin,
Just piddled on right out of town,
Like he had piddled in.
Them city dawgs big meetings held,
To ask, ‘What did defeat us?’
But that ole Bix never let on,
How he had diabetes.”
Coonskin brought the final two verses of the song to an end, gave a professional flourish on his banjo and sat back grinning and accepting the laughter and applause of the cowhands as just tribute to his talents.
So entertained had the cowhands been with Coonskin’s singing, that none of them, not even keen-eared Burt Alvord, heard the sound of the approaching horse.
The rider came out of the night, sitting a big, well-bred sabino vii stallion. Although his clothes were dirty, unkempt and disheveled and he had not washed or shaved in days, Slaughter did not have any difficulty in recognizing the visitor as Luis Hernandez. Nor did Slaughter fail to notice that the bandido leader wore a gun. This did not surprise Slaughter for, of all the bandidos, Hernandez alone had been left his gunbelt. There was something about the Mexican that Slaughter admired, and the rancher had no desire to leave Hernandez unarmed at the tender mercies of the human wolves of his bunch. So Slaughter had rolled up Hernandez’s gunbelt and hidden it among the man’s belongings.
Now Hernandez had returned, and Slaughter could guess why.
“May I enter your camp circle, senor?” Hernandez called, halting his horse outside the camp as range etiquette demanded.
“Come ahead,” Slaughter replied, rising to meet his visitor.
Hernandez left his horse standing with hanging reins and walked forward. A dirty, bloodstained bandage showed from under his hat, but he walked with the easy grace and proud carriage of a top-grade bullfighter.
“Can I offer you coffee and food, senor?” Slaughter asked.
“No, gracias. I have come for satisfaction. You have fooled and beaten me. Humiliated me in the eyes of my men. My honor will not let me go back to Mexico until I have been granted the satisfaction of facing you. I trust, senor, that I will not have to shame you by giving the insult?”
All too well Slaughter knew those proud Spanish-Creoles and their iron code of honor. To give him his due, Hernandez had been a bandido on a grand scale. Not for him the petty raiding of small, defenseless villages. He went for big game.
Slaughter did not want to fight, and possibly kill, the man. Yet there was no avoiding the issue. Unless he accepted the challenge, Hernandez would hang on to his trail like a wolf flanking a buffalo herd, making trouble until he caused a clash. Or he might try to force the issue by striking Slaughter a blow across the cheek, working on the assumption that Slaughter would be too much of a gentleman to let a blow go unavenged.
It had never been Slaughter’s way to side-step a fight, or put one off if it should be forced on him.
“Take it kind if you’ll come clear of the camp,” he said. “I don’t want to spook my herd.”
; “As you wish, senor.”
“Go get my night horse, Young Sandy,” Slaughter ordered, then looked at the circle of faces around him. “If I don’t come back, Senor Hernandez isn’t bothered.”
The men nodded their agreement. Few if any of them fully understood what the business was all about. Yet none failed to notice the careful way Slaughter checked his Colt and adjusted his gunbelt.
“Your men are more trustworthy than mine, senor,” Hernandez remarked. “I know your words will be honored.”
Young Sandy, the day wrangler, returned with Slaughter’s saddled night horse and delivered it to his boss. Then all the camp sat silent as they watched Slaughter and Hernandez ride side by side out of the camp.
“How’d a man like you get to be a bandido?” Slaughter asked.
“Through necessity, my friend. I saw an arroyo about a mile from here, it will be ideal for our purpose. You remember Maximillian?”
“Sure, the French ruler sent to Mexico.”
“That was he. My family decided that he might best bring our revolution-torn and ravaged country together. So we fought for him—and lost. In place of a strong ruler we found ourselves under Juarez. A good man, but surrounded by many who were not so good. Our lands were forfeit, my brothers hunted down and killed. I alone survived. And I became a bandido.”
“And the Gatling gun?”
“It has an interesting history, being one of a pair brought into my country by General Marcus’s revolutionaries. Unfortunately the gun was captured by the Government forces before it could be put to use. viii I met the gunners, persuaded them to desert and bring along their gun. It should have made me rich and powerful.”
Slaughter did not reply. Having fought for the Confederacy in the war, he knew how it felt to be on a losing side. Yet he rebuilt his lost fortune, serving as a Texas Ranger to help pay off loans from the Blantyre City bank. By hard work and ability Slaughter had lifted himself up and now was a man of wealth and position. He wondered why Hernandez, who clearly was able and courageous, had not tried to do the same instead of becoming a bandido. Maybe it was not so easy for a man to start again below the border, for Mexicans, especially the poorer kind which rose to power under Juarez, were notoriously vindictive.