The Backstabbers

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Howdy, boys,” Teague said, smiling. “Where you headed?”

  “Go to hell,” Arch Storm said. “I ain’t in the mood for pleasantries. I’ll cut to the chase . . . how much do you want for the women? We got a cold winter coming up, and we need female company.”

  The two mounted men swung out of their saddles and joined Storm and Epps in front of the wagon.

  “Ah, that depends on how much you’re willing to pay,” Teague said. His eyes flicked over the horses and was disappointed. About thirty dollars at a knacker’s yard for all three.

  “If she isn’t diseased, fifty dollars for the blondie,” Storm said. “Twenty for the other one. She ain’t worth much.”

  Teague grinned. “Hell, man, just looking at you, I know you don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Try me. Do we have a deal?” Storm said.

  “No deal.” Teague decided to play with the wolfer. “The blonde’s name is Crystal Casey. She ain’t diseased and she’s worth an even two hunnerd. The other one, well, I’ll take a hunnerd for her.” His grin widened. “Come now, let’s be thrifty. I’ll part with both for two-fifty on the barrelhead. Now, show me some gold. I won’t take Yankee scrip from a stranger. Man never knows if it’s even genuine.”

  Storm’s bearded face hardened. “You’re messing with me. I don’t like a man who messes with me.”

  Supremely confident in his nine gunmen, Teague said, “Who’s messing with you? You want the women as winter belly-warmers, you pay the price. Simple as that.”

  “I said fifty for the blonde, twenty for the other one,” Storm said. “You’re one deef bullethead, ain’t you?”

  Teague decided that the game was over. It was time to see if the wolfers were worth robbing. “Let’s see your money.” He sighed as though the dickering had worn him out.

  To Epps, Storm said, “Jud, take seventy dollars from our stash.” As Epps reached into his cape, brought out a canvas bag, and began to root for coins like a great, shaggy bear, Storm said, “I’ll need to see them gals naked. I ain’t buying no pig in a poke.”

  “Mister, you ain’t seeing me naked,” Crystal said, her eyes blazing. “And why don’t you take a bath now and then?”

  “You shut your trap, girlie,” Storm said. “We’ll take care of you later.”

  Teague was primed for the draw and the confiscation of the wolfers’ bulging money poke, but he didn’t start the gunfight . . .

  A butterfly did.

  “It was one of them yellow, fork-tailed butterflies you get in Texas. You know the kind,” Dave Quarrels would later recall. “Damn thing fluttered past one of the wolfers, a man called Joe or maybe it was Jim Epps, I never did find the right of his name, but a few days after the gunfight the Ranger who reported finding the bodies called him Joe Epps, a one-time deputy sheriff out of the New Mexico Territory. Well, anyhoo, that’s how it was wrote in the newspaper, so it’s probably right. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the butterfly. Well sir, Epps took a swat at it . . . and the ball opened.

  “That damned crazy lunatic Tom Racker, who was always looking for the trigger, thought Epps was drawing down on him and shucked his own gun. He shot Epps in the belly and then Johnny Teague yelled, ‘No, I don’t want any gunfighting,’ but it was too late. Them wolfers unlimbered their Winchesters and commenced to shooting. Epps meantime, dead on his feet but as game as they come, cut loose on Racker. Hit him, too. Tom took a bullet to the chest and went out of the saddle like he’d been whacked by a twenty-pound sledge. Now the fighting had become general.

  “At that time I rode a three-year-old mare, and at that age a horse knows nothing. When the firing started, she gave me no end of trouble. I snapped off a shot but only God knows where it went. Next thing I know, I’m on my back in the dirt, watching the fight from the ground. I seen three of our boys go down, seen the Casey gal get hit by a stray round, and then I seen Steve Curtis get plugged. We called him Dancer Curtis on account of how he loved to shake a hoof and he was mighty good with the iron. Bullet took his jaw clean off. I spied that with my own two eyes and it was no sight for a Christian man. Well, it didn’t take but a minute before the wolfers were all shot to pieces, lying in the dirt weltering in their blood. We lost five of our own that day, all good men, true blue you might say, and the Teague gang never recovered from that fight. No sir, it never did.

  “The damnedest thing is, the wolfers had but ninety dollars and twenty-seven cents in their poke, so we fought that battle for next to nothing. I still recollect to this day what Johnny Teague said to us after the smoke cleared.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry boys,” Johnny Teague said, looking around at the dead. “This was all my fault. I called the play.”

  “No fault of your’n, Johnny,” Dave Quarrels said. “Racker figgered one of them wolfers was drawing down on him.”

  “Why the hell did he move like that?” Teague said.

  “The wolfer?” Quarrels said. “He swatted at a butterfly.”

  Teague looked stricken. “What are you talking about, Dave?”

  “A butterfly flew past him and the wolfer swatted at it. Racker thought the man was going for his gun. I seen it all.”

  “Nine men,” Teague said. “Nine men dead because of a butterfly?”

  “A yellow butterfly. Yeah, what you said just about sums it up.”

  “And what about me, Johnny? What about me, you crazy man?” Crystal Casey stood and glared at Teague, her fists on her hips. The left side of her head was bloody, and Daphne Loveshade dabbed at it with a piece of white cloth she’d torn from her petticoat.

  “She was grazed by a bullet,” Daphne said. “She’ll be all right.”

  “I lost some curls, Johnny,” Crystal said. “I lost a whole handful of curls. I wanted to have my likeness made in El Paso or somewhere. So now what do I do?”

  Teague looked at the woman but did not really see her. He walked away, sat, and hugged his knees, his head bent.

  Crystal angrily stomped in his direction, but one of the surviving gunmen blocked her path. He shook his head and said, “Not now.”

  Crystal looked into the man’s eyes, got chilled by the green ice she saw, and turned away. “Daphne,” she called. “My head’s bleeding again.”

  The green-eyed gunman looked at Teague and felt a tremor of shock run through him. Johnny was bleeding from a neck wound! The word always had been that the bullet hadn’t been cast yet that would harm Johnny Teague. Yet one had. And for the gunman, that was a worrisome thing . . . for the first time he realized that his boss was not invincible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Red Ryan woke to pain and a steady hammering sound, like metal hitting a stone wall.

  “Hell, I figured you was dead for sure,” Buttons Muldoon said. “You haven’t moved for hours, lying still as a sack of flour. Seen that my ownself and it scared me some.”

  Red opened his eyes, blinked them into focus, and through the gloom saw Buttons sitting opposite him. The driver’s feet were bound, and his hands seemed to be tied behind his back. They were in a cave of some kind. To Red’s right, a rocky floor sloped away from him and lost itself in darkness. He could not see an entrance and the only light came from a guttering oil lamp.

  “What happened?” He tried to stand and realized he was trussed up like Buttons.

  “They jumped you, Red. And then they jumped me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who. A bunch of screaming devils, that’s all I remember.”

  Red tried to piece together the events of the night. He recalled walking into the rocks and then being overpowered by a pack of snarling, half-naked men. He said, “I got a shot off.”

  “And winged somebody, I reckon,” Buttons said. “I heard a yelp, but nobody got plugged real serious. Near as I could tell, that is.”

  “Have you seen Luna Talbot?” Red asked. His head hurt like an anvil had been dropped on him.

  “Last I saw her was when I left her at the stag
e,” Buttons said.

  “Damn it, Buttons. Why did you leave her?”

  “Because I heard you shooting at something and came after you. I told her to stay right where she was at.”

  “As representatives of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, we’re responsible for Mrs. Talbot’s safety,” Red said.

  “Well, there’s not a whole helluva lot we can do about that right now, can we?” Buttons said.

  “Who were those guys? I couldn’t see much in the dark.”

  “I have no idea. Wild men, I reckon,” Buttons said. “They sure acted like wild men.”

  Red took a long pause for thought, then said, “We’re in a fix, ain’t we?”

  “Seems like,” Buttons said. “They brung us here. I think this is the Lucky Cuss mine. It’s the mine shaft, got to be. Can you hear the picks farther down the tunnel?”

  “They say raw gold has a smell. Can you smell it?”

  “No.”

  “Neither can I.” Red said. Then, “They took our guns.”

  “No kiddin’,” Buttons said. “I never noticed that.”

  “Jeez, we’re in a fix.” Red said.

  “You’ve already said that, and your head is bleeding.”

  “Somebody must have hit me with a rock. I know my lights went out right quick. Where’s my hat?”

  “I don’t know,” Buttons said.

  “I set store by that hat. It’s English wool felt. The best derby money can buy.”

  “Maybe we’ll find it,” Buttons said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Red said. “Why did they bring us here, you reckon?”

  “I don’t want to think about that,” Buttons said. “Those boys were wild men. That’s all I know.”

  “Cannibals?” Red said.

  “I said I don’t want to think about it, and neither should you.”

  But Red did think about it a few minutes later when four men, naked except for loincloths and crude leather sandals, walked into the mine and untied Buttons’s feet and then his.

  A man with dirty, lank hair to his shoulders and swamp-water eyes prodded Red with the muzzle of his Winchester. “Get up, you.”

  Red got to his feet and a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him. When he could finally talk, he said, “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see.” The man with the rifle prodded again. Harder. “Move.”

  “Move where, you crazy—”

  The rifle butt slammed between Red’s shoulder blades, revealing the direction.

  “That way,” the man said. Then to his companions, “Bring the fat one.”

  It was a measure of Buttons’s anxiety that he didn’t object to being called fat. Normally he would have protested indignantly, but these were far from normal times. He’d fallen in with savages and his future looked mighty bleak.

  * * *

  Red was pushed and prodded along a tunnel that gradually sloped upward toward the entrance. The lanterns carried by the long-haired men cast grotesque, moving shadows on the rock walls and glittered on a gouged quartz seam that bore evidence of pick-and-hammer work. That this was the Lucky Cuss mine, Red had no doubt . . . but would it prove to be unlucky for him and Buttons?

  * * *

  Blinking against the sudden daylight, Red Ryan was pushed into a narrow arroyo that was nonetheless crowded with people—men, slat-thin and ragged women, and wide-eyed children. They stared at Red and Buttons without curiosity. Mixed in with the throng, a Mexican carried a load of firewood and another stood at a fire and patiently stirred an iron pot that steamed over the flames and smelled of boiling meat. Under a two-man guard, four more Mexicans, picks on their shoulders, shuffled toward the mine entrance.

  The place was rank with the stench of so many unwashed people crowded together in a confined space that Red tried to close off his nose as a Winchester prodded him and Buttons toward the deeper part of the arroyo. The canyon walls became narrower, barely allowing the passage of a broad-shouldered man, but after about thirty feet they widened again before opening up into a natural amphitheater of reddish-brown rock about half an acre in extent. Directly facing Red was a shallow alcove where an enormously fat man sat on a natural stone shelf.

  Two things troubled Red in that moment. One was that the fat man wore his plug hat. The other, much more disturbing, was the sight of Luna Talbot sitting at the man’s feet. A rope was looped around her neck, and the end was grasped in the fat man’s chubby fist. Luna’s face was badly bruised, and there was fear and anger in her eyes.

  “Elijah, are these the new slaves?” the fat man said.

  “Sure are, Papa,” the man called Elijah said. “They look strong enough, so I’d say they got a six-month of work in them. A year, if’n we don’t beat them too much and feed ’em right.”

  Papa Mace Rathmore waved a negligent hand. “Pah, we can always find slaves.” His grin was unpleasant as he yanked on the rope. “Unless they look like this one. Women like this are rare.”

  “Yeah, she’s a looker all right,” Elijah said, his slack mouth wet. “After you’re finished with her, you gonna share her around, Pa?”

  “No, you damned son of a cross-eyed whore,” Rathmore said. “Look at them women out there, worn-out harlots every last one of them. I think it’s time I took a new bride for myself.” He looked down at Luna and leered. “Ain’t that right?”

  “Go to hell, you fat, smelly hog,” Luna said.

  That earned her a harsh yank on the rope, and she winced in pain.

  “Before long I’ll teach you respect, woman,” Rathmore said. His mouth twisted like a snarling animal. “I’ll beat it into you.”

  Red Ryan tensed, doing a fast mental calculation. There was about ten feet of open ground between himself and Rathmore. Even with his hands tied behind his back, he could close the distance in about a second. Then a jump and a boot into the fat man’s scowling face.

  Buttons read the signs, the sudden tautness of Red’s body and his sharp intake of breath, and yelled, “Red, no!”

  Too late.

  Bent forward because of his bound hands, Red ran at Rathmore and had time to register the look of surprise on the man’s face. He leapt into the air and lashed out with his right boot, aiming for Rathmore’s head . . . but the fat man was no longer there. Displaying amazing speed and agility, he’d moved to his right, avoiding the kick. Off balance, Red did a half-somersault, landed hard on his back, and his wind erupted out of him.

  His hands tied behind his back, nauseous and desperately struggling for breath, Red Ryan was easy prey.

  Elijah Rathmore and one of his brothers immediately laid into him with rifle butts. Unable to defend himself, Red kicked out at his attackers as blows thudded into his head and chest. Buttons Muldoon attempted a rescue and got pummeled to the ground by four more Rathmores wielding shovels and wooden clubs. Red struggled to get to his feet, but a rifle butt to the back of his head dropped him and he knew no more.

  Papa Mace waddled to his sons and held up a hand. “Stop, you ill-begotten imbeciles,” he yelled. “I don’t want them dead. I want them as slaves.” The blows stopped, and the fat man said, “Take them to the mine.”

  “Papa, lookee there!” Elijah Rathmore said, pointing to the rock face.

  Papa Mace’s gaze followed his son’s finger and his eyes popped. The woman was climbing, trying to reach the top of the arroyo.

  Elijah levered a round, threw his Winchester to his shoulder, and grinned. “I’ll bring her down.”

  “No!” Mace yelled. “You damned whoreson, don’t shoot. Get after her.”

  Elijah threw down his rifle and said, “I’ll catch her, Pa.” He ran to the wall and began to climb.

  “You others, get on top of the arroyo. Bring her back here.” Then, his flabby face vicious, Papa Mace said, “Somebody get me my whip. I’ll beat the defiance out of that damned tramp.”

  * * *

  The long-haired man was gaining on her, scaling the rock face like a grinn
ing mountain goat. Worse, Luna Talbot had twisted her ankle almost as soon as she’d started her climb, and the pain had slowed her considerably.

  Elijah Rathmore was close, very close, close enough to be clearly heard. His grin widened, rotten teeth showing behind thick, peeled-back lips. “Ooh, you’re gonna get a whippin’. Pa’s all riled up.”

  Papa Mace’s angry voice came from the bottom of cliff. “Elijah, fetch her down here,” he yelled. “Don’t let that woman get away.”

  Without taking his eyes off Luna, Elijah answered, “I won’t, Pa. I got her.”

  “Get away from me,” Luna said. She tossed a loose rock at Elijah’s head . . . and missed.

  “Got you.” Elijah grinned, his clawed, outstretched hands reaching for her.

  Samuel Colt saved Luna Talbot that day. Or at least his single-shot Model 3 derringer in .41 rimfire caliber did.

  Up until the moment Elijah Rathmore stretched to grab her, Luna had forgotten the little pistol. Without much thought, she’d dropped it into the pocket of her riding skirt before leaving the ranch. It was a recent habit she’d acquired after a visiting Texas Ranger happened to mention the time during a gunfight when a spent percussion cap jammed his revolver and a Remington derringer had saved his life.

  Now Luna hoped a Colt derringer would save her own.

  One shot. One cartridge. One chance.

  She backed away from Elijah and flattened herself against the rock, taking the couple of seconds she needed to draw her gun and thumb back the hammer. Elijah’s hands were on her shoulders, dragging her closer to him. Even as she smelled the feral stink of the man’s body, she shoved the muzzle of the Colt into his belly and pulled the trigger.

  The crash of the shot echoed through the arroyo and drowned out Elijah’s hysterical shriek of pain. Luna wrenched out of his grasp and pushed him away. For an instant the man’s face registered a wide-eyed mix of shock and terror. Then he was falling, tumbling head over heels, plummeting earthward until his back slammed into the rocky ground and most of his internal organs exploded.