Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die

by Johnstone, William W.

  Gunfire filled the street with a tremendous racket, cataracts of noise. Six-guns popped like strings of firecrackers, muzzle flares thrusting spears of red-yellow light that laced the gloomy haze of drizzling rain. The growing number of wounded shrieked and cried in pain and fear.

  A couple of gunmen at the far ends of the street exercised the better part of valor by discreetly absenting themselves from the melée, slinking off into the night.

  “They’re stalled for now—let’s vamoose,” Sam said.

  “You go. I’ll lay down some covering fire,” Matt said, proceeding to do so.

  Sam and Ringo withdrew, easing back into the depths of the alley. They halted just short of where the opposite end of the alley emptied out on Toughnut Street.

  Cradling the reloaded shotgun in his arms, Sam gingerly peeked around the corner of the north alley mouth, surveying the street. He looked right and left, east and west.

  Toughnut Street seemed clear. This stretch of it was largely shuttered and closed by night and the lightly falling rain had discouraged pedestrians from taking the air. Mainly though, Tombstone folks knew to make themselves scarce when gunfire erupted, a too-frequent occurrence in the boomtown.

  The entire incident of gunplay thus far had barely taken more than two minutes, if that, from the first shotgun blast to the current blistering exchange.

  Matt faded back to join Sam and Ringo at the north end of the alley. The trio peeled out of the alley to the left, west, removing themselves from the line of fire of bullets sent down the passageway. They stood with their backs against the wall of a warehouse, facing north, but alert for trouble from any direction.

  The cessation of gunfire coming from the alley caused the attackers to take heart and recover some of their nerve. They closed on the south alley mouth, throwing lead into its dark corridor.

  Streaming rounds tore through the opposite end, tearing up some building fronts on the north side of Toughnut Street. It was a futile discharge, harming no one.

  “Follow them! Don’t let them get away!” came the cry from among the New Mexico bunch. Footfalls pounded in the alley, clattering, rushing north, coming near, nearer—

  Sam pivoted, facing into the alley with shotgun leveled. He loosed both barrels into an onrushing handful of foes, four or five of them. They ran headlong into a withering scythe of twelve-gauge shot that chopped them in the middle, felling them.

  Some were killed straight off; others were badly wounded. The alley mouth filled with gun smoke.

  No sooner had he fired than Sam dodged back, shielded behind the corner.

  Gunfire tore into the spot he had just quit.

  Three men stood at the east end of Toughnut Street, shooting at Sam, Matt, and Ringo.

  One was an oversized individual with a barrel-shaped torso, a ten-gallon hat, and grotesque woolly chaps. Even in silhouette, the signature outline of Waco Brindle was unmistakeable. Waco, owner of the saloon that bore his name, was ringleader of the transplanted New Mexico bunch.

  His massive form took up much of the open space at the end of the street. He held a repeating rifle at hip height, levering it, pumping out rapid-fire rounds. He bellowed as he fired, shouting out a string of garbled, furious obscenities. He had the alley mouth in range, but Sam had sidestepped out of the way and Waco’s rounds missed him.

  Raging still more incoherently, Waco swung the rifle muzzle to the side, tracking Sam, hot rounds reaching for him.

  Matt squeezed off three shots in quick succession, planting them in the center of Waco’s torso. Waco reeled with the impact, swaying. His rifle fell silent as he ceased levering out shots. Tree-trunk legs were planted wide apart, helping to keep him on his feet after sustaining the mortal wounds.

  The two gunmen bracketing him on either side opened fire. Sam released the empty shotgun, pulling his gun. It cleared leather and barked a shot that drilled one of the gunmen before the empty shotgun hit the ground.

  Ringo shot the other, who threw his arms up over his head, spun around, and fell, measuring his length in the dust, where he lay unmoving.

  Waco was still on his feet. Matt and Sam threw another volley into him, their guns bucking, spitting fire and hot lead.

  Waco fell backwards, crashing to the ground. He lay there on his back, face up, motionless, inert—stone dead. His huge form looked like a particularly large bump in the road.

  So ended Waco Brindle. The rest of his bunch, what was left of them, had no more appetite for fight. Silent guns were stuffed into holsters as their owners hurried away, hurrying to Waco’s saloon to plunder it and drink up all his stock of beer and whiskey.

  It was raining harder now.

  “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to have to explain this to the law, when the sheriff gets back to town,” Matt said.

  Sam and Ringo agreed. The three of them melted away into the night, even as the first eager curiosity-seekers began thronging to the scene. They wove a wide and circuitous course down the backstreets and side alleys, distancing themselves from the scene of the gun battle.

  “Now that we’re clear, Sam, tell me how you came to be in the alley in time to save our bacon,” Matt said.

  “When I was in the Hotel Erle barroom, I spotted Sid Felder trying to look like he belonged there. Sid’s a longtime Black Angus gang member,” Sam began.

  “Your hunch was right,” Ringo said, “about Jones making another try for the girl.”

  “Looks like, considering Felder was prowling around the same hotel that Linda Gordon’s in, on the very night she arrived in town,” Sam went on. “He was with some other fellow I didn’t recognize, a sneaky-looking stringbean kind of hombre. They were going out of the barroom when I saw them. I don’t think they saw me.

  “I tried to follow, but there were too many people in the way and, by the time I reached the lobby, they were gone. I went outside in time to see them turning the corner on Fourth Street, going north toward Fremont. I ran after, but when I reached Fourth Street they were nowhere to be seen. I prowled around the saloons there for some time to see if I could raise them, but no luck.

  “I went back to the hotel, saw you and Ringo standing on the corner of Fifth Street. You started toward Sixth Street. A man stood there watching you go, one of the bunch we bucked earlier today at Waco’s. I hung back, waiting to see what he’d do. He got on a horse and rode down Fifth Street. I ran after. No question he was dogging you. He followed you on the next cross street down. He stopped a couple of times to see which way you went, so I was able to keep up with him.

  “He met up with a half-dozen or so men on the street below Toughnut. I doubled back to Toughnut, going east. I figured on turning right at the end of the street and going south to intercept you. Halfway across the block I saw the alley. It looked like a good shortcut. I was lightfooting it down the alley when I came across the shotgunner. Nobody had to draw me a picture to tell me what that was all about.

  “I knocked him out, grabbed the shotgun, and went looking for you. I stuck my head out the alley, saw Waco’s men closing off both ends of the street, and knew they were springing the trap. I gave out with our old coyote call to get your attention—the rest you know,” Sam concluded.

  “You boys handle yourself all right,” Ringo said.

  “You’re no slouch with the plow handles yourself,” said Sam.

  “Thanks for tying in with us, Ringo. That was a tight squeeze. Don’t know how it would’ve gone without your guns siding us,” Matt said.

  “What else could I do? I had to throw in to save my own neck,” Ringo said.

  “Thanks all the same. I owe you one.”

  “That goes for me, too,” Sam said.

  “Help me get Dorado and Quirt Fane and we’ll be even up,” Ringo said.

  Matt laughed. “Hell, we’d do that anyway.”

  Their long, meandering route had delivered them in sight of the Big Sky Saloon.

  “Maybe Bill’s back with some news,” Ringo said. “In any case, w
e can get out of the wet and have us some drinks.”

  “We’ve got some planning to do,” Matt said.

  TWELVE

  It stopped raining around midnight. An hour or so later, Ringo and Curly Bill rode up to the jailhouse. They had two extra horses with them.

  A blurred, fuzzy moon played peekaboo with low-hanging cloud cover that was starting to come apart at the seams, letting thin sheets of moonlight shine through. Rainwater dripped from the gallows, pattering on the ground below.

  Ringo and Bill tied up the horses and went in the jail. The door wasn’t locked.

  Assistant Deputy Osgood sat upright at his desk, rigid, his hand on a gun which lay on the desktop. He relaxed visibly when he recognized the visitors, the quivering tension going out of him, mostly.

  He took his hand off the gun. A bottle and glass stood on the desk, too. He poured a drink, draining it in one gulp. “Ain’t you ever heard of knocking?” he demanded.

  Ringo ignored him, and Curly Bill just laughed. “Easy does it, Deputy. You’re wound up tighter than the mainspring of a Swiss watch,” Bill said.

  “There’s some mighty funny business going on tonight. Unfunny funny business,” Osgood said. “I been chasing around half the night cleaning up after that big killdown over to Toughnut Street.”

  “Don’t blame me, I was at the Toro Loco cantina when it happened. I got a roomful of witnesses who’ll swear they saw me there, too,” Bill said.

  “Witnesses,” Osgood said, sniffing, “Mexes.”

  “Who the hell else you expect to find in the Toro Loco cantina—Swedes?” Bill said, venting his big booming laugh.

  “You can’t hang that one on us,” Ringo said. “What do we care if Waco Brindle and his Lincoln County pards have a falling out and shoot each other full of holes?”

  “What’re you getting yourself in an uproar over Waco and the rest of them skunks for?” Curly Bill asked reasonably. “You ought to be glad they’re headed for Boot Hill. Claim jumping will decline overnight by a hundred and ten percent in these parts.”

  “I got a feeling Matt Bodine and his Injun friend are somewhere at the bottom of it. I’m sure of it. They killed the Vollin gang and Vollin and them were thick with Waco,” Osgood said.

  “The great detective,” Ringo sneered.

  “Why don’t you ask them about it, instead of grousing at us?” Curly Bill said.

  “I got better things to do than chase after them two, Bill.”

  “Like what? Kill another bottle?”

  “Now that you mention it—yeah.”

  “We’ll help.”

  “I’m doing fine by myself.”

  “I can see that. There ain’t much left.”

  While Curly Bill was bantering with Osgood, Ringo went around to the side and lifted the whiskey bottle. “Hey! Just a danged minute now,” Osgood squawked.

  “Relax, you’ll live longer,” Ringo said. He took a long pull from the bottle, making a face. “Damn, that’s lousy.”

  “Why do you drink it then?” Osgood said.

  “It’s the only bottle to hand. Why do you drink it?”

  “Same reason,” Curly Bill said, snickering.

  “Want a taste, Bill?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Ringo tossed the bottle to Curly Bill, who caught it. Bill drank deeply. Ringo wandered behind the marshal’s desk, eyeing the cells in the rear of the building.

  There were no lights in the densely shadowed area. What dim illumination there was came from lamps burning in the front office.

  Gila Chacon lay on his back on his bunk, one arm folded under his head, pillowing it. One leg was bent at the knee, the other extended off the edge of the bunk, reaching down to the floor. His face was turned to the front office, impassive, dark eyes watchful. Ringo gave him a slight nod, and Gila bobbed his head equally slightly in response.

  Polk lay on his bunk, snoring, with a hat over his face. He snored loudly and intermittently, by fits and starts.

  A third prisoner, a miner who’d beaten his common-law wife to death with a ball-peen hammer, lay on his side, face to the wall.

  “This is lousy,” Curly Bill said, setting the bottle down on the desk. Osgood grabbed it, holding it to the light. “I left you some,” Bill said.

  “A mouthful,” Osgood said, sullen. “What do you want, anyhow? You got a reason for being here except to mouth off and drink my whiskey?”

  “We’re here to do you a favor,” Curly Bill said.

  “That’s a good one, a real knee-slapper,” Osgood said. “Since when are you boys in the favor-doing business?”

  “Since Bob Farr got killed,” Ringo said. “We’re here to take the bandido off your hands.”

  “Thought it was something like that,” Osgood said, smug. “You ain’t doing me a favor; you want me to do you one.”

  “Have it any way you like. We want Gila Chacon.”

  “Not a chance,” Osgood said, shaking his head.

  “We got some new evidence in the Black Angus case,” Curly Bill said. “I been asking around and it turns out everybody knows about Gila and Don Carlos and Carmen. Everybody in Mex town, that is. It’s a real famous love story or hate story, call it what you will. They even wrote songs about it.

  “Everybody knows about the slave auction in Pago, too, and how Don Carlos runs it. All you got to do is ask the right folks, they’ll tell you.”

  “It’s a sure bet Black Angus is taking those girls to Pago to sell,” Ringo said. “A sure bet Dorado and Quirt Fane’ll be there, too.”

  “It’s a sure bet that Gila Chacon won’t be there,” Osgood said. “You two want to go to Pago to kill Dorado and Quirt, why you go right ahead. Nobody’s stopping you. Chacon stays here.”

  “What the hell? It’s not as if other prisoners haven’t ‘escaped’ from this jail before,” Curly Bill said, beginning to show signs of irritation. “I could name more than one hombre who bought his way out of here.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that,” Osgood declared, clearly uncomfortable with the line the conversation was taking. “I ain’t saying it’s so, but I ain’t saying it ain’t so. I just plain ain’t saying.”

  “If the marshal was here, he’d do it,” Curly Bill said.

  “If Johnny Behan was here, he’d surely do it,” Ringo added.

  “Well, they ain’t here. If you feel that way about it, you can just wait till they get back and ask them,” Osgood said.

  “We’re in a hurry,” Ringo said.

  “Think of them poor little gals. They’re in a mighty tough spot. Their folks dead—kilt; captives of a band of cold-blooded killers carrying them off to what they call ‘a fate worse than death.’ No hope, no help in sight, not knowing if anybody is even aware of their plight.”

  “You ought to write for the Nugget, Bill, you’re piling it on so high,” Osgood said. “Put yourself in my place. In case you ain’t noticed, this Chacon ain’t no ordinary prisoner. He’s a killer, slated to hang come Saturday. He ain’t here for to get his neck stretched, folks are going to be mighty sore and looking to take it out on the man responsible and that ain’t gonna be me.” Osgood’s face was set in hard, unyielding lines.

  “Save your breath, John, he’s mule stubborn,” Curly Bill said, disgusted. “When he gets that way, there ain’t no making him see reason.”

  “What’ll you bet?” Ringo said, picking up Osgood’s gun and pointing it at him. It was all done in one seamless fluid motion: Ringo’s hand was empty, at his side; an eyeblink later, the gun was in his fist, leveled on the deputy.

  Gila got to his feet, and Polk Muldoon stopped snoring. Osgood goggled, then gulped, swallowing hard. “Now hold on, Ringo—”

  “Some folks just won’t listen to reason,” Ringo remarked conversationally to Curly Bill.

  “Quit your fooling, Ringo,” Osgood blustered. “You ain’t gonna shoot me—”

  Ringo thumbed the hammer back with a click. “I killed Lou Hancock because he made the
mistake of insulting me by refusing my offer to buy him a drink. Believe me, Deputy, when I tell you that I wanted him to take that drink a whole hell of a lot less than I want Gila Chacon.

  “Now come around from behind that desk and don’t cut up and you might come out of this alive.”

  Osgood rose, doing what he’d been told. He stood with hands up, face even more sour than usual, and looking more than a little bit sick, too.

  Curly Bill set to work. He didn’t need to be told what to do. This wasn’t his first jailbreak, either busting somebody out of jail or busting out himself.

  He picked up the jailer’s big key ring from where it was hanging on a peg on the wall and went to Gila’s cell, fitting the oversized key in the lock, unlocking and opening it. The cell door swung open with a creaking and Gila stepped out, long, slitted, not-so-sleepy eyes glinting. He nodded to Bill, saying, “Gracias, amigo.”

  “We ain’t amigos yet. Whether we are or not remains to be seen, so don’t you go cutting up none, neither. I reckon you could still travel with a bullet through the elbow or kneecap,” Curly Bill said.

  Polk Muldoon was sitting up on his bunk with his hat on his head and his feet on the floor, eyes shining. The remorseful miner stiffened, but remained steadfastly oblivious of all that was going on, keeping his face to the wall.

  Ringo marched Osgood at gunpoint to the bandido’s now-empty cell. “This is what we call a ‘transfer of custody,’ Gila. Instead of being his prisoner, you’re mine.”

  “As you wish, señor. Anything to get out of this filthy hole.”

  Ringo poked Osgood’s back with the muzzle of the pistol. “In you go, Deputy.”

  Osgood stepped into the cell. Curly Bill slammed the door shut, locking it.

  “This is a switch, me locking up a lawman. That’s a horse on you, Deputy.”

  “Let’s go,” Ringo said.

  Polk Muldoon jumped up. “Hey, fellows, how about taking me with you?”

  Ringo and Curly Bill exchanged glances. “What do you say, Bill?”

  “Polk’s a good ol’ boy. It’s a shame to let him set in here and rust. He can shoot, too.”

  “What do you say, Polk? Feel like taking a ride down Mexico way?”