Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die

by Johnstone, William W.

  Matt and Sam skipped that trip. They thought it politic to avoid encountering Assistant Deputy Osgood, for reasons they kept to themselves. Plenty of volunteers were available to haul Felder off to jail.

  The prisoner’s armed escort discovered Gila Chacon gone, with a mortified Hubert Osgood occupying the bandit’s cell. Everybody got a good laugh out of Ringo’s written receipt for Gila—everyone but Osgood, that is. Osgood was released and Felder locked up.

  “If we hurry with the trial, we can still hold a hanging on Saturday, with Felder taking Gila’s place,” somebody said. The others agreed that that was a fine idea. A lot of folks were looking forward to a hanging and it would be a shame to disappoint them.

  A couple of men stayed behind at the jailhouse to help out Osgood. “Seeing as you’re having trouble holding on to your prisoners, Deputy, we’d hate to see you lose this one, too,” one of the helpers said.

  “Have Ringo stick a gun in your face and see if you say him no,” Osgood retorted angrily. Nobody faulted him there.

  The consensus was that Ringo and Curly Bill had freed the bandido to guide them through the hazards of Pago to a showdown with Dorado and Quirt Fane, killers of their pal Bob Farr.

  Wheels were turning in Tombstone, things were happening despite the late night hour. Hastily called meetings and conferences were held at the Hotel Erle, where Colonel Davenport held court. Runners were sent around town to knock on doors and wake men up, citizens whose services were needed pronto. Word raced along the grapevine that something big was in the offing.

  The result was that a group of bold, hard gunmen gathered at the O.K. Corral at first light.

  Night was on the wane, the overarching vault of sky fading from blackness to a rich purple and royal-blue color. The moon hung low in the west, and the sun had still not shown in the east.

  Lanterns hung on posts were pale yellow blurs floating amidst a sea of blue shadows. Smeared along the eastern horizon was a patch of ghostly brightness that was the forerunner of sunrise, that first light called by whites the “false dawn” and by Indians the “Wolf ’s Tail.”

  Present at the scene were those Brothers of the Wolf, Matt and Sam. It was a sleepless night for the Wolf Brethren. Colonel Davenport had picked them to head an emergency rescue mission into Mexico to free the captive girls. A rescue raid.

  The sheriff and marshal and their men were still out somewhere on the trail chasing the Wells Fargo robbers. Not that it mattered, the lawmen being forbidden by law from crossing the border and carrying out their duties in Mexico. They had no jurisdiction in Mexico, no authority to operate.

  Such strictures would not have stopped such men as Wyatt Earp and his brothers Virgil and Morgan from taking off their badges and venturing south as private citizens.

  But they and their cohorts were on the Wells Fargo posse and nobody in town knew where they were or how to find them.

  Luckily, this was Tombstone, where there was no shortage of tough men who knew how to handle a gun. When the call went out for volunteers, the problem lay not in finding enough men for the job, it was in finding the right men from the many ready to offer themselves up for duty.

  Civic responsibility, a passion for justice, and simple human decency were augmented by that surest of all motivators: gold. Each member of the raiding party would receive a hundred dollars payment in advance and another hundred on return.

  The funds would be furnished by Colonel Davenport, who had also posted a ten-thousand-dollar reward for a majority of the captive girls. He was mindful that some of the captives might have perished or been sold off along the way to Pago. The reward would be divided by the surviving raiding party members on their return to Tombstone with most of the captives.

  The Mine Owners Association of Greater Tombstone had hastily convened to pass a resolution offering a five-thousand-dollar reward based on the same conditions, no matter what the result, and fifteen-thousand dollars would be split by the surviving raiders on successful completion of the mission.

  It was a dazzling sum. For though Tombstone was a boomtown where the lucky few struck it rich, the vast majority of cowhands and miners worked like hell to earn a five to ten dollars weekly salary.

  A force of fifty first-rate gunmen could easily have been recuited from those clamoring to serve. For tactical reasons, a smaller bunch was needed. And what a band they were.

  Matt and Sam headed the group. Weaponeer Remy Markand was part of the party. The others were Hal Purdy, Ed Dane, Jeff Howell, Geetus Maggard, Dutch Snyder, Juan Garza, Pima Joe, and Vern Tooker.

  Hal Purdy, a Texas gunslinger, was regarded as one of the fastest guns west of the Pecos—which meant one of the fastest guns anywhere. He often hired out as a range detective for the big cattlemen, tracking down rustlers and outlaws who preyed on the herds and eliminating them.

  He was forty, fleshy but handsome, with thick black hair, a Greek profile, and thick lips. He wore slate-gray garments and a black ribbon tie, and was a right-hand draw.

  “A top man, we’re lucky to get him,” Matt told Colonel Davenport.

  “Ed Dane, too,” Sam said.

  “Let’s hope they don’t kill each other,” Matt said.

  Ed Dane, too, was a West Texas gunman from the Big Bend region. A few years younger than Purdy, he had wispy blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a wide-brimmed straw planter’s hat to protect against the sun, and thin, wrist-length gloves on soft hands that did no work except gun handling.

  A background virtually identical to that of Purdy’s had fostered no affection between the two. They were bitter rivals, often in competition for the same jobs. Their skills being at the same level, a shoot-out between them would most like result in a mutual slaying, which was the main reason why their enmity had not yet boiled over into a showdown. But the clock was ticking.

  Before taking them on for the raid, Matt had extracted a solemn promise from Dane and Purdy both that they would engage in no hostilities until the mission was done.

  Geetus Maggard and Dutch Snyder were partners. They’d long worked both sides of the law, sometimes wearing a badge, sometimes riding the owlhoot trail—occasionally, at the same time, playing both sides against the middle.

  Maggard was small, slight, wizened. He looked like a burnt-out cinder of a man, but could outride and outlast most other men on the trail. His two guns were worn low and tied down. He had a big voice and a short temper and the sand and skill to back his play.

  Dutch Snyder was Maggard’s physical and temperamental opposite. A head taller and some seventy pounds heavier than his partner, he was big, bearlike, with broad sloping shoulders and a barrel torso. He was easygoing and agreeable, especially for one known to have killed over a dozen men in fair duels: a laid-back gunman and killer.

  Howling Jeff Howell, the Arkansas Razorback, was in his late twenties, of medium height and build. He’d been a deputy, army scout, shotgun messenger, and a gunman for the railroads. A rooster-tail hairstyle crowned a bony fish face with dark restless eyes. He was thin lipped, with almost no upper lip.

  Juan Garza was of Mexican ancestry with some Indian blood. His family had lived in the Arizona region for two hundred years. He’d been a lawman, scout, bounty hunter. He’d spent much time in Sonora and knew it well. He was a top hand at packing horses for long treks, no mean skill, and one much appreciated by trailsmen. Fiftyish, he had iron-gray hair and mustache, misty, dark brown eyes, and a square-shaped torso. A dead shot with a rifle, he favored a sawed-off shotgun for in-close work.

  As his name implied, Pima Joe was a member of the Pima Indian tribe. It was said of the Pimas that they were the one neighboring tribe feared by the Apaches. In any case, Joe had given them plenty of reason to fear him, having worked as an army scout in the territory for much of the previous two decades. He wore a round-top-crowned black hat with an eagle feather in the hatband.

  Vern Tooker was another of the “Last of the Mountain Men,” a hunter, trapper, Indian fighter, scout, roaming fro
m the Northern Range to the Southwest. He was big and tough, his face and body well-scarred. A Sharps .50 long-rifle buffalo gun was sheathed in his saddle scabbard.

  Such was the raiding party: Rough men who would rather kill than run. The O.K. Corral served as an assembly area. Tension was in the air, the raiders eyeing each other like a pack of tomcats in a midnight alley sizing up the competition.

  A fair-sized crowd had gathered to watch from the sidelines: night owls winding down before going to roost, early birds stopping off on their way to work, miners coming off or going on shift, and suchlike.

  Great effort had been expended to ensure the party got as early a start as possible.

  The raiders all had their own mounts, but packhorses were needed to carry supplies of water, food, ammunition. Other horses were collected to serve as spares.

  Colonel Davenport was footing most of the bills, but civic-minded Tombstone merchants had opened stores and shops in the pre-dawn darkness to make up the supplies and rations needed, donating them gratis in most cases.

  “Some of you might wonder why we’re going with so few men,” Matt said. “This raid calls for speed and surprise. The fewer men, the faster we’ll travel. We’ve got to be in Pago by Saturday at the latest and a day sooner wouldn’t hurt. With luck we’ll make it there in two days hard riding, which puts us there Thursday.

  “There’ll be lots of strangers in town and plenty of gringos, so a group this size shouldn’t attract much attention. Anything larger might put the slave masters on guard and make our job that much harder. There’s enough willing in town to recruit a small army, but if we did, the slavers would just hide the girls where we couldn’t find them. Or kill them outright to keep us from having them.”

  “I don’t like going in blind. How can you be sure of knowing where the girls are?” Ed Dane asked.

  “We’ve got a few ins in Pago. I’ll tell you more when we’re out of town where there’s less chance of unfriendly ears overhearing,” Matt said.

  He went on. “We’ve got to walk soft, move fast. Surprise—speed—hitting hard, that’s the key to success. This isn’t a a military mission; it’s a raid. More like a train robbery or robbing a bank.”

  “That ought to be right up our line, Geetus,” Dutch Snyder joked.

  “Shut your mouth, you damned fool,” Geetus Maggard snapped.

  “What for? We’re not wanted for anything in Arizona.”

  “I like it better this way. The less men, the bigger the payday,” Jeff Howell said.

  “How’re we supposed to bring the girls back? There’s not enough horses,” Juan Garza said.

  “It’d be a tip-off if we rode in trailing a string of extra horses for the girls. Once we’re down there, we’ll get them the old-fashioned way: horse theft,” Matt said. “We’re going to shoot up Pago and grab the girls back. I don’t reckon we can make Don Carlos any madder by stealing his horses.

  “Any more questions? No? Collect your advance and we’ll ride out.”

  “Sign your name or make your mark,” Arnholt Stebbins said, moving among the men, requiring each of them to sign a receipt before paying out their hundred dollars in gold. He put the signed documents in a folder and put the folder in a slim leather portfolio.

  “You took the gold, and you’re in for the duration. I know what kind of men you are. You wouldn’t have been picked if there was any worry about your taking off with the gold. Funny things can happen on the trail, though, so I give you all fair warning. If any man tries to quit before the mission is done, I’ll kill him,” Matt said.

  “If I don’t get him first,” Sam said.

  The men prepared to mount up. Remy Markand circled a packhorse to which had been affixed a wooden crate he’d had brought to the corral. He checked the ropes and the knots, making sure the load was sitting properly on the animal.

  “You don’t have to worry none about your gear. Juan Garza packed it and he’s the best blamed packer in the territory,” mountain man Vern Tooker said.

  “What’s in that box anyhow?” Jeff Howell wondered aloud, eyeing the crate, squinting at it from different angles.

  “An equalizer. Something to even the odds against Don Carlos’s men and the government troops,” Markand said.

  “Dynamite?”

  “No. We thought of bringing dynamite along, but the heat and rough trail would make it more dangerous to us than to the foe.”

  “What is it then?”

  “A machine gun.”

  Jeff Howell looked suspicious, sceptical, as if unsure whether or not his leg was being pulled. “Ain’t no ways big enough for a Gatling gun.”

  “It’s lighter than a Gatling gun, but with plenty of firepower,” Markand said.

  “How is it called?”

  “A Montigny Mitrailleuse. Ever heard of it?”

  “Heard of it? Mister, I can’t even say it! But I know this: the fancier the brand, the poorer the grade of beef.”

  “You may be surprised,” Remy Markand said, a slight smile playing around his lips.

  In the corral’s stable barn, to one side of the front double doors, a small office area had been partitioned off for business functions, record keeping, and the like. Arnholt Stebbins set a leather briefcase on a table.

  He opened it, reached inside, and took out a well-worn gun belt with a holstered Colt .45 Peacemaker revolver. It seemed to have seen much use, but was serviceable. He buckled on the gun belt, settling it in place. His movements were skilled, sure.

  He tucked the folder with the signed receipts into the briefcase, fastening it shut. He went out into the corral. He gave the briefcase to Colonel Davenport.

  “Gad! I envy you, Stebbins, setting out on an adventure like this. If I were only ten years younger, wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Davenport said.

  “Of course not, sir,” Stebbins said. “You’ll find the receipts in the briefcase. All seems in order, and so, without further ado, I’ll take my leave of you now, sir.”

  “Good man,” the other said heartily, slapping him on the back.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Earlier, Stebbins had selected a horse. It was saddled and ready to go. He unhitched it. Holding it by the reins, he led it to where the other saddled horses were massed.

  Sam saw him and did a take. It took a lot to surprise such a response from Sam, but this development merited it. “What’re you doing, Stebbins?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Sam was too polite to laugh in his face. “You’re not serious!”

  “Ah, but Colonel Davenport is. I’ll be bringing along a sizeable amount of discretionary funds and he insists that I accompany the expedition to see that his money is well spent. He also wants an eyewitness present to make a full report on how Markand’s machine gun performs in the field.”

  “This is no job for a desk man. The ride alone’s enough to ruin anybody but a seasoned horseman,” Sam said. “Not to mention you’ve got a better than even chance of getting killed.”

  “I’ll take that chance. Ten years ago when I first came out west, clerking jobs were few and far between. One took the work where it could be found. I was the original circuit-riding bookkeeper at all the big strikes: Cripple Creek, Leadville, Virginia City, Silver City, many others.”

  “Ever use that gun you’re wearing on your hip?”

  “Yes. Not lately, but I practice regularly to keep my hand in.”

  “Ever kill a man with it?”

  “Two men, robbers. Really, Mr. Two Wolves, there’s no point in arguing. What you or I want in the matter is unimportant. The colonel has his mind set on my making the trip. Take it up with him if you like, though I assure you that once he’s made his mind up, he’s as steadfast as a rock.”

  “You’ve got sand, Stebbins, I’ll give you that,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Not a lot of sense, maybe, but sand.” He went to tell Matt the news.

  Matt tried to talk Davenport out of it, but the colonel was adamant and unyiel
ding. Matt returned, shrugging.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Stebbins. Every man’s got to carry his weight on this go. If you change your mind or can’t keep up, you’ll be cut loose and left to your own devices, same as anybody else in this bunch,” Matt said.

  “I expect nothing less,” Stebbins said stiffly.

  “Welcome aboard then, and good luck. I admire your guts if not your good sense.”

  Yellow rays shafted fanwise out of the eastern horizon, heralding the sunrise. “Daylight’s burning! Saddle up, men, and let’s ride,” Matt said.

  The raiders mounted up, the corral gates were opened, and the men on horseback began filing out.

  “Good hunting, men, and Godspeed!” Colonel Davenport said. Among the spectators, men cheered and the women waved and fluttered their handkerchiefs.

  The column rode west to the end of the street, past the outskirts of town. Leaving behind the table of Goose Flats on which Tombstone town was set, the line of riders and their string of packhorses and spare horses descended the slope, moving south across the San Pedro Valley.

  Lemon-yellow light filled the eastern horizon, the limb of the sun coming into view. Sunbeams shafted across the cactus- and boulder-strewn flat, causing the riders and mounts of the column to cast eerily elongated shadows stretching west for hundreds of feet.

  With the sun came the first nagging pricklings of heat. The night had been cool, almost chill, as was the way of it in the high desert. The coolness ceased to exist with the advent of dawn. That, too, was the way of the desert.

  The column angled southeast, away from the Tombstone Hills on its right. There was no need to send out scouts yet. The countryside was open in all directions, affording no cover for ambush. Though rash indeed would have been the bushwhacker who opened fire on this formidable outfit.

  They rode on, the temperature climbing with the sun as it inched up the vault of sky. The riders began grouping together in twos and threes, according to the degree of affinity between them.