Brothers in Arms

by Philip McCormac

  ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with you excepting you ain’t eaten anything in three days. Then you drank ten gallons of rotgut on top of an empty stomach. No wonder you feel bad.’

  ‘Bad! Joe if you had a gun I’d ask you to put me outa my misery.’

  Even as he said this they heard the shots. The sounds were muffled but distinctive. The two fugitives raised their eyes towards the faint rectangle of light that marked the doors of their prison.

  ‘Gunfire,’ Butch breathed. ‘What the hell’s going on out there?’

  8.

  The stagecoach slowed as it came in sight of the way station. With practiced ease the driver worked the team of horses, gradually slowing as they approached the station yard. On the seat beside him riding shotgun was a large fat man. Up ahead he noticed men standing around the yard waiting the arrival of the stagecoach. The driver and his guard thought there was nothing unusual in that. Everything looked fairly normal.

  As the heavy coach wheeled to a halt outside the main building the driver noted the women standing at the corral with the new team. With grunted effort the driver pulled on the brake and sat back in his seat with a sigh. He had been driving a goodly part of the night and was looking forward to a break before taking the stage to Brimingdam where he would be relieved.

  The men in the yard watched indolently as the driver climbed down and opened the door of the coach. The shotgun guard took his time clambering laboriously down from his perch. Though he was big it was mostly fat and he moved slowly and ponderously as he vacated the coach. He left his shotgun on the seat. Sagging from his waist was a holstered pistol.

  ‘Empire Fastness Way Station,’ the driver called out, as he unfolded the step. ‘Stop here for a whiles. You kin freshen up and git a bite to eat afore we move on.’

  He turned and nodded across to the two women holding the replacement team. For some reason they made no move to bring the fresh team.

  ‘Dad-blamed women,’ the driver swore. ‘Cussed, ornery, dad-blamed females.’

  He turned back to the coach. A young woman was in the doorway. She looked pale and dusty but managed a wan smile.

  ‘Ma’am,’ the driver greeted her.

  He held out a hand and helped her down.

  ‘Straight over to that door, ma’am. Fat fella inside will look to you.’

  Nodding her thanks she waited until an older man in a business suit stepped down. She took his arm and together they walked across and went inside. The gaunt old man nodded and Dave grinned, showing startlingly white teeth and followed the couple inside.

  Another man alighted. That he was a drummer was evident from his dress and the sample case he carried. He hurried across the yard. A matronly woman and a young girl emerged followed by a young man dressed in working clothes. As the last of his passengers disappeared inside the way station the driver, cursing under his breath, turned towards the women with his replacement team.

  ‘Tom, go and see what the hell’s the matter with them dad-blamed females.’

  The guard grunted. He wanted to get inside and fill his belly with whatever eatables were to be had. As he started to walk towards the corral he did not get far.

  ‘Howdy fella.’

  The guard looked at the old man who had stepped in front of him.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What you hauling aboard that there stagecoach?’

  The guard’s eyes became wary as he eyed the stranger. He felt a slight shiver of fear as he stared into that cold face with the cruel eyes.

  ‘Oh, nothing much, just the mail and a few packages for Brimingdam.’

  Another man drifted past him towards the coach. The guard noted two more men standing by the door of the way station.

  ‘Let’s just take a look see.’

  ‘Hang on there mister. That ain’t none of your business.’

  The guard felt something hard pressing into his stomach. With a startled look he glanced down at the Colt in the old man’s hand. They were standing very close now and the barrel of the gun was pushing hard into his belly.

  ‘Just walk back to the stage, Fat Boy or your guts will spill all over this yard if you give me cause to pull this trigger.’

  The guard gulped and his face paled. He backed away and kept on reversing.

  ‘Charlie, jump up there and throw down anything you find. You two stand against the stage and don’t make a move.’

  While the driver and the guard did as they were told the youngster clambered up on the stage and tossed packages, bundles, trunks and boxes down on the hard packed dirt of the yard.

  ‘That’s it, Jabez.’

  ‘OK, let’s see what we got?’

  The gaunt old man waggled his pistol at the men against the side of the stage.

  ‘Which is the banker’s luggage?’

  ‘Banker?’

  The driver was trying to look puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The shot hit him in the shoulder. He cried out and fell against the door of the coach. Blood was seeping on to his sleeve.

  ‘The banker’s luggage?’

  The gun moved to cover the guard. With a trembling hand the fat man pointed at two leather bound trunks.

  ‘It’s those trunks.’

  ‘Okay, get them open.’

  ‘Mister I ain’t supposed to tamper with luggage.’

  This time the shot struck the other shoulder of the driver.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he screamed, and slid to his knees.

  The guard hurriedly bent over the trunks and began to undo the straps.

  ‘It’s locked,’ he said as he tried to undo the lid.

  The guard jumped as a bullet hammered into the lock. He was sweating from his exertions but it was mostly from fear.

  ‘Tip it out.’

  Grunting with the effort the guard overturned the trunk. Neatly folded shirts and underwear tumbled to the dirt. The last to be exposed were two tin moneyboxes.

  ‘That looks like it, Jabez.’

  The youngster who had emptied the coach was back on the ground again.

  ‘Bust it open, Charlie. Use your knife.’

  Charlie took a long blade from his belt and knelt by the boxes. With deft movements he prised open the lids. Grinning widely he picked up a neat bundle of notes held together by a paper band. He held up the box so his companion to see inside. It was full to the top with similar bundles of money.

  ‘Look’s like your information was correct, Jabez.’

  The gun barrel moved fractionally.

  ‘Goodbye Fat Boy.’

  The startled eyes looked up just before the gaunt man pulled the trigger.

  ‘No…’ the guard managed before the bullet ploughed into his stomach.

  He staggered back and slammed against the coach his weight making the coach sway slightly. His hands clasped against his blood-soaked midriff he slid slowly to the dirt to sit beside the wounded driver.

  ‘You shot me, you goddamn owlhoot.’

  The guard stared down at the blood leaking through his fingers.

  ‘Damn you to hell.’

  Charlie looked quizzically at his leader.

  ‘Shall I finish him?’

  He had his knife in his hand.

  ‘They ain’t going anywhere. Let’s see what else we got.’

  ‘Marcus.’

  Jabez turned to one of the men by the door.

  ‘Come and help Charlie search the rest of this. Get those Injun women to load anything of use on the horses.’

  Marcus sauntered over and ignoring the groaning of the two wounded men he and Charlie began to break open and rummage through the rest of the baggage.

  ‘Let’s go inside and see to our guests. Marcus and Charlie can join us when they finished here. Don’t forget to bring those Injuns to join us. I think Charlie has taken a shine to the young ’un.’

  9.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ exclaimed Joe and the diggers paused in their labour and strained to l
isten.

  Joe felt a shudder run down his spine as he tried to make sense of the shrill noises. Butch pushed himself up and put his ear to the thick boards that made up the flaps of the root cellar door.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s sounds like someone screaming,’ he said eventually, a slight tremor in his voice.

  The screams grew in intensity. They came in short bursts - high pitched and seemingly unending as if someone was in mortal agony.

  ‘Dear God, what the hell’s going on up there?’

  The men crouched in the darkness and felt the terror invading their prison. Butch put his hands over his ears but nothing could block out those terrible piercing screams.

  ‘Holy cow Joe, this is too scary.’

  Butch was whispering. It was insane, for they were buried inside a root cellar some distance from the dreadful agonising shrieks. However it was a fear-driven instinct to whisper in the presence of such appalling suffering.

  ‘I’ve never heard anything like that in my life.’

  The big man crouched beside Butch also spoke quietly, his voice trembling as he listened to the dreadful sound of someone in mortal agony. If anything the screaming grew higher in pitch and then ceased for a while. The trapped men realised they had been holding their breath and in the relative silence they tried to breathe normally again. It was a short respite. The terrible screams started up again.

  ‘Damnit stop it!’ Butch suddenly yelled.

  He began hammering on the cellar doors.

  ‘Stop it!’

  Joe grabbed his companion and dragged him back.

  ‘Goddamn it, Butch, don’t attract their attention,’ he panted, as he wrestled with his fellow prisoner. ‘It’s probably a bunch of Injuns as has overrun the place. They’re scalping and torturing their victims right now.’

  ‘We gotta help them,’ Butch panted.

  ‘How, goddamn it, how?’ Joe said bitterly. ‘We’re trapped in here. We’re handcuffed and with no weapons. What the hell can we do against a bunch of armed savages?’

  ‘We ought to do something,’ the cowboy answered distractedly, as the terrible screams battered at their sanity. ‘I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Butch we gotta sit this one out. If they don’t know we’re here maybe we’ll survive. Sheriff Patterson might get himself killed during the attack. If he has then no one else will bother with us. Remember there was only a brief spell of shooting. They must have overrun the place very quickly. We attract attention to ourselves they’ll come and drag us out and roast our innards over a slow fire or whatever Injuns do to their prisoners.’

  ‘Hell, I need a drink.’

  Butch stumbled back to the vats where he had indulged last night. After a few moments Joe went back and joined him. Butch had been using a discarded tin mug to dip the potent liquor. Joe could just make out his fellow prisoner’s tilted head as he slugged back the contents of the mug. Without a word Butch refilled the mug and handed it to Joe. The big man coughed as the fiery liquor hit the back of his throat but he forced it down.

  The screaming went on for a very long time. By the time it ceased altogether the prisoners were at first not aware of it. They were barely conscious as they forced mug after mug of firewater inside them in an attempt to drown out the terror and fear both felt. It somewhat dulled the edges of their imagination as the screams of the victims penetrated their dim, clammy prison.

  They knew dark and appalling deeds were being committed yards from where they huddled in their pit. The liquor was an antidote to their feeling of helplessness. In a curious twist of conscience they felt guilty of conspiracy with the perpetrators of the evil acts of depravity being committed up there in the way station.

  ‘Butch, you awake?’

  ‘Humph…’

  ‘It’s stopped.’

  It was true. A heavy and curious silence lay over everything like a shroud. Groaning with the effort of overcoming the sluggishness induced by the numerous mugs of rotgut they had consumed they crawled underneath the trapdoor that had so stubbornly resisted their labours. Lethargically they resumed their digging.

  Their handcuffs did not impede their working. Both hands were able to hold the digging tool and though the metal chaffed their wrists it did not bother them too much. After a long spell of effort Butch finally spoke.

  ‘Joe I got something to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah, you decided to swear off drink.’

  ‘Mmm… maybe, but something else.’

  There was another long pause.

  ‘You know last night when I was drinking all that rotgut?’

  ‘You fell into a drunken sleep and pissed your pants.’

  Butch was silent so long Joe ceased his efforts and glanced at him. He could just see a dim outline as the cowboy dug at the side of the cellar with a large paddle he had found by one of the barrels.

  ‘I guessed right then, you did piss your pants?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Joe suddenly started giggling.

  ‘You messed your pants.’

  ‘Goddamn it no! It’s to do with piss though. You see I was bursting to go. My bladder was full to overflowing.’

  Joe could hear the cowboy take a deep breath before continuing.

  ‘So I went in one of the barrels.’

  Joe stopped digging.

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, you pissed in a barrel. Did it have anything in?’

  ‘They all have.’

  Joe thought about this for a moment.

  ‘Before we leave here we ought to tip it out.’

  ‘The thing is, Joe I don’t think we can.’

  ‘Why ever not? It’ll just soak into the dirt. It wouldn’t be fair to leave for someone to drink rotgut what has been flavoured with Butch Shilton piss. Mind you that stuff is so vile it would be hard to tell the difference.’

  ‘The fact of the matter is, I can’t remember which barrel.’

  Joe ceased digging. Butch stopped also.

  ‘You can’t remember which barrel?’ Joe asked, in a dangerously quiet voice.

  ‘Hell, Joe I was drunk outa my skin. I didn’t know where I was, never mind what barrel.’

  Joe was quiet for so long the cowboy was moved to speak.

  ‘Joe, you OK?’

  ‘So there was every chance when I joined you back there for a drink I might have been drinking your piss?’

  ‘Hell should I know!’

  ‘Aaagh…’

  The sound of furious spitting was heard. Butch listened apprehensively

  ‘Butch Shilton, remind me when we get outa here to kill you.’

  There was a sudden scramble in the dark. Butch thinking his companion was attacking him threw himself backwards and flailed wildly with his paddle. An abrupt flash of white light blinded him as brilliant sunlight flooded the cellar. He caught sight of Joe sitting by the trapdoor half buried in dirt. The big man turned his head and Butch saw a flash of white teeth in a dirt-encrusted face.

  ‘Butch, did you ever see a more wonderful sight? God’s good clean sunlight.’

  10.

  Like prairie dogs warily coming out of their burrow the two men raised their heads above ground level, blinking in the bright daylight. There was not much to see from this side of the way station. On the right was the corral where a few horses moved restlessly. They cautiously peered around them ready to duck back again at any sign of danger. An ominous silence lay over everything.

  ‘Seems mighty quiet.’

  ‘Too quiet for my liking.’

  Covered in dirt adhering to faces and clothing they clambered to freedom. Both men stretched luxuriously pushing their handcuffed hands above their heads.

  ‘It’s good to get the kinks outa my body.’

  ‘It’d be even better to get some grub inside me. My insides feel like they’ve been scoured out with a hay rake.’

  Keeping close against the wall of the building they edged forward and peered round the corner. The first thing they noticed was the coach.
Movement by the wheels drew their eyes. Both men peered with some bewilderment at the huge birds tearing at the wheels of the coach.

  ‘What the…?’

  Slowly they moved from the protection of the building and out into the yard. All around were scattered garments and valises and trunks. Men’s shirts and trousers and women’s dresses and blouses and undergarments littered the earth. They could make out what seemed like red and white rags attached to the wheels of the stage. It was these the birds were busy tearing at. Disturbed by the movement of the men the vultures wheeled around and screeched aggressively.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  The tattered carcasses were the remains of two men. They had been lashed to the wheels while still alive and left for the vultures

  ‘Shoo, get away, you bloody vultures.’

  Butch and Joe stumbled forward waving their arms and shouting. For a moment it looked as if the vultures might defy them but at the last moment they took flight - their broad wings lifting heavy bodies laboriously into the air.

  Their eyes filled with horror the two men stared at the pitiful remains of the driver and his guard. Sickened by the awful sight of ripped flesh they turned and looked around the yard at the scattered remnants of luggage.

  ‘Looks like we’re the only ones left. Let’s see what we can find inside. We need grub and some way of getting free of these damned handcuffs.’

  ‘What the hell is that smell?’

  They both stood in the yard sniffing the strange sickly odour that seemed to cling to their nostrils.

  ‘I smelled that afore when we butchered steers on the ranch,’ answered Butch. ‘Must be them two poor fellas them buzzards were at.’

  ‘Let’s see what we can find inside.’

  They stepped through the open door and then abruptly both men tumbled outdoors again. They flattened against the outside wall - one each side of the door.

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Butch.’

  ‘Tell me I’m still down that root cellar and I’m drunk outa my skull and my brain is unhinged with alcohol. Tell me I didn’t see what I thought I saw in there.’

  Joe did not answer for some time. Both men were trembling and their breathing was rapid and agitated.