Brothers in Arms

by Philip McCormac

  As the sheriff and his posse readied themselves to ride back to town Butch was examining the men who were to take charge of the prisoners. The cowboy was not impressed with what he saw. The gaunt older man had an aura of menace about him while his sidekicks looked every bit as dangerous.

  ‘What about Frank?’ Butch ventured, keeping a wary eye on Dave as he spoke.

  ‘Don’t you worry he’ll be taken care of,’ the sheriff assured Butch. ‘There’s a wagon on the way from town. We’ll more than likely meet it on the way in. It’ll take your friend to town and the sawbones will take care of him.’

  ‘Adios, sheriff,’ Jabez called harshly.

  Butch watched the posse ride away. He had an uneasy feeling about all this. The attitude and behaviour of the men left behind was not that of a lawfully appointed posse but more reminiscent of a bunch of hard cases. He was not reassured when the gaunt old man turned and stared at him out of fish-cold eyes.

  ‘Now we can take care of these dudes.’

  27.

  ‘Damn you my arm’s bleeding.’

  Butch looked over at his friend. The big man was holding his wounded arm and blood could be seen oozing between his fingers.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Dave answered. ‘Maybe I should put one in the other arm to balance you up.’

  ‘Get them over to the trees,’ growled Jabez.

  ‘What about Frank?’

  Butch gestured towards the wounded man lying where they had deposited him.

  ‘You said you’d take care of him.’

  ‘You and your friend bring him with you. We’ll take care of him all right.’

  Butch and Joe took up the ends of the blanket. In spite of the wound in his arm Joe moved in and took his share of the burden. With drawn guns their captors ushered them towards the campfire. Gently the two friends laid the wounded man beside the fire.

  ‘Throw some more wood on that there fire,’ the leader of the group ordered Butch.

  A large pile of branches had been gathered in by the posse - evidence of their determination to wait out the fugitives.

  ‘Okay get the rope, Marcus.’

  The dark youngster with the ponytail walked to the tethered horses and walked back grinning as he carried the rope. He strode to the trees and looked up. Then he slung the rope. It was a good throw and looped over a thick branch. Butch turned a puzzled look towards Joe. The big man was looking with the same perplexed expression on his face.

  ‘Git him up there!’

  The purpose of the rope became all too clear as Marcus walked to the fire. He and Dave bent and without ceremony grabbed Frank by the legs and began dragging the wounded man towards the rope.

  ‘No,’ screamed Butch, and began running forward.

  In his hand was a stout piece of firewood.

  ‘Damn you no!’

  The shot blasted out. Butch felt something sting his ear and then he stumbled as a foot reached out and tripped him. He didn’t see the gun barrel that slashed across his head. His face was pushed into the dirt and a boot in the back of his head held him there.

  ‘Heave ho!’ someone shouted.

  The pressure of the boot holding him down was released and Butch raised his head and groaned. He wanted to close his eyes but he could not take his gaze from that slowly twisting, swinging figure suspended on the end of the rope.

  ‘No, he whispered. ‘Frank… no…’

  The body of the old man swung beneath the tree in slow motion. Butch could hear a struggle beside him and Joe crashed down beside him. But he could not take his eyes from the dreadful sight of Frank hanging from the tree.

  Slowly the suspended body twisted around and they saw the face. The eyes had opened, as had the mouth. Frank’s lips writhed and twisted in a horrible parody of speech. His tongue protruded and his eyeballs bulged as the last vestige of life was throttled from him. Feebly the legs twitched but even that eventually ceased.

  The body of their friend swayed gently back and forth with hypnotic motion. Butch buried his aching head in the dirt once more in an attempt to blot out the ghastly sight.

  Rough hands grabbed the two prisoners and turned them over so they lay helpless on their backs, staring up at a circle of guns.

  ‘How did you like the first act of our little show?’ cackled the gaunt old man. ‘The second act requires audience participation.’

  They looked up into a face from hell. The old man was grinning down at them with his skull-like features. In his hand was a burning brand he had plucked from the fire.

  ‘That wound needs some attention,’ the hellhound continued. ‘Let me cauterise it.’

  With a sudden movement the old fiend bent forward and pushed the end of blazing branch into Joe’s wounded arm. It was so unexpected and brutally painful the big man yelled out in sudden agony.

  ‘Damn you to hell!’

  Joe twisted about as the pain in his wound intensified with the brutal treatment. Butch was trying to rise when a boot kicked him in the head. His ear had been bleeding from the earlier bullet that had been intended for his head. The boot smashed into the injury intensifying the pain.

  ‘Aaahhh!’

  The agony in his head momentarily disabled the cowboy. He clapped both hands to his injury. Blood was running down his neck and inside his shirt. His hands were slippery with the crimson flood pouring from the damaged ear.

  ‘Now fellas, we been easy on you so far. We want some answers. If you don’t answer promptly we burn you or cut you or if you’re real stubborn then we’ll hang you up there beside your partner.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Butch yelled.

  An agonising flame of agony lanced through him as one of the men him kicked him viciously between his legs. He opened his eyes and through tears of pain saw the man called Dave grinning down at him. With a sudden awful realisation Butch guessed at the identity of these sadistic men.

  ‘You’re them!’ he gasped. ‘You’re the butchers from the way station.’

  ‘OK fella.’

  The skull-like face of the old man was looming over him the smouldering branch still his hand.

  ‘That’s a start. How did you find us?’

  Butch stared into those cold fish eyes and shuddered. Not one that had ever been afraid of anything in his life he saw the face of evil and a stab of fear dug deep into his bowels. The memory of the bloody butchery back at the way station surfaced in his mind and he knew with sudden certainty that Joe and he were not meant to survive this ordeal. And their demise would be slow and prolonged and painful.

  ‘There were two lawmen at the way station; were they friends of yours?’

  Slowly Butch nodded. The movement hurt his head where he had been hit with the gun barrel. His ear ached but not as much as his balls where he had been kicked.

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, ‘we were the backup.’

  ‘Goddamn it, speak up.’

  The face bent closer.

  Butch raised his hands as if to ward off the threat the old man posed. The burning brand edged closer and closer to the cowboy’s face. He could feel the heat from the blaze and a few hot splinters fell onto his forehead.

  ‘Please mister,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t hurt us anymore. I’ll tell you everything.’

  28.

  With a suddenness that took the old man by surprise Butch’s hand closed over the fist holding the torch. With brutal strength he rammed the smouldering end into that grinning skull. At the same time his other hand gripped the old man’s waistcoat and he jerked him close.

  The man was screaming as the hot brand burned his eyes. He was thrashing about on top of Butch. The cowboy loosened his grip and was groping for the holster on the man’s gun belt. At the same time he kept twisting the burning stick into the man’s face.

  His hand closed over a gun butt. Butch jerked and the gun was free. He saw the big man Dave in front of him raising his gun. Butch shot him in the gut.

  The big bandit gasped and staggered back. He had been angling for a shot
at the cowboy but couldn’t get a clear aim because of the old man lying on top. With a sudden groan he sank to the ground clutching at his midriff.

  Butch relinquished his hold on the burning faggot and it fell into the dirt. He grabbed the blinded man and held him close making an effective shield against the bullets of his companions. The man was screaming and pawing at his damaged eyes.

  Butch swivelled the Colt aiming at the shadowy figures around him. He could not make out details of the men he was shooting at but he reasoned anyone standing was an enemy. When last he had seen his partner he was on the ground writhing in agony as the old man applied the burning brand to his wound.

  Ponytail fired at Butch but aimed wide for fear of hitting the old man who was struggling frantically to free himself from Butch’s grip.

  The gunmen were ignoring Joe and concentrating their efforts on finishing Butch and rescuing their leader. From his prone position on the dirt the big man launched a kick at Charlie, the stocky blonde gunman. As the man went down Joe, ignoring the pain in his wounded arm was on the outlaw like a cat springing on a rat.

  For a moment Joe saw stars as Charlie’s pistol cracked into his skull. Then he rammed his forehead into the outlaw’s face. The unexpected blow momentarily stunned the outlaw. But he was brutally strong and recovering quickly he swung once more with his weapon. The heavy revolver crashed into Joe’s head once again.

  Fighting against the pain the big man reached out with his good arm and grabbed the hand holding the weapon. For a few moments the two men struggled for possession of the gun. They were both strong men. Joe was at a disadvantage because of his disabled arm. But he knew he was fighting for his life.

  He was bitterly angry also. He had just seen his friend Frank callously strangled on the end of a rope. He wanted revenge for that murder. All reason left him. Ignoring the pain in his injured arm he rammed his fist into the youngster’s face. Blood was pouring from his busted nose where Joe had already butted him.

  Joe’s big meaty fist smashed into the injury and the nose was further crushed. More blood poured out of the damaged cartilage. The outlaw screamed out in rage. He struggled madly beneath Joe as he tried to throw the big man from him. Joe held grimly to the gun with his uninjured hand and punched again and again at the upturned face now crimson with blood.

  Somewhere on one side Butch was also fighting for his life. He did not know if he had managed to hit anyone with the shots from the purloined revolver. Then his hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

  ‘Damn!’ he swore.

  The screaming of the blinded man he was hugging close was deafening him. Suddenly a figure loomed over him and he saw the face of the youngster with the ponytail glaring down at him. The face was twisted with hate as the outlaw stared down at the trapped cowboy. In his hand he was holding a revolver.

  ‘Die you bastard!’ the twisted face screamed.

  He was so close the spittle from his distorted mouth splashed on to the cowboy lying trapped beneath the leader of the outlaws. The nozzle of the gun was rammed against Butch’s forehead. There was a sudden thud of lead striking bone and for one instant Butch though he was dead. The gun nozzle slid along the side of the cowboy’s head and he watched in bewilderment as the gunman’s head disintegrated and blood and brains splashed on to his upturned face.

  ‘Goddamn, am I dead or what?’

  Butch now had two bodies to contend with. One was moaning and pawing at his burned out eyes and the other was splattering brains and blood on him from a shattered skull.

  Butch went a little crazy then. Now it was he thrashing around in a frenzy as he tried to break away from the horrors pinning him to the dirt.

  The blinded leader rolled away and Butch was able to push the outlaw with the shattered head to one side. He sat up, his head reeling. A scene of confusion greeted him as he tried to make sense of the bodies lying around the campfire.

  As an afterthought he grabbed for the gun in the hand of the dead man lying beside him with his head blown apart. He heard the grunts and curses of a tussle going on behind him. He turned and saw his partner in a death struggle with the powerfully built young blond thug.

  Blood was running down Joe’s arm and pooling on the ground as he used that injured arm to strangle the youngster beneath him. The outlaw’s face was covered with blood also and his mouth gaped wide as Joe held relentlessly to his grip on the outlaw’s throat. A discarded gun lay in the dirt beside them.

  Butch began to crawl towards the struggling pair. He was on his hands and knees not sure if he could stand. His head was a dull ball of agony. The pain in his groin where Dave had kicked him worsened with each movement he made. He groaned with anguish as his tortured body protested but kept moving towards the violent struggle going on between the two powerful combatants.

  It was over before he reached them. The outlaw’s struggles grew feeble and his grip on Joe’s fingers slackened. There was a hideous grunt deep inside his throat. Joe never slackened his stranglehold. Slowly the outlaw’s hands fell to his sides and his struggles ceased.

  Joe was still maintaining that death grip when he felt a hand on his arm. He glanced round thinking he had another attacker to contend with. A face encrusted with blood and what looked like the bits of a dead animal was peering at him. The mouth on the bloody face opened and a voice he knew from somewhere croaked out at him.

  ‘Joe, you can let go now. That fella’s done for.’

  Slowly Joe relaxed and tried to push himself from the body of the man he had just strangled. His wounded arm gave way and with a grunt he sagged to the dirt. He lay on his back and heaved great breaths. The sky never looked so beautiful. Then he was jerked out of his reverie by crack of the rifle followed by the distinct zing of a bullet passing close overhead.

  29.

  ‘Goddamn, I thought they were all down.’ Butch yelled.

  He still held the gun he had grabbed from the outlaw who’d had his brains blown apart. More shots were buzzing around them as they twisted about to face this new threat. A bizarre sight met their eyes.

  Swaying drunkenly before them was the leader of the bandits. His blistered and blackened face was staring sightlessly towards them. In his hands he held a rifle that he was pointing in their direction and spacing his shots one by one towards them. He stopped firing and cocked his head to one side, standing motionless like a smoke blackened gargoyle listening for the sounds that would indicate where his enemies were.

  The two battered men lay motionless, frozen in horror at the sight of this dangerous creature. Injured and blinded he was, he was as deadly as a cornered animal.

  ‘Damn you,’ the blind head screamed. ‘I know you’re there. Charlie, Dave, where are you?’

  The grotesque, blackened face was turning from side to side questing for sign.

  ‘Eli, Marcus…!’

  The rifle fired again. Joe and Butch lay motionless afraid to move - afraid to draw the deadly attention of that blind but dangerous creature seeking them out. Joe saw the gun in his companion’s hand.

  ‘Shoot him,’ he whispered.

  That tiny sound was enough for the old man. The rifle spouted flame and this time the bullet ploughed into the dead man lying between them. Butch knew it was only a matter of time before one of those deadly missiles hit him or his partner. He aimed at the old man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The sightless head came up with the shock of the impact. In spite of being hit the gunman fired again. Butch shot another bullet and the old man stepped back under the impact. He still did not go down.

  ‘Damn you!’

  The blind gargoyle screamed defiantly and fired again towards the sound of the revolver.

  Butch shot again and again each bullet hitting the old man and jerking him back a step at a time. The hammer clicked on an empty shell. The cowboy looked round desperately for another weapon. The rifle fire ceased. He glanced back towards the blinded killer.

  The man was sitting on the dirt. His body swayed from side to s
ide. The rifle was pointing towards the ground. The blind man tried to bring it up level again but his strength was draining away with the terrible wounds he had taken. Slowly he keeled over on his side - even as he died his blackened skull remained turned towards his foes.

  The two friends lay on their backs bleeding into the dirt.

  ‘Joe, how are you?’

  ‘I’ve felt better.’

  There was a groan as Joe tried to sit up favouring his wounded arm.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Pretty done in.’

  Butch sat up - his head spinning with the movement. They gazed round the battlefield. The bodies of the outlaw gang were strewn around in a circle.

  ‘Joe,’ someone was calling. ‘Butch.’

  Down the cliff path came Jessica holding on to her rifle as she descended.

  ‘Jessica,’ they called out together. ‘It’s okay, we’re alive.’

  Wearily they climbed to their feet. Jessica ran across the last few yards. She hugged first Butch and then Joe.

  ‘I… I thought you were goners.’

  Butch was looking quizzically at the rifle the girl was carrying.

  ‘It was you. You shot that hombre.’

  ‘Oh, Butch I saw him kneeling there pointing his gun. I was afraid to shoot for fear of hitting any of you. But I knew if I didn’t make it he would have killed you.’

  ‘Jessica, you saved my life!’

  ‘I saw what they done to Frank. I was so scared.’

  She was shaking and the tears came flooding down her cheeks. Joe stepped forward and wrapped his good arm around the weeping girl.

  ‘We’re safe now, gal. And you did your bit to keep us safe.’

  The sound of rumbling wheels intruded on the quiet of the morning. They looked towards the entrance to the valley. Into sight lumbered a wagon. When the driver saw them standing there he waved and called out a greeting. The trio stood there waiting, unsure of what this new development heralded.

  The wagon drew up near them and the driver, a stringy looking fellow with bony hands and wrists sat gazing at the bodies strewn around the campsite.