“Watch your tongue, muleskinner!” Cain Riddell thundered. “You’s likely heard that Cain Riddell ain’t a man to be trifled with.”
Cain . . . That jogged something in Zeb’s memory, but he couldn’t place the name, except the Bible story.
“Rangers are looking for you,” Sweazy said. “So is a posse out of Dallas.”
Riddell bowed his head, shaking it, and crossed himself. “Alas, that posse found us last week. Unfortunately for them. Now you give me those wagons,” Riddell said, “or I start cutting off your captain’s fingers. You call the tune, amigo.”
Suddenly the captain started yelling, “Boys, blow up those wagons! Don’t let these swine get that gunpowder! Blow it up, get out of here. They won’t let me live no matter what you do! Blow it . . .”
Zeb couldn’t believe what happened next. Ebenezer Chase swung the barrel, which clipped the captain behind his ear, knocked him to the knees. A man behind Riddell slid off his horse, jerked the captain up, threw him on his horse, led him away. Quickly Zeb recovered, bringing the Sharps back up, putting the rider in his sights, before switching to the big man with the white hair.
“You listen to your captain,” Riddell was saying, “and you’ll all be dead.”
“Just do like Uncle Cain says!” It was Ebenezer talking now, and Zeb swung the carbine, found Ebenezer Chase’s ratty old quilt vest in his sights. The Sharps began trembling in Zeb’s hands.
Uncle Cain . . . Now Zeb remembered. Ebenezer had spoken of him. Talked right highly of him. Hadn’t he been a slave back on that same plantation as Ebenezer? Had Ebenezer been lying to Zeb all this time? Was this his plan? No, it didn’t make a lick of sense. Zeb’s head shook. He closed his eyes, opened them, tried to keep that carbine from shaking, tried to keep the tears out of his eyes, and kept the gun barrel aimed at Ebenezer Chase.
“I’ll give you ten minutes,” Cain Riddell said. “Then I’ll start cutting Mister Taneyhill’s fingers off his right hand.”
Ebenezer mounted his horse. Zeb followed him with the Sharps.
“We could kill them,” Pruden said.
Bile rose in Zeb’s throat.
“No,” Sweazy said. “They’re still under a white flag. Besides, they’d kill us, and the captain. They have us outnumbered. Could blow us all to perdition if they wanted to.”
“I cannot believe Ebenezer Chase is one of them,” Gonzales said.
“Darky turncoat,” Pruden said.
“Shut up!” Zeb snapped. “Ebenezer ain’t . . .” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t forget what he had just heard. Or seen.
The bushwhackers, Ebenezer, and Taneyhill were out of sight now.
“Cannot be far away,” Severo said.
“Likely just around the bend,” Pruden said.
“How many men?” Sweazy asked.
Gonzales shrugged. “¿Quién sabe? ”
“Dozen would be my guess,” Pruden said. “Maybe more.”
“Ebenezer,” Sweazy said, “he had one of them quick-shooting rifles. So did a couple others I saw.”
“Henry lever-actions,” Pruden agreed. “Spotted a Spencer amongst them blackguards, too. They not only got us outnumbered, they got us outgunned.”
Severo crossed himself. Sweazy let out a little curse.
When Zeb stood, he butted the Sharps on the ground. “Let’s give them the wagons,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Forgive me, Lord, for hitting the captain like that, but I had to. If I hadn’t, one of Uncle Cain’s highwaymen might have killed him, then they would have killed Zeb . . . Gonzales . . . I had to do that. Don’t you see? Had to give Captain Taneyhill and Zeb, all the others, a chance. It was the only way.
When Ebenezer had finished mouthing the prayer, Captain Taneyhill was rubbing the knot behind his ear where Ebenezer had struck him with the Henry’s barrel. They were back to the camp, Ebenezer guarding the captain, Cain Riddell arguing with the scar-faced man named Tanner.
Suddenly a Mexican rider on a bay horse loped into camp, waving a pale sombrero over his head, screaming, “They leave! The muleskinners run from the wagons! On foot!”
Captain Taneyhill stopped rubbing his head.
Riddell clapped his hands, beaming. “Excellent.”
Tanner barked an order. “Ride those men down. Kill every last one of them.”
“No!” Riddell shouted. “Let them go.”
“Riddell . . .” Tanner began, but the old Negro cut him off.
“We need to get those wagons out of here first, Tanner, and head north to the Nations. You said it yourself about that smoke drawing attention. Those ’skinners can’t hurt us, and it’s a long way to civilization.” Turning, he said urgently, “The mules?”
The Mexican pointed over the ridge. “They turned them loose. Some wander toward us. Others toward the burning wagons that block the road. Some into the brush.”
“Emil!” Riddell gestured at a black man with a brown porkpie hat. “Get to those wagons.” He pointed at the Mexican on horseback. “Carlito, you and your boys rounds up those mules. ¡Vamanos! Muy pronto.”
“What about him?” Tanner gave Captain Taneyhill a menacing stare.
“You stays here, Ebenezer,” Riddell said as he mounted the big white horse. “Kill him if he moves. Shoot him down as a white man would do you or any man of color.”
Ebenezer felt confusion all around him. The sun was starting to tip behind the mesa. Choking dust rose as men mounted their horses, whipped them into gallops. Ebenezer threw Captain Taneyhill a quick glance, then looked at the silver plate on the rifle’s stock. For the first time, he read the words:
In deep appreciation to Leonard J. Stricklyn
From the people of Dallas County, Texas
June 21, 1863
Stricklyn. Major Hall had mentioned him. He was the undersheriff, had led the posse after . . . Cain Riddell. Ebenezer watched Riddell ride through the brush, remembered what he had yelled at Sweazy just a few minutes ago. Something about the posse having caught up with them. Unfortunately . . .
Riddell had killed them. Murdered them.
Ebenezer looked around to determine if Cain Riddell and his renegades had left him alone with the captain. He swung around, hoping, but . . . no . . . three men . . . a Mexican and two Negroes . . . remained in camp. One of them was looking at the trailing dust, the other two at Captain Taneyhill and Ebenezer.
“Ebenezer?”
Ebenezer turned to the captain.
“Work the lever on that rifle,” he said.
“Huh?” Looking at the Henry in his hands.
“The lever. Cock it.”
Ebenezer eyed Taneyhill with suspicion, then ratcheted the lever down and up. The heavy metallic clicks sounded incredibly loud.
Captain Taneyhill did the strangest thing. He smiled. “As I expected,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s empty.”
Then Ebenezer remembered that, when he had seen Riddell twice work the lever, a cartridge had been ejected, one empty, the other unfired. He looked at the dirt, spotted the live shell. Swallowing, he inched his way to the bullet, picked it up.
“Quick, now, Ebenezer,” the captain said. “It’s a little awkward to load one of those, but we’ll need that one shot.”
He had said we. An intense relief washed over Ebenezer. He trusts me, knows I’m not a turncoat.
“Turn the lever locking latch.” Taneyhill pointed at the rifle.
Ebenezer found the latch, turned it, and the lever went down maybe a half inch. “Push the lever,” Taneyhill said. “Then feed that shell into the tubular magazine. There. Under the barrel. No, rim first, Ebenezer. Rim first. Good, lad. Good. Keep that rifle pointed away from you. There you go. Now, angle it just a tad, let the cartridge slide a bit. All right, now rotate the barrel back into . . .”
A murderous explosion rocked him forward, and Riddell’s three men let out a yell and headed for the wagons. Ebenezer’s ears rang again, and w
hen he looked up, Captain Taneyhill was pushing himself to a seated position.
Shaking his head, Ebenezer straightened himself. The captain cleared his own head, pointed at the rifle, whispered, “Jack the hammer.” Ebenezer did as instructed. “All right,” the captain said. “It’s loaded. But Cain Riddell doesn’t know that.”
Thick white smoke rose into the darkening sky. “What happened?” Ebenezer asked.
Captain Taneyhill chuckled. “Good lads,” he said. “They followed my instructions.”
The wagons! They had blown up all that gunpowder and, given the time it had taken, Ebenezer decided they had likely caught and killed a number of Cain Riddell’s men. Ebenezer began sweating furiously.
Moments later, a bay horse burst through the brush, its saddle swinging underneath its belly, the horse’s eyes wild with fright. The bay kept right on running. Another Negro rode into camp next, blood streaming from his mouth and nose. Others stumbled through the brush, one of the Mexicans crossing himself, shaking his head when one of the men left behind asked him something.
Finally Cain Riddell loped through the brush, swung from his horse, and began barking orders: “Get mounted! Those ’skinners blew up every last wagon.”
“Where is Emil?” one of the black men asked.
“Scattered from here to the Brazos River!” Riddell yelled. “Tanner was right. Should have knowed better. We’ll ride down every last one of those . . .”
A bullet killed the magnificent white stallion. Riddell whirled. Another shot came. Ebenezer turned. Captain Taneyhill struggled to his feet. A Mexican clutched his side and dropped to the ground. A puff of smoke rose from the brush, and another one of the bandits fell.
“Come on, boys!” Taneyhill yelled, waving his hat over his head. “Give ’em what-for!”
Ebenezer blinked back surprise as Zeb Hogan stepped forward, knelt, brought the Sharps rifle to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and another man pitched from his saddle, fell writhing on the ground, blood pouring from his thigh. Then Ebenezer saw Severo, swinging his rifle like an axe, the savage sound of impact carrying over the din of battle. Severo dropped a white forager with the blow, reached down, grabbed a Henry rifle, began firing. Sweazy leaped out of the brush, knocking a Mexican from the saddle, slashed with his knife, snatched up the dead man’s rifle . . .
“You lying, stinking, miserable white . . .” Riddell drew one of the heavy Dragoon revolvers from his holster and made a beeline for Captain Taneyhill. “I’ll see you dead if it’s the last thing I do.”
Ebenezer remembered the Henry rifle he held. Stepping in front of Captain Taneyhill, blocking him from Riddell, he swung the barrel, pointing it at Cain Riddell as the outlaw leader made his way toward then. Riddell didn’t even seem to notice the young black boy with the repeating rifle.
“Uncle Cain,” Ebenezer begged, “please, stop.”
Spotting Ebenezer, Riddell chuckled, but kept right on walking. “Go ahead, Ebenezer, shoot me. Kill your Uncle Cain.”
Ebenezer’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“You always was nothing more than a Sambo. House darky. Missus Hall’s pet. You ain’t got the guts. You think I’d trust you . . .”
“Cain!” Tanner galloped into their midst. Riddell spun around, spotted the scarred white man on his horse, aiming a pistol down at him. “You got my brother blown to bits. I knew I never should have sided with some ignorant charcoal fool.” The pistol belched smoke and flame. Riddell fell on his back, his gun spinning underneath a mesquite. The horse reared, Tanner steadied it, then saw Captain Taneyhill. Saw Ebenezer. Thumbed back the hammer.
Ebenezer had just started to bring the rifle up when something pushed him from behind. He caught a glimpse of a hand jerking the rifle from his grip. Tanner’s revolver roared. Something buzzed over Ebenezer’s head. He hit the ground, rolled over, watched Taneyhill bracing the stock against his left thigh, his right arm still hanging uselessly, lifting the barrel. He saw it all happening as if in a dream, as if time was stretching, moving all so slowly.
Tanner’s horse rearing.
The gunman cocking his revolver.
The Henry booming.
The horse pitching to its side, spilling Tanner from the saddle.
Captain Taneyhill bringing the empty rifle up in his good arm, cutting loose with a savage Rebel yell, charging Tanner as the bushwhacker rose to his knees, snapping a shot, cocking the pistol.
Another shot boomed behind Ebenezer, and Tanner’s chest blossomed crimson as he fell on his back, shuddered once, then lay still.
Turning, Ebenezer saw Cain Riddell on his side, his right arm extended, holding the other Dragoon pistol. The revolver slipped from his fingers, and he slumped over, letting out a small moan.
* * * * *
The next thing Ebenezer knew, he was cradling Riddell’s head in his lap, tears streaming down his face, asking him, “Why, Uncle Cain? Why . . . ?”
“My choice, Ebenezer,” he said. “Free man’s gots a right to choose his . . .” His eyes shut. He trembled. “Make your own choices, boy. Make the right one.”
A shadow crossed his face. Captain Taneyhill stood over him, holding the revolver he had taken off Tanner’s dead body. The sound of gunfire died down. Most of Cain Riddell’s men were dead or hightailing it out of there, wounded.
“That Henry . . .” Riddell said. “You told the boy . . .”
The captain’s head bobbed slowly.
Grinning, Riddell faced Ebenezer again. “You woulda shot me . . . Ebenezer?”
His head shook, but Cain Riddell knew Ebenezer was lying.
“That’s all right,” he said. “You done good, boy. There’s a preacher man at Phantom Hill. Bury me there.” Riddell reached over, gripped Ebenezer’s hand. “I ain’t nothing but a runaway, Ebenezer, nothing more’n a swamp runner, but you’s free. Now, find our camp, you . . .”
He never finished.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Once, Phantom Hill had been an Army post, but no more. Lately it had been used as a stagecoach stop, which explained why the corrals were so solid among a city of crumbling adobe walls. It didn’t explain the whitewashed church, standing out among the stone and earthen-colored buildings. The building hadn’t always been a place of worship, just one of the adobes the Army had built, which somebody had turned into a church.
It would serve the purpose.
Zeb Hogan and the others would be busy this day, digging graves. Had it been left to Zeb, Cain Riddell would be rotting with the others they had buried in a shallow, single grave back alongside the trail. Sweazy felt the same. So did Pruden. But Captain Taneyhill and Ebenezer reminded them that Cain Riddell—Uncle Cain to Ebenezer—had likely saved the captain’s life, and that an outlaw, even one as bad as Riddell, deserved to have his last wish granted, and he had asked to be buried here.
The muleskinners had gathered what stock they could find. Several of the mules, many of the bandits’ horses, and a great number of men had been killed when the wagons had blown up. Pruden had wanted to go after the bandits that had gotten away, but Sweazy had said to let them go. They had to set the captain’s busted arm, get that shoulder back in its socket, and, most importantly, dig the bullet out of his shoulder before the wound became infected. They had to figure how they could get back to Jefferson.
Captain Taneyhill had ordered Sweazy on a scouting mission southwest. To check on Riddell’s camp, just in case the bandit hadn’t been lying, that he had women and children there. The rest of the group headed to Phantom Hill. They had to bury Cain Riddell. More importantly, they had to bury Miguel Gonzales.
They had paid a price for that assault on Riddell’s men.
Zeb wondered if it had been worth it.
“I’ll fetch the preacher,” Captain Taneyhill, his arm in a sling, said after the bodies of Riddell and Gonzales had been carried to the Phantom Hill cemetery. When the blanket fell off the old Mexican’s face, Zeb reached down to cover it, bu
t Ebenezer beat him to it. Tears rolled down Ebenezer’s cheeks, and he looked up at Zeb, shaking his head.
“It’s my fault,” he said.
“No, it ain’t,” Zeb responded.
“I never was one of the gang,” Ebenezer said.
“I knowed that, too. Reckon I taught you good.” Zeb forced a smile.
Ebenezer looked perplexed.
“How to lie,” Zeb explained.
Ebenezer smiled, but only briefly, before he frowned again. “Uncle Cain, he was the real liar,” he said. “Told me my wife and daughter were still alive. Gave me an empty rifle. He would have killed me and the captain.”
“You saved the captain’s life,” Zeb reminded him.
“No.” Ebenezer’s head shook. “Not really.”
A horse whinnied, and Zeb looked past the runaway slave’s shoulder, saw people coming into the old fort’s grounds. Most of them walked slowly, looking scared, as if they didn’t know what to do, which way to go, what to expect. Women, mostly. Negro women and some children. A white man rode behind them, and Zeb recognized the rider as Sweazy.
“Hey,” Zeb said softly, slowly lifting his arm, pointing. He wasn’t certain, didn’t want to raise Ebenezer’s hopes.
Ebenezer spun, looked, took a step, stopped. His heart pounded. He had to catch his breath, searching the faces of the women, some middle-aged, a few with white hair, and a couple of younger ones in their late teens or early twenties. One of the latter carried a child.
“God!” The word shot out of Ebenezer’s throat, part prayer, part exclamation. His knees started to buckle, but he recovered, and shouted out a name: “Lizzie!” Suddenly he was dashing toward them, and the young woman, holding a toddler tightly against her breasts, was running to meet him, screaming out Ebenezer’s name.
When they embraced, tears started to fill Zeb’s eyes. He looked at the shovel in his hand, wondering if he should start digging or go over to his friend, meet Ebenezer’s family. No, he told himself, give them time alone. That’s what Pruden and Sweazy were doing. Zeb felt himself smiling, until a voice from behind chilled him.
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