They crept toward the dance hall, fanning out, each man aware they were dangerously outnumbered. The firing from within the dance hall was all but drowned out by the roar of the guns of the attackers. Then from the darkness came a shout, and Nathan believed it was one of the Horrells.
“You McLean cow nurses has got five minutes to come out. You don’t, then we douse the place with coal oil and burn you out.”
To the dismay of Nathan and the McLean riders, the attackers ceased firing, and there were no muzzle flashes.
CHAPTER 7
“Damn,” Vance groaned, “we’ll have to wait for them to make the next move, because we don’t know where they are.”
“It’s time for them to learn the rest of the McLean outfit is here,” said Nathan. “Get ready to fire.”
“No, damn it,” Vance argued. “There’s likely a dozen of these varmints, and our boys inside won’t be no help to us. Hell, we can’t surprise ’em if they know we’re here.”
“If they know we’re here,” said Nathan angrily, “they’ll cut down on us and we’ll have some targets. After they’ve fired the dance hall, what’s to stop them from standing us off while the McLean riders inside are burned to cinders? By God, use your head.”
“He’s talking sense,” Gus said. “Get your guns ready. Challenge ’em, Stone.”
“You Estrella varmints are surrounded,” Nathan shouted. “We’re the McLean outfit, and we’re ordering you to drop your guns. Make any move to fire the building ...”
Nathan’s plan worked to perfection as Estrella’s riders cut loose with their guns. The five McLean riders were belly-down with Winchesters, and while lead roared overhead, they laid down a deadly fusillade, firing at muzzle flashes. The defenders inside the dance hall understood what was happening, and when they began firing, some of the attackers were caught in a crossfire. There were cries of pain and groans of agony that trailed off into silence.
“To the horses,” somebody shouted. “Git to the horses an’ ride.”
The attackers ceased firing and ran for their lives. There was a clatter of hooves as those who were able to reach their horses galloped away.
“You McLean riders,” said Nathan, “this is the rest of the outfit. Are you hurt?”
“This is Tobe,” a voice responded. “Joel, Quad, an’ me is bloodied up some, but we’re alive. We’re comin’ out.”
While the trio had arm and leg wounds, they emerged on their feet. A rider came up the street with a lighted lantern, and when he dismounted, Nathan could see a star pinned to his vest. Sheriff Bowie Hatcher had arrived.
“Now,” said Hatcher, with all the authority he could muster, “just who the hell kicked off this fracas?”
“Why don’t you start an investigation an’ figger it out?” Gus suggested.
“By God, I’ve had a bellyful of you mouthy McLean riders,” Hatcher growled. “Come Monday, I’m telegraphin’ Santa Fe for a U.S. marshal.”
“Hatcher,” said Will, “them damn Estrella riders cut down on us without cause. Sandy Bigler is layin’ outside the Rio Saloon with a bullet hole in his skull. If you don’t saddle up and go after them coyotes for murder, then I reckon Mr. McLean will want to know why. It’ll be a good question for him to ask your U.S. marshal when he shows up.”
“You expect a lot of one man,” Hatcher said bitterly.
“The U.S. marshal won’t be but one man,” Gus said devilishly.
“Sheriff,” said Nathan, “we’re taking no responsibility for anything that happened here tonight. We defended ourselves and our outfit, and we’ll do it again. Now you gents that’s in need of a doctor, let’s be finding one. Then we’ll ride back to the ranch, because we may be needed there.”
“My God, yes,” Joel said. “It’d be just like the bastards to try an’ burn us out.”
“Those of you that needs patchin’ up,” said Nathan, “have it done. Since the sheriff is providin’ a lantern, I aim to see if we salted down any of those coyotes.”
“I ain’t been hit,” Vance said, “and I’m comin’ with you. I’d like to see some of them varmints with blood leakin’ out.”
“No more than me,” said Hugh.
“Just a damn minute,” Sheriff Hatcher protested, “this is law business.”
“So was the gunfight that got one of our boys killed and most of the others shot up,” Vance said. “Where the hell was you when we could of used your help?”
Hatcher stalked off with the lantern, saying nothing. Nathan, Vance, and Hugh were on his heels. The sheriff circled the dance hall and found three bodies, all of them Mejicano. Nathan was disappointed but not surprised that none of the Horrells had been killed. They were the kind to fight when they had the advantage, to run when the odds tilted the other way. Saying nothing to Hatcher, Nathan, Hugh, and Vance joined their comrades at the doctor’s office. When the outfit was ready to ride out, Hugh and Vance roped Sandy Bigler across his saddle. The men rode in silence, and long before reaching the McLean ranch, they where challenged.
“McLean riders comin’ in,” Vance shouted.
Leading his horse, Riley stepped out of the concealing brush. When the outfit reached the house, McLean and Squid stood on the porch with Winchesters.
“How bad?” Colton McLean asked.
“Sandy’s dead,” said Gus. “Rest of us got shot up some, but we’ll heal.”
“Bring Sandy into the parlor,” McLean said. “Then I want to see all of you in the dining hall. Squid, start up some coffee.”
They sat on benches drinking hot coffee and waiting for McLean to speak. Finally he did, and his voice was grim.
“Riley tells me they laid an ambush and gunned down Sandy without cause.”
“They done that,” Will said. “Gus an’ me, we was right behind him when he stepped out the door of the Rio Saloon. Sandy didn’t have a chance. There was at least three of ‘em cut down on us, ’cause it was the next two shots that nailed me and Gus.”
“Stone,” said McLean, “when Riley brought me word, I sent you, Vance, and Hugh back to town. Tell me what happened from the time the three of you arrived until the end of it.”
Nathan knew McLean was testing him, and he supplied only the facts, without exalting himself. McLean’s eyes were not on Nathan, but on the faces of the rest of the cowboys who had been with him. There was still some animosity in the eyes of Hugh and Vance, and McLean sighed with satisfaction. Nathan Stone had taken command. While Estrella’s killers had gunned down Sandy Bigler, they had paid with the lives of five of their own, and it was the kind of vengeance Colton McLean understood. He got up and put down his tin coffee cup.
“You all done what you had to, and you done well,” said McLean. “It’s Sunday, not more’n three hours from daylight. We’ll have breakfast at eight and then we’ll lay Sandy away.”
“By God,” Vance said, “you ain’t lettin’ them bastards get away with this, are you?”
“I can’t see they got away with anything,” McLean replied. “They started a fight and we finished it. We lost one man and they lost five. They’re likely bellied-down with their Winchesters waitin’ for us, but we’re not ridin’ into their trap. As it stands, they wronged us and we’re guilty of nothing more than defending ourselves. I aim to leave it that way as long as I can.”
Reaching the barn, the cowboys unsaddled their horses, and despite the late hour they took the time to rub the animals down. Nothing was said until they reached the bunkhouse, and Vance turned on Nathan.
“You work fast, bucko. You rode in yesterday and already the old man’s talking to you and down to the rest of us. Hugh or me could have told him what happened in town.”
“I agree,” said Nathan mildly, “but he didn’t ask you. He asked me, and I told him.”
“Damn it, Vance,” Hugh said, “back off. He told it straight, givin’ us credit as an outfit. You was goin’ to stand there and let Estrella’s gun hawks burn that dance hall. Now you got a mad on because Stone challen
ged ’em and forced a shootout.”
“So that’s how it was,” said Tobe. “Me, and Joel and Quad was in there, and we’d of been fried alive. We’re obliged, Stone.”
“There was no disagreement,” Nathan said. “The five of us fired together.”
But Vance glared at Nathan, all the more agitated because his hesitation under fire had been questioned. Nobody said anything more, but Vance’s comrades looked on him with disfavor, and Nathan knew it wasn’t over.
“Damn it,” Sam Horrell complained, “they ain’t comin’.”
“Why should they?” Ben observed. “We cut down one of them, they kill five of us, and you expect them to ride into another ambush, all in one night?”
“Ben’s right,” said Martin. “We’re wastin’ our time layin’ out here in the brush. It’ll be daylight in another two hours. Even them Mejicanos was smart enough to give it up and ride back to camp.”
Tom Horrell laughed. “I wish we’d of gone with ’em. I’d of liked to see old Estrella’s face when he learned five of his border hellions was salted down in one fight. He played up them varmints like they’re so tough they wear out their britches from the inside.”
“You’re almighty quiet, William,” said Ben. “Cat got your tongue?”
“By God,” Clint Barkley said, “if I was a Horrell, after tonight, I’d change my name. I don’t like New Mexico, I don’t like sheep, I don’t like Mexes, and I especially don’t like Horrells.”
“Mount up, William,” said Ben. “Time we ride back to the sheep camp, it’ll be first light, and you can listen to old Armijo cuss in Spanish. Then we’ll have a big bowl of good old mutton stew for breakfast.”
The McLean riders who had been wounded groaned as they tugged on their boots, and there was nothing said as they made their way to the dining hall for breakfast. Squid had the coffee ready and there was the tempting odor of frying ham and baking biscuits. There was a grin or two from the cowboys when Cotton Blossom poked his nose into the dining room from the kitchen, since he had wasted no time making friends with the Mexican cook. Colton McLean came in, looking none the worse for the long night. Squid handed him a tin cup of steaming coffee and the rancher took a seat at one of the tables. He eyed the men as though he knew there had been words among them, but he found himself unable to get to Nathan Stone. Here was a man, he decided, who had played some poker in his time and had been damn good at it. Finally he spoke.
“Those of you who didn’t pick up any lead last night are elected to dig a grave for Sandy. Right after breakfast, before it gets too hot. Any of you too stove up to ride?”
Nobody spoke, and McLean continued.
“Comin’ out on the short end of that shootout last night, I look for Estrella to try and get even, but not by attacking the herd. We’ll graze ’em as close in as we can and avoid losing any more riders in ambush situations because of the herd.”
“Hell,” said Vance, “they’ll scatter the herd from here to yonder.”
“Maybe,” McLean said, “but I want every one of you to keep this in mind. We’re dealing with bushwhackers, and attacks on the cattle are a means of luring some of you within rifle range. They’ll use the cattle to trap you, to keep you always on the defensive. Wars are never won that way. You must choose your own ground. We’ll fight, but we’ll do it on our terms, not theirs.”
“I like that,” Gus said.
“It’s the way wars are won,” said Nathan. “Keep your enemy on the defensive.”
“That’s what we done last night,” Will added. “We forced ’em to fight on our terms.”
While Vance said nothing, he clearly didn’t like the favorable manner in which Nathan Stone was being accepted, nor did he like McLean’s reluctance to take the fight directly to Armijo Estrella’s sheep camp. Nathan Stone didn’t walk on water, and eventually he would draw a bad hand....
Lincoln, New Mexico Territory. September 20, 1873
Following the gunfight in Lincoln in which Sandy Bigler had been killed, McLean split the outfit insofar as trips to town were concerned. Four of the riders were allowed to go on Saturday night, while the remaining five rode in on Sunday night. No longer did they enter or leave saloons by the front door, and they stayed together in twos or threes, when entering or leaving any establishment. Nathan, Gus, Will, and Quad were in town, and after supper, they headed for the Rio Saloon. As had become their custom, they entered through the back door, Nathan in the lead. Suddenly he froze, for Ben and Martin Horrell stood at the bar. The Horrells turned, their hands hovering over the butts of their Colts, and there was no mistaking the recognition in their eyes.
“One move out of either of you,” said Nathan, “and you’re dead.”
“So you’re the bullypuss that’s sidin’ McLean’s cow nurses,” Ben said.
“I’m tempted to call you Horrells skunk-striped, backshootin’ sheepmen,” said Nathan, “but that’s too good for you. An egg-sucking dog would shy away from you lowdown varmints.”
“You ain’t proddin’ us into drawin’ agin you, Stone,” Martin Horrell said. “We heard you’re a man-killer. We’ll choose our time.”
“I’ll be careful not to turn my back on you,” said Nathan.
The Horrells sidled toward the door, careful to keep their hands clear of their guns. When they had gone, Nathan’s companions looked at him with new respect.
“I reckon you know them varmints from somewhere,” Quad said.
“Texas,” said Nathan. “An outlaw relation of theirs back-shot a good friend of mine.”
“I’d not be surprised if that outlaw relation follered them here,” Gus observed wryly.
“I’m hoping he has,” said Nathan, “but he’s not a Horrell. His handle’s Clint Barkley or Bill Bowen. But I’ll know the no-account coyote when I see him.”
“All these sidewinders goes by the name of Horrell,” Will said. “There’s the two that just slunk out of here—Ben and Martin—and the others is Samuel, Thomas, and William.”
“William? I never heard of him,” said Nathan. “He could be Barkley.”
“They look related,” Gus said. “Like they was all cut out of the same cloth.”
Nathan said no more. In a way, he was glad the Horrells hadn’t had the sand to draw, for McLean had cautioned them against further gunplay in town. Nathan well understood the rancher’s reasoning. With just half the outfit in town, they were subject to attack by the entire bunch of Estrella riders, with no hope of assistance from Sheriff Bowie Hatcher. That, and McLean still sought to shift the blame for the continued violence on the troublesome Spaniard, Armijo Estrella. Nathan and his companions returned to the ranch without any shooting, but on Sunday night, all hell busted loose, and it started when Vance failed to obey Colton McLean’s orders.
Hugh, Vance, Riley, Joel, and Tobe headed for town. It was Sunday afternoon and the sky was awash with big gray thunderheads.
“Come on,” Vance said, kicking his horse into a fast gallop. “Let’s get there ahead of the rain.”
Reining up in front of the cafe, they dismounted and barely reached the porch before the storm broke. Ordering supper, they weren’t quite finished when the Horrells—Martin, Benjamin, Samuel, and Thomas—walked in and took a table.
“Well, by God,” Vance said loudly, “there’s enough sheep stink in here to gag a flock of buzzards.”
“Vance,” said Hugh quietly, “shut up.”
“You ain’t my daddy,” Vance growled. “There’s four of us and four of them. Ain’t you man enough to shear at least one of the woolly varmints?”
The Horrells seemed not to hear, and to the relief of Vance’s companions, they were able to leave the cafe without a fight.
“Damn you, Vance,” said Tobe, “the old man told us not to start anything. Shoot off your mouth one more time, and I’m ridin’ back to the ranch.”
“I’ll go with you,” Riley said.
“So will I,” said Joel. “It’s like McLean said, we don’t know th
at the whole damn lot of Estrella’s gun-throwers ain’t holed up here somewhere.”
“Hell,” Vance said, “you saw what’s here.”
“We saw what was in the cafe,” said Riley. “Even a gun-slick Mejicano’s got pride.”
Lincoln being a small town, there was little to do when a man grew tired of the four or five saloons. The Rainbow Dance Hall offered some variety, for there were women. The place also had a bar and several billiard tables, and the McLean cowboys were there when the Horrells arrived.
“Damn,” Vance said, “them sheep-stink Horrells is here.”
There was uneasy laughter that died quickly, and Vance’s companions silenced him with murderous looks. The Horrells made their way to the bar, apparently ignoring the five McLean riders. Joel and Tobe, with intentions of keeping Vance away from the bar, led the way to a billiard table that wasn’t in use. Riley racked the balls, and that seemed to have defused what might have become an explosive situation, but it wasn’t over. The very first time Vance leaned across the billiard table for a long shot, a hard-flung empty bottle struck him in the back of the head. After that, it was Katy-bar-the-door, as the remaining McLean riders entered the fray. Billiard balls bounced off heads, shattered lamp globes, and toppled pyramids of bottled whiskey behind the bar. The McLean riders, swinging billiard cues, were advancing to meet the Horrells when the roar of a shotgun stopped every man in his tracks.
“The next load of buckshot goes right in amongst you varmints,” shouted the little man standing on the bar. “You ain’t bustin’ up my place. I don’t care a damn if you kill one another, but do it outside. Now git!”
Being nearest the door, the Horrells left first. The McLean riders, as had become their habit, left by the back door. Hugh stepped out first, and a shot from the comer of the building ripped into his thigh.
“Them damn Horrells!” Vance shouted. Drawing his Colt, he lit out in a run toward the position from which the shot had come. But the Horrells were not the problem. From across the street, four Winchesters cut loose, and Vance died on his feet. Hugh, Riley, Joel, and Tobe scrambled back into the dance hall, slamming the door shut behind them. The deadly fire continued, lead tearing into the door and log walls.
The Killing Season Page 11