“Come on,” he whispered to the other three. As he drew his gun, he began to creep along the side of the barn toward the street.
When he reached the building’s front corner, he paused again. He could look the entire length of the main street, all the way to the mission at the far end.
Lights burned in the sanctuary, but Slaughter paid little attention to them. If there was any place in La Reata he wouldn’t find the men who had raided Tombstone, he thought, it was in a house of God.
He was more interested in the cantina located diagonally across the street. A number of horses were tied outside that building, enough to make Slaughter’s heart slug a little faster in his chest. He supposed the animals could belong to vaqueros who worked on the ranches in the area, both above and below the border, but it seemed unlikely that many of them would be in town at the same time. La Reata was just a tiny village, not a town like Tombstone.
It made more sense to him that the horses belonged to the gang of outlaws, and as he was thinking that, a figure appeared in the doorway of the cantina and swaggered outside, a little unsteady on his feet. Light from inside spilled over him, and Slaughter stiffened as he recognized the burly outlaw who had galloped out of Tombstone with Viola perched in front of him.
It still didn’t make sense to him why the outlaws stopped in La Reata when they could have been across the border in less than half an hour, but Slaughter accepted that good fortune. It was just a matter of finding Viola and figuring out a way to get her free.
He turned to his companions and was about to whisper the news to them when something hard pressed into his side. The words froze in his throat as he recognized the metal cylinder of a gun barrel.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Ross Murdock said. “This is as far as it goes.”
Chapter 15
“Hey, what are you doing?” Mose Tadrack exclaimed.
“Shut up,” Murdock snapped. “Tadrack, you and Winters throw your guns away, or I’ll blow a hole through the sheriff.”
Slaughter said, “You men stand your ground. Murdock is bluffing. If he fires, it’ll bring the outlaws down on all of us.”
“They’re here?” Winters asked. “You’re sure?”
“I’m certain,” Slaughter said. “I just saw one of them come out of the cantina and recognized him from the raid yesterday morning. In fact, he’s the one who carried off my wife.”
“I’m mighty sorry about that, Sheriff,” Murdock said, “but I can’t let you interfere. Those men have to get away with the loot they took from the bank.”
Murdock’s double cross had Slaughter thrown for a loop, but that didn’t stop his brain from working at a rapid clip. “You’re the one who took that shot at me last night. I figured it was Doyle, but it was you, Murdock.”
“I thought if you were dead, the others would turn back,” Murdock said tensely.
“And that would work out well for you, because then no one would ever know that you’ve been embezzling from the bank.” The theory had just clicked together in Slaughter’s mind. “With the bank cleaned out, the loss would be blamed on the robbers.”
“Hold on a minute,” Winters said. “You mean the outlaws didn’t get as much as they figured on?”
Slaughter didn’t know why that would matter to the corporal. He ignored the question. “You’ll wind up in a lot more trouble if you pull that trigger, Murdock. Put the gun down and we’ll work this out.”
“I-I can’t.” Murdock’s voice shook from strain. “If Mr. Stockard ever finds out what I’ve done, he’ll put me in prison. I-I know he will.”
Keeping his voice calm and steady, Slaughter asked, “How much did you take, son?”
“Almost”—Murdock had to swallow before he could go on—“six hundred dollars.”
Rage boiled up inside Slaughter. This boy had tried to kill him and now wanted to ruin his attempt to rescue Viola, all over six hundred measly dollars? That might seem like a fortune to Ross Murdock, but it wasn’t the price of a man’s life and a woman’s safety.
“Listen to me, Murdock,” Slaughter said as he controlled his anger with an effort. “Put the gun down and I’ll take care of this. Corporal Winters will be going with Captain Donelson and the rest of his patrol when this is over, and he won’t have any reason to say anything about this to the law, will you, Winters?”
The trooper sounded amused as he drawled, “I reckon not, Sheriff.”
“And Mose won’t say anything,” Slaughter went on.
“No, sir, I sure won’t,” Tadrack vowed.
“When we get back to Tombstone, I’ll make up any discrepancy. Stockard doesn’t have to know anything about it.” Slaughter’s voice hardened. “But you’ll have to pay me back, and you’ll have to give me your word that you’ll never do anything so blasted stupid again!”
“I-I . . .” Murdock moaned, moving the gun away from Slaughter’s side and pointing it at the ground. In a miserable voice, he said, “My God, Sheriff, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what got into me. I never should have done it in the first place, and then it seemed like everything I tried to do to fix it just made it worse.” The words babbled out of the young man’s mouth. “If you’ll do that for me, I swear I’ll never, ever do anything like that again!”
Corporal Winters said, “No, you sure won’t, you dumb idiot.”
He brought up his borrowed .45, jammed the muzzle against the side of Ross Murdock’s head, and pulled the trigger. The gun’s boom was slightly muffled as the heavy slug shattered Murdock’s skull, bored through his brain, and exploded out the other side. As Murdock dropped dead to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, Winters took a fast step back and covered Slaughter and Tadrack with the revolver.
“Fella almost ruined everything,” Winters said with a grin. “But I reckon it’ll be all right now.”
On the plains north of the village, gunfire erupted.
* * *
There was no law in La Reata, not even a local constable, and even if there had been, it seemed unlikely the outlaws would have worried about him. Judging by the way they swaggered around openly, they seemed to think that they owned the place.
Viola found out why that was during supper in the hotel dining room with Chaco, Mercedes, and Gabriel. Mercedes explained that in addition to trying to raise an army to throw off the yoke of the dictator Díaz, her brother had been helping her and the people of La Reata for several years.
“At one time, this was part of Mexico.” Mercedes took a sip of wine from her glass. “To the people, it might as well still be. Treaties signed in Washington and Mexico City and borders shifting back and forth have no meaning to them.”
“The Mission of San Lorenzo has been here for more than a hundred years,” Gabriel added. “But it had fallen into disrepair until Chaco and I and the others helped restore it to what it once was. Chaco made sure a priest was sent here, as well.”
Chaco looked more and more uncomfortable as his sister and his friend talked. “Good deeds are best done in the dark, so that no one knows about them.”
“But people should know,” Mercedes insisted. “The government calls you a bandit and sends the rurales to pursue you, but everything you do is for the good of the people.”
Viola looked across the table at Chaco. “Can’t you do good without breaking the law?”
“Honestly, these days in Mexico . . .” He shook his head. “No, señorita. I wish it were otherwise, but you cannot.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Believe it,” Gabriel said. “If the rurales ever got their hands on us, they would have us up against a wall in front of a firing squad so quick—”
“That’s enough,” Mercedes interrupted. “I don’t like talk such as that. Someday things will be different and good men won’t have to worry about firing squads.”
“I pray that you are right, mi hermana,” Chaco said quietly.
Viola took a sip of her wine and thought about how bizarre the situation was
. They were four people sitting around a table, having a conversation about politics, law, and good deeds, and it was easy to forget that less than forty-eight hours earlier she had been forcibly abducted by the two men who were now her dinner companions.
She knew she should hate them—and she was still angry with them for what they had done, no doubt about that—but she couldn’t bring herself to feel about them as she had during those first few desperate hours of her captivity.
They were the only ones in the dining room. The hotel owner and his wife the cook had served them and then withdrawn.
When the meal was finished, Gabriel grinned at Mercedes. “We go back to the cantina now, eh? You haven’t danced for me in a long time, Mercedes.”
She slapped his hand. “Stop that. There will be no dancing tonight. Señorita Smith will be coming back to the cantina with me.”
“Actually,” Viola said as she looked at Chaco, “I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look at some of the paintings and tapestries in the mission. They seemed to be very beautiful.”
He hesitated, then said, “I could show them to you. They are beautiful, and there is no more peaceful place that I know of.”
“You won’t let her get away, amigo?” Gabriel rumbled.
“I won’t try to get away,” Viola said.
Chaco looked surprised by that statement. “You give me your word on that, señorita?”
“I do. I think I’ve misjudged you, Señor Romero.”
“I told you,” Gabriel said with his leering grin.
Viola ignored the big outlaw and said to Chaco, “I’d like to hear more about your plans for helping your people.”
He leaned forward and nodded. “I could tell you—”
“Be careful, Chaco.” Mercedes looked narrow-eyed at Viola. “I think this one maybe should not be trusted.”
“What am I going to do?” Viola demanded. “I’m unarmed, I have no horse, and Chaco’s men are all over town. I’m not insane. He’s promised me that when whatever brought him to La Reata is over and done with, I’ll be free to go. I believe him.”
“It’s the truth,” Chaco said. “Don’t worry so, Mercedes. Señorita Smith will not cause any trouble.”
Oddly enough, thought Viola, that was true. She was content to wait things out and see what happened.
Even more odd, she knew that big brute of a Gabriel wanted some time alone with Mercedes, and for some reason she wanted to help make that happen.
Matchmaking, it seemed, was contagious.
Mercedes still looked worried, but she didn’t say anything else as Viola and Chaco left the hotel and walked toward the mission at the end of the street. He kept a small but circumspect distance between them as she put her hat on and tipped it jauntily to one side.
“I read a book a year or so ago about a man in England called Robin Hood. He was an outlaw, but he stole only from the rich and used the money to help the common people. Is that who you are, Señor Romero? The Robin Hood of Arizona Territory?”
“I only wish that were true,” Chaco said. “Many of the people who had their money in the bank at Tombstone, they were not rich, I think. It is a bad thing we have done, even though we did it with good in mind. Good for my people, not yours.” A slightly bitter tone came into his voice as he added, “You see, señorita, nothing in this world is completely pure, no matter how much we would like for it to be.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Viola was silent as they walked the rest of the way to the mission.
Once they were inside, she actually enjoyed looking at the paintings, the tapestries, the icons, and the relics with which the mission was furnished. While she was looking around, a brown-robed priest came out of a room in the back and spoke briefly to Chaco.
When the priest was gone, Chaco went over to Viola. “Father Fernando was telling me how the work is going around here.”
“The work of the Church?” Viola asked. “Or the work of your revolution?”
“God does not want the people ruled by a dictator—”
Chaco stopped short as somewhere in the village a gun suddenly boomed. Viola stiffened as the crackle of gunfire in the distance followed that single shot.
“What—” she exclaimed.
A look of genuine surprise passed over Chaco’s face as he reached out and took hold of her arm. “Stay here,” he urged. “There was not supposed to be any violence.” He let go of her and started for the doors.
“Chaco, wait!”
He paused and looked back at her. “Stay here, I beg of you, señorita. It may not be safe on the streets of La Reata tonight.”
Viola stood in the aisle tensely as he rushed out of the mission. Chaco might be surprised and puzzled by the shots, but to her they had only one possible meaning.
John Slaughter had arrived.
Chapter 16
Luther Gentry and Grover Harmon hunkered on their heels and smoked quirlies as they waited for Sheriff Slaughter to return to the posse and cavalry patrol. They traded whoppers as they puffed on the cigarettes. It helped pass the time.
Gentry said, “I once saw a fella bucked so high off a bronc he was tryin’ to break that the hoss had time to swap ends before he came back down. When he landed he was bass-ackwards in the saddle.”
“That ain’t nothin,” Harmon replied. “I knowed a bronc peeler who got throwed so high the other hands was able to lasso that buckin’ devil and lead him away and put another un in his place before the varmint lit in the saddle again.”
“Well, this fella I knew got so tangled up once with a hoss that he wound up wearin’ the saddle and the hoss had the hombre’s hat on his head by the time it was all over!”
The two old-timers continued swapping lies. Pete Yardley drifted over to join them, followed by Diego Herrara and Chester Carlton. The bank teller and the gambler still stood apart, waiting near their horses.
Captain Donelson, followed by half a dozen of the troopers under his command, approached the group of posse members. Gentry and Harmon stood up and nodded to the officer.
“Something we can do for you, Cap’n?” Harmon asked.
“Sheriff Slaughter’s been gone for a while. I thought we would have gotten word from him by now, or he’d be back to report that the outlaws aren’t in La Reata after all.”
“We got to be patient,” Gentry said. “You got to take it slow and careful-like when you’re skulkin’ around. The sheriff’s a good man. He knows what to do.”
“I’ve heard of him. He already has a reputation as an excellent lawman.”
Harmon snorted. “I reckon he’s done more to clean up things around Tombstone than anybody else ever has. Folks always talk about the Earps, but shoot, they stirred up as much trouble as they ever put a stop to. Maybe more. Odds are Tombstone would’ve been a more peaceful place if Virgil and Wyatt and them other boys hadn’t ever rode in.”
Gentry added, “Some say they was no better than outlaws their own selves. Nobody can claim that about Texas John Slaughter, though. Man’s straight as a die.”
“Although I do recollect hearin’ that when he was younger he got accused a time or two of runnin’ a few cattle with iffy brands,” Harmon put in. “Don’t know if there’s anything to those stories, though.”
“An honest lawman,” Donelson mused. “That must be a good thing for a community to have.”
“It sure makes a difference.” Gentry’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked toward the horses. Several more troopers had drifted up behind Doyle and Cleaver.
There was nothing unusual about that, Gentry supposed, but he thought that it looked for all the world like those soldier boys were sneaking up on the gambler and the bank teller.
That had just occurred to him when the flat sound of a shot came from somewhere in La Reata. Several of the men jerked their heads in that direction, and Pete Yardley exclaimed, “Blast it! The sheriff might be in trouble. We’d better—”
Donelson slid his revolver smoothly from leather and the tr
oopers with him raised their rifles and pointed them at the men from Tombstone. It happened so quickly that Gentry and the other posse members hardly knew what was going on.
“That’s not exactly the signal I told Winters to give us,” Donelson said, “but I don’t think we can afford to ignore it. You gentlemen stand where you are and don’t try to use your guns!”
“What the devil—” Harmon began.
“Look out! The gambler—” one of the troopers cried.
The soldiers who had moved up behind Doyle and Cleaver had thrown down on them when Donelson pulled out his gun. Jack Doyle didn’t cooperate, though. He suddenly darted between two of the horses so that the animals shielded him from the troopers’ rifles.
As he grabbed a horse’s reins, Doyle stuck a foot in the stirrup and took hold of the saddle horn with his left hand. His right flashed to his pistol. Orange flame spouted from the muzzle as he fired at the cavalrymen and scattered them.
“Stop him!” Donelson bellowed as the spooked horse burst into a gallop with Doyle desperately clinging to him. “Don’t let him get away!”
In the dark, if only a couple men had opened fire on Doyle he might have had a chance. But fully a dozen of the soldiers triggered rounds from their Springfields at the gambler. The bullets tore through his body, making him lose his grip on the saddle horn.
A couple slugs creased the horse’s rump. In pain, the animal lunged ahead faster in a panic-stricken dash. With his foot still stuck in the stirrup, Doyle’s corpse bounced crazily as the horse dragged it across the plains.
With that commotion going on, Gentry tried to lift his rifle, but Donelson sprang forward and swung the revolver in his fist. The barrel crashed into the side of the liveryman’s head and drove him off his feet. Blood welled from the cut the gun sight opened up and flowed down Gentry’s leathery cheek.
“Dang it!” Harmon yelled angrily as he dropped to one knee beside his fallen friend. “Did you have to do that?”
“I could have just killed him and been done with it,” Donelson said in cool, menacing tones. “I might still do that if you fools don’t cooperate.”
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