Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “You fellas ain’t real soldiers, are you?” Yardley sounded stunned by the sudden turn of events.

  That question brought a chuckle from Donelson. “As a matter of fact, we are. Or rather, we were, if you want to be precise about it.”

  “Deserters!” Harmon spat. He lifted Gentry’s bleeding head and cradled it on his leg. “Bunch o’ no-good deserters!”

  “Your insults don’t mean anything to me, old man,” Donelson said with a smug smile. “All of you put your guns down and step away from them.”

  Gentry groaned. He had dropped his rifle already, and so had Harmon. Yardley, Herrara, Carlton, and Cleaver followed Donelson’s orders. Even in the faint light from the moon and stars, it was obvious that the drummer and the bank teller were terrified. Yardley just looked mad, and Herrara’s squarish face was impassive and hard to read.

  “What are you varmints gonna do with us?” Harmon demanded. “Murder us like you did Doyle?”

  “The fool would still be alive if he hadn’t tried to escape. We’re here to get rich, not to kill people. We’ll just take you into La Reata with us while we conduct our business. Once we’re gone, you’ll be free to go, too.”

  “Business,” Harmon repeated. “What in blazes are you talkin’ about?”

  “We’re going to meet those outlaws you’ve been chasing all the way from Tombstone. They’re our . . . partners, I suppose you’d say.” Donelson jerked his gun in a curt gesture. “Enough talk. Get Gentry on his feet. They’re waiting for us in town.”

  * * *

  Fury welled up inside Slaughter as he looked from Murdock’s body to the gun in Corporal Winters’ hand. The urge to try a shot at Winters was almost impossible to overcome.

  What made him rein in that impulse was the knowledge that Viola was somewhere in La Reata and still needed his help. He couldn’t risk his life just yet.

  “Wha . . . what’s going on here?” Tadrack said.

  “Put your gun on the ground, mister,” Winters ordered without answering the swamper’s question. “Slaughter, you drop that fancy gun, too.”

  “Tell me, Corporal,” Slaughter said coolly as he followed Winters’ order and put his Colt on the ground, “are you an actual cavalry trooper? Or just another outlaw?”

  “I was a trooper until a few days ago,” Winters drawled. “Reckon now the army figures I’m a deserter. But I’m gonna be a rich deserter pretty soon.”

  Again, the wheels of Slaughter’s brain revolved rapidly, as they had when he’d figured out that Ross Murdock must have embezzled money from the bank, but he couldn’t come up with an answer. Whatever Winters was up to was a mystery to him.

  Judging by the flurry of shots that had sounded in the distance, the rest of the cavalry patrol was in on it, too.

  He never should have trusted Captain Brice Donelson, Slaughter realized.

  It was too late for thoughts like that. He shoved them aside, deciding to find out as much as he could and wait for the right moment to make his move.

  Mose Tadrack still held the borrowed revolver. Winters snapped, “I won’t tell you again to put that gun down, Tadrack.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “Do what he says, Mose,” Slaughter said quietly. “We can’t do anybody any good by getting ourselves killed.”

  “That’s sure enough true,” Winters said.

  Tadrack had laid the weapon at his feet and stepped back away from it.

  “All right, we’ll just wait right here for the others to show up,” Winters told them.

  “Did you have to kill Murdock?” Slaughter asked. “You could have gotten the drop on him, too.”

  “He was already on edge and primed to shoot somebody. I don’t like to take chances. Besides, what do you care, Sheriff? Hell, he admitted that he was a thief and tried to bushwhack you last night.”

  “He was foolish, but he didn’t deserve to die over six hundred dollars.”

  “Well, it’s too late to worry about that now, ain’t it?”

  Slaughter’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t feel a great deal of sympathy for Murdock, but he vowed that he would see justice done for the young man’s murder, anyway.

  First, there was the little matter of surviving whatever plans Winters and his treacherous fellow cavalrymen had made for their rendezvous in La Reata.

  Chapter 17

  Despite what Chaco had told her, Viola followed him to the door of the sanctuary and watched as he strode into the street. Gabriel hurried up to join him. The big outlaw’s burly figure was impossible to mistake. More members of the gang emerged from other buildings along the street and gathered with Chaco and Gabriel.

  A soft step behind her made Viola gasp and turn around. She relaxed slightly when she saw the sad-faced priest standing there in his brown robe and sandals.

  “You should come away from the door, my child,” he said in softly accented English. “I do not think there will be trouble, but one never knows.”

  Father Fernando, that was what Chaco had called him, Viola recalled. “Father, do you know what’s going on here? What was that shooting about?”

  The padre shook his head. “Chaco’s plan for tonight was a peaceful one. But sometimes circumstances force plans to change.”

  “So you do know what he’s doing.”

  “Bringing justice to a country in desperate need of it. That is his intention, at least.”

  Viola looked out in the street again. What appeared to be the entire gang had congregated in front of the hotel. They stood tensely, some with rifles in their hands, others holding pistols. They were ready for a fight, if one developed.

  Fear for her husband’s safety filled Viola. When she had heard the single shot, then the flurry of gunfire, she had been sure the reports heralded John’s arrival. She’d expected him to come barreling into La Reata at the head of a posse, with guns blazing.

  That hadn’t happened, and from Chaco’s reaction and the way his men had flocked to him, something else was going on. Her thoughts were confused as she tried to figure it out.

  Father Fernando’s hand plucked at her sleeve. “Please, come away—”

  More movement from up the street caught Viola’s eye. Several men moved out into the open from the shadows next to a building. As they walked toward Chaco, Gabriel, and the rest of the gang, Viola realized that two men were being prodded along at gunpoint by a third man.

  And one of those men under the gun was—

  “John!” she cried as she burst out of the mission and broke into a run up the street.

  Slaughter’s breath caught in his throat when he heard his wife’s voice. He saw her emerge from the mission at the end of the street and start toward them. Involuntarily, he took a quick step forward to meet her.

  “Hold it, Sheriff!” Winters barked. “I’ll put a bullet in you if you try to run.”

  A shiver went through Slaughter. Part of it was anger, but most of the reaction was the need to grab Viola and draw her into his arms. He controlled it with an effort. It wouldn’t help anything if he got gunned down.

  Gabriel stepped forward and caught Viola as she ran by him. She struggled and pounded her fists against his barrel chest, but she had no chance of breaking out of his grip.

  Slaughter recognized him as the big man he’d identified a few minutes earlier.

  “Go ahead,” Winters ordered, “but take it easy, Sheriff. Don’t get carried away and do something foolish.”

  With his jaw tight from strain, Slaughter started walking forward slowly again.

  “That’s Miz Slaughter,” Tadrack said beside him. “Thank God it looks like she’s all right, Sheriff.”

  “Yes,” Slaughter said. “For now.”

  It was true. Judging by the way Viola had run down the street, she seemed to be uninjured. She was dressed much differently from when she had been kidnapped from Tombstone. Denim trousers, a faded shirt, moccasins, and a flat-crowned hat had replaced the long white nightgown. As she struggled with the big outlaw, the hat had
been knocked back so that it hung by its chin strap, and her dark hair was loose around her shoulders.

  It may been relief at seeing she was alive, but Slaughter didn’t think she had ever looked more beautiful.

  Winters herded him and Tadrack up to the gang of outlaws in the street and raised his voice to ask, “Which one of you hombres is Chaco Romero?”

  The lean, darkly handsome man stepped forward. His hand rested on the butt of the gun at his hip. “I’m Romero,” he said curtly. “Who are you?”

  “Ex-Corporal Lonnie Winters at your service, señor,” the deserter said in a dryly amused tone. “Cap’n Donelson sends his respects. He’ll be along directly, I expect.”

  “With the rifles? I did not expect you until tomorrow.”

  “Well, the cap’n don’t have the rifles with him right now, but they’ll be here, don’t you worry about that.”

  Slaughter had been busy searching his wife’s face, making sure she was all right, but he heard enough of the conversation that things began to make sense to him again. He looked back over his shoulder at Winters. “Those so-called supply wagons are full of stolen rifles, aren’t they?”

  “You’re a little late figurin’ that out, Sheriff,” Winters drawled mockingly, “but like they say, better late than never, eh?”

  The man called Romero seemed a little less tense, although he didn’t take his hand off his gun. He nodded to the big outlaw who had hold of Viola. “I think you can let go of Señorita Smith now, Gabriel. I believe she wants to see her . . . old family friend.”

  Gabriel chuckled and turned Viola loose. She crossed the intervening ground in a flash and came into Slaughter’s arms. He folded her tightly in an embrace as she buried her face against his shoulder. He brought a hand up and tenderly stroked her midnight-dark hair.

  “Somehow I don’t think he’s just an old friend, eh, Chaco?” Gabriel said. “The señorita, she has been lying to us. If she is a señorita.”

  As soon as Romero had referred to Viola as Señorita Smith, Slaughter had known what was going on. She had hidden the fact that she was a sheriff’s wife. He wasn’t sure what her motivation for that deception had been, but he trusted her instincts. He knew how keenly intelligent she was.

  However, her reaction on seeing him had rendered her pose as “Señorita Smith” moot. Anybody who had eyes could see that the two of them loved each other.

  Indeed, Romero said, “The sheriff here is your husband, isn’t he, Viola?”

  It made Slaughter bristle to hear this outlaw refer to her in such a familiar manner. Of course, she had been their prisoner for two days and a night, so much worse things could have happened than for him to call her by her given name. Slaughter had sworn to himself that it would not change what was between them . . . but the reminder was unwelcome anyway.

  As if she were reading his mind, Viola ignored Romero’s question, lifted her head, and looked into Slaughter’s eyes “Nothing happened, John. I swear it.”

  “Of course, my dear.” His voice was a little stiff, and he knew it was because he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t trying to spare his feelings. “It need not be spoken of again. Ever.”

  “No, John.” A new intensity was in her tone. “Nothing happened. I’ll explain it later, but it’s the truth.”

  Slaughter smiled. He didn’t have to bend much to brush his lips across hers. “I believe you,” he whispered. Then he circled an arm around her shoulders and leveled his cold gaze at Romero. “This is my wife, sir, and when you speak to her, I’ll thank you to do it in a respectful tone.”

  Romero smiled. “Of course, Sheriff Slaughter.”

  “Well, this is a mighty touchin’ reunion,” Winters said, “but I could’ve told you these two was married, Romero. Me and the cap’n and the rest of the boys ran into a posse from Tombstone this mornin’. Cap’n Donelson agreed to join forces with Slaughter to help him chase down the no-good bandits who robbed the bank in Tombstone and carried off his wife.”

  That seemed to strike the ex-corporal as hilarious. His voice trailed off into laughter.

  The sound of hoofbeats drifted down the main street of La Reata. Everyone turned to look as a large group of riders appeared at the northern end of the street and proceeded slowly along it.

  Slaughter’s heart sank slightly as he saw the remnants of his posse riding in front of Donelson and the other deserters. Luther Gentry’s leathery old face was smeared with blood, but he seemed to be the only one who was hurt.

  Slaughter counted quickly and realized that the posse was one member short, not counting the murdered Ross Murdock. It took him only a second to figure out that the missing man was the gambler, Jack Doyle.

  Had Doyle gotten away somehow? If he had, he might be able to find Stonewall and Burt and the rest of the reinforcements that Slaughter hoped fervently were on their way south from Tombstone.

  But even if those men showed up, would there be enough of them to do any good? It didn’t seem likely. The bandidos and the group of deserters together added up to approximately sixty men . . . and that wasn’t counting the troopers Donelson had left with the supply train.

  Donelson moved ahead of the prisoners and urged his horse to a faster pace. He drew up in front of the group waiting in the middle of the street, eyed Viola appreciatively for a second, and then said, “I’m looking for Chaco Romero.”

  “I’m Romero.”

  Donelson touched the brim of his hat in a casual sketch of a salute. “We haven’t met, but I’m Captain Brice Donelson. Former captain, I should say, although I’m still in command of this patrol. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Señor Romero. I believe we have some business to conduct.”

  Romero nodded. “Of course. As soon as we deal with these prisoners.”

  But Chaco didn’t look all that pleased about it, Slaughter thought.

  Donelson grinned at Slaughter. “Hello again, Sheriff. I suppose this lovely lady is your wife?”

  “I don’t have anything to say to a traitor like you, Donelson,” Slaughter snapped.

  “I don’t see any need to be unpleasant, but have it your own way.” Donelson glanced at Winters. “Where’s the other one, Corporal?”

  “I had to shoot him,” Winters replied. “There’s a good story goes with that, Cap’n. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Donelson grunted. Clearly, the news that Winters had killed Ross Murdock meant less than nothing to him. He turned back to Romero. “What did you have in mind to do with them?”

  “My men can hold them in the church,” Chaco said. “You and I will go in my sister’s cantina and discuss our arrangement.”

  “Cantina, eh?” A broad grin stretched across Donelson’s face. “Best idea I’ve heard all day!”

  Chapter 18

  The other members of the posse had dismounted, and they trudged along dispiritedly with their heads down. The big outlaw called Gabriel, along with several more of Chaco’s band and some of Donelson’s troopers, herded the prisoners down the street toward the mission.

  Slaughter kept an arm around Viola. He was anxious to have a chance to talk with her in private, but he didn’t know when or if they would get that opportunity. He wanted to know everything she could tell him about the bandits. He hadn’t given up on the idea of turning the tables on their captors and needed as much information as he could gather.

  A balding, brown-robed priest stood in the mission’s open double doorway with a worried frown on his somber face. “Gabriel, I don’t like to see so many guns in the Lord’s house. It’s disrespectful.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. We have to guard these prisoners to make sure they don’t do anything to ruin Chaco’s plans.”

  “All right,” the priest said reluctantly. “But please, there can’t be any violence in here.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I know Chaco agrees with you about that, Father.” He motioned with the revolver in his hand. “All right, move on in there, hombres . . . and Señora Slau
ghter.”

  “I didn’t intentionally lie to you at first, Gabriel,” Viola said. “I just let you and Chaco assume that I wasn’t married.”

  “We should have known.” Gabriel smiled and sighed. “All the beautiful ones are taken. My Mercedes, she is married to that cantina of hers, I think!”

  The prisoners sat down on the pews, all on one side of the aisle so the guards would be able to keep an eye on them more easily. A gilt carving of Christ on the cross was mounted on the wall practically right above their heads.

  Slaughter and Viola sat down next to Gentry, who had Grover Harmon on his other side. Slaughter leaned over. “What happened to you, Luther?”

  “That damn Donelson—” Gentry stopped short, then muttered, “Shouldn’t ought to cuss inside a church, I reckon. What I meant to say was, that no-good polecat who called hisself a cap’n pistol-whipped me when I tried to get my gun on him.”

  Harmon put in, “Luther bled like a stuck pig, too. I started to worry it was all gonna leak out.”

  “I’m fine,” Gentry insisted. “Better than Jack Doyle, that’s for sure.”

  “I noticed he wasn’t with you,” Slaughter said grimly. “What happened to him?”

  “He tried to get away,” Harmon said. “Made it onto a hoss, but then the varmints shot him to pieces. If that wasn’t bad enough, when he fell off, his foot hung up in the stirrup, so his horse dragged him off across the plains when the nag bolted.”

  “So there’s no chance he survived.”

  Harmon shook his head. “It’d be a pure-dee miracle.” He looked around and sighed. “Despite our surroundin’s, I got a hunch those are in mighty short supply tonight!”

  * * *

  The cavalry troopers and the bandidos went into the cantina and bellied up to the bar. The sounds of raucous laughter and loud talk filled the room, punctuated by the squeals of the serving girls as they were slapped on the rump or pulled onto the laps of lecherous men.

  It was an odd thing, Chaco thought as he looked around the room. Under different circumstances, these two groups of men would be trying to kill each other. Greed on one side and practicality on the other had made them allies.