Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  He called his sister over. “The captain and I would like to use your office, Mercedes.”

  “Of course.” She eyed the cavalry officer, who returned the look with a frankly appraising stare that seemed to find much to approve of.

  With some reluctance, Chaco introduced the two of them. “Mercedes, this is Captain Brice Donelson. Captain, my sister, Señorita Mercedes Romero.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, señorita.” Donelson took Mercedes’ right hand in both of his and held it a little longer than Chaco thought was necessary.

  “Send Gabriel to the office when he gets back from the mission,” he told Mercedes.

  “All right.” She took that as an excuse to extricate her hand skillfully from the captain’s.

  “This way, Captain.” Chaco gestured toward the beaded doorway leading to the cantina’s back rooms.

  Donelson wasn’t ready to give up. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again while we’re here, Señorita Romero.”

  “If El Señor Dios wills it,” Mercedes murmured.

  Chaco steered Donelson into the rear hallway and then into the office, which was rather sparsely furnished with a desk and a couple chairs. The only decoration on the wall was a small painting of the Madonna and child, but a vase with several red and yellow wildflowers added a spot of color to the room.

  Chaco went behind the desk and waved Donelson into the chair in front of it. He took off his hat and dropped it on the desk next to the vase. Tired of small talk, he began the discussion. “Your corporal tells me that you don’t have the rifles with you, Captain.”

  “You know, you don’t have to address me by my rank. I suppose when you get right down to it I’m not a captain anymore since I’ve, ah, left the army.”

  “But it simplifies matters, does it not?”

  “Well, that’s true.” Obviously at ease, Donelson cocked his right ankle on his left knee and leaned back slightly in the chair. “You know, a drink might be nice. I’ve found that business discussions often go better when a man’s throat is properly lubricated.”

  “But our arrangement is already settled. The price for the guns was agreed to by our intermediaries.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It would be unwise to try to change the details of the agreement now,” Chaco said softly.

  He saw a flash of steely anger in Donelson’s eyes, but the man’s faintly arrogant smile never wavered. “That’s not my intention, amigo. I’m just trying to keep things on a friendly basis here.”

  “Of course.” Chaco resisted the impulse to tell Donelson that they weren’t friends and never would be. He didn’t like the fact that Donelson’s men had killed two members of Sheriff John Slaughter’s posse.

  Unfortunately, true change usually could not be brought about without bloodshed. The dictator Díaz would not relinquish his power willingly. The people would have to take it from him, and that meant more men would die. Women and children, too, more than likely. Chaco knew he would carry that stain on his soul for the rest of his life.

  That was the price he must pay for doing what had to be done.

  Donelson went on. “I hope you’re not worried because I got here ahead of the guns. My plan was for all of us to stay together while we brought the wagons here, but then we ran into Slaughter and his pitiful excuse for a posse. I decided it might be better to split my force and come with him, just to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble with our deal. The wagons—and the rifles—ought to be here sometime tomorrow.”

  “That’s good to hear.” The mention of Sheriff Slaughter made Chaco’s thoughts stray to Viola. He had sensed all along that she might not be telling him the truth about who she was, but never would he have dreamed that she was married to a man so many years older than her.

  Although to be fair, from what he had seen of John Slaughter, the man possessed a vitality that made him seem younger than he really was and larger than his compact stature. His courage and determination were easy to see. Chaco would have been pleased to have such a man as his ally in his quest to bring freedom and justice to Mexico.

  That was almost certainly never to be. Even though Viola’s capture had been a fluke of circumstances, Slaughter wouldn’t forgive what had happened to his wife. Chaco hoped she would be able to reassure her husband that she had not been mistreated during her time with the revolutionaries.

  The noise from the cantina swelled up as the door opened and Gabriel came into the office.

  “The prisoners are secure in the mission?” Chaco asked his old friend.

  Gabriel nodded. He had his left hand wrapped around the neck of a tequila bottle. “I left several of our best men guarding them. I think we have nothing to fear from them, Chaco.”

  “Good. If they’ll just be reasonable, they can leave here safely once our business is concluded and we’re gone.” Chaco looked at Donelson again. “I hope you will be able to keep your men under control while we’re waiting for the rifles to get here, Captain.”

  “Well, you have to remember they’re not duty-bound to follow my orders anymore,” Donelson replied. “They’ll want to blow off some steam. After all, they risked their lives stealing those guns and they’ve made themselves fugitives. They’ll never be able to go back to their families and their old lives.”

  “And they are being well paid for that sacrifice,” Chaco snapped. “My men have sacrificed much as well and will risk even more in the future, simply because they want to do the right thing.”

  “It’s their country,” Donelson pointed out. “Not mine or my men’s.”

  Chaco shrugged.

  “If they want to get drunk or bed some whores, I’m not going to stop them,” the captain went on.

  “Tell them to leave the respectable citizens of La Reata alone,” Chaco said tensely.

  “You can’t expect them to tell one pretty señorita from another.” Donelson looked up at Gabriel, who lounged with his back against the wall next to the desk. “How about sharing that bottle, amigo?”

  Gabriel glanced at Chaco, who gave him a curt nod. He handed the bottle to Donelson. The officer tilted it to his mouth and took a healthy swallow. He licked his lips and said, “Ah,” as he gave it back.

  Chaco wished he didn’t have to deal with a man such as this in order to get what he needed. But once the rifles arrived in La Reata, they could make the exchange, and he would never have to have anything to do with Brice Donelson again.

  That time could not come soon enough to suit Chaco.

  Chapter 19

  Father Fernando asked the guards if he could bring wine and food for the prisoners, and when they agreed he retreated into the rear of the mission and came back with cups, a jug of wine, and a platter full of tortillas.

  “It is simple fare, my friends, but all I can offer you,” the priest told them.

  “We appreciate it, Father,” Slaughter said.

  “I had supper earlier,” Viola added, “but I’d love a cup of wine.”

  As they sat and sipped their drinks, Slaughter stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see you, my dear. I say, Viola, I’ve spent the past two days more worried than I’ve ever been in my life. You’re sure you weren’t harmed?”

  “Positive. The only thing that might have hurt me was riding for such a long time, and you know that being in the saddle doesn’t bother me, John.”

  “You’ve always been an excellent rider, ever since I’ve known you,” Slaughter admitted. “But I find it hard to believe that such rough men didn’t . . . well . . .”

  “I told you, you can put your mind at ease on that score.” She laughed softly. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Gabriel was a perfect gentleman, but if he was a bit forward at times, I think it was inadvertent. Most of it, anyway. As for Chaco—”

  “Yes, what about Chaco?” Slaughter asked crisply. “The two of you seem to be on excellent terms.”

  That brought another
laugh from Viola. “Why, John, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’re jealous.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t believe for one second that you’d throw me over for some bandido.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Chaco Romero isn’t some run-of-the-mill bandit, though. He used to be a priest, and he’s still very devoted to good works. He gave his men firm orders that I was not to be harmed or molested in any way.”

  “And they went along with those orders?”

  “That’s how much they respect him.”

  “He’s still a bank robber,” Slaughter said.

  “Yes, and I don’t condone that. He’s going to use the money to buy guns for the revolutionary army he’s trying to raise.”

  Slaughter nodded. “I figured that out. I’m not going to admire him because he’s a rebel, though. He’s funding his revolution with the money of honest, hardworking American citizens. No matter how you look at it, that’s outright thievery, and Romero has to answer for it.”

  “That’s going to be difficult, as outnumbered as you are,” Viola pointed out quietly.

  Slaughter frowned. He knew what she said was true, but he hadn’t given up on the idea of turning this debacle around somehow.

  He looked around at the men from his posse. Luther Gentry still appeared pretty shaky after being pistol-whipped, but he would come around. The old liveryman was tough as whang leather. So was his friend Grover Harmon. Slaughter knew he could count on them, and he figured that Pete Yardley probably wouldn’t let him down, either. Pete had been in Arizona Territory for a long time, and it bred toughness in a man.

  The same held true for Diego Herrara. Slaughter couldn’t be absolutely sure the cook would back any play he made, but he suspected Herrara would.

  That left Joseph Cleaver and Chester Carlton, both of whom looked scared enough to piss in their boots, and Mose Tadrack, who was still an unknown quantity. Tadrack didn’t exactly seem scared, but he was pale and drawn and kept licking his lips. The strain of being a prisoner might be making his thirst worse.

  Gabriel had left five men from Romero’s group to stand guard over the prisoners. Two were at the double doors, one was posted at the door leading into the rear of the mission, and the other two lounged on benches across the aisle from where the prisoners were gathered. All of them seemed reasonably alert, but as the night wore on and they grew more tired, it might be easier to take them by surprise.

  The problem was that it was a long way from the mission to the livery stable. Even if the prisoners could manage to escape from the building where they were being held, it might be very difficult to reach some horses and get away from the village.

  As always, Viola seemed to know what he was thinking. She said quietly, “Chaco promised to let us go once his business was done and he and his men headed for the border. I know you want to stop him and recover that money, John, but it might cost all of us our lives.”

  Slaughter frowned. “Are you saying we shouldn’t fight?”

  “I’m saying you should consider everything before you make a move.”

  “I always do.”

  “And if it does come down to a fight . . . make sure you’ve got a gun for me, too.”

  Now that was the Viola he knew.

  * * *

  Donelson left Romero and the big brute called Gabriel in the office and went back into the cantina to look for Mercedes. He spotted her behind the bar and started in that direction, but Lonnie Winters intercepted him along the way.

  “Get everything settled with those greasers, Cap’n?” the former corporal asked with his usual cocky grin.

  “I think so.” Something occurred to Donelson and he suggested, “Let’s sit down and have a drink.”

  “Now that’s somethin’ I never say no to.”

  As they took chairs at one of the empty tables, Donelson told Winters the same thing he had told Romero. “You don’t have to call me captain anymore, you know.”

  “I suppose I could call you boss, since we’re pretty much outlaws now and you’re still ramroddin’ the bunch, but you know, cap’n just sounds better to me for some reason. I guess it’s what I’m used to. Of course, if you don’t like it—”

  Donelson waved that idea away. “No, it doesn’t bother me. What bothers me are these two-bit revolutionaries we’re dealing with.”

  “I was never partial to bean-eaters, myself.” Winters looked around speculatively. “I got to say, though, some of these curvy little brown-skinned gals look good enough to eat.”

  Donelson grunted and lifted a hand to signal to one of the young women Winters referred to. As she came over to the table, he had to agree that she was rather delectable. Her skin was a little darker than honey, her hair was a tumbled mass of raven curls, and her eyes were the warmest, deepest brown Donelson had ever seen. She was several years short of twenty, he judged, but a full-grown woman nonetheless, as demonstrated by the tantalizing half-moons of her upper breasts revealed by the low neck of her white blouse.

  “Cerveza, por favor,” Donelson ordered and gestured to indicate that the girl should bring beers to them.

  “Most of the other fellas are drinkin’ tequila,” Winters pointed out as the girl went to fetch the drinks.

  “Yes, but I can’t have you falling into a drunken stupor, Sergeant.”

  Winters frowned slightly. “I was a corporal.”

  “Well, now you’re a sergeant.” Donelson laughed. “Hell, I think I’ll make myself a colonel.”

  “Why not a general?”

  “I don’t want to get ahead of myself. In time, Sergeant, in time.”

  Winters leaned back in his chair. “You sounded like you’ve got a job for me, Cap’n . . . I mean Colonel.”

  Donelson grew more solemn. “I was talking to Romero just now. He indicated that he plans to leave those prisoners in the mission when he and his men ride out tomorrow. That troubles me, Sergeant. Sheriff Slaughter and his men know who we are.”

  “Well, I reckon that by now the army has a pretty good idea we’ve done deserted and made off with all them rifles,” Winters pointed out. “They’re gonna be lookin’ for us, anyway.”

  “I know, but the idea of leaving witnesses behind still rubs me the wrong way. Quite possibly it wouldn’t make any difference . . . but why take unnecessary chances? Besides”—Donelson paused for a second—“did you get a good look at Mrs. Slaughter?”

  Winters grinned again. “She’s a mighty pretty woman, all right, Colonel. Were you thinkin’ you might take her along with us as a bonus?”

  “The idea crossed my mind,” Donelson admitted. His voice hardened slightly as he added, “But I’d be taking her along with me.”

  Winters held up both hands, palms out, and shook his head. “That’s fine with me. I can appreciate the lady’s good looks without wantin’ to be saddled with her. I don’t reckon she’d cooperate too much if you took her away from her husband.”

  “I can teach her to cooperate,” Donelson said, his voice flinty, “if she knows what’s good for her.”

  The serving girl brought mugs of beer to the table and set them down in front of the two men. Winters reached up, slid an arm around her waist, and tugged her onto his lap. She laughed as he nuzzled his face into the soft valley between her breasts, then she gracefully slipped out of his grasp. Clearly it wasn’t the first time she had dealt with such advances.

  “You an’ me, we’re gonna get together later, señorita,” Winters called after her as she danced away from the table.

  Donelson picked up his mug and downed some of the warm beer. It wasn’t very good, but it eased the dryness in his throat.

  Winters took a drink, too. “Why are you tellin’ me this about the prisoners?”

  “I was impressed by the way you handled things when you came into town with Slaughter and those other two, Winters. You saw a situation that needed to be dealt with, and you took care of it quickly and efficiently.”

  “You mean when I blowed that stupid v
armint’s brains out.”

  “Exactly. Do you think you could find, oh, half a dozen men among the troop who can be counted on to do what needs to be done?”

  “I reckon I probably could. What’s the job you’ve got in mind?”

  “I think you know,” Donelson said. “Once we have the money, take the detail you put together and go to the mission. Take charge of Mrs. Slaughter and bring her to me . . . but not until you’ve killed the rest of the prisoners.”

  Chapter 20

  At Donelson’s suggestion, Winters began circulating through the cantina to sound out some of the other men and see if they would be up to taking on the bloody task the captain had laid out. Although the troopers were all deserters and had been willing to go along with Donelson’s plans in return for a share of the money from the sale of the rifles, some of them might balk at the prospect of mass murder.

  Not all of them, though. Donelson shared Winters’ conviction that they could find enough men to take care of what needed to be done.

  Since he was alone at the table, Donelson caught the eye of the girl who had brought them the beer earlier and crooked a finger at her. She looked a little tentative. He supposed that was because he wasn’t quite as young and handsome as Winters.

  But he would soon be a rich man. Richer than any of his men even suspected, if everything went according to plan.

  He wasn’t interested in her, though, no matter what she might think. His taste ran to more mature females.

  “You wish something, señor?” the girl asked as she came up to the table. “More beer? Tequila? Mescal?”

  “Actually, I want you to deliver a message to your employer for me,” Donelson said.

  “My employer?”

  “Señorita Romero.”

  “Ah,” the girl said, brightening. “Señorita Mercedes.”

  “That’s right. Tell her I’d like to speak with her. Ask her if she would be so kind as to join me.”

  The girl looked doubtful and shook her head. “The señorita, she does not often drink with the customers—”