Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  He had been stabbed in the back. On several occasions in the past, Gabriel had felt the bite of a blade during a fight, so he knew what it was like. None of those times had been as bad as what he had experienced just before he passed out, but the sensation was unmistakable.

  Winters. The deserter was the one who had driven the knife into his body. Once that realization came clear in Gabriel’s brain, the rest of it rushed back to him—the two renegade cavalrymen talking, the plot to murder all the prisoners except Señora Slaughter, the threat to Chaco and his men if they interfered.

  Gabriel had been on his way to the mission to warn Chaco when he was attacked from behind. The urge to alert his old friend to the danger was still there, uppermost in his mind.

  He was lying on hard ground with something rough against his face. He tried to heave himself to his feet and discovered that he couldn’t move. Something weighed him down. Normally, his strength was such that he could practically move a mountain. At the moment. he was weak as a newborn kitten.

  Gabriel lay there panting from the futile effort he had made to get up. He forced his eyes open to look around.

  At first, he couldn’t see anything. Then glimmers of light began to appear here and there, but still not enough to show him his surroundings. Finally, he realized that he was covered up with something. The rough texture against his cheek where his head was turned to the side suggested that it was burlap.

  Somebody had piled sacks of feed on him. That was the only explanation that made sense. Winters had believed he was dead from that stab wound in the back, and he had hidden the body by dragging it into a barn and covering it with heavy sacks of feed.

  That explained the smell, too. There was a hog pen close by.

  A groan welled up Gabriel’s throat, but he tightened his jaw and clamped his mouth shut so it couldn’t escape. Chances were, Winters was long gone and none of Donelson’s other men were around close enough to hear him, but he didn’t want to take that chance. Winters believed he was dead, and Gabriel wanted to use that mistake to his advantage.

  The pain in his back was intense, but the fact that he was still alive told him the deserter’s knife hadn’t hit anything vital, nor inflicted enough damage to make him bleed to death. He really wasn’t hurt that bad, he told himself.

  As long as he believed it, he could keep going.

  Calling on the strength in his massive body, he moved his hands underneath him and tried again to heave himself up. He thought the weight on him shifted slightly. He heaved again.

  The terrible burden moved. Gabriel twisted his right shoulder a little and slid that hand into a tiny gap between the burlap sacks filled with grain. He got hold of one of the sacks and tugged on it, trying to lessen the weight on him.

  The effort seemed to take forever, but finally the sack moved. Not much, but enough to make it easier for Gabriel to breathe. He lifted his shoulder, made more room that way, and got hold of another sack. He grunted and pulled and thought he sounded like one of those hogs rooting around in the mud somewhere nearby.

  The second sack shifted. He was making progress, Gabriel told himself. He got both hands under him again and tried once more to push himself upright.

  His body lifted off the ground, and he heard rasping movement as more of the weight fell to the side. He had shifted the balance of the sacks piled on top of him, and they were sliding off each other. He couldn’t hold back a bellow as his muscles bunched and he surged upward to his feet.

  The light coming through the open side of the shed blinded him. He lifted a shaky arm to block some of it from his eyes. Judging from the brightness of the glare, the hour was midday or close to it.

  As Gabriel’s eyes began to adjust, he shambled forward. He had to find Chaco. There was no time to waste.

  * * *

  Despite the worry Chaco felt over Gabriel’s disappearance, he turned his attention to the arrival of the guns that were so vital to his plans. One of the guards he had posted around the outskirts of the village had spotted the wagons approaching and had hurried to bring the news to him.

  Chaco walked toward the northern end of the street to meet the wagons. Donelson had come out of the hotel and was headed in that direction, too. All over La Reata, members of Chaco’s band as well as troopers from Donelson’s renegade patrol emerged from buildings and began to gather in the street.

  Mercedes hurried out from the cantina to intercept him. His sister had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and wore a worried look on her face. “Chaco, have you had any word from Gabriel?”

  “I haven’t found him,” he replied with a shake of his head.

  “Something has happened to him, I know it has. He knew how important this is to you, to all of us. He would be here if he could.”

  Chaco nodded grimly. “I know.”

  His suspicions were directed toward the deserters. As soon as he had met Donelson, every instinct in his body told him not to trust the man. Nothing had happened in the time since then to change that opinion.

  He put a hand on Mercedes’ shoulder and squeezed for a second to reassure her. Then he strode on to meet the wagons.

  Donelson grinned at him. “I told you they’d be here, Señor Romero. As you can see, my word is good.”

  A dozen wagons made up the supply train. Each wagon carried four crates, with twenty rifles in each crate. Nearly a thousand rifles in all, Chaco thought. Many more would be needed before the revolution was over, but it was a start, he told himself. A good start.

  The wagons also contained boxes of ammunition. It pained Chaco to think that those bullets would wind up in the bodies of his countrymen, but Díaz’s soldiers had made the decision to throw their support behind the dictator. Like everyone else, they would have to bear the consequences of their actions.

  As the wagons rolled to a stop, Donelson said, “I believe we can conclude our deal now. Here are the guns. You have our money—”

  “Not yet,” Chaco snapped. His instinctive distrust of Donelson, along with Gabriel’s mysterious disappearance, made him more wary. “I’m not a fool, Captain. I must see what I am buying.”

  A brief look of annoyance passed over Donelson’s face, but he didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’d be glad to have my men open a few of the crates and show you—”

  “Not a few of the crates. All of them.” Chaco lifted his left arm and leveled it as he pointed to the far end of the street. “Have your men take the wagons down there and unload the crates. Take them into the mission.”

  Frowning, Donelson didn’t try to hide his reaction. “What? That’s insane, Romero! Why unload all the crates when you’ll just have to load them up again to take them across the border?”

  Normally, Chaco would have thought that Donelson was right. But he had given in to the impulse and was going to stand by the decision. Besides, the delay would give him more time to search for Gabriel.

  He wasn’t going to leave La Reata without his old friend, or at least without having found out what had happened to him.

  The two leaders traded cold stares as Chaco said, “I will need to inspect all the rifles before I turn the money over to you, Captain. If the guns are as you say they are, it will be a minor delay and nothing more, eh?”

  “I’m not sure how minor. It’ll take quite a while to unload all those crates and open them.”

  Chaco shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere else I have to be right now. Do you?”

  “I might,” Donelson snapped. “The army’s going to be looking for us pretty soon.”

  “You’ll be gone by nightfall with your money.”

  The tension between the two men seemed to communicate itself to their followers. Chaco’s men began to draw away from the deserters. Rifle barrels swung more toward the troopers, and a few hands rested on pistol butts.

  Donelson’s men reacted the same way. Their stance made it obvious they were getting ready to fight if they needed to.

  “All right, fine,” Donelson said loudly. He w
aved the wagons forward. “Take them down to the church and unload the rifles like Señor Romero wanted.”

  “Gracias,” Chaco said.

  Quietly, Donelson said, “This had better not be some sort of trick, Romero. Neither of us will be pleased with the outcome if it is.”

  “If you’ve been dealing in good faith with us, Captain, you have nothing to worry about.” Chaco paused. “By the way, have you seen my friend Gabriel Hernandez?”

  Chaco thought he saw a flicker of something in Donelson’s eyes—guilt? worry?

  “You mean that big fella who looks like somebody hit him a few times in the face with a board?” He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since we were all in the cantina last night.”

  Chaco thought the man was lying. He was glad he had given in to the whim of demanding to inspect all the rifles before handing over the money. Before they left La Reata, he would get to the bottom of Gabriel’s disappearance.

  “You know, I’m starting to think you don’t trust me.” Donelson’s tone was pleasant, but his eyes were full of hatred.

  “There is a time and place for trust,” Chaco said. “This is not it.”

  With the teamsters shouting and lashing at their mules, the wagons lurched into motion again.

  Chapter 23

  Slaughter wanted to know what was going on. He told Viola, “Stay here with the others,” and took a step toward the mission doorway.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’m coming with you, John.”

  Slaughter shook his head. “Not this time. I need you to stay out of the line of fire.”

  “And where in this village is that?” she responded. “It seems to me that trouble could break out anywhere.”

  He couldn’t argue that point. With a curt nod, he said, “All right, come along.”

  The other prisoners waited where they were while Slaughter and Viola approached the guards at the double doors. One of the men noticed them coming and turned to face them with his rifle held slanted across his chest, which was crisscrossed by bandoliers of ammunition.

  “Halt, Sheriff,” the man ordered. “You and your señora should go back with the rest of the gringos.”

  Diego Herrara called from the middle of the sanctuary, “I am no gringo, cabrón.” He looked around at the others. “But these men are my amigos, I am proud to say.”

  Slaughter told the guard, “I just want to know what’s going on out there. We have a stake in this, too, you know. Your leader has promised that we’ll go free after your business here is done.”

  The guard thought about it. He looked over at the other sentry, who shrugged as if to say that the decision wasn’t up to him. Then the first guard said sullenly, “All right, you can come up here where you can see. But don’t try anything funny.” He paused, then added, “Maybe you can figure out what this is about, Sheriff, because I have no idea.”

  Slaughter took Viola’s hand and held it as they stepped into the doorway with the guards. He frowned in surprise as he saw the line of canvas-covered wagons rolling slowly along La Reata’s main street toward the mission.

  “It looks like they’re coming here.” Viola sounded surprised, too.

  “So it does,” Slaughter agreed.

  Romero and Donelson walked beside the lead wagon’s team of mules. Both men appeared to be angry. Slaughter wondered if their deal had developed some kinks in it.

  If that was true, he might be able to turn the potential rift to their advantage....

  The first wagon pulled up in front of the mission doors. Romero said, “Sheriff, señora, please go back with the others and stay out of the way.” To the guards he added, “Watch them closely, all of them.”

  Slaughter and Viola retreated and joined the other prisoners, but not before Slaughter saw some of Donelson’s troopers reach into the back of the wagon and pull out one of the crates. A moment later, the blue-clad men carried the crate through the open doors into the mission.

  “Stack them up there, in front of the altar,” Romero ordered.

  The deserters hesitated and looked at Donelson, who jerked his head in an angry nod to indicate they should obey Chaco’s command.

  Whatever was going on, Donelson evidently didn’t like it but didn’t have any choice except to go along with it.

  Father Fernando bustled out of the rear of the mission as the troopers set the crate on the hardwood floor in front of the altar. He hurried along the aisle to Romero and asked agitatedly, “Chaco, what is this? You know I support your cause, but you cannot bring these . . . these instruments of violence into a house of God!”

  “We won’t be leaving them here, Father,” Romero assured him. “As soon as I’ve checked them all and settled a few other details, we’ll put them back on the wagons and depart from La Reata.”

  “What other details?” Donelson snapped. “The price was settled a long time ago. You’re not going to weasel out of it now, Romero.”

  “I’m not trying to weasel out of anything, as you put it.”

  They might be doing business together, thought Slaughter, but these two definitely didn’t like each other anymore, if they ever had.

  Romero’s voice was cold and hard as he addressed Donelson. “One of my men is missing, as you might recall.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, and it’s none of my affair, anyway.”

  Slaughter suddenly got the impression that Donelson was lying. He couldn’t say why he felt that way, but it was a definite hunch. Judging by the suspicion in Romero’s eyes, the bandit leader felt the same way.

  Donelson went on. “If you’re bound and determined to inspect all those rifles, why don’t you get started? You don’t have to wait until they’ve all been brought in.”

  “Es verdad,” Romero said.

  As Donelson’s troopers brought in the other crates from the wagon, the bandit leader went to the first one, drew the heavy-bladed bowie knife from the sheath at his waist, and used it to pry loose the top. He let it slide to the side.

  From where Slaughter stood, he couldn’t see into the crate. He watched, as Romero moved packing material aside and withdrew a long, oilcloth-wrapped object. He unwrapped it and used some of the packing to wipe away grease. Then he held up what Slaughter recognized as a Springfield army rifle.

  “Brand-new Model 84s with the Buffington rear sight,” Donelson said. “With it you can draw a bead on an enemy up to 1,400 yards away. You won’t find a better weapon for ambushes. Fires a .45-70 round, and you’re getting plenty of them, too. Arm your men with these, and in six months you’ll be running Mexico, Romero.”

  “You underestimate El Presidente Díaz,” Romero said as he ran a hand over the rifle’s smooth wooden breech and stock. “But with these we will have a chance . . .”

  The Springfield was a breech-loading single-shot weapon. Romero worked the action to see how smoothly it operated and raised the rear sight as well. Finally he nodded in satisfaction, obviously impressed by the rifle.

  “You’re not going to inspect each one that closely, are you?” Donelson asked. “If you do, we’re going to be here until next week!”

  “No, I just want to make sure the rifles are what you say they are.”

  “Some men would be insulted by a comment like that.” Donelson slid a cigar from his pocket and clamped his teeth on the cylinder of tobacco. Around it he added, “Don’t try my patience, Romero, any more than you already have.”

  “Just have your men continue to bring in the crates,” Romero said.

  He gave the other rifles in the first crate a much more cursory examination, just enough to make sure they were the same model as the one he had looked at closely.

  As the deserters continued to carry in the crates, Slaughter wondered how Donelson had managed to put his hands on so many rifles. When the posse first ran into the supply train, Donelson had claimed they were on their way from Fort Bowie to Fort Huachuca. There might have been some truth to that, Slaughter mused. It was possible the
guns had been intended for the troops at Huachuca. The more Slaughter thought about it, the more likely the explanation seemed. In that case, it might be several days before the army realized that Donelson had diverted them elsewhere.

  The prisoners couldn’t expect any help unless Stonewall, Burt, and more men from Tombstone showed up. Burt was an excellent tracker and would follow the trail to La Reata, but Slaughter had no way of knowing if a second posse had even started out.

  He had to assume that whatever would be done, he and his companions would have to do it themselves.

  Slaughter’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at those crates being lined up in front of the altar. If they could get their hands on some of those rifles and a few boxes of ammunition . . .

  “John,” Viola said, “I don’t like the look on your face. It looks to me like you’re a little too eager for trouble.”

  “Just thinking, my dear. Just thinking.”

  * * *

  Mercedes was furious with her brother. She knew that concluding the deal for the rifles was important to Chaco and didn’t blame him for that, but she was more worried about Gabriel’s disappearance.

  Mercedes wasn’t particularly vain, but she was practical enough to know that she was a beautiful woman. Beautiful enough to have any man she wanted, even without the added attraction of owning a cantina.

  But despite that, she had chosen to give her heart to a big, ugly outlaw. She had loved Gabriel Hernandez since she was ten years old, and that would never change.

  She stood in front of the cantina and looked down the street toward the mission. All the crates had been unloaded and carried into the church. Chaco’s men and Donelson’s troopers stood around outside, gathered on opposite sides of the street. Tension still hung in the air. Mercedes supposed that Chaco and Donelson were still inside putting the final touches on their deal.

  Only a few of the locals were in the cantina, drinking desultorily in the middle of the day. Mercedes heard a sudden commotion from them, and her bartender called urgently, “Señorita!”