Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  That didn’t come as any surprise. Winters figured if he had been hurt, he might have tried to reach the cantina run by that lushly beautiful señorita. She looked like she could nurse a man back to health, sure enough. Just being around a gal like that was enough to boost any man’s vitals.

  In addition to the marks left by the bandit’s dragging feet, drops of dark brown blood were visible here and there. Winters came to a place where the dust was more disturbed and a larger patch of blood appeared to have soaked into the ground. Hernandez must have collapsed and passed out again before regaining consciousness once more and struggling onward.

  Why hadn’t he just gone ahead and died, Winters asked himself? That would’ve simplified matters, and Romero never would have known what the colonel really had in mind.

  Winters wasn’t completely sure he knew all of the colonel’s plans himself. Donelson played his cards pretty close to the vest. But Winters was confident that in the end he would make them all rich men. It was all Winters cared about.

  Well, that and warm brown señoritas and the chance to kill a man every now and then.

  The trail resumed, confirming his hunch about Hernandez passing out for a while. As Winters suspected, it led to the rear door of the cantina. He put his right hand on the knife sheathed at his waist as he used his left to try the latch.

  No one had thought to bar the door. It swung open easily to his touch. He tensed and drew the knife.

  He looked down a short hallway with a beaded curtain at the far end and an open doorway on each side. It was empty. Winters slipped inside.

  He glanced through the doorway to his right. It led into what appeared to be an office that was empty at the moment.

  The doorway on the left opened into a bedroom. As Winters turned in that direction, a short, fat, bald man unexpectedly appeared. His eyes opened wide in shock, and he opened his mouth to yell a warning.

  Winters struck like a rattlesnake, plunging the knife into the man’s belly and ripping upward. The man sagged forward. His mouth worked, but he was unable to make a sound as a crimson stain spread rapidly on the grimy apron he wore. Winters took him for the cantina’s bartender.

  He pulled the knife out of the man’s body and stepped back. The bartender fell to his knees and then pitched forward on his face. Blood spread in a pool underneath him.

  Winters looked into the room and saw Gabriel Hernandez sprawled facedown on a bed. The big outlaw was starting to stir. He moved one arm and moaned.

  This time he wasn’t going to make any mistakes, Winters thought as he stepped into the room. He was going to put his left hand under Hernandez’s chin, yank his head back, and cut his throat from ear to ear.

  “Let’s see you live through this,” he whispered viciously as he stepped toward the bed.

  Chapter 28

  Mercedes was still waiting to get a clear shot at Donelson when she heard beads rattle behind her. Thinking that Gabriel had regained consciousness and the bartender was coming to tell her, she looked over her shoulder toward the arched doorway on the other side of the room.

  She saw the bartender, all right, but the front of his apron was soaked with blood and in a vain attempt to keep himself from falling he made a grab at the beads as he stumbled through them. The cords on which the beads were strung snapped under the man’s weight and he sprawled on the floor.

  Even so, he had succeeded in alerting Mercedes that something was wrong. She sprang away from the entrance, dashed across the room, and hurdled over the unfortunate bartender’s recumbent form. Her sandal-clad feet slid a little on the floor as she reached the door of her bedroom.

  Instantly, her eyes took in the scene—the blue-uniformed trooper looming over the bed as he reached for Gabriel, the knife in his other hand poised to strike, the faint movements Gabriel made as he came to, evidently unaware of the deadly threat hovering over him . . .

  “Gringo!” Mercedes cried as the rifle in her hands came up.

  The man whirled toward her as she fired. In that same split second, his arm flashed forward, his reactions lightning fast.

  Mercedes felt the impact as the knife struck her, but no pain at first. She saw blood leap from the side of the trooper’s head.

  Then agony exploded through her, radiating out from the spot where the blade was buried in her left shoulder. She staggered, and the Winchester started to slip from her hands. With no warning, it had grown too heavy for her to hold up.

  A second later the trooper crashed into her and drove her over backward. Her head hit the floor with enough force to stun her and render her powerless for the moment.

  Frenzied curses spewed from his mouth as he locked his hands around her throat and began to squeeze. The terrible pressure made Mercedes’ eyes bulge out. The whole world was blurred and spun crazily around her. A tiny voice screamed in the back of her brain, warning her that she was only moments away from death.

  Her vision cleared and her eyes locked on the face of the man whose weight pinned her to the floor as he strangled her. Blood dripped from the right side of his head and splattered on her face. She saw that the bullet from her rifle had torn away a good-sized chunk of his ear.

  Mercedes couldn’t move her left arm. The pain from the wound rendered it helpless.

  But she snaked her right hand through the narrow gap between their bodies and closed her fingers around the knife’s bone handle. She began working it free, doing more damage as the razor-sharp edge sliced her flesh. She would have screamed from the pain if she could have, but the death grip he had on her throat prevented any sound from escaping.

  Finally the knife came free. She fumbled slightly as she tried to turn it, evidently warning Winters what she was trying to do. The trooper started to pull back.

  With every ounce of strength she had left, Mercedes rammed the knife upward. The point pierced the soft hollow of his throat under his chin, went through his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and on into his brain. Blood filled his mouth and spilled out like a fountain, showering her in gore. His fingers lost their strength and slipped off her throat. She saw his eyes widen with the realization that he was dead.

  Then life was gone and he toppled to the side as she heaved up against him. His body hit the floor with a dull thud.

  Mercedes lay there with her back arched for a few seconds as she drew great gasping breaths of air back into her lungs. Weakness made her collapse. She couldn’t get up, couldn’t do anything except listen to her heartbeat hammer loudly inside her head.

  She heard Gabriel groan. Summoning strength from somewhere, she rolled onto her right side and got that hand underneath her. With a great effort she pushed herself to her knees and started to crawl toward the bed.

  When she was close enough she lunged forward, reached out, and grasped the sheet so she wouldn’t fall. She pulled herself closer. Her throat hurt where Winters’ brutal grip had bruised it, but she was able to rasp, “Gabriel . . .”

  “Chiquita . . .” His hand groped for hers, grasped it.

  Mercedes laughed softly. Both of them were in bad shape, maybe dying, but they were alive and together and Winters was dead. She turned her head enough to see the trooper lying there, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, the lake of blood slowly spreading around his head.

  She squeezed Gabriel’s hand and whispered, “Rest, mi amor, rest. . . .”

  * * *

  If you had to be trapped in a siege, Slaughter thought wryly, there were worse places to be than inside a church with thick adobe walls, plenty of rifles, and thousands of rounds of ammunition. Several times during the afternoon, the deserters and Romero’s men had charged the mission, but withering fire from the defenders had forced them to retreat on each occasion.

  Slaughter had passed the word to the others to try not to kill the would-be revolutionaries from south of the border. He was convinced that Donelson had duped them somehow in order to get them to join forces with him and his men. Although Slaughter hadn’t forgotten how they had r
aided his town, robbed the bank, and shot up the place, he also knew that they hadn’t killed anyone in Tombstone and hadn’t mistreated Viola while she was their prisoner. He didn’t think they deserved to die just because they wanted to throw off the oppressive yoke of the dictator who ruled Mexico.

  It was impossible to guarantee anyone’s safety with so many bullets flying around, of course, but the deserters and the bandits tended to attack separately so the defenders inside the church could aim high or low and try to drive Romero’s men back without fatally injuring any of them. Slaughter hoped it would end without too many casualties among them.

  Another advantage to being inside the mission’s thick walls was that it was cooler. As the afternoon dragged past, the temperature outside climbed higher and higher. The men using the wagons for cover didn’t have much protection from the blazing rays of the sun.

  During a lull in the fighting, Slaughter went over to Viola. She still sat beside Romero, who was stretched out on the floor between benches with his head pillowed on a folded blanket that Father Fernando had brought from his living quarters in the rear of the church.

  Viola had half a dozen loaded Springfields close at hand. If Donelson’s men got into the church, she would be ready to fight. Slaughter had no doubt that her aim would be cool and steady.

  “Romero hasn’t come around yet?” he asked as he knelt beside her.

  Viola shook her head. “He’s stirred a few times and muttered a little, but he hasn’t been coherent. If he could just talk to his men . . .”

  Slaughter nodded. “That would make a difference, all right. If Romero’s men turned on Donelson, the odds would be on our side for a change.”

  Viola had a basin of water and a rag, also provided by Father Fernando. She wiped Romero’s face with the cool, damp cloth. “I’ll keep him comfortable. That’s about all I can do right now.”

  Slaughter nodded again. Viola had bound up Romero’s wounds earlier. The bleeding had stopped, but not before he lost enough blood to weaken him severely. More than once, Slaughter had seen men die from that.

  “If he wakes up and you think he’s strong enough for us to get him to a window, let me know. We’ll have to hold them off until then.”

  “Or until Stonewall and Burt get here.”

  Slaughter had told her about his hope that a second posse from Tombstone would arrive. Quietly he said, “We can’t count on that. For the time being, we’re alone in this.”

  “Not completely alone. We have the men you brought with you.”

  Slaughter looked around the sanctuary. What she said was true. The posse men’s faces were grimed with powder smoke. Most of them had cuts from flying glass or bullet burns where a slug had come close enough for them to feel its fiery kiss.

  But they were all grimly determined. Scared, sure, but a man who didn’t feel fear wasn’t brave, he was an idiot. Courage was doing what had to be done no matter how scared you were.

  The old Mission San Lorenzo was full of courage on that day.

  Slaughter patted Viola’s shoulder. He would have liked to kiss her, but it wasn’t the time or place.

  Besides, that was when Luther Gentry called out, “Looks like they’re gettin’ ready for another charge, Sheriff.”

  “Keep your head down,” Slaughter told Viola for what seemed like the hundredth time. He went back to his position in a crouching run.

  Something was up, all right, he saw as he risked a look at the wagons on his side of the church. It was the side where Donelson’s renegades had congregated. Some of them were moving around behind the wagons. Slaughter got ready to open fire if they rushed the mission.

  He was taken by surprise as Donelson called out to him.

  “Slaughter! Slaughter, do you hear me in there?”

  He hadn’t expected Donelson to try to negotiate. Everyone inside the church knew that Donelson didn’t intend to leave any of them alive, with the possible exception of Viola. What he might have in mind for her would be even worse.

  Besides, the mission’s defenders had the best bargaining chips—the crates full of rifles. Donelson didn’t have much to offer.

  Slaughter supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to find out what Donelson wanted. He wasn’t going to trust anything the renegade captain had to say, though.

  “I hear you, Donelson!” Slaughter shouted through the window. “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out!”

  “Oh, I’ve got something to say, all right,” Donelson replied. “I want all of you to march out of there right now with your hands empty and over your head!”

  “Why in blazes would we do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, my men are going to start shooting villagers. Surrender, or by nightfall La Reata will be a ghost town!”

  Chapter 29

  Father Fernando heard Donelson’s ultimatum and rushed to the window where Slaughter crouched with one of the Springfields ready in his hands.

  “Dios mio, this cannot be!” the priest exclaimed. “Not even a man such as Capitan Donelson would do such a horrible thing!”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that, Padre,” Slaughter said grimly. “I think Donelson would do just about anything to get what he wants.”

  Judging by the angry shouts he heard outside, Donelson might have overplayed his hand. Some of Chaco’s men might well have relatives in La Reata. Even the ones who didn’t would be sympathetic to the villagers and unwilling to stand by while they were murdered in cold blood.

  The fact that Donelson would make such a threat showed how desperate he was getting. Slaughter knew that if he and his companions could hold out a while longer, the pendulum might begin to swing back toward them.

  Slaughter gave that pendulum a little push by shouting, “You’re insane, Donelson! You know you tried to double-cross Romero and his men! You can’t fool them anymore!”

  “That’s a damned lie!” Donelson called from behind the wagons. “You murdered Chaco Romero!”

  From behind Slaughter, Viola said urgently, “John!”

  Slaughter looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Viola standing there with her arm around Romero’s waist, helping to support the wounded revolutionary. Diego Herrara was on Romero’s other side, also holding him up. Romero was pale and hollow-eyed, but he was conscious and seemed to know what was going on.

  “How can I . . . help . . . Sheriff Slaughter?” he gasped.

  It was what Slaughter had been waiting for. With excitement coursing through his veins, he stepped forward to take Viola’s place at Romero’s side. “Come on. Let’s get you to the door so all your men can hear you.”

  “John, be careful with him,” Viola urged as Slaughter and Herrara turned Romero toward the entrance. “He just regained consciousness and he’s very weak.”

  “I know, but he’s the only one who can put a stop to this.”

  As they half-dragged, half-carried Romero toward the double doors, Slaughter told Yardley and Harmon to take down the bar. Mose Tadrack unfastened the latches and gripped the handle on one of the doors.

  “Just say the word, Sheriff, and I’ll open it.”

  “Now, Mose,” Slaughter said. “But not too wide. We don’t want a bunch of bullets flying through there.”

  Tadrack heaved on the thick door. It moved back slowly, scraping a little on the floor.

  Donelson’s claim that Slaughter had murdered Chaco Romero was the last thing that had been said. That accusation hung tensely in the air.

  Slaughter looked over at Romero. “Are you up to this?”

  Romero drew in a deep breath and nodded. Slaughter and Herrara helped him closer to the door. He called out, “Amigos! Amigos, listen to me!”

  Hearing Romero’s voice when they had all thought he was dead prompted startled shouts from the bandits. Romero leaned closer to the open door. “Donelson is the traitor! He plans to murder us all and steal back the guns! You must stop him!”

  With that, Romero’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and he pass
ed out, sagging in the grip of Slaughter and Herrara.

  But the deed was done. When shots began to roar again outside, the bullets fired by the would-be revolutionaries were directed at Donelson and the rest of the deserters, who fought back desperately.

  War had truly come to La Reata.

  * * *

  Donelson cursed bitterly. All his plans had fallen apart. Winters had allowed that brute Hernandez to live, and Romero had put on the finishing touches. Donelson would have sworn that Romero was dead. Just how many times did a man have to be shot before he died?

  “Fall back!” Donelson roared to his men as he fired his revolver and saw one of the Mexicans fall as the slug blew away a good-sized chunk of his head. “Get to the horses!”

  Retreat was the only option left to them. His forces were pretty evenly matched with those of Romero, but the survivors of the posse who were holed up in the church had to be taken into account. They had opened fire on the deserters again, which meant that Donelson and his men were under attack from two directions.

  They had to get out of La Reata. They would be lucky to do it with their hides intact.

  Donelson still had one thing working in his favor. His men might be deserters, greedy bastards who had gone back on their oath for the promise of a big payoff, but they were still well-trained cavalrymen. Most of them had been in fights with the Apaches in the past, so they were cool under fire and obeyed orders well. The retreat toward the stable was an orderly one, not a rout, and the men continued to fight as they pulled back.

  Their horses were in the big corral next to the livery stable. Donelson crouched behind a water barrel, drilled another charging bandit with a round from his Colt, and called out to several of his men to get the horses saddled. The others would hold off the Mexicans.

  The old man who owned the stable rushed out of the barn as several of the troopers charged up to the building. He shouted at them in Spanish, yelling too fast for Donelson to make out what he was saying over the roaring guns.