Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  But it didn’t really matter because one of the troopers raised his rifle and shot the old man in the chest. The stableman clapped his hands to the blood-spouting wound, staggered back a couple steps, and collapsed in the dust.

  The deserters bounded past the dead man as they hurried into the barn to grab some saddles.

  The fight was a fierce one. Donelson saw several of his men fall and knew that his force was being whittled down. He knew it was callous, but he didn’t really care as long as he made it out alive.

  He had to live in order to put the rest of his scheme into motion. His plan had always had another part to it, right from the start, although he hadn’t let any of his men in on it. They didn’t have to know until the right time came. This debacle at La Reata had just sped things up, that was all, he told himself.

  As he reloaded his revolver and looked around the street, he realized that he hadn’t seen Winters since he’d sent the former corporal to find Gabriel Hernandez and make sure the big outlaw was actually dead. That no longer mattered—Hernandez couldn’t ruin things that were already ruined—but Donelson would have liked to have Winters by his side. The Southerner was like a vicious dog—handy to have around when you needed to turn him loose on somebody and command him to kill.

  But if Winters got left behind when the rest of them pulled out, or if he had fouled up and gotten himself killed somehow, that was just too bad. Donelson was looking out for his own hide first.

  “Horses are saddled, Cap’n!” one of the men shouted to him.

  A bullet burned past Donelson’s ear as he made a run for the stable. Another man swung the gate open enough for the troopers to pour into the corral and grab the horses’ reins. All the shooting had spooked the animals, so they were dancing around making it difficult to mount up.

  Several horses stampeded for the partially open gate. One of the deserters screamed as he was knocked down. Steel-shod hooves slashed and pounded at him. The scream was cut off abruptly as the horses trampled the fallen man to death. They hit the gate, knocked it the rest of the way open, and bolted out of the corral.

  Only about half of the men had managed to mount before the stampede, but Donelson was one of them. He leaned forward over his horse’s neck to make himself a smaller target and twisted to fire his revolver back at Romero’s men.

  A cloud of dust boiled up from the horses’ hooves and helped shield the escaping deserters from view. Donelson guided his mount expertly and worked his way to the front of the group. He hauled hard on the reins and sent his horse lunging into the village’s lone cross street. As soon as they had flashed past the few buildings, Donelson turned south toward the border.

  Nothing lay north for him except a military prison and quite possibly a firing squad.

  But south . . . ah, south lay another opportunity for riches, and almost as important, for revenge.

  Romero and Slaughter believed that he was beaten, he thought with a savage grin as he galloped toward the border.

  They would soon learn that Brice Donelson was just getting started!

  Chapter 30

  The shots began to die away after the deserters fled from La Reata on horseback. Slaughter opened the doors of the church wider and looked out at the scene of battle. Bodies littered the street. Some were Romero’s men, but most belonged to deserters who had been killed in the fighting.

  The sporadic reports of gunfire told Slaughter that the bandits were finishing off Donelson’s men who had been left behind. It was a brutal business, but after everything that had happened, as well as the possibility of the atrocities that Donelson had threatened to carry out, Slaughter couldn’t blame them too much.

  Viola came up beside him. “We took Chaco back to Father Fernando’s quarters and put him to bed. He came to again for a minute and said that he wanted to see his men.”

  “They’re still a little busy at the moment,” Slaughter said with a grim smile, “but when they’ve finished with Donelson’s men, I’m sure some of them will come to see how he’s doing.”

  With things evidently under control for the moment, Slaughter turned away from the doors to check on the members of his posse. He found Grover Harmon tying a rag around Joseph Cleaver’s upper left arm to serve as a bandage.

  “Bullet knocked a hunk o’ meat outta the kid’s arm,” Harmon explained as he tightened the makeshift bandage.

  “But I’ll be all right.” Cleaver was pale and haggard like the others, but seemed to be steady on his feet.

  Chester Carlton also sported a new bloodstained bandage. It was tied around his head. “I got creased again, Sheriff.” His voice held a note of pride. “This was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. I can’t wait to tell my wife I was injured in a gun battle!”

  Slaughter grinned and clapped a hand on the drummer’s shoulder. “She may not think that you coming that close to getting killed is as exciting as you do,” he warned Carlton.

  With a rueful smile, Carlton said, “Well, it’s not anything I’d want to go through again. It was also the most frightening thing I’ve ever done!”

  All the injuries were minor, which was a relief to Slaughter. The men had known when they left Tombstone that they might be in danger before it was all over, but he’d wanted to keep the casualties to a minimum. He had lost Jack Doyle and Ross Murdock. That was enough, and he was going to mourn them.

  Well, maybe not Murdock quite so much, since the young man had tried to kill him, but Slaughter still wished that Winters hadn’t gunned him down in cold blood. With Slaughter’s help, Murdock might have been able to put right what he had done.

  Viola had gone into the rear of the mission to check on Romero again. When she came back, she told Slaughter, “Chaco wants his sister brought here, John. Do you think you could go find Mercedes?”

  Slaughter hadn’t heard any shots from outside for several minutes. He nodded. “I’ll take a couple men with me. She’s bound to be at that cantina of hers.”

  He told Yardley and Tadrack to bring rifles and come with him. Even though it was hot outside, after being cooped up in the church all day, it felt good to step out into the late afternoon sunlight.

  The three of them had gone only a few yards before several of Romero’s men rushed up and leveled Winchesters at them.

  Slaughter muttered, “Stay calm,” to his companions, then stepped out in front to meet the bandits. “Chaco Romero is inside the church,” he told them in fluent Spanish. “He’s wounded, but I think he’s going to be all right. You can go see him if you think I’m not telling the truth. You heard him with your own ears when he said that Donelson was the one who shot him.”

  The tension in the air eased slightly. The men lowered their rifles, but didn’t point them at the ground just yet.

  “You pursue us all the way from Tombstone,” one of the men said, “and now you want us to believe that you are our friend?”

  “I never said we were friends,” Slaughter replied bluntly. “You robbed the bank in my town. But circumstances have made us allies. Donelson and his men are our true enemies.”

  “The man Donelson is gone, along with those of his dogs who still live.” The spokesman’s rifle barrel tilted up again slightly. “And now we must deal with you.”

  Slaughter grimaced in disgust. “You can do it after we’ve taken Romero’s sister to him.”

  He stepped around the bandits and motioned for Tadrack and Yardley to follow him.

  The two men looked a little nervous about that—and who could blame them, Slaughter thought, with hard-eyed bandits staring at them over the barrels of repeaters?—but they fell in step behind him as he headed for the cantina.

  After a moment, Romero’s men lowered their weapons and followed.

  Slaughter was a little surprised that Mercedes hadn’t already emerged from the cantina and come looking for her brother, now that the shooting was over. Maybe she was just being cautious . . . although caution didn’t strike him as being that big a part of her makeup.


  As he stepped into the building his eyes had to adjust from the bright sunlight outside, as usual, so for a moment he couldn’t see much. About all he could make out was that there were no customers.

  Then he spotted the bloody, huddled shape lying on the floor just inside the arched door to the rear hallway. Beads from the damaged curtain were scattered on the floor around the body.

  “Good Lord!” Slaughter exclaimed, hurrying across the room.

  Tadrack, Yardley, and the three bandits were close on his heels.

  Slaughter bent over the fallen man and recognized him as the bartender. His pale, waxy face and sightlessly staring eyes, along with the large pool of blood underneath him, were mute testimony to the fact that he was dead.

  “Señorita Romero!” Slaughter called as he straightened. “Mercedes!”

  No answer came from the back rooms. A couple swift steps along the corridor brought him even with the open doorways. Instantly, he saw Mercedes lying on the floor next to the bed in the room to his right. The massive form of Gabriel Hernandez lay on the bed. He was facedown, like Mercedes.

  A few feet away, Winters’ corpse was sprawled on its side. A knife had been driven into the former corporal’s throat all the way up to the hilt.

  Slaughter ran into the room and dropped to one knee beside Mercedes. He placed the rifle on the floor, then took hold of her shoulders and carefully rolled her onto her back. Blood covered the area around her left shoulder. He could tell that it came from a knife wound high on that side of her chest.

  When Slaughter looked closely, he could see her breasts rise and fall as she breathed. She was alive. Her wound had added to the rivers of blood spilled that day, but she might be all right with some prompt medical attention.

  Gabriel was alive, too. Slaughter heard the big man’s breath rasping in his throat.

  He turned his head and told Tadrack, “Run back to the mission and fetch Mrs. Slaughter and Father Fernando.” Slaughter looked at Romero’s men and added in Spanish, “One of you go with him so the rest of your men won’t think they need to shoot him.”

  Tadrack nodded and left the room, followed by one of the bandits.

  Blood was still seeping from the wound in Mercedes’ shoulder. Slaughter tore a piece off the sheet, folded it, and pressed it to the injury. She moaned a little as he put pressure on it. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened.

  “I’m sorry it hurts,” Slaughter told her. “Looks like you’ve already lost enough blood for one day.”

  He didn’t know if she understood what he said or even heard him. Her eyes rolled around wildly and had trouble focusing. Her breasts heaved harder. He figured she was in quite a bit of pain.

  Finally her gaze seemed to locate him. She whispered, “S-Señor . . . Slaughter?”

  “That’s right, señorita. I’ve sent for my wife and Father Fernando—”

  “The priest! I . . . I must . . . make my confession. I have been . . . an evil woman . . .”

  “I don’t know you that well, señorita, but somehow I doubt that. I didn’t send for the priest so he could administer last rites. He’ll just help Señora Slaughter patch you up. You’re going to be fine.”

  She lifted her right hand enough to clutch at his sleeve. “Gabriel . . . ?”

  “He’s alive.” Slaughter added honestly. “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, but he’s definitely alive.”

  “He will be . . . all right. He is strong . . . like an ox.” Her thoughts seemed to be more in order. “If you are here . . . the fight must be over. Where is . . . my brother?”

  “Down at the mission. He was wounded, too. Shot a couple times. My wife has been taking care of him.”

  “What happened to . . . that gringo captain?” Several curses followed her question about Donelson.

  When she paused in her tirade, Slaughter said, “I hate to admit it, but Donelson got away. He galloped out of here with about a dozen of his men. I didn’t see which way they went, but my guess would be south.”

  “Over the border.”

  Slaughter nodded. “Exactly. The army will be looking for him and the others on this side of the border. They’ll be better off getting into Mexico.”

  “Did he get . . . the money?”

  “Not a bit of it. He left here empty-handed, without the money or the rifles. He saved his own hide, but that’s all.”

  “Someone will . . . catch up to him. Justice . . . will be done.”

  Slaughter hoped that was true.

  “It was Donelson’s rabid dog . . .” Mercedes motioned with her good hand toward Winters. “. . . who tried to kill my poor Gabriel. Then he . . . came back and . . . killed my bartender . . . stuck his knife in me . . . but I paid him back . . . gave him a taste of . . . his own steel . . .”

  Slaughter glanced at the way Mercedes had driven the knife up through Winters’ mouth into his brain. “I’d say you certainly did. Winters won’t ever murder anyone again.”

  Before either of them could say anything else, Viola and Father Fernando hurried into the room, followed by Tadrack and the bandido.

  “Dear Lord!” Viola exclaimed when she saw the blood on Mercedes’ dress and bare shoulder. “Is she alive?”

  “She is,” Slaughter said solemnly. He lifted the cloth he had pressed to the wound. “Looks like the bleeding has just about stopped. But she’s going to need some cleaning up.”

  “That wound will need some stitches, too.” Viola looked at the priest. “Can you find me needle and thread, Padre?”

  “Of course,” Father Fernando said. “I believe you’ll need to do some sewing on poor Gabriel, as well.”

  “I’ll leave them in your capable hands, my dear.” Slaughter picked up the Springfield he had set aside earlier, got to his feet, and motioned with a jerk of his head for Tadrack and Yardley to follow him as he left the room.

  Romero’s men came with them. Slaughter took note of that and reminded himself that not all of the problems had been settled.

  There was still the question of what to do about all the loot that had been stolen from Tombstone.

  Not to mention an entire load of contraband army rifles.

  Chapter 31

  Donelson didn’t slow his horse until he had covered several miles. That ought to be far enough to be sure he had crossed the border into Mexico, he thought as he slowed the exhausted animal to a walk.

  The men who’d fled out of La Reata with him followed his example. In their desperate flight, they had almost ridden their mounts into the ground. Much farther at that pace and the horses would have started collapsing and dying.

  Unlike Texas, where the Rio Grande formed a distinct boundary between the United States and Mexico, in Arizona Territory the only line was an imaginary one.

  You couldn’t look around and tell from the terrain that you were in Mexico. The landscape looked the same as it did north of the border—flat and semiarid, brown and sere, with occasional clumps of sparse grass, sage, and scrub brush, and lots of hot, dusty sand.

  Unappealing country to be sure, Donelson thought. But he was glad to be there. For the moment, he was safe from the reach of the United States Army.

  Some of his men didn’t seem so glad. Several of them crowded their horses up alongside his. One of them demanded angrily, “What the hell are we gonna do now, Donelson? Half the boys are dead, and you never did get our money from those greasers!”

  “That’s Captain Donelson,” he said coldly, thinking it might not be wise to mention the promotion in rank he had given himself while talking to Winters. “We may not be in the army anymore, but we all agreed that I was still in command.”

  “That was before everything went to hell.” The speaker was a squat, balding trooper named Armstrong.

  The first man who had spoken had enlisted under the name Jones, but that could have been an alias. Both were privates, and both had been in trouble in the past and spent time in the stockade.

  Armstrong waved a beefy arm. “We don’t even h
ave most of our gear. All we’ve got are the damned army shirts on our backs!”

  “Settle down,” Donelson said sharply. He had to maintain discipline if he was going to have any chance of salvaging the situation.

  And it could still be salvaged, he reminded himself. He hadn’t played all his cards yet. One still remained up his sleeve that he hoped would turn out to be an ace.

  Jones said, “If you want to keep givin’ the orders, Captain, you’d better tell us what you plan on doin’ about this mess. As far as I can see, we’re worse off now than when we were actually in the army. We’re stuck in Mexico with no money and damned little ammunition.”

  “Enough to find a bank somewhere and rob it, maybe,” Armstrong said.

  Donelson didn’t care at all for the sarcastic tone of Jones’s voice when the trooper had addressed him by his rank, and he ignored Armstrong’s ridiculous suggestion except to say, “We’re not going to rob a bank. We’re going to keep riding until we reach those hills ahead of us.”

  The heights he mentioned were several miles away. They were primarily brown and tan and gray, indicating that they were barren of vegetation for the most part, but there were splotches of green that looked welcoming.

  “What’s in those hills?” Jones demanded with a scowl.

  “Our salvation,” Donelson replied softly. He wouldn’t say anything else, and after a few minutes the other men stopped pressing him about it. They muttered and grumbled, but they kept riding with him.

  They stopped and rested the horses only once on their way to the hills.

  It was late afternoon before the deserters reached the slopes. Donelson led them into a narrow pass between two humpbacked hills. He had been given directions in a letter, and he thought it was the right route.

  “What in blazes are you doin’, Cap’n?” Armstrong asked, sounding slightly less rebellious. “Are we gonna camp in here?”

  “More than likely,” Donelson replied, “but that’s not the only reason we’re here.” He supposed he might as well go ahead and tell the men the rest of the plan that had brought them to Mexico. “You see, we were coming here all along, even if things had gone exactly as planned in La Reata. This is where we were going to deliver those guns.”