Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re recovering the money, but letting the robbers get away.”

  “Isn’t that what you’d want me to do? I thought you were sympathetic to Romero’s cause.”

  “I am. But he rode into my husband’s town and broke the law. I don’t like that.”

  Slaughter chuckled again. “I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, but I’m willing to make an exception if it means getting you and the men safely home again.”

  “And you, too,” Viola said softly. “I agree. You’ve done enough, John.”

  The cook at the hotel had coffee ready, along with flapjacks, fried eggs, and thick slices of ham. Slaughter enjoyed the meal and felt better after he’d eaten.

  That feeling was short-lived. Chester Carlton, still wearing the bloodstained bandage around his head, hurried into the hotel dining room with a worried look on his florid face. “Mr. Gentry sent me to find you, Sheriff. He said there’s something you need to see.”

  Slaughter set his napkin aside and reached for his hat. Irritated, he asked, “What in the world is it now?”

  “I don’t know,” Carlton said as he shook his head. “But Mr. Gentry seemed worried.”

  Slaughter leaned over and pressed his lips to the top of Viola’s head. “Stay here until I find out what’s going on, my dear,” he murmured.

  “All right, but don’t forget that I can handle a gun, too.”

  Slaughter wasn’t likely to forget that.

  He followed Carlton out of the hotel and along the way asked, “How are you feeling this morning, Chester?”

  “Not too bad, considering I got shot in the head yesterday,” the drummer replied with a smile. “This old noggin of mine hurt a little this morning, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”

  “Well, I haven’t been shot in the head myself, but that sounds reasonable enough.”

  “I hope whatever this new trouble is, it doesn’t turn out to be too bad. I don’t know about you, Sheriff, but I’ve had just about enough excitement to last me for a while.”

  “What exactly is it that you sell, Chester?” Slaughter asked. “I don’t think you ever said.”

  “I’m in ladies’ undergarments.”

  “Oh.” Slaughter could have said more, but he didn’t.

  Several of Romero’s men were gathered near the old mission, and a definite feeling of tension hung in the air. Gentry, Harmon, Yardley, and Tadrack were standing in front of the church, too. All of them wore worried frowns.

  “What is it?” Slaughter asked as he and Carlton came up to them.

  “Take a look out yonder, Sheriff.” Gentry inclined his head toward the south.

  Slaughter looked past the mission and saw what had caused such consternation among the men. A low cloud of dust hung in the air. It was more of a yellow haze than an actual cloud, but it was definitely there.

  “Riders coming,” Slaughter said grimly.

  “A lot of them, from the looks of it,” Gentry said. “But they ain’t comin’ fast, elsewise their horses would be kickin’ up a lot more dust than that.”

  “Who do you think it could be?” Tadrack asked. “Donelson and his men coming back?”

  Slaughter shook his head. “I’d say the bunch is too big for that. Must be fifty or sixty men headed this way, from the looks of that dust.”

  “Bronco Apaches, maybe?” Harmon suggested.

  “Not likely. They’d slip up on us in small groups. We’d never know they were around until they were ready to jump us.” Slaughter frowned in thought. “No, whoever it is doesn’t care if we know they’re coming, but they’re not getting in any hurry about it. They must be pretty confident.”

  That fact worried Slaughter. The strangers must think they could just waltz into La Reata and do anything they wanted without anybody putting up a fight. Or they were so sure they could crush their opposition that they weren’t worried about a battle.

  Carlton piped up. “Maybe it’s the cavalry. They could have come down here looking for those deserters.”

  “Maybe,” Slaughter said, although he didn’t believe that for a second. “Not very likely they’d be coming from that direction, though. We’re not very far from the border.”

  “Maybe it’s the Mexican army,” Tadrack said. “If Romero wants to start a revolution, they might’ve found out about it and come to stop him. They might not care that La Reata’s on American soil.”

  That actually made more sense than any of the other theories suggested so far, Slaughter thought. “Whoever it is, keep an eye on them. I’m going to talk to Romero.”

  He strode back to the hotel, and found Viola waiting in the lobby.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What did Mr. Gentry want?”

  Like most happily married men, Slaughter didn’t believe in lying to his wife—unless there was a really good reason to do so, of course—or in keeping the truth from her. “There’s a large group of riders headed in this direction from the south.”

  “Donelson?”

  “I don’t know. I want to get Romero’s thoughts on who else it might be.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she volunteered.

  Slaughter didn’t see any reason to argue with her. He nodded. “Come on.”

  They went up the stairs and along the hall to Romero’s room. He was still propped up, but had dozed off. He woke up, seemed disoriented for a second, but then he steadied. “I can tell something is wrong, Sheriff. What is it?”

  Slaughter told him about the dust indicating a large group of riders approaching the village.

  “One of my men suggested it might be the Mexican army come to chase you down. Is there any chance of that? Could President Díaz know that you’re plotting a revolution against him and sent Federales to nip it in the bud?”

  “Impossible,” Chaco replied. “Word couldn’t have reached him in Mexico City so soon. We’ve just started recruiting men from the villages in northern Sonora. Unless . . . I suppose Díaz could have spies this far north . . . but it doesn’t seem very likely to me, Sheriff.”

  “Do you have any other explanation, then?”

  “No . . . but I have a pair of field glasses in my saddlebags. They’ll be in the stable with my saddle. If you’ll take them and climb into the church bell tower, you might be able to see who our visitors are before they get here.”

  Slaughter nodded. He should have thought of that himself.

  He turned to leave, but Romero went on, “Sheriff, I’d like to have a gun.”

  “You’re in no condition to fight, Romero,” Viola said.

  Slaughter nodded. “My wife is right.”

  “Yes, but if there is more trouble on the way . . . if enemies reach this room in search of my life . . . it would pain me more than any physical wound ever could to leave this world without putting up a fight.”

  When Romero put it like that, Slaughter could understand. He would feel the same way if he were in Romero’s position. “I’ll have somebody bring you a six-shooter and some extra shells,” he promised.

  “Gracias, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter halfway expected Viola to stay with Romero, but she followed him out of the room. He wasn’t jealous of the bandit, exactly, but the rapport Viola had developed with the man bothered him somewhat. It struck him as unusual, especially considering the fact that Romero had kidnapped her.

  Every older man married to a younger wife probably had feelings like that from time to time, he told himself. Viola had never seemed dissatisfied with their marriage, not even for a minute, but it was difficult to forget completely the difference in their ages.

  For the moment, however, he had to forget everything except the possible danger closing in on La Reata. The previous evening, Slaughter had hunted up his Henry, which had been taken from him when he was captured, and stashed it behind the desk in the hotel. He reclaimed it and stalked out of the building with Viola at his side.

  “Where do you think you’re going now?” he asked her without slowing down.

 
; “With you.”

  It was a simple answer, but it made him feel a little better.

  He waved one of Romero’s men over. The bandit frowned suspiciously, but nodded in agreement when Slaughter asked for help in finding the field glasses among Romero’s gear. That didn’t take long. As they walked out of the livery stable, he looked at the advancing dust again. It was closer, but the riders were still apparently moving at a deliberate pace.

  Joseph Cleaver and Diego Herrara had joined the other members of the posse at the mission, so Slaughter’s entire force was together. He held up the field glasses and told them, “I’m going to climb up into the bell tower and see if I can get a look at whoever’s coming.”

  Viola went into the church with him. Slaughter told her, “You don’t have to go up there with me.”

  “My eyesight is a little better than yours, John.”

  He frowned. “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m younger, for one thing.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”

  “Maybe not, but I can still see better than you.”

  Once again Slaughter realized that arguing was pointless. He opened a narrow door below the bell tower and found a ladder behind it. “All right, if you’re that determined, up you go.”

  His thoughts were on the mysterious force riding toward La Reata, but from this angle he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t noticed the way the trousers Viola was wearing hugged her bottom as she climbed the ladder. That was a good thing, he told himself. It showed that he was still alive, that the blood was still coursing through his veins.

  He turned his attention away from his wife’s bottom and back to the problem at hand as he climbed after her, taking the rifle with him.

  The bell tower was open on all four sides, with a thick beam at each corner supporting the tiled roof. A ledge ran around the inside so that the sides of the tower formed a waist-high wall. The big bell hung in the center, also supported by thick beams. They had an excellent view in all directions.

  At the moment, the only one Slaughter cared about was south. He handed the Henry to Viola and used both hands to raise the glasses to his eyes and steady them. The landscape seemed to leap toward him through the lenses. After a moment, he located the riders and stiffened as he recognized the gray uniforms they wore. Those were Mexican soldiers, all right . . . and technically they were invading the United States since they were north of the border.

  Slaughter tracked the glasses toward the front of the column, lowering them slightly in order to do so. He wanted to see who was leading the invasion.

  A couple riders were out in front of the others. One was a swarthy man with a hawk nose and a thick black mustache. He wore a lot fancier version of the Mexican army uniform with a bright red sash angling across his barrel chest and a hat with a red plume on his head. Anybody with a uniform that flashy had to be a general, Slaughter thought.

  But it was the sight of the man riding beside the officer that made Slaughter grate a heartfelt curse.

  “Who is it, John?” Viola asked tensely.

  “The last low-down varmint I wanted to see again so soon. Captain Brice Donelson.”

  Chapter 34

  “That sounds like General Alphonso Montoya,” Romero said a short time later. Slaughter had described to him the man approaching La Reata with Donelson. “A vain, brutal man. He has hauled many men in Sonora in front of a firing squad for little or no excuse. The cruelty of officers such as Montoya is a large part of the reason we want to overthrow Díaz.” Romero paused. “There have been rumors that Montoya would like to see El Presidente removed from power as well. That would make the path clearer for Montoya’s own ambitions.”

  “That explains it, then,” Slaughter said as his keen brain put together the final pieces of the puzzle.

  “Explains what?”

  “Donelson’s plan. He was going to sell the rifles to you, then double-cross you, murder you and your men, take the rifles back, and turn around and sell them to this General Montoya. If Montoya wants to put together a little revolution of his own, he can use a supply train full of brand-new Springfields, can’t he?”

  Grim-faced, Romero nodded. “With those rifles, Montoya could wipe out many of his enemies.”

  “Donelson must have had a rendezvous arranged with him south of the border where he would turn over the guns,” Slaughter mused. “When everything fell apart here, he met Montoya anyway and told him where he could find the Springfields. Now Montoya’s on his way to get them.”

  Romero looked like he wanted to jump out of the bed, but his injured body wouldn’t let him. “We must stop him. We must not allow a devil like Montoya to get his hands on those rifles.”

  “I don’t like that idea, either. And it galls me that he thinks he can just ride across the border into my country and take whatever he wants.”

  “That is Montoya’s way. He does what he wants and kills whoever is in his way. No one has ever been able to stop him.”

  “Maybe today is the day that changes.”

  Romero frowned. “A bold statement, but how? You said Montoya has sixty men. That’s many more than you and I can muster, even if we combine our forces.”

  “How many people live in La Reata?” Slaughter asked quietly. “I’ll bet we can arm every able-bodied man with a dozen Springfields and as much ammunition as he could fire in a day.”

  That idea made Romero lean forward with a look of interest on his lean face. “Many of the people here have relatives scattered throughout Sonora. Montoya’s cruelty is bound to have touched nearly everyone. The men will fight. I know they will. Some of the women will, too.”

  “I’m going to bring a couple of your men up here,” Slaughter said. “You can give your orders to pass them along to the others.”

  “What I will tell them is to follow your orders, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter frowned. “Will they do that?”

  “They will if I tell them to. An army needs a commander in order to function. Right now, my men and the people of La Reata are your army, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter nodded solemnly. “I’ll try to live up to that faith.”

  “One more thing,” Romero said as Slaughter turned to leave. “Where is Señora Slaughter?”

  “She’s up in the church bell tower with your field glasses, keeping an eye on Donelson and Montoya.” Slaughter smiled. “I left my Henry up there with her, too, in case she needs to pick off any varmints.”

  “Your wife, she is quite a woman.”

  “Not telling me anything I don’t already know, amigo.”

  * * *

  He also knew there was no time to waste. For the next fifteen minutes, he hurried here and there in the village, giving orders and explaining what everyone was supposed to do. Romero’s men seemed reluctant to cooperate, but the two lieutenants Romero had spoken to in his hotel room lashed the men with words and ensured that they would do what Slaughter told them to do. The main thing was to spread throughout the village and pass the word that any man willing to fight Montoya’s invaders should go to the church and arm himself with several rifles and as much ammunition as he could carry.

  Then the defenders of La Reata were to find good places from which to fight.

  Slaughter was walking in front of the church when Viola leaned out from the bell tower and called, “John, several riders have broken off from the others! They’re coming toward town!”

  A delegation to deliver Montoya’s demands, Slaughter thought. He looked up at his wife. “Keep your head down up there!”

  “How can I keep my head down and shoot at the same time?”

  That was an entirely logical question. Slaughter didn’t have an answer for it, so he just laughed, waved at her, and then called, “Mose!”

  Tadrack trotted over to him. “What is it, Sheriff?”

  “Some of those fellows are coming in, and I’m going out to meet them and talk to them. How about coming with me?”

  Tadra
ck looked surprised. “Why me?”

  “I want a steady man beside me. Since the booze burned itself out of you, you’ve been pretty steady. Take a look at your hand now.”

  Tadrack did so, lifting his right hand and gazing at it for a few seconds. It didn’t tremble at all. “Well, what do you know about that?” he said softly.

  “You’re going to have a problem when you get back to Tombstone. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to be content to be a saloon swamper anymore.”

  “Reckon I’ll have to live through whatever happens today before I need to worry about that,” Tadrack said with a smile.

  “That’s a good point. Come on.”

  In the stable, they saddled up quickly. Riding past the church a few minutes later, they saw that the three riders who’d been approaching the village had stopped about five hundred yards to the south. The rest of Montoya’s force was a quarter mile behind them.

  Slaughter and Tadrack rode toward the men at a deliberate pace. Slaughter wanted to seem calm and steady, even though inside he was anything but.

  As the gap between them closed, he saw that one of the men wore blue, while the other two were clad in gray uniforms. When he came close enough to recognize Donelson, he wasn’t surprised. The two men with the deserter were officers, but their uniforms weren’t as gaudy as Montoya’s. The general had stayed back with his men where it was safe.

  Slaughter reined in when he was thirty feet from Donelson and the two Mexicans. He leaned forward a little in the saddle and called, “I didn’t expect to see you again, Donelson. I thought you’d keep running with your tail between your legs like the cowardly dog you are.”

  “You can insult me all you want, Sheriff. All I care about is those guns. Load them back onto the wagons, send them out here, and nobody else has to die. You can all go on your way peacefully. No grudges.”

  “Damned right I hold a grudge,” Slaughter snapped. “You betrayed your country, mister. You were responsible for the deaths of some good men.”