Blood and Bullets

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Beartooth shook his head. “It’s mighty temptin’, but too risky. If we knew the terrain better—maybe. But we don’t. And, even with a clear sky, there’ll be other canyons and arroyos to pass through and deep pools of shadow cast by the taller rocks where you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face.

  “Sound travels in the mountains in funny ways. A stumble, a stone kicked loose underfoot, that could give ’em all the warnin’ they’d need. And, yeah, maybe we could still take ’em in a shoot-out—but what about Shaw? A stray bullet, or if the robbers decided to make good on their threat . . . You of all people, Hadley, should see where goin’ at it with caution is the smarter way.”

  Hadley scowled. “Aye. Ye make good sense. I was being an over-eager ass on account of wanting to lay into those scoundrels so bad I didn’t think it through.”

  “Don’t worry,” Beartooth told him. “There’s every reason to expect you’ll have a chance to get your licks in . . . when the time is right.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Firestick could sense there had been a shift in mood as soon as he crawled out of his bedroll the next morning.

  It hadn’t been until late at night, in their bedrolls spread near each other with the rest of the camp asleep around them, that he and Moosejaw had been able to talk freely, though in low whispers. Even then, there was little they could come up with in the way of any ideas to solve their predicament. Unable to arrive at any feasible idea for getting out of their fix anytime soon left Firestick tossing restlessly all through the night.

  And now, this morning, whatever was in the air suggested that their fix had somehow worsened.

  At least Estarde didn’t waste any time getting to it. As soon as he spotted the Americanos stirring and rising from their bedrolls he marched over to stand before them. Six of his men came with him, rifles held not in a directly threatening manner yet at the same time very much in evidence. Elsewhere in the camp, the eyes of others, even as they went about various tasks, glanced frequently in the direction of this meeting.

  “Good morning, amigos,” Estarde greeted.

  “Mornin’,” Firestick replied.

  “A good leader of men, especially a leader of fighting men,” Estarde proceeded, “should know when to listen and pay attention to those who serve under him. I consider myself a good leader. In fact, for the purpose of this rebellion we are in the midst of, I choose to view it not as men serving under me but rather men serving beside me.”

  “Seems a decent way of lookin’ at things,” Firestick allowed, sensing Moosejaw looming up next to him.

  “I explain this,” Estarde continued, “because several of my men came to me during the night with concerns. Concerns about you and your large friend. I listened to them. They are of the opinion I was too quick to welcome you to our cause yesterday, too quick to take you simply at your word that you came seeking to join us and to fight with your guns against our hated oppressors.”

  “Did their concerns cause you to change your mind?”

  Estarde’s expression was stern, giving nothing away. “Let’s just say I’m willing to admit that my acceptance of you was perhaps a bit hasty. The defeat of Ricardo and his entire force of men, and the part—though small—you and your friend played in it, had me feeling euphoric and more charitable than may have been wise.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Firestick said. “How can we convince you that we are what we say we are?”

  “For starters, how do you explain that, as pistoleros, seasoned fighting men, you allowed the Rurales to trap you in the manner they did?”

  Firestick considered before giving his response. “The simple truth, much as I hate to admit it, is that we let our guard down and got caught. We were weary, in strange territory without havin’ seen tracks or any sign that anybody else was close around, and we damn near paid for it with our lives. No other way to say it.”

  A corner of the colonel’s mouth lifted in what might have been a grudging smile. “To be honest in the face of error rather than to make sad excuses is a good thing. As long, of course, as making errors does not become a habit.”

  “Considerin’ the places we’ve been and the things we’ve done,” said Firestick, “if me or my friend made a habit of errors, we wouldn’t be standin’ here today.”

  “That implies a life of danger, in keeping with the image of fighting men and pistoleros as you present yourselves to be,” Estarde said. “But one of your weapons raises another question about that. You see that most of my men are rather poorly armed, though hardly by choice. That is on the verge of soon changing, starting with what we took from the bodies of those we defeated yesterday. But if you are a fighting man by trade, and in spite of the more current weapons you do display—why do you also possess a relic even older than the oldest of our guns?”

  With this, the colonel jabbed a finger to indicate the Hawken rifle lying next to Firestick’s bedroll.

  The former mountain man almost had to laugh. Of all the things to raise suspicion . . .

  “If I may, let me correct you on something, Colonel,” Firestick said. “First off, me and my partner never presented ourselves as pistoleros—or gunslingers, as we call them up north. Those kind are mostly fast with their pistols. That’s fine for in-close fightin’, in saloons and cantinas and the like. But while we have picked up some pistol skills along the way, our background is mostly with long guns. A true fightin’ man ought to know how to use more than one kind of weapon.

  “So while you’re right in sayin’ that rifle of mine is something of a relic, it still has value and very good use for certain situations. I first carried that gun as a hunter and trapper in the great mountains to the north. It shoots farther and hits harder than any other gun I’ve ever used. If you want, I can give you a demonstration of why I still sometimes carry it.”

  Estarde frowned. “A demonstration?”

  “Pick a target. Make it as far or farther than your best marksman can hit.”

  Estarde turned to his men and a quick dialogue in Spanish ensued. While they were talking, Firestick calmly stepped back and retrieved the Hawken.

  “How about,” he said, “havin’ one of your men take a tin coffee cup to one of those ridges out yonder? Set him to walkin’, I’ll tell him how far.”

  By now several of the men backing the colonel, having had it explained to them what was going on, were showing signs of increasingly eager interest. At Firestick’s suggestion, Estarde ordered one of them to take a coffee cup and start walking out away from the cavern. While he was doing this, Firestick loaded and primed the Hawken. When the man with the cup had gone more than two hundred yards, Firestick said, “That oughta be pretty good right about there.”

  A shout was raised and the man with the cup stopped walking. He placed the cup on a hump of sand and gravel, then backed away. The cup picked up a faint glint from the morning sun.

  “Amigo,” said Estarde somewhat breathlessly, “that is an impossible shot to make. If not for the glimmer of the sun, I could not even see that cup.”

  Firestick grinned. “I don’t need to see it. I just need to hit it.”

  With that, he planted his feet, raised the Hawken to his shoulder, and sighted. He set the first trigger, held his breath, and a moment later caressed the firing trigger. The Hawken roared . . . and a heartbeat later the .50-caliber slug sent the tin cup spinning and clattering out of sight.

  All of Estarde’s men reacted, some jerking their bodies as if experiencing the hit firsthand. A few even clapped their hands.

  The colonel wagged his head in awe and amazement. “Truly an incredible shot,” he said.

  “I can hit a man-sized target at twice that distance,” Firestick said matter-of-factly. “Do you understand now why I keep this weapon at my disposal?”

  “Without doubt,” Estarde replied. Then, abruptly shifting his attention to Moosejaw, he said, “But what of your large friend? Can he also—”

  “With all due respect, C
olonel,” Moosejaw interrupted him, “what I can do, among other things, is speak for myself.”

  Estarde’s brows furled with a quick display of annoyance but then, just as quickly, relaxed. “Very well. That is reasonable,” he said. “Tell me then, Large One, are you as good a shot as your friend?”

  Moosejaw shook his head. “I’m pretty fair, but nobody shoots as good as my friend. As he said a minute ago, though, a good fightin’ man should know how to fight a lot of different ways. Among ’em oughta be good old-fashioned rough-and-tumble.”

  Estarde frowned, not quite understanding.

  Moosejaw held up his melon-sized fists. “With these—along with feet, teeth, elbows, whatever,” he explained. “You call me large, but I notice that a couple of your men are also pretty sizable. Would either one of ’em be interested in tryin’ to put me on my back and keepin’ me there?”

  Before Estarde could respond, one of the men behind him—a tall, ropey-muscled individual with a heavy brow and a jutting chin—apparently understood enough of what Moosejaw had said to show signs of wanting to accept his challenge.

  But Estarde himself failed to look particularly keen about the idea. “We do not have such an abundance of men,” he said, “that we can afford to lose one—or possibly two—due to injury from fighting with each other.”

  Moosejaw shrugged. “Set the rules to keep it from goin’ too far then. No cripplin’ or such, just straight slam and punch until somebody can’t get back up.”

  More men were gathering around the colonel, all clamoring for the fight to take place. Among other things, this demonstrated that their understanding of English was much stronger than what they had let on earlier, and that the caution Firestick and Moosejaw had displayed last night when talking between themselves had been a wise choice.

  “Very well,” Estarde relented. “We will go ahead—but within the bounds of inflicting no serious or lasting injuries.”

  A space was quickly cleared. The two combatants stripped off their shirts, guns, and knives and then squared off, facing each other.

  “Commence,” Estarde said.

  The big Mexican rushed forward in a slight crouch. Moosejaw stood his ground, feet planted, and met him with a perfectly timed, straight-from-the-shoulder right cross that stopped him cold in his tracks. The fist-to-face impact sounded like a slab of raw meat being slapped against a stone. The big Mexican’s feet took a faltering half step past where his face and torso quit moving forward, and then his knees buckled and it was as if his entire body turned to pudding. He melted to the ground, limp and motionless with his eyes rolled back in his head, and the fight was over.

  Jaws dropped open and a stunned silence gripped the onlookers.

  For a long moment Estarde just stared down at his fallen man. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze and fixed it on Moosejaw. At length, a smile spread across his face. “I think,” he said, his eyes cutting back and forth between Firestick and Moosejaw, “I have done enough reconsidering and am ready to go back to my original decision to accept you two as fighting men worthy of joining our cause.”

  “Pleased to hear that,” Firestick said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Same here,” agreed Moosejaw. “I hope I didn’t hurt your man too bad.”

  “As soon as somebody throws a bucket of water on him and gets him back on his feet, he will be okay,” the colonel declared. “Come, you two need to get some breakfast in you and then we must ride. We have lost enough time.”

  As they walked toward the campfire where meals were being prepared, he added, “Part of my men will be splitting away from us to take the guns, horses, and ammunition we confiscated from the Rurales for delivery to General Almarez. The rest, including you two, will stick with me for a very important rendezvous. It is where we were headed before the chance to ambush the Rurales presented itself. It may amuse you to know we will briefly be crossing over the border to the north. The rendezvous I speak of is to purchase a shipment of more guns and ammunition that is waiting for us there, in an abandoned old town by the name of Bright Rock.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Near the end of another long, hot day in the Vieja Mountains, Beartooth and his posse came to a literal fork in the trail. The afternoon had brought a strong wind out of the north—a hot, dry, furnace-like blast that offered no relief, only particles of whipping, gritty dust and sand to sting the eyes and scrape exposed flesh raw. And also to erase even what minimal sign of their quarry had been discernible on the hard, rocky ground.

  The fortunate thing was that by this point they were following a singular passage through the highest elevations, beginning a descent through the jagged peaks. For the past few hours it hadn’t been so much a matter of following the robbers’ trail as it was following the only way for them to have gone.

  Until now.

  Immediately ahead, the passage split and angled downward on two different courses. One of them had to be a pass to the opposite base of the mountains; the other would most likely end in an impossible drop-off or narrow to an impenetrable wall. In addition to not knowing which was the through passage, there was also the question of which one their quarry had gone down.

  “Even with this wind and the rocky surfaces,” Beartooth told those gathered tight around him in a vertical crevice that provided a temporary respite from the howling gusts, “Miguel or I could pick up the robbers’ trail again. But that would be bound to take some time. I don’t know how much. But we’ve only got a couple hours of daylight left and I can’t help but think we’re very close on their heels. I’d hate to lose the distance they’d gain if we slowed to hunt for sign.”

  “So what are you saying?” Overstreet wanted to know.

  “I think we should consider splittin’ up,” Beartooth said. “Half of us go down one fork, half the other. Whichever one happens to pick the way the robbers went, I think will have the chance to catch up before sundown. They have no idea we’re back here, especially not so close. When they stop to make night camp, they should be prime for an ambush—either as it gets dark or just before first light when their guard will be the lowest.”

  “What about Captain Shaw?” Hadley said.

  “If he’s still alive—which I’m guessin’ he is, since we ain’t run across his corpse the way they would have dumped it if they’d decided they were done with him—then I expect he’ll be apart some from the rest. Tied up and shoved to one side. That’ll leave the others vulnerable for either gettin’ the drop on ’em or, like we talked before, takin’ ’em as targets.”

  Thomas Rivers said, “You’ve got it figured mighty fine . . . if they do everything the way they’re supposed to.”

  “Nothing’s a sure thing, Thomas. I know that,” said Beartooth. “But if we let this play out until tomorrow and they make it down into the foothills on the other side where everything will open up again . . . It’s gonna be a helluva lot harder to corner ’em. I’m sure of that much.”

  “This much is very true,” said Miguel somberly.

  “Aye. It sounds right to me, as well,” seconded Hadley.

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothing against what Mr. Beartooth laid out,” Big Thomas said. “I’m just pointin’ out that, in order for it to work, things got to fall a certain way.”

  “But if we hang back and play it safe, things could fall in a way that would make us worse off,” Overstreet said, musing out loud.

  “I say we let Beartooth make the call,” spoke up young Gabe Hooper. “He got us this far and this close . . . well, him and Miguel . . . But we never started out just to play it safe, did we?”

  There was a general mumbling of agreement. If not wholehearted, at least not strongly against.

  Beartooth bared his teeth in either a grimace or a grin. “I say we go for it then. We split up and try to bring this thing to a close. Whichever of us takes the passage that somehow dead-ends, backtrack as soon as that much is clear and come around to the aid of the other. Okay. Now here are the groups we’ll split into .
. .”

  * * *

  Beartooth took Hadley and Gabe Hooper down one passage with him. Miguel, Overstreet, and Big Thomas went the other way.

  Emerging once more from the crevice, the wind instantly tore at them again. Each man tugged his hat down tight and low above his eyes and pulled his neckerchief up over his nose and mouth. They plodded forward leading their horses, hugging close to the big bodies for a certain amount of wind blockage rather than sitting up in the saddles where they would have been lashed far worse.

  The sun began to fade and the dimness of dusk was hurried all the more by the blowing gusts of dirt and grit.

  Beartooth trudged in the lead of his group, straining to see around the next twist in the trail. The wind conveniently muffled the noise their progress made, but diminished visibility came with it.

  Time blurred along with sight and sound. Beartooth tried to guess by the dimming light how long it had been since they’d parted from the others. Less than an hour, he judged.

  He wished he had Firestick and Moosejaw along. In the old days, when it had been just the three of them and they’d faced dicey situations like this, they’d always done so with a spirit of rake-hell invincibility. They had complete confidence in one another and what the three of them could do. Together, they’d felt willing and able to spit in the eye of the Devil and jab him in the ass with his own pitchfork.

  Now it was all different. The old days were gone. Not only were the three of them often apart due to the demands of the ranch and from being lawmen, but there were so many more things—and people—also affected by their actions. The fact that some of these people were loved ones was a good thing for the most part—but with love, as Beartooth was finding out, came other concerns and responsibilities. He thought of Victoria waiting for his safe return. And of Daisy waiting for Moosejaw. And he couldn’t begin to imagine what Firestick was going through, having the woman he loved stolen away . . .

  Later, he would blame having been lost so deep in his ponderings for causing him to miss any warning sign that might have changed what happened next. Whatever the reasons, he got caught by surprise. From out of a blur of wind-whipped dust came another blur, and with it came a sharp blow to the side of his head. Something very hard crashed across his temple, stunning him, causing his knees to instantly buckle. His horse shrieked in alarm. He heard somebody shout and then what sounded like gunshots, distorted by the wind. As he clawed for his own pistol he found his fingers were suddenly floppy and useless, like an empty glove that could not grip or lift. And then another blow landed, to the back of his head this time, and he pitched forward into numbing blackness.