“I guess we have to dance with who we brung,” he said under his breath.
Now it was Kingston’s turn to speak. “Please, all of you, sit. I want to thank you for traveling here on such short notice and with so little information. Soapy and Emmet, you did a fine job assembling this bunch. Reno explained why I needed you here. Salazar and Garza abducted my niece. Their plan is to auction her off. Our time is short. An army unit escorting the bidders will arrive in three days.”
“Army?” Billy yelped. “Are we planning on fighting an army?”
“I hope not to,” Kingston replied. “I’m meeting with Salazar tomorrow. I intend to pay a ransom for my niece and then depart Santa Sabino long before the army gets here, but not before I pay each of you five hundred dollars for showing up.”
The men smiled and nodded, pleased at such generous compensation for merely taking a few days’ ride into the hills. Emmet, in particular, found the offer compelling. Money is power in the pocket, and that was enough to pay off all his debts and then some—and zero risk of ending up with holes in his body that weren’t natural.
“What about the other girls?” Zack asked.
“I’m here for Faith. If I can free her, my job here is done.”
“So the rest of the girls are on their own?” Emmet said. He realized his tone might have come across as judgmental, but he didn’t care.
“I have only so much money,” Kingston replied. “I had no idea of the size of Salazar’s operation and how many girls were involved until I arrived.”
“What happens if Salazar won’t deal?” Soapy asked.
‘Then we’ll storm the compound. I’m prepared to pay each of you two thousand dollars to help me take her by force.”
Kingston took a moment to let the men consider his offer. Billy piped a loud whistle, and the others looked at each other with bulging eyes and laughs of approval.
“Make no mistake,” Kingston continued. “We’re greatly outnumbered even without the army’s arrival. Salazar and Garza have at least two dozen gunslingers and ex-soldiers guarding the estate. But we’ve got the bulge on them because of the element of surprise and, from what I see behind those wagons”—Kingston flashed a huge grin—“superior firepower.”
“I hope we’ll only have to fight this battle once to win it,” Soapy said.
“I do, too,” Kingston replied. “For now, I commend you to Reno, our gracious host. Is there anything you’d like to say to our guests, Reno?”
“Yes, Major Kingston. Gentlemen, I have three simple words for you: Eat, drink, rest.” Reno stretched his arms out in a warm gesture of welcome.
“Soapy,” Emmet said, “how about showing us the Christmas presents you got hidden under them tarps.”
Soapy’s face brightened. “Emmet, get ready to rub your flab-bergasted eyes till you see spots.”
“My munitions business is booming,” Soapy said as he undid the slipknots on the last wagon. “I can’t keep up with the demand. I got me one customer—a Mexican army captain garrisoned at Colonia Nueva—who’ll buy just about anything I can get my hands on.”
While Kingston examined the Gatling gun, Emmet ran his hand along the smooth metal neck of the cannon muzzle.
“That captain is especially crazy about big guns like these,” Soapy said, “and he can break your ears once he starts talking about them.” He untied the last knot and flipped back the tarp, revealing a wagon crammed with crates of guns, cartons of ammunition, and boxes of dynamite.
Kingston’s mouth fell open. “Damnation,” he said.
“Soapy, you done good,” Emmet said. “You left the major one word short of speechless.”
“Look at these,” Soapy said, lunging into the wagon. He snapped a wooden slat off one of the crates, reached in, and handed each man a Spencer repeating carbine. “I got two crates full.”
Emmet held the weapon as if it were an expensive vase, admiring its red-walnut stock and compact, twenty-inch barrel. He had mixed feelings about the guns. The Yanks favored Spencers because they were magazine-fed. Many of the soldiers Emmet fought beside toted muskets and powder, which were no match against repeating action weapons like these, and the casualty lists proved it. He aimed it and marveled at its balance, liking how the gun felt snug against his body.
Soapy made a circuit around the wagons pointing out the shot, dynamite, fuses, canisters, shells, powder, and, most impressive, the belts for the Gatling gun. “That gun will spit out four hundred rounds a minute,” he said. “I brought enough cartridges to take down an army.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Kingston joked.
The wagon contained army-issued tents, medical supplies, and rations, mostly hard tack and jerky. Soapy even thought to bring a small box of shaving mirrors for long-range signaling.
Kingston walked over to Soapy and put his right arm around him. “You’re amazing, Mister Waters. I think you’ve got us all feeling quite inspired right now.”
“One more thing, Major.” Soapy broke free of Kingston’s arm, reached into the wagon just behind the jockey box, and pulled out a brass bugle strung on a blue rope.
“Remember this?” He put the bugle to his lips and played the rebel “Charge” call. The noise made Reno laugh, but it chilled Emmet. Hearing that sound after so many years triggered images of hundreds of Confederate soldiers falling to the ground like dead leaves, and it weighed on his heart.
“Stop that racket,” Frank yelled, “and put that damned thing down.”
Soapy lowered the horn. “Sorry about that, Frank. I forgot you fought for the North.”
“What?” Emmet sputtered. “You’re a Yank?”
“The war’s over, Honeycut,” Frank said with a snarl. “Get over it. Or maybe you still wish you were living in the land of cotton?”
The tips of Emmet’s ears started to burn. Reno tried to calm the situation by pointing to a large cask. “What’s in there?”
“Brandy,” Soapy told him, eager once again to move the conversation along. “When this thing’s over, this here brandy is going to flow like buttermilk. We’re going to paint our tonsils until we’re whittled white, and that keg is dry.”
“I don’t drink with Yanks,” Emmet said and spat on the ground.
Kingston stepped over, set his hand on Emmet’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “I know how far your hatred goes. I know the world will always be colored gray and blue for you; I understand that. But we need all the help we can get.”
Emmet decided to let things float and turned away.
“Billy, picket the mules and horses by the creek,” Kingston ordered.
“Wait,” Zack called out. “Can I try out one of them Spencers?”
Soapy handed him a rifle but held on to the box of cartridges. Zack whirled around, aiming the shining new weapon at imaginary targets. Emmet knew he had trained him well when he heard Zack remark to himself “nice balance.”
“Give me some ammo, Soapy,” Zack said, holding out his hand.
“Reno, is it okay to shoot on the premises?” Soapy asked.
“Not here. The shots would echo right up this canyon. Go a quarter mile down the road past that curve where there are plenty of open fields, the view opens up, and the sound of the shots won’t carry.”
Soapy tossed Zack the box. “Have at it, son.”
“Mr. Honeycut, are you up to a challenge?” Zack asked.
“What you got in mind?”
“Strike the match.”
Emmet would be the first to admit that sharpshooters love to compete against each other. During the war, he had heard about the Berdan Sharpshooters of the North. Just to get into that group meant being able to fire ten rounds into a circle ten inches wide at a distance of two hundred yards. Emmet fought with Maney’s Brigade. They preferred a game of “Drive the Nail,” which required hitting a fat-head nail stuck in a tree from a hundred yards, with the intent of repeatedly hitting the nail until it was flush with the bark.
But t
he contest Emmet loved the most was “Strike the Match,” where the shooter tries to hit the head off three matchsticks stuck in a post a hundred yards away. Extra money is usually wagered on the third match, daring the shooter to actually light it instead of knocking the head off.
“You’re on, Zack,” Emmet said. “Two dollars for hits on the sticks and ten for a fire-strike on the third. Ten practice shots apiece. Anybody else want in?”
“I got the moxie,” Frank said, grabbing a rifle and a box of bullets.
“Careful, Frank,” Soapy warned. “Emmet here was a sharpshooter during the war. He never misses. He can toss an apple in the air and shoot out all the seeds before it hits the ground. God gave him the gift of an uncommon eye.”
“I know he’s a sharpshooter,” Frank said with a curled lip. “Let’s see what you got, Honeycut.”
Emmet, Zack, Billy, and Frank walked down the road until the trees gave way to an open meadow filled with the pungent smell of newly cut hay. Soapy lagged behind a few yards, whistling “Buffalo Gal” and strolling like he was on his way to his favorite fishing hole. A low fence made of posts and wire cut across the field. Soapy directed Billy to run out and set up the targets and, most important, keep his head down afterwards.
While Billy ran into the field with a box of wooden matches, the men each fired ten practice shots into the bole of a huge oak to get comfortable with the Spencers. Emmet found the barrel shorter than what he was used to, but it didn’t take long for him to get the knack.
What he loved about these weapons was that they could be fitted with a Stabler cut-off, a gadget that blocked the magazine. If careful, aimed fire was needed—like they were doing now—the magazine could be blocked and single cartridges fed into the breech, one at a time. That way, the shooter can keep the magazine full until rapid fire was needed. For rapid fire, the shooter slid the cut-off aside and fired at will.
They flipped coins to determine the shooting order. Frank lost and went first. The rifle was a toy in his hands. He assumed his firing stance and spent a long minute lining up his shot. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun recoiled. Billy popped his head up and said, “Miss.” Emmet heard Frank mutter something under his breath before taking aim on his second shot. When that turned out to be a miss as well, Emmet could hear the big man’s cussing loud and clear.
“This is hard,” he growled before taking aim a third time. He fired again. Three was Frank’s lucky number, because Billy yelled “Hit.” Frank gave a huge sigh of relief. “At least I’m in the running for some of the money,” he said.
“You keep believing that, Frank,” Soapy said.
Zack went second. As he aimed at the target, Billy popped his head up right in Zack’s line of fire and shouted, “Who’s shooting next?”
“Keep your head down, you damned fool,” Soapy yelled.
Zack stared at Soapy in disbelief. “Is he a dingus? I almost blew him to hell on a shutter.”
“God forgive me for saying this, because he’s my sister’s kid. Billy’s great with the mules, but he’s a couple of biscuits short of a picnic, if you know what I mean. I’m awful sorry, Zack.”
“Stay down,” Zack hollered at Billy. He aimed and fired. “Miss,” Billy yelled as the shot chipped the wood in the post. Emmet figured Zack might have been a bit rattled given he had almost separated Billy’s head from his body a minute earlier.
Zack aimed his second shot, but this time he bided his time, patient as an undertaker until the shot felt right, and then fired. “Hit,” Billy said. A big smile stretched across Zack’s face. Decision time had now arrived: it’s safer to go for the direct hit on the match head on the third try. Trying to light it almost always ends in a miss.
Emmet knew that Zack would play it safe. “I’ll throw in an extra twenty dollars if you light the match,” he said, hoping Zack would bite.
“Not this time, Mr. Honeycut. I’m still a bit awkward with the Spencer. I’m going for the easier shot.”
He squinted, aimed, and fired. “Hit,” Billy confirmed. The men clapped and slapped Zack on the back. “The pressure’s on, Mr. Honeycut,” he said.
Emmet took up his position. “Gentlemen, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret about sharpshooting,” he said. “It’s all about breathing right. I sight and then breathe out normally, making sure not to take up any tension in my arms. Once I lock on my target, I breathe deep in and out. I track how the rifle moves slightly in the up and down direction. On the breath out, I’ll have five to ten seconds before the breathing reflex triggers the need for more air. During that brief calm, I know that any up and down wobble will be small. I wait for the calm, and then I squeeze the trigger.”
He aimed, breathed in, out, waited for the calm, and fired.
“Hit,” Billy yelled.
Emmet repeated his routine.
“Hit,” Billy yelled.
“Now, stop right there,” Zack said. “I’ll throw in an extra twenty dollars if you light the match.”
Emmet had already made up his mind to go for the strike. “You’re on,” he told him. As Zack reached into his wallet, removed some paper bills, and tossed them on a log, Emmet asked, “Anybody else want in?”
“Wait a minute,” Frank said, puzzled. “You intend to light the match and just not hit the head off? That’s damn near impossible. I’m in for twenty dollars.” He jammed his fist into his pocket, plucked out some cash, and pitched it on the pile. “Twenty dollars is nothing compared to the money the major promised us.”
Emmet settled in, letting all the tension seep out of his arms and hands. Even with all the men’s eyes focused on him, he felt poised, loose. He locked on, breathed in, waited for the calming moment, then squeezed off. The crack of the shot echoed across the field.
Billy jumped up and shouted, “Jerusalem’s crickets, he lit the match, Uncle Soapy. He lit the damned match.”
Frank raced out to the fence post and scowled when he saw the flame burning its way down the matchstick. The rest of the men congratulated Emmet.
“You still got the goods, Mr. Honeycut,” Zack said.
Emmet scooped up his winnings, slapped him on the back, and said, “So do you.”
“Double or nothing?” Zack asked.
“I’m gonna let that little display stand for now. You boys keep at it. And let me know if anybody lights a match. I’ll give twenty dollars to any man who does.”
Soapy and Zack were chattering away about “the shot,” but Frank was silent as the Sphinx, so Emmet decided to needle him.
“Better luck next time,” he called over.
Frank’s face went dark as a winter night. He glared at Emmet and said, “So you were a sniper during the war, huh?”
“I prefer the word sharpshooter.”
“I bet you do. Which did you do to the Baxter girl—snipe her or sharpshoot her?”
Soapy and Zack went quiet.
“You got something you want to say?” Emmet asked.
“I got a question for you. Is it harder to shoot a Union soldier from a distance, or a child? I mean, if you’re far enough away, I’d expect there’d be no difference, because you can’t see their faces.”
Soapy moved in between them. “Hey now, Frank, that wasn’t called for.”
“I ended her pain,” Emmet said in a clipped tone.
“Is that what you do?” Frank scoffed. “Put people out of their misery?”
“You weren’t there.”
Frank pointed at Emmet. “Who made you God?”
“I wasn’t playing God. But I got eyes to see and ears to hear, and I see and hear a lot of needless suffering in this world.”
“Well, I got eyes and ears, too, but I don’t go around killing kids,” he answered back.
“You’d best let things sit,” Emmet warned.
“Or what? What you going to do? You’re good with a gun, sitting up in a tree, or sneaking around in the shadows. Let me see what you can do with your fists, man to man.”
“I
ain’t gonna fight you, Frank.”
“What’s the matter? Guts turning to fiddle strings?”
“You got my bristles up, but I ain’t mad enough to be stupid. You’re bigger and stronger than me. You’d clean my plow. I know my limits.”
“You’re damn right I’d clean your plow.”
“Plus, if you give me a whupping, you’d have to spend the rest of your time here watching your back. Nobody here knows you that good, or cares a rap about you, but I got some personal loyalties working in my favor. You saw what Zack can do with a gun. You should see what Abe can do in the dead of night with a knife and some proper motivation.”
“Enough threats,” Soapy said. “This is utter nonsense. Let’s go back to the house.”
Soapy grabbed Emmet’s arm and spun him back towards the bungalow. Frank mumbled something neither one could hear. Emmet ignored it, because he saw Reno running down the road towards them.
“Emmet, the major and I need to talk to you right away,” Reno said.
Emmet could tell from Reno’s fevered words and chalk-white face that there was a problem. “Something wrong?”
“Very wrong,” Reno said.
The trio hustled up the road to the bungalow.
CHAPTER 14 MOCO AND CHIMO
Salazar and Garza lolled in the shade of the side courtyard. A small breeze kicked up and wafted a fine mist off the bubbling fountain. Garza enjoyed the thin veil of vapor against his leathery face.
“We have a visitor coming tomorrow morning,” Salazar said.
Garza dug his thumb into an orange and began peeling it, the scent of citrus sweetening the air.
“Who?”
“Arthur Kingston.”
“What’s he want?”
“To buy my little mustang, Yago.”
Garza smiled. “You mean our little mustang. The girl is a gold mine—the real simon-pure. Tell him to wait until Captain Ortega gets here with our other guests.”
“This one is different. Claims he’s family. My guess is that he’s the uncle Faith mentioned to me, so this would be more like a ransom.”
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