They Came to Kill

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The gunman came to his feet and stood there stiffly as he glared at Dog Brother. His hands hung near his guns. Dog Brother looked like he was ready to slap leather, too.

  Jamie moved forward, getting between them and holding out his hands toward them. “Take it easy, both of you. This doesn’t have anything to do with who’s white and who’s not. I reckon it’s up to the lady who she dances with.”

  “Or her husband,” Fletch said. “Clementine’s married to me, remember?”

  “I’m right here,” Clementine said. “I can speak for myself.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’ll dance with you, Dog Brother.” She looked around. “I’ll dance with all of you, if Mr. Dupre doesn’t mind playing that long.”

  “Certainly, madame,” the Frenchman said.

  Pugh gulped. “Even me, ma’am?”

  Clementine smiled at him and said, “Of course. Even you, Mr. Pugh.”

  “Well, doggone! I don’t recollect the last time I danced with somebody, and I sure don’t reckon I ever danced with anybody as purty as you!”

  Fletch asked quietly, “Are you absolutely sure about this, Clementine?”

  “Of course.” Her voice sounded confident, but her smile looked a little nervous to Jamie. “We’re just talking about dancing, after all. And fair is fair.”

  “I suppose.” Fletch glared at the rest of the group. “But you’d better all be gentlemen, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Or what, boy?” Ramirez asked with a challenging smirk on his face.

  “I won’t be dancing with anyone who doesn’t respect my husband,” Clementine said. “That’s what.” She held out her hands and went on to Dog Brother. “Do you know how to dance like this?”

  “Of course I know,” the half-breed said. “I have lived with the whites. They are not truly my people, any more than the Comanche are, but I have spent time among them.”

  As he took her left hand with his right and put his left hand on her waist, she looked at Dupre and nodded. He began playing again. Dog Brother’s steps were a bit awkward as they started dancing, but he seemed to get the hang of it.

  Jamie went back to stand beside Preacher.

  The mountain man said under his breath, “I worried that it was a bad idea to bring a gal along on a trip like this. Get a woman around such a rough bunch and there’s bound to be trouble.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t see no other way to get her away from them no-good brothers o’ hers.”

  “We’ve handled it so far,” Jamie said. “Once the Apaches are more of a threat, everybody’s going to be too busy with them to worry about such things.”

  Preacher chuckled. “So you’re sayin’ we ought to look forward to them varmints tryin’ to kill us?”

  “Well, it’ll be something different, anyway.”

  While Fletch looked on, glowering in disapproval, Clementine danced with all the other men in the group, even Pugh, who said, “Now, ma’am, I won’t hold you to what you said . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Clementine replied, smiling. “Come on, Mr. Pugh.” She looked a little green as they whirled around, but she made it through the dance.

  Most of the men, who were used to living solitary lives with few, if any, women around, were awkward in their attempts to dance and didn’t stay with it long. Chester Merrick’s face was bright red with embarrassment and he lasted only a minute or so before gratefully giving way to one of the other men. Even Ramirez didn’t try to get too forward with her. Audie seemed to really enjoy it and was the most skillful dancer in the group, despite his lack of stature. Noah Stuart was also a good dancer but didn’t linger after taking a few spins with Clementine.

  Preacher and then Jamie joined in at the end, and as Jamie held Clementine, he said quietly, “I appreciate the way you handled that, ma’am. That could have turned into bad trouble, and you kept it from happening.”

  “Well, I was surprised when Dog Brother wanted to dance,” she said, “but it didn’t seem like anything worth fighting over.”

  “Your husband might disagree with you.”

  “Fletch is just very protective of me. He knows what a bad situation I had to deal with. I’m not as delicate as he sometimes seems to think I am, though.”

  Remembering the way Clementine could handle a rifle, Jamie nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I expect that’s true.”

  With that behind them, the group settled down for the night. Jamie posted four-man guard shifts. Although he had nothing on which to base it except instinct, he felt like the stream they had crossed was a boundary of sorts, and now that they were south of it, they were already in Apache country. The danger would just grow as they continued heading toward Mexico.

  * * *

  The country became flatter and more arid as they moved on the next day. Vegetation consisted of cactus, scrubby mesquite, and occasional clumps of mostly brown grass. Ranges of small mountains jutted up here and there, but they weren’t difficult to avoid. They didn’t come across any more streams the size of the one that flowed through the canyon they’d left behind. Most of the creek beds were dry. In some, a thin thread of water flowed sluggishly, but it was still spring. By midsummer, those would be dry, too.

  “Why do the Apaches even want this country?” Chester Merrick asked from the driver’s seat as Jamie rode alongside the surveyors’ wagon. “It seems like a terrible place to live.”

  “It’s not very hospitable,” Jamie agreed, “but the Apaches are used to pretty harsh conditions. They know where all the waterholes are, and they can not only survive in country like this, they can thrive in it if they’re left alone.”

  “Then why don’t we leave them alone?” Merrick grumbled. “Why don’t we just let them have it? Then maybe they’d stop killing settlers in other places.”

  Jamie shook his head. “I don’t make those decisions. It’s up to the folks in Washington to figure out such things. I’m just doing what an old friend asked me to do.”

  And that was as much a personal favor as a political one, Jamie reflected—finding out the fate of Lieutenant Damon Charlton.

  Noah Stuart said, “This region is important because there may be a railroad running through it someday. Looking around at the terrain, I don’t see any significant obstacles to such a thing. Unless there are other canyons like the one we crossed yesterday, and I suppose if there are, trestles can be built across them. Honestly, once the lines begin expanding into different parts of the country, I don’t believe anything will stop the railroads.”

  “Neither do I,” Jamie said, “and neither do the Indians. And that’s what’s going to cause plenty of blood to be spilled in the years to come, I’m thinking.”

  On that solemn note, he rode ahead to rejoin Preacher in front of Fletch and Clementine’s wagon. Dog had ranged on ahead a few hundred yards and was trying to scare up a jackrabbit or two.

  As he rocked along in the saddle, Preacher said quietly, “I’m startin’ to have kind of a bad feelin’, Jamie. Like somebody’s watchin’ me . . . or diggin’ my grave.”

  “I know what you mean. I started feeling like that a ways back, too.”

  Preacher turned his head from side to side as he scanned their surroundings. “If there was any high ground nearby, I’d think maybe some ’Paches was sittin’ up on it, spyin’ on us.”

  “They’ve got good eyes.” Jamie nodded toward a shallow mesa to the southeast that had to be close to a mile away. “Could be somebody over there.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinkin’.” Preacher paused. “Was thinkin’, too, that I might take a pasear over there and check it out. Have a little better look around.”

  “They’ll see you coming.”

  “Yeah, but maybe that’ll spook ’em into givin’ themselves away.”

  Jamie considered that suggestion, then said, “Take a couple of men with you, just in case you run into any trouble.”

  “I was already thinkin’ the same thing. Audie and Nighthawk. I been ridin’ into tight spots with those
two ol’ boys longer ’n I like to think about.”

  Jamie nodded. “All right.”

  “We’ll drop back, act like there’s somethin’ wrong with one of the horses’ shoes, maybe. The rest of you keep goin’, and maybe if any of the varmints are over there, they’ll watch you and forget about us. Less likely to spot us that way when we start driftin’ in that direction.”

  “Can happen,” Jamie said. “Give it a try.”

  Preacher nodded and pulled back a little on Horse’s reins, slowing the stallion. As some of the other men caught up, he spoke to Audie and Nighthawk, and then all three of them slowed down and lingered while the rest of the party continued heading south.

  Jamie didn’t look back. He didn’t want to draw attention to the three men they were leaving behind.

  If there were any watchers over there, they would know about Preacher, Audie, and Nighthawk soon enough.

  * * *

  Preacher dismounted and studied the shoe on Horse’s left hind hoof for long minutes while Audie and Nighthawk sat nearby on their mounts. Drawing his knife, Preacher pretended to probe at the hoof as if he were trying to work a pebble out from under the shoe.

  “See anything over on that mesa?” he asked without looking up at his two companions.

  “Not a thing,” Audie replied. “I don’t doubt your instincts, Preacher, but it’s possible there’s no one over there.”

  “Yep,” the mountain man agreed. “And it’ll be fine with me if it works out that way. I reckon I’ll feel better if we make sure, though.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “Jamie and the others are almost out of sight,” Audie informed Preacher.

  “We’ll give ’em a few more minutes.”

  When he judged that enough time had passed, he set Horse’s hoof back on the ground and swung up into the saddle. Then he turned the stallion’s head toward the distant mesa.

  “We’ll take it slow and easy,” he said. “That way we won’t kick up so much dust. Best swing back to the north a ways, too, and circle around a mite.”

  The three men rode at a leisurely pace as they circled toward the butte. They were still in plain sight, and anyone on top of the rocky tableland couldn’t help but see them coming—if they were paying attention. Preacher hoped they were still watching the wagons and the other riders. A glance in that direction showed him the column of dust rising from the group’s passage.

  “Ummm,” Nighthawk said as they came in sight of the mesa’s far side.

  “I see them,” Audie said. “Three Indian ponies tied there at the base, Preacher.”

  “Yep. I reckon some of the varmints are up there, all right.” Preacher leaned forward sharply in the saddle. “At least, they were. They’re tryin’ to light a shuck!”

  He had spotted three figures moving along a trail that angled down from the top. One warrior wore a blue headband, and the other two sported red headbands. Even from where he was, Preacher could see the bright splashes of color.

  He didn’t want them getting away. He dug his heels into Horse’s flanks and the stallion sprang forward in a run. Preacher didn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see if Audie and Nighthawk were following him. He knew they were.

  The three frontiersmen thundered toward the mesa and the trio of Apaches who were trying to flee.

  CHAPTER 24

  As he rode, Preacher loosened the Colt Dragoons in their holsters. Dog raced alongside Horse, his legs flashing. At a short distance like this, the big cur could almost keep up with the rangy stallion.

  Up ahead, the Apaches made it to their ponies. Preacher saw them hesitate and knew they were trying to decide whether to fight or run. Indians never liked to fight when the odds were even. They always preferred the advantage to be on their side.

  They also knew their ponies probably couldn’t outrun the pursuers’ mounts. The ponies would be faster in their initial spurt, but the bigger horses ridden by Preacher, Audie, and Nighthawk had more stamina. It wouldn’t take long to overhaul the Apaches if they fled.

  As far as Preacher could see, there was no better place around here for the Apaches to fort up than the rocks at the base of the mesa. He wasn’t surprised when they didn’t go for their ponies after all but ducked behind the boulders instead.

  “Hold on!” he called to his companions as he raised a hand and signaled for them to halt. As they all came to a stop, Preacher said, “Looks like we got us a standoff here.”

  “Yes,” Audie said, “but in all likelihood, we’re much better armed. They probably just have bows and arrows. Maybe an old flintlock musket.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Preacher said as he reached down and hauled the Sharps out of its saddle scabbard.

  He pulled his right foot out of the stirrup, threw that leg over Horse’s back, and dropped to the ground. He turned Horse and rested the Sharps on the saddle as he took aim at the rocks. His thumb looped around the hammer and drew it back.

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said.

  “I don’t see them, either,” Audie said. “They’ve gone to ground among those boulders, Preacher, and they have good cover there.”

  “I ain’t aimin’ at the ’Paches themselves,” Preacher said. “See where them rocks stick out, up there above their heads?”

  Audie squinted in that direction, then said, “Ah. Now I begin to understand.”

  A moment later, the Sharps boomed as Preacher squeezed the trigger. Stone splinters flew where the heavy bullet slammed into the mesa’s side, right under the spot where several slabs of rock protruded, leaning out from the wall.

  Preacher began reloading. Horse hadn’t flinched at the shot, even in the slightest.

  The sound of angry yells drifted through the dry air.

  Nighthawk said, “Umm,” and Audie chuckled.

  “Yes, it appears they’ve already figured out Preacher’s strategy. But there’s not a thing in the world they can do about it.”

  Preacher had the Sharps ready again. He drew another bead and fired. Again, the slug blasted part of the stone wall into gravel. Outraged howls came from the Apaches concealed in the boulders below.

  Preacher slammed two more rounds into the mesa, and suddenly one of the rock slabs, its support chipped away by the bullets, leaned out farther and then gave way. It fell among the boulders at the mesa’s base, landing with a crash and throwing up a cloud of dust.

  As the dust roiled in a very faint breeze, Audie said, “I wonder if that landed on any of them.”

  “Don’t know,” Preacher said as he reloaded the Sharps again, “but I reckon it won’t be long until we find out.”

  It wasn’t. Shapes flitted through the dust, then emerged from the cloud and resolved into the three warriors mounted on their ponies. Howling in defiant anger, the Apaches charged toward Preacher and his companions.

  “Looks like they decided to put up a fight instead of runnin’,” the mountain man drawled. He lifted the Sharps to his shoulder, drew a bead, and squeezed the trigger. As the weapon blasted, one of the Apaches flew backward off his pony as if he’d been slapped off the racing mount by a giant hand—a .52 caliber hand.

  But that still left two of them, and they were closing fast. Audie fired and then Nighthawk. A second Apache rocked back on his pony but didn’t topple off. He slowed his charge as bright red blood suddenly appeared on his left shoulder.

  The third man came on at full speed, though, and then suddenly was among them, throwing himself off the pony’s back in a flying tackle that sent him crashing into Nighthawk.

  The big Crow outweighed the wiry Apache by a considerable amount, but the Apache’s momentum was enough to drive Nighthawk backward and off his feet. Both men hit the ground hard and rolled over.

  Meanwhile, the wounded Apache had gotten close enough to draw back his bow despite his injury and send an arrow whistling toward Preacher. The mountain man darted aside and brought up the Dragoons. The revolvers boomed together. The bullets pounded into the Apac
he’s chest, and he had no chance of staying mounted. He pitched off the pony and landed on his back. Death spasms jerked him over on one shoulder, then the other. His feet beat a tattoo on the hard ground.

  Preacher swung around, guns in hands, to see how Nighthawk was doing with the third Apache. Dog stood nearby, watching the struggle with his teeth bared and the hair standing up on his back. Audie was still mounted and clutched his rifle as he watched the fight closely, too. Man and cur both clearly wanted to jump in and help Nighthawk, but he was wrapped up so closely with the Apache as they wrestled that Audie couldn’t risk a shot and Dog couldn’t get his fangs on the enemy.

  Their battle had raised a cloud of dust, too. Preacher saw a knife flash inside the swirling cloud, but he couldn’t tell who was wielding it. He heard a sharp snap among the grunts of effort. That was a bone breaking.

  A huge shape loomed up out of the dust as Nighthawk rose to his feet. In an amazing display of strength, he brought the Apache with him, gripping the man by an arm and a leg and raising him high above his head. The Apache’s other arm dangled at an unnatural angle. That was what he’d heard breaking, Preacher thought.

  The Apache shouted defiantly in his own tongue, but there was nothing he could do. He was helpless in Nighthawk’s hands. Nighthawk reached his full, towering height, then brought the Apache down hard while at the same time raising his right knee. Again a sharp crack cut through the desert air as Nighthawk broke the Apache’s back across his knee. The man’s cry cut off abruptly as he passed out from the pain.

  Nighthawk tossed him heedlessly on the ground like a child throwing away a broken toy. The Crow straightened again and dusted his hands off dismissively.

  Preacher reloaded the Dragoons, pouched the irons, and went over to the unconscious Apache. He drew his knife, bent over the man, and drew the razor-sharp blade across his throat, cutting deeply and stepping back as blood fountained up for a moment. He wiped the knife on the man’s buckskin leggings and sheathed it.

  “You did him a kindness,” Audie said from horseback. “He would have been in agony when he regained consciousness, and he never would have recovered.”