Authors: William W. Johnstone
A Good Day to Die (27 page)
“Yup. Get Stafford and Damon to call a cease-fire,” Sam stated. Johnny Cross had told him about the standoff.
Hutto made a face. “Is that all?”
“No, but it's a start.”
Barton mulled it over. “Damon might go for it. He's a gentleman. Vince's an ornery cuss, though, and right now he's got blood in his eye.”
“If he's got no sense, his men might. They won't fancy losing their hair to some brave's scalping knife,” Sam said.
“We could use the firepower. Those Ramrod guns already came in mighty handy,” Barton admitted.
“It can't hurt to ask,” Hutto agreed.
“That's what you think,” Barton said sardonically. “Who's gonna put it up to him, you?”
“Ahem! Well, uhâthat isâer, you're the sheriff, Mack.”
“Somebody better put it to Stafford, and quick,” Sam said, “before he gets it in his head to lock horns with Damon. Hangtown can't afford to lose any more men.”
“You volunteering?”
“Now Sheriff, you know none of these Rebs'd listen to a damn Yankee like me.”
“Hell, I don't know why
I'm
listening to you.”
I'm
listening to you.”
“Because you want to stay alive. And as long as you're listening, I've got few more ideas.”
S
EVENTEEN
EVENTEEN
Hangtown made ready for war, teeming with activity like a disturbed anthill. In addition to the two watchmen posted in the church bell tower, two more were stationed in the courthouse clock tower at the other side of town. That ensured against a Comanche sneak from east as well as west.
Two watchers in each observation post was protection against a lone sentry falling asleep, a very real threat in a town where whiskey flowed freely with no lack of passionate devotees.
Hutto found two volunteers willing to risk riding out to Anvil Flats in the Breaks to fetch the U.S. cavalry troop escorting Major Adams's wagon train. The two, Hapgood and Coleman, were each willing to make the attempt for one hundred dollars in goldâmore money than either had ever seen in one place at one time.
Hapgood was a short, feisty bantamweight, tougher than leather, who'd survived some of the worst hell of the war. Coleman was a small rancher whose place had been foreclosed on by the bank when he couldn't make the payments.
Hutto wasn't such a fool as to put out any money in advance, and risk the recipient galloping away for all he was worth. The volunteers would be paid upon return with the troops. As soon as it got dark the messengers would go out separately, by different routes, to maximize the chances of at least one of them getting through.
The courthouse, the strongest and most secure structure in Hangtown, served as headquarters. Families from all parts of town streamed to it, women and children massing in the large, high-ceilinged courtroom.
Hangtown was too large to be defended as a whole. The heart of the defense was Four Corners, where the courthouse, the jail, the feed store, and the Golden Spur all met. Townfolk were leery of leaving treasured possessions unguarded in abandoned homes and shops, but were allowed to bring only water, food, weapons, and similar necessities into the courthouse.
The gathering included the folk of Mextown.
Wade Hutto had resisted when Sam Heller first broached the idea to him earlier in the Cattleman Hotel. “You can't mix white folks and Mexes in the same place,” Hutto had protested. Aware of Latigo's cool-eyed glance falling on him, he quickly followed up by saying, “That is, the Mexican element want to stick to their own kind, just as we do.”
“You speak true, señor,” Latigo said coolly. “We no more want to be with you than you want to be with us.”
“If we don't hang together, we'll all surely hang separately,” Sam said.
“I've heard that before. Who said that?” asked Russ Lockhart, Hutto's high-strung, volatile brother-in-law.
“Abe Lincoln.”
“Lincoln? Don't you dare mention that name around here!”
“Ben Franklin,” Hutto said tiredly.
“Eh? What's that?”
“Benjamin Franklin said it, Russ. âIf we do not hang together we will surely all hang separately.'”
“Franklin, eh? I suppose that's all right then.” Lockhart sniffed.
“You are all wrong,” Latigo said gravely. “It was said by Benito Juarez.”
“You're crazy!” Lockhart said.
“We've got to pull together if we want to win. If we learned anything from the last war, that's it,” Sam reminded them.
“You'd do well not to bring up the war!” Lockhart sputtered.
Sam ignored him. “We need as much firepower in one place as we can get. Vince Stafford and Damon Bolt have postponed killing each other and agreed to a truce. The folk of Hangtown, Anglo and Mex, will have to forgo the pleasure of their prejudices till the Comanche is whuppedâand believe me, that's a long way off from being a sure thing.”
“You lowdown Yankee leveler, you,” Lockhart said, shaking a small, bony fist under Sam's nose.
“Your differences will seem mighty small once those braves start coming at you, and keep coming,” said Sam.
In the end there was nothing for Wade Hutto to do but concede the point. The indignity of mixing with one's “inferiors” paled against the possibility of roasting over a slow Comanche fire.
“Cheer up,” Sam said. “If we get out of this alive, your boy Mayor Holloman will probably pick up a lot of votes in Mextown next election.”
“Votes? We don't let Mexes vote,” Hutto said.
“The commanding officer at Fort Pardee'll have something to say about that. There'll be some changes made come Election Day. Hope we're here to see it.”
“You devil,” Russ Lockhart said feelingly. “Is there no end to your base Northern scheming?”
Making no further comment, Sam joined his fellow delegation membersâLatigo, Joe Delagoa and Wiley Crabbeâcharged with persuading the folk of Mextown to combine rather than be conquered separately. Sam was a gringo, but it was hoped that as a generally shunned and despised outsider among the Anglo ruling class, his words might carry some weight. Coffin maker and stone carver Joe Delagoa, of Portuguese descent, made his home in Mextown. Wiley Crabbe, another cousin of the Dog Star's Squint McCray, had a common-law Mexican wife and a couple kids by her, giving him a dash of credibility with the Hispanic community. More impressive were his credentials as a skilled horseman and dead shot, attributes well respected by all ethnic groups throughout the West.
One of Don Eduardo's simpatico pistoleros, Latigo had the most pull, though the folk of Mextown were of decidedly two minds concerning the master of Rancho Grande. The grandee was haughty, remote, and had never lifted a finger to help them; on the other hand he was one of their own kind and held his own against the Anglos, which counted for something.
To Mextown rode the four, to confer with the alcalde, the headman, and the village elders. The raid earlier by the Comanches had left a number of folk killed and injured, adding urgency to the message of combine or die. No less persuasive was Black Robe's cassock, which Sam brought to buttress his case. The weird, fearsome talisman was a tangible warning sign shrieking Danger! Red Hand is coming!
Headman and elders immediately agreed and set about organizing the exodus from Mextown, adding their numbers to the scores of men, women, and children already assembled at the courthouse.
Clangor boomed as long, high-backed courtroom benches were taken apart to serve as barricades. Glass was knocked out of windows, a preemptive measure to protect against injuries from razor-sharp glass shards during a battle. Backs, seats, and struts from the disassembled benches were nailed in place as bulwarks at the bottom halves of the paneless windows.
The aftermath of the War Between the States was a time of scarcity throughout Texas and the rest of the South, but Hangtown had guns and ammunition aplenty. A sizeable arsenal was amassed, apart from the rifles, shotguns, and pistols with which the locals already went about armed.
Foodstuffs and supplies of fresh drinking water were stockpiled against a long siege. They were kept in a storeroom under lock and key, under the watchful eyes of guards posted by Barton.
Buckets of water were distributed throughout the building as prevention against fire. Buckets of sand were also in place to soak up slippery blood that might coat the floor.
The fact of it being Saturday worked to the advantage of the defenders. Many ranchers had come to town with their families. A fair number were still in Hangtown when the Comanches first struck. The vast majority of them survived. Their families were intact and in town.
A handful of families had split up earlier, with some members remaining in town while others dispersed back home to their ranches. After the attack, those in town were half crazed with fear and worry over the possible fate of loved ones at the ranch. They were in a tight spotâmake a mad dash to the outlying ranches to rally their families and race back to town, risking death or capture by Red Hand's braves or stay put in town, separated from the rest of their family.
Hutto and the sheriff could not spare any men to assist in rounding up the outliers, not when the Comanches' main force might hit town at any time. Volunteers to escort such a suicide mission were few ... actually none.
No one had the right to order men separated from their families to stay in the safety of town (such as it was) while those they loved were unknowingly threatened with the horrors of rape, torture, and death. The only option suggested was that these desperate men band together as a single force and go from ranch to ranch, collecting all their families before risking the return trip.
In the end that was done. Eight grim-faced men rode out together, vanishing over the horizon en route to the vast ranch lands along the forks of the Liberty River, wondering what they would find and if they would return.
A super-corral was hastily thrown up around the area of Hobson's livery stable to save as many horses from the Comanches as possible. The layout of the area lent itself to a more formidable stronghold than Hobson's rail fence. The rear of the jail and feed store, the front of the stable, and the side of the carpenter shop/lumberyard served as bulwarks of the enclosure. Four streets formed a grid. The street mouths were barricaded, sealed by wagons turned on their sides, hogshead barrels, and stacked hay bales. Anchored with weights, the wagons were backed by lines of hay bales to serve as shooting platforms, allowing defenders to take cover behind the upended wagons and shoot across their tops.
The longest open space was enclosed with two freight wagons turned on their sides. Gaps in the barricade were shored up with piles of tables, chairs, cords of firewood, and whatever else came to hand. The lumberyard supplied planks, beams and odd-sized pieces of scrap wood. Several openings were left at opposite ends of the enclosure, allowing quick and easy access while the barrier was being built. When the time came, they would be sealed with hay bales and hogsheads.
The flat roofs of the jail, feed store, and carpenter shop would serve as platforms for riflemen, as would the loft of the stable barn. Quantities of hay, oats, and water for horses were massed inside the enclosure, serving a double purpose of reinforcing makeshift walls.
Scores of horses were gathered for the penning. The Big Corral, as it was called, thronged with horses, stallions, mares, geldings, yearlings, colts, scrappy ponies, and massive quarter horses. A wealth of prime horsefleshâan irresistible target for Red Hand and his warrior braves.
A reserve stock was set aside to serve as a mounted force against the Comanches, and to carry out errands and make the rounds around town.
Â
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The Staffords and the Ramrod bunch were centered in the feed store. Store-owner Dickerson had grudgingly consented to house the Ramrod riders in the building. Vince Stafford had come out in favor of it and Dickerson didn't want to go against him. Few did. A big building, it stood alone, sharing its lot with no adjacent structures, and almost directly opposite the Golden Spur and Damon Bolt, the special object (though not the only one) of Vince Stafford's ire. It was the prime reason Vince had proposed the arrangement; he could keep the gambling house under observation while waiting out the Comanche onslaught.
Stafford was a big customer of the store. Having the Ramrod riders lodged in the store might well protect it from being sacked and burned. On the other hand, they were rowdies and Dickerson feared losses from pilferage and vandalism. Still, he personally opted to stay in the courthouse along with his family, pinning his hopes on the sheriff's office being next door to the store where he could keep an eye on it. Besides, if they started tearing up the place, he could do nothing to stop them.
Ramrod men carried fifty- and one hundred-pound sacks of oats, grain, barley, and the like from the store, stacking them out in front of the building to form defensive breastworks. The Staffords were inside the store, well under cover, not showing themselves as potential targets of a well-aimed shot from the gambling house.
“What about the ranch, Pa? They's only a handful of the boys there,” Quent asked.
“They got to take their chances like the rest of us. Here's where the battle will be fought and won. Red Hand will go for the big prize. Take Hangtown and he can pick off the ranches later. With any luck we'll break the Comanches here before they get to raiding the South Fork,” Vince said.
“Hutto's sticking,” Clay said. “You don't see him making any damn fool run for his ranch. Not with those scalp hunters out there.”
Quent was restless, not one to sit still for too long, if at all. He paced back and forth. “What about them Mexes in the Spur?” he fumed.
Several dozen Mexican-Americans males, youths and adults, were housed in the gambling house.
“What of them?” Clay said. “They're here to fight Red Hand. When the fighting's over they'll go back to Mextown. They won't mix in our feud. They don't give a damn about white folks killing each other.”
“I don't like it,” Quent said.
“Don't get yourself in an uproar. When Red Hand's whipped, we take the gambler,” said Clay.
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