Read William W. Johnstone Online

Authors: Savage Texas

William W. Johnstone (20 page)

BOOK: William W. Johnstone
7.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
V shapes wheeled through the sky around the top of Buffalo Hump, black kites soaring and swooping in the darkling sky.
“Looky them turkey buzzards! They’ve come to the right place,” Red Oxblood said.
“So’ve we,” said Luke.
Johnny Cross had led the group to the cleft in rock. In the failing light Sombro found signs only of unshod horses in the draw. “Mustangs come here, but no men,” he said. In addition to his guns, Sombro had a wooden bow slung across his back and a quiver of arrows hanging at his side.
“I found this draw when I was a kid, hunting. It’s a good hiding place close to Ghost Valley,” Johnny said.
“Now we wait till dark,” Sam Heller said.
“Then we make our move, eh, Yank?” Red said.
“That’s right.”
Shadows pooled, thickening, spreading like a rising tide of blackwater. The horses munched on tall grasses and low brush. The men chewed beef jerky and drank canteen water. They dared not light a campfire. The comforts of tobacco were forbidden them, too. Not only would a light as small as a match fire threaten them with discovery, but the smell of tobacco smoke could travel a long way to betray the presence of interlopers.
The gunhawks checked their weapons and hardware. Sam Heller busied himself cutting varying lengths of fuse cord and rigging them to bundled sticks of dynamite.
Johnny hunkered down beside him. “Hey, Yank,” he said.
“Yeh?” Sam said, not looking up from what he was doing, working as much by touch as sight in the deepening darkness.
“That day back at the ford when I was fixing to rob you—how come you didn’t shoot me?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t know. Must’ve been your honest face.”
“And why’d you take my part against Hutto and the sheriff back at the Golden Spur?”
“After you killed Kimbro, I figured you were a natural for a Harper-hunting party.”
“Like this one.”
“That’s right.”
“Remember, I never asked for no favors.”
“Nobody says you did.”
“And I ain’t giving none, neither.”
“I don’t expect you to. Just do your damned job.”
“I will.”
“Fine.”
“All right, then,” Johnny said, vaguely dissatisfied. Rising, he started moving away, only to halt after a pace or two. “Something bothers me . . .”
“What?” Sam asked.
“I been studying on it but I ain’t got you figured out yet.”
“When you do, let me know.”
Johnny went away, setting down beside Luke.
After a while, Vasquez drifted over to where Sam was. He stood with his legs spread, thumbs hooked into the top of his gun belt. He had to reach under his sloping belly to find the leather band. “Gringo,” he said, “there will be much killing soon, no?”
“Yes.”
“That is good. I like killing gringos.”
“The real money’s in getting those rifles away from Harper.”
“I like killing gringos better.”
Sam glanced up. “What does Don Eduardo like?”
“Money,” Vasquez said. “He wants the dollars. That is why we pistoleros of Rancho Grande are here.”
“Good.”
“But killing gringos makes it all the sweeter.”
 
 
The nine rode out of the draw at midnight. Once they were in the open, Johnny Cross and Sombro took the point in tandem.
“What’re those two cooking up?” Red asked, low-voiced.
“Johnny knows the way, but Sombro can smell an enemy in the dark,” Luke said.
“With Harper’s crowd, that won’t be hard,” Sam muttered.
The horses’ hooves were wrapped in cut-up pieces of blanket to muffle their tread, muting the ring of iron horseshoes striking rock.
The riders filed out, hugging the irregular terrain at the foot of Buffalo Hump’s north slope. Moving east, they avoided the open as much as possible. They wormed around rocky spurs, using ridges, shelves and boulders for cover.
It was black night. The moon was hidden behind the south face of Buffalo Hump. Starlight glinted on sharp-edged rock facets and outlines.
The riders made for Ghost Valley.
N
INETEEN
 
Buffalo Hump was a hill, a high hill, hundreds of feet tall, squatting on Anvil Flats. Its upper third was bare rock, the bottom two-thirds rock and dirt. Its northern face was bordered by jagged foothills and rocky ridges. Hidden among them was a box canyon. Inside the canyon lay Ghost Valley.
A ravine a hundred yards long led into the canyon. This pass was known as the Chute. Its mouth was flanked by a pair of towering stone pillars: the Door Posts.
Rock walls a hundred feet tall enclosed the oval-shaped valley. It was watered by a spring that became a stream winding through grassy fields. The fields were littered with boulders and slabs from massive rockfalls.
Ghost Valley was a grim, lonesome place. Built by gods or devils of the wilderness and long abandoned by them, yet somehow retaining a lingering hint of their presence. A good place for war parties, rustlers, outlaws and fugitives.
It was now tenanted by Brock Harper and his forty gun wolves.
Here and there on the valley floor, trees had been felled and dressed to create rude lean-tos, logs and planks slanting across boulders and ledges. A corral held dozens, scores of horses. A separate enclosure penned rustled cattle to supply the outlaws with fresh beef.
A number of smoky campfires dotted the scene, groups of men clustered around them. The hour was late; many men lay stretched out on bedrolls under the open sky, sleeping. Or trying to. A handful of others were awake, drinking, smoking and chatting.
On a rise in the valley stood a rugged, barnlike wooden shed, open at three sides. Mean as it was, it was the premier shelter on the site.
Here was where Harper housed his plum prize, the gun wagon. It was kept under heavy guard night and day, and was rarely out of the outlaw chief’s sight. A fresh team of horses was harnessed to the gun wagon at all times, standing ready to make a fast getaway should any unexpected danger strike. At regular intervals the team was unhitched from the traces while a fresh team was harnessed in its place, keeping the animals at full strength and vigor.
Smaller huts and shacks were grouped around the open barn, like satellites orbiting a planet. They were occupied by members of Harper’s inner circle, a cadre of lackeys who conveyed his commands to the lower ranks. Around the gun wagon, the fires were hotter, whiskey stronger, horses faster, and the desperadoes more desperate.
A case or two of rifles and ammunition had been unloaded early on from the wagon and distributed to Harper’s inner circle of a dozen hardcore disciples. Each was now armed with a brand-new Henry repeating rifle and boxes of cartridges.
The outlaws so gifted had already taken much practice with the prized weapons. The ground of the target-practice area was littered with empty brass shells.
Not all the bunch had received the new rifles. To possess one was a mark of favor, a badge of honor among the raiders. All those who had taken part in the wagon hijacking earned weapons.
But Harper had forbidden them to take the Henrys outside of Ghost Valley, since to be seen with one was sure proof of participation in the robbery. That included Kimbro and the others who had ridden into Hangtown on Thursday. That was why the saddle-scabbard on Dan Oxblood’s horse held no Henry repeater, an absence for which the redhead was later profoundly grateful. Promises of amnesty aside, Red found it prudent not to have such incriminating evidence on his person.
Harper was miserly when it came to doling out the Henrys to the rest of his marauders. They were crooks; he didn’t trust them. Give most of them a brand-spanking-new repeating rifle and ammunition and they’d likely as not take off on their own to raise hell, shoot up the territory and generally do something stupid.
He would not allow his outlaw force to be so summarily dispersed. Not when he still had use of them to pillage Hangtree County. Those rifles would have to be earned.
The main body of his pack of gun wolves would get their Henry repeaters on the day that they they set out to take Hangtown and the surrounding ranches and settlements. A day that was fast coming.
There’d been 144 rifles in the wagon; except for about a dozen he’d given out, the rest still remained crated in the hopper of the freight wagon. As did most of the ammunition.
Now, in the dead of night, Harper made the rounds of the outlaw camp. It was one of his unscheduled inspection tours, an errand that might take place at any time during the hours of darkness and help to ensure that some sort of discipline and order was maintained at all times by the gun-wagon guards.
Harper carried a Henry repeater, the first rifle taken out of the first crate; it had hardly been out of his hands since the day at Mace’s Ford. He brandished it like a royal scepter, emblematic of his status as raider chieftain.
He grunted with satisfaction, pleased to note that the circle of guards ringing his prize was manned by a full complement of sentinels. Not that they were in the sharpest state of vigilance at this late hour, but at least they were awake, on their feet, and relatively sober.
A good thing, too—for them. He was not above shooting a man for sleeping or being drunk on duty. It maintained order and encouraged the others in the performance of their tasks.
No one must take his prize cache of weaponry from him. Not the United States Army. No posse of lawmen. No war party of rifle-craving Indian bucks. No Mexican bandidos. And certainly not any of his own men.
“They all want what I got but it’s mine and I mean to keep it,” he said to himself, unaware that his features had formed into a snarl.
The rifles would bring him men, new recruits for his fast-growing outfit, the nucleus of an outlaw army that would tear through the southwest.
He said, “Nobody takes what belongs to Brock Harper!”
T
WENTY
 
The moon was edging into view west of the knob of Buffalo Hump as nine deadly gunmen closed in on Ghost Valley.
Sam Heller, Johnny Cross, Luke Pettigrew, Dan Oxblood, Sombro, Hector Vasquez, Gitano, Chicory and Latigo. Nine mounted men, plus a couple of pack horses carrying explosives.
The invaders took cover behind a rocky ridge about a quarter-mile north of the mound. This was the staging area, the last stop where all nine would be gathered together. Presently they would divide into groups and go their separate ways to open the way for the taking of Brock Harper’s hideout.
Through gaps in the rocks they eyed the Chute, which lay on the opposite side of a gritty, boulderstrewn flat. A campfire blazed at the mouth of the pass, flanked by the towering stone buttresses of the Door Posts.
Reflected firelight from within the ravine outlined the rocky portals with a yellow-red glow. Flickering glimmers of light on stone had an eerie, spectral appearance.
“There’s two men on watch at the Door Posts,” Red Oxblood said in a husky stage whisper. The enemy was far away, but the need for stealth was deeply ingrained in all the nine.
Three riders appeared, rounding the eastern curve of Buffalo Hump and riding west across the northern flat. Moonlight caused them to throw long, angular shadows across the gritty plain.
“Here comes the patrol,” Sam Heller said.
“The night guard,” Red said. “Harper keeps riders circling the Hump all day and night.”
The trio came galloping across the flat, swinging south toward the Chute. They slowed to a halt at the mouth of the pass, outlined by the yellow-red glow within.
“They got to advance and be recognized by the watchmen,” Red said.
After a pause, the trio entered the Chute, vanishing from sight.
“I calculate it takes each patrol about two hours to make a complete round of the Hump,” Luke said.
“Two hours and twenty minutes,” Sam said.
Vasquez made a noise of derision. “What makes you so sure, gringo?”
“My watch.”
“Bah! How can you read a watch in the dark?”
“I took off the glass covering and feel the position of the hour and minute hand,” Sam said.
“Pretty good,” Luke said. “I got to get me a timepiece some of these days.”
“I already got a solid-gold watch fob,” he added, thinking of Monty’s gold tooth, safe in his pocket. Johnny chuckled.
“You are full of tricks, eh, gringo?” Vasquez said.
“I better be,” said Sam.
“We all better be,” Johnny Cross said.
Time passed. Presently three riders appeared in the mouth of the Chute. Riding out from between stony portals, they rode west across the flat.
Sam’s fingertips brushed the hands of his watch with a feather touch. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Fifteen minutes for one set of night guards to return and a new one to go out on patrol.” He closed the lid with a click and carefully pocketed the watch.
“So we got two hours and twenty minutes to get ready and do what we got to do,” Johnny said.
“Make it two hours. Give the patrol that just left time to get well clear of here before we cross the flat and get into position,” Sam said.
“And then we get the ball rolling.”
“That’s right.”
 
 
The last night guard to leave on patrol rounded Buffalo Hump’s eastern slope at about four o’clock in the morning. The starry sky was still a rich purple-black, and darkness lay heavily on the scene. The incoming night guards rode three abreast, starting north across the flat.
About halfway to the Chute, a line of housesized boulders spilled out of the foothills of the high, humped hill. From the darkness of the rocks sped a dart that struck home in the breast of the guardsman riding on the left-hand side, knocking him out of the saddle.
The other two were unaware of what had happened except that the third had fallen off his mount. They pulled up short to see if he was all right.
Something punched the middle rider in the back, between the shoulder blades. He slumped forward in the saddle, sprawled facedown aross the horse, a feathered shaft sticking out of his back.
The third man opened his mouth to shout, perhaps in fright, perhaps in alarm, or possibly in some mixture of both. An arrow took him in the torso.
He looked down to see it protruding from his chest, its slender length still quivering, vibrating from the impact. It seemed absurdly fragile, so flimsy an instrument to take a man’s life.
Even as he had that thought, the guardsman died, a groaning sigh replacing the frantic shout that had trembled on his lips waiting to be vented a split-second earlier.
A couple of mounted men came around from behind a boulder where they’d been hiding. Latigo, an expert horseman, was first out, racing toward the riderless horses. Overtaking them, he headed them off from running toward the Chute, herding them.
Close behind Latigo were Red Oxblood and Sombro, the latter slipping his long bow over a shoulder and across his back. Sombro had fired the bow from horseback, smoothly loosing one arrow after another, all three speeding unerringly to their targets.
“Damn! You could teach the Comanches a thing or two about bows and arrows,” Red said in a stage whisper. Sombro acknowledged the other’s words with a nod of the head.
Red helped Latigo round up the horses with the empty saddles. The animals were not so much scared as bewildered. It would take more than blood and violent death to spook the mounts of Brock Harper’s outlaw band.
Red handed over to Latigo the reins of the horse he was leading. “Here, hold the horses.”
“Where do you go?” Latigo asked.
“To make sure they’re all dead,” Red said, indicating the fallen guards with a tilt of his head.
“None escape once Sombro sets his mark on them,” Latigo said.
Red was a man who liked to see things for himself. He rode to the nearest body. The corpse lay sprawled on its side, the shaft in his chest having splintered and broken when he fell atop it after falling off his horse. A mortal wound; nobody could have survived that.
Red went to the next guard, who lay facedown with an arrow sticking out of his back. Leaning out of the saddle, Red prodded him with the tip of his rifle. “Deader than hell,” he said.
He glanced up. The third and final corpse, that of the first guard to die, lay some distance away. Latigo rode up alongside Red, having finished securing two riderless mounts to a rope string trailing behind him. Sombro took the third horse in tow.
No alarm had been raised, no hue and cry given. The two watchmen at the Chute were unaware that anything had happened. They stood inside the pass, near the campfire. Each was armed with a new Henry repeating rifle and a brace of six-guns.
They stood staring into the outer darkness beyond the campfire. The fire was a mistake, though. Its light wrecked their night vision, hampering their ability to see what was going on around them.
“Night guard’s running a little late, Slim,” said one.
“What do you care, Hank? They’re the ones going off duty, not us. We’re stuck out here till sunup,” Slim said.
There was a sound of approaching hoofbeats.
“That’s them. Here they come now,” Hank said.
A figure stepped into view, emerging from where he’d been lurking behind the columnar pillar of the easternmost of the Door Posts. A stranger.
Gitano. His right arm bent and raised at the shoulder, hand holding a flat-bladed knife ready for throwing.
Thunk! The knife lodged in Slim’s left breast, taking him in the heart. Slim groaned, sat down hard.
One smooth rush of uninterrupted, flowing motion, Gitano struck again, a second blade appearing in his hand, heaving it as a whirring pinwheel that took Hank in the middle, high in the belly.
Hank reeled, staggering stiff-legged, the rifle slipping from his hands. It hit the ground hard but did not go off, skittering across a large, flat stone.
The slight twists and turns of the ravine that was the Chute did not afford a direct view from its mouth to the interior of Ghost Valley. Therefore, none in the outlaw camp saw the watchmen fall.
Gitano put fingers to his mouth and made a sound like the call of a night bird. The all-clear signal.
A moment later, riders appeared, materializing out of black darkness.
The Nine were gathering.
Sam, Johnny, Vasquez, Luke, and Chicory made up one group. With them were the pack horses.
They were followed by a moment later by Sombro, Red, and Latigo. The latter trailed a string of three horses, each with a member of the night guard slung facedown across its back.
All present knew their parts and immediately began doing what they had to do. Gitano retrieved his blades, wiping them clean of dead men’s blood before returning them to their belly-belt sheaths.
Red and Chicory dragged the corpses of Hank and Slim to one side, hiding them behind a cluster of rocks.
Sam and Vasquez began carefully removing gunny sacks and barrel kegs from where they were secured to the pack horses. The sacks held bundles of dynamite; the kegs were filled with gunpowder. They began stuffing the bundles of dynamite in the seams of rock underlying a massive overhanging shelf that jutted out from high on the west Door Post.
Luke measured out looping lengths of fuse cord, passing them to Sam and Vasquez, who attached them to various bundles and packets of explosives.
Sombro took a smaller burlap sack of dynamite and slung its carrying strap over a shoulder.
Gitano and Latigo armed themselves with rifles and bandoliers. They donned the bandoliers first. The rifles were rigged with straps that allowed the men to sling them across their backs. Latigo also shouldered a sackful of dynamite by the strap.
Dark eyes flashing, Gitano cut a glance at Sam. “Signal when you reach the top,” Sam said. “
Bueno suerte
—good luck.”
Gitano nodded. He and Latigo exited the Chute, rounding a Door Post and following the outer wall of the rocky spur that was the east wing of the pass. Going south toward Buffalo Hump for several dozen yards, they came to a place where the rock face was jagged and broken, forming a kind of jumbled, blocky stairway a hundred feet up to the top. They started upward, scaling the side of the slope.
Sombro and Red Oxblood climbed the outer wall of the opposite spur that was the Chute’s west wing. Sombro secured the bow across his back and hung the quiver of arrows down his side. The redhead shouldered a sack of dynamite.
A massive seam like an inverted V opened in the rock face, accessing the summit. The lower slope was lined with a fan-shaped skirt of rocks and dirt; its upper half was stepped with stony blocks and ledges.
Sombro took the lead, ascending with the agility of a young man. Red followed, making his way but well behind.
Inside the pass, Luke and Chicory finalized the job of mining the overhang of the west Door Post. Kegs of gunpowder were set in the wide base of the vein, while bundles of dynamite were placed higher up where the crack narrowed. Luke measured lengths of cord, cutting, fixing, and setting them, while Chicory manhandled the kegs and bundled the sticks into place.
Sam, Johnny and Vasquez worked together, arranging a macabre tableau. Using ropes and pieces of dead wood, they tied each of the three dead members of the night guard upright in the saddles of their horses. Extra arrows had been stuck into the corpses to magnify the grotesqueness of the sight.
Vasquez checked his guns, various sets of which were holstered and slung on his massive form.
Johnny readied for his ride, arming himself pistol-fighter-style as he’d done prior to the start of so many other raids, during the war and after. Two guns were holstered on his hips. A second pair of gun belts were crossed over his shoulders, holstered guns worn butt-out under his arms. Two more guns were tucked in his waistband, one on the side and the other behind him, nestled in the small of his back. A loaded repeating carbine lay near to hand in its saddle-scabbard.
BOOK: William W. Johnstone
7.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

No Place For a Man by Judy Astley
Moonweavers by Savage, J.T.
Selfie by Amy Lane
The Fourth Sunrise by H. T. Night
Upon a Sea of Stars by A. Bertram Chandler
Maggie MacKeever by The Right Honourable Viscount
Always Me by Walker, Jo-Anna
The White Pearl by Kate Furnivall
Mystery of the Star Ruby by Gertrude Chandler Warner
Ten Inches by AJ Hardcourt