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Authors: Savage Texas

William W. Johnstone (21 page)

BOOK: William W. Johnstone
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A pair of hands curled over the outer rim of the top of the east rampart wall of the Chute. Gitano’s hands.
He pulled himself up in to the summit. The crest of the spur was flattish and about twenty feet wide, forming a pathway a hundred yards long that thrust into the heights overlooking Ghost Valley. A moment later, Latigo joined him on the top.
Gitano crossed to the far side, toeing the edge of the inner wall. He glanced down into the depths of the Chute, whose sandy floor lay a hundred feet below. He had no fear of heights. He saw the others at the mouth of the pass: Sam, Johnny and Vasquez in one group, with Luke and Chicory laboring over the explosives at the base of the west Door Post.
Distant motion caught his eye, causing him to look up and turn his gaze to the opposite side of the Chute. Sombro and Red stood on top of the western rock rampart.
Putting a hand to his mouth, Gitano imitated the cry of the night bird, a plaintive call that sounded twice in the high, empty air. The double cry signaled that both pairs of climbers had reached the summit.
Below, hats tilted upward, revealing upturned ovals that were the faces of their
compañeros
at the mouth of the pass. Vasquez took off his big sombrero and waved it, gesturing that the signal had been heard and understood.
Gitano stepped back from the edge, turning toward the north slope of Buffalo Hump rising above them. He and Latigo started south along the top of the Chute’s east wall, making for the heights overlooking the outlaw camp.
Atop the Chute’s west wall, Sombro and Red also set out for the cliffs enclosing Ghost Valley.
T
WENTY-ONE
 
“Let’s go,” Sam said.
Johnny held a lead rope trailing back to the string of three dead men on three horses. The men of the night guard, tied upright in their saddles, harnesseses of sticks and ropes used to brace them, holding them in place. Arrows sticking out of them.
“I’ll handle the rope work, Yank,” Johnny said. “I can get these plow handles of mine into action quicker’n you can loose that sawed-off rifle of yours.”
Sam smiled thinly. “That’s right obliging of you.”
“That’s me. I’m an obliging fellow,” Johnny said. He, Sam and Vasquez mounted up, climbing into their saddles.
Vasquez glanced sideways at Sam. “Ready to ride, gringo?”
“Yup. Hope you can keep up,” Sam said.
“Don’t worry about me!”
“I’m not.” Sam swung around in the saddle, facing Luke and Chicory over at the base of the west Door Post. “Ready, men?”
Chicory nodded.
“All set,” Luke said.
“Better light up now,” said Sam.
Luke struck a match, holding it cupped in his hand. Applying the flame to the tip of a fat cigar held clenched between his teeth, he puffed away, getting it going.
Chicory had a cigar, too. He leaned in to get it lit, flame glow underlighting his face. The son of a Cajun father and Mexican mother, his long face with its pointy features was all knobs, sharp edges and hollows, set off by a drooping black mustache that would have done honor to one of the grumbling troopers of Napoleon’s Old Guard.
“Phaugh! This cigar tastes like crud, Mr. Yankee, if you’ll pardon my saying so,” Luke said.
“I wouldn’t know, I smoke a pipe myself,” Sam said.
“You could have chose a better brand.”
“This way you won’t smoke it all up before it’s time to light the fuses.”
“These are short fuses; once they’re lit they’ll go up derned quick!”
“And then the walls come tumbling down,” Johnny said.
“Don’t light the fuses until we’re clear, you goddamned crazy gringo,” Vasquez said.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Luke said. “Give ’em hell, y’all.”

Bonne chance,
” Chicory said.
“See you,” Johnny said.
Sam flashed a two-fingered salute from the tip of his hat brim. He, Johnny and Vasquez started their horses forward, deeper into the Chute.
Chicory took a few more puffs on his cigar, thoughtful-like. “I don’t know, it’s not such a bad smoke,” he said at last.
 
 
A rope line stretched back from the horn of Johnny’s saddle, trailing behind him to the lead horse in the string of three. The horses’ gait caused the dead men to jiggle and sway in the saddle, an eerie counterfeit of life.
Threading the rocky gorge of the Chute, the riders emerged from its far end into Ghost Valley. The box canyon was a high-walled cauldron dotted with a dozen campfires scattered around its stony floor. Lines of smoke rose up from them into the sky to form a hazy canopy over the scene, veiling the paling stars above.
A stillness lay over the site; at this hour, it was as quiet as a camp of rowdy, ornery gun-happy outlaws would ever get. Most of them were asleep or dead drunk.
A fair amount of activity and motion centered around the open barn on the rise. It was a patchwork quilt of light and darkness, animated by blurred figures backlit by fire glow.
The newcomers turned right, circling around under the canyon’s north wall. “That big shed is where the gun wagon is, according to Red,” Sam said to the others.
They pointed their horses toward the rise in the center of the valley, making for it, trailing their grisly burden behind them. A voice from an unseen speaker called out to the new arrivals. Their advent fell like a pall of gloom on those outlaws still up and carousing.
Drunken voices trailed off, falling silent. Heads turned in the direction of the newcomers. Seated men stood up. Sleepers were nudged awake by their comrades.
Sam, Johnny and Vasquez closed in on the shed on the rise. The guards ringing it stirred, moving forward.
“What y’all got there?” one said, speaking for the gun guards.
“Time to bring it on home,” Sam said out of the side of his mouth. “You make the call, Johnny. That Texas twang of yours beats my Yankee accent.”
“That’s for damned sure,” Johnny said.
He loosed the slipknot, freeing the rope line from the saddle horn, holding his end of the rope in his left hand, tugging sharply on it to urge the string of three horses forward.
The lead horse came up on his left, drawing abreast of him. Arrows stuck out of the corpse in the saddle, plain to see in the firelight.
Voice breaking uncertainly, the gun guards’ spokesman demanded, “I said, what you got there?—Say, what’s that?”
 
 

Comanches!

Shouting at the top of his voice, Johnny let go of the rope, slapping the flat of his hand down hard on the rump of the lead horse, startling the already unnerved animal. “Yee-haw, git, git!”
The horse bolted, the other two following in its wake. The trio with their arrowed riders broke into a run, charging into the middle of the camp of massed outlaws.
Johnny kept shouting. “Comanches, Comanches! The Injins are coming! Injins! Comanches!”
At the same time, Sam took off his hat and waved it over his head, broad bold gestures that could be seen a long way off, even atop the rock walls ringing Ghost Valley.
The bolting horses alone would have caused a commotion. As would the outcry of the dreaded word: “Comanches!” Three corpses with arrows sticking out of them clinched the deal.
That’s when the riflemen on the ramparts opened fire. Gitano and Latigo on one side, Sombro and Oxblood on the other. Together they unleashed a murderous fusillade that mowed men down where they stood. The sharpshooters whooped and hollered in imitation of Indian war cries, shrieks echoing across the canyon which was now a bowl of confusion.
It’s easy to stampede cattle, especially at night when the herd is restless. It only takes a sharp, sudden shock. A coyote howl, a gunshot, even a dropped tin pan can get the whole herd moving, running out of control in a blind panic.
The outlaws reacted the same way. In a sense, it was funny. Harper’s raiders had used the old dodge of hiding their crimes behind faked Indian attacks. On the other hand, they actually were in Comanche territory, with a real threat of stumbling into the real-life counterparts of the Indians they were impersonating. They fell victim to their own buildup.
The four riflemen aloft were all armed with repeating rifles, allowing them to wreak havoc and create a clamorous roar far out of proportion to their small numbers. The impact was magnified by weird, bloodcurdling shrieks and howls. Adding to the chaos were the piercing screams of men cut down by the onslaught, the wounded and the dying.
Horses penned in the outlaw corral panicked, spooked. They collectively shuddered in a massing surge, whinnying, neighing. Milling, circling, they slammed against rail fence posts, bumping, clattering, kicking.
Sam, Johnny and Vasquez went into action, charging into the thick of the ring of gun-wagon guards.
A pistol snaked into Johnny’s hand, spitting flame and lead. Spurring his horse, he rushed a mass of armed men, shooting into them. Dark figures fell to lines of light that were muzzle-flares of the bullets spearing them.
Sam kicked in with his mule’s-leg, the sawed-off Winchester barking out bullet after bullet. He ripped out a concerto of concentrated firepower, mowing down a line of Harper’s gun wolves.
Vasquez, with a gun in each hand and the reins held between his teeth, peeled off at a tangent from his two sidemen. Piloting toward a clump of men around a campfire, he rode among them, cutting them down with gunfire.
 
 
The raiders for the moment were mostly thrown into a blind panic. Mostly. There were some of them so iron-nerved or nerveless, or so cunning and quick-thinking, that they kept their heads even under extreme provocation.
Such a one was Brock Harper. At the sound of shots and shouts his gun was already in his hand, ready to shoot the three newcomers. But there was no clear line of fire with the chaos and confusion now loose in the outlaw camp. His own men were in his way, his lieutenants, those of his inner circle, running back and forth to block his shots—or catch them.
Sam, Johnny and Vasquez scattered, each to a different part of camp, each sowing the maximum amount of death, destruction and discord. Their horses wheeling, veering, reversing, rearing, keeping the outlaws from getting a bead on their riders.
Harper was in the center of the storm, shouting and roaring. “Keep your heads, you dumb bastards! Can’t you see what they’re doing? They’re hoorahing you, like we’d do to the townsfolk when robbing a bank! Hold your ground and shoot, you sons of bitches—”
He was shouting into the wind—the whirlwind. Some few of his men, very few, rallied to him, around him. They were guided by his bullish clamor, the bellowing of a gored bull. They stood their ground and started shooting at the hijackers. When they could see them, which wasn’t often or easy, thanks to the evasive maneuvers of the intruders.
Sam and Johnny had the same idea. Each made for the gun wagon.
Johnny neared the open barn, coming in sight of the wagon with its team of harnessed horses. A line of gunmen formed up in front of it.
A loaded pistol in his hand, Johnny burned down several men, opening holes in the line. But the others were shooting back.
Bullets cracked, whizzing through the air around him. An edge of his hat brim was nipped off by a round. A tug at the edge of his jacket as another bullet narrowly missed him.
A stallion in a blind panic kicked down the top rail of a section of corral fence, getting its forelegs over it and jumping clear. It broke for open ground, running wild.
A mass of horses swelled against the section of fence, their irresistible weight and energy knocking it down, tearing a big gap in the corral. Crazed horses, eyes rolling, nostrils and mouths foaming, galloped through camp.
“The horses is busting loose! Don’t let ’em get away!” somebody shouted.
Nobody wanted to be without a getaway horse at a time like this, marooned afoot out here at Buffalo Hump in the middle of nowhere as the hideout was getting shot to pieces.
A streaming mass of escaped horses ran between the gun wagon and the rest of the camp. His horse rearing up, Sam pulled up short, reining in to avoid running into a wall of gunfire.
The gun-wagon guards had got their bearings now. Harper’s counterattack was starting to pay off. Sam and Johnny caught sight of each other.
“Time to vamoose!” Sam said.
Johnny said, “I reckon—”
Tightly wheeling their mounts around in the opposite direction, they turned, retreating. Vasquez came in at a tangent, overtaking and passing them as they all made for the Chute.
 
 
Above, aloft on top of Ghost Valley’s curved western wall were Sombro and Dan Oxblood. They’d set down their rifles after pouring volley after volley down into the outlaw camp, firing and reloading until the barrels were red hot.
Now Red smoked a cigar while Sombro fitted an arrow to his bow. A special arrow, with a stick of dynamite tied lengthwise by thin strips of tough rawhide to the shaft. “Ready?” Red asked.

Sí,
” Sombro said.
“Here goes, then—”
Red touched the glowing tip of the cigar to the end of the fuse protruding out of the stick of dynamite. The fuse came alight, sputtering and sparking its way up the cord. Sombro loosed the arrow, sending it on a high arcing trajectory that lofted it up over the canyon bowl before dropping it down. It fell in the vicinity of the gun wagon.
What order Brock Harper had managed to stabilize out of the situation vanished when the explosive fire arrow detonated nearby. There was a tremendous blast of sound, smoke and fire, a booming concussion. Sundered earth went geysering in a fiery torrent.
These outlaws weren’t stupid, at least not where the basics of winning and losing were concerned. Dynamite changed the equation. Bad enough to be penned in the canyon and shot like fish in a barrel. But to have explosives dropped in on their heads turned the hideout into a death trap.
Now it was every man for himself, “save himself who can!” The rush was on.
At the gun wagon, handlers had been holding on to the traces, doing their part to keep it immobilized. The team of horses, already agitated, was maddened now by the explosion. Blindly they surged forward, obsessed solely with the urge to run.
BOOK: William W. Johnstone
4.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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