by Peter Grant
As soon as Tom had rounded the corner, Jack tiptoed slowly and carefully to join him. They did not speak as he joined Tom again, but both felt immense relief. The first stage of their part of the assault was now ready to go.
Jack fished in his pocket and pulled out a match. They sat down, backs to the wall of the house, making no noise at all, to wait for Walt’s signal.
* * *
Jacob and Sam eased up to the outhouse, twenty feet from the kitchen door. It stood over a hole dug deep into the ground, the unpleasant smell of human waste oozing from beneath it. Beside it, another hole had recently been filled. It was still topped with a raised heap of earth, evidence that the outhouse had simply been lifted off the full hole, then repositioned over a newly-dug, empty one.
Sam felt for the hammers of his shotgun, making sure they were still down. It was Isom’s twelve-gauge Parker. He’d urged Walt to take it with him, so as to have it available in case of need. When Walt had demurred, pointing out that Isom might need it instead, the black man had chuckled. “I got five Navajo warriors keepin’ watch over me, all armed to the teeth, thanks to you givin’ ’em the guns an’ ammunition we captured here. I’m gonna lie back here an’ relax, an’ let them do any fightin’ that needs doin’!” Laughing, Walt had conceded his point.
Having verified that the gun was still in a safe condition, Sam felt in his pocket to ensure he had more buckshot cartridges ready for use, then settled down to wait. Beside him, Jacob drew his handguns, making sure that the percussion caps were securely pressed onto the nipples at the rear of both Army Colts’ cylinders. Satisfied, he holstered the weapons once more, then checked the two quarter-sticks of dynamite keeping warm inside his coat. Walt had insisted that any dynamite used inside the house had to be the smallest charge possible, so as not to endanger other attackers. He’d carefully sliced a stick of dynamite into four pieces, and crimped one inch of slow match into their blasting caps. Half of them were now with Jacob, in case of need.
They knew the kitchen door would be unlocked, to let the cook enter. She was expected to arrive with the sunrise, to prepare coffee and breakfast. Nate and Walt had watched her do so, the day before. Silently, the two men waited for the signal to move.
* * *
Walt was alone. He knew that might be a foolish decision, but his driving need to personally settle accounts with Parsons had led him to it. The bedroom where Drake, Shelton and Travis slept was on the right side of the house, in front of the kitchen. Parsons occupied a bedroom on the left side, in front of the room he used as his study. That was Walt’s target.
He crept up to the house, moving with all the silence and stealth he’d learned during three years as a scout and courier in the crucible of the Civil War. In that specialized assignment, those who could not move as quietly as a shadow over the ground, died quickly. Only those who learned, survived. He had known over a hundred scouts and couriers during his service. Fewer than ten had lived through the war unscathed, and he was not among them. His old wounds still ached, sometimes.
He leaned his Remington rifle against the wall around the corner of the house, where it would be handy in case of need. He felt inside his jacket, and pulled out a half-stick of dynamite. A coiled length of quick match was crimped into its blasting cap, and it was wrapped in a strip of blanket to keep it warm in the pre-dawn chill. A length of twine had been tied around it, forming a one-foot loop. Two more quarter-sticks kept it company inside his coat, each fused with an inch of slow match.
Walt moved around the corner to the double doors leading to the study. He reached up, very slowly, very carefully, and hung the loop over the doorknobs on either side of the lock. The dynamite nestled up against the crack between the doors, beneath the metal bar in the lock holding them together. He knew one or both sides of the door might be bolted closed, but if he shattered the central lock and all the glass panes, he reckoned he could burst through the rest without hurting himself. His hat and jacket would protect him from cuts, while the half-stick of dynamite wouldn’t damage the interior of the study too much.
Silently, Walt backed away, leading the quick match around the corner of the house. Sinking to his haunches, he drew his right-hand revolver, balanced it on his thigh, then reached into his pocket for a match. He glanced up at a window to his left, one that he was sure gave on to Parsons’ bedroom. It was closed, and he could hear no sound through it.
He forced himself to be patient as he leaned back against the wall, and waited for the dawn to provide enough light to aim their guns.
* * *
Maria slipped out of bed soon after first light. She dressed, then checked that her two children were sound asleep in their beds, smiling down at them before making for the front door. She put on her heavy outdoor shoes, left beside it so as not to track mud, dust and dung into their little home, of which she was very proud. She shivered as her warm feet revolted at the touch of icy cold leather, but she knew the shoes would warm up very quickly.
She adjusted her shawl over her head. As the first ray of sunshine lit up a nearby hilltop, she started walking towards the back door of the farmhouse.
* * *
Pablo saw her coming, and tensed. She must not be allowed to reach the house before the fight began, otherwise she would be in danger. Should he show himself, to warn her?
He risked a glance behind him, and saw Walt reach down towards his foot. No, he would not need to warn her. He grinned. She would soon receive the loudest warning she’d ever heard.
He picked up his rifle and settled himself, ignoring the farmhouse behind him, covering the workers’ cottages.
* * *
Walt saw the cook begin walking up the well-worn path between her cottage and the kitchen, and felt a rush of adrenaline. The die was cast now. They couldn’t back out, even if they wanted to, because they were certain to be seen and fired upon.
He reached down, struck the match in his hand against the heel of his boot, and held its hissing, flickering, flaming tip to the end of the quick match.
* * *
Parsons was dozing happily in his warm blankets. He was dreaming of the money he could make by outsmarting the Santa Fe Ring, snatching up small properties here and there, consolidating them into larger ones, selling some at a profit, swapping some for other land he wanted. If he played his cards right, he might make more money in New Mexico than he ever had in Colorado… and the best part of it was, people would instinctively blame the Ring for everything. As an independent actor, he probably wouldn’t come under suspicion.
His reverie was blown apart, along with the glass in his study doors, in a roaring, crashing explosion. Blasted into sudden consciousness, heart pounding with the instant adrenaline rush, he could only stutter “Wha-? Who-?”
That didn’t stop his well-honed reflexes reaching for a gun, resting in the holster hung from the back of the chair holding his clothes, as he rolled out of bed. As his feet hit the floor, the remains of the study doors shattered, and something big and heavy thumped onto the floor of the adjoining room.
* * *
Maria screamed as the explosion thundered across the open ground. She fell to her knees, unable to grasp what was happening, then screamed again as two shadowy figures ran out from behind the outhouse and made for the kitchen door. A third appeared at the corner of the house, running for señor Parsons’ study doors.
Maria jumped to the only conclusion that seemed possible, in the light of her experience. Who else but marauding Apaches or Utes would attack at dawn like this? She knew she had to warn the other workers, to give them a chance to get away and hide in the brush, particularly the children. Some Indians would kidnap young children, if given the chance, and raise them as their own. They had to be protected from that at all costs.
Another huge explosion from the front of the house galvanized her into action. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Indios! Los Indios ataque!” as she jumped to her feet, and ran like the wind towards her home and her chi
ldren.
* * *
As Jack heard the blast of Walt’s dynamite, he struck his match and held it to the fuse. The spark vanished around the corner of the building. A split-second later, they heard and felt an enormous bang, loud and jarring enough to suck the air out of their lungs, as if they’d been punched squarely in the stomach.
They ran around the corner of the building, to see splinters and chunks of the shattered front door bouncing across the farmyard. Ignoring them, they sprinted for the now-open doorway and thrust their way inside, guns out, scanning for targets.
On the far side of the house, from the kitchen, they heard a door slam back against the wall, even as a confused jumble of voices and sounds came from the bedroom beyond it. As they turned in that direction, a shotgun blasted, once, then again.
* * *
Sam hung back a little as he cocked the hammers of his shotgun. Jacob reached the door first, yanked it open, then threw himself to one side, giving Sam a clear field of fire.
Through the inner door of the kitchen, Sam could see across an internal passage into the bedroom occupied by three of Parsons’ hard-cases. All of them were rolling out of bed, grabbing for their guns, eyes wide with astonishment. Sam didn’t hesitate. He aimed at the nearest man and triggered his right-hand barrel. The buckshot slammed into his target’s stomach, drawing a scream of agony as the man doubled over, dropping his revolver. That exposed the next person in line. Sam hit him with the left-hand barrel’s load, but the man was already trying to roll back onto his bed, out of the line of fire. The buckshot lacerated the inside of his upper right thigh and his groin. He yelled in pain, clutching himself as blood fountained.
Sam broke open the shotgun to reload, stepping to the side of the doorway to gain cover behind the adobe wall. Jacob sprang into the doorway, his revolver out and ready. The third man in the bedroom lifted his gun, and they fired at each other at precisely the same instant.
As Sam snapped the shotgun closed, Jacob reeled back from the doorway, clutching his chest, crying out. Sam stared at him. “Jacob? Jacob!” His friend did not answer as he crumpled to the ground.
* * *
Tom and Jack heard Sam’s despairing shout from the kitchen, and realized at once what must have happened. Impulsively, without stopping to think, Jack rushed around the corner towards the bedroom, to help their comrades. Tom began to follow him, calling, “Wait, Jack! Slow down!”—but he was too late. The youngster skidded to a halt in the bedroom doorway. Instantly, a shot came from inside. Jack rocked back on his heels, grunting aloud as he aimed his revolver. As he fired, another shot came from the room, followed by a scream.
As Jack collapsed, Tom leapt across the doorway, glancing inside in passing, moving too fast for anyone to draw a bead on him. He saw a man falling back against the wall, clutching his chest, dropping a revolver. Two more men were already lying on the floor, writhing.
Tom stopped himself, lunged back into the doorway, aimed quickly but carefully, and fired three rounds at the heads of the three men inside. At such close range, and with no return fire to distract him, he could not miss. They crumpled to the floor, silent and still.
Tom spun around and fell to his knees beside Jack; but he could see at once that there was no hope for him. The two bullets from the bedroom had struck within a couple of inches of each other, right over his sternum, and had gone through his heart and lungs. Jack had dropped his gun. He was gasping for breath, eyes closed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
Tom’s lips set in a firm, hard line as he glanced through the open back door. Sam was kneeling next to Jacob, who was lying still and unresponsive. Sam looked up, saw Tom staring at him, and shook his head as gunfire erupted from the farmyard on the other side of the house.
“Come on!” Tom exclaimed. “We’ve gotta help Walt!”
The two men rose, and ran towards the sound of the guns.
* * *
Walt threw himself around the corner as soon as the half-stick of dynamite exploded. He left his rifle leaning against the wall. It would be an encumbrance in the close quarters inside the farmhouse.
He lined up on the battered, splintered doors, lowered his shoulder, and charged them. The dynamite had done its work. All the panes of glass had been shattered. One half of the doors was bolted to the frame, and remained closed, but the other slammed back as he struck it, its central lock broken. Walt burst through, and threw himself down behind a heavy armchair.
“Parsons!” he shouted. “It’s Ames! Come out here and face me like a man!”
* * *
Parsons heard Walt’s challenge as he straightened up, mingled with more explosions and gunfire, rattling the building. He realized that they were under attack by more than one man—and, judging by the sounds, his three gunmen had more than enough troubles of their own to deal with.
He tossed his handgun onto the bed, then grabbed a double-barreled shotgun leaning against the wall, next to the door. He cocked both hammers with a sweep of his left hand, threw it to his shoulder, leaned out into the doorway, and sighted down the barrels at the man he could see crouching behind his favorite armchair.
* * *
Walt lined his revolver at the doorway to Parsons’ bedroom, only to find himself staring down the seemingly cavernous barrels of a shotgun aimed in his direction. He squeezed the trigger once as he desperately threw himself backwards. His ears rang with the double discharge as both barrels fired. The heavy armchair bounced as twin charges of buckshot slammed into it.
* * *
Parsons squeezed both triggers of the shotgun together, an inarticulate roar of rage on his lips as the weapon smacked hard into his shoulder. In the same instant, he felt a white-hot line score across his right cheek, sending a stab of pain through his ear. He dropped the empty shotgun, putting up his hand. It came away red with blood.
Shocked realization forced its way through his brain as the gunfire in the rest of the house fell silent. Drake, Shelton and Travis did not call to him, which meant they were out of the fight, one way or another. He was on his own. He had to get away, now, or be killed.
He whirled around to the sash window over his bed, its glass already cracked from the explosions, and yanked up the bottom half. Seizing the revolver from where he’d dropped it, he jumped onto the bed and launched himself head-first through the opening.
* * *
Pablo heard the window open, and tried to wriggle around to face it—but a shot came from the house, smashing into the wheel behind him, sending out a shower of splinters. He couldn’t help a shout of pain as one sliced across his cheekbone, drawing a spray of blood.
* * *
In the hayloft, Nate saw the figure of a man leap headlong through a window at the side of the house, dropping to the ground and rolling. The man sprang to his feet, fired one round from a handgun at the cart beneath which Pablo was lying, then started to run for the barn. He heard Pablo yell, and cursed as he raised his shotgun. “Come on, you sonofabitch,” he half-crooned to himself as he placed the bead over the onrushing figure. “Just a little closer…”
He never knew whether the man heard him, or glimpsed the barrels as they protruded from the hayloft opening. Suddenly the figure slammed to a halt, raising a revolver and aiming it in two braced, outstretched arms. A split-second’s pause, then flame flashed from its barrel.
Nate yelled as a bullet lanced into his left shoulder. Involuntarily, his finger tightened on both triggers of the shotgun. The man in the yard shouted, a wordless cry, as the double recoil jolted the weapon from Nate’s weakened grasp. His right hand flew to the revolver on his hip, but he had not completed his draw when the man fired again. His bullet scored a line across the outside of Nate’s right arm. He dropped the revolver and fell back, crying aloud as his wounded shoulder crashed down hard onto the planks of the hayloft floor. For a few moments, he was dazed as pain flooded through him.
* * *
Parsons yelled as the charge of buckshot raised
puffs of dust all around him, but his bullet had disrupted the shooter’s aim, and the gun’s pattern had spread too wide by the time it reached him. Only two pellets struck him, one in his left forearm, the other scoring a line across the right side of his body below the ribs. He half-cringed in anticipation of the next round as he fired again, but instead saw the man in the hayloft fall back and down.
He wasted no time in self-congratulation, running across the yard to the barn, throwing himself at the doors and dragging one of them ajar, then ducking inside. He forced himself to ignore the pain in his left arm as he grabbed a hackamore from where it hung on a nail.
He knew he had no time to saddle up. The other attackers would be on him too quickly. He had to get away, now, before they could get organized and pursue him. If he could reach Taos, he had an emergency bolthole there, set up for just this sort of need. It held clothes, guns and money. With them, he could make his getaway to anywhere in the country. His gorge rose at the thought of abandoning all he owned, but he forced it down. This was no time to worry about that. He’d made a small fortune over the past decade. He could make another… but only if he was alive to do so.
