The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The big .45 slug scored in flesh, though not a fatal hit. Howling, the man crashed to the ground and clenched at his burning side. An instant later, Dawg Godfrey lunged for O’Callan’s extended gun-hand.

  He flopped to the ground, writhing in pain as O’Callan’s left-handed roundhouse with the shillelagh crashed into the right side of Godfrey’s ribcage. That left one man facing the enraged cavalry sergeant, with two others on their feet.

  The swift flurry of action had carried Red Clay and his companion out of O’Callan’s sight. As he made ready to deal with the man in front of him, they grabbed O’Callan from behind.

  “Leave me go, ye sons o’ bitches!” O’Callan bellowed. “Ye beat me partner half to death and stole our claim, an’ now ye’re gonna pay. Turn me loose an’ fight like men. I’ll take ye on one at a time or all together.”

  Red Clay jerked the bandy-legged Irishman off his feet, and despite his wrenching and flopping, Red Clay and Hiram Godfrey held on by legs and shoulders. “Hell,” Big Red scorned, “he ain’t hardly big enough to keep. We’d better toss ’im back.”

  “Sho’ nuff, Red. I done caught tadpoles bigger’n him in G’o’gia,” Dawg agreed.

  They swung O’Callan in rhythm, three times, then on the last let him arch far out over the void of a cutbank. There they released him.

  “O-o-o-h ... sh-i-i-i-t!”

  Terry O’Callan bellowed his anger, fear, and frustration as his body turned lazily in the air, falling down and away from the rock ledge containing the gold vein they had discovered only two days before. The irony of it reinforced the hot agony that flashed through him as he slammed into a small, sturdy tree trunk. His abused carcass pivoted partway around the tree and slid, gouging and scraping, painfully down, losing only part of the momentum of his fall. O’Callan bounced and rolled over sharp rocks and medium sized boulders. He lost consciousness long before he landed on one side in the chill waters of the stream.

  ~*~

  “Whadda ye mean it’s better fer me to stay here a few more days? Hell, man,” Jim Brannigan ranted at Doc Philbert, “ye’re not even a real doctor, only a poxy tooth-yanker. I been sittin’ up since last night an’ eatin’ solid food, have I not? An’ I can walk good as any man. Look.”

  Brannigan took a few steps away from his bed, tottered on wobbly legs that gave way after a short while and let him down heavily into a chair. “There. See?”

  “You would never be able to sit a horse, and you couldn’t do a damned thing without a prop to hold you up,” the tall, slender dentist said, stroking his small Vandyke beard. “You need to rest, give your body time to recover.”

  “Not when me darlin’ buddy’s out there tryin’ to track down the men who robbed us ... riskin’ his neck while I lie here like some primmer donner betwixt the white sheets. There’s nothin’ wrong with me now that a little fresh air an’ a snort o’ whiskey wouldn’t cure. I want outta here today, Doc, ye understand?”

  ~*~

  Over two thousand in gold had been taken from the vein in the rock ledge over the past three days and Big Red’s gang of cutthroats and claim-jumpers declared a celebration. They had plenty of food and liquor, and the heady odor of rich tobacco filled the air. Dawg Godfrey, always the pessimist, remained troubled.

  “Are you sure that red-headed runt is really dead?” he whined.

  “Hell, yes. If’n he didn’t drown, he musta caught his death of pew-monia in that cold water,” Red Clay answered sharply. “What’s gotten into you, kid?”

  “The best part o’ three days’ve gone by, and no dead body has turned up. Do you suppose he coulda come outta it and got outten the water? He might be up there now, lookin’ down on us over the sights of a rifle.”

  “Don’t be a fool, kid. Now take a swallow of that likker and pass the bottle on, or I’ll take it away from you for good.”

  “Obliged,” Godfrey relented. “Those ribs is painin’ me a bit.”

  “The Scriptures say, ‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.’ Hallelujah! That’s in Saint Paul to the Corinthians. Praise the Lord! ... An’ pass that bottle this-a-way, Dawg,” Preacher Tyson intoned.

  High above, on a ledge, the dark figure who had been watching activities in the camp grunted satisfaction and slid back to the cover of the trees, where he stood silently. He walked to where the saddle horse and pack mule had been tied. They munched contentedly on the tender green shoots of grass that grew in profusion this early in the spring. He took a double handful of greasy sticks from one saddle pouch and added caps and fuse. Then he returned to the ledge.

  Terry O’Callan sincerely hoped this new dynamite wasn’t as unstable as the outfitting store man had implied. He carefully slit the sides of each stick and inserted a fuse cap, tied the incisions shut with several wraps of waxy string that had come with detonators. Then he crimped a length of fuse into the open end of each copper cylinder with his teeth. Next, he brought forward the saddle horse and ground-reined him, hoping the dumb brute wouldn’t panic and run away. Lastly, he laid out the ten sticks of dynamite in a row. He selected two of them, and clutched them like fat sausages between the fingers of his right hand. He struck a match and fired the frazzled ends of both fuses.

  Gingerly, gritting his teeth against the expected blast, O’Callan tossed one stick downhill. It landed on the top of the rocky outcrop that housed his precious vein of gold, followed quickly by the second one. Both far short of the target.

  When O’Callan realized there was little chance of his being blasted into the hereafter by ordinary handling of the dynamite, he hurled the third stick high in the air, so that it arched out over the rim and fell down to land among the tents and piles of prospecting equipment in the outlaw camp. The last charge detonated only an instant ahead of sticks one and two, creating a bracketing, artillery effect.

  In the moment of silence that followed the eruptions, there came a loud groaning and creaking, followed by the heavy rumble of rocks rolling downhill.

  O’Callan hurriedly threw four more charges, two long and two short. Below him, in the camp, the tranquil drinking party had been transformed into utter chaos. The blasts and trailing shock waves had disoriented the hardcases, and they stumbled around while slivers of rock and flying sprays of sand slashed at their skin and tugged ragged holes in their clothes.

  The next four explosions caught them in the open, running around without purpose or direction. Blindly, they jumped for whatever protection they could find from the great chunks of rock that rained down among them.

  O’Callan swung into the saddle and galloped away, downhill, while his last three sticks still made pretty spark trails across the sky. “Nothin’ like a wee darlin’ artillery barrage laid on before a cavalry charge, I always say,” he congratulated himself aloud as he aimed toward the south, flanking the claim-jumpers and putting himself between them and escape in the direction of Slaughter.

  Three more dynamite blasts proved too much for the three sometimes members of Big Red’s gang. They abandoned their vulnerable positions by the same means O’Callan had been ejected three days ago. Their shouts of fright turned to shrieks of agony as they impaled themselves on the tree limbs O’Callan had spent two unobserved days patiently sharpening and setting in place. O’Callan reined sharply to the right and headed uphill toward the remaining outlaws. He drew his revolver and pointed it toward the huge form of Red Clay.

  Dawg Godrey and the preacher, overcome with panic, scampered away into the brush while Red Clay stood alone to face the furious onrush of the big cavalry horse. His Remington .44 barked twice and kicked up dust to either side of the charging man. The distance closed rapidly. Then O’Callan leaned far forward over his horse’s neck and extended his arm, coolly taking aim.

  He thumb-slipped the second round even as the first bullet took Red just below the nose. The heavy slug snapped Clay’s head backward, his arms flying wide, so that the second shot caught him dead center in the chest. He thudded heavily onto his back as O’Ca
llan thundered past.

  Grimly, the fiery-haired cavalry sergeant sought the two who had fled. He halted at the edge of the clearing to peer into the brush, which had been brightly illuminated by flames ignited by the explosions and the campfire. O’Callan saw no motion and heard no sounds of continued flight. Satisfied, for the most part, he dismounted and led his horse back toward the fallen outlaw leader.

  Behind him, in the dark, Preacher Tyson gripped the stock of his Winchester firmly and sighted in on the wide spot between O’Callan’s shoulder blades. In the moment when his finger tightened on the trigger, a shot blasted out of the night. The slug nipped through the comb of the stock before drilling into Tyson’s brain, ending for good his evil ways. He didn’t even feel the shower of curly maple splinters that shredded his face and one eye.

  O’Callan jumped at the sound, whirled with his six-gun ready as he sought the source of this invisible attack.

  “Please! I give up. Don’t shoot no more.” Dawg Godfrey blubbered as he straggled out into the light.

  O’Callan covered him with his revolver as the claim jumper came toward him, the muzzle tracking Godfrey’s every move.

  “Hey! Hold up. I said I ain’t fightin’ no more,” Godfrey bleated as he eyed the big Colt.

  He motioned with a nod of his head at his badly mangled left hand, summoning his courage, seeking to get control of his fear as the moment stretched out. Then, when the fatal bullet didn’t come crashing from the end of O’Callan’s .45, he laughed loudly.

  “Hell, there ain’t no sense in me bein’ scared anymore. I’m already shot.”

  “Sure an’ ye’ll be shot again, if’n ye so much as look cross-eyed at me,” O’Callan warned.

  “Wal, I allow as how I sure don’t want to be shot again,” Dawg grinned, showing a different side of his personality. “You don’t take this all personal, do ya? Hell, we’d a done it to anybody.”

  “Damn yer eyes, o’ course I take it personal. An’ I’m draggin’ yer worthless carcass back to civilization for justice to take its course.”

  Fear glinted momentarily in Godfrey’s eyes, then he quelled it. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to hang. Never could stand the thought of it.” Dawg grinned as his fingers closed around the tiny butt of the .32 H&R hideout gun in his waistband. “Hell, I’d much rather be shot.”

  A split instant later, a second bullet came from the darkness. It caught Dawg Godfrey in the chest, an inch left of center, bursting his heart. A familiar-sounding voice came from behind the muzzle blast.

  “Sure an’ I always respect a man’s last request. ’Tis the least I coulda done fer the likes o’ him.”

  Jim Brannigan, pale and weak, but there all the same, stepped out into the clearing, a smoking carbine cradled in one arm. He nudged the corpse of Godfrey with the toe of one boot.

  “An’ did ye not see this hideout gun he was gettin’ ready to use on ye, Terry? Sloppy, lad, most sloppy o’ ye.”

  ~*~

  Gold!

  Luis Garcia and the prospectors who had been hunting the rims and ridges of the Dolores Range for three long weeks had found it at last. They danced around jubilantly as they marveled at the glittering objects that had washed clear in a big pan. Not mere thin flakes of the stuff, but lumps and pieces big as a shirt button. They knew it had to be there, and they gloried in being the ones to discover it. With the strike above Slaughter petering out, the news they had would be of incredible value to the hordes of miners and prospectors who awaited word of a new chance to strike it rich. The men broke camp quickly and headed out of the mountains to bring their intelligence to the Mogollon Rim.

  They took care, though, before they left, to stake out the choicest stretches of stream bed and rock ledges for themselves. No call to be overgenerous in sharing with the others. Before the sun rose high, the dust had settled and silence come back to the small meadow where they had worked. Halfway down the mountain trail, they came face to face with three of Halcon’s warriors, who were on their way to the camp of white-eyes to trade game for whiskey. Fearful lest their secret get out before the chosen time for telling it, the prospectors ruthlessly gunned down the unsuspecting Apaches and galloped out of the mountains. They had five hard days of travel between them and the assay office in Slaughter.

  Twenty-Six

  Daylight came noticeably earlier along the Mogollon Rim. O’Callan and Brannigan rose early and feasted heartily on the sumptuous rations brought along by Red Clay and his gang. Squirrels scampered about, chittering saucily. Jays and crows made insulting noises that echoed in the canyon. The two soldiers could hardly believe that only the night before they had bested this band of outlaws and reclaimed their gold find. Both had killed many times. That part didn’t bother them.

  That such lawlessness, greed, and inhumanity could be spawned by the mere presence of a yellow metal, difficult to find and hard to reap, yet plentiful by all appearances, somehow depressed the both of them. That he had been compelled to take the lives of four men to protect the rights to a vein of that metal dampened even Terry O’Callan’s spirits. He said little until after their ample breakfast.

  “I suppose we ought to be gatherin’ up the bodies and cartin’ ’em back down to Slaughter,” O’Callan suggested offhandedly.

  “Now why would ye be wantin’ to do that? Do ye figger there’s bound to be a passel of grievin’ relatives to care far the poor souls? Chances are, Terry, we’d wind up havin’ to pay for their funerals oursel’s. That bein’ the case, I’d as leave dig a hole here and make done with it.”

  O’Callan considered it. “Will ye be doin’ the diggin’, Jimmy lad?”

  “Who’s the first sergeant and who the troop jack?”

  “Ouch, naw! Ye’ve a hard heart, Jimmy Brannigan.

  “We’ll take turns, Terry. How’s that?”

  Once the mass grave had been dug, occupied, and filled over, the stalwart pair began to take stock of their situation. Rumors that the Mogollon strike was playing out would be proved true if their find could be considered typical. Amid the rubble of rock and mud that lay around camp, they discovered a disappointing reality. The outcrop exposed by the mudslide turned out to be a thin ledge. Blasted off by the dynamite, it exposed far less gold than they had imagined. O’Callan couldn’t hide the glum disappointment that clouded his face.

  “They damn near gouged it all out,” he complained.

  “Cheer up, Terry lad. Look at it this way: We’ve only a couple o’ weeks left o’ this furlough, and now the dynamite’s busted up all that rock fer us. We’ve less than half the work to do to take out the gold we do have.”

  Slowly, O’Callan’s scowl turned to a beaming smile. “Right ye are, Jimmy. Yet, still an’ all there’s a heartbreakin’ scene to behold. Rather than millionaires, we be only a little better off than when we started.”

  “Not so, Terry. There’s that bit over two thousand worth the claim-jumpers were kind enough to dig out fer us. An’ all that’s left here to dig. Have a drink o’ Red Clay’s whiskey and look on the bright side.”

  A week of sweating, back-straining effort gathered in the last, smallest fleck of gold, and they made ready to pack up and be on their way. Even used mining equipment brought good prices in Slaughter, O’Callan knew, so he insisted on taking it along. He looked forward to putting away a tidy sum for his retirement. The agreed that they would of needs stop by the Llewellyn claim for a last goodbye.

  Morgan Llewellyn sobbed and carried on fiercely when O’Callan and Brannigan came to reclaim their burro and load him for the journey to Slaughter. She flung herself out of the cabin and off into the woods. O’Callan found her crying bitterly under a tree.

  “How can you be so heartless and run off, leavin’ me in ... in ... this ... condition?” she wailed.

  “What condition would that be, me lovely?” O’Callan inquired in all innocence.

  “I—I’m wi-with ... ch-ch-child!” she stammered.

  “Well, congratulat
ions to ye and to the babe’s father, whoever he may be.”

  “But ... but, it’s ... it’s—”

  “Impossible!” O’Callan snapped, his quick, though unlettered, mind instantly grasping what she was about to say. “How long does it take fer a woman to know such a thing ... for sure, that is?”

  “More’n a month ... two, three to be sure,” she answered without thinking.

  “An’ how long is it we’ve been yer neighbors?”

  “A little over three wee—Oh! I ... I ... Oh, you’re awful, Terry O’Callan!”

  “So, like I was sayin’,” O’Callan continued, breathing easier. “My congratulations to the happy parents, and her grandfather’ll have ta be pointin’ that shotgun another direction to find the proper sire. Now, I’ll bid ye farewell, Miss Morgan Llewellyn, an’ wish ye the joy o’ it. Settlin’ down and raisin’ another man’s gettin’ just ain’t me inclination.”

  “You’d like family life, honest you would, Terry,” Morgan murmured, softening her voice.

  “What I’m wonderin’ is, why ye’d want to marry up with a broken-down old cavalry sergeant near old enough to be yer father? I’m fair burstin’ with curiosity.”

  Morgan smiled sweetly. “You fellers in the army have regular paydays ... at least most o’ the time you know you’re gonna get paid by-an’-by. You don’t have to scratch for it, never knowing if you’re really earning something or just bursting your heart for nothing. Mines can go dry and the army still gets paid. Crops can fail and the army has its money. Cows can die and—well, you see, that’s why I want to marry a soldier.”

  “’Tis a pity, it is. But, ye ain’t marryin’ this so’jer lad, so ye kin jest forgit it,” O’Callan sympathized harshly.

  Morgan spat, then raised her voice in a shrill shriek. “O’Callan, you rotten son of a bitchin’ Mick Irishman’s bastard outta Hades. I hate your crawling green guts!”