But the young man was grinning.
McCulloch was close enough to see that. He was also close enough to hear everything the men had said.
“Un jinete,” the big one had said. “Él debe ser un tonto para viajar solo a este país.”
“Good,” the one forced to his knees had responded. “I will take his horse after we kill him. Then we will go after the gold.”
McCulloch nudged his horse forward toward the trio. Actually, he corrected himself, the quartet.
Since the Mexicans kept their guns out, he eased the Winchester from the scabbard with his left hand and braced the stock against his left leg. He thumbed back the hammer, figuring that since the wind was blowing toward him, the sound might not be picked up by the four men waiting to waylay him.
He reined up about twenty yards in front of the four. He said nothing, but he saw the smile on the white kid’s face vanish. The boy whispered in Spanish, border Spanish, and not even good border Spanish but enough for the Mexicans and Matt McCulloch to understand.
The kid had said, basically, that the rider was a Texas Ranger, and hell with a gun.
“Half right,” McCulloch said as he draped the reins over the horse’s neck and shoved his right thumb into the belt of his chaps, casual-like. But he kept tilting the Winchester in his left hand to his left and right, just enough to keep the eyes of the outlaws on the carbine.
“Meaning?” the Mexican said in English.
“Meaning I’m not a Ranger anymore.” He did not stop moving the Winchester.
“Bueno.” The one with the shotgun grinned. “I do not like Tejanos.” That smile widened, and the others copied the grin when the big man added, “Me gustan los Rangers incluso menos.”
“Then we’re even. I don’t like Mexicans.” McCulloch’s rifle froze in its position.
His wife, McCulloch figured, would understand. You said things that you didn’t mean, to rile those men you had to go after. Men with tempers don’t fight as well as even-keeled folks. They rush their shots. They become blinded by rage. Usually. Sometimes, on the other hand, a hotheaded man can become tougher than leather and mean as hell in a fight. So angry, so furious, that you have no choice but to put the man down, dead.
In this situation, though, Matt McCulloch figured it didn’t really matter. He would have to kill the three Mexicans one way or the other. And the gringo? Well, maybe he’d have to die, too.
No one was smiling.
McCulloch spoke. “I’d like to ride on. Like I said, I’m no longer a Texas Ranger. That means I got no authority to stop you from killing this punk.” He smiled. “It’d be to your liking, boys. That’s Billy Hawkin. There’s a two-thousand-dollar price on his head.”
The kid’s face reddened, and he balled his hands into fists. “Kill that lawdog. He’s lying.”
Actually, McCulloch was lying. The last poster he had seen on the kid had the reward at only five hundred dollars. His big brother, Jake, was the one worth two thousand.
One of the Mexicans with a pistol had turned away from McCulloch and studied Billy Hawkin, and that was the break McCulloch had been looking for.
The others were looking at the Winchester butted against McCulloch’s left leg, so he drew the Colt revolver with his right hand, thumbed back the hammer, and put a bullet between the shotgunner’s eyes.
The big Mexican was dead when he touched the twin triggers of the shotgun, but the bullet had driven him backward, and the barrels pointed toward the sky. Buckshot exploded into the air and rained down on the ground like sleet moments later, while Billy Hawkin rolled away from the dead man’s body. The young outlaw kept cursing and pounding the ear that had been closest to the double-barreled scattergun.
Matt McCulloch barely saw that. He was leaping out of the saddle and slamming the Winchester’s barrel against the horse’s rump. As the animal thundered across the big empty, McCulloch was winging two shots at the men with the pistols. As those bandits tried to return fire, McCulloch dropped to the ground.
He had chosen the spot carefully, lying on the hard ground that was slightly downhill from where the others had positioned themselves. They kept spitting lead from their pistols, but didn’t have a clear view of him as he lay on the ground. They were also shooting pistols, and one of them kept fanning the hammer like some dime-novel trick artist.
Having holstered the big Colt, McCulloch brought up the Winchester and squeezed the trigger, the gun catching the sunlight as the outlaw on his right spun high in the air and disappeared behind creosote. He dropped to his knees then tried to stand, but McCulloch had already worked the lever of the Winchester, and the second round from the carbine punched a hole in the man’s back and drove him face-down into a soaptree yucca. With luck, the Mexican was dead before the sharp plant cut his face to shreds.
The last of the Mexicans tossed his empty pistol to the ground and unsheathed the machete at his side. Screaming in his native tongue, he charged, waving the long blade over his head.
“Stop!” McCulloch shouted. Then, in Spanish, yelled, “Alto.”
The man kept running, screaming, and McCulloch knew he had no choice. The carbine roared, and the Mexican spun around, fell to his knees, his right shoulder a bloody mess, and the big machete skidded across the hard rock. To McCulloch’s surprise, the man rose, staggered, and snatched the handle of the machete as he staggered closer to the former Ranger.
“Damned fool,” McCulloch whispered. Once more, he turned to Spanish, asking, “Do you want to die?”
The Mexican did not reply, but lifted the machete over his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, McCulloch saw Billy Hawkin staggering toward the corpse of the shotgunner and quickly put a bullet in the Mexican’s brisket. He watched him slam to the rocks on his back, the machete still in his left hand, as the eyes lost their focus and the death rattle escaped from his throat.
Working the lever on the Winchester, McCulloch turned around quickly and lined up Billy Hawkin in his sights. But McCulloch decided to give the fool kid a chance. He adjusted his aim and put a bullet into the dead Mexican’s waist, just inches from Billy’s fingers as the outlaw tried to snatch the dead man’s pistol from the sash across his stomach.
Hawkin’s hand jerked back, and the killer turned around, saw the Winchester and Matt McCulloch.
“That’s the only warning you get, Billy!” McCulloch said.
The kid straightened and grinned. “Well, Ranger, you know what Jake always told me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Die game!”
The boy leaped atop the dead Mexican and rolled across the body with the nickel-plated revolver catching the sunlight. McCulloch rushed his shot, knew he missed, and jacked another cartridge into the carbine. By then Billy Hawkin had fired twice from the prone position, but those bullets did not even come close to the former Ranger.
McCulloch’s next round kicked up sand in Hawkin’s face, and that caused him to come up. On his knees, he gripped the revolver with both hands, thumbed back the hammer, and took careful aim.
“Don’t make me kill you, kid!” McCulloch yelled, but did not wait for Billy Hawkin to touch the revolver’s trigger. The Winchester roared, and Billy Hawkin was catapulted back.
He lay in the dirt, his right leg bent at the knee with his foot on the ground. The leg kept twisting left and right, much as McCulloch’s Winchester had done. The punk kept moaning between coughs.
After cocking the Winchester again, McCulloch considered Billy Hawkin briefly, then moved toward the nearest Mexicans. Both were dead, eyes open, faces registering shock. He walked toward the other two men, but kept scanning the countryside for any sign of Apaches. McCulloch figured those Indian raiding parties would be more of a threat than what was left of the bunch of outlaws.
He stepped over the shotgunner’s body with little more than a glance and finally squatted beside Billy Hawkin, who lowered that one leg, turned his head, and spit out blood onto an ant mound.
&nbs
p; “You . . .” Billy Hawkin squeezed his eyelids tight and moaned.
“You called it, Billy,” McCulloch said.
“I . . . ain’t . . . ain’t . . . dead . . . yet,” the kid said and coughed.
“You’re gut shot.”
“You done it a-purpose.” He rolled to his right, then his left, cursed McCulloch, cursed the Mexicans, cursed his mother, cursed God, and cursed Jake Hawkin. When the profanity stopped, he spit up more blood. “Mercy, Ranger, can you give me . . . a . . . drink . . . of... of... w-w-water.”
“That’d kill you, Billy, and put you in more pain than you’re feeling now.”
“You bas—” Bloody phlegm cut off his curse.
“Where’s your horse?” McCulloch asked.
“Dead.”
“And your comrades’?”
Billy Hawkin managed a laugh. “Comrades . . . my . . . a-a-arse. They was gonna . . . do me in . . .till they . . . spied . . . you.” The eyes shut again, and he tried to hold the blood inside his body, but both hands were already stained crimson.
McCulloch stood. “I’ll see if I can find their mounts.”
He did, after catching up his own horse, and led them from the arroyo bed back to the dead men and the dying killer.
“What you lookin’ at?” Billy Hawkin managed to say.
McCulloch dropped his gaze from the skyline to the boy. “Smoke.”
“Smoke?” Billy laughed. “I bet the Apaches kill you before I’m dead.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
The kid cursed again. “Jake’ll kill you.”
McCulloch did not answer. He shoved the Winchester into the scabbard, checked the cinch on his saddle, and took a pull from his canteen. “Billy, I can do you a favor and kill you now. It’ll be cleaner and quicker. You’ll be dead in an hour anyway. If the Apaches find you before you’re dead”—he let out a sigh—“well, Apaches can keep a man alive a hell of a lot longer than he wants to be breathing.”
The kid coughed up more blood. “You ain’t puttin’ me under, Ranger.”
“Suit yourself.” McCulloch lifted a foot to the stirrup, and grabbed the horn.
“Wait.”
McCulloch looked at the dying man and waited.
“Put me on one of them Mezkin’s horses,” Billy managed to say.
After pushing back the brim of his hat, McCulloch asked, “What for?”
“So I can ride, find Jake, tell him who done this.” The boy screamed in agony, writhed for a moment, and coughed up more blood. “So he’ll know. So he . . . he . . . can . . . come . . . killing . . . you.”
McCulloch was looking over the distant hills. More clouds of smoke were lifting into the blue sky. He didn’t want to be caught in the open and tried to figure out where he might find the nearest shelter.
“Oh, Lord a’mighty,” Billy wailed, “I’m hurtin’ something awful. Please, God, end this misery.” He grimaced and tried to spit, but only managed to cry out in pain.
“Billy,” McCulloch said.
When the kid looked up at him, McCulloch palmed the Colt and put a bullet through the boy’s head. “That was for mercy, son.” He knelt by the body. “And this is for your last request.” He opened his saddlebags and found the book that the state issued to all Texas Rangers. List of Fugitives from Justice cited all the men wanted, their crimes, their descriptions, and other important details.
He found the page on which Billy Hawkin was described, fetched a pencil from his vest pocket, and wrote BILLY HAWKIN. SHOT DEAD BY MATT MCCULLOCH WHILE PROTECTING HIMSELF. He ripped the page out, folded it, and stuck it inside the kid’s vest pocket.
Not that he expected Jake Hawkin to find it. In fact, McCulloch wasn’t sure anyone would find the body of Billy Hawkin or the bodies of the three dead Mexican bandits. Except the buzzards. And maybe the Apaches.
If McCulloch didn’t hurry, the Apaches might find him, too. So he swung into the saddle, and using a lead rope to pull the horses of the Mexicans with him, he kicked his horse into a lope.
And rode toward Culpepper’s Station.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There had to be a better way to cross West Texas.
Gwen Stanhope sat, but far from still. The Concord stagecoach bounced this way and that, and swayed like a small boat in a strong gale. The potbellied man, who called himself Brant, had gotten sick—a common occurrence for passengers traveling on a stagecoach, as it tended to make many people feel seasick even a thousand or more miles from the ocean. He kept vomiting into his hat. The other passengers tried to give him room.
It was hotter than the Hades’ hottest hinges inside the coach. The men she traveled with stank, and the timid little man who kept his two hideous carpetbags close to him like they were his infant kids had demanded that the curtains be drawn. That did keep most of the dust out. On the other hand, it kept most of the wind out, too, and trapped the stink and heat inside.
Mr. Brant looked up, his face whiter than alkali dust, his pupils dilated, and his lips red. For a moment, Gwen thought he was going to pass out, but then he sucked in a gasp, and dropped his head into the awful-smelling hat.
“I paid how much money for this journey?” the newspaper editor said, sneering as he brought a handkerchief to his nose.
The man with the carpetbags turned away.
The traveler with the red beard, who had introduced himself as Timmons of Toledo, Ohio, sniggered at the fat man’s misery and dealt a jack up to Deputy Sheriff Glenn Reed.
Once Brant raised his head, he leaned back against the padded wall. “I feel awful,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Mister . . .” Gwen said, and she saw Reed’s eyes narrow. He ignored the jack he had been dealt, and stared hard at his prisoner.
Gwen raised her manacled hands off her lap and pointed a slim finger at the sick man. “Your hat is leaking.”
Reed looked at the hat, as did everyone else in the coach, before he turned back to his card and motioned for the red-bearded gent to hit him. They were playing blackjack without any betting, just to pass the time and take their minds and noses off the vomiting man.
“Oh, God,” said the newspaper editor. “For the love of human decency sir, dump that reeking waste outside.”
The sick man slid over toward the window.
“Don’t be a fool, Brant,” Timmons called out. “As fast as we’re going, that slime will fly right back into the coach. Spray us all with your sickness.”
“M-m-maybe,” stuttered the timid fellow who had introduced himself as Harold and Harry and Homer with a last name of Harrison, or Harris, or Henderson. He wasn’t the best liar Gwen had ever met. He might have been the worst, but only Gwen and the deputy seemed to notice. Or maybe everyone else just accepted the Western ways. If a man called himself Jim one minute and Joe the next, you never questioned him. You didn’t even ask a person’s name. If he told you, that was fine. And if he couldn’t quite pick the name he wanted to use, well, that was fine, too.
“M-m-ay-be . . . the . . . they . . .will . . . s-s-stop the c-c-c-coach,” the man said hopefully.
That caused the newspaperman to laugh. “They’ll stop for nothing that’s not on the schedule.”
“Damn right,” the deputy sheriff said, smiling as he flipped over his hole card after Timmons dealt him a nine. “We’ve got a hanging to make.” He tapped the cards. “Nineteen.”
Timmons grinned and showed his cards. “Push. I got one, too.”
“Good thing we’re not playing for money,” Glenn Reed said. “Else I might have to arrest you.”
Timmons gathered the cards and started shuffling. “Indeed.” He set the deck at his side after one shuffle and pointed to the curtain. “Brant, pull up the curtain, lean out the window. The fresh air will do you some good. And lower your hat and let gravity and physics do their duty.” He pointed at the timid man. “You. Latch hold to Brant’s suspenders. In case he starts to fall out. He’s sick, you know.”
The timid man straighte
ned and went rigid.
“Those bags you’re toting won’t be out of your sight, mister. You’re closest. Just do it. Before we have to ride all the way to El Paso with vomit on our boots and clothes.”
It was the newspaper editor who rose from his seat and drew up the curtain, securing it above the window. Sunlight bathed the coach, dust immediately drifted in, but the air rushing by felt cool. The editor fell back into his seat, the carpetbag-carrier left his grips on the floor, and slipped his right hand at the base of the Y-styled suspenders as Brant eased over, climbed onto his knees on the bench, and leaned out of the window.
Outside on the driver’s bench, the jehu named Petey cursed the team of mules and slapped his whip, while the guard named Rourke remained quiet—probably to keep from choking on the dust.
Timmons leaned forward and slapped the deputy’s leg, reached across the aisle and slapped the journalist’s thigh, hooked a thumb at the little man who had his eyes closed as he held the suspenders to the fat man, who hung out of the coach from his fat gut and above.
After winking at Gwen, the man with the red beard settled back into his seat, and laughed. “Amazing what you can get a fool to do.”
Alvin Griffin chortled, and the scared man’s eyes shot open. He looked hard at Timmons, whose grin widened.
Suddenly the timid man was jerked toward the window as Brant’s body seemed to go limp.
“Hell’s bells!” shouted the newspaper editor.
“Don’t drop him!” Gwen heard herself shout.
Glenn Reed stared, but did not move. It was the red-bearded man who stepped between the lawman and Gwen, and hurried the short distance. He grabbed the waistband of the fat drummer’s pants and began pulling. The small man, who released his hold on the suspenders, jumped back and found his carpetbags.
From above, Rourke’s shotgun roared.
“What the hell?” shouted the newspaper editor.
“Get this team movin’, Petey!” Rourke thundered, triggering another blast of buckshot.
Reed whipped out his pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and shoved the barrel near Gwen’s breasts. “If it’s your friends, you might not hang, but you’ll be dead sure enough.”
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