The Jackals

by William W. Johnstone

  “Thank you, Sir Theodore,” Gwen Stanhope said.

  Bowing, Sir Theodore straightened and sank into his chair. “That hurt my foot something god-awful,” he said, and began massaging his leg.

  “What were you thinking, Matt?” Keegan asked.

  The Ranger shrugged. “Just wondering how long it would take Breen to fix up armor for the horses.”

  “And the driver,” Sir Theodore pointed out.

  “I know what you mean, McCulloch,” Breen said. “But it’s not good. By the time I could get that armor pieced together, and then go out with you to round up the horses, we’d never get out of here in time. The Indians would be upon us. We’d be dead.”

  Keegan nodded. “Yeah. The one chance we have is to get running out of this place before daybreak. Those bucks might be real hesitant to come after us in the dark.”

  “Yeah,” McCulloch said. “There’s a fair to middling chance they wouldn’t even come after us.” He shook his head. “And there’s a fair to middling chance they will.”

  “Even money,” Gwen Stanhope said. She rose and moved to the door. “And we’re wasting time. Are you coming, Matt?” She looked at Keegan. “And, Sean, will you do us a big favor, darling, by getting that big stick out of those holders?”

  * * *

  McCulloch handed the blonde his hat. “Take it,” he whispered. “Your hair’s light. This’ll cover it. Apaches can see in the dark. Even in a new moon.”

  She pulled the hat tight over her hair. “I thought all the dirt and blood had already darkened my hair.”

  “And keep your mouth shut when we’re outside. Follow me.” He gave Breen and Keegan a grim nod, slipped through the crack, and moved quickly to Sir Theodore Cannon’s wagon.

  There he waited until Gwen Stanhope made it right beside him. Without speaking or acknowledging her, McCulloch hurried to the barn, and turned, watching the woman as she followed his every move. She pressed her back against the wall of the charred remnants of the barn. Her breasts heaved as she sucked in breath after breath, letting the air out of her lungs, but she was smart enough not to make any sound as she breathed. McCulloch had to give her that.

  The noise came from the cactus and rocks, and he instinctively slipped in front of her, shielding her body with his own, while raising his knife and clamping his free hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened. He could see that much of her. He would cut her throat if the Apaches jumped him, kill her quickly, prevent her from . . . he tried to block out what had happened to his wife. The musky scene hit him, and he relaxed, releasing his hold, and pushing his body away from hers.

  He almost laughed.

  Javelinas grunted as they wandered out of the cactus and into the yard. Likely, they would find the remaining parts of the Apaches that Breen’s bomb had blown to bits, and eat their fill.

  As the javelinas moved past them, McCulloch took Stanhope’s hand and pulled her behind him. They moved into the desert, maneuvering between rocks and cholla, creosote and yucca. Eventually, they reached a maze of rocks. McCulloch stopped and let Gwen Stanhope’s hand fall free.

  He could feel her, more than see her, as she rubbed the circulation in the hand he had clutched.

  “You can turn back,” he said, barely audible.

  “No,” she whispered, “but thanks for the offer.”

  “We’ll wait here.”

  “Not on my account.”

  His head shook. His finger waved a few times toward the corral and the cistern.

  She looked, saw nothing, but she dared not question Matt McCulloch, and when he moved that finger to his lips, she understood, and became mute.

  For an hour, they waited, sweating in the coolness of the desert night. Eventually they heard the Apaches as they grunted and spoke in that guttural language.

  Gwen Stanhope craned her neck. She could not see the Indians. She could hear them. And she cringed as she realized what must have excited those Indians so much.

  * * *

  The door squeaked like a rusty hatch opening in an ancient maritime vessel. Jed Breen figured the Apaches already knew where they were, so he helped Sir Theodore Cannon jerk the door open wider. As soon as the door was open, Breen hopped into the back and moved in the darkness until his boot slammed into something painful.

  He swore, reached down, and felt the rough metal. He clutched the iron and lifted it off the floor. “Christ a’mighty, that’s heavy.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sir Theodore Cannon said. “That would be the mail habergeon.”

  “The what?”

  “A shirt. Made of chain mail. Weighs thirteen and a half kilograms.”

  “Huh?”

  “Thirty pounds, my friend.” The actor leaned forward and lifted a heavy helmet with a visor. “My bascinet, complete with a mail aventail. It weighs ten pounds.”

  “Let’s get this stuff back inside,” Breen said.

  He and the actor staggered the few yards back to the porch and back inside the station. The visored helmet and the small shirt of chain mail were dropped onto the floor.

  Breen stared at the shirt, then at the actor. “You wore this?”

  “Not in thirty years, my good man.” The actor rubbed his ample stomach. “But years ago, I could play Romeo more often that I could play Falstaff.”

  Keegan shouldered the Springfield carbine. “You got more of that stuff ?”

  “Yes.”

  “For playacting to Shakespeare?”

  “No, Sergeant. Well, sometimes. The hayseeds in some towns thought armor was much manlier than robes. But usually, these were to bring publicity. Or to read Sir Malory and engage the patrons of some opera house with the tales of King Arthur. As you know, I even have armor for a horse. But that, my good man, will weigh ninety pounds.”

  “Griffin!” the sergeant snapped. “You wanted to be a hero. Come on. Lend a hand.”

  They brought in a jousting harness and a plate harness, more habergeons, arm and leg armor. They found the broadsword.

  “The tournament tin, as I like to call it, is much heavier than battle armor,” Sir Theodore Cannon explained while hauling in more metal. “But do not believe these myths that a knight cannot move. You will be free, for you are an agile man, Mr. Breen. You can do somersaults, handstands, and cartwheels.”

  “None of which I’ve done since I was ten, Sir Theodore.”

  “One more load, my good men,” Sir Theodore said. “Then we shall see what kind of medieval seamstress you are to rig this up to protect one driver and two horses.”

  Keegan pulled open the door, frowned, and peered into the blackness. Shrugging, he widened the crack, and Breen slipped out, followed by the limping actor. They had decided that Alvin Griffin was not needed to bring in the rest of the props and wardrobe. When Sir Theodore climbed into the wagon, the Apache who had sneaked close screamed and charged.

  The muzzle flash from Jed Breen’s Lightning blinded both the Indian and the actor. The .38 slug tore through the Indian’s shoulder, and down he went. Breen heard the shouts from the cistern and the corral and quickly jerked Cannon out of the wagon by his suspenders.

  “Inside,” he ordered.

  “But . . .”

  “Forget the rest,” Breen barked. Ducking as an Apache slashed at him with a tomahawk, the bounty hunter fell to the ground, rolled over, came up, and sprinted for the charging warriors.

  Breen snapped two shots, felt an arrow scratch his left arm, and the roar from Sean Keegan’s Springfield deafened him. He backed up, started to shoot, but decided to save his ammunition and hurried into the station. Keegan slammed the door shut, and Cannon and even the newspaperman managed to get the bar over the holders as more arrows pounded into the heavy door.

  “Let’s get back to Fort Hopeless,” Keegan said.

  The men hurried to the makeshift shelter and settled in as more arrows fired through the crosses. Some of the arrows were flaming, but most hit the rock walls, and none of the sparks managed to ignite any of the hard wood in the
building.

  That still caused Breen to cringe. “If those bucks fire up Cannon’s wagon, we’re cooked.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When the explosion of gunfire rocked the compound, Matt McCulloch did not say a word. He just grabbed Gwen Stanhope’s arm and pulled her behind him, not letting go until they had climbed the path—or what might have been a path, for ants—to the ridgetop. He kept running, his moccasins making little noise, and did not stop until they reached some ancient mesquite. “You all right?”

  She nodded.

  The din of battle quieted.

  “They’re attacking,” Gwen said, “at night.”

  He nodded. “Getting desperate. We get those horses, and get back to Fort Hopeless, we might have a chance after all.”

  Her heart pounded so rapidly, her chest hurt. She tried wetting her lips, but found no moisture in her mouth. She wiped the sweat off her brow and used that on her lips, instead.

  “I thought you moved at a snail’s crawl when you were around Apaches,” she said.

  He came to her, pulled her up, and started moving down the ridge. “I’m not one to tarry. Not when Apaches are trying to kill me.”

  They ran.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Keegan asked before filling his mouth with the last of his chewing tobacco.

  Breen stared at the horse’s armor. “Well, if McCulloch brings back an elephant, this chunk of tin might work.”

  “Yeah. It was a silly idea to begin with. Here’s what I’m thinking. When McCulloch and the woman come back with four horses, four of us ride away. Fast as we can.”

  “With the money, I presume!” the newspaperman shouted.

  “Of course. That goes to that widow in El Paso,” Keegan said.

  “Who’s the fourth?” Breen asked.

  “They can draw lots.”

  Breen smiled. “That’s a thought. But I’ve got a better one.”

  Keegan shifted the chaw to his other cheek. He saw Breen lifting the chain mail.

  “We throw this over the horse,” the bounty hunter said. “One of the horses, I mean.”

  “And an arrow or Apache lance guts the other horse. That puts a pretty quick and fatal stop to your getaway.”

  “I think, with a forge and some blacksmithing tools, I can get that horse’s armor cut down to size. It won’t be pretty. It might not even work.” He found himself grinning at the possibility. “Then again, it might.”

  Keegan spit, wiped his mouth, and turned in the darkness to find the journalist. “Griffin, get your hands off Mr. Henderson’s grips. And get a fire going in the fireplace. A big one.”

  “That’ll light up the entire room,” the editor protested.

  “If you don’t do what I said, I’ll light you up, bubba.”

  * * *

  Matt McCulloch released his hold on Gwen Stanhope. He needed both hands to guide his slide down the rough stones and into the slot canyon. The blonde came right behind him, landing harder on the old cactus and stones. She rubbed her buttocks as she somehow found a way to stand.

  He stared down at her.

  She asked as quietly as possible, “How much farther?”

  His thumb hooked toward the south. Or was it west? She had lost all sense of direction. “Not quite a quarter mile.”

  They weaved along the winding path, moving at a desperate pace, but McCulloch did not pull the blonde behind him. They moved fast, not together but almost like one, as if she could read his mind, or at least anticipate his moves. When he stopped and braced his back against the limestone wall, she stopped, too.

  A horse whinnied.

  McCulloch smiled, but something answered the horse.

  He brought the knife up as his face hardened. Turning toward Stanhope, he raised his free hand, motioned for her to stay still, and then moved quietly, like a mouse, but with a fierceness of a mountain lion. He came to the end of the canyon and slowly looked into the opening.

  * * *

  “Not that habergeon, my good man.” Sir Theodore Cannon picked the larger of the chain mail shirts. “And certainly not this.” He dragged the visored helmet down the hearth.

  “Sir Teddy.” Breen wiped his brow with his wadded-up shirt. “I’ll be needing that for one of the horses.” He had stripped down to the waist to work in the intense fire.

  That was another thing old Culpepper had figured out. The fireplace inside the station had to serve several functions. To keep folks warm. To cook food. And to serve any blacksmith for any situation.

  “You shall have to work on the horse’s armor,” the actor said, “and divide it so that it can fit over two horses, not just one big stud from the fifteenth century. You can use the other chain mail shirt.”

  “That’s for me, Sir Teddy.”

  “Nonsense, my fine, brave, young friend. You shan’t be driving.”

  Breen’s head shook. “I suppose you think you’ll be driving.”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  Having removed the hobbles from the horses that had once belonged to three Mexican bandits, the Apache buck had slipped a hackamore over the pinto, and began leading the horse away from the others, whispering what must have passed as soothing phrases to an Apache. Then the Indian swung onto the horse’s back, stopped the pinto, made it back up, turned the horse in a tight circle, and when he had it stopped, he let out a tremolo.

  That’s when Matt McCulloch stepped out of the canyon, leaped up, and drove the knife into the Indian’s side. They fell down. The pinto bolted, but stopped only fifteen yards away.

  Gurgling blood, the Indian rammed the palm of his right hand against McCulloch’s chin. The former Ranger’s neck popped backward, and he bit his lip. He figured the Indian would bleed out pretty quickly as deep as that knife had been pushed inside, and as much as he had twisted it, but the Indian brought the hand away from McCulloch’s jaw, and next slammed it hard into his sternum.

  He dropped onto his back, shook his head, cursed, and came up. The Apache tried to kick him, but McCulloch dropped the knife and caught the Apache’s moccasin with both hands. He twisted the foot savagely, heard the ankle snap, and shoved the Indian away. He landed in cactus and tried to stand up, but McCulloch had found the knife and had recovered his senses. He drilled his foot between the brave’s legs, then he slammed down quickly and rammed the knife into the Apache’s heart. Again, he twisted the blade, hard, relentlessly. He drew it out, cut the Indian’s throat, and then ran the blade across the dead warrior’s head. His left hand took hold of the slick, greasy hair, and he jerked.

  It sounded like a loud pop when he pulled the scalp free. He shoved the trophy into the dead Indian’s mouth and turned around to see an older Apache, drawing back a spear over his right shoulder and preparing to let it sail.

  The next thing McCulloch understood was that the spear was falling harmlessly maybe two feet in front of the Indian, who was collapsing onto his side.

  Gwen Stanhope emerged from the shadows and dropped the stone she had been holding, letting it land on the man’s groin. He did not flinch, or moan, or even move. Blood pooled beneath his crushed head. His eyes stared at the nothingness in the sky.

  The Ranger came up, staring at the gambler.

  She walked to him and held out both hands. “Let me help you up, Matt. Then we best get these horses saddled and ready.”

  * * *

  “It’s my wagon, Mr. Breen,” the actor said. “I must drive the wagon. Besides, you are not a driver.”

  “Sir Theodore,” Breen began.

  “Our female friend, that charming little concubine named Miss Stanhope, she made her closing argument, which convinced me like it would any American jury. So here’s mine. You have a Sharps Big Fifty. Am I correct?”

  “Sir Theodore . . .”

  “Am I correct, sir?”

  “Yes, Teddy, you are.”

  “Do you think the woman, Miss Stanhope, or our illustrious newspaper editor from Purgator
y City will be able to shoot that weapon with your accuracy?”

  “No. And I see where you’re trying to get to, Sir Teddy, but it’s not going to work.”

  “It’ll work well. Gwen Stanhope probably can’t shoot a Big Fifty. And we will need all our top guns to be armed with guns. Mr. Breen, you are a fine man, sir, and I have enjoyed this meeting with you—although, naturally, a meeting in much less stressful, deadly, and damned terrifying situations would have made things better. Whether you are riding in this coach, or on some horse Matt McCulloch has managed to procure for you . . . we will need, we must have if we are to survive—” Sir Theodore stopped speaking a moment then went on. “It is imperative that we are outfitted with men who can shoot, and shoot with all accuracy, at the vermin Indians who are trying to wipe us off the face of the earth.”

  Breen started to make his argument, but bit off his curse and his statement, and looked at Sean Keegan.

  “Don’t look over here for no help, Breen,” Keegan said. “I’m not a sergeant anymore. I don’t give nobody any orders.”

  “You’ve been barking orders since I got to Culpepper’s Station,” Breen said.

  “Yeah. But you know Sir Theodore’s orders make a hell of a lot of sense.”

  * * *

  Matt McCulloch saddled his buckskin and the Mexican’s horses and slipped a lasso over the roan. He secured the lead rope to the black’s halter and took the rope to the pinto, which Gwen Stanhope was saddling.

  “We’ll cut around to the north,” McCulloch told her. “It’ll take us too long to ride through that slot canyon, and once we come out, we’ll have no idea where any of the Indians are. And this is a hard country to get around at night, anyway.”

  She climbed into the saddle and pulled down the hat—McCulloch’s hat—low on her head.

  When McCulloch moved toward his buckskin, he heard the clicking of a hammer behind him. He turned to see Gwen Stanhope holding a small pistol with a fairly large barrel.