Breen grinned and moved toward the tack. “I guess that means we’re riding out together . . . in Sir Theodore’s wagon. Let’s get the horses ready.”
Keegan and the woman followed, but when the actor started clanking his way toward the animals, the buckskin whinnied and the pinto backed away, heads lowering and ears flattening.
“You stay put, Cannon,” McCulloch said. “And you”—he pointed at the journalist—“keep your eye out. Let us know if the Apaches start something or even look like they’re about to start something.”
Frowning, Griffin pushed himself up, knocking the chair over. Apologizing, he stumbled toward the window.
The horses were stripped of saddles, blankets, and bridles, and the men began to strap on the rigging for the stagecoach, the regular harness, and Breen’s concoction of medieval chain mail and armor. When that was completed, they stared at the door. None wanted to venture outside into the uncertainty beyond the walls—and the certainty of death.
“How many rounds in the Winchester?” Keegan asked.
“It’s full,” said McCulloch, who had reloaded the carbine upon his return.
“You’ll have to cover us,” Keegan said.
“No.” Breen came over and took the .44-40 from McCulloch’s hand. With a shrug and a sigh, the bounty hunter said, “You’ve never seen me hitch a team. And you don’t want to. I’ll cover.” He turned to the window. “Hey, jackass.”
Alvin Griffin turned, frowning, but keeping his lips together.
“Come here.”
When the editor stood in front of the bounty hunter, Breen pulled his Lightning, spun the revolver on his finger, and lifted it, butt forward, to the journalist. “Take it. You’ll cover with me. It’s got six beans in the wheel, and you don’t have to cock it. Just squeeze the trigger.”
Griffin decided to make a speech. “You know we’ll all be killed.”
“Nobody lives forever,” the woman said.
“Let’s go,” Keegan said.
The horses protested, and that’s what gave Jed Breen the idea.
“Mr. Cannon. Sir Theodore. How would you like to open this play with a scene that will steal the show?”
* * *
“‘But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.’” Sir Theodore Cannon, visor pushed up on his gleaming helmet, began Romeo’s soliloquy as soon as Keegan pulled open the door. He clanged his way onto the porch, through the wreckage of the stagecoach, and about ten yards into the yard.
“‘Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:”
With the Winchester cocked, Jed Breen was out a moment later. He squatted beside a wooden column when the first arrow flew out of the desert and clanged against Sir Theodore’s chest. The arrow bounced off. So did the second shot, which hit Sir Theodore’s gleaming side. The actor never broke his stride or cadence.
“Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.”
It worked. Breen wasn’t sure how long it might go on, but for the moment, the Apaches were talking in excited, fearful voices as the man in the suit of armor walked this way and that, singing the praises of sweet Juliet, while McCulloch, Keegan, and Gwen Stanhope brought the horses out toward the tongue.
Breen felt Alvin Griffin standing behind him. He heard the revolver’s hammer being pulled back.
“I told you that you don’t have to cock that piece, Griffin,” Breen said tightly. “And if you’re thinking about putting a bullet in my back, you damn sure better kill me.”
The editor said nothing.
“Just watch,” Breen whispered. “This might work. At least till we get that team hitched.”
The horses were being backed into position. McCulloch and Keegan started working furiously. “Get the guns out of the station,” Keegan told Stanhope.
“And the canteens,” McCulloch added.
“And the carpetbags!” Breen called out.
An Apache came out of the brush, nocked an arrow, and let it fly toward Sir Theodore. It slammed against the side of the helmet, and the shaft shattered.
“‘See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! ’” Sir Theodore called out and turned to face the Apache. “‘O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!’”
The Indian fitted his bow with another arrow, but he aimed it at Breen.
“Mercy!” the editor said in a trembling voice.
“Don’t shoot,” Breen warned him. “That’ll break the trance Sir Theo’s got them in.”
The arrow sliced through the air and lodged in the pole a few inches from Breen’s head. The bounty hunter’s nerve held. He kept his finger light on the trigger.
On the other hand, Alvin Griffin’s nerves left him. He didn’t fire. He just turned and ran.
Breen shot him a glance and saw him knock Gwen Stanhope down as she came out of the station. Having already managed to put the canteens in the coach, she was carrying the late Harry Henderson’s grips. Griffin stopped, looked at her as she tried to stand. Reaching down, he grabbed one of the carpetbags with his free hand and clumsily raced toward the coach. He was climbing into the box when Keegan jerked him down.
The editor landed in the dust with a thud and a groan, but he pushed himself partly off the ground and lifted the cocked .38.
Keegan’s boot kicked the newspaperman’s arm, and the gun roared. The horses jumped, but McCulloch was already in the box pulling the lines tight. The coach, its brake set, dragged a few feet.
The Apaches started yelling furiously. Arrows thudded the wall. Breen shot twice from the Winchester, and yelled, “Curtain’s closing, Theodore! Get in the coach!”
The actor bowed, another arrow bounced off his suit, and he ran noisily and unsteadily, favoring his mangled foot, toward the coach. Breen snapped another shot, jacked a fresh round into the rifle, and ran to Stanhope. Kneeling, he jerked her to her feet and shoved her after Sir Theodore Cannon. An arrow grazed Breen’s side. Keegan shot twice from the Lightning he had picked up and helped shove Cannon into the back, helped Breen and Gwen inside, and then he climbed into the box beside McCulloch, who was releasing the brake. An arrow went through Keegan’s left arm, between his elbow and wrist, and he groaned, but popped the revolver until it clicked empty. He settled into the seat, dropped the smoking, empty Colt by his feet, and hoisted the Springfield.
The wagon was moving. Alvin J. Griffin IV was up and leaping into the doorway, not inside yet, as the coach started turning around the building. The newspaperman screamed but held tight, his hands clutching the side, the door banging against him, flying back, then hitting him again.
The wagon turned sharply. The Apaches came out of the rocks and cactus in full force. Arrows flew. The newspaperman screamed even louder.
Jed Breen rolled over, looked up, and found Griffin starting to make his way into the back of the wagon. The bounty hunter rolled back, lifted his legs, and kicked forward. The boots caught the editor in his thighs. His hands slipped, and he toppled from the back of the wagon into the dust.
“Nooooo!” he yelled.
Breen came up, looked to the woman, and fired the Winchester through the dust. Two shots. Then he told himself not to waste lead.
Stanhope took Keegan’s revolver, aimed, but did not fire as she sidled up beside the bounty hunter.
“Nothing to say?” Breen asked as he picked up the Lightning, reached into his pocket, and began filling the chamber with the last of his .38-caliber cartridges.
Her head shook. “I know why you did it. He was no good.”
“That’s not why I did it,” Breen said. “I figured it would give the Apaches something to do. Give us a little time. Till they decided to finish us off.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Move, hor
ses, move, damn you!” Matt McCulloch desperately worked the reins. He glanced to one side, hoping to find a blacksnake whip, but saw nothing.
Keegan’s Springfield roared, and he dropped back, opened the breech, and shoved in another .45-70 cartridge.
“This isn’t what we planned!” McCulloch yelled. “Cannon’s supposed to be up here. The armor was supposed to protect him!”
“Yeah.” Keegan came up, aimed, fired again, and dropped back down to reload again. “Well, what the hell do you want us to do? Stop. Let that demented old fool come up here to spell you!”
“Shut up. Just keep those Indians off my back.”
“Our backs, pal.” Leaning the Springfield between himself and the former Texas Ranger, Keegan broke off the bloodied point of the arrow, threw it away, and grabbed the shaft below the feathers.
“You want help?” McCulloch asked.
“Just drive,” Keegan said. “I’ve had practice at this sort of thing!” He set his jaw and yanked the arrow out, fell back against the seat, spit, looked at the bloody wood, and tossed it into the dust, too. He untied his neckerchief, wrapped it around the bloody holes in his blouse and arm, and used his teeth to help tie off the makeshift bandage.
“You gonna be all right?” McCulloch bellowed.
“Till they kill me.” Keegan rose again, braced his elbow on the top of the wagon, and aimed, but did not fire. “Griffin didn’t make it!” he yelled.
“I can’t say I’ll miss the prairie rat!”
“But he’s doing his part for us. Aw, hell.” The Springfield roared, and Keegan dropped back. He pulled the cartridge from the carbine and flung it at the pinto’s rear. “Move, hoss, move!”
“What was that ‘Aw, hell’ for?” McCulloch worked the reins harder. “Come on, hosses. You can run harder than that!” He looked at Keegan, who was drawing back the hammer.
“An Apache ended the fun the youngsters were having. Put a bullet into Griffin. Blew the top of his head off.”
McCulloch’s jaw tightened. He turned back and screamed harder at the two horses. The wagon hit a hole, bounced on two wheels, but dropped back onto all four. “Maybe Holy Shirt can talk his bucks out of using any more firearms!” he shouted over the squeaking of the wagon and the jarring noise from the hooves.
Keegan stayed seated for the moment. His head shook. “That ain’t likely, Matt. That Indian with the rifle. He had silver hair.”
“Damn,” McCulloch said. “Old Holy Shirt?”
Keegan nodded. “I guess the old man’s abandoned his religion.”
“Then he can go to Hell.”
Keegan stood. “He probably will. After he’s sent us there.”
* * *
“Lot of dust,” Galloway said from the top of the mesa. “Lot of gunshots, too.”
Jake Hawkin drank a swallow from the canteen and nodded. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “You still got that spyglass?”
“Yeah.”
“Fetch it.”
When the gunman handed the long brass telescope to his boss, Hawkin rose, extended the scope, and sighted on the road that ran out of the hills surrounding Culpepper’s Station.
“You see anything?” Galloway asked.
“No. They’re still in the hills. Wait. Wait.” He leaned forward. “Wagon. Riding hell-bent-for-leather. About a half-dozen Apaches coming after them.”
“Maybe Henderson’s still on that stagecoach,” Galloway said.
Hawkin shook his head and pushed the brass scope together.
“That’s the hell of it, Galloway.” He pointed the telescope at the dust. “That ain’t no stagecoach them bucks are chasing.”
* * *
They were out of the hills and the canyon, moving into open country, surrounded by mesas and buttes. The road stretched on, but riding across it felt like driving over a busted washboard. The wagon bounced this way and that. The Apaches spread out.
Stretched out on his belly, Breen aimed the Sharps. The door slammed shut, and he cursed, then the door bounced open. It closed again, but a bullet punched a hole through the wood. The door came open.
“Shoot!” Gwen Stanhope yelled.
“At what?” Breen barked back. “I can’t see a thing but dust, and I don’t have more than six bullets left for this baby.”
Lying on his back, Sir Theodore Cannon began reciting the entire play of Tom Taylor’s Our American Cousin, adjusting his voice to fit all of the characters.
Breen shook his head, watched the door keep banging open and shut, and muttered under his breath. “The last play Lincoln saw, the last play Jed Breen ever heard. Who would have thought? What are the odds?”
* * *
“Gunfire,” Mr. Red said. Riding point, he pulled his horse to a stop.
Mr. Black pulled up alongside him. “Dust, too.”
“Excellent,” Charles Van Patten said. “We can let them ride straight to us.”
“The way they’re moving,” Mr. Blue said, “they’ll ride right over us.”
“You’re being well paid,” Charles Van Patten reminded him.
“And we know our business,” Mr. Red said.
“You don’t let a man come to you,” Mr. Black said.
“You ride to the sound of the guns,” Mr. Blue said.
The three killers spurred their horses into a lope. Charles Van Patten swore under his breath and kicked his mount to follow.
* * *
The Springfield boomed, and Keegan sank back to reload.
“How far behind are they?” McCulloch yelled.
“Not spitting distance.” Keegan’s left hand was stained with blood, which dripped off his fingers onto the cartridge as he shoved it into the breech. “But getting mighty close.”
McCulloch couldn’t figure out how the soldier could still stand and shoot. He cursed again and whipped the reins—and had to drop them or be pulled off the coach.
Releasing his hold on his carbine, Keegan leaned over and grabbed the waistband of McCulloch’s trousers and pulled him back into the seat. Keegan fell into the box and pushed himself up. His left arm gave way, and he fell back, cursed, and let McCulloch help him up.
“Thanks,” both men said at the same time.
Keegan shook his head and watched the team of horses ride away, sunlight bouncing off the metal armor that covered as much of them as possible. The lines and part of the tongue were dragging behind them.
“What the hell happened?” Keegan asked.
McCulloch shook his head. “With this old relic of an ambulance, it’s a miracle we got this far before it started to fall apart.”
Keegan pointed. “Should we use the brake?”
“And let Holy Shirt’s boys catch us?”
“They’ll catch us sooner or later.”
“I’d rather die in a wagon wreck than be tortured by Apaches.” The Ranger helped Keegan onto the bench beside him. “Here.” He untied the neckerchief, adjusted it, and retied it over the arrow wound in the sergeant’s arm. “Before you bleed to death.” He pulled it tight, and made the knot hard. “It didn’t hit an artery,” McCulloch said, shaking his head.
“Lucky me.”
“Revolver?” McCulloch asked.
Keegan tilted his head toward the wagon. “Gave mine to the girl.”
“I hope she knows what to do with the last bullet,” McCulloch said as he drew his Colt revolver and eared back the hammer.
“Yeah. And puts it through Holy Shirt’s brisket.”
The horses, despite being handicapped by the tongue and rigging, began pulling away from the wagon.
Keegan turned his head to keep the dust out of his eyes. The wagon bounced hard, and McCulloch grabbed the soldier’s left shoulder, and pulled him back onto the bench.
They stared ahead, and then looked at one another.
“Aw, hell,” both men whispered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“What the hell is McCulloch doing?” Jed Breen said when the door open
ed.
Gwen Stanhope screamed as the wagon tilted on two wheels, bounced, and rolled her to one side.
Perhaps only the weight of Sir Theodore Cannon’s suit of armor kept the wagon from overturning.
“We’re off the damned road!” Breen shouted.
The door slammed again, and when it opened, ever so briefly, Breen saw the cactus and the Indians. They were close enough that he could hear them, and because the wagon was slowing, the dust had become minimal. He swore, brought up the Sharps, and was about to pull the trigger when the door slammed again.
“Hang on! McCulloch yelled toward the back of the wagon. He gripped the bottom of the seat as the runaway coach rocked left and right, bounced up, came down, and turned so that it was moving straight for a mound of rocks.
“Jump!” he yelled. “Get out! We’re going to crash!” He leaped off one side, and Keegan hurtled himself off the other. They landed, bounced up as fast as they could manage, and checked their guns to make sure nothing had been fouled by sand. Keegan swung the Springfield up to his hip. He had no time to aim, so he just squeezed the trigger. The round caught a galloping horse in the middle, and the horse fell hard, throwing its rider in nothing but a breechcloth into the dirt and taking out the two horses galloping behind it.
“Come on!” McCulloch yelled. He aimed the .44-40 in his hand, but held his fire.
Keegan rose, stumbled, and they ran after the wagon.
The door opened, and Breen saw two men racing after the wagon. He almost shot one with his Big Fifty before he recognized the figure as Matt McCulloch. “What the hell?” Then he understood.
“Hell.” Breen came to his knees, grabbed Gwen Stanhope’s arm and yelled, “Brace yourself, Sir Theo. We’re about to crash.” The door slammed shut and immediately bounced open. “Grab that repeater!” He shouted at Stanhope, and as soon as she had the barrel in her hands, Breen leaped out of the opening, his shoulder slamming against the door as it swung shut.
They hit the ground. Cactus spines raked his right arm and his cheek. He lifted his head, spitting out dirt and tasting blood, and heard the slamming of wood against immoveable rock.
The Jackals Page 26
