Ben Tolson moved out of town to a small cabin and bided his time. He knew sooner or later Murdock would make a mistake, and he planned to be there to help the town pick up the pieces.
* * *
Colonel Emilio Vasquez stood quietly just inside the tree line, staring at the pasture before him. A small herd of cattle moved slowly in moonlight, munching grass while their calves bleated loudly, demanding milk. Vasquez earned his nickname, El Machete, by his habit of hacking peóns and campesinos to death with a long, razor-sharp, broad-bladed knife. Jacob Murdock’s offer of triple wages for men who weren’t afraid to do a little killing was tailor made for him and his group of twenty-five of some of the worst killers in Mexico.
When Vasquez and his men had reined up in front of Murdock’s ranch house, he hired them on the spot. While in Texas, Murdock often heard tales of El Machete and knew he was just the kind of cold-blooded killer he needed to build his empire in Colorado.
Over tequila and cigars in his study, Murdock told Vasquez he would make him rich so long as he obeyed the rancher without question.
Vasquez’s lips curled in an evil grin. “I love this country. Where else can un hombre get mucho dinero for doing what he love—killing gringos!”
Now Vasquez was about to earn his money. Jonah Williams, the rancher who owned the cattle Vasquez was observing, had complained to Sheriff Ben Tolson before he lost the election that a number of his calves were missing, and he thought they were on Murdock’s spread. When Jacob Murdock’s brother was installed as sheriff, Williams let it be known he was going to ask for U.S. marshals to investigate his charges.
Murdock gave Vasquez the job of changing Williams’s mind any way he could.
Vasquez squinted, seeing a lone rider approaching the herd from the direction of Williams’s ranch house, barely visible in the distance. He knew Williams had a habit of checking his cattle every night before he went to bed. He walked back into the trees and grabbed his horse’s reins from his second-in-command, Sergeant Juan Garcia. The sergeant was every bit as vicious and cruel as Vasquez, though not nearly as intelligent.
As he stepped into his saddle, Vasquez grunted, “Listo?”
“Sí mi capitan, ”Garcia replied with a grin. “The gringo will sleep well tonight, eh?”
Vasquez tilted his head back to gaze at the moon and stars shining brilliantly in a cold, clear sky. “Sí Juanito. It is un grand noche for dying, is it not?”
The two bandidos laughed as they walked their horses out of the trees and toward the beeves in the valley. When they were about fifty yards from the cattle, Vasquez and Garcia dismounted. Vasquez reached up and adjusted the scabbard he had slung across his shoulder with a rawhide strap. The scabbard was positioned so the handle of the machete it held was sticking up behind his neck, within easy reach.
Jonah Williams saw the two riders and veered his mount toward them, pulling his Winchester from its saddle boot and earing back its hammer. When he rode up, Garcia was bent over with his horse’s leg pulled up, peering at its hoof.
“What’re you two men doin’ on my spread?” he called, leveling the rifle at them.
Vasquez grinned, his yellow-stained teeth gleaming in the moonlight as he spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Buenos noches, señor. My compadre’s horse, she pulled up lame.” “
Williams walked his bronc closer until he was in front of Vasquez. “That don’t answer my question, does it? Now, you gents keep them hands where I can see ’em and tell me what you’re doin’ out here in the middle of the night.”
Vasquez raised his hands until they were next to his head. He continued to grin, watching Williams’s eyes as Garcia straightened and began to turn. When Williams’s eyes flicked to the side to watch Garcia and his rifle barrel turned toward him, Vasquez grabbed the handle of his machete and drew it in one lightning-quick movement. The three-foot-long blade sparkled and reflected the moon as it whistled down, severing Williams’s right arm just below his elbow.
Williams screamed and dropped his rifle, grabbing at his bloody stump with his left hand. Vasquez swung backhanded, catching Williams on the side of his head with the blunt edge of the machete, knocking him sideways off his mount.
While Williams lay on the ground, semiconscious, blood pumping out of his ruined arm, Vasquez and Garcia jumped into their saddles and rode in a circle to a far side of the herd. Once there, they drew their pistols and began firing into the air and yelling, sending frightened animals stampeding over the dying rancher, trampling him to death.
The killers wheeled their horses and trotted off toward Murdock’s ranch. Vasquez laughed. “Like I said, compadre, it’s a good night for dying.”
* * *
Murdock was in his study, smoking a cigar and sipping bourbon while going over his books, when the door opened and Vasquez swaggered in.
Murdock frowned as he looked up, his hand wrapped around the butt of a Colt in his desk drawer. “Don’t you know to knock before entering a man’s home, Vasquez?”
Vasquez grinned insolently and spread his hands wide as he gave a small bow. “Pardon, señsor, I meant no offense.”
Murdock’s nose wrinkled. The man smelled as if he had drunk an entire bottle of tequila. “Well, what do you have to report?”
Vasquez plucked a cigar out of the humidor on Murdock’s desk, bit an end off, and spit it on the floor before lighting it with a lucifer he struck on his front tooth. “Señor Williams will not be here to look for his calves. The poor hombre fell off his horse in front of his cattle and they ran over him. I think he be plenty dead.”
Murdock nodded, a slow smile creasing his face. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He puffed his cigar and watched smoke spiral toward the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair and put his boots on his desk. “I hope our new sheriff doesn’t try to arrest you for this killing,” Murdock said with a wide grin.
Vasquez chuckled. “Maybe you could put in word for me?”
“Oh, I think Sam has more important things on his mind than investigating the accidental death of a small rancher.” He stroked his chin. “I wonder if the widow Williams will want to sell the ranch now that her husband’s deceased?”
Vasquez’s eyes narrowed. “You want to buy his cattle?”
Murdock shrugged. “At the right price, of course.” He pointed his stogie at Vasquez. “I want you to ride into town and have Sam and his men spread the word that it would be ... unhealthy for anyone else to make a bid on Williams’s place.”
Vasquez grinned as he picked up Murdock’s bottle of bourbon and drank from it. “Sí, I tell Sam to make the other gringos understand.”
Chapter 7
Joey recuperated at Smoke’s ranch for thirteen days. Dr. Spalding removed his stitches on the eleventh day, stating he had never seen a man heal so quickly.
Joey told him, “Doc, this ol’ body’s had plenty practice healin’ itself from bullet holes. It ought ta know how by now.”
The last two days, Smoke and Joey had been hunting turkey and pheasant and relaxing before taking off for Pueblo and Jacob Murdock. As they walked a field, carrying twenty-gauge American Arms shotguns loaded with bird shot over their shoulders, Smoke asked, “Tell me about how you finally got to Sutter, Joey. After almost two years of you killing every other Redleg in the country, he must have known you were coming after him.”
Joey smiled. “Oh, that he did, Smoke. The coward never went anywhere without his squad of guards with him. He always rode with seven men, seasoned killers every one, when he was out huntin’ me.”
“Where did the final showdown take place?”
“Just south of San Antonio, Texas. I’d gone to Texas to let the heat die down, and to heal up some minor wounds I’d suffered in my last fracas. I spent a week in San Antone”—he cut his eyes at Smoke and smiled—“some mighty pretty señoritas, ’specially to a man who’s been on the run fer almost two year.”
Just then they flushed a covey of pheasant and both men leveled their shotgu
ns and fired in the blink of an eye. Three birds fell to the ground, while one flew off in a circle, one leg hanging down.
“You got yours, I missed one of mine,” Smoke said.
Joey shrugged. “It’s a might easier when they don’t shoot back, ain’t it?”
As Smoke chuckled and nodded, Joey continued with his story. “I guess I must’ve pissed off someone in town, or they heard about the money on my head. Anyway, some lowlife wired Sutter an’ his men I was in San Antonio and they came bustin’ on down to do me in.” He bent to pick up his birds and put them in the burlap sack he had tied to his belt. “I was sleepin’ in the hotel when I heard boots on the stairs.” He smiled at Smoke. “Them guards was mean, but they wasn’t too bright. Didn’t bother to take his shoes off to try an’ sneak up on me. If’n he had, I’d be forked end up now.”
He pulled a plug of Bull Durham out and sliced off a chunk, biting it off his knife as he cut it. After he chewed for a moment, he continued. “One thing ya learn on the owl hoot trail when yore bein’ hunted is ta always sleep ready fer action. I had my boots an’ guns on in about two seconds an’ was halfway out the window when he kicked in my door. He wasted two bullets shootin’ the señorita, who was screamin’ an’ hollerin’ to beat the band, and I put a .44 slug in his left eye. I guess the sight o’ blood an’ brains blowing out the back of his head discouraged the two with him, fer they hightailed it back down the stairs.”
He spit and sleeved a dribble off his chin with the back of his arm. “Sutter an’ the others was waitin’ fer me on the street below, an’ there didn’t appear to be a surplus o’ options fer me at that point.”
“What did you do?”
“I went right back in the window, lit a lantern, and set the hotel on fire, then I went out in the hall and started screamin’ and hollerin’ fire as loud as I could.” He grinned as he spit again. “Hell, ya shoulda seen it, Smoke. Naked women an’ gents dressed only in their boots an’ hats all scramblin’ down those stairs and climbin’ out o’ windows and such, it was a sight ta see. When the smoke got heavy enough, I just joined in the crowd o’ people and slid out right under Sutter an’ his men’s noses, keepin’ my head down an’ my hands filled with iron just in case.”
“Then what?”
“I got Red an’ shagged on out of town fer a mile or two an’ made a cold camp.”
“Weren’t you afraid they would try and follow you?”
He shook his head. “Naw. They’d had ta ride day an’ night ta catch me in town, an’ I knowed they was dead tired. ’Sides, they didn’t have no idea which way I went when I left town.”
“I see, so you knew you had some time before they would get on your trail.”
“Yep, but the next thing is the best. What’s the first thing a man’s gonna do after weeks o’ ridin’ the trail when he gets to a decent-sized town?”
“Only three things I know of. Get some good food, get some whiskey or a woman, and take a bath.”
Joey nodded. “An’ if’n ya been ridin’ hard fer three or four days, ya gonna want ta git the bath first, so ya can enjoy the other two later.”
Smoke smiled. “You didn’t . . .”
“Yeah, I did. I caught ’em in a bathhouse, with more than their pants down. I killed the first three with my Arkansas Toothpick so there wouldn’t be any noise ta alert the others. Slit their throats an’ just let’em sink down in the water.” He grinned. “Probably set that bathhouse man’s business back when word got around what had happened. Anyway, the other four guards was in the next room, all soakin’ an’ smokin’ an’ braggin’ about how they was gonna git the prettiest woman. Sutter, being the leader, had gone first and was up in his room shaving by then.
“I stepped into the room, hands hangin’ down, fingers flexin’ like they do when ya know yore gonna have ta draw, an’ them fellows’ eyes just about popped outta their heads.” He cut his eyes at Smoke again. “If’n they’d been anybody else ’sides Redlegs, I’d of given ’em a chance. As it was, while they was scramblin’ to git outta the tubs and grab they guns, I just filled my hands and began to blast away. They was all dead, all seven of ’em without gittin’ off a single shot.
“I punched out my empties, reloaded my Colts, an’ went out in the street below Sutter’s window. I knew he’d heard the shots and knew I was back, so I yelled up at him and told him ta come on out if’n he wasn’t no coward.”
“The sheriff or his deputies give you any problems?”
Joey’s teeth gleamed in the Colorado sunshine. “Not when I tole ’em who I was and who I was fixin’ ta kill. Them Texicans are good ol’ boys, an’ they had a soft spot in they hearts fer us gray-bellies.”
“Did Sutter come out?”
“Not at first, but finally when he saw there wasn’t no other way, he came on out in the street. We faced each other and I asked him where Colonel Waters was, him bein’ the only other Redleg I hadn’t already kilt. He said the dirty yellow coward had run off back east, said he was tired of war and fightin’ an’ such. I looked him in the eye an’ tole him his commanding officer was a back-shootin’ coward, just like Sutter and all his men were.
“Well, that did it. There were too many people standin’ around watchin’ fer him to take that and not respond. When his hand twitched toward his holster, I drew and shot him in the stomach, doubling him over and curlin’ him up.”
Smoke and Joey walked another twenty yards before Joey added, “I was sure sorry it took him only two days to die.” He looked at Smoke. “I wanted him to last at least four, like Collin did.”
They flushed another two coveys of pheasant, and Smoke brought down a large tom turkey. Figuring they had plenty for dinner, they took their burlap sacks back to the ranch house. Joey and Smoke were out behind the bunkhouse, cleaning their birds, when Monte Carson rode up, his horse lathered as if he had galloped the entire way.
Smoke waved a bloody hand covered with feathers at the sheriff. “Hey, Monte. Park your horse and stay for dinner. Sally’s going to fix fried turkey and pheasant.”
Monte jumped to the ground, breathing hard. “I got some news you two might want to hear.”
“Oh?” Smoke asked. “Does it concern Jacob Murdock?”
“Yeah.” Monte sleeved sweat off his forehead. “You think Sally might have some coffee made?” He reached back and rubbed his butt with both hands. “Either I been too long at a desk job, or they’re making saddles harder than they used to!”
Smoke and Joey grinned as they washed their hands in a rain barrel. “Or maybe you’re just getting old, Monte,” Smoke said as he clapped the sheriff on the back and led the men toward his porch.
Sally came out and gave Monte a brief hug. “Good morning, Monte. We don’t get to see you out here often enough. Would you like some breakfast or coffee?”
“Just coffee, please, Sally.” He patted his ample paunch. “I’ve got to cut back on the vittles or get a bigger horse.”
Sally smiled as she took the birds Smoke and Joey had cleaned and went into the cabin. A few minutes later she reappeared with three mugs and a steaming pot of coffee. After the men were settled in their chairs with mugs in their hands, she placed a platter covered with fresh biscuits next to them, along with jars of butter and jam. “I’ll leave you men to your talk while I cook those birds for lunch.” She looked inquiringly at Monte. “Will you be able to stay, Monte?”
He licked his lips. “For a taste of your fried pheasant and turkey? Of course!”
After she left, Smoke spoke around a mouthful of biscuit. “What have you heard about Murdock, Monte?”
Joey looked up from smearing butter on his bread, interested in what was coming.
“Well, I wired Ben Tolson a couple of days ago and asked him to keep me informed of any goings-on at the Lazy M.”
“Ya tell him why ya wanted to know?” drawled Joey.
Monte grinned. “My mama raised only one fool, an’ that was my brother Billy.”
After Smoke and Joey
chuckled, he continued. “I got a wire back from Tolson this morning, bright and early.”
“What’s the news, sheriff?” Smoke asked.
“Seems a week or so after the sheriff’s election, a rancher named Williams said he was going to ask U.S. marshals to investigate Murdock’s operation. He claimed Murdock was rustling his calves.”
Joey nodded, eyes squinted in concentration as he listened. “That don’t surprise me none. Any man who’d hire the likes o’ Vasquez an’ his gang wouldn’t be above stealin’ another man’s beeves.”
“Uh-huh,” Smoke said. “And that’s probably not all he’s got in mind, or he wouldn’t need that many gunnies on his payroll.”
Monte added, “Williams’s wife brought his body into town two days ago in a buckboard. Said he got killed the night before in a stampede out at his ranch.”
Smoke frowned. “Well, that happens. Is there anything to tie Murdock or his men to the killing?”
“Yeah, his wife couldn’t explain how her husband managed to get his right arm chopped off clean at the elbow.”
Joey’s face hardened as he whispered, “El Machete.”
Smoke and Monte stared at him. “El Machete?” Monte asked. “What’s that?”
Joey explained to them that the leader of the Rurales who rode against him, Vasquez, was known to use a machete, and that he was a vicious killer who enjoyed hacking men to death, especially gringos.
“What’s the new sheriff going to do about it?” Smoke asked.
Monte shrugged. “What do you think? There weren’t any witnesses, and Murdock has twenty men who’ll swear he never left his ranch that night.”
“That figgers,” Joey said. “Murdock don’t sound like a man who’d do his own dirty work.”
“That’s not all. Tolson says Williams’s wife has put her spread up for sale. She’s going to go back east as soon as the funeral’s over.”
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 8
