Then it would be time to celebrate. Slaughter had lived on the border long enough to adopt many of the Mexican customs, among them the idea that the chance for a party should never be wasted.
A white picket fence ran around the large compound that included the main ranch house, two bunkhouses, one with a kitchen attached where the meals for the crew were prepared, a chicken coop, and an ice house. An elevated water tank such as the ones found at water stops along the railroad stood to one side. Nearby, sparkling blue in the afternoon sunlight, was a water reservoir contained within a retaining wall built of rocks.
Here in southern Arizona, where summers were often hotter than the hinges of hell and moisture was a precious commodity, having plenty of water on hand was important. Luckily, the San Bernardino Valley got more rain than some areas and there were also artesian wells located on the ranch that helped keep the reservoir and the water tank filled.
In fact, the Slaughter Ranch was an oasis of sorts, and John Slaughter was justly proud of what he had built here. When his term as sheriff of Cochise County was up, he intended to hand the badge over to someone else and spend the rest of his days on this spread.
Viola led her husband and their guests to a flagstone patio at the side of the house. Tall cottonwoods cast cooling shade over the area. A servant came out a side door, and Viola told her to bring a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses.
The two couples sat, and Belinda Rubriz said, “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Slaughter.”
“Thank you,” Viola said, gracious as always, adding with a smile, “You should call me Viola, though. We don’t believe in a lot of formality around here.”
“So, Señor Slaughter,” Don Eduardo said, “is your brother-in-law correct? Do you have horses here on your ranch faster than El Halcón?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Slaughter said, letting a little of a Texas drawl creep into his voice. “I reckon Stonewall’s right about how we can find out.”
“And would you be interested in a small wager?”
Slaughter felt Viola’s eyes on him. She knew that gambling was one of his weaknesses. Sometimes she tried to rein in that particular tendency.
Now, though, when he glanced at her, he saw her head move a fraction of an inch in an encouraging nod. She didn’t believe in being reckless, but the honor of the Slaughter Ranch was at stake.
“Oh, I imagine we can work out something suitable,” he said.
He and Don Eduardo both smiled in anticipation.
The servant came back with the cool, tart lemonade, which never tasted better than on a hot afternoon like this. When Slaughter’s glass was full, he lifted it and said, “To good friends and good times.”
“A most excellent toast,” Don Eduardo said. “To good friends and good times.”
The afternoon couldn’t get much more pleasant, Slaughter mused as he swallowed some of the lemonade.
And that made a shiver go through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He was old enough to know that if a man ever let himself believe things couldn’t get any better, that was when all hell was liable to break loose.
Chapter 2
In the foothills of the Chiricahua Mountains northwest of the Slaughter Ranch, a man lowered the spyglass through which he had been peering. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation under the blue bandanna tied around his forehead to hold back the crudely cropped, shoulder-length black hair.
He was dressed in a blousy blue shirt, breechcloth, and high-topped boot moccasins. A strip of cloth dyed bright red was tied around his lean waist as a sash. He carried a knife tucked into that sash. A Winchester leaned against the rock by which he stood.
The man lifted his arm, pointed toward the southeast, and said in his native Apache, “There lies the ranch of the one called Slaughter. We will go there tonight and spill much blood.”
The fifteen warriors to whom he spoke erupted in yips and shouts of excitement. Several of them lifted their rifles above their heads and pumped the weapons up and down.
A few yards away, a white man stood watching with his hat tipped forward so that the brim shaded his face. Normally a white man who found himself in the company of sixteen bronco Apaches would be getting ready to fight or die. Probably both.
He’d be praying, too, either way, but this hombre’s lips didn’t move except to curve into a sardonic smile.
“You’re really gettin’ ’em worked up, Bodaway,” he said in English to the leader of the war party. The Apache had lived on a reservation and had even worked for a time as a scout for the cavalry, so he had no trouble speaking or understanding the white man’s tongue.
“You know I am called El Infierno,” the war chief said with a glare. “The Fires of Hell.”
“Sure, sure,” the white man said. “I’d forgotten how you hombres sometimes take Mex names.”
Ned Becker hadn’t forgotten at all. Calling El Infierno by the name he’d been given when he was born was Becker’s way of reminding the Apache that they had known each other since they were boys.
Indians had long memories, sure enough, but sometimes if their blood got hot enough, they conveniently “forgot” that they had promised not to kill a fella. Especially a bloodthirsty bunch like these renegade Mescaleros.
Becker went on, “I know the ranch is too far away for you to see it from here, even with that telescope, but my scouts report that Don Eduardo is there with his herd of crossbreeds. They’ll be celebratin’ tonight, you can take my word for that.”
“This man Slaughter is said to be a good fighter. He will have guards.”
“Sure he will,” Becker agreed. “But they’ll be thinkin’ about how they’re missin’ the barbecue and the wine and the dancin’, and they won’t be as alert as they ought to be. Your men should be able to slip past them.”
Bodaway gave the white man a cold look.
“My warriors are like spirits in the night,” he said. “No one will see them until they are ready to be seen.”
Becker nodded and said, “Fine. You hold up your end of the deal and I’ll hold up mine.”
They understood each other. Indians liked to bargain. Becker knew that. That and his old friendship with the war chief had made him bold enough to ride into Bodaway’s camp hidden in these rugged, isolated mountains when most men wouldn’t have dared do such a thing.
Ned Becker wasn’t most men, though, as those who had been unlucky enough to cross him had found out.
He was almost as dark as the Apaches, but black beard stubble covered his lantern jaw. His eyes under the pulled-down hat brim blazed with hatred. He kept those fires banked most of the time because he knew it was dangerous for a man to let his emotions get out of control.
But every now and then the flames inside him leaped up and threatened to consume him from the inside out if he didn’t cut loose. When he did, somebody usually died.
Becker figured if anybody ought to be known as The Fires of Hell, it was him. He wasn’t going to argue about it with Bodaway, though. The war chief was too useful to risk making him mad.
“Remember, hit ’em hard and fast,” Becker went on. “That’ll draw Slaughter’s crew and Don Eduardo’s men away from the herd. My men and I will take care of everything else.”
Bodaway’s lip curled slightly in disdain. To an Apache’s way of thinking, stealing more cattle than you could eat was a waste of time and effort. For that matter, they would rather steal horses, since a warrior could ride a horse—and they preferred the taste of horse meat to beef.
“You will deliver the rifles?” he said to Becker.
“In two weeks or less,” the outlaw promised. “Just as we agreed. Fifty brand-new Winchesters and a thousand rounds of ammunition for each.”
Bodaway nodded in solemn satisfaction. Offering him money wouldn’t have accomplished a damned thing, Becker knew. The Apaches didn’t have any use for it.
But the lure of rifles had been more than the war chief could resist. Only a few of Bo
daway’s men were armed with Winchesters. Most of the others carried single-shot Springfields taken from dead cavalrymen. A couple even had muzzle-loading flintlocks that had been handed down for generations after being stolen from fur trappers farther north.
Most of the Apaches were on reservations now, but isolated bands of renegades still hid out in the mountains. It was Bodaway’s dream to mold those groups into a band large enough to do some real damage to the cavalry and to the white settlements in the territory. With modern rifles to use as a lure, he might well succeed in bringing together all the bronco Apaches.
In the night, he probably thought about doing all the bloody things Cochise and Geronimo had never been able to accomplish. Becker knew what that was like.
He had a dream of his own.
His old friend Bodaway didn’t know anything about that, and there was no reason to tell him. As long as Bodaway and his men did what Becker needed them to do, that was the only thing that mattered. If they did . . .
If they did, then Becker’s long-sought vengeance would be right there in front of him where he could reach out and grasp it at last.
* * *
Evening settled down on the San Bernardino Valley, bringing some cooling breezes. Viola Slaughter loved this time of day. It gave her great peace and happiness to step out into the dusk and gaze up at the spectacular wash of red and gold and blue and purple in the sky as the sunset faded. Often she stood there drinking in the beauty of nature and listening to the faint sounds of the ranch’s activities winding down for the day.
Today wasn’t like that, however. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever, but the air was filled with the sound of preparations for the evening’s festivities.
Servant girls chattered as they brought plates and silverware from the house and set them on the tables under the cottonwoods. Cowboys and vaqueros called to each other and laughed from the great spit where a beef was roasting over a crackling fire. Fiddlers and guitar players tuned their instruments for the dancing later. Children from the families of the ranch hands ran around playing and shouting. Among them were some Indian youngsters. The peaceful Indian families in the area knew they were always welcome when the Slaughters had a party. Everyone was welcome, in fact. That was just the way it was on the Slaughter Ranch.
Viola’s husband came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her thick dark hair.
“I say, you’ve done a fine job with this fiesta, as usual,” John Slaughter told her.
Viola leaned back in the comfortable embrace of his arms and laughed.
“I haven’t done much of anything, John, and you know it. The people who work for us deserve all the credit.”
“Without your planning and supervision, there wouldn’t even be a party,” Slaughter said. “And you know that.”
She turned to face him and asked, “What do you think of Don Eduardo?”
“A fine fellow. Very straightforward.” Slaughter shrugged. “A bit arrogant, perhaps, but that’s common with these grandees. It’s the Spaniard in ’em, I suppose. Europeans have a weakness for the aristocracy.”
“What about his wife?”
“Doña Belinda? She’s all right, I suppose. We don’t really have anything in common with her, what with her being from back east and all.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m not sure I like her,” Viola said quietly.
“What?” Slaughter looked and sounded surprised. “I thought you liked everyone.”
“Not everybody,” Viola said, a little tartly now. “She’s pleasant enough, I suppose, but I’m not sure I trust her.”
“Well, luckily you don’t have to,” Slaughter pointed out. “Her husband seems trustworthy enough, and he’s the one I’m doing business with.” Slaughter stepped back, slipped his watch out of his vest pocket, and opened it to check the time. “In fact, I ought to get back inside. I’m supposed to meet Don Eduardo in my study and deliver the payment for those cows to him. Then we can get the fandango started.”
“All right, go ahead,” Viola said as she patted her husband’s arm. “I’ll see you when you’re finished.”
Slaughter nodded, put his watch away, and turned to stride back into the house with his usual vigor. He was not a man to do things in a lackadaisical manner, whether it was pursuing lawbreakers as sheriff, working with the hands here on the ranch, or making love to his beautiful young wife.
Viola checked with the servants to make sure the preparations were going as they were supposed to, then walked out to talk to the vaqueros and see that the meat would be ready. Assured that it would be, Viola started back toward the house.
Her route took her near the elevated water tank. She was surprised to see movement in the shadows underneath it. The area where the fiesta would be held was brightly lit by colorful lanterns hanging in the trees, but their glow didn’t really reach this far. Twilight had deepened until the gloom was nearly impenetrable in places.
Viola had keen eyes, though, and she knew it was unlikely that any of the servants or the ranch hands would be around the water tank right now. She gave in to curiosity and walked in that direction, moving with her usual quiet grace.
As she came closer she heard the soft murmur of voices, but she didn’t recognize them and couldn’t make out any of the words. She started to call out and ask who was there, but she stopped before she said anything.
Her natural caution had asserted itself. If whoever was lurking under the water tank had some sort of mischief in mind, it might not be wise to let them know she was there.
Instead she stuck to the shadows herself and slipped closer, and then stopped as she began to be able to understand what the two people were saying.
They spoke in Spanish, the man with a fluency that indicated it was his native tongue. The woman’s words were more halting as she tried to think of how to express what she wanted to say.
It was perfectly clear to Viola that they were lovers, and passionate ones at that. After a moment they both fell silent, and she assumed that was because they were kissing.
She had recognized the voices and understood the words as well. One of them belonged to Santiago Rubriz.
The woman was his stepmother, Dona Belinda.
Viola knew there had to be a reason she didn’t like or trust the blonde from Boston, she thought as she stood there in the darkness, her face warm with embarrassment from the secret she had unwittingly uncovered.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
William W. Johnstone is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over three hundred books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen: The Mountain Man, Preacher: The First Mountain Man, Flintlock, MacCallister and Will Tanner: Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Notes
1 Vengeance of the Mountain Man
2 Code of the Mountain Man
3 Code of the Mountain Man
4 Vengeance of the Mountain Man
5 Trail of the Mountain Man
6 Code of the Mountain Man
7 The Last Mountain Man
8 Trail of the Mountain Man
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 26
