Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  The braves cheered and shook their rifles overhead. Their shrill war cries echoed long into the night.

  "Now do you understand, Clarence?" Kate asked.

  "Quite." He swallowed hard. This band of American natives was indeed a vengeful lot. "I did not realize. Should we not have…?" He shook his head. "They would have killed us, had we not defended ourselves."

  She nodded grimly. "Yeah."

  "Don't feel bad about it, Englishter." Buck sat in a dark corner of the front room, as far away from Silas as possible, and cleaned one of the fallen braves' Winchesters. He didn't seem as scared of the old timer now with some additional company, but he still kept his distance. "There's gonna be plenty more dead Injuns before the night's through." He chuckled, checking the sight on the long rifle. "I expect to bag half a dozen myself!"

  "If they don't get you first," Clarence retorted, unamused.

  Kate touched his arm. "You scared, Clarence?" she asked softly.

  He glanced over at Buck—totally engrossed in his work—before he whispered, "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, Kate."

  She squeezed his arm. "Me too."

  A sharp knock sounded at the front door. Everyone froze.

  "Who could that be?" Buck hissed. "Ain't like no redskin to knock." He set down the Winchester and drew his Bowie knife.

  "Well, it ain't Abigail!" Silas said brightly, his voice loud and shrill in the dark room. "Cuz she's dead, and I buried 'er!"

  "SShh!" Kate scowled at him.

  "Hey, don't you shush me, girlie. I'll tan your behind!"

  The knock came again, louder this time.

  "I say we open it." Buck held his blade trained on the door.

  Clarence turned to Kate. "What do you say? Should we?"

  She thought for a moment. "If it's just a drifter, we can enlist the unlucky devil." She glanced over at Buck. "If not…"

  "Very well." Clarence crept toward one side of the bullet-riddled door. He breathed a quick prayer he'd learned once from his nanny long ago—something about asking the Lord to keep his soul—and tried to relax the knot that had seized hold of his stomach. Then he pulled open the door and crouched down beside it.

  A shadowy form stepped in from the night. Shrouded in darkness, it took another step and stopped, boots scuffing across the floorboards, spurs jingling. The figure struck a match across his rough chin, and the light illuminated his face, streaked with fresh gashes from a woman's fingernails. A sick feeling hit Clarence's stomach.

  It was Bert MacQuaid.

  Chapter 42

  "You can take my horse—no, hold on. I'm goin' with you!" Percy hopped over the bar and left his saloon in the care of one of his employees. "We'll need rifles and plenty of ammo. Better bring a spare horse in case them redskins shoot one out from under us. You got a shooter?" He faced Guthrie as they stepped outside.

  "No, but—"

  "I've got one for you." He led Guthrie to where his horses stood tied beside the building. "Don't you fret none, mister. We'll get 'er back. An' ol' Buck's gonna pay, I'll promise you that much!"

  He seemed genuinely concerned for Miss Carson's welfare. Guthrie was glad there was a man such as this in Santa Fe for his daughter's sake.

  His daughter…

  Percy whipped out a gun belt from the bedroll on the back of his horse and handed it to Guthrie. Then he pulled out one for himself with a pair of ivory-handled six-shooters and buckled it on.

  "Hold on a second." He disappeared into the saloon.

  Guthrie buckled on the belt he'd been given and lifted the six gun, weighing it in his hand. He checked the loaded chambers with a cold sense of dread heavy in his stomach.

  "Ready?" Percy returned with his trusty shotgun slung over one shoulder and a pair of Winchesters in his arms.

  Guthrie nodded. "Ready."

  "Put this in your saddle boot there." Percy handed him one of the rifles. They mounted up, Percy with a spare horse in tow. "Hyah!" He spurred his steed forward, and it bolted into a gallop.

  Guthrie rode close behind. Together, they thundered out of town into the night.

  Kate held her breath, watching as MacQuaid lit his cigar and waved out the match with a spiral of smoke. Could he see her? He just stood there, leaning against the doorframe. What was he waiting for?

  She knew what a dangerous man he could be. Cold-blooded. She'd seen him gun down men on multiple occasions with that lightning-quick draw of his, making Burly Jones look like a pathetic amateur. He always smiled after a kill. Sadistic. He treated her the worst way a man can treat a woman when he came in hot off the trail, looking for trouble. Vindictive. He'd have his revenge, she knew. In the match flame, she'd seen what her fingernails had done to his face. He would kill her for that. Or worse.

  Buck eyed the gunslinger coldly and held the knife ready, poised to strike. He'd recognized MacQuaid as soon as Kate had. A man like Bert MacQuaid had a lot of enemies, and Buckeye Daniels was one of the few who could still draw breath. Right now, he had the gunslinger's life in his hands. Just a flick of the wrist, and the skunk would find himself with a blade in his throat. It was like a dream come true.

  "Go ahead and throw it, Buck," MacQuaid said.

  Everyone stirred, startled, wondering how long he'd been able to see them in the dark. In a sudden, catlike move, the gunslinger lunged to the side and threw Clarence to the floor, at the same time reaching into his left boot and coming up with a double-barrel derringer.

  "Well, Buck? What are you waiting for?" MacQuaid chuckled.

  Buck eyed the small gun aimed at his head. Seething, he lowered his knife.

  "You're smarter than you look." Then, with a sudden curse, MacQuaid kicked Clarence and shouted, "Get up, you! Everybody—against the wall. Move!" He waved the derringer, ridiculously undersized but lethal in his hand.

  "You're a bad boy, sonny!" Silas hollered. "Didn't your momma never tell you not to play with guns?"

  "No. She didn't." MacQuaid's eyes darted to Buck. "I said move!"

  With a muttered oath, Buck stepped slowly toward the wall.

  "Now then." MacQuaid took a chair and seated himself, facing them as he propped his boots up on the table.

  "No manners, neither," Silas observed with a scowl.

  "Shut up!" MacQuaid shouted. Then with a sigh, he began in a conversational tone, "Why don't we all just sit back, relax, and wait for Thunderclap's bunch to swoop down and skin us alive? What do you say?" He fingered the derringer lazily as he waited for their response.

  Clarence took a moment to summon the courage to speak. "What do you want?"

  Kate shot him a surprised look. A tense silence followed.

  "What do I want? Hmm. What do I want?" MacQuaid feigned absentmindedness for a moment and stared up at the sagging ceiling. "Oh yeah, now I remember. I want the horse."

  Confused frowns creased the foreheads of the four hostages.

  "What horse?" Buck said.

  Kate glanced at Clarence as if he had some idea.

  MacQuaid gave her a dirty look. "Why, my bodacious beauty, the gambler's black mount, of course." He shifted in the chair and brought his feet down, leaning forward and eyeing each of them in turn. "It was stolen back in town, you see. Last night. A real fine-looking animal, solid black. I was a member of the lynch mob that lit out after the thief, but..." He chuckled ironically. "We ended up parting company."

  Clarence paled. He hoped the gunslinger wouldn't notice his trembling jaw.

  "But I was never after the thief." MacQuaid leaned back.

  Clarence heaved a short sigh of relief.

  "I was after the horse. Figured it would bring me quite a sum down at the Albuquerque auction." He fell silent again, fiddling with the derringer.

  "So what you want with us, boy?" Silas asked, tilting his head.

  "It's rather simple, really. I know the horse was here. I saw it before those damned savages ran off all your stock. It was here, so I know one of you must be the thief." He yawned and added languidly,
"All I want is the horse. After this little skirmish with Thunderclap is over, you'll help me round up that black beauty—" He eyed Buckeye squarely. "—and there won't be no more trouble betwixt us."

  Clarence attempted to clarify matters: "So you mean you're not here to—I mean, you don't want to kill us, is that correct?"

  MacQuaid cursed him foully. "Of course I do." He eyed Kate as he licked his lips. Then he touched his ravaged cheek, making it clear that he would get even for what she'd done to him. "But I'm willing to call a temporary truce, things being what they are at the moment. That is, until Thunderclap picks up his marbles and goes home, and I get me that horse."

  Clarence didn't like the way he was looking at Kate, as though she were a piece of prime rib and he hadn't eaten in days. "How are we to know you'll keep your word?"

  "You don't." MacQuaid said.

  "I'd stab you before you even got off a shot," Buckeye growled.

  "Oh, I seriously doubt that, Buck." MacQuaid winked at him. "Besides, you'll need a gun as good as me once the shooting starts. It ain't gonna be pretty." He set the derringer down on the table and crossed his arms. "So. Have we got ourselves a deal or what?"

  Clarence frowned. The unsavory fellow seemed reasonable—but would he honor a truce? Was he a man worthy of their trust? Doubtful on both counts.

  "What do you say, Kate?" he asked quietly.

  She held MacQuaid with her gaze, cold and fearless. After a moment of silence, she said flatly, "He's right. We need 'im...for now."

  MacQuaid smirked. "And how about you, Buck ol' pal?"

  Buck was keeping an eye on the derringer, seeming to weigh his chances at lunging for it and blowing a hole through the gunslinger. But those chances were worse than slim, and he realized it after a minute or so. With a sigh and a curse, he grunted in the affirmative.

  MacQuaid grinned, his thin lips stretching taught. He picked up the derringer, spun it around a finger, and returned it to his boot.

  "Eh," Silas began, "now that we got all that settled, we gotta hang these lanterns out there." He gestured outside and tossed one to Clarence. "C'mon, sonny! Let's get a move on!" Beckoning for Clarence to follow, he grabbed the other one and made straight for the door.

  "I'll help, Clarence," Kate said. She'd seen the worried look on his face at the prospect of leaving her alone with the gunslinger and Buck.

  "What? Don't you trust her with me, Englishter?" MacQuaid called after them as they stepped outside.

  Clarence swallowed. "No. I don't trust you." He headed to the post to hang his lantern, pausing a moment for Kate to turn up the flame.

  The gunslinger stood at the empty window frame, leaning on the sill and watching them with a lewd sneer. "Is she your woman now, kid?"

  Clarence stiffened at his words.

  MacQuaid chuckled. "Yeah, she's quite a looker. Needs some breakin', though. She's got too much of her own mind, and that ain't good for a woman. You got to play rough with a filly like that. Gotta show 'em who's boss." He chuckled again. "Send her to me if you have any trouble."

  Clarence whirled around. "You shut up!" Kate stood beside him with her gaze downcast. He stepped in between her and the gunslinger. "You shut up, or I'll—"

  "You'll what?" MacQuaid spat. "You're just a boy, and a foreign one, at that. A woman like her needs a real man. You remember that." He turned away and swaggered back to his chair inside.

  Clarence almost cursed, but he took a deep breath instead. He turned to Kate and touched her cheek. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded and looked up at him. Her eyes glistened in the lantern light.

  "No, not really, Clarence." She sighed, shaking her head. "It seems like…whenever I think about changin' my life, somethin' like this happens. Somebody shows up, and they throw the truth back into my face that maybe I'm just foolin' myself." She looked away. "Maybe I can't change what I am."

  Clarence opened his mouth to speak, but he knew no words that would comfort her. So he put his arm around her instead.

  "C'mon, you two! Back inside—quick!" Silas crowed, grabbing Clarence by the sleeve and springing toward the shack. "We make them redskins mighty fine targets in this light!"

  Clarence's eyes widened. "Oh yes, quite!"

  Chapter 43

  Once they were back inside, it was all work and no talk. The five of them set aside their differences for the time being—it amazed Clarence how they could do that—and hastily barricaded the front door with the table turned on one end. Loose floorboards were ripped up and used to cover the windows, nailed into place by Buckeye and Silas. Clarence and MacQuaid counted out the ammunition for the five carbines, three rifles, and handful of six-guns while Kate rationed out the sparse supply of beef jerky and cans of beans. They would need to keep up their strength to last the night.

  Clarence and Kate took the first watch, allowing the others to doze lightly in the dark corners of the room. Silas retired to his own cot in the back of the shack.

  "Why'd you come out here, Clarence?" Kate whispered, crouched below her window with one of the carbines cradled in her arms. "To America, I mean. Why'd you head over here in the first place?"

  "It's a bit complicated, I'm afraid." He faced her and ran his hand across the cold barrel of his own carbine. "Most of my life has been rather pointless, I'm afraid."

  "You haven't lived that long, Clarence. How old are you, anyhow?"

  "Sixteen. But what I mean to say is that I've never ventured beyond the day-to-day routine of my comfortable lifestyle, one that's fairly monotonous, I must confess." He sighed at the memory of it, now longing for his uneventful Hampshire home in the face of what would likely be certain death at the hands of bloodthirsty savages. "Well, by the by, I came upon my father's journal, buried among a crowded bookshelf in our library. I was amazed by it, because inside, my father had written down detailed accounts of all his travels to Africa, India, Asia, South America—"

  "He went to all them places?"

  "So it would seem. And as I read about his adventures—he was quite a good writer, I might add—it suddenly dawned on me: When had I ever experienced an adventure of any sort? Besides hunting fox and winning billiards tournaments, I'd never done anything remotely spectacular."

  "Can't say that now, can you?" She winked at him.

  "Quite. But at the time, I began to crave adventure so badly that I made life at home a bit miserable for my mother and extended family. Then Guthrie told me he was going to America to..." He trailed off, finding a lump in his throat. "Oh, I do hope he's all right." Tears sprang to his eyes as he remembered the condition of his beloved butler when he'd last seen him.

  "I've—" she said quietly. "—said some prayers for 'im. Thought it couldn't hurt any."

  "Thank you, Kate," he said hoarsely. "I miss him so much. He's…been like a father to me."

  "He must've made a real good one. I never knew mine."

  "Your father?"

  She shook her head. Matter-of-fact, she said, "Nope. Don't know who my pa was, and barely remember my ma. Got a photo of her though, back in my room. I'll show it to you—long as we make it out of here alive and all."

  "Yes, I should like that." Clarence smiled. "Seeing the photograph as well as surviving the night, I mean. And I'll show you my father's journal."

  "You mean it?" She eyed him sideways.

  "Of course. Why ever not?"

  She shrugged. "Don't know. Seems kinda personal."

  "Bah!" he scoffed good-naturedly. "You're my friend, Kate. You should read it—everyone should. The whole world—"

  "Are you gonna publish it or something?"

  Clarence paused. Then he nodded. "That's a fantastic idea, Kate! Yes, I think I shall." He gave her a sly look. "You're in it as well, you know."

  Her eyes grew big and her lips parted in surprise. "Me? But how—?"

  "There were a few blank pages at the end, so I've been chronicling my adventures here in America. Of course I had to include you!"

  "But…"
Her eyes clouded. "Wouldn't he mind? Your pa, I mean? Putting somebody like me in there with all them grand places?"

  Clarence waved aside the notion. "No, of course not. He's dead."

  "Oh, I'm sorry—"

  "Think nothing of it!" He grinned. "I never knew my father, either."

  Nodding slowly, she said, "I was adopted as a youngster, but I ran away when I was almost your age. The family didn't treat me bad or nothin', I just never liked how cold they were to me—like I was a stranger in their house. I grew up, y'know, kinda by myself." She shrugged. "Ended up in Virginia City and boy oh boy, was that a different place than I was used to!"

  "Where had you lived before?"

  "Boston—"

  "Oh, I've been there!" Clarence whispered excitedly.

  "You have?"

  "Yes! Our steamship arrived in the Boston Harbor when we came over from England. My, what a place, with all those sailboats and steamships of every shape and size!"

  "Yeah…I'd almost forgotten." Her eyes had a faraway look in them for a moment. "Well, Virginia City was a real change of pace for me, and in no time, I had a job workin' tables at one of the saloons. I stayed on there maybe five years or so, but when it got too crowded, too much like a big city, I came out here to Santa Fe to make a place for myself. Didn't take long." She almost said something else, but stopped herself.

  Clarence smiled. "A good story, Kate. It would make quite a fine novel."

  "Aw," she scoffed, and color rose to her cheeks. "Don't josh me, Clarence." She cocked her head to one side. "Say, why'd you pick here for your adventures, anyhow? There's plenty of other places that're a mite safer."

  "Believe me, if I had known…" He shook his head. "But you see, we were not planning on Santa Fe being our final destination."