A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Jacob swung his empty Colt on the miner.

  The old man wore a belt gun, but Jacob hoped he wouldn’t make a play.

  He didn’t. “I ain’t in this, mister. Just lookin’ fer a place to hole up fer the winter.”

  “Drop the hardware,” Jacob ordered. “Where’s the other one?”

  The old man unbuckled his belt and it thudded to his feet. “Inside. Maybe gut shot. Maybe dead.” The miner looked into Jacob’s eyes. “Mister, you’re pure pizen with Doobie Colt’s gun, ain’t you?”

  Jacob ignored that. With fumbling, cold, rigid fingers, he reloaded his revolver, filling all six chambers. If the old-timer was a tad disappointed he didn’t let it show.

  Jacob said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t put it out. But it’s Lem Cook of the Parker County, Texas, Cooks. Yours?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Jacob answered and smiled. “Now Lem, walk into the cabin and I’ll follow you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do that, mister.”

  “Figured that.” Jacob, his left hand flexing, picked up the dead man’s revolver. “Stand away from your gun, pops.”

  Lem scuttled backward as though he’d just stepped on a rattlesnake nest as Jacob hammered shot after shot through the thin walls of the lean-to. Despite his frozen hands the shots sounded as one, and he was rewarded by a scream from inside, followed by a string of curses.

  Jacob reloaded as quickly as his stiff, fumbling fingers would allow. His guns up and ready, he charged inside the lean-to. A dying man lay on his back on a bunk, his face and chest bloody.

  “You’ve done for me, damn you,” the man said. “I’m shot all to pieces.”

  “Things are hard all over,” Jacob said, feeling no sympathy at all. He stepped to the potbellied stove where a coffeepot smoked, found a tin cup, filled it, and took a drink. “Good coffee.”

  “Where’s my brother?” the man croaked out.

  “Outside.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “As he’ll ever be.”

  “Your name is O’Brien, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, and the woman you shot today is no relation.”

  “I thought she was a man.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  The cabin was warm and Jacob felt the frost melt in his joints. The coffee was good and hot and his fingers were finally supple enough to build a cigarette.

  The wounded man groaned. “You got brothers, O’Brien, just like I had.”

  “They’re nothing like you had.”

  “Don’t you want to know my name?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Mister, I don’t give a damn.”

  “Then listen to this, O’Brien”—the wounded man grimaced as a shock of pain hit him—“your brothers will die, all of them, just like mine did.” He spat blood at Jacob’s feet. “A dying man’s curse on you and yours.”

  Jacob hurriedly crossed himself then raised his Colt. But he looked into the eyes of a dead man and lowered it again.

  Lem Cook stood at the door, his face stricken. “A dead man’s curse is a terrible thing, young feller.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Jacob acknowledged.

  “I mind a tinpan by the name of Deacon Mac-Gyver up Denver way. He stabbed his partner one day an’ the dying man cursed him. Tole Deke he’d die soon. The very next day ol’ Deke was killed by a rockfall. An’ that’s a natural fact.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do say, young feller, so you watch your step.”

  Jacob poured himself coffee, thinking. Worrying. He wondered where Shawn was and what had happened to him. Suddenly he had a bad feeling about his brother.

  And he knew that what his Irish mother had called his sixth sense would give him no peace.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “No matter what happens, O’Brien, I’ll kill you,” Silas Creeds said.

  “You’ve told me that,” Shawn said. “Maybe two or three times already.”

  “Just enjoy keeping you appraised of the situation.” Creeds grinned. “I like to see the expression on your face. It’s funny, all scared an’ stuff.”

  They stood on the train platform at the Rincon rail junction watching Zebulon Moss’s private car being shunted onto the rear of a westbound cannonball that would head straight through to Sonora, Mexico. Behind them was an imposing two-story depot and an adjoining single-story freight and storage addition. Miles of scrub desert stretched around the wooden structure where nothing moved except a dust devil stirred up by a silent wind.

  Seeing that he couldn’t get another rise out of Shawn, Creeds set his battered top hat at a jaunty angle and strolled away.

  Uriah Tweedy stepped beside Shawn. “You’re gonna have to kill that feller, O’Brien.”

  Shawn nodded. “Seems like.”

  “Hell, boy, it won’t be easy. He’s a demon on the draw an’ shoot.”

  “With his kind it never is easy.”

  Tweedy looked around him at the dusty platform shadowed under an overcast sky. Seeing that no one was paying any particular attention, he held out his hand. “Got something for you.”

  “What?”

  “Open your hand. But don’t let anybody see you, especially ol’ Silas.”

  Shawn did as he was told and Tweedy dropped two .45 rounds into his open palm.

  Before Shawn could speak, the old man said, “Found them in the bottom of my ditty bag. I reckon I must have tossed them in there at one time or another. Or somebody else did.”

  Shawn smiled as he pocketed the rounds. “Uriah, you may have saved my life.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t think too much of it, sonny. I’m only tryin’ to save the life of my intended.”

  The captive women were locked inside the Pullman, curtains drawn across the windows. Moss and his gunmen were also on board. Only Creeds and a murderous snake of a man by the name of Whitey Ford were hanging around the platform.

  Shawn lit a cigar, idly watching the private car clank onto the rear of another passenger carriage until his attention was drawn to Ford. The gunman, dressed for the city in a long black coat and bowler hat, had walked to the edge of the platform and then his body stiffened, his gaze intent on something Shawn couldn’t see.

  A young woman ran into Shawn’s line of vision. Her skirts hiked to her knees, she bolted from the rear of the Pullman, heading into the desert country.

  Ford let out a whoop, jumped from the platform to the rails, and went after the escapee.

  Creeds stood on the platform and hollered, “Go get ’er, Whitey.” He slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. It promised to be an interesting diversion.

  With Creeds intent on the fleeing woman, Shawn quickly loaded the two rounds into his Colt, jumped onto the rails, and ran.

  Behind him, Creeds yelled out, then cut loose with a shot, missing by a couple yards. He was an up-close draw fighter, not a marksman.

  Shawn recognized the escaping woman as Julia Davenport, and fear for her safety gave length to his stride, widening the gap between himself and the gunman. Cactus and brush tore at his legs as he pounded after her.

  Ahead of him, Whitey Ford yelled something like, “I’m gonna git you, Trixie, darlin’!” With his attention fixed on the woman, he was unaware of Shawn, gun in hand, just fifty yards behind him.

  Ford whooped and fired a shot, kicking up a plume of dust in front of Julia.

  As she swerved to avoid a clump of vicious cat claw, the high heel of her lace-up boot buckled, and down she went, sprawling on her face.

  Ford was on her like a cougar on a doe and dragged her to her feet. He backhanded her hard across the face, knocking her down. Grinning, he bent to pick her up again.

  Shawn skidded to a halt, yellow dust kicking around his boots. “Leave her be, Whitey.”

  The gunman turned as fast as a striking rattler, his gun leveling fast.

  Shawn fired. Ford took the shot high in the chest and staggered back a step, his
face suddenly ashen. The gunman fired, missed, fired again. The bullet burned across Shawn’s right thigh, drawing blood. Aware that he had only one shot left, Shawn two-handed his Colt to eye level and fired again. A red rose appeared in the middle of Ford’s forehead, just under his hat brim. The gunman gave Shawn a quick, startled look, then fell, thudding dead onto the parched ground.

  “Julia, it’s me. Shawn.”

  The woman scrambled to her feet and ran into Shawn’s arms. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest as she sobbed her relief. She lifted her eyes to Shawn’s face and he saw then widen in alarm. He began to turn....

  Way too late!

  Something hard crashed into the back of Shawn’s head and suddenly he was falling. The ground rushed up to meet him and then there was only blackness.

  When O’Brien awoke he was aware of softness underneath him, and imagined for a moment he was back in his bed at Dromore. But the pain in his ribs and face and the racketing motion of the railcar soon convinced him otherwise. He tried to open his eyes, but his right was swollen shut and stubbornly refused to budge. As it was, his vision was blurred, like a man swimming underwater in a muddy creek.

  He moved his legs, then his arms and felt a carpet under him.

  “Ah, Mr. O’Brien awakes.” The voice seemed to come from a long distance, but it unmistakably belonged to Zeb Moss.

  Shawn struggled to a sitting position, the pain in his ribs and wounded thigh spiking at him. His mouth was full of blood and his head rang like a gong.

  “How are you feeling, O’Brien?” the voice said again. “Quite well enough to hang, I hope.”

  Shawn tried to clear his head and focus with his good eye. The words falling out broken he said, “What . . . happened . . . to me?”

  “Good question! Excellent question!” Moss’s words came as if he was at the end of a tunnel. “Mr. Creeds hit you over the head with his gun, then proceeded to put the boot into you. Harsh? Yes, you might say that, but then Mr. Creeds set store by the late, lamented Whitey Ford.”

  “Damn right I did. He was true blue, was ol’ Whitey, when he was sober.” Creeds’ voice came from far off.

  Slowly, Shawn’s vision cleared a little. His grotesquely swollen right eye remained firmly shut.

  Moss, broad, blond, and handsome, sat behind his desk, resplendent in a red smoking jacket with a black shawl collar. He held a snifter of brandy in his ringed left hand, a fat, gold-colored cigar in his right. Six of his gunmen sat around the compartment, staring at Shawn, hostile but mildly amused.

  “What did you do to Julia?” Shawn asked. “Where is she?”

  Moss smiled. “Ah yes, dear Trixie. She gave me her beautiful body, but, alas, she was born without a heart, so that she could not give.”

  “Where is she? Did Creeds hurt her?”

  “No. She is well and none the worse for her run across the desert.” Moss said. “But what of you, O’Brien? How do you fare?” He waited a moment, then said, “Not well, I see.”

  “Boss, let me hang him,” Creeds put in. “Hell, we got an expert right here.”

  “Did you attend to that, O’Brien? There speaks evil. I love evil, you know, it’s so varied in its forms.”

  Shawn glared as best he could with only one eye open. “You’re trash, Moss. A damned murderer and pimp masquerading as a gentleman. If you’re going to kill me, get it the hell over with.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll kill you all right,” Moss offered. “The question is when.”

  “Hell, boss, I’ll do it right now,” Creeds said, getting to his feet. “I can kick him to death right where he’s at.”

  “The thought is indeed tempting, Mr. Creeds,” Moss agreed, “but you know what we have planned. When the dangerous times come down we could use his gun.”

  “O’Brien can’t be trusted with a gun,” Creeds cried, appalled. “He’s already proved that. He killed poor ol’ Whitey, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, and the young gentleman will be sadly missed.” Moss was silent for a while, his face frowning in thought, then he smiled at Creeds. “My decision is not to make a decision until later. The chances are you’ll hang him, but until then I want to keep O’Brien alive.”

  “Boss, I—”

  Moss waved a hand over his gunman’s objections. “Take O’Brien away and put him with the other two. I’ve made my decision, Mr. Creeds. Now carry out my orders.”

  Creeds and another man hauled Shawn to his feet. They took time to pick up a length of rope before dragging him outside to the car’s platform. Tweedy and Lowth were already bound to the rail, their hands tied behind them. After trussing up Shawn in a similar manner, Creeds grinned wickedly. “I hope you’ll be comfortable out here, O’Brien.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Creeds rewarded him with a kick to the ribs that hurt so badly Shawn almost passed out. Then the door closed and he was left with Tweedy and Lowth on the rocking steel platform in a cutting wind.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jacob O’Brien returned to Dromore wearing a dead man’s bearskin coat so odiferous Lorena made him leave it outside.

  “And take a bath at the earliest opportunity,” she said. “You’ve probably picked up fleas.”

  Samuel stood aside in the hallway as his wife flounced past him. “Lorena chiding you again, brother Jake?”

  “She didn’t like my coat. It does smell bad, but it’s warm.”

  “What happened out there? You left before I knew what was happening.”

  Jacob told him and then asked, “How is the woman?”

  “She’s hurt badly, but she’ll live.”

  “The colonel?”

  “Walking. He’s still stiff and sore, but he wants to walk everywhere. Luther is at his wit’s end trying to slow him down.”

  “Pa is game.”

  “He’s all of that.”

  “I’m hungry.” Jacob rubbed his belly.

  “I’ll ask the kitchen to send a meal to your room, let you get cleaned up first.”

  Jacob shook his head. “No, just have them sack up some grub. I need a fresh horse and then I’m headed for Santa Fe to try and get a lead on Shawn.”

  “Jake, that’s a wild-goose chase. He could be anywhere by now.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m going to try.”

  “You sound flat,” Samuel said, his face concerned. “The black dog stalking you again?”

  Jake nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Killing a man always depresses me, seems like.”

  “A killing weighs heavy on any man.”

  “I guess so.” Jacob turned to the door. “Bring the grub, Sam, and my mackinaw.”

  “Don’t you want to talk to the colonel first?”

  “No. Just tell him where I’m headed.”

  Before Samuel could speak again, Jacob stepped outside into cold and snow.

  In the barn, he saddled a yellow mustang, a mean, ugly little horse that would carry a man all day and into the next. He turned when he heard footsteps behind him.

  “You’re leaving us again, Jacob,” Shamus was alone and carried a sack of supplies and a ragged mackinaw.

  “I’m going after Shawn, Pa.”

  “It’s a cold trail, son.”

  “I know it. But I reckon I’ll try.” Jacob smiled. “You’re getting around, Colonel.”

  “Like my grandson, I toddle here and there. We run races, you know, him and me. Do you have money?”

  “Enough, I reckon.”

  Shamus reached into the pocket of his sheepskin and produced five double eagles. “Take this. You may need it.”

  Jacob knew better than to argue and took the money. “Thank you, Colonel.” He hesitated, then said, “A dying man cursed me, Pa. Me and my brothers.”

  “And this troubles you?”

  “Considerably.”

  “Then I will pray to Our Lady for his poor soul,” Shamus said, crossing himself.

  “You don’t fear a curse?”

  “No, I don’t. Th
e good Lord protects us from such things, though He expects us to pray for those who cursed us.”

  Shamus reached into his pocket again. “Take this. Remove your hat so I may put it around your neck.”

  Jacob bent his head and Shamus placed the rosary around his neck. “These were your sainted mother’s beads and they will protect you. Put your trust in them.”

  Jacob nodded. “I sure will, Pa.” He tied the sack of supplies to the saddle, then mounted. After the mustang tried to buck him off a few times he settled down and Jacob rode to the barn door.

  “Jacob,” Shamus called after him. “Bring me back my son.”

  The dark day was shading into darker evening when Jacob rode into Santa Fe, a town with plenty of snap. People, bundled up for the most part, thronged the street. Vendors were doing a good business, especially those who sold hot food. Corn tortillas wrapped around beef or chicken seasoned with peppers that scorched the tongue and could make a strong man break out in tears were particularly popular.

  The saloons and dance halls were booming and tinpanny pianos, their notes all tangled together in knots, competed one with another for the chance to be heard in the street.

  Cold, with snow on his shoulders and hat from a hard trail, Jacob badly wanted a whiskey, but postponed that pleasure until he put up his horse. He stopped a passerby and asked where the livery stable was, learning there were two. One was farther up the street, the other closer, but around the corner.

  Jacob chose the closer one and led the mustang inside.

  A stringy, sour-faced old man wearing a battered Reb kepi and a mackinaw even more ragged than Jacob’s stepped out of his office and greeted him warmly. “Two bits for hay, two bits for a scoop of oats, an’ I count the scoops in the sack, mind. Anybody I catch cheatin’ gets shot.”

  “Then I guess I’ll want two,” Jacob said, grinning. “This here hoss is mighty hungry.”