A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Screaming, the Kid’s hand flashed for one of his holstered guns.

  Shawn anticipated the move and sprang at the man. He grabbed the youngster’s lapels and smashed his forehead down on the bridge of the Kid’s nose. It was a move Luther Ironside called a “Johnny Reb Kiss,” and it dropped the man real quick.

  Splattered with the Kid’s blood, bone, and snot, Shawn felt the gunman go limp as his eyes rolled back in his head. “Uriah, let go of his leg!”

  Tweedy released the Kid’s shin like a rabid hound, his mouth and mustache crimson with blood.

  “Move an inch, and by God I’ll scatter your brains.”

  The Colt muzzle pressed against his temple and the tone of the affable man’s voice convinced Shawn that it was not a good time to make a play. He opened his fingers and let the Topock Kid drop to the platform floor.

  The affable man stared into Shawn’s eyes. “I’m not a threatening man by nature,”—his gun didn’t waver—“but right now, O’Brien, you’re just a holler and a half from death.”

  “What happened here?” Zeb Moss said, stepping onto the platform. He looked down at the moaning Kid and back up. “Mr. Masters, who did this?”

  “Your man O’Brien did the nose breaking. The old-timer was the leg chewer.”

  Moss glared at Julia. “Did you have any part in this, Trixie?”

  Shawn spoke before she could. “She had no part in it, Moss. We were trying to escape.”

  Moss’s face was black with anger. “I regret keeping you alive, O’Brien. I regret it deeply.” He looked down at the Kid again. His head rolled on his shoulders and both his eyes were black and swollen shut. “Get him to his feet, Mr. Masters. When the hell can he handle a gun again?”

  “Two, three days,” Masters said. “Maybe longer. He’s pretty bust up, Mr. Moss.”

  “Damn it. We meet up with the Arabs tomorrow morning. I can’t afford to lose men now.”

  “We’re getting thin on the ground, right enough,” Masters agreed. “The Kid is one of the best there is.”

  “Then see that he’s well enough to gun fight by tomorrow, damn it. I don’t give a damn how you do it, but get it done.”

  Silas Creeds had stepped outside, crowding the platform. He’d heard the last of the conversation. “What about him?” He nodded in Shawn’s direction.

  Moss scowled, a man torn by indecision. Finally he said, “We need his gun.”

  “He won’t fight for us, boss,” Creeds pointed out.

  “No, he won’t. But he’ll fight to save his own skin.” Moss took Julia by the arm and pushed her toward the door. “Get inside, you.” To Creeds he said, “Tell the engineer to get this damned train moving. We’ve tarried here long enough.”

  “What about O’Brien and them?” Masters asked.

  “Tie them up again. We’ll release them when we get to the end of the line.”

  Creeds stood at the top of car’s iron steps, then turned his head and for the first time expressed doubt about what they were facing. “Boss, can we do the job with what we have?”

  “We’ll need to, Mr. Creeds. If we can’t, by this time tomorrow we’ll all be dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “All is ready to welcome the Christian devils?” Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim asked.

  Hassan Najid nodded. “As soon as they arrive, a table of salted beef and sweetmeats will be laid out for them, great lord.”

  “And rum? I want the infidels to get drunk as hogs.”

  “Two casks.” Najid smiled. “Rum enough for ten times their number.”

  Hakim smiled. “And what of Abdullah, our brave warrior of Islam? He does not falter in his resolve?”

  “No, sir. He eagerly looks forward to paradise and the company of many virgins.”

  “Then all is well.” In a giving mood, Hakim said, “The Chinese girl I gave you, the one who will assist our holy martyr, did you enjoy her?”

  “She amused me for an hour or two, lord,” Najid replied. “I will use her again.”

  “Good, good. Then that pleases me.”

  Hakim turned, stared out at the Gulf, and a frown gathered between his eyebrows.

  Attuned to his master’s slightest swings in mood, Najid bent at the waist in question. “Something troubles you, lord?”

  It took a few moments before the sheik answered. With some reluctance, he admitted, “The sea troubles me, Hassan.”

  Najid was perplexed. “But, sire, you are the finest sailor in all of Islam.” The man’s voice rose into a shout. “You are the Sea Falcon, scourge of all the oceans of the world.”

  As Najid knew they would, the sailors lounging nearby wildly cheered their captain.

  After the noise died away, Hakim stood in thought, then said, “Here is a story, Najid. Once I met an old man in Jeddah who years before had lost both his legs to a shark. He told me that his fishing boat sank and, being a fine swimmer, he struck out for a distant shore. Now here is the interesting part—he told me he knew there was a shark in the water stalking him long before the beast attacked. He said he couldn’t see the shark or smell it, but he knew it was there, lurking unseen. Is that not strange, Hassan?”

  “Indeed, lord, but what unseen thing troubles you so? Is it the American warship?”

  Hakim waved a dismissive hand. “Pah. I do not fear the American carrion dogs. They are women.”

  “Then what, sire?”

  “I do not know. But it is out there in the deep and it stares at me with white, shining eyes as big as food platters.”

  “Aye, my lord is indeed troubled in his soul. But once we kill the Americans and take their women, all will be well.”

  Hakim nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Hassan. Allah willing, this will pass.”

  Commander John Sherburne watched with approval as sailors polished the lenses of the two huge searchlights on either side of the bridge. The Kansas now had eyes to see in the dark.

  “We’ll give then a try tonight, Mr. Wilson,” Sherburne said. “I suspect that’s when the rats come out of their holes.”

  “Indeed, Captain,” Lieutenant Wilson agreed.

  “I thought those lights were just so much damned ballast when I saw them loaded. Now they may prove their worth.”

  “Indeed, Captain.”

  The commander smiled. “You are still of the opinion that the Arab scow has left the gulf.”

  Wilson took the smile to mean that he could be frank. “Sir, I believe she’s halfway to the East African coast by this time.”

  “Then we’ll agree to disagree, Mr. Wilson.” Sherburne took a flask from his pocket. “You still don’t indulge?”

  “No, sir. I promised my betrothed that my lips—”

  “Yes. You told me that already.” Sherburne took a swig and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Give Sergeant Monroe my compliments and tell him I want his marines on deck tonight with full equipment. If we light up the enemy, the marines get a chance to land. I’ll command the marine detachment myself.”

  “You, sir?”

  “Me, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, I just meant . . . well, you’re the captain and—”

  “If I fall in the battle, Mr. Wilson, you are quite competent to take over command.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I’d rather hoped to command the marines myself.”

  “Why, Mr. Wilson? Glory? Promotion? Your name in the newspapers?”

  His earnest round face flushed, Wilson said, “All of those things, sir.”

  Sherburne pretended an anger he didn’t feel. “Be damned to you, sir. You’re trying to usurp my command.”

  Wilson was flustered. “No, sir. Not at all, sir. I mean—”

  “Go relay my order to Sergeant Monroe.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. At once, sir.” Wilson hurried away as fast as his stocky legs could carry him, but Sherburne’s voice stopped him. “Oh, and Mr. Wilson . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell Sergeant Monroe that you will lead th
e marine detachment should it land.”

  A grin split Wilson’s face. “Yes, indeed, sir.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The railroad line to the Sonora coast headed straight as a string due south, skirting the timbered foothills of the Sierra Nevada.

  Shawn and the others remained bound on the Pullman’s platform throughout the dark night, red hot cinders stinging them like hornets. No more coffee—or water, either—was forthcoming. Shawn’s mouth was dry and he was wishful for an ice-cold beer and maybe a steak burned black as charcoal to go with it.

  “Hey, O’Brien,” Uriah Tweedy raised his voice above the racketing roar of the train. He waited until he saw the white blur of Shawn’s face turn in his direction and said, “I hope you didn’t think I was turning yeller on you.”

  “It has occurred to me,” Shawn replied “More than once, I’d say.”

  “Hell, boy, one of us had to be on the loose if we was to have any chance of escape. I figured ol’ Zeb would trust me.”

  “You thought wrong, Mr. Tweedy,” Thaddeus Lowth pointed out. “And that was most unfortunate.”

  “Was it foolish of me to think otherwise, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked. “Under the circumstances, like?”

  “A drowning man will clutch at a straw, Mr. Tweedy. There’s no blame in that.”

  “True spoken words as always, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said.

  Lowth directed his attention to Shawn. “What will become of us, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I think you have a good idea.”

  “So do you, Thaddeus.”

  Lowth hesitated a moment, then said aloud what he’d been thinking. “After Moss trades his women to the Arabs, he has no need to keep us alive.”

  “That pretty much nails it,” Shawn agreed.

  “But Zeb keeps saying he needs your gun, O’Brien,” Tweedy said. “How do you explain that?”

  “Maybe he thinks the slavers will try to cheat him and take his women by force.” Shawn’s voice was reduced to a dry croak.

  “Whatever happens, I’ll save Miss Trixie Lee,” Tweedy said. “Even if I got to use my teeth on some other gunman.”

  Shawn smiled. “Bide your time, Uriah. We may come to that pass.”

  The car door opened and Masters stepped onto the platform carrying a jug. “I brought you men water.”

  “About time,” Tweedy complained. “We’re dyin’ here.”

  Masters smiled under his mustache. “Chawin’ a man’s leg off give you a thirst, old-timer?”

  “Hell yeah. I’m thirsty enough to suckle a she cougar.”

  Masters looked at him in amazement. “You ever done that?”

  “Only a couple times up in the high Teton country. I never did cotton to it as steady grub, like.”

  Masters put the spout of the jug to Tweedy’s mouth and the old man drank deep. He nodded to Masters. “Thankee, kindly.”

  As Shawn drank in turn, Masters made a bit of conversation. “We’ll be near the Gulf of California coast soon. It’s rugged, dry country, or so they tell me.”

  “How do we get there?” Shawn asked as Lowth took his turn. “All the way on this train?”

  “No, just part of the way. The boss says there’ll be a welcoming committee camped out by the rails waiting for us. They’ll lead us to the slavers’ camp.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, trading in human flesh?” Lowth wondered.

  Masters shook his head. “I can’t say that it does. Man pays me well for my gun, I go with the flow and mind my own business.”

  “It’s a way, I suppose,” Shawn said. “It’s not my way, but it’s a way.”

  “In my profession, it’s the only way. And before you ask, I sleep just fine o’ nights.” Masters held up the jug. “All right, gentlemen, one more go-round, then you’re done.”

  The dragon hiss of venting steam and the clang of the locomotive’s bell woke Shawn O’Brien from a shallow doze. To his surprise the night had shaded into dawn and a light rain fell, blowing off a frontal storm in the North Pacific. He lifted his face to the drizzle, enjoying its coolness.

  The carriage door slammed open and Silas Creeds scowled. “All right, end of the line.”

  Using the Barlow in his hand, he cut Shawn and the others free. “On your feet.”

  It took only a fraction of a second for Creeds to reach into the pockets of his coat and come up with his Lightning revolvers. “Down the steps, then stand against the carriage with your hands where I can see them.”

  Shawn was stiff, Lowth stiffer, and Tweedy stiffer still. Prodded by Creeds’ guns, the three men stumbled painfully down the steps, then backed against the Pullman.

  Another gunman took Creeds’ place, his cold eyes wary as he held his Winchester on Shawn and the others. Behind him, the Topock Kid watered a stunted legume tree. Finished, he buttoned up and turned, looking like he’d run face-first into a brick wall. Both eyes were closed almost shut and looked as though they’d been dabbed with black, blue, and yellow paint. His broken nose, swollen at the bridge, did nothing for his features.

  Shawn reckoned the Kid’s own mother—if he had one—wouldn’t recognize him.

  The young gunman stepped through the misting rain like an avenging demon. Stopping a foot from Shawn, he shoved his battered face into his. His breath smelled like blood as he spoke. “This is the last day of your life. Enjoy it.”

  By nature Shawn was not teased-rattlesnake mean like his brother Jacob, but that morning he was nursing a grouch and was in no mood for sass, especially from a two-bit gunman. He drew back his right foot and kicked out hard. The toe of his boot slammed into the part of the Kid’s shin that had been chewed by Uriah Tweedy . . . and caused an immediate uproar.

  The Kid’s face went from anger to agony. He grabbed his tormented shin and hopped on one leg, shrieking like a wounded cougar.

  But only for a moment. Rage overcoming his pain, the Kid clawed for his guns.

  “Kid, try it and I’ll blow your guts out.” The cold-eyed guard jammed his rifle into the youngster’s belly and the tone of his voice assured the Kid that he’d pull the trigger.

  “What the hell is it now?” Silas Creeds yelled as he hurried toward the frozen tableau of the rifleman and the Topock Kid.

  “This boy just don’t learn, Silas,” the rifleman said, prodding the Winchester into the Kid’s belly.

  Suddenly Creeds was enraged. “Kid, stay the hell away from O’Brien! He has fancy moves and if he sees a chance, he’ll kill you for sure.”

  “Let me kill him!” the Kid screamed.

  “No! Now you git,” Creeds ordered. “The boss wants him alive, at least for a spell.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Them boys by the track, or whatever the hell they are, have rum. Go get yourself a drink.”

  The Kid angled a hating glance as Shawn. “I’m gonna kill you, O’Brien. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you before sundown.”

  “Be sure to bring some friends, Kid,” Shawn sassed. “Judging by what I’ve seen of you, you’ll need them.”

  “O’Brien, you shut your damned face,” Creeds cried. “You’re nothing but trouble and I don’t know why Moss keeps you alive.”

  “Because those nigras, as you call them, are going to turn on you, Silas,” Shawn said. “Depend on it.”

  Creeds shook his head and smiled. “You got it the wrong way around, O’Brien. And you can depend on that.” He swung on the guard. “Denver, keep everybody away from these three until the boss decides what he wants done with them.”

  Turning, Creeds stomped toward the front of the locomotive.

  Shawn let out a quick breath. “I could sure use some of that Arab rum right about now.”

  “The Kid aims to kill you, O’Brien. Don’t take him lightly,” the guard advised.

  “I never take cowards with a gun lightly,” Shawn answered.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The storm front moved through and on to the thorny scrub desert cou
ntry to the east, where the rain hit the ground and dried up in a matter of minutes. A weak sun rose in the sky and the morning grew warmer.

  Fifteen minutes after his run-in with the Kid, Shawn saw three Arab seamen walk away from the tracks and head out in the direction of the coast. Moss and his riders showed up shortly thereafter, leading the horses of Shawn, Tweedy, and Lowth.

  Behind Moss, Julia Davenport and five other women were roped together on foot. One of the women had flaming red hair and carried a baby in her arms, the mother of the child Shawn had found in the cabin. He recognized the two white women as girls who’d worked in the Lucky Lady. Used and abused by men, they seemed resigned to their fate, ready to make the best of whatever came their way.

  But the two Mexican girls, both young and pretty, were frightened and clung to each other as though each was trying to gain courage from the other. They were not saloon girls, but young woman kidnapped off the street because of their glossy hair and flashing eyes.

  Zeb Moss kneed his horse closer to the Pullman and removed a gun belt from the saddle horn—all the cartridge loops filled—and passed it to Shawn. “Heel yourself, O’Brien. You’ll need this before too long.”

  “What’s on your mind, Moss?” Shawn asked, buckling the belt around his waist.

  “You’ll find out. When the shooting starts, just make sure your gun is pointed in the right direction.”

  Shawn smiled. “And what direction might that be?”

  Moss smiled in return, but without humor. “If you don’t find out real quick, you’ll be dead.”

  Shawn gazed across the flats. The Arabs had stopped and were looking back at the train, waiting for Moss and his men to catch up.

  Suddenly Shawn put it all together. “Hell, Moss, you’re going to gun the Arabs and take their women.”

  Moss nodded. “And their ship. A man can get rich in the slave trade if he plays his cards right.”

  “Half the navies in the world are out looking for slave ships, Moss. You ever think about that?”

  “I reckon I’ll take my chances. In for a couple years, then out a rich man. You can be a part of it, O’Brien.”