A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  But then Shawn saw something that chilled him to the bone.

  The man held a burning brand in his hand. He opened his vest and lit the short fuse of a silver-colored bomb strapped around his waist. Immediately, he shrieked and ran on bare feet toward the Moss gunmen.

  Shawn yelled, “Look out!” He drew and fired, but his bullet spurted dust inches behind the assassin’s pounding feet.

  Alerted to the danger, the gunmen faced the Arab, and bullets slammed into him. The bomber staggered, but kept on running toward them, screaming, “Death to the infidels,” his hatred fueled by drugs and sex.

  Then he was among Moss’s men.

  “Down!” Shawn yelled as he dived for the ground and was aware of Tweedy thudding onto the sand beside him.

  The bomb blast erupted in a spinning Catherine wheel of scarlet flame and crimson blood. Severed heads, arms, and legs flung into the air and maimed men screamed amid the pornographic violence.

  Shrapnel screeched over Shawn and Tweedy and behind them, Lowth yelped and hit the ground hard.

  Then it was over.

  A dark ribbon of smoke and dust rose in the air spiked with the stink of gunpowder and blood and the day was made terrible by the agonized moans of dying men.

  Shawn rose and glanced at Lowth. The man was sitting up, but his forehead was bloody and his eyes seemed distant and unfocused.

  “See to him, Uriah,” Shawn said.

  Then he walked forward . . . into a charnel house.

  Seeing the result of the bomb, all Shawn’s courage and fortitude went out of him like a gust of breath. He’d been prepared for sprawled bodies and dying men, but not a scene like the aftermath of a demonic feast on the bodies of the damned.

  Moss’s gunmen had been torn apart by the explosion, as had the Chinese girl, her headless, naked corpse obscene in death. The bomber had been blown to smithereens, as there was nothing left of him that was identifiable as human. A red thing without arms or legs begged Shawn for death, but numbed by horror, he could only stumble away from that terrible place, gorge rising in his throat.

  Silas Creeds and the Topock Kid were the only Moss gunmen still alive.

  They stood near the beach surrounded by the terrified women who had fled from the blast. Julia comforted a Chinese girl who sobbed quietly on her shoulder.

  Creeds and the Kid seemed stunned, unable to believe what had happened. Creeds’ hands were in his coat pockets, ready to draw as soon as he could identify the enemy. Beside him, the Kid’s battered face was empty, a man trying to grasp a horror beyond anything in his experience.

  But there was worse to come.

  Moss and Hakim scrambled from the ship and stepped rapidly toward the blast site. Moss had removed his coat and looked tall, handsome, and immaculate in a white, frilled shirt, black pants cut tight in the Mexican style, and English riding boots. He had a blue, ivory-handled Colt stuck in his waistband.

  He saw Creeds and without slowing his pace, yelled, “What the hell happened?”

  “Bomb,” Creeds said, figuring no other explanation was necessary.

  Moss swung on the sheik. “Damn you. Did you plan this?”

  Those six words closed the final chapter of the book of his life.

  He gasped openmouthed as Hakim, moving with flashing speed, rammed three feet of Damascus steel into his belly. Blood stained his mouth as he stared wide-eyed into Hakim’s face, unable to comprehend the terrible fact that the Arab had killed him.

  “Yes, infidel,” Hakim said. “Now I will take your women and make them my own.” He withdrew the sword and Moss fell dead at his feet.

  Hakim kicked the corpse. “Infidel dog.”

  Creeds didn’t lack sand. His guns cleared his pockets, but he fell to the ground under the weight of the crewmen who’d jumped on top of him. Creeds fought like a cougar, kicking out as he tried to bring his .38s to bear. But a savage club to the head from a Lebel butt knocked him into stillness.

  The Kid, surrounded by leveled rifles, made no attempt to draw. He was a paid mercenary and nothing in the code said he had to die to avenge a client. Like Creeds, he was disarmed and pounded to the ground.

  Shawn drew his Colt and retreated slowly toward Tweedy, who was wiping blood from Lowth’s face.

  Without looking at the younger man, Tweedy said, “Don’t try to buck a stacked deck, boy. There’s too damn many of them.”

  A dozen corsairs advanced on Shawn and the others, teeth bared, their rifles up and ready.

  Suddenly Shawn had had enough . . . enough of blood and guts and violence and the screams of dying men. He tossed his Colt away and said to the oncoming Arabs, “Damn you. Come and get me. I’m through.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “The ten-o-three to Sonora and points south ain’t exactly a cannonball, mister,” the ticket agent said. “If I was you I’d talk to the engineer and ask him to let you off at the same place as them other folks.”

  “The question is, am I chasing after the right folks,” Jacob O’Brien said.

  The agent scratched his stubbly chin. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Do you recollect those people, the ones that left the train in Sonora?” Jacob said.

  “I recollect they had a private Pullman and a passel of women,” the agent said. “And that’s all I know. There are gents that don’t like questions, and I didn’t ask none.”

  Jacob was silent as he absorbed that and the agent said, “Hardcases, that’s what they were.”

  “It sounds like the people I’m hunting,” Jacob said. “You hear any names?”

  “I don’t give out passenger’s names to them as has no business knowing them.” The agent found himself looking down the barrel of Jacob’s Colt. He said quickly, “The man who rented the Pullman was called Mr. Moss, and that’s all I know. So you can put the cannon away.”

  “Zebulon Moss?” Jacob asked, holstering his gun.

  “Mr. Moss.”

  “He’s the man for sure. A lot of women, you say?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Did you see a tall, handsome fellow, kinda favors me in some ways?” Jacob said.

  “There ain’t no handsome fellas favor you, mister, if you’ll forgive me for saying.”

  “Well, did you see a good-looking fellow, yellow hair, blue eyes, well set-up?”

  “A few of the hardcases in the Pullman car looked like that.” The agent lowered his head to the ledger in front of him and his eyes were hidden by his black visor. The man’s talking was done.

  Jacob reached inside his mackinaw and consulted his watch. He snapped it shut and said, “Will the ten-o-three be on time?”

  The agent sighed and raised his eyes again. “It’s never early, so it’s always late. Ten minutes, thirty, who knows?”

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” Jacob turned away and headed out the door.

  “Maybe we should open a line just for hardcases,” the agent mumbled. “Seems like we’re getting enough of them coming through here recent.”

  Jacob stepped onto the depot platform and sat on a bench, his eyes scanning the bleak landscape around him. He built a cigarette and settled in for a wait, unsure of what lay ahead for him.

  Was Shawn with Moss? Or had he already been killed?

  Jacob shuddered. That was something he didn’t want to contemplate. Dromore without his laughing, handsome brother would be an empty, dreary place. And how could he break it to the colonel? It could kill him.

  Aware that the black dog was creeping up on him, Jacob rose and walked to the edge of the platform. He looked at the line, the shiny iron rails vanishing into distance, and saw no sign of the train.

  If Shawn was with Moss, perhaps a prisoner, he needed help, and damn soon.

  According to the big railroad clock on the depot wall, the ten-o-three southbound was exactly fifteen minutes late. Other passengers had gathered on the platform, Mexican couples with children mostly, and a soldier in a shabby blue and red army
uniform who carried a slung Lebel rifle.

  After the locomotive chuffed to a halt, Jacob walked along the platform and hailed the engineer, who was leaning out of the cab, studying the line ahead. Jacob questioned him about Moss and asked if he could be dropped off at the same spot.

  Yes, the engineer remembered the folks on the Pullman.

  Yes, there were a bunch of pretty women on board, Chinese, black, and Anglo.

  Yes, he could find the drop-off spot on the line again.

  Yes, he could stop the train and give Jacob time to unload his horse.

  “But,” the man said, “a little something for the inconvenience would not go amiss. If you catch my meaning, mister.”

  “Would twenty dollars cover it?” Jacob said, steam jetting around his legs.

  “Hell, mister, I’ll sell you the whole train for twenty dollars,” the engineer said. “Climb aboard.”

  Chapter Forty

  Shawn O’Brien sat in a circle with four other men, Tweedy, Lowth, Creeds, and the Topock Kid. Facing out, their backs to each other, none of them moved. Movement was impossible, bound tightly as they were with ship’s ropes.

  Lowth’s bowler had holes fore and aft, the result of a walnut-size chunk of shrapnel that had burned across the top of his head and drawn blood. “What will they do with us, do you think, Mr. Tweedy?” he said. Before the other man could answer, he added, “I must admit that I fear the worst.”

  “Well, they took us prisoner instead of killin’ us outright, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “I’d say that’s a good sign.”

  Because of the seating arrangement, Silas Creeds was forced to talk over his shoulder. “They’ll kill us before they sail. The damned pirates are swarming all over the boat, getting her ready for sea.”

  Without the threat of his guns, Creeds seemed diminished, just a tall, skinny man in an oversized coat and battered top hat with fear in his eyes.

  “Are you of the same opinion, Mr. O’Brien?” Lowth asked.

  “Creeds said it right,” Shawn answered.

  “Then we’re done for.” Lowth sighed.

  “Damn you, hangman, do you always state the obvious? Of course we’re done for.” Creeds strained against his bonds. “Damn these ropes. Damn them, damn them, damn them!”

  Creeds’ outburst earned him a kick from one of their guards. The man pushed the muzzle of his rifle against Creeds’ head and said, “Bang!” and the men with him laughed.

  Shawn had no illusions about his fate. The Arabs would not let them live.

  He looked to where Julia and the rest of the women were crowded together on the beach under heavy guard. The guards and the Arabs on the schooner shouted back and forth to one another and it seemed to Shawn that they were planning to load the women soon.

  But a sailing ship needed wind, and the afternoon was dead calm. Unless she could be rowed out in the hope of catching a favorable breeze in the gulf, the schooner was going nowhere that day.

  A persistent buzzing he’d been hearing for some time made Shawn turn his head and look at the place where the bomb had exploded. The whole blood-splashed area was thick with flies, black clouds of them gorging on the remains of what had once been men. And a woman, he reminded himself. For her, death had come fast.

  “Hey, something’s happening.” The Kid’s swollen eyes strained in the direction of the ship.

  The slavers around the ramp bowed low, kowtowing to a creature being led from the ship by the tall man who’d killed Zeb Moss.

  “It’s a woman,” Creeds said.

  “No, it ain’t,” Tweedy disagreed. “It’s some kind of animal.”

  “Wearing clothes, you idiot?” Creeds grumbled.

  “Then it’s an animal wearing clothes.” Tweedy didn’t back down.

  The creature was sexless, a bent, frail shape wearing a brown, hooded cloak. The feet were large, the long toenails like curled horns and the skinny arm the Arab supported with his was wrinkled and as big around as a willow twig. Its face was hidden by the hood. Even when the creature stopped in front of Shawn and the others they couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

  “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim,” the tall Arab said. “I trust you gentlemen are quite comfortable and your needs have been attended to.”

  “You go to hell.” Tweedy spat at the slaver’s feet.

  Hakim nodded. “A brave infidel, is he not, sorceress?”

  So she was female, Shawn thought. And she looked to be about a hundred years old . . . or two hundred.

  “Let us see if you are as brave after my soothsayer pronounces your sentence,” Hakim said. “I must warn you that she is not a merciful woman.”

  The woman pushed back her hood and revealed a face deeply furrowed by a long passage of time. Strands of thin white hair fell to her scrawny neck. She had a small hook of a nose and her black eyes were sunken in the sockets.

  She stood over Tweedy, sniffed the air, and said something to Hakim in a language Shawn did not understand.

  The Arab laughed. “She smells bear, old man. Do you consort with bears?”

  Tweedy looked shocked and said nothing.

  The crone moved on to Lowth and again she smelled the air around him. She again spoke to the sheik in the language Shawn didn’t understand.

  The sheik explained. “The smell of death is all about you, infidel. Are you an executioner?”

  “I am a hangman,” Lowth said. “It is an ancient and honorable profession.”

  Suddenly the sorceress cackled and she spoke longer.

  After she’d finished talking, Hakim smiled. “Ah, that is so exquisite, old woman.” He loomed over Lowth. “You will hang your companions from the yards of my ship. In return, you can have your own miserable life.”

  “And if I don’t?” Lowth asked bravely.

  The sheik spoke to the witch and she spoke again.

  He nodded. “If you don’t, the bellies of you and your companions will be cut open until your guts spill, then you will all be buried alive in the same pit.”

  “Then I’ll do as you say.” Lowth’s face was ashen, like that of a dead man.

  Hakim smiled. His hazel eyes looked like mildewed brass. “The executions will be tomorrow at first light before we sail, hangman. One word of advice. Do not tie the knots too tightly. My men will wish to see the infidels dance.”

  Tweedy, red with anger, nodded at the crone. “Is she your wife, Abdul? She’s as damned ugly as you are.”

  The sheik smiled again. “And you, my bear-loving friend, will dance longest of all.”

  “Thankee, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “Gettin’ hung by a friend is a sight better way to go than a cuttin’ an’ buryin’.”

  “He ain’t no friend of mine.” Creeds turned his head and glared at Lowth. “You do it right, mister. Break my damned neck.”

  “Or what?” Shawn asked, smiling.

  Creeds was silent. There was no answer to that question.

  “I am,” Lowth said softly, “much distressed. I wish my dear wife was here to give me counsel and succor.”

  “It’s not your fault, Thaddeus,’ Shawn pointed out. “The Arab offered you a choice that was no choice at all. You gave him the only answer you could.”

  “I’ve never hung friends before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy’s face suddenly brightened. “Here, do you think that old hag really smelled bear on me?”

  “It would seem so, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said. “That was a most singular occurrence.”

  “I bet it’s the ol’ she bear I slept with during the winter of ’82. Her smell must’ve rubbed off on me.” Tweedy bent his head to look at Shawn. “What’s your opinion on that, O’Brien?”

  “I’d say it seems likely,” Shawn agreed. “I reckon you haven’t taken a bath since.”

  “Bathing gives a man the rheumatisms, boy. Hell, everybody knows that.”

  “Shut the hell up!” Creeds yelled. “
All of you! Let a man have some peace.”

  “Seeing ghosts, Creeds?” Shawn asked.

  He expected the gunman to curse him, but Creeds surprised him by saying, “Yeah, every damned one of them I ever kilt. They’re out there in the desert, watching me. Saying nothing, just standing there, staring at me.”

  “Must be quite a crowd,” Shawn said.

  Creeds tilted back his head and yelled, “I done for all you blackguards once and I’ll do you again! Now leave me the hell alone!”

  “Easy, Creeds,” Shawn advised. “Take your medicine like a man.”

  Creeds slumped. “Ain’t you afraid of dying, O’Brien?”

  “Yeah, I am. But there isn’t much I can do about it.” Shawn nodded to their alert, hostile guards. “Those gents are a pretty determined bunch.”

  Creeds’ gaze moved to the desert where thin shadows stretched among the scrub. “You see them boys out there, O’Brien?”

  “No. They’re hanging heavy on your conscience, Creeds, not mine.”

  “Then be damned to you for a preaching fool,” Creeds said. “I should’ve gunned you when I had the chance.”

  Shawn said nothing and looked over at the schooner. Sailors swarmed over the ship, readying her for sea, and men were aloft in the yards.

  He had until dawn. It was not a long time for a man to live, but time enough to make his peace with God.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The huge locomotive glowed red and steamed like a dragon asleep in a cave.

  “Mister, are you sure you want off here?” The burly engineer stood beside Jacob in the midnight darkness. “North, east, south, and west, there’s nothing but desert and mighty little water, except salt.”

  “I’ll make out.” Jacob’s eyes searched the gloom bereft of moonlight. “You sure Moss’s men took the women west?”