Ralph Compton Slaughter Canyon (9781101559499)

by Compton, Ralph; West, Joseph A.

  Sinclair smiled, as though he relished imparting a final secret.

  “The weight of a normal Pullman car is eighty tons. This car weighs almost twice that much and can withstand a cannonade.”

  “And the reason for all this security is that I believe there is a conspiracy afoot to assassinate me and overthrow the legally elected government of this great nation,” Arthur said.

  Thunder crashed overhead, muted by the thick windows and armor plate of the Pullman. Lightning glimmered, staining parts of the car with sudden flashes of stark white light.

  Suddenly Matt Battles figured it out, the reason for him being there. Now he said as much to the president.

  “You want me assigned as your bodyguard,” he said.

  Arthur shook his head. “No such thing, Marshal. You saw the guards outside, and there’s a company of the Tenth Cavalry bivouacked within train whistle distance. No, I need greater things from you.”

  Rather than ask the obvious question, Battles waited.

  The car was hot, warmed by a potbellied stove, and the air had grown thick and hard to breathe.

  Even the beautiful soldier had tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and nose, but Arthur seemed oblivious.

  He turned to the clerk. “My list, James, if you please.”

  The man dropped a paper in front of Arthur and the president picked it up with both hands.

  “I’m going to read you a list of names, Marshal,” he said. “I want your comment on each.”

  “Who are they?” Battles said.

  “Gunmen,” Colonel Sinclair said, answering for his boss. “Killers, outlaws, men of bad reputation. They hold that in common, but there is one trait more.”

  The soldier waited until he saw a question form on Battles’s face, then said: “There’s a score of names on the president’s list and every man jack of them has disappeared off the face of the earth over the past month.”

  Battles smiled. “They’re in a dangerous profession, Colonel.”

  “I agree. But for them all to vanish at the same time is just too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Arthur spoke again. “I fear these men could have been hired by a person or persons unknown to take part in a desperate venture—perhaps even start a second civil war.”

  Chapter 3

  An Army of Gunmen

  It took Matt Battles a few seconds to comprehend what the president was telling him. Then he said: “Sir, the men on your list could be second-raters, wannabes who were trying to make a reputation and ended up with their beards in the sawdust of cow town saloons.” He smiled. “It happened to a bunch of them all at once, is all.”

  “That man you killed down El Paso way, Marshal,” Arthur said. “Was he a second-rater, a wannabe, as you say?”

  Battles’s eyes hardened as he tried to figure whether his honor was in doubt.

  Arthur, with a politician’s perception, saw the lawman’s face stiffen and smiled. “Just an honest question, Marshal. Establishing the man’s bona fides, you understand.”

  Battles took a breath and said: “Like I said earlier, his name was Tom Riley, though sometimes he went by Bob Rawlins. He was a bank and stage robber mostly, but he dabbled in cattle rustling and once did a two-year stint as a city policeman in Denver.”

  “He was fast with a gun?”

  “He was. Riley was real quick and smooth on the draw and shoot.”

  “And he had a reputation? As a gunman, I mean.”

  Battles nodded. “He’d killed his share. Riley was a named man.”

  “A named man? Then he was not a ... second-rater?”

  “He was one of the fastest around. He didn’t want to go back to Yuma, was all.”

  “And you killed him?”

  “He’d been notified, but he went for the iron.”

  “You found a letter on him, Marshal,” Arthur said. “And a map.”

  “Yes.” Battles reached into his coat. “I have them here.”

  Arthur waved a hand. “Later.”

  He picked up the paper on his desk and settled his pince-nez higher on the bridge of his nose. “Your reaction to these names, Marshal, if you please.”

  The president cleared his throat, and talked over a sudden burst of thunder. “Joe Dawson.”

  “Hired gun. Works out of Fannin County, Texas, and gets top dollar. He killed Ed Seagal up in the Nations a while back, and nobody, including me, considered Ed a bargain.”

  “Dee O’Day.”

  “Hired killer. Boasts he’ll cut any man, woman, or child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars. And he has.”

  “Sam Thorne.”

  “Another hired gun. He’s fast and notches his Colts. Last I heard he’d killed seven men, and he’s probably added to that total since then.”

  “Luke Anderson.”

  “Robber and killer. Likes doves and is suspected of beating one to death with a hammer in Fort Worth.”

  “The Holbrook Kid.”

  “Fast gun, operates out of Tucson. Killed a sheriff’s deputy in Utah a spell back.”

  “Chess Thomas.”

  “Black man. Hired killer. Favors a rifle, even for close work.”

  “Ben Lane.”

  “A top-rated Texas gunman and range detective. Once killed a man for calling him Benny, a name he hates. He’ll rid your range of rustlers all right, but his services come dear, thirty dollars a day plus expenses.”

  Arthur stifled a yawn. “I know this grows tedious, Marshal, so one more name at random.”

  The president’s eyes dropped to the bottom of his list. “Juan Duran.”

  “Goes by the name of Durango. He’s a Mexican and Apache breed and they don’t come any meaner. He’s poison fast with the Colt and usually works the Indian Territory. Ramrods his own gang of murderers, thieves, and rapists, but he’s killed more than his share on his own account.”

  Arthur removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he looked at Battles again, he seemed tired. “Are any of the men I mentioned wannabes or third-raters?”

  The marshal smiled and shook his head. “No, sir, you’ve got the best of the worst.”

  “All expert gunmen?”

  “Every man jack of them.”

  “And I’ve got another, what?” His eyes dropped to the list. “Fourteen just like them.”

  Battles saw the light. “If the rest are as dangerous as the ones you mentioned, then they’re an army.”

  “Exactly. An army of gunmen who all disappeared off the face of the earth at the same time. Why, in God’s name, why?”

  That last wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and Battles said nothing.

  Colonel Sinclair stood in front of Battles. He seemed to be wilting a little in the heat of the car.

  “May we see the letter now, Marshal, and the map?”

  Battles handed the papers over to the soldier, who then turned to Arthur.

  “Shall I read the letter aloud to you, sir?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “Dear Mr. Riley,” Sinclair read, “your fame as a daring and desperate outlaw has spread far and wide and I have become your most devoted admirer.

  “Thus, I request your most honorable presence at my home at your earliest convenience. Rest assured, if you accept my invitation you will become rich beyond your wildest dreams.

  “Enclosed is a map that will guide you to my estate.

  “Until we meet, I remain, your obedient servant ...”

  Sinclair laid the letter on Arthur’s desk.

  “It’s signed Hatfield J. Warful,” the colonel said.

  The president let the letter lie and looked at Battles. “Ever hear of this bird, Marshal?”

  Battles shook his head. “No, it’s a new one on me.”

  “Where does the map lead, Colonel?” Arthur said. “North of where we are at present, I take it.”

  “Yes, north. It would seem to be a place called Slaughter Canyon, Mr. President.”

  “That
’s up in the Guadalupe Ridge country,” Battles said. “It looks like Warful’s location is a mile west of Double Canyon Draw.”

  “You know that area, Marshal?” Sinclair said.

  “Yes, I’ve been up that way. It’s mostly forested country with a backbone of dry mountains that rise seven thousand feet above the trees. The peaks themselves are surrounded by forested flats that stretch to the horizon in all directions.”

  Battles shook his head. “It’s a lost, lonely place that few white men ever visit.” He looked at the president. “Who the hell would want to live there?”

  “Mr. Warful, evidently,” Arthur said. “And what better place to hide a small army of gunmen?”

  Chapter 4

  Lost Souls

  Battles moved in his chair, feeling sweat gather in the small of his back. Despite the car’s armor plate, he heard the steam-kettle hiss of the rain and a soldier’s rattling cough.

  Hardly aware of the clerk refilling his brandy glass, he said: “Mr. President, if all the men on your list got the same letter and map, that means they’re bunched up in Slaughter Canyon. Why not send in the Tenth Cavalry to rout them out and arrest Warful?”

  Arthur threw up his hands in horror, and Battles was sure he saw his sideburns bristle.

  “Marshal, I plan to seek reelection in ’eighty-four and I can’t supply ammunition to the damned Democrats. They’re already after my hide because I signed the Chinese Exclusion Act, so imagine what they’ll do if I use the army to crush a lawful assembly of voting citizens. If blood was spilled—and it would be spilled—they’d crucify me.... Why, they’d...”

  Arthur looked desperately at Sinclair. “Tell him, Colonel, for God’s sake.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Marshal, if we deploy the Tenth and some of those gunmen die, what is to stop Warful from claiming that they were lost souls under his spiritual care?”

  “You mean he’d say his place in the mountains was a peaceful retreat for penitent outlaws who deeply regretted their misdeeds?” Battles said.

  “Exactly. A peaceful retreat, that is, until the president’s bloodthirsty cavalry charged the holy place and cut down the repentant brethren, all good Democrats, with sabers.”

  Sinclair’s smile was wintry. “Imagine what the Democratic press could do with the Massacre at Slaughter Canyon?” He shuddered. “And that’s only one scenario. There are others. And remember, women and children could be present. Who knows?”

  Battles saw logic in the colonel’s fears.

  The public would find repenting rogues easier to believe than the premise that the West’s top gunmen had pushed aside their differences and had gathered in one place at one time to plot mischief.

  The marshal drank his brandy, was wishful of a cigarette, but recalled hearing that the sickly president was down on smoking.

  “All right,” he said, suddenly tired and increasingly irritable from tobacco hunger. “Where do I come in?”

  Sinclair looked at the president. “Shall I sum up, sir?”

  Arthur nodded wearily, his skin an odd yellow color.

  “Marshal Battles, you will go to Slaughter Canyon, infiltrate the group, and find out what the hell is going on up there,” the colonel said.

  Battles laughed out loud. “Colonel, half the men on your list know me by sight. And Durango certainly does. I put lead into him three years ago up on the Picketwire and he’s held it against me ever since.”

  “We’ve taken care of that, Marshal,” Sinclair said. “As of now, you’re a wanted man yourself.”

  Before Battles had a chance to speak, Arthur took a gold watch from his vest pocket, thumbed it open, and glanced at the time, the action of a man in a hurry.

  “Marshal,” he said, “three days ago you robbed the Cattlemen’s and Mercantile Bank in Pecos Station, Texas, and killed a teller—”

  “A poor Swede boy,” Sinclair said.

  “And then you rode north along the west bank of the Pecos River, pursued by a posse.” Arthur snapped his watch shut. “After one of the pursuing posse members was killed and two wounded, they lost you near the Yeso Hills summit.”

  Battles’s chin dropped to somewhere around his belly button. He tried to talk, but uttered only a dry, strangled croak.

  Arthur smiled. “Don’t fret, Marshal, we know you didn’t rob the bank. The whole thing was set up by the Secret Service on my orders.”

  “The poor Swede boy you shot was actually an out-of-work actor,” Sinclair said. “He was later spirited away to Washington, where he’ll remain until this Slaughter Canyon thing is settled. As for the posse you shot up, it never existed.”

  The colonel passed a newspaper clipping to Battles. “Here, read about it.”

  Still in shock, Battles scanned the story’s cascading headlines.

  U.S. DEPUTY MARSHAL TURNS ROGUE

  Teller Killed In Bloody Bank Robbery

  Poor Swede Boy Hurled Into Eternity In An

  Instant By Marshal’s Murderous Revolver

  Left Weltering In Gore

  Grieving Widow Weeps For Loving Spouse

  Who Will Ne’er Come Home Again

  Rangers Vow To Apprehend Killer

  Battles tossed the clip on Arthur’s desk.

  “You read the account that quickly, Marshal?” he said.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  “The story has already appeared in newspapers all over Texas and the New Mexico Territory,” the president said. “You’ve become quite famous.”

  “And be assured your newfound fame will have already reached the ears of Hatfield J. Warful and his cohorts,” Sinclair said. “Now I hope they will readily accept you into their group.”

  “Maybe,” Battles said. “Durango ain’t a forgiving man.”

  “Then you’ll have to deal with him, won’t you?” the colonel said, his face cold.

  Battles made no answer. He no longer cared about Arthur’s attitude toward tobacco.

  He needed a smoke.

  Chapter 5

  “Mr. President, This Is Blackmail.”

  “Please give the marshal another brandy,” President Arthur told his clerk. “Poor man looks as though he needs it.”

  Battles took out the makings, built a smoke, and lit it. He let the clerk refill his glass.

  “Tobacco is a friend to many,” Arthur said, frowning. “But it’s a devil in disguise.”

  The marshal let that go and said: “Mr. President, you set all this up days ago, while I was still on the trail from Texas?”

  Arthur smiled. “My dear Marshal Battles, we set it up, as you say, weeks ago, after we learned about the strange disappearance of the gunfighters.”

  Battles dragged smoke deep into his lungs and felt the tobacco work its relaxing magic. “Why me?”

  “Because you were the best man for the job.” The president turned to Sinclair. “Is that not so, Colonel?”

  “Indeed, sir,” the soldier said. He looked at Battles. “You came highly recommended, Marshal, a man of integrity, courage, and skill at arms. But more important, you have intelligence enough to pass yourself off as a rogue lawman on the scout.”

  “And if I say no?” Battles asked.

  “Then you will turn in your star right now,” the president said. “After that, as Mr. Battles, you will have to take your chances on the robbery and murder charges.”

  “Trumped-up charges,” Battles said.

  “I’m sure the Secret Service can find ways to make them stick,” Arthur said.

  Battles was stung. “Mr. President, this is blackmail.”

  Arthur smiled without humor. “You choose an ugly word, Marshal. Let’s just call it persuasion.”

  “Well, will you do it?” Sinclair asked. His eyes were hard, like green ice. “Your country needs you at this critical time.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Battles felt defeat weigh on him. “Then I guess I’ve got to do it.”

  Arthur and Col
onel Sinclair looked visibly relieved.

  “Crackerjack!” the president said. “As I said earlier you will infiltrate the group, learn what you can about Warful and his plans, and report back here, to this place.”

  “I’ll tent here for two weeks with a company of the Tenth, Marshal,” Sinclair said. “If, after that time, I haven’t heard from you, I’ll assume you’re dead and make alternative plans accordingly.”

  Battles’s smile was bleak. “It sounds like I’m one expendable lawman.”

  “Well, that goes with the badge you wear, does it not?” Sinclair said.

  Arthur rose to his feet.

  “The hour grows late and I’m sure you’re eager to be on your way,” he said. “My clerk will see that you’re provisioned from my own supplies.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Well, good luck, Marshal Battles.”

  When Battles took his proffered hand, the president said: “When this enterprise is successfully concluded, there could be advancement in it for you. Is that not so, Colonel?”

  “Indeed,” Sinclair said, with a notable lack of enthusiasm, as though the petty promise of promotion to a civilian was beneath the notice of a soldier.

  He looked at Battles, dismissing him with his glance. “Two weeks, Marshal. Make them count.”

  Matt Battles reckoned that the president didn’t live very high on the hog, judging by the supplies his clerk stuffed in a burlap sack.

  “I’ve packed enough for a couple of days, Marshal,” he said. “That’s all the colonel said you’d need. Salt pork, hardtack and half a loaf of sourdough bread. Oh, and I included a tin cup and coffee.”

  He smiled like a conspirator plotting the death of Caesar. “And I tossed in a pint of Old Crow to keep out the night chill.”

  Battles took the sack. “I’m obliged.”

  The clerk said, “Well, good luck, Marshal.”

  “Thanks,” Battles said. “Something tells me I’m gonna need it.”