Ralph Compton Slaughter Canyon (9781101559499)

by Compton, Ralph; West, Joseph A.

  The man was surly. “What do you think, lawman? And why the hell do you care?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Battles said. “Not here. On deck where there’s fresh air. I need you alert.”

  “Go to hell,” Tidy said. He puffed his cheeks as a wave of nausea hit him.

  “John, do you want to die?” Battles said.

  The outlaw nodded. “Right now? Yeah, I do. Gladly.”

  “By this time tonight, you and the rest of these men will be dead,” Battles said. “I mean, from a cut throat, not the seasickness.”

  Tidy’s eyes looked like piss holes in snow.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Battles?” he said.

  “Mad Dog Donovan intends to kill us all and keep the gold for himself,” Battles said. “Did I say it plain enough for you?”

  Tidy glared at the marshal for a long time, trying to gauge his sincerity. He made up his mind. “Help me up the damned ladder and we’ll talk. But if you’re acting like an old maid hearing a rustle in the bushes, Battles, I’ll gun you fer sure.”

  The trade wind was still blowing fair from the north, and the Lila’s sails billowed as she headed south past the Mexican headlands at a spanking speed. The moon, still as bright as a coin, now hung lower in the sky and silvered the ship’s wake.

  The fresh air of the weather deck helped Tidy and he listened intently, his hand on the starboard rail, as Battles recounted his conversation with the helmsman.

  “You heard him right?” Tidy said. “Maybe he was lying.”

  “Yes, I heard him right,” Battles said. “And he wasn’t lying. After all my years as a peace officer, I usually can tell when a man is spinning a windy.”

  “Then you reckon we’re in for a fight.”

  “Or a massacre, if we can’t get the men on their feet.”

  “Have you told Warful?”

  “No, not yet. I reckon he’s probably as sick as the rest.”

  Tidy thought for a while, then said: “You and me could go after Donovan, gun the son of a bitch.”

  “His cabin is forward, and he’ll be well guarded,” Battles said. “Only half the crew are in their hammocks. He’ll keep the rest close.”

  Tidy gave Battles a rare smile, like ice breaking in a pond.

  “I’m in the mood for a fight,” he said. “Let Mad Dog and his jack-tars have at it.”

  Battles’s eyes reached into the darkness. “They’ll come from the front of the ship,” he said. “Up there on the quarterdeck, there’s a couple of swivel guns, the sailors call them smashers, and we’ll need to man those.”

  “Ben Lane and Luke Anderson both handled cannon during the war,” Tidy said. “Anderson is a demon when he’s around women, but he’s rock steady in a gunfight.”

  “Good. Then tonight we’ll use the darkness to get all the men on deck and Lane and Anderson on the swivel guns,” Battles said. “Just before six bells on the first watch, Donovan will call his seamen forward and arm them.”

  “What about the ranny who steers the boat and told you about Donovan’s plan?” Tidy said.

  “He says he’s on our side, but I’ll keep an eye on him just the same.”

  “Then let’s get the boys on their feet and tell them what’s happening,” Tidy said. “We’ll also need to tell Warful.”

  Battles’s teeth gleamed white in the gloom. “Do you want to open the door of his cabin?”

  “Hell no,” Tidy said, shuddering.

  A man suffering from seasickness, even the hardest hard case, sets all pride and ego aside and wishes only to die, and the sooner the better. Thus he becomes a captive, if inattentive, audience.

  There was no question of talking to the gunmen with a full watch of seamen in their hammocks. The sailors all seemed to be asleep, but ears may be open, even though eyes are closed.

  A wooden partition with a single door separated the seamen’s quarters from a small galley. Beyond this, screened by only a canvas tarp, was an open hatch and ladder that led down to the orlop, the lowest deck on the ship.

  Battles took a lantern from the galley and descended the ladder. He found himself in a low-beamed deck filled with spare ropes and cables, and there was a brand-new sea anchor stowed amidships.

  After a last look around, Battles climbed the ladder again and found Tidy waiting for him at the hatch.

  “Well?” he said.

  “We’ll go down there where it’s private and try to get the men on their feet,” Battles said.

  “All of them?” Tidy said, surprised.

  “No, not at first. We’ll start with Lon Stuart and Durango.”

  Tidy whistled between his teeth. “Ol’ Lon is liable to start shooting if we try to move him.”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Battles said. “Get his gun from him if you can. And do the same with Durango.”

  “You like to live dangerously, don’t you, lawman?” Tidy said, shaking his head.

  “That’s nothing to the danger we’ll be in if we don’t get those two bad men upright,” Battles said.

  Chapter 25

  Matt Battles Takes a Hand

  Sick as they were, and apart from a tirade of cursing, Stuart and Durango put up little resistance and Tidy’s deft removal of their guns drew their teeth.

  Once in the shifting, lamp-splashed gloom of the orlop, Battles forced both men to sip water while Tidy stood guard at the hatch.

  Stuart and Durango were covered in vomit, theirs and other men’s, and they smelled to high heaven.

  Durango pulled himself together enough to look around, his bloated face puzzled. “What the hell are we doing down here?” he said.

  “I need to talk to you, both of you,” Battles said. “Are you well enough to listen?”

  Stuart, irritated, turned to Durango and said: “We’re dying, and the son of a bitch is asking us conundrums.”

  “You’ll die a heap faster if you don’t hear what I have to say.”

  Battles looked at Tidy, who was standing on the ladder, his head bent, listening.

  “All right up there?” Battles said.

  Tidy stuck his head through the hatch, then ducked back and gave the all-clear.

  Battles again turned his attention to Stuart and Durango.

  “I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “And I want you to listen.”

  “Hell, man, we’re sick,” Durango said.

  “There can’t be any puke left inside you to throw up,” Battles said. “Drink some more water, damn you. Time is a-wasting.”

  Stuart, talking with care, like a man whose stomach was tied together with string, said: “Tell us what’s on your mind, Battles. And make it quick and simple.”

  That’s exactly what Battles did, told his story plain, with no embroidery.

  When he was finished, Durango said: “When is what’s his name ... Mad Dog ... planning his attack?”

  “During the first watch, at six bells.”

  “What the hell does that mean, Battles?” Stuart said, his anger, made worse by sickness, flaring. “One day on a boat and you’re Davy Farragut? What’s six bells in American time?”

  “Eleven o’clock,” Battles said. “Tonight.”

  “Couldn’t you have said that in the first place?” Stuart said.

  He rose slowly to his feet, banged his head against a low beam, and soundly cursed Battles, his seasickness, the Pacific Ocean, the treachery of the Lila’s crew, and his signing on with Warful in the first damn place.

  “Now you’ve alarmed the whole ship. Can we keep the noise down?” Battles said. “We don’t want Donovan to know we’re onto him.”

  His tirade over, but his dander still up, Stuart rounded on Tidy, who still stood on the hatch ladder.

  “You,” he said, “give me back my iron.”

  Tidy smiled. “On that coil of rope at your feet, Lon, as ever was.”

  After he picked up his gun, Stuart passed Durango his revolver and, still surly, said: “The balance
is all wrong with that piece.”

  “It suits me,” Durango said.

  “Then more fool you,” Stuart said. “It’ll get you killed one day.”

  Durango thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and pointed the gun at Stuart’s belly. “You want to try out its balance today, Lon?”

  “Enough!” Battles said, his own anger rising. “You’ll have a bellyful of fighting tonight, all the fight you want. Now split ass up the ladder and rouse the rest of the men. Get them on their feet before you tell them what’s happening. And for God’s sake, keep your voices down.”

  “Do we get the men on deck?” Stuart said.

  “No. For the time being I want them to act real sick,” Battles said.

  “They won’t need to act,” Stuart said. “They’re already sick as pigs.”

  “What about Warful?” Durango said.

  “I’ll tell him,” Battles said. “Whatever we do next is his call.”

  Battles rapped on the door of Warful’s cabin.

  “Who ... is ... it?” The man’s voice was slow, measured, a tormented belly thinning his words.

  “Matt Battles. I need you on deck. We’ve got trouble.”

  Warful groaned. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Battles said.

  When the marshal came on deck, the moon had dropped low enough to rest its chin on the mountains along the coast. The northern trade wind still gusted fair, but now it had a honed edge that made Battles shiver after the thick, stifling heat of the lower deck. A lantern on the quarterdeck cast orange light on Battles’s hat and shoulders, and somewhere in the darkness he heard the mutter of men as the hands went about the mysterious duties of the night watches.

  Warful stepped out from the captain’s cabin, looked around, saw Battles, and strode toward him. The giant’s normally yellow face had a queer greenish tinge, but the skin still stuck tight to the skull.

  “Mr. Battles,” he said, “this better be good. My lady wife is in considerable distress from the infernal movement of the ship and she needs my constant care and attention.”

  “It won’t take long,” Battles said. “Just listen to what I have to tell you.”

  Warful heard the story in silence, and only when the marshal stopped talking, did he say: “Treachery, by God! I suspected Mad Dog was a wrong-hearted scoundrel, and now I know for sure.”

  He peered at Battles through the waning moonlight. “How are the men?”

  “In Stuart’s words, ‘sick as pigs.’”

  The bad news hit Warful like a fist. Finally he said: “We could strike first, but not with sick men.”

  “Uh-huh, it could be a chancy thing,” Battles allowed.

  “How will they be by six bells tonight? I’ll need fighting men, not invalids.”

  “I don’t know. Better, I hope.”

  “Then we’ll fight a defensive battle and save the ship.”

  The sinking moon had left the night to the stars, and the sky blazed from horizon to horizon. The wind talked in the rigging and the sea whispered along the Lila’s sides.

  “Warful,” Battles said, having long since decided that this man didn’t merit a respectful “Mr.,” “kill too many sailors and this boat will go around in circles until we all starve or run aground.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Warful said. He seemed not to notice the lack of an honorific or he didn’t care. “Kill Mad Dog and the rest will buckle under. Once they see their captain laid out with coins on his eyes, the fight will go out of the dogs.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Battles said. “One thing we don’t want to see is a deck littered with dead seamen.”

  Warful smiled. “Or gunfighters, Mr. Battles. Or gunfighters.”

  Chapter 26

  A Dangerous Invitation

  Mad Dog Donovan appeared on deck after breakfast and seemed friendly enough, though half a dozen tough sailors loitered close, keeping an eye on him.

  Battles was on deck with Stuart, Durango, and several other gunmen who felt well enough to venture into the fresh air.

  The Lila, starting to feel the effect of the south-blowing trade wind, heeled to starboard, but still managed to keep up a good clip, glassy seawater cascading over her fo’c’sle.

  “How are you feeling, mates?” Donovan said, grinning. “Is the Lila’s humble fare agreeing with you? I like to see a cove eat as sails along o’ me.”

  Nobody answered, but all stared blankly at the man.

  Mad Dog rubbed his belly. “You take me, now. There’s a man who loves his grub, you’ll say. Aye, and you wouldn’t be far wrong.”

  He picked between his upper teeth with a horny thumbnail.

  “Fried salt pork is Mad Dog’s meat, along o’ eggs, runnylike, an’ ship’s biscuit, right tasty if you leave the weevils where they be.”

  Donovan’s speech had the desired effect. A couple of gunmen, hands over their mouths, ran to the rail and retched.

  Even Battles began to feel queasy.

  “You think this sea is bad?” Donovan said. “Ha, we’re a toy boat in a pond compared to where we’re headed. Then where’s worse, says you? Why, I says, it’s the Horn, lads. Aye, in Drake’s Passage I’ve seen waves as high as the top o’ the mizzen, and them was the small ones. She’ll pitch and roll, this one, and all the time many a lively sailorman with the sea’s sickness will wish he was dead, even more than you lads are feeling now.”

  Donovan watched another gunman stagger to the rail, and, his mad eyes calculating, he said: “Why, I mind well the time off Tierra del Fuego—”

  “Captain Donovan, don’t you have duties that command your attention?” Battles said.

  The marshal had his eye on Lon Stuart. The Texan would not be pushed, and Mad Dog with his talk of salt pork and high seas was dancing on his toes. Stuart’s fingertips tapped the handle of his Colt, and the posture of his shoulders told Battles he was ready for the draw and shoot.

  Maybe Mad Dog saw it too, because he broke into a smile and said: “There I go. As soon as I gets a-talkin’ to shipmates, why, damn my eyes, I won’t be silenced for man nor devil.” He gave Battles a slight bow. “You’re right, matey, I must be about my duties, as you were so kind to point out, like.”

  Donovan made to step away, but stopped and turned.

  “Oh, I near forgot,” he said. “I think you lads are gold dust, not a pushing bunch of lubbers at all. An’ that’s why tonight at six bells in the first watch I’ve ordered up a double tot of grog for all hands, and Fighting Tom Clancy from Dublin Town will play his fiddle. Now, then, me and the lads would admire if you’d join us.”

  Battles opened his mouth to speak, but Donovan held up a hand and said: “Well, says you, that’s right handsome o’ Cap’n Donovan and we’ll gladly attend. But, says I, we’re all shipmates here, so leave them guns behind. It’s unfriendly, like, and a rum go to be sure.”

  Battles smiled. “And will your sailors have guns, Cap’n? Or cutlasses?”

  “Bless you, sir, no,” Donovan said. “Grog an’ fiddlin’ is what we’re after.” He turned to the sailors around him. “Is that not so, mates?”

  The seamen nodded in agreement, and one hulking brute said: “Double grog was never ol’ Poke’s way, so all we want is to take pleasure in Mad Dog’s generosity an’ wet our pipes, like.”

  Another murmur of agreement rose from the sailors, and Battles said: “Then we’ll attend and leave our weapons behind.”

  Donovan clapped his hands and beamed. “Didn’t I tell you, lads? Gold dust. Lubbers to a man, mind, but gold dust just the same.”

  Stuart watched Mad Dog and his seamen go, then said to Battles: “Leave our guns behind? Are you out of your mind?”

  “I don’t want Donovan to feel that anything is amiss,” the marshal said. “With so many men down, right now we’re not in any shape for a fight. I hope to God that come six bells we are.”

  Chapter 27

  Death of the Albatross

  As the day t
wilighted into evening, the gunmen recovered enough to wash their filthy clothes in seawater and lie bare-chested on the deck.

  The men were aware of Mad Dog’s plans, but, at Matt Battles’s insistence, they kept their guns below under guard.

  Warful, older, still sick and confined to his cabin by his wife, was out of it for now, and Battles guessed he would take no part in the fight.

  An hour into the first watch, the wind dropped and the Lila’s sails flapped like damp laundry on a clothesline. Mad Dog tacked the ship to the southwest, trying to catch the trade wind, but the Lila slowed to a stop and rolled at the mercy of the waves.

  Under sail, a ship is a living thing that groans and creaks and talks to the wind and sea, but a stillness fell on the deck, and men were made uneasy by the ghostly silence.

  Battles glanced at the lowering sun and wished for night.

  “Watching it won’t make it set any earlier, Battles,” Lon Stuart said.

  The marshal smiled. “I want the damned thing over with, I guess.”

  “The men will be ready.”

  “Remember, I want those swivel guns secured,” Battles said.

  “Tidy spoke to Ben Lane and Luke Anderson. They’ve used cannon before and they say they’ll man the scatter guns.”

  “Then all we can do is wait for dark.”

  “You scared, Battles?” Stuart said.

  To his surprise, the marshal had to think before answering.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think I am.”

  Stuart nodded. “You any idea how many kinds of hell a bunch of fast guns can unload on pilgrims crammed together on a deck like this?”

  “Yeah, I have a good idea.”

  Battles was silent for a few moments, then said: “I’ll tell you what I told Warful—we can’t leave the deck littered with dead seamen. Do that and we’ll have nobody left to sail the ship.”

  Stuart shrugged. “Hell, seamen, sailors, they’ll have to take their chances like everyone else.”

  “Just don’t kill them all,” Battles said, “or this ship will become our floating coffin.”