Diablo Death Cry

by Jon Sharpe

  • • •

  A rocky, steeply descending Indian trace led down to the floor of the canyon. At some ancient time a river had cut the steep cliffs that formed its striated walls. Trap rock shelves had been carved out by wind in the centuries since, making the walls nearly impossible to scale, especially from above.

  “This is the only way in,” Fargo repeated as they descended. “If they mean to put paid to us, they’ll have to ride this trail down. If it hasn’t dried up, the spring is under that big trap rock shelf at the rear of the canyon.”

  “Say, Catfish,” Booger called out from the rear, “if there’s only one way in, there’s only one way out. What if them sons of Coronado decide to just starve us out?”

  “Then we’ll be shit out of luck,” Fargo admitted cheerfully. “But with water and horses to slaughter and eat, we could hold out for a month or so. Does that prideful hothead Salazar strike you as the type who’s willing to wait?”

  “Naw. He’s the type to stick the reins in his teeth and come in a-smokin’.”

  “God dawg!” Deke exclaimed a few minutes later when they emerged onto the floor of the canyon. His horse shied back at the spooky sight.

  “Stick your eyes back in your head,” Fargo said. “I told you this place was an Indian burial ground.”

  Dead Navajos, wrapped in colorful shrouding, lay on scaffolds eight or ten feet off the ground. Fargo knew the bones were eventually buried in another secret location after all the flesh rotted away.

  A chamois tobacco pouch had been tied to a scaffold so the departed soul could smoke in the afterlife. Booger reached out to snatch it.

  “Stay your hand,” Fargo snapped.

  “Ain’t you the sensitive son of a bitch?” Booger shot back sarcastically. But, perhaps remembering his recent promise to obey Fargo’s every order, he left the pouch where it was.

  “There’s the savages,” Deke announced as they neared the spring. “Damn my eyes, lookit! They’ve butchered out one of their mules!”

  “I couldn’t stop him,” Cherokee Bob said as the new arrivals lit down. “When All Behind Him gets hungry, he’ll kill any man who stops him from eating.”

  “Never mind,” Fargo said. “If things go our way, he’ll have a horse to ride and plenty more to eat.”

  A little spring of clear, cool water filled a natural rock sink. Fargo joined the others and drank his fill before plunging his head under. Each man briefly dipped his weapons to cool them off, then reloaded.

  “Bitch,” he said, his voice all business, “we don’t have much time. Hobble all the mounts after they drink.”

  He turned to Deke. “Did you divide that red chili powder into two sacks like I told you?”

  “Sure. They’re in my saddlebags, but what—”

  “Caulk up.” Fargo pointed back toward the entrance trail. “See those two niches on either side of the trail—the ones in shadow about twenty feet above it? There’s staircase ledges leading up to both of them. When we finish here, I want you and Bitch to each take a sack and climb up on both sides.”

  Fargo untied his bandanna and handed it to Deke. “Booger, give yours to Bitch. Tie them over your nose and mouth. Wait until you hear the blast of Cherokee Bob’s hand cannon. Then shake that powder out. Keep your eyes shut or it’ll blind you.”

  “Fargo,” Booger said, “you’re the big bushway here. But I think your wick is flickering. Sure, Deke and Bitch ain’t no great shakes as marksmen, but why waste two more shooters? They can’t aim to shoot once that chili-pep powder gets to blowin’ all around up there.”

  “There’s no point in stuffing the hog through its asshole,” Fargo said. “In warfare you have to mislead, mystify, and surprise your enemy. We’ll call this one a surprise.”

  Fargo hated to stake human lives—especially his own—on one roll of the dice. But he had seen those highly trained and disciplined Spanish marksmen in action, and given their numbers, simply trading bullets with them was a fool’s mission.

  Fargo looked at the Delaware, who was contentedly mashing up a mule steak, his mouth ringed with grease.

  “All Behind Him, I want you to haul that fat ass of yours up the entrance trail—quick. ’Bout halfway up you’ll see a deep cleft in the rock, big enough to wedge back into. Once Deke and Bitch shake that powder out, horses and riders are likely to panic. They’ll try to turn back. Use that pepperbox of yours and kill enough horses to choke the trail, y’unnerstan’? We want them forced out into the canyon.”

  Reluctantly, All Behind Him interrupted his chewing. “I do it. But take food.”

  “Of course. Hell, I can’t ask a man to kill on an empty stomach,” Fargo barbed. All Behind Him nodded in solemn agreement. Fargo shook his head in disbelief.

  “Booger,” he said, “me and you got the long guns, and Bob’s a good shot with a handgun. It’ll be up to us three to ventilate the Spaniards when they break out onto the canyon floor. Mister, I mean stack ’em up like cordwood.”

  Fargo looked at each man in turn. “Everybody understand what to do?”

  They all nodded, Booger grinning like a proud tutor as he finally understood Fargo’s plan.

  Deke’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously when he swallowed. “I understand, Skye. But it all gives me belly flies.”

  “Well, don’t stand there gawking like a ninny. If you get nervous up there, count your toes.”

  Fargo jacked a round into the Henry’s chamber. “All right, boys, let’s get a wiggle on! They’ll be on us quick, and we’re gonna settle their hash for good.”

  19

  Half an hour passed in tense silence. The only sound in the deep, empty canyon was the ghostly moaning of wind slicing through the narrow entrance.

  Fargo, Booger, and Cherokee Bob fanned out behind granite boulders, eyes trained on the spot where the trace debouched into Diablo Canyon.

  “Hell,” Cherokee Bob called to Fargo and Booger. “You think maybe those stupid yacks rode on past?”

  “They’re out there,” Fargo said confidently. “Salazar’s a military man—he’ll send a man in on foot to probe the entrance and get the lay of the place. Just hold your powder until I give the hail.”

  Sure enough, about ten minutes later Fargo spotted a face peering out into the canyon. The horses and Ambrose were in full view, but no Americans.

  After about two minutes the face disappeared.

  “Get ready to open the ball,” Fargo told his companions.

  Soon Fargo heard the snuffling of horses, the clinking of bit rings, and the creaking of saddle leather. And then Diego Salazar emerged on his magnificent Arabian black.

  “Put at him, Bob!” Fargo called out, and suddenly the mausoleum quiet of Diablo Canyon was shattered by an ear-piercing blast that ricocheted back and forth between the high stone walls.

  The distance was too great, and Cherokee Bob’s smooth-bore gun too inaccurate, to score a hit on Salazar. But the two-ounce ball punched into the Arabian’s chest; its knees came unhinged and the black dropped dead in its tracks.

  Salazar showed remarkable agility as he leaped nimbly off his falling mount and dashed for the cover of a boulder. Fargo managed to get off a snapshot but missed, the round whining as it ricocheted off stone.

  The detonation of Cherokee Bob’s hand cannon had unleashed chaos on the narrow trace. Right on cue Deke and McDade had flung their ground red pepper onto the attacking troops.

  The abrasive powder worked better than Fargo’s wildest hopes. He glimpsed horses stumbling and rebelling, many throwing their confused riders. The soldiers, too, were temporarily blinded by the “devil dust,” as Deke had taken to calling it. This terrible powder drove all courage and fighting spirit from a man instantly.

  Fargo could hear those in the rear shouting the retreat, but All Behind Him’s rotating-barrel pistol was chattering now, clogging the trail with d
ead horses. With no avenue left for escape, the only option for avoiding the swirling powder was the canyon itself.

  Aragon, riding out front with Salazar, had missed the worst effects of the devil dust. He spurred his mount forward, a ridiculous sight as he waved his saber.

  “Adelante!” he screamed, his face and voice fear-sharpened to the very edge of panic. “Forward!”

  Fargo sighted down the long barrel of his Henry and squeezed off a round, the butt-plate thumping his shoulder socket. His bullet destroyed Aragon’s left eye and drove into his brain. He slumped dead over his pommel as his panicked mount raced out into the canyon, ironclad hooves skittering on the smooth stone floor.

  “Hot damn, Fargo!” Booger shouted over. “You sure can aim that smoke pole!”

  But the discipline, courage, and marksmanship of these fanatical soldiers now had to be reckoned with. The roiling confusion of coughing, choking, blinded men began to take shape in a coherent defense as Diego Salazar, safe behind a boulder, shouted orders. Fargo could also hear Rivera bellowing commands but had not yet spotted the man.

  The Spanish troops deserted their mounts and went to cover as a steadily increasing fire forced Fargo, Booger, and Cherokee Bob to cover down. The shrill whine of ricocheting lead stayed constant, the thirty-shot lever-action Volcanics cracking ceaselessly now.

  Fargo’s Henry and Booger’s North & Savage returned fire more sporadically, both men shooting only when men popped into view to fire on the Americans. Rock dust flew into Fargo’s eyes, and one near-fatal bullet knocked his hat off and literally parted his hair.

  Fargo heard Cherokee Bob cussing like a stable sergeant.

  “It’s you and Booger now,” he called over to Fargo. “The firing pin in my damn handgun just cracked, and I’m out of balls for my cannon.”

  Fargo estimated there were at least a dozen soldiers still in the fight counting Salazar and Rivera. Deke, McDade, and All Behind Him were too far back to help and couldn’t move from cover under the vigilant eyes of these sharpshooters.

  Salazar now remained mysteriously quiet. Rivera, realizing the battle had reached a stalemate, suddenly decided on a coup de main.

  “Forward!” he bellowed. “Kill them!”

  Loosing a fierce battle cry, the Spanish soldiers rose from cover and surged forward toward Fargo and Booger’s positions.

  “Booger!” Fargo shouted. “Just like at Antelope Wells!”

  Booger understood immediately. Several years earlier he and Fargo had been similarly rushed by a superior force of Comanches.

  Both men rolled out from cover but remained prone. Booger started at the right end of the charging line, Fargo at the left, and they worked toward the middle. Bullets blurred the air around them, but the veteran frontiersmen focused methodically on one man at a time.

  But these savvy troops did not offer themselves as easy, pop-up targets. They ran zigzagging avoidance patterns, tucked low, and rolled, even turned sideways when charging to reduce the killing zones Fargo and Booger were desperately seeking.

  Fargo emptied his Henry, Booger his North & Savage, and both men went to their short guns in a blur of speed. Then the hammer of Booger’s Dragoon pistol fell on an empty chamber just as Fargo slapped the spare cylinder into his own Colt.

  During this frenzy of activity, Sergeant Rivera had managed to slip around to the right of Booger’s position. Something glinted in the corner of Fargo’s right eye. He swiveled his head to the right and spotted Rivera’s wild-eyed face as he charged Booger from the flank, his deadly machete raised.

  But Booger had spotted him, too. In an amazing display of speed and dexterity for such a big man, he leaped up, caught River’s right arm, and twisted it hard until he dislocated the shoulder. Rivera screamed at the excruciating pain and dropped the machete. Booger caught it in midair.

  A moment later, Rivera’s severed head rolled and bounced toward the attacking men, now down to four. The headless body tried to deny the fact of death for several seconds, taking a few staggering steps even as blood fountained from the severed stump of the neck.

  By the time it collapsed, all four of the attackers had been shocked immobile by the ghastly, unreal sight. With that unexpected hesitation they signed their own death warrants—Fargo rose to his knees, fanned his hammer, and sent them to fry everlasting.

  “Fargo! Hold your fire!”

  Diego Salazar stepped into view and tossed his rifle and sidearm down, sliding his sword from its scabbard.

  “They are all defeated except for me,” he said in his stiff, formal way. “But you gave me your word I would have the opportunity to settle a personal matter with you. This battle today involved the destiny of nations—but your filthy, despicable seduction of an innocent young girl is a personal affront to my honor and manhood. I demand that you answer for it.”

  An innocent young girl . . . If Fargo hadn’t been so flabbergasted at this pompous fool, he would have laughed.

  “Salazar, I knew you were an asshole the first time I met you,” Fargo replied. “You deliberately stayed out of this battle so you could make that pretty speech just now. But you’re right—I promised you we’d hug. So let’s get thrashing. Booger, you and Bob stay out of this.”

  “I am the one who was wronged, so I will select the weapon. You can use Aragon’s sword.”

  “Fargo,” Booger muttered, “just shoot him. He knows gee from haw when it comes to killing with that cheese knife. I heard Rivera brag to Deke how Salazar won a trophy three years straight at that fancy Espanish college.”

  “Tell you what,” Fargo told Salazar. “You use your blade and I’ll use mine.”

  Salazar’s wire-tight mouth curled into a sneer when Fargo raised his right foot and snatched the Arkansas toothpick from its boot sheath. But in just a few minutes Fargo would realize, too late, that he should have listened to Booger.

  “It is your foolish choice, Fargo. I am going to watch your eyes lose their vitality as I drive the point of my blade into your warm and beating heart.”

  Salazar moved in at a glide, tossing his saber deftly from hand to hand. His skill in handling it was almost hypnotic.

  “You’re a damn good juggler,” Fargo said.

  Striking quick as a rattlesnake, Salazar lunged forward and slashed, ripping Fargo’s buckskin shirt open. He followed up with a series of lunging slashes that forced Fargo to dance for his life.

  “If you had a God, Fargo, you could beg him to receive you now!”

  Once, twice, a third time . . . thirty-three inches of deadly Toledo steel, honed razor sharp, flashed past Fargo, and each time he barely managed to duck out of harm’s way. With the fourth slash, however, he was not quite agile enough—hot pain licked his right arm as Salazar’s blade bit into it.

  “I cut you, Fargo. Feel it? Only a small taste of what is coming.”

  “Yeah, but you made one mistake—you didn’t kill me.”

  “Mistakes can be rectified.”

  Fargo had desperately been working to get in close to Salazar with his knife. But when the Spaniard’s blade cut his arm, and Fargo ducked back out of the way, Salazar lunged even closer.

  Fargo felt a tug at his waist, and a moment later his trousers nearly fell. Cursing and stumbling as Salazar roared with laughter, he was forced to use his left hand to hold up his trousers.

  Booger had reloaded and now raised his pistol.

  “Don’t do it!” Fargo ordered. “He gets his chance to kill me fair and square.”

  Again, again, and yet again, Salazar’s deadly blade came within a hair of slicing Fargo. Backing away from yet another wild flurry of slashes, Fargo suddenly tripped on a rock and went down hard on his ass. Salazar was on him like dark on night, his cruel, handsome face glowing with triumph as he prepared to make the paso de muerte.

  Fargo felt a leaden heaviness in his stomach and barely mana
ged to hop backward, crab fashion. He felt the wind from Salazar’s saber as it flashed past his head so close it sliced off a hank of hair.

  Fargo realized how much he had underrated the Spaniard. The man’s balance was sure as a mountain goat’s, his movements quick as a cat’s. Fargo was still too busy scuttling out of the way to get his trousers untangled and stand up.

  As Salazar drew back for yet another thrust, his dark, goading eyes met Fargo’s. They blazed like hellfire, and for one chilling moment Fargo was sure he had finally met up with Old Scratch himself. Salazar deftly flipped his wrist, the blade flicked quick as a whip, and Fargo again scuttled nimbly backward—but not quite far enough. Fiery pain made him grunt as the filigreed blade opened up a cut on his chest, the second wound in less than thirty seconds.

  “You know what, Sancho?” Fargo taunted, seeing that Salazar was nearly overcome with emotion—and thus susceptible to mistakes. “I pounded the spike maul to Miranda so hard I had her barking like a dog. I had to shove a pillow over her face, she came so loud. And by the way, she’s got a snatch like a tight velvet glove.”

  A red film of uncontrollable rage replaced Salazar’s eyes, and he finally did what Fargo had been hoping he would—he stepped in too close.

  Fargo wrapped both legs around Salazar’s left leg and rolled hard to the right, throwing the man crashing to the ground. Before the Spaniard could recover, Fargo twisted around on top of him and drove the Arkansas toothpick deep into his entrails—so deep he felt heat wash over his hand.

  Salazar’s high-pitched scream almost made Fargo forgive him for the two wounds, it was so hideous—especially when Fargo made a point of twisting his blade hard, both ways.

  “That’s called the Spanish twist,” Fargo informed the dying man. “Kind of ironic, huh?”

  Fargo heaved himself to his feet and planted one foot on Salazar’s chest, tugging his knife back out. The two wounds were giving him jip, but neither one was deep.