Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  But if that was the case, why had the man tried to kill him? Frank hadn’t even met any of the other ranchers yet.

  He fetched his rope from his saddle, looped the lariat under the dead man’s arms, and tied it to the saddle horn. Goldy backed away at Frank’s command and dragged the man out of the rocks.

  He was about to leave the corpse there for the moment and go see where Stafford had gotten off to, when he heard the clip-clop of hoofbeats and looked along the road to see the buggy rolling toward him.

  “Mr. Morgan!” Stafford called. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Frank said as the lawyer drove up and brought the team to a halt. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Well, I . . . I heard all those shots, and I didn’t know whether or not you’d been hurt, so I thought I should come back and find out.”

  Frank thumbed his hat back. “For all you knew, I was dead and that bushwhacker was waiting for you.”

  “Yes, I realize that, but we’re working together. I couldn’t just desert you.” Stafford reached to the seat beside him. “I have a pistol. I’m not very good with it, mind you, but I would have tried to help you.”

  “I appreciate that, Counselor,” Frank said with a nod. “There’s one thing you can do for me.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  “I hope you don’t mind sharing that buggy with a dead man,” Frank said.

  Chapter 13

  Frank got the feeling that Stafford minded, all right, but the lawyer didn’t make any complaints as Frank dragged the corpse over to the buggy and hefted it into the space behind the seat. They set off toward the headquarters of the Montero ranch once again, but they hadn’t gone very far when Frank heard the rumble of hoofbeats from a number of horses.

  “Hold on,” he told Stafford as he raised a hand in a signal for the lawyer to bring the buggy to a halt. He pulled his own Winchester from its saddle boot and levered a round into the chamber as he waited to see who the riders were and what they wanted.

  The horsemen came into view, a dark mass in the shadows at first that resolved itself into individual riders as they galloped closer. Frank estimated their number at a dozen.

  If they intended to kill him and Stafford, Frank would put up a fight, but he knew those odds would be overwhelming. In a nervous voice, Stafford asked from the buggy, “What do we do, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Just sit steady, Counselor,” Frank told him. “And it might be a good idea to keep your hand on that gun of yours until we find out who those hombres are. Don’t start shooting, though, unless I give the word.”

  Frank heard Stafford swallow hard. “All right. But I wish I was back in a courtroom right now. I don’t like all these guns in the night.”

  Neither did Frank, but he knew a fella had to play the hand he was dealt. The last cards in this one would be falling soon.

  The riders reined their mounts in when they were about twenty yards from Frank and Stafford. They were well within range of Frank’s rifle, but he wasn’t going to start shooting until he knew who they were.

  “Morgan?” a familiar voice called. “Is that you?”

  Frank recognized the voice as Pete Linderman’s. “It’s me,” he answered.

  “Who’s that with you in the buggy?”

  “Mr. Stafford, Señora Montero’s lawyer.”

  “Hello, Mr. Linderman,” Stafford said with a tone of relief in his voice.

  The foreman walked his mount closer while the other men stayed where they were. “We heard some shots,” Linderman explained, “and the señora sent us to find out what was going on. She knew you were comin’ back out here this evenin’, Morgan, and she was afraid you had run into some trouble.”

  “We did, for a fact,” Frank said. “Some varmint opened up on us from some big rocks back down the road a quarter of a mile or so.”

  Linderman had ridden close enough now so that Frank could see him nod. “Yeah, I know the place. Did you run the fella off?”

  “Nope.” Frank jerked the thumb of his left hand toward the buggy. “He’s behind the seat there.”

  Linderman stiffened in the saddle. “Dead?”

  “That’s right. Come take a look at him. I’d like to know if you’ve ever seen him before.”

  Without hesitation, Linderman prodded his horse closer to the vehicle. Frank expected him to deny knowing the bushwhacker. Linderman would say that he had never seen the man before whether that was true . . . or whether he’d had something to do with the ambush.

  Linderman struck a match and leaned over in his saddle to get a better look at the dead man. After a moment, he shook his head, just as Frank knew he would.

  “No, I don’t know him. He didn’t ride for the señora, I can tell you that for damn sure. I don’t recall ever seeing him around any of the other spreads in the valley either.”

  “All right,” Frank said as Linderman shook out the match. “Maybe somebody else on your crew knows him.”

  Linderman grunted. “I wouldn’t count on it. They can take a look when we get back to the hacienda. The señora’s waitin’ for you.”

  Stafford hitched his team into motion. Frank and Linderman fell in alongside the buggy after Linderman ordered the rest of the riders to return to the ranch.

  “What about the other cattlemen who have spreads in the valley?” Frank asked. “Have they shown up for the meeting yet?”

  “Some of them. Dave Guthrie and Ben Patterson are there, and we passed Augusto Lopez as we rode out to check on those shots. Edwin Northam and Jorge Sandoval weren’t there yet, but they both sent riders with word that they’d attend this meeting of yours, Morgan.”

  Frank nodded. “That’ll account for all the big ranchers in the area, right?”

  “Yeah. There are a few small spreads, but they don’t amount to much. What we used to call greasy-sack outfits back in Texas.”

  “You’re from Texas?” Frank asked. He had been born and raised in the Lone Star State.

  “No, but I cowboyed there for a while, when I was a youngster. Never liked it much.”

  Frank let that go. He had more important things to do than get in an argument about the merits of his home state.

  The rest of the men galloped on ahead to let Dolores Montero know that Frank and Stafford were all right. Frank and Linderman rode at a slower pace so as not to get ahead of the lawyer’s buggy.

  Even so, it didn’t take them long to reach the ranch headquarters. The place was brightly lit. A number of lamps and lanterns were burning, including inside the barn where the gathering would take place.

  Dolores hurried forward into the yard to meet them. She wasn’t wearing the trousers and shirt and vest she had sported earlier in the day. She looked much more feminine now in a pale blue dress with a full skirt. The garment was cut low enough that just a hint of the valley between her breasts was visible.

  Her lovely face was set in lines of concern. “Mr. Morgan,” she said. “And Mr. Stafford. You are both all right?”

  “We’re fine, Señora,” Stafford assured her, “thanks to Mr. Morgan here.”

  “Somebody tried to bushwhack ’em on the way out here,” Linderman said.

  “Did the man get away?”

  “No, he’s in the back there, behind the seat,” Linderman said with a nod toward the buggy. “You’d better not look at him, Señora. He ain’t a pretty sight.”

  Dolores’s chin came up defiantly in what was obviously an instinctive reaction at being told what to do, Frank thought. She stepped forward, saying, “Of course I’ll look at him. I might recognize him.” She turned her head and called for someone to bring a lantern.

  One of the hands hustled forward with a light. He held it where Dolores could see the dead man’s face, which was relatively unmarked despite the bloody mess Dog had made of his throat. Dolores stared at him, paling slightly, and murmured, “Dios mio. What happened to him?” She turned her head to look at Frank. “Your dog did this?”

  “Tha
t’s right,” Frank said. “The varmint was already dying, though.”

  “Yes, I see the bullet hole in his shirt,” Dolores said. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then went on. “I’ve never seen this man before. He doesn’t work for me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Frank believed her. She had no reason to lie to him. She had called a truce with him earlier in the day. Whether or not her crew would honor that truce was another matter, but Frank’s gut told him that they would, with the possible exception of Jeff.

  And so far this evening, Frank hadn’t seen any sign of the young cowboy. He hadn’t been among the group that had accompanied Linderman to check out the shooting, and he wasn’t outside the bunkhouse or the barn.

  “The rest of my men should look at him just to be sure,” Dolores went on. “Mr. Morgan, Mr. Stafford, why don’t we go on into the barn?”

  “I’ll see that your horses are tended to,” Linderman offered.

  Frank nodded, dismounted, and handed over Goldy’s reins. “Maybe I’d better take Dog with me,” he said.

  “Probably a good idea,” Linderman agreed. “After seein’ what he did to that fella’s throat, I don’t reckon any of us would feel too comfortable havin’ him around.”

  With the big cur padding at his side, Frank went into the barn with Dolores and Stafford. The large open area in the center of the cavernous building had been cleaned and swept, and a couple of bales of hay had been placed at the front of it.

  “I thought you might want to have a place to stand while you’re talking to everyone,” Dolores said as she gestured with a slender, elegant hand toward the hay bales.

  Frank wasn’t real comfortable with the idea of being up there above everyone like a politician making a speech. He hadn’t come here tonight to speechify. He just wanted information from the other ranchers, as well as a chance to size them up.

  Three men stood talking near the hay bales, and a number of cowboys lounged around the outer walls of the barn. Frank pegged them as hands who had ridden over to Salida del Sol with the ranchers they worked for. That trio up front had to be the owners of the other spreads. Two were white, and the other was Mexican. All three were middle-aged and had the solid look of successful cattlemen.

  They all wore worried frowns, though, as they talked to each other in low voices. The conversation came to an end as Frank walked up with Dolores and Stafford.

  “This is Frank Morgan,” Dolores said. She introduced him to Ben Patterson, Dave Guthrie, and Augusto Lopez. Frank shook hands with all three men. Guthrie hesitated a little before he took Frank’s hand.

  “I’ve heard about you, Morgan,” he said. “If half of what I’ve heard is true, you probably don’t even remember how many men you’ve killed.”

  Frank had encountered so many unfriendly receptions in his life that such thinly veiled hostility didn’t really bother him anymore. He said, “I never shot anybody who wasn’t trying to either kill me or hurt some innocent person, Guthrie. I’m not the enemy here. I came out to see what I can do to help you fellas.”

  Guthrie looked at Stafford. “You vouch for this gunfighter, Counselor?”

  “I do,” Stafford said without hesitation. “And so does my partner, Claudius Turnbuckle. I know you haven’t met him, but I assure you, he’s an excellent judge of character. If he says Mr. Morgan is all right, you can count on that.”

  Guthrie nodded. “All right. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, Morgan. But I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m not very fond of the idea of a gunslinger being here in the valley.”

  “Better he’s on our side than working for Magnusson, Dave,” Dolores pointed out. Guthrie shrugged in agreement.

  Frank heard the sound of more horses coming up outside. A moment later, Linderman came into the barn, accompanied by a tall, handsome man in an expensive Spanish-cut suit. The newcomer’s swarthy skin and raven-black hair, as well as his suit, testified to his Spanish heritage. He looked familiar, too, but Frank realized after a second that was because of his resemblance to Dolores.

  Frank knew he was looking at Dolores’s brother, Jorge Sandoval.

  Chapter 14

  Smiling, Dolores went to Sandoval and hugged him. Frank couldn’t tell which of them was older. They appeared to be about the same age, with probably not more than a year or so difference between them.

  With her hand on her brother’s arm, Dolores brought him over and introduced him to Frank. Sandoval gave Frank a cool nod as they shook hands.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, Señor Morgan,” he said. “You have quite a reputation. I won’t ask you whether or not it was fairly earned.”

  “I appreciate that,” Frank said as he returned the nod. “I get a mite tired of having to explain things to folks.”

  Sandoval turned back to his sister. “I’m not sure of the purpose of this meeting, but are we ready to begin?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” Dolores said. “Edwin Northam isn’t here yet.”

  Sandoval grunted. “Why should we wait for him? He wants nothing to do with us.”

  “Perhaps not, but he has had trouble with Magnusson and the other oil drillers, just as we have. And Mr. Morgan wanted to speak with all the big ranchers in the valley.”

  Sandoval’s words were the first hint Frank had had of possible friction between the Englishman Northam and the owners of the other spreads. He would have to keep that in mind, he told himself.

  A scowl appeared on Sandoval’s face. “I don’t have the time to waste waiting around for Northam.” He gave Frank a direct stare. “If you have something to say, Morgan, go ahead and say it.”

  Linderman spoke up before Frank could reply. “Hold on a minute,” the foreman said as he held up a hand. “I think I hear more horses coming.”

  Sure enough, more hoofbeats rattled into the ranch yard, accompanied by the creak of wagon wheels. Frank and Linderman moved to the massive double doors that stood open and looked out.

  A large wagon surrounded by riders was coming to a stop in front of the barn. Like all the other cowboys on the Montero ranch tonight, these newcomers were well armed, and from their hard-set expressions, they were ready for trouble.

  Two men were on the wagon seat, both wearing dark suits and hats. The resemblance ended there, however. The one holding the reins was short and slender, with a face like a terrier and a short, bristly, grayish-brown mustache.

  His companion probably weighed four times as much and loomed like a mountain over the driver. His face was as round and pale as a full moon, his thick lips as pouty as a baby’s. Pudgy hands with short, sausagelike fingers rested on his knees.

  The smaller man looped the reins around the brake lever and hopped down agilely from the wagon. He reached into the back and lifted out a set of two steps that had been hammered together out of thick planks. Despite his size, he had to be strong to handle the steps so easily.

  He placed the steps next to the wagon so that his massive companion could use them, then stepped back and stood at attention. The big man heaved himself off the seat; then, using wrought-iron bars bolted to the wagon frame to support himself, he climbed down onto the steps and eventually to the ground.

  Moving that much bulk took a while.

  Even that much exertion was hard on the man, Frank noted. The fella’s moonlike face had reddened, and his yard-wide chest rose and fell faster as he tried to catch his breath.

  Frank leaned closer to Linderman and asked quietly, “Is that Northam?”

  “Yep,” the foreman replied.

  Frank remembered what Stafford had told him about Northam being a British sailor who had left his ship and settled in southern California many years earlier. Northam must have changed a great deal since those days, because Frank couldn’t imagine this behemoth of a man climbing around a ship’s rigging. Northam seemed barely able to lift one leg and put it in front of the other.

  His voice was deep, rich, and powerful, though, as he looked at Frank and said,
“Good evening to you, sir. I assume that you are the notorious Frank Morgan I’ve heard so much about?”

  “I’m Morgan,” Frank said, not commenting on the “notorious” part.

  The big man lifted a finger to the brim of the bowler hat he wore. “Edwin Northam, sir, at your service.” As he lowered his arm, he gestured at the smaller man who had been on the wagon with him. “My manservant Bartholomew Fox.”

  Frank nodded to the man and said, “Howdy.”

  Fox’s chin moved barely an inch in a perfunctory return nod; otherwise, he didn’t acknowledge the greeting.

  Wheezing slightly, Northam went on. “You should know, sir, that I seldom leave my home. I would not have done so this evening had it not been for the personal invitation extended to me by the very lovely Señora Montero. Is she here by the way?”

  “Yes, I’m here, Edwin,” Dolores said as she came forward to join Frank and Linderman in greeting the final member of the ranching community in the San Fernando Valley. “Thank you for coming.”

  Northam reached up and actually removed his hat this time, revealing a mostly bald head with a few stands of silver hair combed over the top of it. “For you, my dear, anything . . . as always.”

  Jorge Sandoval strode out of the barn as well and gave the Englishman a curt nod. “Northam,” he said. Then he looked at Frank and continued. “Now can we get on with this?”

  “I reckon we can, since we’re all here,” Frank said. He paused and spoke briefly to Pete Linderman as the others all started inside.

  They went back into the barn with Edwin Northam lumbering along, followed by Bartholomew Fox. Frank couldn’t help but notice the little man’s military bearing, and he spotted a telltale bulge under Fox’s left arm indicating that the servant was carrying a gun there in a shoulder holster.

  Not many men in the West used a shoulder rig like that, but a few did. Frank recalled that Wes Hardin sometimes carried his gun that way. He didn’t figure that Bartholomew Fox was as skilled as John Wesley Hardin when it came to gunplay, but he would have been willing to bet that Fox could handle himself all right in a fracas. He just had that look about him.