The Long-Knives 5

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Get back with the horses, darling,” Wildon said.

  A distant thundering of hooves gradually grew louder. Both soldiers positioned themselves to meet the new attack. Wildon licked his dry lips. “They’re spaced out more now.”

  “They’re learning,” Garrity said.

  “So our bandit leader Mauveaux was an officer in the French army,” Wildon mused.

  Garrity laughed. “He must not have been a very damned good one. We’ve been tearing hell out of his command.”

  “Now isn’t that a hell of a way to treat an emperor?” Wildon asked with sardonic humor.

  The bandits swept on toward them. They were shouting and shooting, the inaccurate fire slapping through the air above the cavalrymen’s heads.

  Wildon picked out a particularly large individual. He laid the sights of the Winchester on the man’s neck, taking care to allow for the bouncing of the riding target. When the time was right, he fired.

  The bullet struck the outlaw’s upper chest, abruptly knocking him straight back. The man’s legs shot up as he went over his horse’s rump.

  Garrity’s Henry now barked in evenly spaced shots. He swung the muzzle to the left with each squeeze of the trigger while Wildon went to the right.

  Some of the bandits hit were in the ranks farther back because of their gapped formation. A total of five had gone down when the ragged formation suddenly turned and swept once again to the west. But this time they performed the maneuver in front of the soldiers. Rather than riding past and being unable to fire, they passed in front of the two Americans, eagerly shooting at their position.

  “Goddamn their eyes!” Garrity shouted, ducking for cover.

  Wildon did likewise as dozens of bullets splattered dirt over them in white clouds. The lieutenant spat, looking back where Hester was concealed. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Hester waved to him from behind Garrity’s horse.

  The sergeant shoved some more shells into the Henry. “How’s your ammunition doing, sir?”

  “It’s getting on the low side,” Wildon said. “We’re gonna have to slow down,” Garrity said. “The only thing that’s keeping the blackguards off us is the amount of bullets we throw out there at them,” Wildon said. “If we cut back on our rate of fire, they’re going to come in here like banshees from Hades.”

  “We ain’t got a whole lot of choice at this point, Lieutenant,” Garrity said. “Rapid fire is only going to hurry up what can’t be avoided.”

  “You mean certain death,” Wildon flatly stated.

  “That’s it exactly,” Garrity said. “We can make this thing last as long as possible, or we can bring it to one hell of a finish.”

  “Let’s not set any rules at this point,” Wildon said. “Our instincts should take us along quite well.”

  Garrity pointed to Wildon’s pistol. “The last bullet. Yours or mine?”

  Wildon’s mind had fought the reality of the situation to the point he had pushed the awful truth from his thoughts. His temper snapped. “God damn you, Sergeant Jim Garrity! I said let’s let nature take its course. We’ll do whatever is best at the most opportune time, won’t we?”

  “You still gotta keep what’s to be done in the back of your mind,” Garrity said. “And, Lieutenant Wildon Boothe, it’s got to be done.” Further conversation was interrupted by a fresh attack.

  Once more the bandits came straight on in a widespread formation. Riding hard, they leaned low over their horses’ heads, their pistols aimed straight ahead.

  “No long guns, Lieutenant!” Garrity shouted. “That means they want to close up. Get that pistol ready!”

  Wildon fired two rounds from the Winchester, then ducked back down and pulled his pistol from its holster. Cocking the hammer, he crouched, waiting. He looked across to Garrity who had done the same thing.

  The sound of the pounding hooves built up to a roaring crescendo. Finally the trembling of the earth caused by the galloping horses made bits of dirt fall from the arroyo’s sides. When the din was so deafening it seemed to engulf them, the two soldiers stood up and cut loose with their pistols.

  The targets at that close range were easy. On a couple of occasions it was horses that were hit, but most of the time it was bandit blood that splattered off into the desert air. Some collapsed lifeless, but a couple who had been wounded shouted curses and pulled away to ride out of the fight.

  Then the bandit force split in two.

  Each group swept around one side of the position, firing into the arroyo. Bullets spat and kicked up dirt, and ricochets zinged off into space.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Garrity shouted, his Irish soul speaking out.

  The hail of lead was short-lived but frightening, leaving the ground around them badly torn up. Both men, without saying it aloud, thought they were lucky to have come unscathed through the fusillade.

  Wildon started to lean against the arroyo bank to get his breath. He sighted the bandit charging in on Garrity’s side. “Get down,” he yelled, picking up the Winchester. There was no time to aim and fire. The lieutenant simply grasped the weapon by the muzzle and stepped forward.

  The bandit, firing wildly, galloped into their area. Wildon swung hard, the butt of the carbine sailing over the horse’s head and hitting the outlaw straight on the chest. The man came out of the saddle and, rolling upside down, came down straight on his head.

  The loud crack heralded his broken neck.

  “Jump back, Lieutenant!”

  Wildon didn’t bother to look around, he simply obeyed.

  Garrity, holding his pistol in both hands, fired three times.

  Wildon’s head snapped around to see the three bandidos coming down the arroyo from the opposite direction. One pitched from his horse. Another leaned forward and grasped his mount’s neck to hang on. A blood spot was visible on his left side. The third man’s luck was good. He swept by without harm, riding out on the far side of the ravine.

  Once again it was quiet.

  Garrity’s face was covered with white dust. Sweat coming from beneath his hat streaked through it, leaving milky tracks down his cheeks. “We whipped ’em again.”

  “Yeah,” Wildon said. He checked his ammunition. “We can hold them off maybe one more time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wildon pulled the final rounds from his cartridge belt and reloaded his revolver. There was no need to say what he was going to use the weapon for. He picked up the Winchester. It held a half-dozen cartridges. “How’s your Henry?”

  “Like you said. One more time.” He paused, letting Wildon say what had to be said.

  The lieutenant took a deep breath. “I’d appreciate it, if you’d let me fire off the Winchester first, Sergeant Garrity. Then you can cover me with the Henry while I—” He paused and took a deep breath. “While I do what I must do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn!”

  “I’ll see you have the time.”

  Wildon held out his hand. When Garrity took it, the young officer smiled. “By God we tried.”

  “By God we did.”

  Wildon went up into position while Garrity squatted down to wait his turn. The lieutenant looked out over the desert. There were no bandits in sight. He took a deep breath.

  “Come on, you sons of bitches!”

  The quiet continued after the echoes of his shouted challenge died away into the distance.

  Finally the dull pounding of hooves sounded far away.

  “Aim careful, sir,” Garrity counseled.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Wildon could see the smear of dust rising on the horizon.

  “Remember to go for the upper chest while they’re a ways out,” the sergeant said. “The rounds’ll drop into their bellies.”

  “Right,” Wildon replied. “Maybe some of the wretches can roll around a bit before they die.”

  The dust cloud had grown considerably, and it was easy to see the riders causing it. Wildon raised the Winchester and picked out one of
the men in the lead. He placed the sights just below his neck. After taking a couple of breaths, he stopped his breathing and gently worked the trigger.

  The man’s arms flew up, and he appeared to leap from the saddle.

  Wildon grinned and worked the cocking lever. His eyes swept across the bandit gang. One fellow with a bright yellow bandanna around his neck caught the lieutenant’s attention. Wildon spat and again swung up the muzzle of the carbine. A moment later he fired it.

  The bandido turned violently sideways, then tried to straighten up. But he kept leaning farther and farther out until he finally slipped to the ground, performing a violent somersault when he contacted the desert floor.

  Wildon chambered another cartridge.

  Within a space of ten seconds, the third and fourth victims had been dealt with.

  Garrity, still on his haunches, glanced up. “How’s it going, Lieutenant?”

  Wildon rubbed his chin. “Not too bad.” A tall gangly man got the next bullet. “I can get one more,” he announced to the sergeant.

  “Be my guest, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Wildon spotted a particularly aggressive fellow who was threading his way forward through the crowd of his fellow outlaws. The cavalry officer waited until the man had not only gotten through the mob, but was the leading rider. Waiting a couple of beats, he aimed the Winchester and fired.

  The bandit’s head appeared to explode, a geyser of red spurting out of one side of his skull.

  Wildon stepped down. “They’re all yours, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Wildon set the empty Winchester down. He could see the cut in the ravine where Hester was hiding with the horses. Garrity was already firing as the lieutenant walked toward his wife, slowly pulling the Colt from the holster.

  Eighteen

  Wildon, keeping himself from his wife’s sight, walked close to the wall of the ravine next to her hiding place. When he reached the opening, he stopped, holding the revolver in his hand. The distraught young man took a deep breath to steady himself.

  It was such a bizarre, unrealistic situation. How could anyone have known at their wedding a few short months before that the groom would soon slay the bride? Or how would it have been possible to have seen the two playing together as children to realize that in the distant future they would be facing death in a ravine in the wilds of Mexico, surrounded by a gang of cutthroats?

  Waves of guilt swept through the young man. It was all his fault that such a wonderful girl was going to meet so cruel an end. He now felt his desires to be a soldier to be boyish and stupid.

  Wildon shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was no time for a muddled mind. He had to think of the best way to do it. He would find it impossible to sneak into the small area without her seeing him. Yet he could not force himself to simply walk up and shoot her straight away with those big, beautiful green eyes staring at him. Finally, the best way to perform the awful deed occurred to him.

  He would embrace his love, then ease the pistol up to the back of her skull and pull the trigger.

  With any luck at all, the same bullet would kill him too.

  Garrity fired again as Wildon stepped out and walked to the cut in the arroyo. When he stepped inside, he found Hester standing there. She had removed the hobbles from the horses, holding

  onto the reins in her small hands.

  She smiled bravely at him. “I thought we might be going to try riding away again, so I got the horses ready.”

  “That was a good idea, dear,” he lied. “We

  think we can make it this time.” He walked up to Hester, slipping his arms around her, and gently pulled her to him. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, darling,” Hester replied. She looked up into his face. “Don’t worry, Wildon my love, we’ll get out of this.”

  “Of course we will,” he said. He gently placed his hand on the back of her head and pressed it

  to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he slowly

  raised the pistol and put the muzzle a few inches from the nape of her neck. He took care to make sure the bullet would fire upward and cause instant death. Once again he said, “I love you.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  A fresh roar of gunfire broke out above. “Lieutenant!” Garrity called. “Lieutenant Boothe!”

  Thankful for the interruption, Wildon stepped back, releasing his hold on Hester. He ran from the hiding place and joined the sergeant. “What’s going on?” Suddenly he realized that the shooting out in the desert was not at them. “Who’s out there, Sergeant Garrity?”

  “Yaquis,” Garrity said. “A bunch of the most beautiful goddamned ugly Yaqui Injuns you ever saw!” The excitement he showed was alien to his usual calm demeanor. “There must be fifty of the sonofabitches.”

  Wildon cautiously raised his head up to see what was going on. He saw a large number of mounted Indians riding among the bandits. Both groups fired indiscriminately at each other in a frenzy of wild, uncontrolled fighting. “Are they here to help us?” he asked.

  Garrity shook his head. “No, sir. They don’t even know we’re over here. If they did, we’d be in the same fix as those goddamned bandidos.”

  “I wonder where they came from,” Wildon remarked. “And what the hell are they doing attacking the bandits?”

  “They’re from the same group as that Injun that jumped you back on Bandido Mountain,” Garrity said. “They musta finally found the feller’s body. No doubt they figger them bandits done him in. So they trailed ’em here.”

  “How could they track them?” Wildon asked. “Remember that’s the area where we lost the trail.”

  “Hell, sir,” Garrity told him, “a Yaqui or Apache Injun could track a lizard across solid rock.” He looked over and saw Hester peering out of the cut. “Thank God you didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?” Wildon asked. He knew that for the rest of his days he would try to deny not only to Garrity, but to himself that he had meant to kill his beloved Hester. He also knew he could never fool himself. This was an emotional torture to which he was condemned for all his days. “Never mind, sir. Let’s get the hell outta here.” The two rushed over to Hester and the mounts. Garrity took the bandit horse’s reins.

  “What is happening?” Hester asked.

  “We don’t have time to go into detail, darling,” Wildon said. “But unexpected help arrived.”

  “Follow me,” Garrity told them. He led his horse down the arroyo, turning north until he reached a point that led to solid ground. “Okay, folks,” he said. “Let’s mount up and ride.” Following his instructions, they got into the . saddles. The hours of rest in the ravine had given their mounts a breather. Now, a bit fresher, the animals once again displayed an eagerness to run. Although they weren’t in top form, they could still gallop with respectable determination.

  Wildon glanced back toward the impromptu battle going on to the south. The bandits and their Indian enemies were now closely intermingled. Hand-to-hand fighting had broken out in the vicious combat.

  “They ain’t gonna notice us,” Garrity shouted. “But we got to clear the horizon. Ride!”

  Wildon stuck close to Hester. The moment of truth again swept over him. Facts were facts, and the realization that he’d come so close to killing her churned painfully in his heart. If he had gone to perform the awful deed a minute earlier, he would have shot her only to find it had been all for nothing. The thought frightened him more than anything else had done during the entire rescue and escape.

  But denial once again rushed through his mind. He wouldn’t have done it, he told himself, not in a thousand years. Almost weeping, he forced himself to concentrate on the flight to freedom.

  Fifteen minutes later, they could tell there would be no pursuit. Even if the Yaquis discovered where they had been, the three would have a comfortable enough lead to be across the border and back in the United States before the fierce Indians could hope to catch up with them.r />
  An hour later, cantering at a regular pace northward, Garrity made the happy announcement. “We’re outta Mexico.”

  “Thank the good Lord that is over,” Hester said.

  The sun was a red disk as it eased down on the western side of the Santo Domingos. The color seemed apropos after such a bloody day on the desert.

  Hubert Mauveaux drank his coffee and stared into the flames of the campfire. The bandit leader glanced up when his name was called out.

  Paco Fuentes joined his chief, squatting down and helping himself to the coffee. “Bueno, mi general, the situation is not the best.”

  Mauveaux, sullen, looked out over the bivouac where the survivors of the day’s fighting were finishing up their evening meal. “What is the matter with the dogs? Have they been so badly whipped that their tails are between their legs?”

  “The men are very confused,” Paco explained. “I have been talking to many of them. None expected the two gringos to fight like such devils, nor did they expect the Yaquis to join in the battle.”

  Mauveaux reached inside his shirt and withdrew a cigar. He bit off the end and spat. “I will give ten thousand pesos to anyone who can explain to me why those Indians suddenly appeared and attacked us.”

  “No one but the Yaquis could tell us that,” Paco said. “And they are all dead.”

  “At a terrible cost to my army,” Mauveaux said.

  “Most of your soldiers now wish to return to Montana Bandido” Paco said. “Many have died today, some are hurt, yet nobody has earned one centavo for all of that.”

  “Mercenaires!” Mauveaux exclaimed. “Are they not satisfied to follow my orders? Do they not know that I shall lead them to greatness?”

  “Perdoname, mi general,” Paco said, “but many of the men are not as devoted as myself.”

  “You are a loyal subject, Paco,” Mauveaux said. “And you shall be well rewarded.”

  "Gracias, mi general.”

  Paco had been one of the first to join up when the Frenchman formed his gang. He’d liked Mauveaux’s style from the start. Although not much of a battle commander, the ex-officer was a good planner. He could coordinate train robberies, pick out particularly vulnerable haciendos for plundering, and intercept gold shipments with uncanny skill. Paco knew that if anything bad ever happened to Mauveaux, his own fortunes would decline because of it.