Bloodthirsty

by William W. Johnstone

  Buckhorn planted a pair of .45 caliber slugs into the heart of each man. They parted from one another like the opening petals of a flower, one falling one way, one toppling the other.

  Only a single bandito was left alive—the one who’d been skimmed by the shotgun blast at the bar and staggered out to the middle of the room. He was on his knees, trembling, his face twisted by pain and rage. Raising a bloody, shredded right arm, he thrust it forward unsteadily and triggered a shot from the converted Colt Navy he was fisting.

  Unsteadily fired though it may have been, the bullet found a piece of its target.

  Buckhorn felt fiery hot pain rip through the outside of his left thigh. The corresponding tug on his leg wasn’t sufficient to throw off his own aim when he returned fire. The Colt roared again and a thumb-sized black hole, rimmed in bright red, appeared between the bandito’s eyes. His head snapped back as if yanked by invisible wires and then his whole body toppled away, chasing the gush of blood that sprayed out the back of his skull.

  CHAPTER 45

  “Sorry to put you through this, pal,” Buckhorn muttered to Sarge. “I’ll make it up to you as soon as we land back in civilization, I promise. A week’s worth of grain and the prettiest filly I can find to keep you company. How’s that sound?”

  Sarge chuffed, as if to say You’d damn well better and kept plugging along.

  The this Buckhorn was putting the big gray through—as well as himself and the two horses he’d confiscated back in the nameless village—was to ride straight on through the blistering hot afternoon, without a halt during the worst of it. What was more, their route was no longer a direct one toward Verdugo Pass but rather a semicircle that looped wide to the south and then west again before converging once more on the pass. Somewhere in between was his quarry, probably motionless for the time being, waiting for the heat to subside.

  For the first time since setting out in pursuit of the Wainwright party, Buckhorn had a concrete plan and a specific destination for implementing it. He’d forged it back in the bloodied cantina of the nameless little village, following the shoot-out with the banditos. A quick discussion with Pepe had confirmed some things he’d only suspected and from there the rest had fallen into place.

  Pepe’s wife, a plump, bosomy, pretty little thing who seemed quite indifferent to the carnage visited upon the barroom, had tended Buckhorn’s wound. First a good dousing with tequila that burned like fire, then a gentle application of salve, then a fresh, clean bandage.

  While she was treating him, Pepe had treated him with bottles of the much-discussed cold beer. True to the round-faced man’s word, if it wasn’t the coldest in all of Mexico, it had to be damn close.

  By way of compensation for the care and the damage, Buckhorn offered a proposition. He would take two of the banditos’ horses and three of their sombreros. That part drew decidedly curious looks from Pepe and his wife.

  The rest—the remaining horses, saddles, guns, and whatever money the men had in their pockets—were Pepe’s to sell off or utilize however he saw fit.

  According to some of the things Pepe had told Buckhorn, the five scoundrels had been harassing the village and surrounding area for several months. Simply getting rid of them would have been a most welcome thing, but having them gone and gaining profit as well was a joyous proposition to Pepe and his wife.

  As he rode his punishing, circuitous route away from the village, Buckhorn thought of the other things Pepe had told him about the banditos and the boastful talk they had been making before his arrival. About the small, single-wagon group they were stalking and how much they were looking forward to picking it clean after they’d easily caught up with it again following their restful and refreshing stopover at Pepe’s.

  One of the things that had them most excited was the anticipation of what the inclusion of a wagon possibly meant—females among the group of travelers. That led to much vulgar talk about what would take place if it indeed turned out to be the case.

  Hearing Pepe relate this, even without going into detail on everything that was said, gave Buckhorn no small amount of satisfaction for having scraped the earth clean of such scum.

  * * *

  “I still don’t see why we couldn’t ’ve swung into that little village and took our afternoon break there,” Abe Tarvel complained. “Everybody knows how those old adobe buildings block out the heat. Think how nice and cool it would’ve been to stretch out in one of them for a little while. What was the point? What’d we gain? A lousy three hours?”

  “Three hours is three hours,” Sweetwater said sullenly. “No use bellyaching about it now. It’s spilled milk.”

  “Yeah, spilled milk that would’ve been nice and cold to drink. Or better yet, a shot of tequila or some beer. For sure, something better than this piss-warm slop.” Kent brandished the canteen he’d just taken a drink from and slammed it disgustedly to the ground.

  The three were sitting on the ground with their backs against a low, jagged-topped boulder. The rock was hot through their sweat-soaked shirts, even with a saddle blanket wedged up as a barrier. The steadily widening sliver of shade thrown by the boulder made it worth a little patience.

  As had become routine with their afternoon rest stops, the wagon sat a short distance away, its team unhitched and picketed with the saddle-stripped riding mounts. Lusita lay in the shade under the wagon bed. General Wainwright paced restlessly back and forth under the full hammering weight of the sun.

  “The general is set in his ways, that’s all I know to tell you,” Sweetwater tried to explain. “He’s made up his mind that he wants to avoid all contact with anybody who can say later on they remember us passing through.”

  “Long as we’ve already come and gone, what the hell difference does it make?” Tarvel said. “One minute he’s telling you not to worry about scouting our back trail, the next he’s fretting for no good reason about us seeking a little comfort in a no-nothing town in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes he don’t make a whole lot of sense.”

  “Like the way he paces out there right smack in the baking hot sun,” Kent said. “Every time we stop, all he does is pace. Almost makes you wonder if he didn’t do too much pacing in the hot sun at some point in his life and baked part of his brain or something.”

  “Yeah,” Tarvel said, “you especially got to wonder about that pacing business when you consider the better option he’s got. I had something waiting for me like he’s got waiting for him under that wagon, I sure as hell wouldn’t be spending all that time and energy walking away from it.”

  “Don’t even start with that kind of talk,” Sweetwater growled. “What goes on—or don’t go on—between a man and his woman ain’t no concern of ours. Same for the pacing.”

  “You’re mighty touchy and protective of the old goat, ain’t you?”

  “He’s the boss.” Sweetwater shrugged. “You sign on with a man and take his money, you owe him a certain amount of respect. Not to mention a certain kind of respect. Otherwise, why would you stick with him?”

  “That’s a good question,” Kent said. “Why is it that any of us are sticking with him? He’s obviously on the downhill slide. First he lost that skirmish with Don Pedro, which makes you wonder about that whole general thing and how good he ever was at it. Then he sets fire to his own damn house, and has a whole passel of his cattle shot and killed, which makes you wonder what’s going on upstairs in his head. Now he’s running—exactly to what or where I don’t know. I ain’t so sure he does, either.”

  “Let’s face it,” Tarvel said. “Money is what he dangled to pull us all into his private little army and that’s why we’re hanging on, even now. But I’m thinking Trident City is as far as I go, no matter what. And he’d damn well better have the payoff for me sticking that far.”

  “Oh, he’s still got money. I can vouch for that much,” said Sweetwater. “I saw him haul it out of the safe back at the house before he torched the place. I’m leaning the same way as you, Tarvel. I think
Trident City is where me and the general will be parting ways.”

  Kent nodded. “Same goes for me. And there ain’t no leaning about it. After we hit Trident City, the only way I’ll be looking at General Wainwright is back over my shoulder.”

  They were quiet for a spell. The shadow edging out farther from the rock moved with agonizing slowness. It gave precious little comfort in the shade it cast, but it was something.

  At length, Tarvel said, “You’re sure he’s got a bunch of money with him, though. That right, Sweetwater? Right there in the wagon?”

  “Uh-huh. Helped load it in myself.”

  Another stretch of silence passed.

  “Tarvel,” said Sweetwater.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t even think what you’re thinking. Until I ain’t working for the general no more, I am. You understand? That means my job, as I see it, is taking care of him. Wouldn’t bother me a whole lot to kill you. I’d just as soon not have to.”

  CHAPTER 46

  They reached Verdugo Pass well after dark. By then, their eyes had had plenty of time to adjust to the transition into night. The wash of light pouring down from the moon and stars, out of the cloudless sky, provided sufficient illumination even against the looming wall of the Barranaca Mountains

  Plus the light from the glowing coals of a campfire directly ahead was guiding them like a muted signal beacon beckoning sailors to a safe shoreline.

  “What do you make of it?” Wainwright called from the wagon seat, not slowing the team any as he raised the question. His question came out in puffs of whitish-gray vapor caused by the warmth of his breath against the chill night air that had settled over the stark land in such sharp contrast to the afternoon’s blazing heat.

  He was addressing Kent and Tarvel, who were riding about twenty yards ahead. Sweetwater was some distance to the rear, covering their back trail.

  “Looks like somebody’s pitched a night camp right near the opening to the pass,” Kent called back to the general. “No sign of anybody moving around, most likely all asleep.”

  “That wouldn’t be unusual, of course, for most travelers,” Wainwright said. “Go ahead, ride in closer and check it out. Use precaution, nevertheless.”

  Kent and Tarvel gigged their horses toward the mouth of the pass and the unexpected sign of occupants who’d apparently stopped there for the night. They fanned out over the short distance and then converged back together from opposite sides before reining to a halt.

  “Hello, the camp!” Kent called.

  No response except for a snort from one of the three horses picketed back in a stand of high, stringy grass. Closer to the fading fire, the shapes of three men lay wrapped in bedrolls. High-crowned sombreros covered heads and faces propped on saddles serving as pillows. Spurts of ragged snoring rose from the shapes.

  That wasn’t all that rose from the sleeping forms.

  “Holy hell, do you smell that?” Tarvel exclaimed.

  “I’d have to have my head cut off not to,” replied Kent. “Jesus! These boys smell like they drank half the tequila in Mexico and are snorin’ it back out.”

  Tarvel tried his luck at rousting the campers. “Pancho! Chico! Hey, you bean-eaters, wake the hell up, you’re blocking the road.”

  All he got for his trouble was more snoring and more reek of secondhand tequila.

  Wainwright rolled up in the wagon, announced by the creak of leather and plodding of the team’s hooves as he pulled back on the reins. “What’s the situation?”

  Tarvel gestured. “Just like we figured, some travelers decided to stop here for the night. Mexicans, from the look of it. Drunk as skunks, from the smell of it and the fact they ain’t wantin’ to be rousted.”

  “No never mind about them,” Kent said. “They’ve built their doggone fire right in the middle of that mighty narrow mouth to the pass. There ain’t enough room for your wagon to get around and the coals to that fire are still too hot for the horses to be willing to go through.”

  Wainwright frowned. “So what’s your hesitation? They have the right to camp alongside the pass if they wish, but they’re certainly not entitled to block the way for others. Quash that fire and scatter the coals. Clear the way as necessary.”

  “Consider it done,” Kent said, swinging down from his saddle.

  “Just be careful when you start kicking those coals around,” Tarvel advised his partner as he, too, left his stirrups. “We don’t want any to land too close to those snoring fools. A strong puff of raw tequila breath catches one wrong, we could all blow up or something.”

  * * *

  Of the three lumpy shapes lying on the ground, Buckhorn was the one farthest removed from the campfire. The other two were not men at all but rather bedrolls tucked around some carefully arranged rocks and twigs and heaps of dirt, augmented by the saddles and sombreros commandeered from the dead banditos back at the nameless village. The tequila stink assailing the nostrils of Kent and Tarvel was courtesy of a good dousing Buckhorn had given the blankets and sombreros.

  Lying in the thick of the stink and listening to the comments from Kent and Tarvel, Buckhorn wondered wryly if maybe he hadn’t overdone it a bit with the dousing. That’s all he needed was to make himself half-drunk from the fumes when the time for precision-timed action was at hand.

  He remained still and listened closely. With the sombrero over his face he had limited vision. He could see the wheels of the wagon off to one side and could hear the two men brushing and scraping at what was left of the fire, but he couldn’t see them. He’d heard no evidence at all of Sweetwater, which meant he was still lagging behind on their back trail. Buckhorn’s plan was to make his move when the wagon was just entering the narrow opening to the pass, hoping Sweetwater wouldn’t have caught up by then.

  Abruptly, the sounds of Kent and Tarvel clearing the fire stopped.

  “Hold it a minute,” said Tarvel’s voice. “Look at those horses on the picket line. Don’t that big gray one look familiar?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Kent grumbled. “I can’t see over there that good. Besides, one gray horse is gonna look like another, especially at night like this.”

  “No, not the one I’m thinking of. But I can’t quite . . . Wait a minute! Now I remember. I’m sure of it. That big stud belongs—”

  “Freeze just like you are, boys.” Damn! Clear what was coming next, Buckhorn couldn’t afford to wait any longer. He’d flung back his blanket, knocked away the sombrero, and surged to his feet. His Colt was leveled on Kent and Tarvel. “Keep your hands away from your guns or those smoky coals you’re kicking around are gonna seem like a puny taste of what’s waiting for you if you make me blast you to hell.”

  The two men standing on the smoldering ground where the fire used to be did indeed freeze—eyes blazing, backs humped, hands curled over the hoglegs strapped to their sides. But the hands held, dropping no lower. Hating him with those blazing eyes, they were smart enough to accept that he had the drop on them, reinforced by a keen awareness of how deadly accurate he was with that big Colt.

  On the driver’s box of the wagon, Wainwright thrust to a standing position. “Buckhorn!” he roared. “Kill that son of a bitch!”

  The force of the command, combined with Buckhorn’s momentary glance in the direction of the mad ex-general, was too much for Kent and Tarvel to continue holding back. Simultaneously, their hands made desperate dives for their guns. In feeble attempts to try and throw off Buckhorn’s accuracy, Kent dropped into a low crouch as he drew while Tarvel pitched himself to one side.

  Neither effort gained any measure of success. Buckhorn’s first shot punched a slug square into Kent’s throat, slamming his gore-wrapped Adam’s apple out the back of his neck. Tarvel’s dive-and-roll tactic caused Buckhorn to spend his next bullet on a grazing shoulder wound, but the next one punched a mortal hit to the center of Tarvel’s chest as the gunman came out of the roll and tried to raise his own gun. He flopped onto his back and managed to sh
oot a hole in the sky with a spasm of dying fingers before his hand relaxed and the pistol slipped free.

  Buckhorn wheeled around in time to see Thomas Wainwright bringing a Winchester to his shoulder and taking aim with it.

  There wasn’t the slightest hesitation to Buckhorn’s response as words filtered through his brain. Priorities . . . The main job hired out to do . . . “You’ll have to kill Wainwright in order to keep him from killing you” . . .

  He emptied the Colt’s remaining three rounds into the former prison camp commander and blew him off the wagon box.

  CHAPTER 47

  “If you’ll trust me, I’m here to help you.”

  Those were the words Buckhorn greeted Lusita Wainwright with when she poked her pretty head tentatively out from around the edge of the wagon canopy. He was advancing toward the wagon, replacing the Colt’s spent cartridges as he went.

  Lusita looked beyond him at the sprawled bodies of Kent and Tarvel. Then slowly turning her head, she looked down to where Wainwright had fallen on the other side of the wagon. Her eyes came back to Buckhorn. “Are they all dead?”

  “That’s the way they called it,” he told her.

  “There was another gunman,” she said somewhat hesitantly.

  “I know. Sweetwater.”

  “He may be the most dangerous of all. Except . . .”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. He’s lagging somewhere behind, but not far.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s bound to have heard the shooting, so he’ll be showing up pretty quick. We need to get you to better cover over there in those rocks.” Buckhorn holstered his gun, then raised his arms to help her down from the wagon.

  As Lusita lighted, she said, “Did my father send you?”

  “Among others.”

  “But only you? Only one man?”

  “I was the right choice for moving fast enough to catch up and do what had to be done,” Buckhorn explained. “Plus I had some unfinished business of my own where your husband was concerned.”