“Good. He is a hard man, but he treats his people fairly. Life on his ranch is the only thing I have ever known. And my father worked for his father, back in the days when Don Vincente founded the rancho with his partner. Before we started our own. Many years ago, boy. Long before you were born.”
“You’ve spent your whole life in the same place?” Hector could barely wrap his mind around that idea.
“It’s not so bad,” Hermosa said as he snuffed out the butt of the quirly and snapped it away. He added dryly, “You get used to it.”
“I’d like to go places,” Hector said. “Faraway places. I’d like to see big cities and gaze out over the sea. But tonight I would settle for going to that fiesta.”
Hermosa growled, “You’re young. There will be other fiestas.” With that he lifted his reins and nudged his horse into motion. “We had better get back to our jobs,” he said.
Hector heaved a sigh, stared longingly at the lights glittering at the ranch house, and said, “I suppose—”
He stopped short as he heard several sharp reports. The sounds were muted somewhat by distance, but they were unmistakable.
Gunshots.
Hermosa lifted himself in his stirrups, muttered an exclamation, and said, “Don Eduardo.” He dug the rowels of his fancy spurs into his mount’s flanks and sent the horse leaping forward as he called over his shoulder, “Stay here with the herd, boy!”
“But—” Hector began as worry for John Slaughter and the lovely Señora Slaughter filled him.
“Stay here!” Hermosa ordered again, and then he was gone, galloping away into the darkness.
Hector hesitated. He didn’t have to follow the commands given to him by Don Eduardo’s man, but on the other hand, Señor Slaughter had ordered him to watch the herd.
Torn between concern for his employer and his desire to do as Slaughter had told him, Hector agonized for a moment before deciding that he would stay here with the cattle. He was convinced it was the right thing to do.
Besides, Hector had no doubt that whatever the trouble was, John Slaughter could handle it.
* * *
Stonewall wasn’t armed. He hadn’t figured it would be necessary to bring a gun to a fandango.
But he knew there was a shotgun inside the tack room. Pete kept it there to chase off the wolves that occasionally came down from the mountains.
Those Apaches were more dangerous than any wolves, Stonewall knew.
He made a desperate leap for the tack room door, which stood open about a foot. As he moved, one of the raiders fired. The man’s rifle was an old single-shot weapon. Stonewall heard the bullet hum past his ear like a bee, rather than the high-pitched whine of rounds fired by more modern rifles.
An arrow flew past him as well and lodged in the jamb as his shoulder struck the door and knocked it open the rest of the way. He half-stumbled, half-fell into the tack room and spotted the shotgun hanging on pegs beside the door. As he reached for it, one of the Apaches bounded toward him with a strident yell.
Now that a gun had gone off, there was no longer any need for stealth. Stonewall had a sinking feeling that these three renegades weren’t the only ones on the ranch tonight.
The Apache charging him couldn’t see the shotgun hanging on the wall just inside the door. He had jerked a knife from the colorful sash around his waist and raised it high as his face contorted with hatred. Clearly, he planned to kill Stonewall in hand-to-hand combat.
Stonewall had no interest in going mano a mano with the warrior. He jerked the scattergun from the pegs, swiveled toward his attacker as he used his thumb to ear back both hammers, and touched off the right-hand barrel.
The load of buckshot traveled only a couple of feet, so it was still bunched up as it slammed into the Apache’s chest, shredding his blousy shirt and blowing a fist-size hole clean through him. The charge’s impact was great enough to lift the warrior off his feet and throw him backward.
The intruder crashed down on his back with his shirt on fire from the tongue of flame that had licked out from the shotgun’s muzzle. He would never get any deader.
Another rifle blasted and a slug chewed splinters from the doorjamb near where the arrow had lodged. Stonewall swung the shotgun up and fired the second barrel at the two men in the barn’s entrance. They dived back into the darkness. Stonewall couldn’t tell if he had hit either of them.
He retreated into the tack room and kicked the door shut. A box of shotgun shells sat on a shelf. He reached into it and grabbed a handful. It took him only a couple of seconds to break open the gun, dump the spent shells, and slide fresh ones into the barrels. As he closed the shotgun, he heard more gunfire, confirming his hunch that the ranch was under a general attack.
He needed to be out there with his friends and relatives, defending their home.
But if he stepped out of the tack room, he might run right into a rifle bullet or an arrow.
What happened next took the decision out of his hands. He smelled smoke wafting under the door.
The sons of bitches had set the barn on fire.
* * *
Slaughter had brought Viola back to the table after the dance ended. Belinda and Santiago had returned as well. Belinda sat close to her husband, while Santiago slouched several chairs away, toying with a glass of wine.
After seeing that Viola was seated, Slaughter walked over to the young man and asked, “Did you and my brother-in-law settle the details of that race you were talking about this afternoon?”
Santiago’s interest perked up. He smiled and said, “It is all arranged, Señor Slaughter. We will race at dawn, Stonewall’s Pacer against my El Halcón.”
Slaughter picked up one of the chairs, reversed it, and straddled it.
“That ought to be something to see. I can tell by looking at him that horse of yours is fast.”
“Sí, very fast,” Santiago nodded.
“But Pacer’s got some speed, too. I’ll enjoy watching them.” Slaughter looked around. “Where is Stonewall?”
Santiago shook his head and said, “I have not seen him.”
“I thought he’d be out there dancing,” Viola said.
“Perhaps he is nervous about the race,” Don Eduardo suggested. “Señor Slaughter . . . Juan . . . I was wondering. . . perhaps you would care to make a small wager on the outcome?”
“I might be persuaded to do that,” Slaughter replied. “What sort of stakes were you thinking of ?”
He was destined not to know Rubriz’s answer, because at that moment a terrified scream ripped through the festivities and made the musicians abruptly fall silent. Slaughter bolted to his feet, looked around, and saw one of the young women who worked for them running toward the house, panic-stricken.
A shot rang out. Slaughter automatically identified the whipcrack report as that of a rifle.
The servant threw out her arms as her mouth opened in a wide “O” of shock. She stumbled and pitched forward on her face. Slaughter saw the bright red stain on the back of her white shirt and knew she had been shot.
Screams and shots and high-pitched whoops suddenly filled the air, along with more gunshots.
Instinctively, Viola leaped to her feet and cried, “John!”
Before she could say anything else, Slaughter tackled her and bore both of them to the ground. The tables and chairs would provide a little protection as long as she stayed low.
“Stay down!” he told her as he looked around. A few feet away, Don Eduardo had pulled Belinda to the ground, too. He knelt beside her with a derringer in his hand. Slaughter hadn’t known that the don was armed, but it didn’t surprise him.
As a matter of fact, Slaughter had a gun himself, a short-barreled, single action .38 Smith & Wesson he carried in a holster under his left arm, hidden by his jacket. As he stood up he drew the revolver and looked around for somebody to shoot.
That didn’t take long. Chaos filled the area that had been used for dancing, as the couples there scattered in the face
of an attack by what appeared to be at least a dozen renegade Apache warriors. Some of the men were trying to fight back, but they were unarmed and a few had already fallen. Slaughter spotted one of the Apaches raising a knife high above his head. The renegade was about to plunge the blade into the chest of a man at his feet.
Even though the range was long for a handgun, Slaughter drew a bead and fired. He aimed at the Apache’s chest, but the bullet went high. Just as well, though, since it entered the renegade’s left cheek just below the eye and bored on into the brain, dropping the man like a stone before he could strike that killing blow with his knife.
“Santiago!” Don Eduardo bellowed.
Slaughter jerked around to see that the younger Rubriz was running toward the fight. Slaughter admired Santiago’s courage, but the youngster’s actions were rather foolhardy since he was unarmed.
Santiago had something in mind, though. He grabbed up an overturned chair, brought it crashing down on the ground so that it shattered, and charged on into battle, using a broken chair leg in each hand as clubs.
Slaughter saw that he couldn’t risk any more shots—there was too great a chance of hitting one of the innocents—so he reached down and took hold of Viola’s arm with his free hand. As he lifted her to her feet, he told her, “Take Belinda and get inside the house. You’ll be safe there.” He pressed the .38 into her hand. “Anybody tries to stop you, gun ’em down.”
Viola acknowledged the order with a curt nod. Slaughter knew from the grim expression on his wife’s face that she would do what he told her. Any Apache who got in her way would have a fight on his hands.
Viola ran to Belinda’s side and told her, “Come with me.”
The blonde didn’t respond at first. Clearly she was too terrified to move. Her husband had to take hold of her, lift her to her feet, and shove her toward Viola.
“Go with Señora Slaughter,” he told her. “I love you, Belinda. Never forget that.”
“Eduardo—” She clutched at his coat.
“Go!”
Belinda obeyed, stumbling along beside Viola as the other woman held her arm to steady her. Rubriz turned toward Slaughter, opened his mouth to say something, and then jerked up the derringer and fired instead.
Slaughter heard the bullet go past him and thud into something behind him. He turned to see one of the Apaches collapsing with a hole in the center of his forehead where Don Eduardo’s slug had struck him.
The warrior had been armed with a Henry rifle. Slaughter snatched it from the dead man’s hands and brought it to his shoulder as he said “Much obliged” to Don Eduardo.
“You have fought these bronco Apaches before?” Rubriz asked.
The rifle in Slaughter’s hands cracked. One of the Indians across the road spun off his feet as the bullet ripped through him.
“Many times,” Slaughter said in response to the don’s question. “But they haven’t dared attack the ranch in quite a while.”
“We should turn this table on its side and use it for cover,” Don Eduardo suggested.
“Good idea,” Slaughter said. He lowered the Henry and held it in one hand while he used the other to help Don Eduardo tip the table onto its side. Platters of leftover food, plates, silverware, wineglasses, all went flying.
The mess could be cleaned up later—if they survived.
Slaughter knelt behind the table and fired several more shots from the Henry. The sight of two Apaches collapsing rewarded his efforts.
Don Eduardo crouched beside him and said, “Where is Santiago? I don’t see—”
“There,” Slaughter said as he spotted the younger Rubriz. Santiago was using the broken chair legs to fight off an Apache who was attacking him with a knife. He blocked the thrusts and tried to strike back, but the warrior was too quick, too experienced in such combat. The Apache’s foot shot out, hooked behind one of Santiago’s knees, and jerked him off his feet.
“Santiago, no!” Don Eduardo cried as he saw his son fall. The don straightened up in alarm and then fell back.
At the same time, Slaughter fired and blew away a chunk of the Apache’s skull before the warrior could plunge his knife into the fallen Santiago.
“I got him,” Slaughter said. “Santiago’s all right.”
Don Eduardo didn’t respond. Slaughter turned to see the don lying there with a hand pressed to his side as blood welled between his fingers.
Chapter 6
Through the tack room door, Stonewall heard the terrified shrieks of the horses and knew the smoke had spooked them, too. He couldn’t let them burn, and if he stayed in here the flames would consume him as well.
Even if the Apaches were waiting for him, he had to get out of here.
With the shotgun held ready, he kicked the door open and lunged through it into the barn’s center aisle, which was clogged with black, billowing smoke. He ducked his head, but that didn’t really do any good. The stuff still stung his eyes, nose, and throat, leaving him half-blind, coughing, and choking.
He fought his way through the smoke, figuring that if he couldn’t see the Apaches, they couldn’t see him, either. As he came to each stall, he threw the latch open and flung the gate back to let the horse inside stampede out. The panicky animals would have a chance to escape, anyway.
When the renegades saw the horses emerging from the barn, they would figure out that he was letting them loose and know he was still alive. So they would be expecting him to come out, too, any time now.
Stonewall had a surprise in mind for them, though.
He wasn’t going to emerge from the barn by himself.
He saved Pacer’s stall for last, and when he came to it he saw the roan lunging back and forth within the sturdy wooden walls.
“Pacer!” Stonewall said. “Pacer, settle down. Settle down, boy, it’ll be all right.”
The words were punctuated by hacking coughs, so he supposed they might not be as reassuring as they would have been otherwise. There was nothing he could do about that. Something in what he said must have gotten through to the horse, though, because Pacer stopped trying to batter his way out of the stall. He threw his head up and down and whinnied as if asking Stonewall to do something, anything, about the inferno spreading around them.
The walls were on fire, and when the flames reached the hay in the loft, that fuel would turn the barn into a gigantic torch. It couldn’t be saved. Stonewall glanced in the direction where the two bodies lay but couldn’t see them because of the thick smoke.
He would have liked to get Pete and the other cowboy out of here, but that wasn’t going to be possible. He would be doing good to save himself. As he swung the stall gate open, he continued talking to Pacer in calm, steady tones. If the roan bolted, Stonewall wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Pacer didn’t run. Stonewall opened the gate wide and used it to help him throw a leg over Pacer’s back. He leaned forward over the roan’s neck, held the shotgun in one hand and Pacer’s mane with the other, and banged his heels on the horse’s flanks.
Pacer took off like a shot.
Instinct must have guided the horse through the smoke toward the barn entrance. Pacer burst out into the open. Stonewall’s eyes were streaming tears from the smoke; he couldn’t see a thing. He was doing good just to stay mounted, riding bareback like he was.
Fresh air flooded against his face. His vision began to clear a bit as he heard rifles cracking. Some of the Apaches were shooting at him, he realized, but Pacer was moving too fast for them to draw a bead on him.
Stonewall galloped along the road through the cottonwoods that led back to the house. One of the attackers leaped into his path and fired a Winchester. The shot missed, but it spooked Pacer and made the roan shy violently. Stonewall almost fell off. Somehow he managed to hang on.
The Apache worked the rifle’s lever for a second shot. Stonewall had no choice but to thrust the shotgun at him and fire it one-handed. The short-range blast blew the Apache’s head off his shoulders, but the recoil ripp
ed the weapon out of Stonewall’s hand.
The thunderous blast also made Pacer rear up and paw at the air. This time Stonewall wasn’t able to stay on. He slipped off the roan’s back and crashed to the ground.
* * *
Slaughter knew that Don Eduardo must have been hit by one of the bullets flying around. He dropped to a knee beside the wounded man and asked him, “How bad are you hit?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Rubriz gasped. “But don’t worry . . . about me . . . Juan. Protect my wife . . . my son . . .”
“I’ll do my best,” Slaughter promised. “In the meantime. . .”
He set the Henry aside, whipped off his coat, and wadded it up. As he pressed it hard against the wound in Don Eduardo’s side, he went on, “Hold this on there to slow down the bleeding.”
“I will . . . be all right . . . mi amigo,” Rubriz said. “Now go. Deal with those . . . damned Apaches.”
Slaughter nodded and picked up the rifle. He turned back to the fight.
Not as much shooting was going on now. The battle had turned into mostly hand-to-hand combat. The actual number of attackers had been relatively small, Slaughter realized. The Apaches were outnumbered, and their only advantages had been surprise and the fact that most of the partygoers weren’t armed.
Eventually the odds had worked against them, however, and as some of the Apaches had fallen, the guests and Slaughter’s cowboys had snatched up the weapons the dead warriors had dropped. That had helped turn the tide even more.
Slaughter stalked across the road, seeking out targets and bringing the Henry smoothly to his shoulder to fire every time he spotted one of the renegades still on his feet. There was plenty of light for shooting because the barn was on fire, flames shooting a hundred feet into the air as they consumed the structure.
The barn could be rebuilt, but Slaughter hoped the horses had gotten out all right. And some of his men might have been in there, too, he thought grimly. If they had been killed, he would make sure their deaths were avenged.
Not one of the renegades would leave the ranch alive.
The Edge of Hell Page 4
