The Edge of Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  He looked for Santiago Rubriz and felt a surge of relief when he spotted the young man. Slaughter was even more relieved when he recognized the smoke-grimed figure Santiago was helping along.

  “Stonewall!” he called. “Over here.”

  Stonewall and Santiago hurried toward him. Stonewall said, “John! Thank the Lord you’re all right. Where’s Viola?”

  “I sent her and Doña Belinda into the house.”

  “My—my stepmother!” Santiago said. “Was she hurt?”

  Santiago had seemed rather cool toward Belinda earlier, but clearly he was concerned about her safety now. Slaughter told him, “She was fine the last time I saw her.”

  “Thank God!”

  “But your father . . . I’m afraid he was hit, Santiago.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. He said, “Is he . . . was he—”

  “I don’t know how bad it is,” Slaughter said. He turned and pointed. “Over there, behind the table where we were sitting earlier.”

  Santiago took off in that direction at a run.

  The shooting had stopped completely now, but the area between the ranch house and the barn wasn’t silent. Angry shouts and the moans of the wounded filled the air. Bodies, white and Apache alike, littered the ground.

  Stonewall looked around at the carnage and said, “John, the Indians around here have been peaceful lately. What the hell was this all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Slaughter said, “but I intend to find out.”

  * * *

  Hector Alvarez was in agony as he sat on his horse and listened to the gunshots and watched the flames leaping up. From this distance, the fire was just a garish orange blob and Hector couldn’t tell what was burning, but he thought it might be the barn.

  Whatever it was, that didn’t really matter right now. What was important was that Señor and Señora Slaughter and all of Hector’s friends and fellow cowboys were in danger, and he wasn’t doing a single thing to help them.

  But his orders had been to stay with the herd no matter what happened. He prided himself on being a faithful vaquero and doing what he was supposed to.

  Hermosa and the other nighthawks had disregarded their orders, though. They had galloped back to the ranch to find out what was going on and help if they could. Hector had heard the swift hoofbeats of their horses in the darkness and knew he was alone out here with the herd.

  He thought about one of the maids who worked in the main house, Yolanda Ramos. She was about a year younger than Hector and very beautiful. He had walked out with her several times when neither of them was working, and once he had even been bold enough to kiss her. Nothing he had ever tasted had been sweeter than Yolanda’s lips.

  Soon, when they had known each other longer, Hector planned to ask Yolanda to marry him. He had hopes that she would say yes, and if she did, then they would live in one of the small cabins where Señor Slaughter’s married hands made their homes. Yolanda would continue to work for Señora Slaughter—at least until her belly was too big with their first baby for her to do so.

  There would be other babies, many of them, and Hector would grow old surrounded by the love of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and most of all his beautiful Yolanda. It was a dream that he held close to his heart and cherished.

  A dream that would be destroyed if anything happened to Yolanda.

  As that horrible realization sunk into Hector’s brain, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Orders or no orders, he had to make sure she was safe from whatever terrible thing was happening there at the ranch.

  He had just lifted his reins when he heard hoofbeats nearby. Were Hermosa and the other nighthawks coming back? The shooting was still going on, and the fire still blazed.

  Hector hesitated as large shapes loomed up in front of him. Men on horseback, he told himself. He put his hand on the butt of the .36 and called softly, “Hermosa?”

  Something thudded against his chest as if someone had just thrown a rock at him. Whatever it was, it didn’t bounce off like a rock, though. He reached up to feel, and as his fingers touched the leather-wrapped handle of a knife, pain welled up inside him, a greater pain than he had ever known.

  He realized the blade was buried deep in his chest.

  A numb weakness followed the pain. Hector tried to draw his gun, but his muscles refused to work properly. The Colt came out of its holster but then slipped from Hector’s fingers. He swayed in the saddle and grabbed for the saddle horn instead. That steadied him for a second, but then he lost that grip as well and toppled off the horse.

  A hot, salty flood filled his mouth. He knew it was blood, knew he was dying. He fumbled at the knife sticking out of his chest but couldn’t dislodge it.

  Fingers pushed his aside, gripped the knife, pulled it out. A shape loomed over him, a deeper patch of darkness in the night, and a man’s voice said in English, “You should’ve gone back to the house with the others, kid. Might’ve stood a chance that way.”

  Hector’s head fell to the side. Blood welled out of his open mouth. His lips moved, and he whispered, “Yolanda . . .” just before he died.

  Chapter 7

  Viola and Belinda had almost reached the house when one of the servants came shrieking after them with an Apache in pursuit. As Viola looked over her shoulder and saw what was happening, she remembered the poor girl who had been gunned down when the attack first began. She was determined not to let another of her people be killed.

  She pushed the sobbing, stumbling Belinda toward the door and snapped, “Get inside.”

  Then she turned back, raised the Smith & Wesson, pulled back the hammer, and fired.

  The Apache’s head jerked back. His legs kept running for a couple more steps, then folded up underneath him. As the dead man tumbled to the ground, Viola stepped forward and caught hold of the hysterical servant.

  The girl screamed and fought, not knowing or caring who had hold of her. Viola said, “Stop it!” then recognizing the girl she added, “Stop it, Yolanda! Stop fighting me!”

  Her urgent words must have gotten through to the servant’s terrified brain. She stopped struggling and gasped, “Señora Slaughter?”

  Viola pushed her toward the front door that Belinda had left open behind her. “Get inside. Find Doña Belinda and take care of her.” Giving Yolanda a job to do might help her keep calm.

  “What . . . what are you going to do, señora?”

  “I’ll make sure none of those Apaches get in,” Viola said in a flat, hard voice.

  As soon as Yolanda had hurried into the house, Viola stationed herself in the doorway and watched the battle unfold. Her heart seemed to twist in her chest when she saw the flames through the trees and realized the barn was on fire. She was afraid for the men and horses who might have been caught in there, but it was just one more worry on top of her fear for the safety of her husband and her brother.

  With the iron-willed, icy-nerved determination that had proven so valuable in times past, she kept those fears tamped down deep inside her. She couldn’t afford to give in to them while the outcome of the attack was still in doubt.

  Fortunately, that didn’t last too much longer. The shooting died away. The lanterns still burned in the trees, casting the same light they had before terror and death replaced dancing and gaiety. Viola’s eyes searched desperately for John and Stonewall.

  When she spotted them and saw that they appeared to be all right, the relief that surged through her was so powerful it made her gasp. Her knees went weak for a second before she stiffened them.

  “Señora . . . ?”

  Yolanda’s voice made Viola turn. The maid stood there, calmer than before but obviously still very agitated.

  “What is it?” Viola asked.

  “I found Doña Belinda like you said, señora, but she . . . she collapsed. I cannot get her to wake up, señora. I think she is dead!”

  * * *

  By the time Slaughter and Stonewall reached Don Eduardo, Santiag
o was already kneeling at his father’s side. He had lifted Don Eduardo and leaned the wounded man against him.

  Rubriz’s eyes were open. He gazed up at his son and asked in a weak voice, “Santiago . . . you are unharmed?”

  “I’m fine, Papa,” Santiago assured him. “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”

  Thin lines of blood had trickled from the corners of Don Eduardo’s mouth. Slaughter hunkered on the other side of him and said, “Let me take a look, Santiago.”

  Rubriz still had Slaughter’s coat pressed against the wound. Slaughter lifted it away. There was no strength left in Don Eduardo’s fingers. Slaughter pulled the don’s shirt out of his trousers and lifted it along with the short charro jacket Rubriz wore. When the bloody garments were out of the way, an ugly red-rimmed hole in his side oozed crimson.

  Slaughter reached around and felt for an exit wound. When he didn’t find one, he said, “The bullet’s still in there. No way of telling how much damage it’s done. We need to get him inside, stop that bleeding, and let him rest.”

  “The bullet must come out,” Santiago said.

  “Try to dig it out now and you’ll finish him off,” Slaughter said. “He needs to get stronger first. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  “He could have blood poisoning by then,” the younger man argued.

  Slaughter knew Santiago was right. This was a fine line they had to walk. Too much delay in getting the bullet out would prove fatal, but subjecting Don Eduardo to a lot of cutting and probing in the shape he was in now would kill him, too.

  “We’ll do everything we can for him, Santiago, I give you my word. I’ll send a man to Douglas tonight for the doctor. They should be back by morning.”

  “Will my father still be alive by then?” Santiago asked bitterly.

  “S-Santiago . . .” Don Eduardo rasped. “Mi amigo Juan . . . is right. What I need now . . . is to know that my wife . . . is unharmed.”

  “I sent her into the house with Viola,” Slaughter told him. “We’ll take you in there so you can see her. You need to be resting in a bed anyway.”

  Of course, moving the wounded man might be dangerous, too, Slaughter thought, but they couldn’t leave him out here in the open all night.

  Before he and Stonewall and Santiago could pick up the don, rapid hoofbeats pounded nearby. Slaughter thought the likelihood of another attack tonight was very slim, but he picked up the Henry rifle he had set aside and straightened to his feet anyway.

  Several men rode up in a hurry. Slaughter recognized the rider in the lead as one of Don Eduardo’s men, an older, saturnine hombre who had the look of a bandido about him even though Slaughter had no reason to think he was anything more than an honest vaquero.

  The leader of the newcomers swung down from his saddle and said, “Don Eduardo—”

  “I am all right, Hermosa,” the don said. His voice sounded a little stronger now, but Slaughter had a feeling he just didn’t want to seem any weaker than he had to in front of his men. “What about . . . the cattle?”

  “They were fine when we left,” Hermosa replied. “We had to make sure you were safe.”

  A shock went through Slaughter as he realized these were the men Rubriz had picked to watch over the herd while the party was going on. Not only that, but he spotted two of his own hands among them and recognized them as men who were supposed to be acting as nighthawks.

  “Wait a minute,” Slaughter said sharply. “Who’s out there keeping an eye on the herd?”

  “One of your young cowboys, señor,” Hermosa said. “I told him to stay behind while we rode in.”

  “Son of a—” Slaughter bit back the rest of the curse. He turned to his men who had come in with the vaqueros and said, “Get down from those horses. Help carry Don Eduardo into the house. Mrs. Slaughter will know what to do. Stonewall, you up to coming with me?”

  “Sure, John,” Stonewall said. His voice was raspy from the smoke he’d inhaled in the barn. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  The two confused cowboys dismounted and turned their horses over to Slaughter and Stonewall. Both saddles had scabbarded Winchesters strapped to them, so Slaughter left the Henry rifle behind. He set a fast pace toward the bed ground half a mile away, where the herd he’d bought from Don Eduardo was settling in.

  As they rode, Stonewall said above the hoofbeats, “I think I’ve got it figured out now. That raid by the Apaches was just a distraction.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Slaughter said. “Raise hell, draw in all the men, then hit the herd.”

  “Apaches usually don’t go in for rustling on a scale like that,” Stonewall pointed out.

  “No, but somebody could have gotten them to do it. Paid them off with rifles, maybe, or something else they’d want.”

  As Slaughter put this theory into words, he knew it made sense. He might be wrong—he hoped he was wrong—but he wasn’t going to be surprised if he and Stonewall found that the cattle were gone.

  They rode hard at first, then Slaughter slowed and told his brother-in-law, “Better get that rifle out. There’s no telling what we’re going to run into.”

  With Winchesters in hand, they advanced at a more cautious pace. Slaughter felt his hopes disappearing as he scanned the countryside in the light from the moon and stars and failed to find the dark, irregular mass that should have greeted him.

  “They’re gone,” Stonewall said, his voice hollow. “All those cattle you just bought from Don Eduardo—gone!”

  “Yes,” Slaughter agreed grimly. “That appears to be the case.”

  He spotted something else, though. A single, much smaller shape huddled darkly on the ground. He pointed it out to Stonewall.

  The young cowboy cursed. All the members of the crew were his friends. It was impossible not to like Stonewall, and he felt the same way about almost everybody he met.

  “Take a closer look,” Slaughter told him. “I’ll watch for any trouble, but I don’t think we’re going to find any.” His voice held a note of bitterness, too, as he added, “Whoever was out here a little while ago, they’re all gone now.”

  Stonewall dismounted and walked over to the shape on the ground. He knelt and rolled the body onto its back. With a catch in his voice, he called, “It’s . . . Hector Alvarez.”

  Slaughter sighed. Young Alvarez hadn’t been working on the ranch for very long, but in the time he’d been here, he had demonstrated that he was a devoted, capable hand.

  He was courting one of the maids who worked in the house, too, Slaughter recalled Viola telling him.

  Now any future together they might have had was over, ripped away by ruthless men.

  Somebody would pay for hurting his people, thought Slaughter.

  “Can you tell what happened to him?” he asked.

  “Let me strike a match,” Stonewall said.

  He snapped a lucifer to life and held it so that its feeble, flickering glow washed over the unfortunate Hector Alvarez. Even from horseback, Slaughter could see the large bloodstain on the young man’s shirt.

  “Doesn’t look like he was shot,” Stonewall said. “More likely he was stabbed. He must’ve let whoever it was get pretty close to him, to get stuck like that.”

  “Not necessarily,” Slaughter said. “The killer could have been good at throwing a knife.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The match had burned down almost to Stonewall’s fingers. He shook out the flame and dropped it.

  “Strike another one,” Slaughter told him. “Let’s have a look at the hoofprints around here.”

  As Stonewall did so, he said, “Apaches aren’t really horse Indians, like the ones back on the plains.”

  “No, they’re not,” Slaughter agreed. An Apache was just about as likely to eat a horse as he was to ride it. These renegades preferred to travel on foot. Some of their hideouts in the mountains were impassable even by horse.

  “Only hoofprints I see are shod ones,” Stonewall reported. “W
hite men’s horses. Looks like your idea of rustlers working with the Apaches was the right one, John.”

  “It’s not a coincidence that this happened tonight,” Slaughter said. “Not when Don Eduardo just delivered this herd today. Somebody knew these cattle would be here and came after them specifically.”

  “You reckon one of the don’s men is workin’ with the rustlers?”

  Slaughter frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe, maybe not. They could have been keeping an eye on his ranch, waiting for the right moment to make a move against him. Some old enemy of Don Eduardo’s, maybe.”

  “Or an enemy of yours,” Stonewall suggested.

  Slaughter shook his head. “Not likely. I have plenty of enemies, but I don’t see how any of them would have known the don was bringing that herd up here. Not in time to set that up with the Apaches, anyway.” Slaughter scraped a thumbnail along his jawline. “No, this is somebody who wants to get back at Don Eduardo for something. Unfortunately, since earlier this evening when that money changed hands, those are my cows that they stole.”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “That means I’m going to get them back,” Slaughter said.

  Chapter 8

  Viola was practically holding her breath as she hurried after Yolanda. She would have sworn that Belinda Rubriz hadn’t been wounded. What could have happened to her?

  Maybe Belinda had been hit by a stray bullet on their way into the house and hadn’t even realized it herself. Viola had heard of people being shot without knowing it.

  The maid led Viola into the parlor, where Belinda was slumped on the floor in an untidy heap. Viola dropped to her knees beside the blonde and placed a hand on Belinda’s chest, searching for a heartbeat.

  To her great relief, after a few seconds she found it.

  Belinda was alive, just unconscious.

  “She’s not dead,” Viola told Yolanda, who crossed herself and offered up a quick prayer of thanksgiving. Viola went on, “Help me check her for injuries.”

  They looked the visitor over and found no sign of blood on her clothes. Viola checked her head, searching through the thick blond hair, thinking that maybe Belinda had been creased by a bullet. That turned out not to be the case, either.