“Don’t worry about it, Herb.” Becker’s voice hardened again. “But know one thing: I won’t be gossiped about. What I just told you, that stays between the two of us, understand?”
Becker heard the other man swallow. Woodbury said, “Sure, boss. I won’t say anything to anybody.”
Becker knew that he meant it, too. Woodbury was too afraid of him not to honor the request. Woodbury had seen him kill—savagely, suddenly, without warning.
No, Woodbury wouldn’t say anything, Becker thought with a smile.
Then he stiffened as he heard an owl hoot somewhere outside the canyon.
Only it wasn’t an owl, Becker knew. He recognized the sound from childhood. He turned, slipped a match from his vest pocket, and struck it with his thumbnail. He moved the flame back and forth in front of him three times, then snuffed it out and dropped the match at his feet.
Less than a minute later, a lithe figure trotted out of the darkness.
Alone.
Becker tensed even more. He had expected Bodaway to lose some men in the attack, but it appeared that the Apache war chief had arrived at this rendezvous by himself.
“Bodaway,” Becker said quietly. “El Infierno.”
Bodaway came to a stop in front of him and grunted. “What happened?” Becker asked. “Your warriors—”
“All dead,” Bodaway said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “We took the white men by surprise, but they fought well. Especially a few. The little one with the beard slew many of my men.”
“Slaughter,” Becker said with a note of hatred. Until now he hadn’t had anything personally against John Slaughter. His grudge was against someone else. But the rancher and lawman had made himself an enemy tonight.
Becker knew that was a little irrational. Of course Slaughter would fight back when his ranch was attacked. But Becker hated him for it anyway, the same way he hated anyone who dared to oppose his plans.
Setting that aside for the moment, Becker asked, “What about Don Eduardo? Your men knew he was not to be harmed.”
“You ask too much, Becker,” the Apache snapped. “No man’s safety is guaranteed in the middle of a fight.”
Becker suddenly felt as if he were standing at the edge of a high cliff, with everything falling away into nothingness at his feet. If Rubriz had been killed, that would ruin everything. He couldn’t die without knowing the reason. He just couldn’t.
“What happened?” Becker forced himself to ask. “Was he killed?”
“I do not know, and that is the truth, Becker. You told me what he looks like, and I saw such a man fall.” Bodaway shrugged. “That is all I know.”
Becker struggled to maintain his composure. This didn’t really change anything, he told himself. He would still go through with his plan. Even if Rubriz was dead, that wouldn’t finish things.
There was still more killing to do.
“All right. I’m sorry about your men, Bodaway. I’ll honor our bargain, though. I’ll get the rifles for you—”
“With no warriors, I have no need of rifles now,” the war chief cut in. “Later, when I have raised another band. Then you will give us rifles.”
“Of course,” Becker agreed.
“But now . . .”
“Whatever you want, Bodaway, if it’s within my power.”
“I want to kill that little man, the one you called Slaughter. I want to strip his skin off inch by inch and burn him over a fire for a long time before I allow him to die.”
Becker smiled and nodded and said, “I think that can be arranged.”
* * *
The eastern sky was gray with the approach of dawn when Slaughter held a council of war in his study.
Stonewall was there, and so was the ranch’s foreman, Jess Fisher. Slaughter had invited Santiago Rubriz, too, and Santiago had brought along the older, rakish vaquero, who he introduced as Augustín Hermosa.
“Jess, I’m leaving you in charge here on the ranch,” Slaughter told the foreman. “I want you to pick out ten good fighting men to come with me after those cows.”
Fisher, who had also served as one of Slaughter’s deputies in Tombstone from time to time, frowned and said bluntly, “I’d rather go with you after those damned rustlers myself, boss.”
“I know that. But I’m not going to ride off and leave the ranch unprotected. I’m not expecting any more trouble . . . but I wasn’t expecting the trouble last night, either.”
With obvious reluctance, Fisher nodded and said, “All right. When are you riding out?”
“No later than an hour from now,” Slaughter said. “Sooner if we can get everything together.”
“I had the remuda brought in, like you ordered earlier. You’ll want to take extra horses.”
“One per man,” Slaughter agreed with a nod. “This shouldn’t turn into a long chase. We can move faster than those cattle can. But I spoke to the cook about supplies, too. We’ll take a couple of pack horses and carry enough provisions for several days.”
Santiago spoke up, saying, “I can provide eight men, not counting myself. Our force will number almost two dozen. We should be more than a match for the thieves.”
“We’ll have to catch them first,” Slaughter said. He looked at Hermosa. “You’re Don Eduardo’s foreman, aren’t you?”
“Me?” Hermosa’s shoulders rose and fell in a languid shrug. “I’m just a simple vaquero, señor.”
Slaughter knew better than that. All he had to do was look at Hermosa to recognize that the hombre was a topnotch fighting man. He was glad they were going to be on the same side.
He turned his attention to Stonewall and said, “I suppose you’re going to insist on coming along, too.”
“Those Apaches tried to burn me up in the barn,” Stonewall said. His voice was still a little hoarse from the smoke he’d inhaled. “And they were workin’ for the varmints we’re goin’ after. So, yeah, you can dang well bet that I’m comin’ along.”
“Apaches don’t really work for anybody,” Slaughter pointed out. “But there’s no doubt they had an arrangement with the men who stole that herd. It’s unusual, no doubt about it, but the conclusion is inescapable. Those two things didn’t happen the same night by coincidence.”
It was agreed that the party going after the rustlers would assemble on the road in front of the ranch house. As soon as everyone was ready, they would start in pursuit.
Slaughter knew the trail ought to be easy to follow. The herd was a relatively small one, only about five hundred head, but that many cattle couldn’t be moved without leaving plenty of signs.
“I want to see how my father is before we leave,” Santiago said. “But we will be ready to ride, Señor Slaughter, have no doubt of that.”
“I don’t have any doubts,” Slaughter told him. “The rest of us will be saying our good-byes, too.”
The meeting broke up. Slaughter went to the parlor, where Don Eduardo was still resting on the sofa. He looked around but didn’t see Viola. One of the servants tending to the wounded men noticed what he was doing and told him, “Señora Slaughter is in the kitchen, señor.”
“Gracias,” Slaughter said. He went on out to the kitchen and found Viola supervising the packing of provisions for the men who were going after the rustlers.
She smiled at him and asked, “Will you be leaving soon?”
“Soon,” Slaughter confirmed.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you to be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he protested. “I’m a cautious man.”
“You can be,” Viola admitted. “Maybe even most of the time you are. But then you get some crazy, reckless hunch, and nothing will do except that you follow through on it.”
He grinned and said, “You mean like when I decided I was going to ask this wild young cowgirl to marry me?”
Viola laughed and then moved closer so she could rest her forehead against his shoulder.
“Honestly, John,” she said quietly,
“don’t get yourself killed over some cows. You can always buy more cattle.”
“That’s true . . . but I can’t buy the lives of the people who were killed last night. Murdered while they should have been enjoying themselves at that fandango you threw.”
“And that’s the real reason you’re going after the rustlers, isn’t it?”
Slaughter inclined his head in acknowledgment of her point.
“Just come back to me safely,” she said. “That’s all I’ve ever asked.”
“And I always have. I always will.”
Promises like that were easy to make, he thought.
Sometimes not so easy to keep. But he would do his best.
“You’ll look after Stonewall?”
“Of course. But that brother of yours can look after himself, you know. I wouldn’t say it to his face for fear of giving him a swelled head, but he’s a fine young man.”
“Yes, he is.” Viola put her hands on Slaughter’s arms and leaned in to kiss him. She didn’t have to come up on her toes very far to do that, since he wasn’t much taller than she was. “All right, let me get back to work. The sooner you chase down those rustlers, the sooner you can bring our cattle back and things can settle down here.”
Slaughter nodded and went back out to the parlor. He found Santiago there, sitting on a chair he had drawn up next to the sofa where Don Eduardo lay.
“He seems to be resting fairly comfortably,” Santiago said as he looked up at Slaughter. “Will the doctor be here soon?”
“Should be. I expect him and the rider I sent to Douglas by dawn, or at least not long after that. But that’s only if Orrie was able to locate Dr. Fredericks right away. The doc could have been out somewhere on a call. In that case, Orrie would have to wait for him to get back to town.”
“I have prayed for my father. That’s all I can do.” Santiago’s face hardened. “Except for going after the men responsible for what happened to him.”
“Where’s your stepmother?” Slaughter asked.
“She’s gone to her room to rest. She didn’t want to leave my father’s side, but I convinced her.”
“I reckon there’s really not much she could do. Viola will let her know if they need her help.”
“Your wife is a fine woman, Señor Slaughter.”
Slaughter chuckled and said, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, son.”
He could count on Viola to take care of things here at the ranch. Otherwise, he never would have been able to chase off after those rustlers like he was about to.
He wasn’t acting in his capacity as a lawman in this case, but justice was going to be done anyway.
The sooner the better.
Chapter 10
Viola stepped out the front door of the ranch house and used her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun rising to her left. Almost two dozen men were gathered on the other side of the picket fence that enclosed the house. They had mounted up and were ready to ride. Her husband, wearing a black Stetson, blue work shirt, and denim trousers, would take the lead.
The range clothes were considerably different from the suit that the nattily dressed John Slaughter usually wore, even here on the ranch, but they were much more appropriate for chasing down rustlers.
Santiago Rubriz, in tight trousers, charro jacket, and steeple-crowned sombrero, was much more dapper. His face was pale and drawn, though, which prevented him from looking dashing.
He was mounted on El Halcón. The blaze-faced black stepped around nervously. With her ranch woman’s experienced eye, Viola wasn’t sure the horse was the best animal for the job of chasing down rustlers. El Halcón was fast, no doubt about that, but he might not have the staying power this task would require.
But that was none of her business, Viola told herself. Her concern at the moment was keeping the ranch safe while John was gone, as well as taking care of the people who had been wounded in the Apache attack.
Dr. Neal Fredericks still hadn’t arrived from Douglas. It was pretty obvious by now that something had happened to delay him.
If the doctor didn’t show up soon, Viola knew she would have to try to remove the bullet from Don Eduardo. Every hour the chunk of lead stayed inside him lessened his chances for survival.
She had already said her good-byes to her husband. They had caught a moment alone in the house and shared an embrace and passionate kiss. The difference in their ages that had caused some people to look askance at their marriage had never meant a thing to them. They loved each other wholeheartedly, always had, always would.
From the back of his horse, John lifted a hand to her in farewell. She returned the wave, trying to ignore the pang of worry that went through her. She already missed him, and he wasn’t even gone yet. She couldn’t even begin to comprehend what it would be like if something happened to him and he never returned.
“Let’s move out,” Slaughter called. Santiago repeated the order in Spanish for the Rubriz vaqueros, even though Slaughter’s command of the language was as fluent as a native’s. In the absence of Don Eduardo, though, his men looked to Santiago for leadership.
Viola hoped the young man could provide it. If he didn’t, that might wind up putting John Slaughter in danger.
Maybe this whole affair would help Santiago grow up a little.
That thought was in Viola’s mind when someone tried to hurry past her. She looked over, saw Doña Belinda, and caught hold of the blonde’s arm to prevent her from rushing out to the road.
“Let go of me,” Belinda said. “He’s leaving. I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him.”
“If you’re talking about your stepson, you can still wave to him,” Viola said. “If I could trust you to give him a motherly kiss, you could go out there. But since I can’t . . .”
Belinda glared at her and demanded, “Who are you to judge me? I’ve heard about you. You married a grown man—a widower—when you weren’t much more than a child.”
Viola struggled with the impulse to slap this woman from back East. She said, “I was old enough to know what I wanted, and it’s worked out. We have the happiest, strongest marriage I know. And I’ve always been faithful to him.”
“You can get off your high horse,” Belinda said coldly. “You don’t know anything about me and my marriage.”
“I know more than I wish I did.”
“I love my husband,” Belinda went on as if Viola hadn’t said anything. “I wanted to help take care of him. You wouldn’t let me.”
Maybe she had a point about that, Viola thought. Maybe the dislike she felt for Belinda had prompted her to keep the woman at arm’s length, even from her own wounded husband.
Right now, though, Viola didn’t care. Her husband and brother were riding away, quite possibly to risk their lives. The group of riders had covered about a hundred yards, moving at a fast lope as they headed for the place where they would pick up the trail of the stolen herd. Dust rose in the air from their horses’ hooves, blurring their dwindling figures.
“You might as well go on back in the house,” she told Belinda. “They’re gone . . . and all we can do is pray that they’ll be safe while we wait for them to come back.”
* * *
Slaughter led the way to the spot where the herd had been bedded down the day before. The group had to pass the place he and Stonewall had found the body of Hector Alvarez. Slaughter didn’t pause, but he pointed it out to the others and said, “At least one of the fellas we’re going after is good with a knife, so be ready for that.”
“I don’t intend to let any of ’em get close enough to me to use a knife,” Stonewall said.
The vaquero called Hermosa plucked a Bowie knife from a sheath at his waist and said, “I can handle a blade fairly well myself, Señor Slaughter. Perhaps I will meet up with this hombre who killed young Alvarez.”
That would probably be a good fight to see, thought Slaughter.
Finding the trail the cattle had left when they
were driven away was no problem. The tracks led almost due north. If they continued in that direction, eventually they would reach the Chiricahua Mountains on the other side of Cave Creek. If they curved west, they would get to the mountains sooner, and if they went east they would find themselves in the wasteland of southern New Mexico Territory.
Whatever direction the rustlers took, Slaughter intended to stay on their trail. He set a brisk pace, but not fast enough to wear out the horses. They had extra mounts, but he wanted to keep all the horses in as good a shape as possible.
You never knew when you might need to make a hard run for some reason.
“I wish the doctor had gotten there before we left,” Santiago said. “My mind would rest easier if I knew my father was going to be all right.”
“He’s in good hands,” Slaughter told the young man. “My wife has tended to many wounded men before. If the doctor doesn’t show up soon, she’ll do what needs to be done.”
“I suppose you’re right. And my father is a very strong man, very tough. He has been shot before, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Slaughter said. “I’m not surprised, though. He mentioned in one of his letters that he started his ranch almost thirty years ago. Northern Mexico’s still pretty rugged today, but it was really wild back in those days. Not much around except Apaches, Yaquis, and bandidos.”
“That is true,” Santiago said, “but it was none of those who shot him. It was his own partner. An American named Thaddeus Becker.”
* * *
As the sun rose, Ned Becker told the eight men who would be taking the cattle deeper into the mountains, through twisting canyons to the high, isolated pasture where they would be kept, to get ready to move out.
Eight men would have their hands full driving the herd, but it could be done. That left eighteen gunhands to accompany Becker on the next part of this job.
Or maybe he had nineteen men, he thought as he approached the spot where Bodaway hunkered on his heels next to the ashes of a campfire, soaking up what little warmth still came from it in this chilly dawn.
“What are you going to do now, Bodaway?” Becker asked his old friend.
The Edge of Hell Page 7
