A flash of movement caught McMasters’s attention. Alamo Carter had shot down his left hand—damned fast for a man that big. McMasters swung the shotgun directly at the former slave, saw the big man’s massive arms and both hands fly back up, high over his head, high even above the top of the jail on wheels.
“Just swattin’ away a damned horsefly!” Carter shouted.
That was a lie. A way to distract McMasters. And it worked.
“Son of a bitch.”
While McMasters had trained the 1894 Remington and all of his attention on the big black killer, Bloody Zeke The Younger made his move.
He shot down, wrapping his left arm around Mary Lovelace’s waist, his right arm coming across her throat. Like a cat, he jerked her up, stepping back toward the tumbleweed wagon.
McMasters moved quickly, turning the shotgun’s cavernous barrels at Bloody Zeke. Behind McMasters, off in the darkness, Daniel Kilpatrick swore. Likely he aimed his pistol, too, but McMasters did not look behind him. And it did not matter. Bloody Zeke had moved too quickly, like a rattlesnake, and he had Mary Lovelace as a shield.
Or would have.
Mary Lovelace moved like a mountain lion, twisting despite Bloody Zeke’s strong grip until she turned toward him, facing him with her back to McMasters’s shotgun. She also still held Andersen’s revolver, and this she brought up with lightning-like reflexes, ramming the barrel into the soft flesh beneath the dark-eyed killer’s chin.
In the darkness of night, the cocking of that iron hammer sounded like thunder.
“That’s the last mistake my late husband ever made, Zeke,” she said, shoving the pistol tighter against his throat, forcing him to bend his head back until it slapped against the iron bars. “Let go of me now. Or I blow your damned head off.”
Bloody Zeke released her instantly, did not breathe, and did not blink. His hat fell to the dirt. Mary Lovelace backed away, keeping the barrel aimed at the killer.
Inside the wagon, Emilio Vasquez began to pray again.
Outside the wagon, Alamo Carter laughed until he almost doubled over.
Dan Kilpatrick ran until he stood on the edge of the light. He kept his pistol aimed at Bloody Zeke.
Straightening, the dark-eyed killer rubbed the spot between his chin and throat where a circular bruise would soon be forming. His other hand rubbed the back of his head. Eventually, he picked up his hat, and in an effort to regain some of his dignity, his manhood, his authority . . . or just to keep from shaking . . . he looked at Alamo Carter, shrugged, and tried to laugh, too.
“It was a good idea. It just did not work.”
Later, McMasters would wonder if the two had planned that together. Had they come up with the idea in whispers while inside the wagon? Had they read each other’s minds? Had there been a signal? Or was it just plain luck? He’d never ask. And he would always wonder how things would have turned out . . . had it all worked.
“Hurry up with those mules.” McMasters felt the shotgun shaking in his arms, so he lowered it and watched Mary Lovelace walk toward him, no longer considering Bloody Zeke or Alamo Carter. McMasters glanced at the revolver she still carried. It remained cocked, yet he did not, could not, raise the shotgun. Damn her green eyes. They reminded him so much of Bea. Besides that, John McMasters had never pointed a weapon at a woman.
Stopping suddenly, Mary Lovelace looked at the pistol in her right hand. The thumb came up, resting against the hammer. She squeezed the trigger gently, just to loosen the mechanism, and safely lowered the hammer. The pistol spun in her slender hand, and she offered it, butt forward, to McMasters.
“Ya stupid bitch!” Emory Logan roared from the wagon tongue. “Ya shoulda blowed his head off whilst ya had the chance!”
“Shut up!” Dan Kilpatrick roared.
Mary Lovelace’s eyes locked with McMasters’. He could not look away from her, but shifted the shotgun to his right hand, and took the pistol in his left. She released her hold as soon as he held the heavy iron. Without another word, she turned to walk back to the wagon.
“Stupid bitch!” Emory Logan yelled again.
“I told you to shut up!” Kilpatrick roared.
Marcus Patton, the gambler, led two mules away from the wagon tongue.
McMasters shoved Andersen’s revolver into his waistband. His heart pounded against his ribs. His temples throbbed. He did not know if his lungs were working or if he still held his breath. He just watched Mary Lovelace go and stand between the black giant and the dark-eyed killer.
As if nothing had happened.
“You can get out of the wagon now, Vasquez.” McMasters wondered how his voice sounded.
The Mexican did not hesitate, but skedaddled out of the makeshift hearse, slammed the door behind him, and slid in front of the rear wheel near Bloody Zeke.
“Just hitch those two mules over yonder,” McMasters told Patton, offering some vague direction with the tilt of his head. He kept his eyes on Emory Logan, who struggled with the harness on a dark mule.
Dan Kilpatrick moved to stand beside McMasters. “Now do you understand what pure folly this is?” The hammer clicked as he lowered the pistol, but did not holster it. “Now can you see what’ll happen if you continue with this insanity? You won’t last two days. You might not even be alive by the time the sun rises. Give it up, John. Stop now. I’ll . . . I’ll forget everything that has happened.”
McMasters swallowed. Forgetting the law had to be hard for a man—a boy—like Dan Kilpatrick. The fool lived by the book, and his own stubborn code. John McMasters lived by his own code, too. Just different from Kilpatrick’s.
“There ain’t no saddles for these damned mules,” Emory Logan yelled from the darkness. “You expect us to go chasin’ after Moses Butcher bareback?”
“Yes,” McMasters answered.
“John . . .” Kilpatrick whispered his plea.
“That will make it harder for us to catch him, señor,” Emilio Vasquez said.
“And harder for you to get away.” McMasters was again breathing in regular breaths, and his heart did not run out of control. He did not feel sweat running down his spine, and the pounding in his head had ceased.
“John, in the name of God, for you own sake, for your soul, don’t do this,” Kilpatrick said.
“I have to, Dan. You stay here. You can send the law after me. I don’t care. You stay here. See”—he felt that pain again—“I’d like for you to at least see Rosalee, Bea, my boys, Eugénia buried. Be at . . . the funeral.”
The pistol slammed into Kilpatrick’s holster.
“I meant what I said, John. I’m riding with you. And when it’s over, if by some miracle you and I aren’t dead, I’ll be taking you to jail. Or maybe even up the thirteen steps to a hangman’s noose.”
By then, Emory Logan was leading the last of the mules into the light.
“All right,” McMasters said evenly. “Let’s ride.”
CHAPTER 15
They could smell the coffee when the door to the adobe hut opened. Candles and a fire in the kiva-style fireplace cast light into the darkness. No one stood in the doorway, however. A squaw stepped briefly into the light, but a muffled voice commanded her to move, and she did, quickly stepping out of view. Whoever had opened the door wasn’t stupid.
The squaw, Moses Butcher thought, looked mighty inviting.
“What do you want?” a man’s voice called from behind the door.
Butcher knew the thick solid door was sturdy enough to stop a .45 bullet . . . and those adobe walls had to be at least two feet thick.
“Fresh horses,” he called. “Supper. Coffee smells good.”
“Late to be horse trading,” the voice said.
“Late for supper, too. But we can pay.”
“Script or gold?”
Lead, Butcher thought, but answered, “Greenbacks. Plus you can keep the horses.”
A long silence filled the night.
“We were told,” Butcher said, “that Bear Aztec will
trade with anybody . . . at any time.”
“Who the hell told you that?” Bear Aztec called from behind the door.
“A runt named Duke Gold.” That much was true. Duke Gold had mentioned the trader named Bear Aztec.
He’d told Butcher the old reprobate ran a post in the Mazatzal Mountains between Payson and Fort McDowell and usually kept plenty of horses in the barn and corral, and had scores of saddles, blankets, and anything else those Indians had to offer, pinned up as they were on what had become the Fort McDowell Reservation. They trusted Bear Aztec on account he had married a Pima wench.
For the brief glance Butcher had caught of the dark-haired girl in the doorway, he doubted she had been an old peddler’s squaw.
“He ought to know,” the voice said. “He stole two horses of mine last September.”
“He won’t steal any more,” Butcher said. “I shot him dead.”
Another thing Duke Gold had said about the trader—if he knew a fellow was on the run from the law, he’d be glad to do business. He’d jack up the price a real pretty penny on whatever that man needs.
Butcher tried to guess when he had strung two sentences together that were completely factual. He gave up quickly. Behind the door, Bear Aztec laughed. A shadow moved, and Butcher grinned. The door had moved. He saw another shadow on the hut’s sod floor, and watched Bear Aztec step into the light.
Oh, that man remained cautious. He held a rifle—a repeater by Butcher’s best guess—at his hip, keeping the barrel trained on Moses Butcher who had ridden close enough to the place so the trader could see him.
“You alone?” Bear Aztec said.
“Yeah.” Hell, there was no way Butcher could make it three sentences in a row without a lie.
The rifle came up to the old man’s shoulder. “I’m no fool. I heard more than one pony when you rode up.”
Butcher chuckled and turned in his saddle, looking back down the dusty trail that led from the Phoenix Road to Aztec’s trading post. “Gomez, Dirk, Ben, Page. Come ahead. Slow. Careful.”
“And hands where I can see them,” Bear Aztec said.
“And hands,” Butcher repeated, “where he can see them.”
The rifle looked like a sapling twig in the hands of Bear Aztec. The trader lived up to his name. He was a big man, and looked as strong as any bear you’d find in the wilderness off to the north, six-foot-two, probably two hundred pounds, dressed in Apache moccasins, buckskin britches, and a yellow shirt. Beads and silver chains hung around his neck, silver bracelets covered both wrists, and his hair was long, dark like an Indian’s but streaked with gray, silver and white. Scars covered his face, and one ear was missing. For a one-eared man, Bear Aztec heard pretty good. But not good enough.
Greaser Gomez and Dirk Mannagan led their horses from the corner of the corral. Bitter Page and Butcher’s kid brother, still in their saddles, eased their mounts slowly, keeping their hands on the reins in front of them. Mannagan’s piebald gelding limped badly. Gomez limped, too, and his bay mare dragged its rear left leg. The five men stared at Bear Aztec, saying nothing.
Five men at the front of the cabin. Milt Hanks and Miami would be behind the hut, creeping along the sides, Zuni would be behind the water trough at the round pen with a Sharps rifle aimed at Aztec’s chest, and Cherry would be in the barn.
Aztec frowned at sight of the two horses without riders.
“Man ought to treat a horse better ’n that.”
“The greaser’s horse threw a shoe, split a hoof on the rocks.”
“But the Mex kept riding it,” Aztec said.
“Well . . . it seemed prudent at the time.”
“Don’t know what happened to Dirk’s pinto. Just played out.”
“What do you want for trade?”
“The best horses you’ve got,” Butcher answered.
“You won’t get far,” Bear Aztec said. “Not if you treat your horses the way you treated them you rode in on.”
“Hell, Aztec.” Moses Butcher chuckled. “These ain’t nothin’ but nags.”
“Like hell they are.” Aztec brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed the big Henry right at Moses Butcher’s chest. “Those are John McMasters horses.”
“No,” Ben Butcher lied quickly. “No . . . we got these up in Holbrook.”
“Mister.” The Henry’s sights did not budge. “I was with John way over on Cherry Creek when he trapped that paint horse and the two you ugly boys are riding. If you’ve run horses almost to death from just up in Payson, then I’m betting you’ve killed or waylaid John. So I’m going to have to kill you. All of you.”
And he might have done it. He sure didn’t lack in temperament or will. But Zuni cut loose with the .50-caliber Sharps from the water trough, and blood erupted from Bear Aztec’s stomach and back. His rifle bounced off the thatch awning, toppled to the ground, and Bear Aztec was flung inside his hut, sliding across the dirt until he stopped underneath the table, leaving a trail of crimson to mark his route.
That should have been easy, ending it, but suddenly gun barrels jutted out from the slots in the closed shutters—and hell followed.
Butcher’s horse screamed and toppled, two bullets cutting it down, and another round tore off Butcher’s hat. Would have blown his head off if he hadn’t leaped out of the saddle. He landed on the ground, rolling over out of fear the horse might crush him or kick him, but the horse was dead. Another shot grazed Butcher’s neck as he scrambled out of the light, his ears ringing from the bullets.
He recognized the report of Zuni’s Sharps, but that was a single-shot rifle—not that handy for offering a covering fire. From the barn, Cherry finally opened up with the Winchester. Mannagan’s horse dropped to the dirt, rolling over, riddled by bullets, while Mannagan somehow scrambled away. A bullet spun him around, but he pulled the trigger on his double-action revolver and leaped behind Butcher’s dead horse for protection.
Ben Butcher had spurred his horse before he leaped out of the saddle. The horse kept running. So did Ben until the darkness swallowed him. Greaser Gomez had let loose of the reins to his mount, which took off toward the barn while Gomez bolted to the other side of the hut.
“Over here, Moses!”
Butcher recognized Milt Hank’s voice then blinked. The muzzle flashes, the lantern light, the darkness were disturbing his eyesight. He saw the movement as the gunman waved at him from the corner of the post. Butcher leaped, ran, and dived the last few feet, landing with a thud, the breath leaving his lungs in a violent explosion. He tried to get up, fell to his face, and felt Hanks jerking him over, rolling him to the building’s corner.
“That trader ain’t alone,” Hanks said in a dry voice.
Butcher spit, swore, and sat up. “You got any other news you think I ain’t figured out yet?”
The gunfire and its violent echoes faded in the night. Horses galloped nervously around the corrals, and one was kicking its stall repeatedly in the barn.
Even though he knew it would be hopeless, Butcher cleared his throat and called out, “You in the house. Toss out your guns and come on out. Do it now, we let you live. Otherwise, we’ll burn you out.”
“Light your fire, asshole!” came the reply.
“Place ain’t gonna burn, Moses,” Hanks said as he reloaded his two revolvers. “Dirt on the roof’s two feet thick. That Bear Aztec knew what he was doing when he built this damned place.”
“Any back window? Door?”
“No.” Hanks shoved one pistol into his shoulder holster, and thumbed back the hammer on the long-barreled Colt he kept in his right hand. “Just the two windows and the door out front.”
“Tunnel?” Butcher asked, fearing that whoever was inside might be escaping or even sneaking up behind them.
“Ground’s too hard for any fool to dig a tunnel. That’s solid rock we’re standing on.”
Butcher managed a laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
“I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna get those bastards out of t
here,” Hanks said. “The way this place is laid out, they’ll be able to shoot any of us who tries to steal a horse from any of those pens or barn.”
“They can’t see that far,” Butcher said.
Hanks pointed the Colt’s barrel toward the east. “Moon’s rising. And it’s full or nigh full.”
With a sigh, Moses Butcher holstered his revolver.
“You want to skedaddle?” Hanks asked. “Find some other less ornery folks who’ll let us steal their horses?”
“No.” The outlaw leader was already fishing bullets from his shell belt, and shoving the cartridges into his pocket. “Let me have some bullets. Ten or so. Then help boost me up atop that roof.”
“They’ll shoot your arse off it.”
“Not as thick as that dirt is.” Butcher grinned.
Hanks chuckled and pulled cartridges from the bandoleers that crisscrossed his chest. When Butcher had enough rounds, Milt Hanks locked his fingers together to form a stirrup with his two hands. Bracing his right hand, still holding his Colt, against the adobe wall, Moses Butcher put his left foot in Hanks’s hands, and the man grunted as he straightened and lifted. Butcher’s right hand shot up, took hold of the roof. His left followed, and he felt Hanks shoving him skyward.
Butcher pulled himself onto the hard-packed roof and rolled over, catching his breath, listening. He could smell the dust and rat droppings. He spit out the taste, came to his knees, and crept along toward the chimney. Remembering the kiva fireplace, he laughed.
I can’t burn ’em out. But they’ll soon wish I had.
He fished out the shells in one pocket, grinned, and called out into the night, “Cut loose, boys!”
Gunfire erupted again, and Butcher hoped those fools knew better than to shoot high. He heard the thud of lead against adobe and wood, and that would provide enough noise and command the attention from those inside the miserable hut. The chimney was hot, and the smoke irritated his eyes, but Butcher did not mind. He dropped the bullets into the chimney, brought out another handful, and let them fall, too. Again. And again. Then he moved away from the chimney just in case one of those bullets happened to fire up through the chimney and not across the inside of the post.
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