Slaughter's Way (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  Two hundred and fifty grains of lead, hurled out of a four and three-quarter inch barrel by the force of thirty grains of black powder exploding, smashed into the young gunman’s right elbow just as he reached his gun. The impact slammed him back in his saddle. A scream of agony left his lips and, from the way his arm looked, the days of selling his gun had ended.

  Shock and agony tumbled the wounded man from his saddle. Even as his pard went down the first man spread his hands well clear of his sides in an effort to dissociate himself from any hostile actions, and in an attempt to convince John Slaughter that he had no intention of taking up where the other man left off. Then he sat as if he had been turned to stone for Slaughter’s eyes fixed on him and held him like a weasel mesmerizing a rabbit.

  Without any fancy finger twirling, or other flashy flourishes, some fast men used to impress folk, Slaughter holstered his gun. He could do all the trigger-finger strengthening tricks—which, as well as for show, was why the gunmen did them—with the best, but never when company watched him.

  “Go tell Gallagher I said no,” he ordered.

  “Sure, John, sure!” answered the gunman, pointing down to the groaning hard case. “I’ll help Logan here, if I can.”

  Slaughter nodded, but did not bother to reply. Still lounging in his saddle, he watched the man help his groaning, wounded pard on to the waiting horse then swing a’fork his own, take the wounded man’s reins in his right hand and ride away. Not until the two men were beyond long Winchester range did Slaughter turn the big black stallion and ride towards his approaching herd.

  “What d’you-all reckon that shot was, Tex?” asked Talking Bill, making a tolerable long speech for him.

  “I don’t know, ain’t asking, and don’t figure to be told,” Burton replied laconically. “That ain’t Slaughter’s way. One thing I do know for certain sure; whatever he shot at’s plumb likely to be bad hurt, or dead, and sure asked for to get shot in the first place. ’Cause that is Slaughter’s way.”

  No matter where a man rode in the range country, he was likely to hear folks talk of Slaughter’s way. More than one dude fresh out of the East had thought the term might mean a street in a famous cattle town, a trail drive route, or even a branch spur of a railway. It meant none of them. When folks talked of Slaughter’s way, they meant the way that grim faced Texas rancher looked at life and handled its many problems, and they gave tribute to the effective manner in which he acted.

  Bringing his big horse around, Slaughter rode alongside the chuck wagon and looked up at the merry black face of his cook.

  “You-all needing supplies, Coonskin?” he asked.

  Although the cook knew to the last grain of salt how his food situation looked, he shoved back his coonskin cap, scratched his head and looked thoughtful.

  “I can’t rightly say as I don’t, Massa John,” Coonskin replied; he waved a hand to his plodding mules. “Didn’t figure to tire out these-here ole knobheads of mine toting a full load when we could buy more along the trail. Only when I done made my decision I didn’t know about that mean ole Massa Bitter-Creek Gallagher saying’s how he don’t figure to let us buy no supplies in Devil City unless you pays his head tax toll.”

  “We’ll go stock up in Devil City comes morning,” Slaughter replied.

  With that he turned his stallion and rode along the side of the herd to join up with Burton and Talking Bill at the point. Coonskin watched his boss go, then threw a glance down at the wicked looking eight-gauge, twin-barreled, percussion-fired shotgun lying at his feet. Next he glanced back into the wagon where his pet lay sleeping on a pile of empty potato sacks.

  “Yes, sir, Massa John,” the cook said, after making sure everything was all ready for the proposed visit to Devil City. “We’ll go in for sure. You, me, ole Betsy Two-Eyes ’n’ Mr. Earp’ll go right on in that ole town and buy us them supplies comes morning. An’ happen you-all done got the sense of a seam squirrel, Massa Bitter-Creek Gallagher, you’ll stay away from us with both big, smelly feet.”

  The conference between the boss and segundo did not last for long, for neither Slaughter nor Burton went in for unnecessary jawing. A couple of phrases let Tex know his boss aimed to visit Devil City the following morning and that the segundo must keep the herd moving towards its destination. Burton confirmed the orders with a couple of “yes” and “no” replies which showed he understood them.

  “Burt’s coming,” Talking Bill remarked, which while not being gabby had the advantage of telling the other two all they needed to know.

  A tall, well-built young man rode towards the herd. While he wore a dust covered Stetson, his other clothes were not those a cowhand would wear. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt tucked into faded levis, and moccasins graced his feet. A gun-belt hung around his waist, twin 1860 Army Colts in the fast-draw holsters; the one at the right’s butt faced the rear, while his left-hand gun turned its butt forward so as to be available to either hand. There was an Indian look about his face, and he had enough Kaddo blood in his veins to make him a damned efficient trail scout.

  “How is it, Burt?” asked Slaughter as his scout brought the spot-rumped Nez Percé bred Appaloosa stallion to a halt.

  “Good,” Burt Alvord replied.

  On the whole, Alvord spoke less than Talking Bill; although the latter did not agree this was so and thought that at times Alvord threw words around wholesale. However, the one-word reply satisfied Slaughter, for he knew he could rely on the scout’s judgment in the matter of selecting a bed ground for the herd. In later years Alvord gained a name for being an unscrupulous lawman, and a train robber, but when he worked for Slaughter he was still a law-abiding, honest young man.

  Sun glinted on water ahead of the herd, and men forgot their interest in the cause of the shot they had heard earlier for they prepared to let the herd drink as it crossed. This took both time and patience as each block of cattle taken down to the stream had to be allowed to drink its fill while the rest were held back so as not to push the drinking animals through before they had had their fill. Each succeeding bunch were driven upstream of the last, so as to let them drink clear water, not that already muddied and churned up by the preceding cattle.

  Once across the water, it was a mere stream which offered no difficulties to men who had in their time taken herds through rivers that were over the willows, running high in flood, the hands moved the cattle along slowly. On coming to a large, well-grassed, open stretch of land, the hands began the scientific business of bedding-down. Gradually the men brought the herd into a more compact group than that allowed during the day, and the point riders slowed down Big Bill’s speed. The lead bull knew his work and came to a halt, standing his ground in a determined manner. More and more of the cattle stopped, either licking up grass, or settling contentedly down to chew their cud. Patiently the cowhands rode around the herd until two of their number, who had been back to where Coonskin and his louse set up camp, rode out to take over as night herd. Then and then only did the rest of the hands, after being in the saddle since daybreak, and having ridden for many more miles than the dozen covered by the cattle, ride back to camp.

  Slaughter took precautions against any attempt Gallagher might make to stampede his herd in an attempt to bring him to a more willing frame of mind. Not only did the rancher send out two more men to the night herd, but he, Burton and Burt Alvord spent the dark hours away from camp. They formed the points of a large triangle with the herd at its center, and it would have taken silent movement for anybody to slip through their cordon unnoticed.

  Despite the precautions, the night passed quietly. The herd was still some twenty-four miles from Devil City and Gallagher preferred to operate in his home territory when applying coercion to a passing trail herd or wagon train. However, the three sentinels did not return until after daylight.

  Long before Slaughter, Burton and Alvord made their appearance, Coonskin and his louse were up, making breakfast for the hands. With the food ready and coffee bubblin
g black and strong in the pots, Coonskin looked around the sleeping circle of cowhands and took up the steel triangle and iron bar which hung ready for use on the side of the chuck wagon.

  “Roll out, roll out!” the cook yelled, clanging his triangle violently. “Come and git it, you Texas gennelmen, afore I tosses it to the hawgs.”

  Man after man rolled from his blankets and the usual dawn chorus of dire threats against Coonskin for wakening them rose high in the air. Yet strangely none of the men made any mention of Coonskin’s color in their cursing. To the men of Slaughter’s outfit, Coonskin was a member of their trail drive, a damned useful member and a man in his own right. Unlike many intellectual gentlemen in the East, the trail crew did not drip smug patronage on Coonskin because of his color. They respected him as a man, and they cursed him as they would have cursed General Robert E. Lee had that great Southern gentleman been their cook.

  “Damned if I ever take on to trail cattle again!” somebody wailed—as somebody always did. “I’ll herd sheep, or walk behind a plow first.”

  Nobody bothered about the threat to take on two of the lowest types of employment a Texas gentleman could contemplate, for they were all too busy making up their bedrolls, curling their blankets and suggans vi up and wrapping them inside the seven by eighteen foot Number 8 Ducking tarpaulin sheets, which served as bed and mattress while on the trail, rolling their bedding and war bags inside and snapping home the hook-and-eye fasteners on the tarps. Once rolled, the bundle was taken to the bed wagon and placed inside. If a hand left his bedroll open and unpacked once, the cook would wrap it and stow it away for him, but also blister his hide for causing him extra work. If the hand erred twice, the cook had the right, and often took it, of driving off and leaving the bedroll behind.

  After packing away their bedrolls, the hands headed for the chuck wagon to collect their breakfast and mugs of steaming coffee. Each man had a loaded plate of stew and beans, which was about what a cowhand lived on when trailing cattle. The hands ate their food, told Coonskin what they did not think about his cooking, and dumped their empty plates into a bath of hot water Hop Tow had placed out ready.

  Slaughter fed the same way as his men, although he arrived later than usual to collect his food. Ole Insomny Sam, the nighthawk, stood at the fire, eating his breakfast, or supper, depending on how one looked at it, after turning the remuda over to the day wrangler.

  “How’re you feeling, Insomny?” Slaughter asked.

  “Poorly, John, right poorly,” came the inevitable reply. “Ain’t slept a wink at night in the last eight years. Fact being, if I didn’t sleep in the daytime I’d be in even wuss shape than I am now.”

  At some time in his past Insomny had heard of insomnia, decided it might add distinction to him if he contracted the disease, now boasted he could not sleep at night, so rode the remuda during the dark hours.

  “You fixing to head into Devil City, John?” asked one of the hands.

  “Yep.”

  “Taking some of the boys along?”

  “Nope.”

  It was as easy settled as that. Slaughter might have explained that going into Devil City at the head of a bunch of his men could give Gallagher’s hired guns the idea he was scared of them. Once that kind gained courage, they were likely to push until something popped, and Slaughter wanted to try to stop the fuss without blowing Devil City wide open in a full-scale gun battle.

  By going in unescorted except for his cook, Slaughter would cause Gallagher and his bunch to worry. Knowing his reputation, they would not know what to make of Slaughter’s visit and start suspecting all kinds of tricks. They would not be too eager to start grabbing at plow-handles and throwing lead until they had sat back and watched developments for a spell. By the time they decided to make a move, Slaughter hoped to have his supplies loaded and be headed back to his herd. Then, if the opposition looked like it might be tough, he could swing clear of the area and by-pass Devil City beyond Gallagher’s reach. While Slaughter was not afraid of facing odds, it was not his way to endanger his men’s lives without good cause. The business of trailing cattle was dangerous enough, without adding to its risks needlessly.

  Slaughter did not need to explain every move to his men. Way they looked at it, he had a good reason for going into town without an escort; and they had sufficient confidence in their boss to reckon he could bring off whatever he aimed to do without needing any help.

  “It sure am a quiet ’n’ peaceful lil town, Massa John,” Coonskin remarked as he drove his chuck wagon towards the out skirts of Devil City.

  “Sure is,” Slaughter agreed, keeping his big black stallion at the side of the wagon.

  While approaching Devil City’s main, in fact only, street, Slaughter kept his eyes open. The town looked little different from many others dotted about the range country. There were the usual run of business premises, saloon, general store, livery barn and such, the ubiquitous Wells Fargo office and the town jail gracing Devil City’s front street, and an untidy scattering of buildings beyond it.

  On passing the Bitter-Creek Saloon, Slaughter noted that the piano jangled in a tinny manner and voices talked loudly inside, even though the time was only early afternoon. He jerked his thumb towards the general store next door to the saloon and looked at his cook.

  “Wait for me out front of the store, Coonskin. I'm just going to see the great seizer.”

  “Yes, sir, Massa John,” Coonskin replied, bringing his wagon to a halt as ordered and settling down comfortably to watch his boss ride across to the front of the town marshal’s office.

  One look at the man seated behind the desk in the marshal’s office told John Slaughter all he needed to know. Herb Gosse, the Devil City lawman, looked a whole heap too well-dressed and prosperous to be honest, especially for a man holding down the post of marshal in a small place like that town.

  “Are you the law here?” Slaughter asked, studying the man’s bulky build and fat, florid face.

  “All there is, friend,” boomed Gosse in a politician’s voice, but he threw a glance at the deputy marshal who leaned against the door that led from the office into the cells.

  “And you’re fixing to sit there on your butt end while Gallagher tries to shake me down for head tax toll?”

  Gosse looked up sharply, as if realizing for the first time who his visitor might be. Then he settled his hands on his fat paunch and watched the deputy walk soft-footed across the room in the direction of Slaughter’s back.

  “Name’s Herbert J. Gosse, mister,” the lard-bellied lawman stated. “I’m town marshal, which same my jurisdiction ends at the city limits.”

  “Then set back your flapping ears and listen good to me,” Slaughter replied quietly. “You made that ruling, stand by it. I don’t care two hoots and a whisper about you-all not offering me any legal protection from Gallagher’s game. The name is John Slaughter and I protect my own. But I’m not fixing in to have you standing along of Gallagher to make his play look legal.”

  Which same was the longest speech Slaughter had made in many a day. He laid down his words on the line, showing them in plain view and allowing the town marshal to make what he wanted of them, for that was Slaughter’s way.

  Aiming to earn his pay, the deputy stepped in fast, arms opening with the intention of clamping them around Slaughter and holding the rancher while Gosse played the drums on his black whiskered chin or ginger-topped head. The man was so close behind Slaughter that he could have stepped into the rancher’s hip pocket without moving forward many inches.

  Suddenly, even before the arms clamped about him, Slaughter drove back his right elbow, smashing it with the force of a knobhead mule’s kick full into the deputy’s favorite solar plexus. The croak of agony as all the breath gushed out of his lungs showed how hard the jab came to the man receiving it. On catching the elbow, the deputy took a couple of involuntary steps backwards and doubled over in his pain. Slaughter pivoted fast, turning to face the injured deputy and whipping up h
is left fist in a backhand blow which lifted the man erect and on to his toes. For a few seconds it looked like the deputy aimed to beat the world’s backward-running championships as he shot across the room. Then he smashed into the jail’s wall, slid down it and lost interest in the proceedings.

  A slight sound from behind him brought Slaughter around again. He landed with legs apart, knees slightly bent, body inclined forward a mite, and his Colt in his good right hand, its hammer drawn back ready, trigger depressed under the index finger and bore covering Gosse. The marshal had thrust back his chair a few inches to allow himself a chance of opening his desk drawer and extracting the Merwin and Hulbert Pocket revolver that lay inside. Gosse’s left hand left the drawer a whole lot faster than it went inside and came out empty.

  “Close it and turn the key,” Slaughter ordered.

  Without a word in reply, Gosse obeyed the order, nor did he raise any protest when told to remove the key from the lock and see how close he could come to tossing it under the office stove. Yet the Merwin and Hulbert gun was the only weapon available to Gosse, not counting the half-dozen Winchester and shotguns chained in a rack on the wall by the cell doors.

  “You heard my word?” Slaughter asked, as the key landed by the side of the stove.

  A sweating, scared faced looked across the desk at the grim-featured Texas rancher and bobbed nervously.

  “I heard.”

  “Then mind it.”

  Without another word, Slaughter turned and walked across the room to halt by the door and look out across the street. He had said his piece and given his warning and Gosse knew full well the ultimatum would not be repeated. Repeating good advice, or a grim-given warning, was not Slaughter’s way.

  ~*~