by J. T. Edson
Only one of the bunch stood out as not being the normal bandido type. He was tall, slim, elegantly dressed and looking at ease in his charro finery, which none of the others did. Despite his fancy, silver filigree decorated clothes, there was something hard, iron-willed, imperious and deadly about his handsome face. He did not wear a knife, but the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, with its ornate Tiffany grips that so many Mexicans favored, hung ready for a fast draw at his right side. The gunbelt and Colt did not look like ornaments.
The tall man must be the leader of the bunch. Such a man, showing Spanish-Creole blood, would never accept orders from cheap scum like the others. He stepped forward, ahead of the rest, as the two Texans approached his camp.
“Move slow and easy, Burt,” Slaughter warned.
“We taking them now?”
“Nope. Just making talk.”
“Saludos, senores,” the slim Mexican greeted, his voice well modulated and educated. “You come from the trail herd, no?”
“We’re from it,” agreed Slaughter.
“Your young amigo did not say he rode for a herd,” the Mexican went on, nodding to Alvord, but speaking to Slaughter. While speaking, the man studied how Slaughter’s gun hung and drew his own conclusions. Either the Tejano wanted folks to think he was un hombre malo, and a real bad one, or he was full capable of making the best possible use of the gun rig’s advantages. Somehow the Mexican did not reckon that he faced a man who would try to make people believe him to be something he was not. He wore the gun, and could use it well.
“Didn’t need to tell you,” Alvord grunted, jerking a thumb in the direction of one of the men who looked more evil and Indian-like than the rest. “Your Yaqui there was out and spotted our herd coming. He came back here on the run to tell you I was headed in and rode scout for the herd.”
A flicker of admiration crossed the Mexican’s face; and he might have felt flattered to know that Alvord had hardly spoken that much at one time since leaving Texas.
“You have quick eyes, senor. There are few who could have found the sign left by Aquila as he rides scout.”
Alvord did not reply. He reckoned he had talked more than enough for one spell, so sat back to leave the rest of the whittle-whanging to his boss.
“I figure to water and graze my herd down here,” Slaughter said.
“With all the pleasure in the world, amigo,” replied the Mexican, his voice holding none of the condescension it held while speaking to Alvord. When addressing Slaughter, the man spoke as to a social equal. “There is only the matter of payment for the privilege.”
“This here’s open range—”
“And, as your people say, possession is nine points of the law. As you see, I, Luis Hernandez, my little toy and my men have the possession.”
“You-all ever see three thousand head of thirsty cattle when they get the scent of water?” asked Slaughter quietly. “They’ll stomp your possessions a good six inches underground.” Which was true enough, as far as it went. The trouble was it did not go far enough, not by a good country mile.
“Possibly, senor,” Hernandez agreed. “Except that the wind blows from your herd to the springs and is not likely to change. Also, much as I would regret the action, if they advance without my receiving due payment, I will be forced to let my little toy handle the matter. How many of your cattle, or your men, would reach the water then, senor?”
“Why you—!” Alvord began, his right hand moving towards his hip.
“Hold it, Burt!” Slaughter snapped shooting out a hand and catching the scout’s wrist.
“It is well you stopped him, senor,” Hernandez said, after snapping an order to his men not to shoot. “One so efficient as a scout should not die young, and I would not deprive you of a useful man. But die he would have had he drawn, for I am the fastest man with a gun in Mexico.”
“You ain’t in Mexico now,” Alvord growled.
“Cut it, Burt,” Slaughter ordered. “Ride back and tell Tex to start bedding down the herd.”
For a moment Alvord sat sullenly silent and on the verge of mutiny. He did not want to leave his boss alone in the hands of those murderous bandidos. Then he gave an angry growl, swung his horse around and rode back in the direction he and Slaughter came.
“A hot-headed young man,” Hernandez said, watching the young scout ride away. “He must respect you a lot to obey, when he wished to stay here and keep you from harm at the hands of we treacherous greasers—that is what you call us, is it not, senor?”
Slaughter did not reply, although he could have said that he never used the word himself. Way Slaughter looked at it, one did not dislike a man because of his race, skin color or religion, but for what the man himself was and did. However, he kept his views on the matter to himself, for at such a time as faced him now, he believed in coming straight to the point, saying what needed saying in as few, short and plain words as possible. That way everybody concerned knew exactly where they stood.
“I aim to water here, mister.”
“And so you shall. For three dollars a head on all your cattle and a dollar a day grazing for each day you stay here. I will be generous and not make charge for your remuda or your men.”
“I never let any man force me into paying good money for something that’s free for all, and I don’t aim to start now.”
“Have it your own way, senor,” Hernandez said coolly. “There is a full moon tonight and the open land around here shows as plain as day. We could see and hear you coming at least two miles away. You may think to rush us in the night, but I beg you not to try. Few of your men and none of your herd will be alive at the end of it.”
There was nothing more for Slaughter to say. So he said it. Turning his horse, he was about to ride away when Hernandez spoke again.
“Senor, that is a fine horse. I can admire good breeding in man, woman, or animal. Take it to the lake and let it drink its fill.”
For a moment Slaughter thought of refusing. Then he decided that there was no sense in making the horse suffer, for the black had been on as short rations as the rest of the outfit. Swinging down, he led the horse to the clear spring. Much as he would have liked to drink, Slaughter made no attempt to do so. Not that he was any less thirsty than his horse. He longed to fill his belly with that sparkling water, after rationed mouthfuls from a sun-baked keg on the chuck wagon, but it was not Slaughter’s way to drink unless all his hands had the same right.
“That’s a ver’ fine horse, gringo!”
On turning towards the speaker, Slaughter read the signs and allowed he might soon be in trouble. Hernandez had not accompanied him to the lake but stayed with his Gatling gun’s crew, pointing out the direction in which the herd lay. However, Slaughter was not alone and had not been unescorted to water his horse.
The man who addressed Slaughter stood some twenty feet away. Stocky in build, with an evil, knife-scarred face, the man was a different proposition to Hernandez. No gentleman, barely human in his depravity, the man was a killer without any of his leader’s saving graces. Standing spraddle-legged before the rancher, the bandido's right hand caressed the hilt of a fighting knife sheathed at his side. He was clearly on the peck and hunting trouble. A group of the other men stood around in the background, watching their amigo face the grim-faced Texas rancher.
Not for a moment did Slaughter believe that Hernandez had put the man up to this play, or even knew it was happening. The bandido knew his only hope of making any money out of the herd was to keep its trail boss alive. If Slaughter died, his men would charge head down and come shooting. There was no profit in killing for killing’s sake, and Hernandez was smart enough to figure that.
“A ver’ fine horse,” the bandido went on. “Much like a gringo stole from me. I think it is the same one and will take it back.”
“Man should always do what he reckons is right,” Slaughter replied. “But that’s my horse.”
“You hear that, amigos?” the bandido sneered, turning sli
ghtly to face his watching cronies. He turned so that Slaughter could not see the hilt of the knife. “The gringo steals my horse and then—”
Suddenly he turned, holding the knife ready to throw. He had only half a second left to live.
As fast as the strike of a copperhead snake, Slaughter’s hand dropped, closed on the ivory butt of his Colt and raised again. His move was just as swift and the result as deadly as the attack of Ancistrodon Mokasen, the deadly, silent striking copperhead.
Before the bandido’s right arm rose far enough for him to start making the forward swing, Slaugher’s Colt lined waist-high and roared. At twenty feet the rancher did not need to raise his weapon and shot by instinctive alignment instead of using sights. The bullet caught the bandido in the forehead, throwing him over backwards. He was dead before his body hit the ground.
Snarls of rage left the mouths of the watching men, some half-a-dozen of the gang, and they started reaching towards their weapons, hands going to knife hilt rather than revolver butt, for the bandido was a user of cold steel rather than a gunfighter.
Even as Slaughter thumb-cocked his Colt and prepared to take as many of the Mexicans with him as he could, Hernandez turned and sprang forward, an expression of rage on his face.
“Back!” he roared, crashing through the group of men and scattering them aside as if they were not there.
Slowly the group of men drew back. The other members of the gang came from wherever they had been and formed up at one side of the group. It seemed the men who had followed Slaughter formed some kind of clique, possibly they objected to Hernandez’s leadership. One thing was for sure, they did not intend making anything of his treatment when he came through their midst.
“The gringo killed Sanchez!” one of the group said sullenly.
“Sanchez was always a fool,” Hernandez replied, contemptuously kicking the knife from by the dead man’s body. “Now he is a dead fool and less use than in life if that is possible. The Tejano came here at my invitation and he leaves unharmed.”
For a moment Slaughter thought the men would object. He had holstered his Colt on Hernandez’s arrival, so as not to embarrass the gang leader or give the other bandidos an excuse to shoot him. Standing tense and ready, Slaughter watched Hernandez face down his men. Give him his due, the tall, slim Mexican had sand to burn and he cowed that sullen group before him without drawing his gun, raising his voice or using threats.
Clearly the group would have liked nothing better than to kill Hernandez for his interference. Yet they knew the other members of the gang would back their leader. So would the Texan; and they had already seen how he could handle a gun.
“Take this carrion from the camp, you who are its friends,” Hernandez ordered. “And as you are its friends, you alone may share his belongings.”
Nothing could have ended the affair quite so quickly and peacefully. The men who formed the dead Sanchez’s clique turned, forgetting their hatred of their leader and desire to kill the Tejano who shot their amigo. With one accord, they headed for the tent they shared to start the division of property.
“That, senor, is that,” Hernandez remarked, turning to Slaughter. “I would apologize for the incident, but you handled things yourself. You are fast, my friend, very fast, but not, I think, as fast as I.”
“Nope?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t want to put it to the test?” asked Slaughter. “If I win, the herd water’s free.”
For a moment the Texan thought he had Hernandez. Clearly the man was interested in the proposition. Slaughter saw that in the way Hernandez studied the low-hanging ivory-butted Colt he wore.
“An interesting suggestion, my friend, and a challenging one. But I have my honor to think about. Even should you be fortunate enough to win, these pigs I am forced to work with would not keep any agreement. Much as I regret the words, especially as you have ridded me of Sanchez, who was an ambitious man and one with his eye on the leadership of my band, I am afraid it is pay or no water for your cattle. I cannot withdraw from my stand. Nor would I, for that is bad business and above all I am a businessman. Think well on my words.”
Slaughter thought on Hernandez’s words all the time as he rode back to his herd. Night had fallen when Slaughter returned. The cattle were bedded down under a six-man guard, and Alvord rode a wide circle on the alert for Mexican treachery.
On his way to the camp Slaughter met his scout, who showed relief to see his boss back safe and sound. The two men rode towards where a fire showed the site of the camp. Slaughter knew Hernandez’s men would not trouble the cattle at night. In their position they did not need to go to so much extra trouble.
Leaving their horses at the remuda, Slaughter and Alvord walked into camp. Only Burton and Coonskin were not in their blankets when their boss returned. With a six-man night herd, all the hands would take a spell before dawn and so they were catching what sleep they could while there was a chance.
“Stands this way, as I see it,” Burton remarked when he heard of Hernandez’s ultimatum. “We’ve done got to get these cattle to water, or they’ll start dying off like flies in winter, ’cause they can’t go much further bone-dry. So it’s water at Central Springs, or leave behind a tolerable slew of dead cows as buzzard-bait afore we reach the Carne River.”
Which put matters just about as plain as anyone could ask for.
“You couldn’t pay him off?” asked Alvord, looking at his boss. “Then take him and his bunch after the herd’s watered.”
“I don’t have anywhere near that much money along.”
Coonskin served out cups of coffee and listened to all the other men said.
As usual when involved in a dangerous or serious situation, the cook’s eyes stuck out like twin billiard balls. He shoved back the coonskin cap which gave him his name, scratched his head in a thoughtful manner, then said: “Iffen me, Mr. Earp ’n’ ole Betsy Two-Eyes could get down there amongst them ornery critters, we’d sure enough soon talk some sense into ’em.”
Coming to his feet, Slaughter looked first at the cook, then towards the two white covered wagons flanking his camp. None of the others spoke, but they all tensed expectantly, for they knew their boss of old.
“How close did you say that Yaqui scout came to us, Burt?” Slaughter asked.
“Not nearer ’n’ a mile to me, and I was a mile or more beyond the herd.”
“That’s what I thought. Coonskin, go dig out that pot of paint you bought to fancy up the chuck wagon. Let’s get working, it’s going to be a long, hard night.”
~*~
“A farmer’s dawg done come to town.
His given name was Bix,
He didn’t have no pedigree,
But right smart was his tricks.
And as he trotted down the street,
Twas beautiful to see,
His work on every corner post,
And his sign on every tree.”
So sang Coonskin as he drove his four-mule wagon in an easterly direction towards Central Springs. Yet it was not the Coonskin who served meals, made jokes and offered sage advice around the trail campfire. His cap had been dusted out until the fur almost shone in the sun. The white apron and flour-spotted clothing had been changed for a frock coat, boiled shirt front and black bow tie.
“He watered every gateway too,
And he never missed a post,
For piddling was his specialty,
And piddling was his boast.
Them city dawgs watched him amazed.
Got in a right smart rage,
To see that lop-eared hound critter,
The top piddler of the age.”
Hernandez walked towards the approaching wagon, studying it with calculating eyes, and alert for any sign of trickery.
“I thought the Tejano would try something last night,” he said to the man who brought word of the wagon’s approach.
“What could he do?” replied the other. “This is a medicine show wagon.�
�
From the angle at which the wagon approached, the words, “DOCTOR COONSKIN. VOODOO CURE-ALL” in large black letters, showed on its white top. From the wagon’s appearance and the look of its driver, it was one of those outfits that toured the range country giving entertainment and peddling miraculous cures to the unsuspecting. One did not often see a Negro running such an outfit, but Hernandez did not exercise racial discrimination in his robbing. A plump, well-padded Negro’s money had the same spending value as a lean, rich white man’s.
Watching the Mexicans gather before him, Coonskin decided that they were about the most evil bunch of fellers he had ever seen; and working on the principle, even though he had never heard of it, that music soothes the savage beast, he gave out with yet another verse of his song:
“Then dawgs just come from everywhere,
All running with a yell,
To sniff that lop-eared hound dawg o’er,
And judge him by his smell.
Some of them thought that he might have
Beneath his tail a rose,
So every city dawg come up,
And sniffed it with his nose.”
“The Negro sings well,” Hernandez remarked.
“He may entertain us when he pays for his water,” one of the men suggested.
“They smelled him over one by one,
And tried it two by two,
That there ole Bix, his head held high,
Stood still ’til they was through.
Then to show the whole she-bang,
He didn’t care a damn,
He went into the general store,
And piddled on the ham.”
“I sure hopes they likes my singing,” Coonskin thought. “Them critters look like they’d cut my throat as soon as look at me.”
“He piddled on the cracker barrel,
Did some more on the floor,
