Massacre!

by John J. McLaglen

  They took all three horses, keeping the third as a spare in case a mount went lame, and headed out away from the high ridge, towards an area that they knew was lined with gently sloping draws. Where they could be safe from the pursuing Union men. Jed picked a black stallion for his mount, while Coburn rode a big hard-mouthed bay. All the animals had the same brand on them, but that was no concern for the two young men. If they got themselves caught by any of the Northern irregulars then they’d likely be killed so fast nobody would have time to worry about who owned the horses they were riding.

  There was no pursuit.

  ‘By God!’ whooped Jed, as they cantered into the safe cover of the grassy gullies. ‘But we done them there, brother Isaiah.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ replied the skinny albino, jogging along with the coat billowing about him like a dark blue tent.

  They covered over thirty miles without seeing a single soul, though they saw several burned-out homesteads. In every case there was virtually nothing left of the houses except for the bricked central chimney, standing tall and straight amid the desolation.

  ‘Jayhawkers done that,’ said Whitey, reining in the bay so quickly that it reared up, whinnying at the unexpected treatment. Down, damn you!’ he snapped, punching it so hard between the eyes that it staggered and blinked, making Jed think for a wondering moment that his partner had actually knocked the animal out cold.

  ‘Hey there,’ he said.

  ‘Teach the bastard a lesson,’ replied Whitey, sitting tall in the stirrups.

  ‘You reckon all this was them Northern boys?’ asked Herne.

  ‘Sure. Here in Missouri. Must be. Jim Lane or Charlie Jennison.’

  ‘I guess so,’ replied Jed. ‘I heard them chimneys standing all alone there are called “Jennison Cemeteries” after him.’

  ‘That’s right enough,’ said Whitey, spitting in the dust ‘Right enough.’

  It was a desolate land.

  The next morning they rose early. After losing their horses once, they took it in turns to stand guard during the night. Jed once thought he heard a body of mounted men moving fast about a quarter mile away, heading east, and he got ready to wake Whitey. But the noise of the hooves went away and he relaxed.

  The sun came creeping up out of the pink-skied east, bringing the first warmth to take the dew from the grass. As they walked their horses forwards, they left hoof-prints in the earth that the heat would soon bake solid. After the tension of the previous day, neither of them felt much like talking and the first couple of hours passed in silence.

  Jed thought back to the way so much of his life had been spent sitting on a horse moving in no particular direction and for no particular reason. Right now they were moving slowly north and west. And that was only because the main body of the Jayhawkers seemed to be centered south and east

  ‘Maybe we should do somethin’ ’bout gettin’ us some food?’ said Whitey.

  ‘Yeah. Just don’t seem a homestead that isn’t a fortress or a funeral pile,’ replied Herne, standing in the stirrups to look as far as he could across the rolling land. Hey!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Looks like there’s somethin’ over yonder. Small cabin. Might be worth ridin’ over and see just what we can see there.’

  When they were within a few yards they stopped again and considered the building. It was an ordinary sod-buster’s hut, set four-square in a dip in the land, with two small sheds on one side, and a fenced corral with no animals in it.

  ‘No sign of life,’ said Whitey, resting easily in the saddle, brushing back his long hair over his shoulders.

  ‘No smoke. No stock. Then why hasn’t it been burned down? Maybe they’re out somewheres. Could be food left there?’

  The albino nodded. ‘Could be a load of men with guns around.’

  ‘You want to do some cookin’ then you got to break some eggs,’ grinned Jed. ‘You go right and I’ll go left and we’ll meet round front again. Take it easy and slow and get the hell out of here if’n there’s any sign of something wrong. Give a yell.’

  Coburn waved a hand in agreement. ‘Sure enough, Jed. Take care, now.’

  They split up, and both walked their mounts forwards easy and slow, Jed leading the third animal. He watched his partner as he disappeared around the back of the cabin, among the small grove of stunted trees, grinning to himself at the odd spectacle of that white-maned skull perched on top of a Union coat several sizes too short and the same amount too wide.

  The sun was well up, and there were swarms of biting midges coming from the pool of mud under the trees. There was the trampled marks of a lot of animals. Some beeves and some horses and mules. But it was hard to tell which were new and which were old.

  The hut itself showed no sign of life at all. A torn piece of curtain flapped through an open window. Herne noticed in passing that all the windows were open, and that the door stood ajar. Which seemed peculiar, if the place was occupied.

  He crossed with Whitey on the far side, and they both shook their heads silently. Meeting once again around the front, about fifty paces from the door.

  ‘What d’you figure, Jed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t say I like it.’

  Coburn shook his head and hissed through his teeth. ‘Me neither. But we could surely use some food in this God-forgotten land. Maybe if n I go in and you stay here?’

  ‘No. This far back I couldn’t do a damn thing to help if there’s trouble. Except maybe come back and bury you after it was over. We go in together. Keep your hand near your pistol.’

  ‘And remember the Alamo,’ joked Whitey. But it was a joke with a grim secret to it. They’d been together for a while now, finding that they got on well and could rely on each other. Both of them had faced tight spots in their nineteen years and both of than knew the value of surprise and quick action.

  To that end they’d agreed a code-word. Alamo. If either of them said that, then it meant they would both explode into sudden and violent action at the same moment. They used it once against a pair of Oglala Sioux who’d stopped them on a trail. Months back. Seeming friendly. Then Jed had spotted that one of the Indians wore a dented daguerreotype round his neck like a charm. It was a picture of a little blonde girl with long plaits. And it was dappled with fresh blood.

  At the word Whitey and Jed had drawn immediately and fired as fast as they knew how. Ripping the Sioux warriors from their horses, dead. As they dropped the blankets covering the shoulders of the two Indians fell back, showing both of them holding cocked pistols, ready to murder the boys.

  Jedediah Herne and Isaiah Coburn took care to remember the Alamo.

  The wind from the previous day had dropped completely, and the sun baked down relentlessly. Jed thumbed the retaining thong off the hammer of his Navy Colt, wiping sweat from his fingers along his dusty trousers. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Whitey taking the same precaution.

  They halted in front of the cabin, sitting silent and waiting. Looking round in case there was anything that they’d missed before. But the place seemed deserted and still as a grave.

  Jed nodded to Whitey and they both swung down from the saddles. At the moment that they stood facing their horses, they heard the faint creak of a door edging open, and a cold voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘You fuckin’ Jayhawkers want to live long enough to hang, then keep real still and wait there.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Jed, cursing the ease with which they’d been trapped.

  ‘For our colonel. He’ll be real pleased to see you boys will Mr. Quantrill.’

  Chapter Four

  The two boys stood very still, backs to the house. Not knowing how many guns they were threatened by. Or where they were hidden. A year back Jed Herne had been eating in a saloon further north and he’d got into conversation with a Union officer. A tall, broad man with eyes that suggested it might be better not to ask questions. But he’d seemed to take a liking to the eighteen year old Herne and had offered him
advice before paying the check and leaving. His name, Jed recalled, had been Josiah Hedges and he’d carried a knife or a razor in a pouch at the back of his neck.

  Hedges had talked about being trapped. ‘Maybe you might face ten years in jail. Believe me, son, you will have more chance of escape in the first few seconds of your capture than in the whole rest of your time in prison.’

  Jed had never forgotten that advice.

  ‘Keep your hands high, boys. Five guns coverin’ you all.’ Then, in an aside to the others. ‘Come on out one at a time. Keep them under the guns.’

  Herne risked a glance over his shoulder, seeing a short man in a red flannel shirt, holding a battered scatter-gun with the barrels sawn short. So short that it would tuck into a pistol holster, which was probably the idea. But also so short that the muzzle spread would be so wide that it presented little danger beyond eight yards.

  The man was joined by four others. Three of them with sawn-off shotguns. Ones with a massive Tranter double-action pistol. A couple of them wore bits and pieces of Confederate uniform. One a hat, and another a pair of grey pants. But they mostly wore shirts of red flannel or blue cotton and working breeches. Two wore sabers. They looked much like the party of Jim Lane’s Jayhawkers that had tried to capture Jed and Whitey. They were the same breed of lawless, violent irregular soldier. Under the command of William Quantrill. Who must be close at hand.

  ‘You Yankees from Lane’s nest o’ bastards?’

  ‘We’re not Yankees,’ replied Herne, squinting bad: and trying to judge when, if at all, there might be a moment to move. The Rebs were so confident with their capture that they hadn’t even bothered to disarm them. But it could only be a matter of moments before one of them thought of doing just that.

  ‘Sure you’re not, boy,’ laughed one of the men, the others joining in the hilarity.

  ‘And that’s my Ma’s nightgown the boy with the flour in his hair got on.’

  More raucous laughter.

  ‘We stole it from some Jayhawkers over the ridges back yonder,’ said Whitey, also trying to look over his shoulder, giving their captors the first glimpse of his face.

  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty, boy,’ whistled one of them. The one on the left, with the Tranter in his hand. ‘What in the name of tarnation happened to your face?’

  ‘Looks like he’s gone white with fright at seein’ us,’ said another.

  ‘You white all over like that, boy?’

  ‘When we hang ’em we can all have a look see at that,’ shouted the first guerrilla.

  ‘We wanted to join up with Colonel Quantrill,’ said Herne. Stalling to try and buy them time. The longer the Rebs laughed at them the better their chance might be.

  Hear that,’ hooted the man with the pistol. ‘Reckon Bill’d be proud to have such fine boys comin’ all this way to meet him.’

  ‘Yeah. Your Ma know you boys are out all on your little ownsomes?’ called the shortest of the soldiers. The one wearing the plumed hat.

  ‘What are you going to do with us?’ asked Whitey in a trembling voice. ‘You ain’t aimin’ to hurt us?’

  ‘Maybe kill you some,’ yelped the first of their captors. ‘So hold back them tears ’til you get need of ’em.’

  Herne flexed the fingers of his right hand, ready for the draw. It had to be soon. Very soon. The five members of Quantrill’s Raiders were about twelve yards away from them, grouped close. Still laughing and exchanging banter about the youth of their prisoners and the strange figure of Isaiah Coburn.

  ‘Whitey ?’ he hissed as quietly as he could.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I figure it’s time we remembered something.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘The Alamo!!’ he yelled at the top of his voice, dropping and turning into the classic gunfighter’s crouch.

  The yell combined with the burst of explosive action from their two young prisoners threw the Raiders into confusion and near panic. They were standing in so close a group that they knocked each other off balance as they tried to gun Jed and Whitey down. Jostling and yelling like a group of spinsters spotting a mouse at a church social.

  Hour upon hour of practice had made both the boys good with guns. Jed began young and was fast to start with. He carried a pistol before his fourteenth year, drawing, cocking and firing on back lots and in camps. Working until his right thumb was raw and blood smeared the hammer of the Navy Colt. Then trying left-handed.

  Now in the Missouri summer, the practice saved his life.

  Everything functioned like a well-oiled machine.

  As he turned, his palm had already slapped down on the butt of the thirty-six caliber pistol. The thumb of the right hand beginning to pull back on the hammer. The left shoulder dipping to present as small a target as possible to the men with the shotguns.

  Whitey had powered himself sideways off the balls of his feet, doing a complete roll to get clear of Jed and give the enemy that moment of hesitation as to who to shoot at Coming up in a crouch and snapping off the shots in quick succession’

  Before the Rebs could squeeze a single trigger, Jed and Whitey had pumped a total of seven bullets into their packed ranks. Killing two of the five outright, including their leader, and wounding two others.

  The leader was hit by two shots, one of which took away most of his jaw, scattering his remaining teeth like pearls of splintered bone in the dirt, knocking him over backward. The second bullet hit him in the centre of his chest, kicking him into the wall of the cabin, where he did down leaving a smear of blood against the dried mud.

  The other dead man was already moving sideways, off balance, when Whitey’s second bullet hit him in the side of the head, between ear and eye, exploding his skull and lifting the feathered hat in the air on a fountain of blood and brains.

  One man was wounded by a bullet in the stomach that folded him over like a courtier at a royal banquet, landing face down in the trampled earth, hands clutching at his belly while he started to scream.

  The fourth man to be hit in that first fusillade of shots caught two thirty-six bullets. One in the right shoulder, and the other tearing apart the delicate bones and cartilage of the knee-joint as he fell over, his cries of agony mingling with the screaming of the gut-shot man.

  The seventh bullet went clean between two of the Confederate guerrillas, missing them both by a couple of inches, ripping a strip of white wood from the open door and burying itself in a print of a meeting between Napoleon and Wellington on the far wall.

  As he was falling, the man hit in shoulder and knee managed to get off one shot with his scatter-gun, until the pain from his wounds made him drop it. But he was already falling, and there were injured and dying men all around him, in a holocaust of black powder smoke and bloody death. His shot sprayed into the earth only five yards ahead of him, doing no more than blast a hole in the yard of the cabin and kick up more dust.

  The only member of the Quantrill patrol still on his feet and unhurt was the man with the Tranter pistol. He’d stood there surrounded by a hail of hissing lead and had been spared from it. Seeing that the smoke had temporarily obscured him from the sight of the two boys by the bucking horses, he made a dive for the door of the cabin, managing to fire off two shots with the finger-cocked forty caliber hand-gun.

  One hit the spare horse in the flank, sending it bucking and squealing away, snapping the lead-rein and adding to the scene of utter confusion. The second bullet came amazingly close to ending the life of Jedediah Herne there and then.

  He was about to fire a fifth shot at the melee, aiming to kill the Reb who’d been hit in the leg and arm, and who was trying to raise himself on one knee and blast off the other barrel of the sawn-down scatter-gun.

  When he heard a metallic crack and the whole of his right hand and arm went numb. His Navy Colt went spinning from his fingers into the dust, landing among the trampling hooves of their horses.

  He clutched his injured arm in his left hand, yelling out to Whitey: ‘I’
m hit. Get the bastard with the pistol!’

  Hearing the shout, the Confederate with the Tranter paused, checking his stride when only a couple of yards from safety. Thinking he had a chance to get the other boy as well and win the praise of Colonel Quantrill.

  The albino peered red-eyed through the flying dust and smoke, seeing the shirt of scarlet flannel and neatly hitting it with two thirty-six caliber bullets. Both of them striking the man in the chest, within an inch of each other.

  The double impact smashed him against the open door that swung further back under his weight, dumping him on his back with head and shoulders inside the sod-buster’s cabin and his feet and legs out in the warmth of the Missouri sun.

  If he’d felt any satisfaction at having shot one of the Union boys, the feeling was washed away on the waves of ringing pain that carried him on the short journey from life into death.

  ‘What about those two?’ shouted Coburn, pointing at the two wounded men. The one with the bullet in his stomach had fainted with the pain, but he kept recovering consciousness and then slipping away into darkness again. Near the front of the hut the Reb with shots in shoulder and leg was still struggling to get off another blast of buckshot at the albino.

  ‘One with scatter-gun,’ said Jed, wringing his hands to try and get the blood flowing, realizing now what had happened to him. Seeing his own pistol lying half-buried in the dust, its action shattered by the bullet from the Tranter.

  Whitey took careful aim at the kneeling soldier and shot him through the centre of the forehead, die bullet punching out a section of the back of the man’s head, leaving an opening as big as a man’s fist for the brains and blood to drain away through.

  ‘You all right, Jed?’ he asked, rising to his feet and walking cautiously towards where Herne was still kneeling in the earth, carefully avoiding the stamping horses, one eye on the mortally wounded guerrilla. Reloading as he came.

  ‘I guess.’