“No, looks more like knife wounds,” Wise said. “A whole heap of knife wounds.”
“The Rathmores?”
“Who else? Damned white trash. They murdered him . . .”
“And his animal. Burro’s head lying over there by the rock,” Barnett said.
Jake Wise straightened in the saddle and stared at the smoke rising from the arroyo. He shook his head and then slid his Winchester from the boot under his knee. He racked a round into the chamber and said, “Well, let’s go bag us a few Rathmores.”
“No, Jake. I got a bad feeling,” Barnett said. “I don’t like this.”
Wise scowled. “What kind of bad feeling?”
“Real bad. Like they know we’re coming and they’re laying for us. It’s so bad, I feel like puking.”
“Then you stay here and puke out your yellow,” Wise said. “I’ll do the shooting for both of us.”
Whooping, the young man set spurs to his horse and galloped in the direction of the arroyo.
With bleak eyes, Barnett watched him go, the smell of death everywhere around him. “You big, dumb ape,” he yelled after Wise. “What do I tell Ben Kane if you get killed? What do I tell him?”
Wise didn’t hear. He made a galloping pass across the mouth of the arroyo, his Winchester hammering. The hooves of his horse drummed and kicked up small explosions of dust, and then he was beyond the arroyo. He turned, battled his rearing mount for a few moments, and charged again. He grinned, having himself a time.
Milton Barnett shook his head and watched Jake Wise die.
Later, he couldn’t rightly recollect how many rifle bullets hit Wise that day. A lot. They kind of pinned him in the saddle for a spell, jerked him around like a ragdoll, and then slowly . . . ever so slowly . . . the big man bent over and slid to the ground. His horse trotted away a few yards and stopped, its head hanging.
A bullet whispered past Barnett’s ear as several men ran toward him, stopping every now and then to shoulder their rifles and fire. He’d been right. The Rathmores had seen him and Wise coming and had lain in ambush around the arroyo. Jake had ignored his friend’s premonition and had paid for it with his life.
Barnett fired once, a miss, swung his horse around, and lit a shuck at the gallop. He glimpsed behind him and saw men, woman, and children swarm over Wise, their knives rising and falling, and he hoped to God that the big man was already dead when the blades went in.
Barnett’s mind reeled as he put a heap of git between him and the Rathmore savages. Would he be blamed for the death of Jake Wise? The big man was an arrogant piece of dirt and he’d thrown his life away, figuring he was bulletproof. He’d been a fool, riding straight into an ambush like that. But Jake was a top hand and Ben Kane set store by him. He could hear the old man now . . . “You damned yellow-bellied coward. You should’ve gone to Jake’s aid when you saw him fall from his horse.”
Damn, it was so unfair.
Barnett’s anger at Wise soured inside him like acid and turned into a burning hatred. He knew what he’d tell Kane. He’d tell him that it was high time the Rathmores were wiped out—seed, breed, and generation, man, woman and child—so their shadows, wherever they fell, no longer defiled the earth.
Jake hadn’t died in vain. Yeah, that’s what he’d tell him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I tell you this for a natural fact,” Bill Stanton said. “There ain’t no gold in the Cornudas and there never has been.”
“I guess Mrs. Talbot has to find that out for herself.” Red Ryan toyed with the beef and beans on his plate. “Damn, Bill, this meat is tough.”
“Longhorn,” Luna Talbot said. “Hereford beef is much more tender.” She looked up from her plate at the stage station manager. “Maybe there’s gold in the Cornudas, maybe there isn’t. But if there is, I’ll find it.”
“Then good luck, lady,” Stanton said. “You’re gonna need it.”
Buttons Muldoon walked into the cabin. “You got some good-looking horses in the corral, Bill,” he said. “Makes a change. I’m glad to get shot of them grays. I used to cotton to them but not any longer. They don’t pull their weight, and that’s a natural fact.”
“I ride a gray.”
This from a man who sat by the fire, his open hands extended to the flames.
“No offense,” Buttons said.
“None taken,” the man said. He rose to his feet, a tall, handsome figure wearing a caped gray cloak. Under the cloak his frock coat bulged on both sides of his chest, and Red pegged him for a two-gun man wearing shoulder holsters, a gambler by the look of him and a successful one at that.
The man stepped across the room and stopped at the table. “Forgive my forwardness, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow, “but I saw you when you first walked inside and was anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Luna laid her fork on her plate and smiled. “You are very gallant, sir. Luna Talbot is my name. And yours?”
“Arman Broussard, formerly of New Orleans town.” the man smiled, showing good teeth. “But now a poor wanderer in the desert. A wanderer in darkness, I must say, that is until I saw you, dear lady. As your name suggests, you carry your own moonlight.”
“Vous êtes aimable, monsieur,” Luna said.
Broussard smiled. “Je ne parle que la vérité.”
Buttons, never the soul of discretion, frowned and said, “Hey, are you on the scout, mister? And what’s all that fancy talk?”
“The fancy talk is French, and if you mean am I running from the law, then the answer is yes,” Broussard said. “I killed a man in New Orleans, a rich man’s son, so there was no justice for me. I escaped and fled into Texas. That was three months ago, and I’ve been on the run from the rich man’s bounty hunters ever since.”
“When you killed the man, was it a fair fight?” Buttons said.
“He drew on me, but was too slow.” Broussard shrugged, a very Cajun gesture. “A sore loser should not take a hand in a poker game.”
“Tell the Rangers that you killed a man in fair fight in New Orleans and they’ll let you go with a warning to behave yourself in Texas,” Buttons said.
“Ah, is that the case?” the gambler said. “Then I may take your advice.” He said to Luna, “I see you’ve finished dinner, ma’am. Again, please pardon my boldness, but would you care to take a stroll with me before retiring?”
Red didn’t let Luna answer. “Mrs. Talbot is a fare-paying passenger of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company of which I am a representative,” he said. “Since I am responsible for her safety, I cannot allow her to walk out with a stranger.”
“Mrs. Talbot . . . please accept my apology,” Broussard said. He seemed flustered. “I had no idea that you were a married woman.”
Luna smiled. “I am a widow, Mr. Broussard. And I’d love to walk out with you and get some fresh air.” She rose and placed her hand on Red’s shoulder. “I’m sure Mr. Broussard is a gentleman and that I’ll be quite safe.”
The gambler gave a little bow. “My arm, Mrs. Talbot?”
“Of course.” Luna took Broussard’s arm, and after a detour to the apple barrel, they walked out of the cabin.
“Buttons, I don’t like this,” Red said after they were gone.
“They won’t walk far in the dark,” Buttons said. “And Mrs. Talbot can take care of herself.”
In that assessment Buttons was right . . . and wrong.
* * *
Arman Broussard and Luna Talbot strolled along a path beaten hard by the passage of feet going to and from the barn and corrals. The moon cast a mother-of-pearl light on the station’s outbuildings and the desert beyond and picked out the date 1881 on a fencepost that stood upright and alone to the left of the track. The post marked the spot where an Apache war chief named Iron Vest had fallen to Bill Stanton’s rifle during the last Chiricahua outbreak. Stanton had planned to carve the Indian’s name on the post but had never gotten around to it. The evening of the burning day was cool, stil
l, and hushed.
Broussard’s slightly accented voice sounded as loud and hollow as the beat of a muffled drum. “I’d like to check on my horse and give him this.” He held a bright green apple in his hand. “He’s mighty partial to sour apples.”
“Have you always favored grays, Mr. Broussard?” Luna said, not out of any real sense of curiosity but making conversation in a night grown too silent.
“No, I can’t say I have,” Broussard said. “I won him in a poker game. He’s a good horse, a lot of Thoroughbred in him, and he’s as game as they come . . . fought off a cougar one time, and he has the scars to prove it.”
Luna smiled. “Poor horse.”
“Poor cougar. It took quite a beating.” Broussard stopped and said, “I heard Stanton say you’re looking for gold.”
“I am, and he thinks it’s a fool’s errand.”
“It seems that everyone in the West is hunting gold of some kind . . . happiness being the mother lode.”
“Are you happy, Mr. Broussard?”
The man smiled. “I’ve never been happy. You?”
Luna nodded. “I was happy once, at least for a while.”
“When you were married?”
“Yes. But it didn’t last long. My husband was killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Broussard said.
“I thought I’d never get over Peter’s death, but I have. Well, mostly I have. Starting my ranch helped.”
“You have a ranch?”
“Yes, south of here on the Brazos. Cattle prices have been low this last couple of years, and money’s been tight.”
“And that’s why you’re gold prospecting.”
“Not prospecting. I’m looking for a gold mine.”
“Then I hope you find it,” Broussard said. He saw Luna shiver, swept off his cloak, and placed it around her shoulders. “It’s warmer in the barn. He smiled. “You can give Ace his apple.”
“Ace is a good name for a horse.” Luna drew the cloak closer around her shoulders.
“Good name for a gambler’s horse, I guess,” Broussard said. “But he was already called Ace when I won him. Ah, here’s the barn and here’s the apple. I’ll light the oil lamp.”
The big gray responded to Broussard’s low whistle and Luna fed him the apple. Ace was still munching when Luna instinctively glanced over her shoulders and then whispered tightly, using Broussard’s given name for the first time, “Arman . . .”
The gambler turned and saw what Luna had seen. Three hard-faced men stood in the livery doorway. They were unshaven and dusty, as though they’d just come off a long trail, and each was armed with a rifle and a holstered belt gun.
One of the three, a short, stocky man wearing a shabby ditto suit and bowler hat, said, “Well, howdy, gambling man. It’s good to see you at last. It’s been a long trail.”
“Bounty hunters,” Broussard said, contempt in his voice. “Are you three tramps the best Gaspard Trahan could find?”
The smile slipped from the stocky man’s face. “We’re enough, Broussard. Now it seems like you got a decision to make.”
“And what might that be?” Broussard was tense, ready. Beside him Luna Talbot stood in shocked silence.
“Well,” the stocky man said, “you can come with us since Mr. Trahan is very anxious to meet you. Really looking forward to it, you might say.”
One of the other bounty hunters giggled.
“And if I don’t?” Broussard said.
“Well, fact is we got ourselves a real big tin bucket with a tight lid and a sack of salt,” the stocky man said.
“What’s that for?” Luna said.
“Good question, lady,” the stocky man said, his eyes ugly. “If it’s how things turn out, we’ll take your gambling man’s head back to New Orleans pickled in brine.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” Broussard said.
The stocky man smiled. “I know. So as I said, you got a decision to make.”
“And so have you,” the gambler said. “You can walk away from this.”
“Like hell we will,” the stocky man said.
“Then I’ve made up my mind.” Broussard went for his guns, his arms crossing over his chest.
Mistakes were made, and excuses for those mistakes are in order . . .
Three men, rifles in their hands, were caught flatfooted. Not one of them figured Arman Broussard would be crazy enough to make a play against that much artillery.
None of the bounty hunters had ever seen Broussard on the draw and shoot and were unaware of his reputation as a skilled gunman.
All three of the bounty hunters were tired after riding long, difficult trails from New Orleans, and their normally sharp reflexes had slowed from fatigue.
The youngest of the three, a man named Crawford, or some say Cranston, had gained minor notoriety when he outdrew and killed bank robber Ned Brown in Galveston in the summer of 1880, but he was a pistolero and the Winchester was not his weapon of choice.
Taken together, the bounty hunters were ill prepared for Broussard’s flashing speed and uncanny accuracy. The man was hell on wheels with the Colt gun.
Broussard cut loose with both hands, and his first two shots dropped the stocky bounty hunter and the man beside him. As he fell, the stocky man got off a shot, but it went high and wide and did no execution. Crawford panicked. He fired, missed, racked a round into the chamber, and then was hit under the chin by a horribly mangled bullet that bounced off the Winchester’s receiver. With his eyes popping out of his head, Crawford staggered back, scarlet blood running down his throat and chest, and the rifle dropped from his hands. Broussard shot him twice more and the youngster fell, dead when he hit the ground.
“What the hell happened here?” Bill Stanton, holding a shotgun, ran into the barn through a drift of gun smoke. Behind him, guns in hand, so did Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon.
“These men planned to kill Mr. Broussard,” Luna said, rushing the words. “They were aiming to cut off his head and pickle it in brine and take it to New Orleans.”
Red said, “That was downright unsociable of them. Mrs. Talbot, as a fare-paying passenger of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and express Company, it’s my duty to ask you if you’ve been harmed in any way.”
“I am just fine,” Luna said. “Mr. Broussard was defending himself.”
“Made a thorough job of it, didn’t he?” Stanton said.
“They were notified,” Broussard said. “They could have walked away.”
Stanton swung the scattergun on the gambler. “Mister, you give those pistols to Mrs. Talbot until I’ve figured out the right and the wrong of this thing.”
Broussard hesitated, and Red said, “Better do like the man says. That there Greener is both wife and child to him.”
“I’d be obliged if he’d point his family in another direction,” Broussard said. “Make me feel like it’s my own idea.”
Stanton lowered the shotgun. “All right, now pass them irons.”
Broussard gave Luna his Colts and then said, “Now what?”
“Now I do some studying on why there are three dead men in my barn,” Stanton said. “It’s late, and I suggest we all get some shut-eye. Broussard, I’ll talk to you in the morning. Mrs. Talbot, behind the curtain in the cabin there’s a cot with a good feather mattress. You’ll be comfortable enough in there.”
Luna nodded. “Yes, I do feel tired.” Then to Broussard, “No one can blame you for defending yourself. I certainly don’t.”
The gambler said, “I appreciate that, Mrs. Talbot. Now, I suggest you retire and sweet dreams.”
* * *
“‘Sweet dreams.’ You ever said that to a woman, Red?” Buttons whispered as he squirmed around and pulled and kicked at his blanket, trying to make himself comfortable on the cabin floor.
Red drew on his cigarette, and a point of crimson light glowed in the darkness. “Can’t say as I ever have. Of course, I’ve never slept with a regular woman, like a schoolteacher or s
ome such. Maybe I’d say ‘sweet dreams’ to a schoolteacher.”
“I wouldn’t,” Buttons said. He’d settled down and was lying on his back, his open eyes staring into gloom. “Sweet dreams. Hell, I’d never say that to any woman.”
“Well, it could be that Broussard is a gentleman and we ain’t. Gentlemen know the right things to say to a woman. They got all kinds of good manners.”
“Could be that’s why Mrs. Talbot is smitten by him,” Buttons said.
“Shh . . . keep your voice down. She might hear us,” Red whispered. “What do you mean, smitten?”
“She’s got his brand on her heart. Mark my words, that’s a natural fact,” Buttons said.
“Quick, wasn’t it?”
“Doesn’t take long to fall in love with a person,” Buttons said. “I reckon he’s going to be with us all the way to the Cornudas.” He sighed. “Somebody else to share our gold.”
“Buttons, I think I liked you a lot better before you got rich.”
* * *
Behind the curtain, Luna Talbot heard . . . and smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ben Kane was angry, a scorching hatred that scalded his belly and brain like acid and for which there was only one cure. “We’ll wipe them out,” he said. “Kill them all lest some escape and their vile contagion spread to other places.”
“Boss, it’s got to look good to the Rangers,” Ansley Dryden, Kane’s foreman said. “We’re talking about a lot of people here.”
“You going soft on me, Anse?” Kane was looking for a fight, looking for somebody to blame for the presence of the Rathmores on range he considered his own.
Dryden shook his head. “Mr. Kane, that’s a helluva thing to say to me. I’ve done my share of killing for you in the past. I’ve shot and hung near two score men in my time—rustlers, nesters, and Indians—but we got to step careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Damn it, Anse, don’t give me problems. Give me answers,” Kane said.
Kane, Dryden, and Milton Barnett sat in the old rancher’s parlor, part of the sprawling stone house that had replaced the Rafter-K’s original two-room log cabin. Along with the two cowboys, Kane had included his personal bodyguard and sometime adviser, the Austin gunman Dave Sloan, a sour, taciturn man who was slowly wasting away from consumption and was as dangerous and unpredictable as a rabid wolf.
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