The Backstabbers

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Both guards were still there, one of them smoking a pipe, but their Winchesters were propped against the walls and they stared at something happening deeper in the arroyo, giving Broussard the edge he needed.

  He chose the pipe smoker to his right, quickly covered the few yards that separated the guard from himself, and slammed his Colt into the man’s head. As his companion groaned and dropped, the other guard turned, saw what had happened, and grabbed for his rifle.

  “I wouldn’t,” Broussard said.

  The man ignored him and tried to bring the Winchester to bear. Broussard fired, and his bullet crashed dead center into the man’s naked chest. It was a killing wound and the bearded guard knew it. He screeched as he staggered back and slammed into the hard rock of the mine shaft wall.

  Broussard didn’t wait to see the man fall. He ran out of the mine into darkness and headed for the mouth of the arroyo. Footsteps pounded behind him, and the gambler turned and saw the Mexicans hard on his heels, making their own break for freedom.

  One of the Rathmore brothers loomed from the darkness in front of Broussard, his arms extended as he yelled at him to stop. Broussard brushed the man aside and the Mexicans trampled over him.

  Broussard ran out of the arroyo, then turned his head, expecting a pursuit, but all he saw were the Mexicans, all nine of them following him as hounds chase a fox.

  “Get the hell away from me!” the gambler yelled. “Vete! Vete!”

  Broussard sprinted into brush heavy with greasewood, prickly pear, and sage, and bent low, making himself as small as possible. The Mexicans did the same and he cussed them out in Cajun that they didn’t understand. Figuring his contrary state of mind, they kept a distance between themselves and the man with the deadly six-gun.

  The darkness closed in around Broussard, and after a few minutes, he straightened up and slowed to a walk. The Mexicans were no longer eating his dust, but still followed, small, thin men dressed in white shirts and pants and rawhide sandals. Broussard couldn’t figure out why the little men clung so close to him. He had given them no encouragement and he could only think that they drew some comfort from the gun in his hand. If there was a fight with the Rathmores, the gringo could defend them.

  Broussard took a drink from the canteen, let the Mexicans have a swallow, and then said, “Any of you boys speak English?” He got no response and tried, “Habla usted Ingles?” All he got were blank stares and a few grins.

  Drawing on the little Spanish he knew, Broussard told the Mexicans he was headed south. They could go in any direction they liked, just so long as it wasn’t the direction he was taking.

  This declaration was greeted with nods and grins and plenty of “Sí,” “Sí,” “Sí” . . . but when he started walking again, the Mexicans followed him like a bunch of wiry ducklings trailing their mama.

  They walked through the cool night, Broussard intending to bed down during the heat of the day. The wild land around them was dry as a bone and one canteen would not last ten men for very long. It was a worrisome thing.

  At first light he stopped walking and looked back at the Cornudas, surprised at how far they’d come. He saw no dust in the distance, no sign of pursuit. Brossard was sure the Rathmores had horses stashed away in one of the canyons near a spring, including the members of Button Muldoon’s team that had escaped the cooking pot. Why were they not out hunting him? Then it dawned on Broussard . . . the answer could be numbers. Papa Mace had seven sons, and two of them were dead, possibly the best of them. He’d only five fighting men of dubious value. Attacking across open ground into a gun and a man trained to use it could cost him dearly.

  That was Broussard’s belief . . . but in the end Papa Mace would call the shots.

  * * *

  First light brought the dawning of another scorching day. By noon, heat waves shimmered, and in the distance, dust devils spun like dervishes. The air was thick and hot and hard to breathe. Once the whole region had been the bottom of a vast sea and the ground was hard and gravelly overlying a layer of compacted lime as hard as granite. The Chihuahuan Desert was not land for the plow, nor was it suited for humankind, yet both men and women challenged the wilderness to do its worst and endured.

  Over the next three days Broussard and his nine Mexicans would be put to the same test . . . and only the strongest of them would survive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Fear drove Papa Mace Rathmore.

  Two of his sons were dead and only five remained. It was not enough. The next time Ben Kane and his tough punchers attacked would be the last, because he would kill everyone. In the dim morning light, Mace opened the gold sack that he kept hidden in a niche in the rock, stared hard at his stash of flakes and small nuggets, some of them still embedded in quartz. He hefted the sack. Maybe ten pounds, including some quartz. He did a swift mental calculation. Three thousand dollars, give or take, enough to keep him for a few years in . . . his destination had to be Fort Worth. The place was booming and had plenty of snap. He’d take one of the better-looking women with him, maybe Ella, his son Malachi’s wife. She hadn’t yet given birth and was still shapely and willing. Later, once he was established, he could pimp her out as added income.

  His mind made up, Papa Mace put the sack back into the niche. Time was of the essence. Of the two springs in the Cornudas Mountains, one was close to his compound in the arroyo. The other was near another peak where he kept the horses. He could pick out a couple of good mounts for himself and Ella and then make some excuse to leave. On a scout maybe. He’d think of something that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

  Naked except for his loincloth and sandals, his great belly hanging, Papa Mace left what he called his throne room and walked into the compound. It was only an hour after dawn, but the cooking fire was already boiling meat, and the woman and children were up and doing. The morning light sliced into the arroyo but cast deep shadows. The mood among the surviving Rathmores was grim. The women’s faces were again blackened in mourning, and the men were still at their guard posts as they’d been all night. Two were on duty in the mine and the other three at the mouth of the arroyo.

  As was his due as their savior, the women bowed their heads as Papa Mace walked past, but their eyes were not friendly. There had been too much death, and now all the slaves were gone. Who would dig for the gold that they needed so badly? It was time for Papa to do something . . . something miraculous.

  When he stepped into the mine shaft, he was greeted by silence. The chip-chip-chip of picks on rock and the constant chatter of the Mexicans was gone. The morning light had not yet reached the entrance. Red Ryan lay in gloom. Buttons Muldoon, his gray face showing strain, sat beside him.

  Mace stood over Red, looking down at him, hate in his eyes. “Is he dead yet?”

  “Not yet,” Buttons said. “He can’t stand.”

  Mace smirked. “Then I can burn him lying down.”

  “Do that, and I swear I’ll kill you,” Buttons said.

  “Big talk from a man who can barely stand himself,” Mace said. “I may burn you both.”

  Buttons made no answer and Mace said, “How did Broussard get the gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mace kicked him in the ribs. “How did Broussard get the gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another kick, Mace’s horny toes thudding into Button’s side, bringing pain.

  “How did Broussard get the gun?”

  Gasping, Buttons said, “Go to hell.”

  “Did you have a hand in it?” Papa Mace said, his small, piggy eyes vicious.

  “No.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “I had no hand in it.”

  Mace scratched his huge, hairy belly. “Tell me who it was, and you can go free. I’ll give you a horse and a canteen, and send you on your way.”

  “I don’t know who it was,” Buttons said. That earned him another kick.

  But Buttons Muldoon was a fighter and he’d only take so much. Mov
ing with the explosive speed possessed by so many short, stocky men, he reached out, grabbed Mace’s leg, and clamped his teeth on the man’s shinbone where he knew it would hurt like hell. As Buttons held on, growling like a terrier with a rat, the fat man screamed in pain and then fell, unable to balance on one leg.

  But then it was over. The two guards laid into Buttons with their rifle butts as Papa Mace shrieked and stared in horror at the blood welling from his gnawed leg.

  Buttons was pounded into insensibility, but his last conscious thought was Damn, I enjoyed that.

  * * *

  His mangled leg bandaged, Papa Mace Rathmore attended the burial of two more sons. Once again, the women wailed, but he paid them little heed, preoccupied with his plans for his escape to Fort Worth with Ella, who was not as worn out as the rest of the women. As one of his sons read from the Good Book and droned on about death and redemption, Mace’s busy brain turned to other things. Uppermost in his mind were Buttons Muldoon and Red Ryan, who had turned out to be a disappointment. He’d been told by the women that there was barely enough wood to feed the fires, let alone burn two grown men. There had to be another punishment, just as savage, and Mace was suddenly inspired.

  He would ignore them . . . tie up his enemies good and tight and just leave them in the mine shaft to die of thirst. Papa Mace wanted to smile but couldn’t, not when he was burying whores’ whelps. Seven sons and every one of them born of a whore he’d used, abused, and then discarded. It was no wonder he took no pride in them. But enough of that.

  He turned his thoughts to the stagecoach men again. He’d once been told by an old prospector that a man without water would start dying after three days and would be dead by seven. The visions in Mace’s mind were so exquisite, so tantalizing, that he would gladly postpone his flight with Ella to savor them. He would visit the two vile creatures every day and torment them. He would guzzle water . . . pour it into the ground beyond their reach . . . tease them with cups of water, cold from the spring, slopping over rims that almost touched their cracked, parched lips before being snatched away. Oh, the fun he’d have. He’d listen to their harsh croaks for mercy, their dusty cries for water . . . day after terrible day for seven long days.

  Papa Mace gave a start. Everybody was looking at him. Why? Then he realized that the prayers had ended, and they waited on his signal to start the burial. He raised a hand and his surviving sons began to pile rocks on the grave. Ella’s face was blacked like the other women, but the glance she gave him was bold, inviting, a look that promised much.

  Papa Mace Rathmore was mightily pleased.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Morning came, and Arman Broussard and his Mexicans halted. The coolness of the evening desert had fled, and the hot sun came up like a copper coin in a brassy sky. It was their second day on the trail south. The water in the canteen was almost gone, and strain showed on the faces of the Mexicans who’d been poorly fed and driven hard in the mine from dawn to dusk seven days a week for years.

  One of them, an older man named Vincente Fonseca, was in a bad way. He was bone-tired, sagging from weariness, and his eyes were hollow. Before he was taken by the Rathmores he’d had six children, but he didn’t know where they were, and he believed his wife had died. When he’d been young and strong Fonseca had been a carpenter, but that was years ago and now his strength was almost gone.

  Positioning himself so that his shadow fell on the old man, in his halting Spanish Broussard asked him how he felt. In a voice that was barely a whisper Fonseca told him that he must go on without him, that his time to die was very near and that he’d seen Santa Muerte, the Angel of Death, and she had beckoned to him.

  Broussard said, “Despues de descansar, pronto te sentiras mejor,” hoping like hell it meant, “After some rest, you’ll feel better.”

  But the old man shook his head and said no more. He died just before sundown.

  Broussard and the Mexicana buried Fonseca as best they could under sand and loose rocks and then took to the dark trail south again. The gambler knew the odds and figured their chance of survival was slim to none and slim was already saddling up to leave town. The water would soon give out . . . and that would be the end.

  Two hours later, they found Luna Talbot. Or the coyotes did.

  * * *

  The coyotes were yipping close to the walking men, skulking silver shapes in the moonlight, flickering in and out of the brush. Broussard thought it strange that the animals would come so near to them, men being the most dangerous of their traditional enemies. But he dismissed the coyotes from his mind and continued walking. But then the yips grew more frequent and excited and it was one of the young Mexicans who first heard the sound that did not come from an animal or an injured deer.

  The man’s face puzzled, he said to Broussard, “Señor, es una mujer?”

  Is it a woman?

  The only woman who could be alone in the wilderness and cry out like that was Luna Talbot. But Brossard had thought her dead, killed by the Rathmores . . . or the desert. Could it really be her? The question struck him like a blow. Then he was running, charging into the murk, whooping like an Indian to scare away the coyotes.

  In the gloom, he at first thought the dark shape on the ground was in fact a deer or some other animal, but as he ran closer he made out the unmistakable form of Luna Talbot. The woman sat upright, a small pistol in her hand.

  She recognized him immediately. “What took you so long?”

  Broussard kneeled beside her and said, “Are you all right?”

  “Apart from being almost eaten by coyotes and stranded in the middle of a wasteland with a busted ankle, I’m just fine,” Luna said.

  Broussard shook his head. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Likewise. At least for a while there.”

  Luna’s canteen was still over her shoulder and Broussard said, “Let me get you some water.”

  “No, leave it,” she said. “Save the water for later when I really need it.”

  “Then let me take a look at the ankle,” Broussard said. “I’ll need to take off your boot.”

  “No, my ankle is too swollen.” She looked up at the gawking Mexicans and then said, “Mr. Broussard, you have a story to tell.”

  “Yes, I do,” the gambler said. After a while he added, “The ankle is moving freely, and I don’t think it’s broken. It seems like you’ve got a sprain. How did it happen?”

  “I stepped into a hole in the dark.”

  Broussard smiled. “Careless of you.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it?” Luna said. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Broussard, but you look awful.”

  “A few days without much water can do that to a man.”

  “And to a woman. I look awful myself.’

  “Mrs. Talbot, you could never look awful. Can you walk on the ankle?”

  “If I could walk on it would I be sitting here getting attacked by a pack of man-eating coyotes?”

  “Then I’ll have to carry you,” Broussard said.

  “I could be very brave and tell you to leave me,” Luna said. “But I’m not brave.”

  “You’re brave enough,” Broussard said. “Here, let me help you to your feet and we’ll go from there.”

  He helped Luna stand and then said, “Now, can you put any weight on it?”

  Luna tried and flinched in pain. “No, I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “A turned ankle can happen to anybody,” Broussard said. “I’ll need to carry you.”

  “All the way to my ranch?”

  The gambler smiled. “No, not all the way. Chances are we’ll never make it that far.”

  She said, “Now I feel much better.”

  * * *

  As Western men went, Arman Broussard was as strong as most, but he was grateful to share the carrying chores with several of the younger Mexicans. Despite years of poor food and backbreaking work, they managed Luna Talbot’s weight with ease.

  But water was a problem.

  Lu
na’s canteen was still half full but added to the little Broussard had remaining, it was not enough to keep ten people alive for very long.

  They trudged through the night and into the next morning, when they each took a sip of water and settled down to sweat out the long, burning day. Hunger had begun to gnaw at them, but the Mexicans gathered piñon nuts that were surprisingly tasty and helped with the pangs.

  Exhausted as they were, sleep turned out to be almost impossible as a rising wind blew stinging dust that covered everyone and made breathing difficult. After a couple of hours, the breeze dropped, and the heat returned with full force, making the surrounding landscape ripple. Luna Talbot’s sprained ankle was obviously punishing her, but she didn’t utter a word of complaint. Using her fingers, she combed the sand out of her hair, brushed off her shirt and riding skirt, trying to make herself presentable. Arman Broussard thought she looked just fine.

  It was about two in the afternoon, the day a furnace set ablaze by the burning sun, when a dozing Broussard was shaken awake by one of the Mexicans. The man said nothing but pointed south where a dust cloud smeared the horizon like a dirty thumbprint. The gambler got to his feet. What the hell? Was it a party of Rangers? No, there weren’t enough Rangers in Texas to raise that much dust. A train of freight wagons maybe? That was possible.

  “It’s a cattle herd,” Luna Talbot said, sitting up, shading her eyes with a hand. “Probably my cattle.”

  “Why drive cows up here?” Broussard said.

  “I don’t know,” Luna said. “But I reckon we’ll find out soon enough. Help me to my feet, Mr. Broussard.”

  The gambler did as Luna asked and said, “Call me Arman, for God’s sake.”

  “Hell of a name,” Luna said. “You must be the only man alive with a ten-dollar name like that. But I’ll call you Arman if you wish, and you may call me Luna.”

  “I was once introduced to a dog named Luna,” Broussard said. “She was female, a real bitch.”