The Backstabbers

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  A half-smile played on the woman’s lips. “She was a fine dog then.”

  Broussard shook his head, grinning. “Here we are bandying words with each other and, depending on who’s driving those cattle, we could be dead in a few minutes.”

  “You mean rustlers?”

  “Or worse.”

  “I reckon we’ll soon—”

  “Find out. I know.”

  A moment later they heard the distant Pop! Pop! Pop! of guns, and the gambler said, “Sounds like somebody chasing rustlers all right.”

  “That will be my segundo Leah Leighton and the Talbot hands,” Luna said. Worried, she bit her lip. “I never taught them how to handle a running gunfight.”

  “I’m sure they know,” Broussard said. “Luna, if they’re anything like you, they know.”

  The dust cloud came closer and riders and cattle were visible in the haze. The shooting became ragged and then died away into silence.

  “I see her!” Luna said.

  “See who?” Broussard said.

  “Leah Leighton. That’s her paint mare with the white blanket. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

  “Is she winning or losing?” Broussard said.

  “She’s won, Arman. She’s carrying her rifle, and so are the others.”

  “Can they see us?”

  “I don’t know. We’re covered in sand,” Luna said. “Fire a couple of shots in the air.”

  Broussard thumbed off two rounds and waited. The Mexicans were excited, waving their arms and letting out with dry, croaky yells.

  Finally, Broussard saw clearly. The woman on the paint rode forward fifty yards and then drew rein. She put field glasses to her eyes and studied the terrain ahead. Four more rifle-toting riders emerged from the dust and joined her. The woman lowered the glasses, turned her head, and said something to the hands. Then they shook out into a skirmish line and come on at a walk, rifles at the ready.

  “Careful gals, those,” Broussard said.

  Luna nodded. “I taught them, and they learned.” She leaned on Broussard and waved. “Leah!”

  The woman riding the paint stopped, took off her hat, and held it over her head, shading her eyes from the glaring sun.

  “Leah!” Luna called out again, waving.

  Leah Leighton recognized her boss and kicked her horse into a canter. The other woman followed. A few yards away, she reined the paint to a skidding halt and leaped from the saddle. She ran to Luna, and the two women embraced. Luna winced a little as her weight shifted to her injured ankle.

  Horrified, Leah said, “Boss, you’re hurt.”

  “Only a sprained ankle,” Luna said.

  “But . . . but what happened?” Leah said, her pretty, sunburned face concerned. “What about the mine? Why are you here? Where are—”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Luna said. “First, you tell me what happened? Those are my Herefords, aren’t they?”

  “Rustlers,” Leah said. “They rounded up about fifty cows and drove them north. Eliza Holt was out checking the range and they shot her.”

  Luna felt a jolt of alarm. “Is she . . .”

  “She’s fine, boss. A bullet burned across the side of her head and knocked her out cold for a spell, but she got back on her horse and raised the alarm. She’s a flighty gal, is Eliza, but she’s got sand.”

  “And then you went after the rustlers,” Luna prompted.

  “Yes, five of them. We caught up with them, and there was a fight. We killed three and captured two others. I guess we’ll hang those two when we find a suitable tree.” Leah looked over Luna’s shoulder. “Where did you find all the Mexicans?”

  “This gentleman here is Arman Broussard,” Luna said. “They belong to him.”

  The gambler gave a little bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Leighton.”

  “Likewise I’m sure.” Leah’s eyes moved from the handsome Broussard to Luna and then back again, obviously trying to make a connection.

  Luna recognized the look and said, “Arman saved my life last night. But that’s for later. I’d like to talk to the two rustlers you caught . . . after we share your canteens, that is. We’re dying of thirst and pretty much used up.”

  The Talbot hands shared their water and the beef jerky they’d packed in the event that the chase took them all the way to the New Mexico Territory and after Luna and the others were refreshed, she sat on a limestone rock shelf and ordered that the prisoners be brought forward.

  They were an oddly matched pair, and Luna was surprised. The older of the two was a graybeard with tired, washed-out blue eyes, his companion a boy of about fourteen, tall and gangly and frightened. He kept his eyes on the Colt in Broussard’s waistband.

  “You rustled my cattle,” Luna said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I have nothing to say, lady. I saddle my own broncs and fight my own battles and I know what I done was wrong. But I needed money, and Billy Head showed me a way to get some.”

  “Who is he?” Luna said.

  “He’s one of the dead rustlers, boss,” Leah Leighton said. “Before he died, he gave me his name and asked if I’d tell his sister what had happened to him. He said she lives on the Pecos, down Cowbell Creek way.”

  “We all lived on the Cowbell,” the old man said. “Me, Billy Head, Tom Battles, and John Hawke—all of them three are dead now. This boy’s name is Tim Meadows. He’s an orphan boy and he ain’t quite right. I’ve been taking care of him since he was six years old and I brought him with me. I reckon you’ll hang me as a cow thief, lady, but spare the boy. He didn’t know what he was doing, on account of the way he is, being slow an’ all.”

  “Where were you taking my cattle?” Luna said.

  “We figured to sell them in El Paso, lady.”

  “Cattle prices are low this year,” Luna said. “Fifty head would bring you two thousand dollars. That means that four grown men risked their lives for five hundred dollars each. Mister, five hundred dollars isn’t worth dying for.’

  “We were all poor folks down on the Cowbell, lady. Five hundred dollars is a fortune for the likes of us. You should know that Billy Head and them were never outlaws. Oh, when the young’uns were hungry they wasn’t above stealing a chicken or two, but they were not bandits.”

  “And then they heard about my ranch,” Luna said. Her face was hard and the breeze tossed strands of hair across her face.

  “Yes, a passing feller told Billy Head there was fat cattle for the taking,” the old man said. “Billy said we’d keep to lifting just fifty head because they wouldn’t be missed. Well, that’s what we done and then we were caught.” He shook his head in wonderment. “By some mighty sharpshooting ladies with Winchesters.”

  The boy spoke for the first time. “Don’t hang us, ma’am. We didn’t mean no harm.”

  “There’s an old cottonwood that stands alongside a dry creek bed near my ranch house,” Luna said. “Crows go there sometimes, especially when the tree grows dead men. A few weeks ago, if I’d caught you rustling my cattle I’d have hanged you both from the same branch and put I AM A RUSTLER placards around your necks. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” the old man said, his head drooping. He looked up, “But please, lady, I beg you, spare the boy.”

  “However,” Luna said as though she hadn’t been listening, “the strange thing is that you and your fellow rustlers saved my life. I and all the men who you see standing here would have died of thirst long before we reached the Talbot. I’m sure of that.”

  “That’s a natural fact,” Broussard said, nodding.

  “Yes, thank you, Arman.” Luna looked at the old man. “I will not hang you or the boy. You are free to go. Leah, bring them their horses.”

  Tears sprang into the old timer’s eyes. “Thank you, lady. And God bless you.” Then, his words tentative, “Can we have a spare horse? I’d like to take our dead back to the Cowbell for Christian burial.”

  Luna smiled slightly. “Pushing i
t, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

  “Owen Mollohan, lady. Man and boy, it’s been Owen Mollohan.”

  “Leah, bring all five of the rustler horses,” Luna said. “They’re the only spare mounts we have.”

  Broussard looked at her in surprise. “Spare mounts?”

  “I need a horse and a gun,” Luna said. “The hands need to take the herd back, and I don’t want them riding double.”

  “You’re not thinking about . . .”

  “About heading back to the Cornudas? Yes, I am. No man abuses me and puts a slave rope around my neck and lives to boast of it. I have a score to settle with the fat man.”

  “And I promised Buttons Muldoon and Red Ryan that I’d return,” Broussard said. “So make that two horses. What about your ankle?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It hurts, I’m sure.”

  “I can bear it. Anger helps numb the pain.”

  The running gun battle had scattered the herd and the rustlers’ horses, and it took a good thirty minutes before a couple of punchers led the mounts to where Luna sat. She was less than impressed by the five hammer-headed mustangs with worn-out McClennan saddles on their backs and bridles held together with string. Poor men’s horses.

  “Take your pick, Arman,” Luna said, smiling.

  “Ladies first,” Broussard said, also smiling.

  “The sorrel,” Luna said.

  “Good choice.” Broussard stepped to a mouse-colored mare that must have weighed no more than eight hundred pounds and patted her neck. “I’ll take this one.” He turned to the old man. “The rest are yours.”

  He and the Mexicans helped load the dead men onto the remaining horses and with Luna’s approval gave Mollohan a rifle. “Old-timer, don’t even think about taking up the rustling profession again,” Broussard said, “That cartridge sure don’t fit your pistol.”

  “Mister, I’m done,” Mollohan said. “And so is the boy.”

  He kneed his horse forward, him and the youngster, leading dead men east toward the Cowbell under a clear blue sky.

  * * *

  After Mollohan left, Luna Talbot said to Leah Leighton, “Who started the shooting?”

  The woman seemed surprised, but said, “They did when they saw us coming after them.” Then after a pause for thought, “They weren’t very good.”

  “They were rubes,” Luna said.

  “Yes, boss, they were. Rubes with Winchesters, one with a Sharps fifty.”

  Luna nodded and smiled slightly, “Yes, there is always that to consider.”

  Guessing that Mrs. Talbot was suffering a pang of conscience, Leah said, “I would’ve preferred to have taken them alive, but they gave me no choice.”

  “Of course, they didn’t,” Luna said. “You did the right thing.”

  “Yes, boss,” Leah said. “I did.”

  Luna accepted that last and ordered her segundo to send the hands back to the ranch with the herd. “But I want you with me, Leah. Where I’m headed I may need your fast gun.”

  The woman didn’t even blink. “Tell me about it, boss.”

  “We’re headed back to the Cornudas.”

  “To the mine?” Leah said.

  “Yes, to the mine.” Luna hesitated and then said, “It could be dangerous. If you want to leave with the herd, I’ll understand.”

  “I ride for the brand,” Leah said. “I’ll stick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dave Sloan was Ben Kane’s gunman, and he was mighty close . . . close to putting a bullet in his own head. He’d coughed up blood that morning, a bucketload lot of bloody phlegm, and his breathing had been agonizing. It was no way for a man to live . . . but sure as hell a good reason for him to die.

  Sloan sat on a wooden bench outside the barn, his face turned to the sun, basking in its healing warmth. Inside, the shadows were fading and the big draft horses shifted their feet in their stalls, rattled their halters, and snorted, impatient for hay and oats. Birds fluttered in the piñon trees near the corral and the cook’s cur dog barked at the two tomcats he hated with a passion. He’d chased those cats a hundred times and caught up with them once. After that, he’d never chased a cat again.

  Sloan never got far from his gun, and the holstered Colt lay on the bench beside him. A young hand nodded to him, gave his bloodstained lips a second glance, and hurriedly looked away. The cowboy pitched hay and then scooped oats into feed buckets. As he worked he sang, “The Old Gray Mule,” and the horses seemed to like it.

  When the puncher left, Sloan was breathing easier and the pain in his chest had eased.

  Milt Barnett walked purposely toward him.

  Barnett had been with Jake Wise when the Rathmores killed him, so Sloan doubted his spunk. Since the puncher wore a gun he was handy with and Sloan was not a trusting man, he moved his hand an inch or two nearer to his Colt.

  If Barnett noticed the play, he didn’t let it show. “Boss wants to see you, Dave.” Barnett stood with his right arm away from his body, putting a discreet distance between his hand and his gun. “It’s about that Rathmore trash.”

  Sloan got to his feet and buckled on his gun belt and holster.

  The man was wasting away, Barnett thought. Soon the only thing left of him would be his shadow.

  * * *

  “Bad morning, Dave?” Ben Kane said, looking the man over.

  “You could say that,” Sloan said.

  “Sorry to hear it. Too early for whiskey?”

  “It’s never too early for whiskey.”

  Anse Dryden, Kane’s foreman, was already there. He nodded to Sloan but didn’t speak.

  It was about eight o’clock in the morning and the sun angled through the windows of the ranch house parlor and made the dust motes dance. Kane poured amber bourbon into crystal glasses and handed one to Sloan, the other to Dryden.

  Sloan raised his glass. “Barnett said you wanted to talk about the Rathmores.”

  “Yes, I do. I want to talk about the Rathmores.” But Kane seemed in no hurry. Finally he said, “Dave, before we go blowing up them mountains, what have you heard about a gold mine?”

  “What everybody else has heard,” Sloan said. “That there’s a lost gold mine in the Cornudas.”

  “And maybe the Rathmores found it,” Kane said. “That’s a real possibility.”

  “You’ve seen those people, boss,” Sloan said. “They ain’t exactly living high on the hog.”

  “Could Mace Rathmore be keeping all the gold for himself?” Dryden said.

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Kane shook his head. “Nah, he’d share it among all those sons of his. If there was a gold mine they’d all be prospering instead of living among the rocks like wild animals.”

  Dryden said, “Maybe there is a gold mine, maybe there’s not, but we shouldn’t use dynamite to blow the Rathmores out of their holes. I never liked the idea anyhow.”

  “You mean we might cave in the mine?” Kane said.

  “Yeah, if it’s there.”

  Kane turned to Sloan. “Dave, what do you think?”

  “Dynamite and gunpowder are messy and hard to use,” Sloan said. “I say we just ride in there in force and kill ’em all.”

  “How many of our own will we lose?” Dryden said.

  “If we hit them hard and sudden, not many,” Sloan said. “The Rathmores won’t stand and fight. I reckon we’ll have to hunt them down like jackrabbits.”

  “You sure about that?” Kane said.

  “If Mace Rathmore had any sand he’d have attacked this ranch before,” Sloan said.

  “We killed some of the hired hands he had working for him, but as far as I know, none of his kin,” Dryden said. “Maybe Mace wasn’t mad at us enough to tackle the Rafter-K.”

  “I didn’t know the Rathmores had hired hands,” Sloan said.

  “They started out with some,” Kane said. “Hardrock miners mostly and some toughs. But after we killed a few the rest lost heart and lit a shuck out of there. No
w he has Mexicans working for him, still trying to find the lost mine, I reckon.”

  “So Mace Rathmore believes there’s a gold mine in Cornudas?” Sloan said.

  “That would seem to be his way of thinking,” Kane said.

  Anse Dryden drained his glass and then stood. “So, what about the explosives, boss? Do we use them or not?”

  Kane thought about that before he spoke, then said, “Just suppose there is a mine, I don’t want to blow it up. So we go in there with guns blazing and kill all them Rathmores once and for all and get rid of their taint forever.”

  “When, boss?” Sloan was a man for whom time mattered.

  “Soon, Dave, mighty soon.” Then, pinning it down, Kane said, “Within the next few days. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

  Sloan gave one of his rare smiles. “Too late for that.”

  Watching him, Anse Dryden thought the man looked terrible, and his galloping consumption made him all the more dangerous. Sloan wouldn’t allow himself to pass away in bed . . . he’d go out in a moment of hell-firing glory and spit in the eye of death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were bound hand and foot and left alone in the mine shaft. The heat of the day had turned the place into a furnace. The dry air was thick as molasses and smelled of dust and rotting wood.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Buttons said. “You plan to sleep your whole life away?”

  Red stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. “Where am I?”

  “In the mine shaft, all tied up.”

  Red said, “I thought I was dead.”

  “So did I, at least for a spell, but you sure as hell fooled me, huh?” Buttons said.

  “I can’t move,” Red said, struggling a little.

  “That’s because you’re trussed up like a turkey ready for the oven,” Buttons said.

  Red lay quiet for a few moments then said, “The Rathmores gave me a beating, didn’t they? I feel like I was whipped with a bois d’arc fence post.”

  “They damned near killed you, Red,” Buttons said. “Fact is, I’m surprised you’re still kicking.”

  “How long have I been out?”