The Backstabbers

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Papa Mace grinned. “You want a drink too, big man? Here, have a swig.” He threw the remaining bourbon into Buttons’s face and then tossed the empty bottle at his head. The bottle hit Buttons on the forehead and cut him above his left eye, drawing blood.

  The sight of the scarlet rush of blood that ran down Buttons’s face sobered Ella and she said, “Papa, I want to leave here. These two are no fun.”

  Mace nodded, “As you wish, my dear.” He picked up the lantern where Ella had left it and stepped toward the mine entrance. “You lost, both of you!” he yelled through a laugh. The tunnel of rock made his voice boom and sound hollow, like the voice of a fiend.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It was two hours before sunup.

  Papa Mace and Ella Rathmore returned to the fat man’s lair, the private niche in the arroyo hidden from prying eyes. Mace opened a trunk and said to her, “No more dressing like a poverty-stricken Indian for me. That didn’t work a damn. My sons didn’t turn out to be noble savages.”

  “Malachi is a savage,” Ella said.

  “Maybe so, but he ain’t noble.” Mace dressed, taking his time, into the clothes he’d worn when he and his criminal clan were run out of east Texas and like a seedy Moses, he’d led them to the Cornudas Mountains. He’d promised his family a wonderful new life but had brought them nothing but starvation, disease, and death. He was abandoning them and dressing for the occasion.

  “Very smart, Papa,” Ella said. “You look like a banker or maybe a lawyer.”

  And indeed, in his black frock coat, striped pants, white, frilled shirt, and elastic-sided boots, he did have the look of a businessman of some kind.

  “And soon you will look like a Denver hostess, my dear,” he said as he buckled on a fancy tooled gun belt, an ivory-handled Colt in the holster. “That is once you shed those rags and get into a pretty dress.”

  “It can’t come soon enough for me,” Ella said. “I’ve worn these duds for way too long.”

  “Patience, my dear, patience,” Mace said. “You told Malachi to bring the horses?”

  “Yes, I did. And a Winchester like you said. The fool thinks we’ll return once you have your vision in the desert.”

  “We’re not coming back here, ever,” Mace said. “I never again wish to be a king without a kingdom. Damn Ben Kane for keeping us poor.”

  “You should have taken over his ranch, Papa,” Ella said.

  “Yes, I could, but my worthless sons didn’t have the belly for it, made the hired help do the fighting.” He shrugged. “The hell with the ranch. Who wants to be a cow nurse anyway?”

  “Not us,” Ella said. “We’re . . . what did you say we were?”

  “Gentry,” Mace said, smiling. “And come dawn we’ll leave the poverty stink of this place behind us.”

  “It will take me a dozen baths before I feel clean again,” Ella said.

  * * *

  An hour before sunup.

  Malachi Rathmore, a thin, slack-jawed young man with vague, unintelligent eyes, brought the horses, slat-sided animals that had been feeding on grass and not much of that. Both were saddled, and Papa Mace’s Winchester was shoved into the rifle scabbard. “Pa, I’ll take care of things here while you’re gone,” he said. “I’ll be in charge.”

  Mace nodded. “Yes, you will be, Malachi. You’ll take my place as head of the family until your wife and I return.”

  “Pa, why are you wearing them fancy clothes?”

  “It was made known to me by the prophet Habakkuk that I must wear them for my great vision,” Mace said. “These clothes are a sign of respect.”

  “Where will you lead us, Pa?”

  “That will be made known to me in the desert. When I return, I’ll reveal our destination to all my people.”

  “California, maybe?” Malachi said. “They say it’s a great place to live off the fat of the land.”

  Mace said, “Who says?”

  “Folks.”

  “Well, them folks told you right. There’s gold in California. So much gold that you can pick it up off the streets. And the trees . . . well, there are trees everywhere . . . and you can eat the fruit right off the branches anytime you want, and nobody around to say, ‘No, you filthy Rathmores, leave them peaches alone.’”

  Malachi was excited. “Is that where we’ll go, Pa, California?”

  “Could be,” Mace said. “Of course, it all depends what I see in my vision. Maybe there’s an even better place that nobody knows about.”

  “Me an’ Ella could be happy in California, Pa,” Malachi said. “Couldn’t we, Ella? Me an’ you?”

  “Sure, Malachi, sure,” the woman said. “We’d pick up gold from the street and eat peaches all day.”

  “You got that right, Ella,” Malachi said. “Now, you take good care of Pa out there in the desert and help him with his vision.”

  “Oh, I will, Malachi, I will.” She wanted badly to giggle.

  “Oh, and Pa, what about them two in the mine?” Malachi said. “You need me to kill them while you’re gone?”

  “No, let them die by themselves,” Mace said. “I want it to be slow. Understand? No food and no water.”

  “Sure thing, Pa. No food and no water. I understand.”

  * * *

  Papa Mace and Ella Rathmore rode out of the arroyo just before sunup and headed east. Unbeknownst to them, lost in darkness, they passed within a mile of ten men from the Rafter-K riding in the opposite direction toward the Cornudas Mountains.

  As the curtain of the night lifted, the stage was set for what one later historian would call the Cornudas Massacre . . . and with it would come the violent death of Papa Mace Rathmore, one of the vilest creatures to ever walk the face of the earth, destroyed by a much better man.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Johnny Teague had thought things through and had reluctantly decided to join Luna Talbot and the others for their attack on the Rathmores. But as he stood in the gray predawn light drinking coffee, he was already second-guessing his decision.

  “I got burned, you see,” he said to Luna Talbot. “Puts a sight of caution in a man.”

  “I know it does.” She smiled as she took a cup of coffee from Arman Broussard. “Mr. Teague, if it doesn’t set right with you, I won’t hold it against you if you cut a trail away from this.”

  Teague shook his head. “I can’t do that. I’d show yellow, a bad thing in my profession.”

  “You’re not yellow, Johnny,” Juan Sanchez said. “If I thought you were, I’d have killed you by now.”

  Teague stared at the breed, surprised. “I never expected to hear that from you.”

  “Well, now you heard it,” Sanchez said.

  “You think I’m yellow?” Teague said.

  “I just told you that you are not.”

  “I wanted you to hear you say it again,” Teague said. “I got burned, Sanchez. Arch Storm and them burned me. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Mr. Teague, I’m sure we all know you won’t be stampeded by anyone,” Luna said. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.”

  “I’ll stick.” Teague angled a look at Sanchez. “I figured to stick all along.”

  “We knew you would,” Townes Pierce said. “Slim, Dave, didn’t we know Johnny would stick?”

  “Damn right,” Dave Quarrels said. “You got burned, Johnny, but there’s no backup in you, and that’s a natural fact.”

  Teague glanced at the dawn lightening the sky to the east. He threw away the dregs of his coffee and said, “Enough of this damned talk. Let’s saddle up and get it done.”

  Luna rose to her feet and said to Crystal Casey and Daphne Loveshade, now Dumont, “You ladies stay right here until the shooting is over. If you see anybody but us come out of the arroyo, light a shuck, and I mean, get away from here fast.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Talbot,” Crystal said.

  “Thank you,” Luna said.

  “Yes, good luck,” Daphne said. “I wish I could come with you.”


  “Maybe another time,” Luna said.

  Broussard brought her saddled horse. “Are we ready? Then let’s—”

  Gunfire erupted in the arroyo and shattered the quiet morning into a million shards of sound.

  * * *

  Dave Sloan led the charge into the arroyo and shot one of the drowsy guards and then he was past and galloping deeper into the arroyo. The second guard was shot by Anse Dryden and several others. Rafter-K bullets pounded the man against a wall, his body jerking in a mad jig as he was hit a dozen times.

  Malachi Rathmore was busy exploring Papa Mace’s throne room when he heard the gunfire. He grabbed his Winchester and ran outside into the clearing and into path of a charging horseman. Malachi instinctively raised the rifle and snapped off a fast shot. The mounted man was hit and reeled in the saddle, but his lips peeled back in a wild grin and the Colt in his fist roared. Malachi took the bullet in his left shoulder just under the clavicle and it exited horribly an inch above the top of his shoulder blade. It was a devastating wound, sustained by a half-starved body unfit to endure it, and Malachi screamed and fell on his back. Dave Sloan pumped two more bullets into the shrieking man, silencing him, and then, hit hard himself, slumped over in the saddle.

  Dryden and the rest of the Rafter-K riders rode into the clearing, the big foreman’s eyes going to the slumped Sloan. The gunman held a hand to his chest that was covered in blood.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” A man dressed only in a loincloth and crude leather sandals ran toward the riders, his hands waving in the air. Ten men shot at Zacharias Rathmore, the youngest of Papa Mace’s sons, and all of them scored hits. The man went down under a hail of lead and would never rise again.

  Moments later, five women and a dozen children, all of them underfed, dirty, and ragged, emerged from hiding places among the rocks and stood silently watching the riders, the children’s eyes as big and round as dollar coins.

  Dryden ignored them and rode beside Sloan. “Dave, you’re shot through and through.”

  “I’m killed,” Sloan said. “I wish . . .” The gunman went silent, fighting the approaching darkness.

  “What do you wish, Dave?” asked Dryden, a man much inclined to kindness.

  “I wish it could’ve been somebody else that killed me, somebody the history books will remember.” He turned his ashen face to Dryden and smiled. “Wes Hardin, maybe. Or Bill Longley . . .” He shook his head. “Dave Sloan had his suspenders cut by a white savage in a breechclout . . . well, don’t that beat all . . .”

  Blood welled into Sloan’s mouth and then slowly . . . with agonizing slowness . . . he fell from the saddle. Dryden tried to stop his fall but could not.

  One of the most feared gunmen in the West died with his beard in the dirt and an expression of wonder on his face.

  “Boss, what do we do with the women and their brats?” a puncher said.

  “Line them up over yonder with their backs to the rock,” Dryden said. “Then you boys line up facing them and shuck your rifles.”

  “The kids as well?” the puncher said.

  “All of them,” Dryden said, his face gray, devoid of expression.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The shooting had stopped when Luna Talbot and the others arrived at the mouth of the arroyo. They drew rein to look to the two dead men.

  Johnny Teague said, “There’s enough lead in those boys to use them as sinkers.”

  “Mr. Teague, is it Texas Rangers?” Luna said.

  “I don’t know, but let’s go find out,” the outlaw said.

  “Riding in uninvited on a bunch of Rangers with their blood up and guns in their hands isn’t a good idea,” Juan Sanchez said. “Better tell them we’re coming.”

  “I’ll do it.” Luna stood in the stirrups and called out, “You in there! This is Mrs. Luna Talbot of the Talbot ranch.”

  There was a silence and then a man yelled, “What do you want? State your intentions.”

  “Justice,” Luna said. “I have a score to settle with the Rathmores, and that is my intention.”

  “That’s already settled, or most of it,” the man yelled. “Who do you have with you?”

  “A party of armed and determined men,” Luna said.

  A longer silence, as though the men in the arroyo were having a parley, and then, “Ride in slow, keep your guns holstered, and don’t let us see any fancy moves. We’re mighty salty men here and we mean business.”

  “And so do I mean business,” Luna said. In a lower tone of voice she said to Teague and the others, “Case the rifles and holster the six-guns.”

  “Damn, they sure sound like Rangers,” Dave Quarrels said to no one in particular. “Makes a man uneasy.”

  “Makes a man think of a hanging posse and a hemp noose, you mean,” Teague said. “All right, boys, put away the hardware. Rangers don’t like guns unless they’re holding ’em.”

  Luna led the others into the arroyo at a walk and they were met with a single rider.

  “Name’s Ansley Dryden. I’m the foreman of the Rafter-K Ranch, and we’ve been at war with the Rathmores for years. The war ended today. All the rustlers are dead.” He shifted in the saddle and then said, “Heard there was a ranch to the south owned by a pretty lady, and you’re a pretty lady.”

  The compliment was casually given with no other implications beyond the words, and Luna Talbot accepted it as such. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Dryden. We thought you were Texas Rangers.”

  “No, ma’am, we’re just punchers,” Dryden said. His measuring eyes flicked to Broussard and then to Teague, and one by one the men with him. “You keep rough company, Mrs. Talbot”—he nodded in the direction of Leah Leighton—“with one lovely exception.”

  “Thank you,” Leah said. “But I can be rough myself when the occasion calls for it.”

  Dryden smiled, but it slipped some when Broussard said, “Mister, this rough character has two friends in the mine shaft. They may be dead by now, but I have to find out.”

  “Mine shaft? I didn’t know there was a mine here. What kind of mine?” Dryden said, pretending ignorance.

  “A gold mine, and it belongs to me, but it may be played out,” Luna said. “Now, please allow Mr. Broussard to see to his friends,”

  “Go right ahead, gambling man.” Dryden took a canteen from his saddle horn and tossed it to Broussard. “Take this. They might need it.”

  Broussard nodded his thanks and swung out of the saddle.

  “Hold on,” Dryden said. He turned his head and called out over his shoulder, “You boys back there. Man coming in. Let him pass.” Then to Broussard, “Go right ahead. See to your friends.”

  “Obliged,” Broussard said, not liking the man because of his rough company comment.

  After Broussard walked hurriedly away, Luna said, “Where is Papa Mace?”

  “He was the headman around here, wasn’t he?” Dryden said.

  “Yes, he was the big auger,” Luna said.

  “So far, we’ve killed four Rathmores, well, three dead and when I last saw him, the fourth was breathing his last,” Dryden said. “Could be he’s Papa Mace.”

  “Mace is a fat man,” Luna said.

  Dryden shook his head. “None of those boys was fat. They were all as skinny as slats.”

  “Then Papa Mace escaped,” Luna said.

  “You holding a grudge against him?” Dryden said.

  She nodded. “Yes, I plan to find him and kill him.”

  “That’s holding a grudge, all right,” Dryden said. He looked at Teague. “You got a stake in this as well?”

  The outlaw shook his head. “I’m just along for the ride.’

  “Or maybe for the gold mine, huh?” Dryden said.

  Luna said, “Mr. Teague offered his protection, and I accepted.”

  The big foreman had no problem with that. “Mrs. Talbot, the final act is about to start, but maybe you should give it a miss. It could be hard to watch.”

  Suddenly
Luna felt a pang of alarm. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get rid of the last of the Rathmores,” Dryden said.

  * * *

  Arman Broussard stepped into the mine shaft, going from morning sun into gloom, the strange, eerie half-light that is seen only underground. Triangles of tangled gray cobwebs hung between the beams holding up the roof and then along the angle between the floor and the walls rats as big as tomcats scuttled. The place smelled musty, like old parchment manuscripts, and was as silent as a shadow.

  As his eyes adjusted to the change of light, Broussard made out the recumbent shapes of two men. They were still and made no sound. He kneeled beside Buttons Muldoon and stared into his face. The man’s eyes were shut, and at first Broussard didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Gently, he shook Buttons’s shoulder, and the driver’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Buttons, it’s me,” Broussard said. “I came back for you.”

  Without opening his eyes, Buttons croaked. “It’s about time. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Are you hurt?” Broussard said, his gaze taking in the ropes that cruelly bound both men.

  “Damn it, man, I’m dying here and you’re asking me questions,” Buttons said, his voice as dry as the rustle of straw. “Have you any water?”

  “Right here.” Broussard uncorked the canteen and held it to Buttons’s lips.

  But the driver shook his head and then nodded in Red’s direction. “Him first.”

  “Buttons, I think Red Ryan’s dead,” Broussard said. “I’m sorry, real sorry.”

  “He ain’t dead. He’s shamming.”

  Broussard tilted the canteen to Red’s mouth. To his joy, Red stirred, his eyes flew open, and he drank greedily.

  “Easy, shotgun man,” the gambler said. “Not too much at first.”

  “Told you he was shamming,” Buttons said.

  After Red drank his fill and Buttons had done the same, Broussard said, “You’re hog-tied, and I have to get you out of those ropes.” But the knots were tight, and the gambler’s slender fingers were no match for them. “I’ll get a knife.” He smiled. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I’m dying, and the gambler is making funny jokes,” Buttons said to the barely conscious Red. “Remind me to shoot him first chance I get.”