by Jory Sherman
As he rode at the head of the column, Matteo saw himself as a conquistador, a conqueror of all that lay in his path. He had been planning this for a long time and he would not let a few dead fools deter him from his divine mission. As he rode, he planned what he would do when he reached the Box B and how he would laugh to see Martin and Anson Baron die, and maybe he would let them die slow and watch their house being burned to the ground.
One of the men riding behind Matteo coughed, and the sound jarred him out of his reverie. Matteo frowned and looked up at the sky and saw that the moon had traveled some distance in its arc, and he breathed deep of the air, knowing his journey was not to last too much longer.
* * *
Two hours later Matteo halted the column and told the men to be ready to shoot. He drew his pistol and waited.
Castillo rode up, alone.
“What passes?” Matteo asked.
“We have heard something on the road.”
“What have you heard?”
“We heard the noise of a horse and when I put my ear to the ground, I heard the noises of men walking and the horse walking. Tomaso is waiting for me to return. We are very close to the rancho of the Barons.”
“Why did you not find out what was in the road?”
“I thought you might want to bring the men up and attack. Tomaso is waiting where I left him.”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” Matteo said. “We will ride up and see if Anson Baron is ahead of us. Just one horse, you say?”
“I only heard one horse. Many human feet. Then I did not hear them anymore.”
“Good. We will ride up and see what you have heard.”
Matteo and his men rode at a fast trot until they came to where Tomaso was waiting for them.
“Do you hear those ahead of us?” Matteo asked.
Tomaso shook his head. “No, I do not hear them.”
“Let us ride after them. Be ready to shoot. Everyone—hear?”
All of the men grunted, made sounds of assent.
Castillo led the way, followed by Matteo and Tomaso. The men behind them rode in double file, their rifle butts braced on their pommels, their pistols loose in their holsters, within easy reach in their sashes. Some carried extra pistols on belts draped from their saddlehorns and a few had extra rifles in saddle scabbards. They all carried knives and plenty of powder and ball.
Half an hour later, Matteo ordered Castillo to ride ahead at a gallop.
“If you see them, come back quick,” Matteo said.
Castillo spurred his horse to a gallop, and although his horse was tired, it gained speed and soon disappeared from sight. Matteo held up his hand and slowed his horse to a walk. Tomaso and the other men reined in their horses and many of them let out grateful sighs.
A few moments later Castillo came riding back.
“They are just ahead,” he said, a trifle breathless. “I think I saw Nuncio. It will be light soon. We can catch them.”
“Let us catch them, then,” Matteo said, and once again he and the others put their horses to the gallop.
A few minutes later Matteo saw the men in the road. He also saw the rider, who turned in the saddle and saw them. He heard the man say something and then the men on foot started running. The man on horseback turned and Matteo saw the silhouette of his rifle. To his surprise, the man charged straight at them, leveling his rifle.
That’s when Matteo noticed something odd about the horse. It was lame, and though it was trying to run, it faltered and stumbled and favored one foot so that it came on very slow.
Castillo turned to Matteo. “Do you want me to shoot him?”
“No, I will kill him. I want to draw first blood. You and the others go after those men. Do not shoot the man on the horse.”
Matteo waved the other men on and they swept past him and raced toward the running men. The rider stopped for a moment and Matteo thought he was going to turn and chase after his men after they passed him, but he saw Matteo and spurred his horse. The horse could no longer run. It stumbled toward Matteo and the rider kept slapping him on the rump with his hand and kicking him in the flanks.
But the horse could no longer run.
Matteo raised his pistol and cocked it as the rider came on, the horse hopping along on three legs and trying to keep its balance.
“Matteo?” called the man riding the lame horse.
“I am Matteo. What do you call yourself?”
“Do you not know who I am, Matteo? Do you not remember me?”
“Quien es? Timoteo?”
“Yes. I am Timoteo. And I am going to kill you.”
“Why? Because of your brothers?”
“Yes.”
“You stupid fool.”
Timo reined the limping horse to a halt and pulled his rifle to his shoulder.
Matteo heard the clicking sound as Timo cocked the rifle. He leaned forward until his upper body was lying on his own horse’s shoulder. He raised his pistol alongside the horse’s neck and took aim at Timo.
Timo was just about to squeeze the trigger when Matteo’s silhouette disappeared. He hesitated, and in that instant he heard the spatter of rifle fire behind him.
Matteo heard the firing, too, just as he squeezed the trigger. His pistol bucked in his hand and spewed flame and smoke from the barrel. He saw Timo jerk and heard the splat of the ball as it struck flesh. Timo reeled in the saddle, but did not fall.
Matteo thumbed back the hammer on his single-action Colt’s .44 and kicked his horse in its flanks. He rode up on Timo, looked into his glazing eyes.
“You did not shoot, Timoteo. Why?”
Timo opened his mouth and blood poured over his lips. His rifle fell from his hands and he leaned forward slightly as if doubling up from the pain in his chest.
Matteo put the muzzle of his pistol flush against Timo’s temple as his finger curled around the trigger.
Timo shot a sidelong glance at Matteo. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Matteo squeezed the trigger and the explosion forced the barrel of the pistol to jump upward slightly. The sound of the shot was muffled, but Matteo watched as Timo’s head jerked sideways and came apart like a melon dropped from a great height. Blood sprayed out the other side and pieces of skull and brain matter flew outward in the pattern of an opened fan.
Timo, most of his head shot away, fell to the right and he tumbled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a dull and final thud.
“Bastard,” Matteo said, and wiped the muzzle of his pistol on the rump of Timo’s horse, which stood there quivering from the sound of the shot, dazed by the exploding gases so close to its ear.
Matteo calmly reloaded the two emptied cylinders of his pistol, to avoid accidental discharge from powder flash, greased the seated balls, and capped the two nipples. He looked up then at the sky and saw it paling as the half moon hung there, its glow softening to shadow as the dawn hovered on the horizon.
With the death of Timo, Matteo had accomplished two things. He had killed an old enemy, and he had let his men go into battle without him, as he had intended all along. Now he could view the battle from a safe position, from somewhere he could not be seen, and he could try and find Martin Baron in his sights and shoot him dead from a distance.
Matteo knew the layout of the Box B headquarters well. He knew every inch of the grounds surrounding the house and where the barn was, and the little houses of the vaqueros. He knew where he could hide and not be seen. And he knew how to ride away without anyone knowing he had ever been there.
Calmly Matteo holstered his pistol and drew his rifle from its boot. He checked the lock and poured fresh, fine powder into the pan. He blew away the top of the pile of grains and left a thin shadow at the bottom, enough to shoot fire through the little hole and into the main charge.
Then he turned his horse off the road and set his course to come up behind the ranch without being seen.
He heard the crackling sounds of rifle fire, and now it seemed farth
er away and he knew his men must have broken through the initial defenses that Martin had set up to defend his property.
Matteo smiled.
So far, he thought, all that he had planned was working.
39
ANSON PUSHED HIS saddlebags out of the way and turned to Peebo. Peebo narrowed his eyes and nodded.
“Was that Timo behind us?” Anson asked anyway.
“Yeah. Looks like he didn’t beat us here.”
Anson swore.
“No. My horse under him came up lame.”
“He should have…”
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ that. Too damned late now.”
Anson looked back to the road and saw the riders coming fast. The first two horses ran into the rope that was stretched across their path and stumbled, faltered, then started to fall. Their riders hurtled forward, out of their saddles, and landed on their stomachs and lay still.
One horse fell on the rope, knocking it down. The other horse rolled over and further depressed the rope, so that it was no longer a barrier. The other riders, coming two by two, split up in a flaring vee and avoided striking the downed horses and men. One of the men who had been unseated, quickly grabbed up the reins and remounted one of the horses after it had struggled to its feet. The other rider pulled his horse to a standing position and ran to the opposite side of the road, pulling his horse after him.
Al took aim on the lead rider of the flying vee phalanx and led him two yards and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild and Al cursed at the miss. Roy shot one of the horses streaking by and saw it falter, then collapse. Its rider hit the ground running and another rider snatched him up as he rode past. The fallen rider swung up behind him, and Roy’s jaw dropped at this demonstration of agility and superb horsemanship.
Anson, Peebo, and David all fired their rifles, almost in unison, and one of the riders stiffened but stayed in the saddle. Then, while the five men were reloading, the riders coming up in the rear swung their horses toward them and fired their rifles at point-blank range before they veered to the right and drove their horses after the others.
Anson ducked when he saw the maneuver, and he reached out and pushed on Peebo’s back to force him down on his face. Bullets whirred into their midst and he heard one strike flesh. He clawed for his pistol, but by the time he drew it, the last of the riders had swept on past their position.
Peebo got back up and Roy, who had ducked as well, sat up and started reloading his rifle. That’s when Anson noticed that David was squatted next to him and seemed to be in trouble. He was crunched up, his arms flattened to his sides like tucked-in wings. His face was contorted into a rigid grimace as if he had been frozen by a sudden electrical shock.
“David,” Anson said.
David looked at him with wet eyes that conveyed a look of pleading.
“Peebo, take a look at David here,” Anson said. Anson touched David’s shoulder, as if trying to brace him. Peebo put down his rifle and grabbed the other’s shoulder.
“He don’t look good,” Peebo said.
“Did you get hit, David?” Anson asked. He bent down to look at his chest. He could see no blood. “Where’d you get hit?”
“Let’s pry his arms back,” Peebo said.
Al and Roy stared after the riders heading for the Box B headquarters, then looked over at Anson and Peebo. Al scooted over to squat in front of David as Anson pried his left arm away from his side.
“Nothing here,” Anson said. “Peebo, did you check under his other arm?”
“Doin’ it,” Peebo said, and pulled on David’s arm near the elbow.
David winced in pain and the blood drained from his face, turning it the color of putty in the stark morning light. He gasped as Peebo pried his arm farther away from his side, exposing the black hole in his rib cage. Anson leaned over to look at the wound.
“Got him in the bottom rib, looks like,” Anson said.
“Maybe nicked his lung,” Peebo said, pointing to the frothy bubbles of blood oozing from the hole.
“David, you’ve got to hold on,” Anson said. “We’re going to lay you down on your back and try to close up that hole.”
David’s lips were turning bluish and he did not answer.
“Roy, help us here,” Anson said.
Roy crabbed over to hunker at David’s feet. He laid his rifle down. The air smelled of nitrate and sulphur, and as the sun rose above the eastern horizon, the light spread from the treetops and eased down the trunks, erasing the shadows as it spread.
“Whatcha want me to do?” Roy asked.
“Pull real gentle on his feet while we take him down,” Anson said. “Peebo, you ready?”
“Let’s do it,” Peebo said.
Al set his rifle down, the ramrod beside it, and scooted around to watch as Peebo and Anson pulled David backward to lay him flat on the ground. Roy pulled up on his feet and legs, then let them down after David’s back was level.
“Tear his shirt where the ball went through,” Anson told Peebo. “Give us some light on that hole.”
Peebo grabbed the torn part of David’s shirt and ripped it along the edges until it separated into two parts. Anson looked over at Al. “Got a canteen here? I want to wash that wound, see if I can’t dig out the ball.”
“Got it,” Al said, and reached behind him. He handed Anson a wooden canteen.
They heard rifle shots over by the Baron house. They sounded like firecrackers, a rippling sound that crackled and popped in the distance.
David looked up at Peebo, who was staring into his eyes. “Bad?” he gasped.
“Don’t know yet. You just grit your teeth, Davey boy, whilst Anson takes a look.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” David said. “But I feel funny.”
Anson looked up at the growing light and sighed. There was still a shadow over the wound, but he could see the hole. He reached underneath David’s back to feel for an exit wound. He ran his hand back and forth and in a circle, but found no blood or other signs of another hole.
“Damn,” Anson said.
“What?” Peebo asked.
“Bullet didn’t come out,” Anson said.
Roy crawled over to the side so that he could see David’s face. He shivered at the sight of it. David was not breathing very well, he noticed. His chest did not move much when he took in a breath and his lips were blue, as if he had been eating berries. From his position Roy could see the wound as Anson poured water from Al’s canteen over it, washing away the blood to reveal a clean black hole was that was turning purple around its circumference. He saw frothy white bubbles inside the hole after the water washed away.
All the unkind thoughts he’d had about David surfaced in Roy’s mind as he watched Anson put his finger up to the hole. Roy wished he could take back those words now, but he knew this was not the time.
“David, we don’t have any whiskey or anything,” Anson said. “You want to bite down on something? A stick or a ramrod?”
“Why?” David asked, his voice feeble.
“I’m going to probe inside you for that lead ball. It’s going to hurt like fire and then some.”
“It doesn’t really hurt now,” David said. “Knocked the wind out of me. Felt like a slap.”
“This is going to hurt,” Anson said.
“I don’t care,” David said, and his eyes looked tired, Roy thought, tired and cloudy with pain, like the eyes of a deer he’d once shot, a deer dying from just such a gunshot wound through its lung.
If David died, Roy knew his mother would likely take it pretty hard. Even though he had no fondness for David, he knew his mother doted on him, put a heap of stock in him. Well, he didn’t really hate David, but maybe he had been trying to stack him up against his own father, and David measured up right short against Jack Killian. And maybe he hadn’t been fair with David these past months, not really giving him a chance or trying to be good friends with him. Now he was sorry, because it looked like David wasn’t going to make it through
the day, and it was going to be a mighty tough thing to tell his mother.
“What do you think, Anson?” Roy asked.
“About what?”
“Never mind.”
“If I can get that ball out…” Anson said, and poked his finger gingerly past the opening in David’s chest.
“I could go get Doc Purvis,” Al said. “I think he’s still in town.”
“Be too late,” Anson said. “Just be quiet a minute, will you?”
Anson touched fractured bone inside the wound and felt his finger swim in blood. David screamed and then went limp. His eyes closed.
“Jesus,” Anson said.
“Might be a blessing to old David here,” Peebo said. “He ain’t goin’ to feel much now.”
“You shut your damned mouth, Peebo,” Roy said.
“Hey, old son, I didn’t mean nothin’,” Peebo said.
“Well, you watch what you say about my stepfather.”
Peebo shrugged. Al switched his gaze to Roy, studied his face.
Anson probed around inside David’s chest. It was gruesome work, touching the spongy lung, the jagged edges of splintered bone, the slick hard slopes of organs he could not name. He drove deeper and made a circle with his finger, trying to find something small and round and hard. But everything he touched yielded to the pressure of his finger and finally he realized he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for inside that bloody hole. Anson withdrew his finger and let out a breath as he rocked backward on his kneeling legs.
“I couldn’t find the ball,” he said. “It must be deep or in pieces.”
“It could have gone any direction once it hit that rib,” Al said.
“I don’t know what else I can do,” Anson said.
“Let me try it,” Roy said.
None of the others said anything. They all looked at Roy as if he had lost his senses. They all knew that Roy and David had a bone of contention between them, and had never heard Roy say a kind word about his stepfather.
