Pinfire Lady Strikes Back

by P J Gallagher

  The rest of the column had moved in together with Wilf Bateson and his gunners after they disarmed their cannon and, as the prisoners were heading east over the hills, they all entered the courtyard of the mysterious hacienda.

  All was still apart from a couple of buzzards that rose aloft from where they had just started a meal off the fellow that Slimy had knifed. Abbie and Felipe dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail in front of the covered porch that ran around three sides of the courtyard. Then, while the remainder of the column attended to their mounts and stood at ease with drawn pistols, they motioned Slimy to commence his tour of the premises.

  Although the buildings still showed signs of the fire that had ravaged the place as a result of the long past Comanche raid, Abbie was impressed with the renovations that had been made. The trio walked on shining tiled floors past painted walls hung with coloured blankets and adorned with native art work.

  Slimy, eager to prove his acceptance of the new order of things, showed them store rooms bulging with stolen goods and others with ample foodstuffs with which to feed the garrison. Then he escorted them through the private quarters of Young Iron Shirt and Abbie was intrigued to note that the leader spared nothing to make his life one of luxury.

  In a passageway leading back to the courtyard she noticed a flight of steps leading down into the darkness. ‘What’s down there?’ she demanded.

  Slimy ignored her question and motioned for her and Felipe to come and examine the stables. Felipe grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Not so fast, amigo! The Commandante asked you a question.’ He lit a candle resting in a nearby wall sconce and with light in one hand and his pistol in the other he, none too gently, pushed the outlaw down the steps ahead of them.

  The air grew colder as the trio descended and after twenty steps were brought up short by a stout iron-studded door. Their reluctant guide shrugged his shoulders and said ‘See it is nothing. Just old things stored down here. I did not want to bother you, Commandante!’

  Abbie had thought that she heard sounds as they came down the steps and motioned for him to be quiet.

  There were noises coming from beyond the door, although she could not identify them. Suddenly she stuck her pistol deep into his stomach, so that he gasped with the pain and demanded, ‘Where is the key to that door? Quickly now before I lose patience with you!’

  Felipe translated her words to the trembling outlaw and slowly he drew a large key from his right pocket. He inserted the key into a large well-oiled lock and opened the door. When he did so there came forth a stench that made both Abbie and Felipe gag. The latter held the candle high and peered into an underground chamber. What they saw was like a scene from Dante’s vision of Hell. The room was crowded with filthy dirty emaciated beings, human by their shape but shackled at the ankles to stout rings set in the walls and from the sounds that arose gave an appearance of savage animals.

  At the sight of Slimy they all cowed back with hands raised to their faces in abject terror. ‘Who are these poor creatures and why are they so scared of you?’

  Slimy did not answer, just smiled his greasy smile and shrugged his shoulders: ‘Quién sabe!’

  ‘Felipe, tell these people that they are to be freed!’ Felipe explained who he and the lady pistolera were and when he finally silenced the shrieks of almost insane rejoicing he demanded to know why they were all incarcerated.

  One old man with a grey beard below his waist became their spokesman. He was a builder and had been hired to renovate the burnt-out hacienda. Most of the fellow captives were his workmen. When they had completed their work they had been imprisoned here. The others were men who had strayed too close to the area and had been grabbed by the guards. Normally they were driven up to do menial work, under armed guard, inside the walls of the hacienda but nobody had come near for two whole days and some of the men were desperate for food and water. There was a key on the wall with which to unlock the shackles but it was out of their reach where it hung alongside a vicious-looking bullwhip.

  Noticing Slimy sinking back into the background, Abbie roughly called him forward to unlock the captives. Hesitantly, he came forward and did as he was told. No sooner had he released the first batch than they leapt upon him and, ignoring Abbie’s cries of ‘stop’ and even a bullet fired into the ceiling, they proceeded to beat him savagely with their chains and finally to garrotte him, only ceasing when he slumped lifeless on the stone floor of the cell.

  The ex-builder turned apologetically to Abbie. ‘I’m sorry, señorita, but that man was a devil. Every day when he entered the cell he beat us with that whip you see hanging on the wall. He would deliberately aim for the faces and one or two of us lost an eye for his pleasure. We all swore that if ever we had the chance we kill him we would. Not for vengeance, you understand, but for the sake of justice!’

  Abbie nodded. There was little she could say. Although she was horrified by the way they had meted out justice, she knew that one could not apply civilized standards in such a situation. Turning to Felipe, she instructed him to see that the freed prisoners were taken up to the well-stocked kitchen and fed. They were to remain there while the Rangers completed the second part of their operation, namely the capture of Young Iron Shirt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  While Abbie and Felipe had been on their tour of the hacienda, Sergeant Campbell and the other men of the column had been busy. The debris from the cannon shot had been cleared away and some convenient baulks of timber used both to brace the wall on either side where the shot had fallen but also to make a makeshift barricade across the gaping hole. Guards stood watch upon the walls and Abbie noted that they wore sombreros and serapes to give the appearance of the outlaws that they had replaced.

  ‘Good work, Sergeant! Now maybe we can create a little surprise for Young Iron Shirt. Wilf! Would you and your gun team move the cannon into the shadows of the veranda and have it trained on the main gate. I suggest that you camouflage the outline somewhat so that it is not too obvious. Load the piece with a bag of that grapeshot that I saw among your supplies. That should do the trick if needed!’

  Wilf Bateson nodded enthusiastically and he and his men manhandled their cannon onto a well-shaded corner as indicated and successfully hid its shape by moving some potted bushes in front to break up the angular shape of the piece.

  Abbie stood in the centre of the courtyard and called for attention. ‘Listen carefully, men. Sometime in the near future, Young Iron Shirt and his men are going to be returning. We don’t know whether they will be alone or whether they may have Comanche guests with them. If possible I want this place to look as normal as possible. The men on the walls; if you’re in view, cheer and wave at the chief upon his return. Those hidden below the parapet, restrain your curiosity until I give the word for you to rise and be seen. We want them to enter the courtyard and then we’ll spring our surprise and we will try to get them to surrender. If they resist, shoot to kill!’

  There were no questions as Abbie gave additional orders for food and drink to be distributed and suggested that those not on guard try to get some limited rest until ordered to stand to.

  Having done all she could, Abbie returned to the well-appointed dining room, where she sank into a large armchair at the head of the table, sipping gratefully at a mug of coffee brought by Felipe. She thought over the dispositions of her little band. ‘Have I covered every contingency? What if Young Iron Shirt spots the trap before entering the hacienda? How will he react? Will he attack or will he flee back into the Llano Estacado? How would my father have handled this situation?’ These thoughts and a thousand others flitted through her mind, and finally she permitted herself to fall into a sleep where Mexican bandits and Pathan tribesmen were plotting to attack a wagon train.

  ‘Señorita! Señorita! Wake up! Riders are approaching!’ Felipe shook Abbie respectfully but urgently, concerned that she would slip back into sleep.

  Abbie shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her mind and, se
eing a jug of water on the table, poured some onto her left hand and splashed it on her face. She hung her head, took a moment to collect her senses and then rose to her feet. Pausing only to draw her 12mm pinfire revolver and slip a sixth cartridge into the cylinder, Abbie holstered and, accompanied by Felipe, walked unhurriedly out of the building into the sunlit courtyard.

  Squinting a little against the harsh brightness produced by the sun almost vertically overhead, Abbie climbed a ladder and peered cautiously over the parapet. There, off towards the north, was a swirling cloud of dust, in the midst of which could be seen the obscure figures of men and horses. In a very short time the vague outlines had developed into a group of mounted riders that grew rapidly larger and more distinct as the newcomers closed the distance between themselves and the hacienda.

  Soon the majority of the riders could be identified by their headgear and clothing as Mexicans, among whom rode, in a fashion that suggested a familiarity of long standing, a group of bare-chested Indian braves. At the head of the riders astride a white mare was the lithe, youthful figure of a man wearing Indian garb but with his upper body encased in a breastplate of gleaming iron. His face was covered by a mask of black silk that successfully obscured his features and his long dark hair was secured by a red headband that held a single eagle feather.

  A whispered order passed along the parapet prompted her men to wave their rifles in simulated joy at the return of ‘their’ leader and the large double gates were swung open wide for the entry of the riders.

  Unsuspecting, they swept into the courtyard in a flurry of galloping hoofs and on a command from Young Iron Shirt they halted and threw themselves down from their sweating horses. Simultaneously, the gates closed and the Rangers turned inwards with their firearms pointed down at the newcomers.

  Abbie drew her pistol and fired one shot in the air, causing all the dismounted riders to look up to where she was standing with her long-barreled revolver firmly held in both hands in her gunfighting mode as the muzzle moved slowly back and forth covering each man in turn.

  ‘All of you men down there! Raise your hands in the air and freeze! You’re covered by Texas Rangers and are all under arrest!’

  Her words and the sight of the small female figure with her pistol outstretched towards them created a momentary frozen tableau as the outlaws digested her order and actions. Simultaneously, they all became aware that Abbie was not alone. The serape-draped figures all around the hacienda parapet had long guns and pistols pointing down into the courtyard, and they echoed her initial command with cries of ‘Hands up!’

  The frozen tableau exploded as all hell broke out among the riders bunched up in the courtyard. One or two reluctantly raised their hands in obedience to the summons but dropped them immediately in response to a shout from the iron-breasted figure of their leader. He screamed his defiance in Spanish and Comanche, while at the same time swinging down Indian fashion on the far side of his horse, drawing his pistol and firing it at Abbie from under the animal’s neck. She felt the bullet pluck at her left arm as she dropped to one knee, reducing her outline against the sky and triggering a vain shot in reply while at the same time endeavouring to get a grasp on the general scene below her.

  The Comanche warriors had turned as one and thrown themselves at the closed gate. One was successful in rising from his steed to grasp the top when a shotgun blast threw him to the ground. Most of the other outlaws dropped from the saddle and fired up at the Rangers on the walls above them, with predictable results since their horses were rearing and neighing in fright. The vast majority of their shot went completely wide of their targets, burrowing into and ricocheting off the walls, but at least one Ranger fell victim to the fusillade and fell from the catwalk.

  The noise in the courtyard increased to a crescendo with the loud boom of Wilf Bateson’s cannon fired at point-blank range into the mass of outlaws and their horses. The result of that one charge of grapeshot was ghastly as dozens of cast iron balls tore into humans and animals alike, reducing them to lifeless figures of blood-soaked flesh. The few outlaws still remaining on their feet raised their arms high pleading for mercy from the awful death-dealing cannon – all but one.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Young Iron Shirt had been on the far side of the yard when the cannon fired and therefore the bodies of his men and their horses had provided cover for him and his white mare. Now, as his surviving men threw down their arms, he guided his horse to a position where he could drop to the ground and dart into the hacienda. Abbie slid down the ladder from the parapet and, pistol in hand, followed cautiously behind him, while in her wake came the ever faithful Felipe.

  ‘Take care, señorita!’ he whispered as they edged warily into the darkened hallway. ‘The one we seek will be as vicious as an enraged bull!’

  Abbie silently nodded her acceptance of his warning as she moved forward slowly, pressed against the wall with her pinfire grasped firmly in both hands.

  An entry on her left led to the large dining room where she had rested before the arrival of the outlaws, and as she approached she heard a soft scuffling sound followed by a metallic clang. Peering carefully into the room lit only by the light given by two small windows high near the ceiling, she saw their quarry, having divested himself of his breastplate, was busy throwing on a ruffled shirt to match the concho-decorated pants that he had already donned over his bare legs. He created a bizarre figure as he stood by the massive oak table, giving an appearance of a Mexican grandee yet wearing a mask and still with a red headband adorned with a bedraggled feather.

  A slight noise from Abbie prompted him to look in their direction. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I see that we have unexpected guests. Welcome to the Hacienda Alvarez. I regret that my parents are not here to greet you but unfortunately they had to go away and I don’t know when they will return!’

  Abbie advanced further into the room and he apparently noticed for the first time that she was carrying a pistol. ‘How dare you enter my house bearing arms? Do you not know who I am?’ So saying he tore the black mask off and threw it on the floor, glaring at the two newcomers with both hands on his hips and with his chin raised imperiously towards them.

  With Felipe on her left, Abbie stepped forward, covering Young Iron Shirt with her revolver as she answered the latter’s question. ‘You are, I believe, Antonio Alvarez, the only survivor of the Comanche raid on this hacienda, a raid that resulted in the deaths of your father, mother and younger sister!’

  The dark-featured man before her twisted his face in a demonic grimace and his wild eyes glittered crazily. For the first time both she and Felipe noticed the blue-black markings on his chin, typical of the tattoos of a Comanche warrior.

  ‘Yes!’ he boasted. ‘I arranged that raid with my Comanche brothers. My dear parents said that I was sick and would have to go to a sanitorium for treatment but what they really wanted was to rob me of my inheritance and give it all to the little bitch who pretended to be my loving sister.

  ‘It was so easy to arrange with the warriors who came to trade at our hacienda. The gates were left unlocked and the Comanche swept in. I thought that they would just take the things that they wanted and get rid of my unwanted family but no, they exceeded our agreement and looted and burned the place before carrying me off to be raised as a Comanche warrior. Many years passed before I could assert myself as one with authority among the people. Since then I have had the hacienda rebuilt and can pass with ease as either a Comanche chief, or if I desire pose as a Spanish hidalgo.’

  Abbie stared at the crazed creature before her, horrified by his disclosures that he had arranged the murders of his parents and sister in order to satisfy his insane lust for wealth and power. ‘You, señor, are no hidalgo! Rather you are a monster who has deliberately strayed far beyond the bounds of human decency. It is my duty therefore to arrest you so that you can answer for your crimes!’

  Alvarez looked at her wildly and in a sudden movement produced a knife, which he threw
underarm. Abbie was momentarily taken aback by the swiftness of his attack but Felipe responded faster by stepping in front of her. The knife had been thrown with deadly force and the Mexican lad sank to his knees with the weapon buried to the hilt in his stomach.

  Even as Felipe dropped down clutching at the knife Abbie had drawn her pinfire pistol and, consumed with anger towards the evil heir of the hacienda, she triggered a shot, and again, and yet again, slamming each one into the centre of the white ruffled shirt worn by Antonio Alvarez. For a split second he stood there swaying, staring down at the crimson patch rapidly spreading across his shirt. There was a look of bewilderment fleeting across his face as if he was suddenly aware of his own mortality, and then he fell back lifeless into the massive chair that Abbie had occupied before the outlaws had appeared on the horizon.

  Abbie knelt at Felipe’s side, staring down at his pain-ravaged face. Gasping with the effort of speaking, he looked up and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Commandante! I had hoped to go back to my sister but it is not to be. Would you have the little priest of La Trinidad say a mass for me?’

  With her eyes filled with tears and a strange lump in her throat, Abbie nodded her acceptance of the dying boy’s request. She herself was not a particularly religious person and had been raised with a typical English upper class attitude towards things spiritual. There were things that one did in life such as going to church, being kind to animals, practising charity and so forth, but one did not dwell upon them. And so as Felipe grasped at her fingers with his bloody hands, Abbie searched for words that might comfort her dying companion. She finally said in a choking voice; ‘Vayas con Dios, mi amigo! Go with God, my friend.’