by Ralph Cotton
“Like hell,” said Goose with a sneer, seeing Roscoe and Thurman raise the gun on its tripod and aim it out across the wide desert floor. “I wouldn’t be afraid to stand right smack in front of it.”
A string of blasts resounded from the barrels as Spears leaned down behind the gun and turned the crank three full turns. Fifty yards away, a tall cactus toppled over on its side.
Doc Murdock spread a thin smile and nodded at Goose as he said to Moses Peltry, “Shame we didn’t have time to take him up on his offer.”
“Get out of the way!” shouted Goose, his face swollen and red with rage. He jumped up onto the gun wagon, shoved Spears aside and grabbed the Gatling gun’s crank. He tried turning it briskly, but the crank seized up and wouldn’t budge. “Damn it to bloody hell!” he shrieked. “Why won’t this sonsabitch work?”
“Spears, show him again how it’s done,” said Murdock. “I’m afraid he must’ve missed it the first time.” He turned to Moses Peltry and said, just between the two of them, “If you ever decide to have that fool put to sleep, I’d be glad to do it for you free of charge.”
Moses stared at him with a mixed expression. “That’s my brother you’re talking about, Doc.”
“I know,” Murdock said flatly, his eyes searching Moses.
Moses dismissed the idea. “Are you throwing in with us or not, Murdock?”
“Sure.” Murdock shrugged, taking a quick glance around at the men, then turning his eyes back to Moses Peltry. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter 12
When every horse was fed and watered, and every canteen and water keg had been filled, the men gorged themselves on hot goat meat, beans and tortillas. Moses Peltry and Doc Murdock sat in the shade of a blanket-draped lean-to and watched the evening sunlight simmer and spread across the western horizon. “Listen up, men,” said Moses Peltry to the circle of faces on one side of the fire. They turned their stares from Murdock’s scalp hunters on the other side of the fire and looked at Moses.
“Looks like we’re going to be riding together from now on,” Moses continued. “While we’re all together on the same spot here, it’s time I introduced you to Elvin Murdock and his boys.” Moses wiped his greasy fingers on his shirt and said to Doc Murdock as he pointed a finger at the far end of the row. “That one with his head swollen like a Georgia melon is Bert Smitson.” His finger bounced from one man to the next. “Next to him is Thurman Anderson and Roscoe Moore, who you seen earlier working on the gun. Next is Monk Dupre, Frank Spragg and the Catt brothers, Big Catt and Little Catt. Then there’s Cap Whitlow, Jake Barnstall, Elmer Fitzhugh, Dog Belly Kelso—I believe you already know Dog Belly?”
“Yep,” said Murdock. “Howdy, Dog.”
Dog Belly stopped chewing long enough to nod at Murdock.
Moses went on. “Next is Flat Face Chinn…and of course you know brother Goose.”
The men all acknowledged Murdock respectfully except for Goose, who continued to stare at the faces of Murdock’s men across the fire. “Now maybe you’ll tell us these men’s names, if they have any,” Goose grumbled.
“Sure thing,” said Doc Murdock, nodding at his men. “On the end there is Pip Magger, then Mort Spears. Next to him is Handy Phelps, Brayton ‘Comanche Killer’ Cane and Andy Merkel.” He looked around, then added, “Duckbill Grear is over keeping watch on the trail.” Murdock rose to his feet and looked all around. “I’m Doc Murdock, boys, and just so’s you all understand something about my men right off, they are the meanest, roughest, bloodiest bunch of devils ever thrown out of hell. They can lift a scalp and be gone with it while some poor sonsabitch raises his hat to say howdy.”
A dark chuckle rose and fell around the fire. Then Doc Murdock sat down slowly.
“After spending half the war riding with most of this bunch, I can safely say the same for my men,” Moses Peltry intoned, standing up and dusting his seat, “except for the scalping part.” He hooked both thumbs in his gunbelt, his long beard hanging down between them, past the belt buckle. “These men are straight-up Southern guerrillas…tempered by the flames of war and forged and honed to the finest cutting edge of killing. They hate a Yankee worse than they hate a—”
“Wait a minute,” said Brayton Cane. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I happen to have fought for the Union back in ’63—even took some rebel metal in my back.” He patted a thick hand to the small of his back as he stared at Moses Peltry. “We ain’t going to have no problems over our personal opinions, are we?” His fiery eyes swept from man to man.
“No problem at all, Brayton ‘Comanche Killer’ Cane,” said Goose Peltry, cutting in before Moses could respond. “I’ve heard of you. My brother likes to preach for the Southern cause, but believe me, so long as you’re out to get your hands on as much money as we can steal or kill for, we’re all of the same accord here.”
Moses Peltry started to chastise his brother, but hearing the cheer go up along both sides of the fire, he decided to keep quiet about it. As the men joked and hooted back and forth, Moses Peltry and Doc Murdock sat back down and picked up their cups of coffee. “For some reason, Moses,” said Murdock, “I thought you had more men than this.”
“I did,” Moses replied. “But I’ve lost a few over the past few months. It’s gotten hard to stay alive out here. I sent a man to gather stray horses when we took the Gatling gun from that army patrol…. Damn fool never made it back.”
“Did you leave any soldiers living?” Murdock asked, a concerned look coming to his face.
“A couple or so maybe.” Moses shrugged. “But they were afoot and retreating down a steep rock bank last we saw of them. They would never have been able to get the drop on Gilbert Metts. He’s one of them kind of men who has eyes in the back of his head.”
“Then what happened to him?” Murdock asked.
“I don’t know,” said Moses. “Maybe he deserted on me.” He grinned. “Maybe he sold them horses somewhere and hightailed it out of here.”
Murdock stood up and looked off along the trail in the failing evening light. “I hope so…else you could have soldiers on your tail right now.”
“Relax,” Moses chuckled. “This ain’t the first army patrol I ever bushwhacked. If they did get their horses back from Metts and start trailing us, let them come.” He nodded at the men gathered around the fire. “This bunch might look ragged, but don’t ever think they can’t fight. There ain’t a day goes by that I ain’t prepared for somebody attacking us from some direction or another. Me and these men live for the smell of battle, Murdock. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You and your men have been at it a long time, Moses,” said Murdock. “I didn’t mean to cast any doubt on your judgment.”
“I know you didn’t,” said Moses. “You just want to know more about the kind of man you’re riding with. I don’t blame you.” He gave Murdock a serious look as he sipped his coffee. “You’ll see soon enough for yourself, I reckon. I’ve got a sneaking hunch we’ve had a posse fanning our trail ever since we left Rileyville. I think it’s time we sent them packing, don’t you?”
Doc Murdock grinned and said, “Damn right, Moses. Why not?”
Cherokee Rhodes and Campbell Hayes rode abreast forty yards ahead of the others on the trail to Diablo Espinazo. Junior the hound loped along near Hayes’ horse. The riders had pushed hard throughout the night. At the first glimpse of sunlight, Hayes drew his tired horse to a halt and slumped a bit in his saddle, his lack of trust in Cherokee Rhodes causing him to keep his right hand ever close to his holstered Walker Colt. Junior circled once and sat down in the dirt, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“We stop here, Rhodes,” Hayes said to the half-breed. “Let the rest of them catch up to us and rest their horses.”
“We’ve already stopped too much overnight,” said Cherokee Rhodes, drawing his horse down and circling it in closer to Hayes. “If we’re ever going to catch up to the Peltrys, we best keep moving.”
Camp
bell Hayes kept his horse turned sideways to the half-breed as he spoke. “If we run these horses into the ground, we’ll never catch up to them either.” He eyed Cherokee Rhodes closely and added, “Or is that what you’re hoping for?”
“Maybe you wasn’t listening, Hayes. I showed up on my own. Nobody is forcing me to do this.” He thumbed himself on the chest. “I’ve got my own reasons for wanting to catch up to the Peltrys. If you don’t like it, you can go to hell!” He pointed at Junior, who had stood up and stepped forward with a low growl. “Keep that stinking dog away from me, or I’ll hammer its head in with a pistol butt!”
“Make no mistake, half-breed,” said Hayes, his big, rough hand closing around the bone handle of the Walker Colt. “Lay a hand on that dog, and I will kill you graveyard dead. Put us in a jackpot, and I’ll go to hell all right…dragging you with me by the hair on your greasy head.”
“Damn it! They’re ready to kill each other,” said Will Summers from thirty yards back. Seeing Hayes’ hand on the big pistol and seeing Cherokee Rhodes back his horse a step and point a warning finger at Hayes, Summers kicked his horse’s pace up a notch. Abner Webb and Sergeant Teasdale did the same and followed Summers to where the two men faced off in the middle of the trail. “Hayes! Rhodes! Both of you settle yourselves down! Take your hands off your guns right now!” Summers shouted, sliding his horse to a halt almost between the two. His hand snapped up from his holster with his Colt .45 cocked and ready. “Rhodes, don’t make me sorry I gave that pistol back to you.”
Hayes and Cherokee Rhodes both cut their gaze to the gun in Summers’ hand, then to Abner Webb and Sergeant Teasdale as the two came sliding in beside Summers, both of them with their pistols drawn as well. “Him first,” said Rhodes, keeping his hand clenched around his pistol butt.
“Both of you!” shouted Summers. “We’re too close to the Peltrys to tip our hands this way! What the hell’s wrong with you two anyway? One shot, and we’ve lost any element of surprise!”
“I can’t abide this thieving, back-shooting trash riding near me,” said Campbell Hayes, “let alone riding front scout right beside me!”
“All right then,” said Summers, seeing that neither man was willing to back down first, “let’s get it going then…all three of us. You hardheaded sonsabitches want to go out this way, I’ll go right out with you. When I count three, you better both make a move, ’cause I’m just going to start shooting!”
“This ain’t got nothing to do with you, Summers,” said Hayes, still glaring at Cherokee Rhodes. “Stay out of it.”
“No. I’m in it,” said Summers. “One…” He raised his cocked pistol slightly and fanned it back and forth from one to the other.
“Stay out for just a couple more minutes, Summers,” said Cherokee Rhodes. “I’ll shoot this stiff-necked peckerwood, and we’ll go on after the Peltrys. The way he’s going, we’ll never catch up to them anyway.”
“No,” said Will Summers. “I’m in on this. You boys better get ready. Webb, Teasdale, you better step your horses away.” He kept the pistol moving back and forth slowly between them, a resolved look on his face. “Two…”
Beside Summers, Abner Webb and Sergeant Teasdale widened the space between their horses and his. Teasdale said in a low, warning voice, “Hayes, I brought you along so you could avenge your friend, not so you could fly off the handle and jeopardize this whole party. I swear to you right now, if Rhodes or Summers doesn’t kill you, I will.”
“Same here, Rhodes,” said Deputy Webb, pointing his pistol in Rhodes’ direction.
“Three…” said Summers. His hand tightened on his pistol butt.
“Hold it,” said Campbell Hayes quickly, knowing that Will Summers wasn’t bluffing. His hand moved upward away from his big Walker Colt. “There. It’s settled. The sergeant’s right. I came along to avenge my friend’s death…not shoot it out with the likes of this saddle tramp.”
Cherokee Rhodes bristled at Hayes’ words, but he held himself in check and lifted his hand away from his gun butt. “It’s been a long night. I might be a little bit testy. Mighta said things I shouldn’t have.”
“That’s more like it,” said Will Summers, keeping his cocked pistol moving back and forth just in case. “Both of you back your horses away from one another. Keep some distance until you both start acting like you’ve got some sense.” He sat watching until both men had backed their horses and pulled away from one another. Hayes moved his horse back beside Sherman Dahl and crossed his wrists on his saddle horn—a gesture of peace after the tense encounter. Cherokee Rhodes swung wide of the others and sat looking back at Summers.
“Damn it,” said Abner Webb. “We can’t put up with any more of that kind of stuff.”
“We’re not going to,” said Summers, just between Webb and Sergeant Teasdale. “Any more trouble between those two…shoot them both.” He nudged his tired horse forward, saying over his shoulder, “Keep an eye on Rhodes. Ill ride on and scout the trail a while.”
No sooner had Summers ridden out of sight around a turning in the trail than Bobby Dewitt came leading his horse up behind the rest of the men. Looking at Sherman Dahl, he asked, “What’s going on, schoolmaster?”
“Just a little trouble between the buffalo hunter, Hayes, and Cherokee Rhodes,” said Dahl.
He nodded forward along the trail. “Looks like we’ll be in Diablo Espinazo before long. Maybe we can rest our animals there…for a couple of hours anyway.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” said Bobby Dewitt, staring at the trail ahead, where thin slices of morning sunlight spilled sidelong through towering rock.
For the next twenty minutes, Will Summers rode ahead of the others toward the small clearing where Diablo Espinazo stood on a terraced level of rough rocky ground high on a mountain trail. At a spot where fifty feet of trail lay engulfed by rock wall on either side, Summers hurried his horse along until the trail opened back up beneath him. Where a thin elk trail snaked down from above and crossed the main trail, Summers stopped at the sound of a goat’s bell clanging, coming down from the rocks. An old man followed four goats out onto the main trail, not seeing Will Summers until Summers touched his hand to his hat brim and said “Buenos días” to him.
The old goatherder stopped abruptly with a look of fear in his eyes. “Sante Madre!” he whispered. The goats scurried across the trail and disappeared down the rocky slope on the other side.
Will Summers knew why the old man looked so frightened. He added quickly, “Don’t worry, old fellow, I’m not one of the Peltry Gang. Are they still there?” He nodded in the direction of the small town.
“No, they go in the night…thanks be to the blessed Virgin Mother,” said the old man, sweeping his broad straw sombrero from his head and making the sign of the cross. “They are terrible animals, these Peltry hombres! They come to our little town, and they force us to do their will! Every time they come to these mountains, someone dies before they are through.”
“Which way did they go?” Summers asked.
“Southwest,” the old man said without hesitation. “They go to cross the border. Always they spend the cold months in México, as if that poor country of my birth can tolerate their kind.” He shook his head and walked on, turning his back on Summers, following his goats off the trail down into the rocks. Summers relaxed in his saddle and waited until Webb and Teasdale came riding up to him ahead of the others.
“What did he have to say?” asked Webb, nodding toward the old man as he descended down the slope behind the goats.
“He said the Peltrys pulled out in the night,” Will Summers replied. “Sounds like they’re headed for the border.”
Teasdale and Webb both looked disappointed. “Well…then we stay on their trail,” said Teasdale. “At least, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me too,” said Abner Webb. They both looked at Summers.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” Summers said, staring down the slope after the old man.
“What do
you mean?” asked Webb, exchanging a glance with Teasdale.
“I’m not sure….” Summers looked back at the rest of the men riding toward them. He looked forward along the trail to where it disappeared into a turn. He looked up along the high rocky line above them, then down at the old man just in time to see him break into a run toward the cover of taller rocks, shooing the goats out of his way.
“Oh no!” cried Summers, realization setting in and causing him to sit bolt upright in his saddle. “It’s a trap!” He swung his horse out into the middle of the trail and yelled at the rest of the men as he jerked his hat from his head and waved it at them. “Get back! Stop! Take cover!” But the men did not stop all at once. Instead, they slowed behind Hargrove and Sherman Dahl as the two men raised their hands and checked their horses down.
“What’s got into him?” Hargrove asked Dahl.
Sherman Dahl hadn’t the slightest idea. Yet no sooner had he seen Summers waving his hat than he caught a glimpse of morning sunlight glinting off the end of a rifle barrel atop the rocky ledge above Will Summers. “It’s an ambush! Don’t ride in!” Dahl shouted, his reflexes sharp and already responding. His rifle came up from his lap as he spoke.
In the middle of the trail, Will Summers had done all he could. He’d warned the others. Now, seeing Dahl’s rifle belch a streak of fire upward along the rocky ledge, Summers ducked low in his saddle as rifle fire began to explode above him. Just as he jerked his horse around and spurred it to where Teasdale and Webb had jumped down and taken cover in a rock crevice, a body thudded to the ground at his horse’s hooves. Dahl’s shot had nailed the gunman before he could get his shot off at Summers. Even as Summers’ horse reared and spun away, Summers caught a glimpse of Dahl’s smoking rifle as the young schoolmaster levered a new round into the chamber.
“Get into the rocks! Protect your horses!” Hargrove bellowed at the men. They had broken into a run in every direction, diving for any cover they could find. Some of their horses had already bolted away. They ran back along the trail, whinnying loudly, escaping bullets that whistled past them.
