One-Man Massacre

by Jonas Ward

  SIXTEEN

  WELL, what kind of a day has it been, Captain?" Malcolm Lord asked expansively, inhaling deeply on a slim, fragrant panatela.

  "Just routine, I'm afraid," Gibbons answered, matching the same note of worldliness. "Our work goes forward little by little, but it goes forward."

  The conspirators sat facing each other in deep-piled leather chairs in the high-ceilinged study of Lord's house; a roast beef dinner consumed, cigars alight, a pony of good brandy at each of their elbows and the world on the cod of a string—a string each man thought he held.

  "I expect Mulchay was difficult," Lord said.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Angus Mulchay. When you moved him off the land."

  "Mulchay? Oh, yes, I recall the fellow now. As a matter of fact, we didn't get to his place at all today."

  Lord scowled at that.

  "Why not?"

  "The heat, I expect. We moved out a family named Tompkins, though. And the Byrons . . ."

  "Bryans," Lord corrected.

  "That's right, Bryan. And the Alreds. Is that the name?”

  “Yes. But Mulchay and MacKay are the important ones. The others can come back to the river in time."

  'We'll get to Mulchay and MacKay," Gibbons promised.

  'When, man? I've got a herd rounded up and waiting for that grass."

  "Malcolm," Gibbons said familiarly, "you'll be able to move your stock down to the river by this time tomorrow night."

  "Fine, fine," Lord said. "Say, how does this brandy suit you?"

  "I'm afraid brandy is something I know little about." There was a knock on the door.

  "Come," Lord said and it was opened by a servant. A Mexican, curiously enough, who very pointedly did not look at Black Jack Gibbons. "What is it, Pedro?"

  "Un hombre por El Capitan, senor. Muy importante, el dice"—and though it all concerned Gibbons the speaker would not acknowledge him by a glance.

  "A man to see you," Lord told him. "Says it's important."

  Gibbons knew as much Mexican as either of them, but he waited for Lord to translate.

  "I'll go see what it is," he said, rising.

  "Perhaps we'll have him in here," Lord said to that, asserting himself just as Gibbons had hoped he would. "More privacy."

  "Just as you say, Malcolm."

  "Bring the man to me here," Lord ordered and the servant departed, returned quickly with Apgar—who had ridden hard all the way and looked it.

  "What is it, Corporal?" Gibbons asked him brusquely.

  "We're in for it, Captain," the talented Apgar told hint anxiously. "The Mex are coming across in force."

  "An attack?"

  "Like a horde of locusts, Captain. The men want you."

  "By God, let's go!" Gibbons said militantly. "Where have the murdering bastards struck?"

  "At Mulchay's, sir! That's where they're hitting him hard."

  "Wait, Gibbons!" Lord cried as the other man hurrying through the doorway. "I'll get some men come with you!"

  "The militia can fight its own battles, Malcolm."

  "But if you're outnumbered!"

  "We've taken them on at twenty-to-one. We can do it "again." He abruptly broke off the conversation, stormed down the hall and out of the house with great determination.

  But Malcolm Lord wanted to be in on everything that was happening, wanted a directing hand. He told Pedro to get Foreman Southworth immediately. Pedro shook his head.

  "He is not here, senor. The men they are at roundup."

  Lord had forgotten.

  "They're all out?"

  "I think the Mister Billy is here," Pedro said. "The Mister Southworth left him to manage. And there are maybe three others in the bunkhouse."

  "Get them, then. And tell Neale to arm everyone and bring a horse around for me. Pronto!"

  They came around, four of them, pronto.

  "What's up, Mr. Lord?" Billy asked.

  "There's trouble down at the river. At Mulchay's. The Mex are trying to take over."

  "Take over what, sir?"

  The land, the people—Texas! What in hell did you think, Neale?"

  Billy held his peace and his tongue. He hadn't been to town since that wild Saturday night, what with all the special movement of the herds, but word had drifted up to Overlord about the war being fought by Gibbons' Militia. He'd grown up with Mexicans, known them all his life around Scotstown, but not until two weeks ago had he heard what dangerous, double-dealing buggers they really were. Funny they should change just like that.

  "Ride, Overlord!" Malcolm Lord shouted, leading four apprehensive, uncomfortably armed, and thoroughly un-warlike cowboys out of the plaza and down trail toward river.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE SUN was just setting over the land when Buchanan found Rosemarie's pegged-out horses at the base of the mountain and rode one of them west along the riverside—the only knowledge he had for the location of Mulchay's place. There was still some aching stiffness in his shoulder, and the saddle chafed the thigh wound, but he was riding again and he felt like a man who has come home after a long trip.

  Darkness came on swiftly and presently he came to a fork in the main road. With the aid of a match he read a signpost there: MacKay Ranch—Lauren MacKay, Owner, and went on again thoughtfully, not welcoming the reminder of the girl. To his right was the outline of a house, its windows darkened, but in his mind he saw them lightened by lamps, curtained, and a tall, full-bodied girl making a home of it.

  Her man would be a rancher, and he'd work hard at it because that was the only thing he wanted—plus her. Each year he'd build the house a little bigger—have to, with kids running around in it—and the herd would get bigger, big enough for two drives a year, and when her man went into Scotstown to cut the dust and play a little table-stakes poker—why, the president of the bank would tip his hat politely and every merchant along Trail Street 1 would come out of his store and wave real friendly.

  Great life in store for somebody, Buchanan thought. "Come on, horse, move it!" he said aloud, giving mare a squeeze of his knees. Who the hell cared al bank presidents?

  On and on he rode along the seemingly endless trails and now he began to worry that he had passed Mulchay's place in the night. Hell, it must be two hours since he started.

  A bright glow suddenly lit up the night. Fire—the most dreaded sight in a summer so infernally dry as this one. He dug his heels into the mare's sides now and she responded with the fastest spurt she had.

  The fire came from an outbuilding beyond the main house, but even as Buchanan was racing toward it he saw a figure running toward that house with a flaming torch in his hand.

  Buchanan swept the rifle free and fired it from the crook of his elbow. He hadn't expected a hit and didn't get one—but the arsonist was made aware that he had company coming, and the way he just stood there told Buchanan he hadn't expected any from this direction. Those seconds of indecision cost him, for Buchanan had been carried fifty feet closer to a brilliantly outlined target that stood conveniently still. The rifle cracked again, in dead earnest, quitting a man named John Riker of all his troubles.

  While Buchanan inherited fresh ones—from the house —as two hand guns tried to whipsaw him in a wild fusillade. He threw himself from the bolting, battle-shy horse and ran jackknifed toward the shelter of the porch, ran with such concentration that he was less than a stride ram the dangling legs of the lynched Ranger before his startled eyes saw them.

  At the same time the porch door swung open and the single-minded Cato came through, dragging the weakly struggling Mulchay. This was the way Gibbons had ordered it, this was the way Gibbons would get it.

  "Let him be, brother," Buchanan said, and Cato turned in surprise, as though the gunfight in progress was not supposed to concern him at all.

  The knife glinted briefly, started down toward Mulchay's body, and all the off-guard Buchanan could do was swing the rifle, like a club. It hit with a sharp cracking sound, splintering every bone in
Cato's money arm, changing the murderous thrust of the blade to a long scratch along Mulchay's chest. Buchanan clubbed him again, to be shed of him, and was primed to resume matters with the pair still inside the house when a moan broke from old Mulchay's throat. It was a mournful little sound, deep, quavering, and spoke of a condition far more critical than Buchanan suspected.

  As he bent to scoop the man in his arms a .45 blasted thunderously, slamming its slug into a post exactly level with where his head had just been. It went off again, ripping up the board beside him, but now he had Mulchay in his arms and was seeking the safety of the dark end of the porch. He made it down the steps there, kept going across the side yard and into the sheltering grove beyond.

  "There it goes!" Apgar shouted, but Jack Gibbons had already spotted the fire, was already congratulating himself on the military precision, the fine timing of the operation. They were thirty minutes distant, time aplenty for the flames to do their work, for Cato to do his and all of them be gone—in pursuit of Mexicans, presumably.

  Very nice, too, how Malcolm Lord had fallen in with the scheme, how he followed close behind with his own party—just so many more unassailable witnesses to the "enemies'" atrocities.

  It was a change from the near-disaster of Seth Keroon’s appearance today to the clear triumph tonight—and even up in Austin, though they would suspicion the truth,' the situation would make them take heed of Jack Gibbons and tie the governor's hands indefinitely. The Ranger had been strung up by Mexicans. A Mex blade was in Angus Mulchay's heart, his place was gutted fire—and no less a personage than Malcolm Lord to testify to it.

  And when all the poor fools had ridden off, to keep his appointment at the line shack . . . Gibbons suddenly

  frowned. That fire, he thought, should be growing bigger.

  What were they doing at the house?

  At the house they didn't know what they were doing. Inside the place; were Harley and Betters, but they knew only the general plan, hadn't been given anything specific to do as Riker and Cato had.

  "Who is that scudder out there, anyhow?" Harley asked when another minute of tight silence had passed.

  "The hell with who he is," Betters growled. "I wanna know where he is."

  "Heard him run off the porch. Damn, I had the son of a bitch cold and he ducked."

  "Is Cato dead, or what?"

  "He ain't moved."

  "Let's go have a look."

  "Help yourself."

  "What's the matter with you?" Betters demanded.

  "I don't like that rifle," Harley admitted. "And what'd Cato ever do for me?"

  "For crissake, we can't stay pinned down in here! Riker was supposed to have the house burnin' by now—" He broke off, cocked his head to a noise out front. "What's that?"

  It was the sound of wagon wheels, protesting against unaccustomed speed.

  "It's the damn scudder," Harley announced. "High-tailin' with the damn buckboard!"

  Betters dashed out onto the porch just as Buchanan raced the old wagon abreast of the house. They opened fire at each other on sight, but the moving target eluded Setters. Buchanan's third shot spun the man halfway around, dropped him to his knees. Harley saw that and ducked out of the fire line and threw some token shots after the retreating wagon, but they passed overhead.

  The racket ceased as suddenly as it had erupted, and it took a few more moments of it before the idea got through Harley's brain that he was the last able-bodied man on the premises.

  "Hey, Betters, you all right?" he called out suddenly.

  "Oh, you useless son of a bitch," the voice answered from the porch.

  "Watch who you're callin' son of a bitch, buddy."

  There was a sound of movement from Cato then.

  "Cato." Harley shouted, crossing to him and kneeling down. "Cato, you hear me? Hey, Cato!" He peered closely. "Jesus—he looks like a mule tramped on him. Cato, can you hear me?"

  "Yeah," Cato said then.

  "What are we gonna do?" Harley asked him.

  The man pushed himself to his hands and knees and held that position while he moved his head from side to side experimentally.

  "You got him, didn't you?" he asked Harley.

  "Hell, no, we didn't. What are we gonna do?"

  Cato climbed all the way up, looked balefully from Harley to the prone figure of Betters.

  "What happened to him?"

  "Got plugged. And Riker's dead in the yard."

  "Some deal Gibbons worked out," Cato said.

  "Do we ride out?" Harley asked.

  "Some smart deal," Cato said again, touching his face tenderly, glancing at the figure dangling on the other side of the porch. "Go around and get the fire started," he told Harley. "Then bring the horses."

  Harley moved quickly, relieved now that someone was directing things. When he reached Riker he didn't even bother to search for life, just picked the torch from the dust, got it lighted again from the blazing outbuilding and carried it back to the main house. The dry wood took the flame hungrily, noisily, and with a great whoosh the entire roof went up.

  He got the horses then, helped boost Betters into the saddle and the three of them went off.

  The last ten minutes had given Jack Gibbons no pleasure at all, but now as the brighter glow appeared in the distance he felt some measure of relief. Whatever the trouble was, Riker had the situation under control. Dependable man, Riker, Gibbons thought, making a mental note to give him a fifty-dollar bonus for the night's work. Something extra for Cato as well, he decided generously.

  What a jolt, then, to come upon the smoldering, fire-gutted ruins of Mulchay's house and find Riker a casualty, dead with a bullet hole in his chest—and not to find the damned Mulchay. Gibbons was surveying the perplexing scene in stunned silence when the Overlord party broke upon him.

  Billy Neale went directly to the hanging figure on the still-burning porch, risked scorching himself while he cut the man down.

  "By God," he said, "it's a Ranger! Those dirty jackals strung up a Ranger!"

  "And shot him, both," another rider commented.

  "A Ranger?" Malcolm Lord said in a worried undertone to Gibbons. "What was he doing at Mulchay's?"

  Gibbons looked at him. "I just got here myself," he said impatiently.

  "But Austin will send more. Maybe even troops . . ."

  "Then we'll have help fighting Mexicans. Won't have to do it all ourselves."

  "Yes," Lord said without enthusiasm. "What is it you're looking for?"

  Gibbons stopped craning his head around.

  "Looking for any more of my own men," he answered. Apgar had already been sent to scout the immediate vicinity; now he came back, exchanged a glance with Gibbons, and shrugged his shoulders.

  Neale walked up to the group.