Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Viola glanced sharply at her. “Why wouldn’t it be? Don’t you think I know my own name?”

  “I’m just saying, a lot of people are called Smith who weren’t born with the name. That’s all.”

  Viola didn’t press the issue. She went to the dressing table, took off her hat, and dipped the cloth into the basin. She wiped the wet cloth across her face and tried not to sigh at how good it felt to wash away the layer of dust that had settled on her skin.

  “Come back out front when you’re finished,” Mercedes told her.

  Viola eyed the window. “All right.”

  Mercedes laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, señorita. But my brother isn’t a fool. He has a man watching that window. If you climbed out, you wouldn’t get ten feet before someone grabbed you.”

  “I’m not going to try to escape.”

  Mercedes made a scoffing sound, as if she found that hard to believe.

  “Really, your brother and his men have treated me decently,” Viola went on.

  “Probably better than you had any right to expect. That is because Chaco is an honorable man. Someone had to be good”—Mercedes laughed—“and someone had to be the black sheep in the family, eh?” She went out and closed the door behind her.

  Viola took advantage of the privacy to unbutton the shirt she wore and wash off more of the dust. By the time she was finished she felt considerably refreshed.

  She still wasn’t sure why the outlaws had stopped in La Reata instead of hurrying across the border where they would be safer. She could understand that Chaco might want to say hello to his sister, but from the way his men had acted, they were settling down to stay for a while.

  Staying was just asking for the posse to catch up to them. Clearly, they weren’t afraid of John and the men he might bring with him from Tombstone.

  When she had cleaned up as much as she could without a tub full of hot water—the thought of which was enough to make her groan—and had run her fingers through her hair to get as much of the dust out of it as she could, Viola went back out into the hallway. She carried the flat-crowned hat in her hand.

  She paused in the corridor and darted a glance at the closed door to Mercedes’ office. There might be a gun in there, she thought.

  Unlikely, though, and the door was probably locked, to boot. Viola turned away from the office and pushed through the beaded curtain into the cantina’s main room.

  A number of Chaco’s men were still at the bar. They tossed back shots of tequila almost as fast as the short, bald bartender could pour them. The fiery liquor didn’t seem to affect them. To such men, tequila was probably like water.

  Other members of the gang had taken bottles of tequila and whiskey and spread out to sit at tables with some of the serving girls. Laughter filled the room.

  An old man with a drooping mustache sat on a stool in a corner and strummed the strings of a guitar. The music blended with the laughter to form a pleasing melody.

  Gabriel and Mercedes sat at one of the tables. They didn’t notice Viola at first, so she was able to see how Mercedes clasped Gabriel’s big left paw with both of her hands. The smile on her face told how deep was the affection she felt for him.

  Mercedes was in love with the big, ugly outlaw, Viola realized. Gabriel had said that he and Chaco were friends from childhood, so he had probably known Mercedes all her life. It was odd to see such a beautiful woman with a brute like Gabriel, but Viola knew better than to question the paths that a heart might take.

  She had fallen in love with and married a man considerably older than herself, after all, and no couple had ever been happier than her and John.

  The sausage-like fingers of Gabriel’s right hand were wrapped around the neck of a tequila bottle. He lifted it to his mouth, took a long, gurgling swallow. When he lowered it, he saw Viola. “There you are, chiquita.”

  Viola frowned. He shouldn’t refer to her with a term of endearment like that while Mercedes was right there doting on him. But that seemed to be Gabriel’s way. He was big, crude, and unthinking . . . but not necessarily an evil man, as she was beginning to realize.

  He thumped the tequila bottle on the table and pushed himself to his feet “Chaco wanted to see you. Come along.” He bent over, planted a kiss on Mercedes’ lips, and leered at her. “I will see you later, eh?”

  “You know where to find me,” she told him as she leaned back in her chair.

  Gabriel took hold of Viola’s arm and steered her toward the cantina’s entrance.

  She pulled away from him. “You don’t have to manhandle me, you know. I haven’t tried to escape yet, have I?”

  “And I wouldn’t want you to start now,” he said, but didn’t take hold of her again. “Chaco would be very upset with me if I allowed you to refuse his, ah, hospitality.”

  “He can try to say that I’m his guest all he wants to, but it doesn’t change the face that all of you kidnapped me.”

  Gabriel turned toward the mission at the end of the street. Viola walked alongside him. She knew that what Mercedes had told her earlier was true. If she tried to escape, she wouldn’t get very far.

  Besides, she was intrigued by what was going on in La Reata and wanted to find out the reason for it.

  The doors of the mission were open. Before Viola and Gabriel reached the building, Chaco appeared in the doorway. His hat hung behind his head by its chin strap. He smiled at Viola as they came up to him. “Have you been treated well so far, señorita?”

  “I suppose so.” Viola didn’t mention the threat Mercedes had made to cut out her heart and feed it to the hogs. The woman had been nice to her after that . . . although the menace had continued to lurk right under the surface.

  Chaco leaned his head toward the mission. “Come inside.”

  She followed him while Gabriel stayed outside. The thick walls kept the heat out, making it cool inside.

  The sanctuary was hushed and shadowy. The room was long and rather narrow, with tall windows on each side. Paintings and tapestries of religious scenes hung between some of the windows, while crucifixes decorated the walls in other places. Small statues of the Virgin Mary and other icons reposed in little nooks along the walls. The pews were arranged in two sections with an aisle between them leading to the altar at the front of the room. An elaborate candelabra hung from the high ceiling by a long rope.

  “It’s lovely,” Viola murmured.

  “La Reata is a small, poor village, but its people are very devout,” Chaco said. “I always come here every time I visit Mercedes.”

  “Maybe you should live here and help her run the cantina, instead of risking your life as a revolutionary.”

  Chaco stared at her. “I could never do that. I could not abandon my countrymen in their time of need.”

  “Your countrymen are always in need,” Viola said. “How many revolutions have there been? How many have been attempted that never even really began? If you and your men were to leave me and the loot from the raid here and scatter to the four winds for a while, the law would soon forget about you. It would be safe for you to return and make a life with your sister.”

  Chaco shook his head. “You don’t understand. I swore a vow.”

  “You swore another vow and left it behind.” The blunt words were out of Viola’s mouth before she could stop them. She hadn’t meant to betray Gabriel’s confidence, but there it was.

  Chaco was the one who had decided to leave the priesthood. If he couldn’t abide by that decision, he shouldn’t have made it.

  He looked sharply at her. “So Gabriel told you my secret, did he?”

  “Don’t be angry with him. He was just trying to convince me that you’re really a good man.”

  “I could never be angry with Gabriel. Even though we do not share the same blood, we are hermanos and always will be.” Chaco paused, then asked with a faint smile, “Was his effort successful?”

  “At what? Making me believe that you’re something more than a no-good, bank-robbi
ng bandit?” Viola shook her head. “The jury is still out on that one.” She strolled up the aisle between the benches. “How long are we going to be here?”

  “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

  “I just thought that you’d want to get across the border as quickly as you could. We’re still in Arizona Territory.”

  Chaco laughed. “You are a very unusual hostage, Señorita Smith, urging your captors to carry you off into another country.”

  “I’m not urging anything of the sort. I’m just curious.” Viola paused and turned to look at him. “Besides, you’re an unusual kidnapper. I’m beginning to realize how unusual.”

  Chaco’s eyes met and held her gaze for a long moment. Viola chided herself as she realized that he probably thought she was playing up to him. She hadn’t intended to . . . but she couldn’t fault him for feeling that way.

  He looked away. “We will be here for a while. Tonight, maybe part of the day tomorrow. I cannot say for sure. And when we leave . . . you will stay here. I give you my word on that, señorita.”

  “You’re not taking me across the border?”

  “There will be no need.”

  Well, that was a relief, Viola thought.

  She realized that the only reason the gang would stop for an uncertain amount of time was that they were waiting for someone and didn’t know exactly when that person would arrive in La Reata. That meant there was more to this affair than a simple bank robbery. The potential existed for more trouble. A shiver of apprehension went down her spine.

  She wished John would hurry up and get there. Even though she hadn’t been mistreated so far, she was ready to go home.

  Chapter 14

  The lights of La Reata began to wink into view in the gathering dusk as Slaughter and Captain Donelson halted their party about a mile from the village.

  “I’d better go ahead on foot from here.” Slaughter leaned forward in the saddle to ease his muscles after two days of hard riding.

  “How many men are you taking with you, Sheriff?” Donelson asked.

  “Only a few. I’d go by myself and not risk anyone else’s life, but I’ll need someone with me to get word to you if I find Mrs. Slaughter.”

  Ross Murdock surprised Slaughter by saying, “Take me, Sheriff. I can do it.”

  Slaughter frowned. “I appreciate that, Murdock, but I was thinking about a more experienced man—”

  “No offense, Sheriff,” Gentry interrupted, “but you ain’t got any more experienced men ’cept maybe me and Grover, and we’re a mite too old to be dashin’ around the prairie. Murdock there’s got youth on his side, anyway.”

  Slaughter supposed the liveryman had a point. He wouldn’t be counting on Murdock to do any fighting, only to carry a message to Donelson.

  “All right, Murdock, if you want to risk it, you can come along. I can’t guarantee your safety, though.”

  Murdock smiled. “There haven’t been any guarantees since we left Tombstone, have there?”

  The young bank teller had a point there.

  Jack Doyle spoke up. “I can come with you, Sheriff. If there’s trouble, I’m pretty good with a gun.”

  Slaughter remembered the attempt on his life the night before and his suspicion that Doyle might have been behind it. There was nothing to indicate that on Doyle’s smoothly handsome face or in his bland voice, but Slaughter’s suspicion remained.

  “No, you stay here with the others, Doyle. How about you, Tadrack?”

  The swamper’s eyes widened. “Me? You want me to go?”

  “You’re pretty spry when you need to be, aren’t you?” Slaughter asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Tadrack did so, and Slaughter was pleased to see that it wasn’t shaking as much as it had been the day before. He nodded. “You’ll do.”

  “Take one of my men with you, too,” Donelson suggested. “Corporal Winters has done a considerable amount of scouting for us. He can get around quietly. Can’t you, Winters?”

  “I reckon I can,” one of the troopers drawled. The slow molasses of his voice indicated that he was from somewhere in the Deep South. He was too young to have been a Confederate soldier during the war, but Slaughter would have bet that his father was.

  “All right. That makes four of us. That’s enough.”

  “All right,” Donelson agreed. “The rest of us will wait right here, Sheriff.” He paused, then asked with a note of reluctance in his voice, “What are you going to do if you can’t find your wife in the village?”

  “It’s only a couple miles to the border,” Slaughter said grimly. “If Viola’s not there, we’ll camp here and I’ll push on south in the morning.” He looked around at the other men. “And I won’t be asking anybody to go with me.”

  “I would if I could,” Donelson said. “You know that.”

  Slaughter nodded.

  “Well, there’s nothin’ stoppin’ the rest of us from goin’ on.” Luther Gentry gave the captain a belligerent stare. “Unless somebody takes it in his mind that he can’t allow Americans to traipse across the border.”

  “I suppose according to regulations, I should put a stop to any sort of unauthorized incursion. But with Mrs. Slaughter—an American citizen, mind you—in possible danger, I think I can make an exception.” Donelson looked at Slaughter. “If you run into trouble below the border, though, don’t expect any help from the United States.”

  “I’m used to stomping my own snakes.” Slaughter looked at the rest of the posse members. “How about the rest of you?”

  Without any hesitation, Grover Harmon said, “We’ll go wherever you lead us, Sheriff.”

  “You’ve been good for Tombstone, John,” Pete Yardley said. “I don’t plan on turning my back on you when you need me.”

  “That goes for me, too, señor,” Diego Herrara added.

  That left Chester Carlton and Joseph Cleaver. Slaughter could tell that the drummer and the bank teller were reluctant to promise they would accompany him into Mexico if he needed to pursue the outlaws across the border.

  “It’s all right,” Slaughter told them. “I appreciate you coming this far with me.”

  “It’s just that I have a wife and children who are depending on me,” Carlton said. “I wanted to help out, and if those outlaws are in this La Reata place, I still will, Sheriff. But I don’t think I should cross the border.”

  Cleaver pushed up the round-lensed spectacles he wore. “I sympathize, too, Sheriff, but I wouldn’t even be here if Mr. Stockard hadn’t told Ross and me we’d better volunteer to come along.”

  “We agreed we weren’t going to say anything about that, Joe,” Murdock said.

  “Yeah, but I’ve reached the end of what I’m willing to do for Stockard. I’d like to take the bank’s money back to Tombstone just as much as you would, but it’s not worth getting in trouble with the government. Risking my neck is enough.”

  Slaughter said, “Nobody’s going to hold that against you, Cleaver,” although the way the other men glared at the young teller put the lie to that statement. “Stay here with Captain Donelson and the others, and if we need to cross the border in the morning, you and Carlton can head back to Tombstone. Actually, that might be a good thing. You’ll probably run into Deputies Howell and Alvord along the way, and you can tell them where we’ve gone.”

  With that settled, Slaughter, Murdock, Tadrack, and Winters got ready for their foray into the village. Since stealth was vitally important, Slaughter thought it would be better if they didn’t carry rifles. He borrowed a couple .45s and a .36 caliber Colt Navy from some of the other men for his three companions. They tucked the handguns in the waistbands of their trousers.

  “Good luck, Sheriff. If I hear shooting, we’ll come on in right away. Otherwise we’ll wait to get word from you.” Donelson shook Slaughter’s hand.

  “If we’re not back by morning, you’ll know something’s gone wrong.”

  “In that case, La R
eata will be getting a visit from the United States cavalry,” Donelson replied with a grim smile.

  * * *

  Slaughter took the lead as the four men headed toward the village on foot. Like any good cattleman, he regarded any job that couldn’t be done from horseback as a job not worth doing, but there were always exceptions to that rule. Slipping up on a bunch of dirty outlaws who had kidnapped his wife was one of them.

  Still, his feet hurt before they had gone a quarter mile. The walk probably bothered Murdock and Tadrack less, since they were used to working on their feet.

  There wasn’t much cover to be found as they approached the settlement. A few mesquite trees and some even scrubbier bushes were about all that was any good. Slaughter used them and every shadow he could find to disguise their approach.

  If the bank robbers were in La Reata, they probably had guards posted. But they might not, if they had stopped at the village for a debauch before crossing the border. Even if some of them were supposed to be standing watch, there was a chance the men would be sneaking drinks from bottles of tequila and would be less than fully alert.

  Slaughter whispered orders to his men until they got within a hundred yards of the buildings on the village’s outskirts. Then he used hand signals to indicate that they should proceed in a crouching run.

  The closest building was an adobe barn. When the four men were in the deep shadows next to its rear wall, Slaughter felt a little better. Keeping his left hand on the wall and his right on the pearl-handled butt of his Colt, he moved to the corner and risked a look around it.

  He could see a slice of La Reata’s main street. Full night had fallen, and the town appeared to be sleepy and quiet. Faint strains of guitar music came from one of the cantinas.

  Slaughter squinted his eyes. Where would the outlaws be holding Viola? They wouldn’t want to let her out of their sight, so she would be wherever they were. One of the cantinas? A whorehouse? He hated to think about his wife being forced to endure captivity in such a place, but as long as she was alive and safe, that was all he really cared about.

  If the outlaws were in La Reata, their horses had to be, too, he realized. Maybe in the very barn he was behind, especially if it was a livery stable.