Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Just tell her, por favor.” Donelson’s voice hardened slightly as he spoke.

  “Of course, señor. Is there anything else?”

  “Not right now.” Donelson took a coin from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of the girl. “But later . . . you make my young friend happy, understand?”

  The coin disappeared, swept deftly off the table so that it vanished into a hidden pocket in the voluminous skirt. “I understand, señor. Gracias.” The girl turned and walked away.

  Donelson sipped his beer and thought about Viola Slaughter and Mercedes Romero. They were both very beautiful women, but Viola was more the sort he would want to take away from here and keep with him for a while. Mercedes would be good for passing the time while he was in La Reata waiting to be a rich man. He would enjoy her company very much, he thought.

  After a few minutes, Mercedes appeared. She came up to the table and regarded Donelson coolly. “Estellita said you wished to see me, Captain.”

  “That’s right.” Donelson gestured at the empty chair Winters had occupied earlier. “Please, have a seat and join me.”

  Mercedes shook her head. “I don’t really do that, señor.”

  “You won’t have a drink with a good customer?”

  “I only met you tonight, Captain,” she reminded him. “And from what I’ve heard, you plan to leave tomorrow. You probably won’t be visiting my cantina again.”

  “All the more reason to make this visit memorable. I was thinking that perhaps you could show me your living quarters. . . .”

  Mercedes leaned toward him slightly. While her dress wasn’t as low-cut as the peasant blouses her serving girls wore, its neckline dipped enough to give him an enticing glimpse of the smooth brown valley between her breasts.

  She said softly, “Captain Donelson, while my brother may be doing business with you, I am not . . . except for selling drinks to your men. I have no interest in spending the night with you, and I will tell you what I would tell any man making unwelcome advances toward me—leave me alone or I will slice off your cojones and throw them to the hogs for a treat. A tiny treat. Comprende?”

  She smiled, so that no one looking on would guess what she was saying. But as she spoke, rage welled up inside Donelson. He stiffened and started to stand up.

  “Keep your seat.” Mercedes moved a hand slightly, and light from the candelabras that hung from the ceiling flashed on the blade of the dagger she held.

  Donelson began, “I ought to—”

  “You ought to forget this happened, Captain. You and my brother need each other. Don’t let the weakness of the flesh interfere with your arrangement.”

  “What if I told him you threatened me?”

  “Then I would tell him what you just suggested, and he would kill you. That would ruin everything, would it not?”

  “You didn’t have to act so insulted,” Donelson said sullenly.

  “If you want a girl, there are others to choose from.”

  “I don’t want a girl. I want a woman.”

  Mercedes smiled again. “That is almost flattering. Almost. Buenas noches, Captain Donelson.” She slipped the dagger back wherever it had come from, turned, and walked away from the table.

  With an effort that tightened his jaw and made a shiver go through him, Donelson controlled his anger. Before this was over, Mercedes Romero would regret speaking to him that way, he vowed. He would see to it that she was sorry.

  * * *

  It was almost dawn when Gabriel Hernandez slipped out through the cantina’s rear door. He stretched and yawned. A pleasant lassitude gripped him. The night he had just spent with Mercedes had been very enjoyable, as usual. She had seemed a bit distracted by something at first, he thought, but then his kisses had warmed her as they always did. Nay, they had enflamed her!

  A huge grin stretched across his ugly face at the memory.

  He knew he was ugly, and it was a miracle from El Señor Dios that Mercedes did not consider him so. She loved him and he loved her, and once Chaco’s revolution was over and done with and the dictator Díaz had been unseated, Gabriel planned to come back to La Reata. Father Fernando at the mission would join him and his beautiful Mercedes in marriage, and he would live out the rest of his life happily running the cantina with her. It was a consummation devoutly to be wished.

  But there was still a revolution to begin and a war to be waged, and that began with an army, and an army began with men and guns. Chaco had the men, and as soon as those army wagons arrived, he would have the guns.

  Gabriel strolled toward the mission. He wanted to check on the prisoners and their guards, and then maybe he would go up to the livery stable, crawl in a pile of hay, and sleep until the wagons rolled into the village. It was an appealing prospect.

  Although the eastern sky held a faint rose tinge heralding the approach of the sun, shadows were still thick around the buildings in the village. When he heard voices up ahead, Gabriel stopped and stood unseen in the gloom next to a closed mercantile. Some instinct warned him.

  A moment later, a whiff of tobacco smoke drifted to him. That didn’t have to mean anything other than the fact that someone was up early, but Gabriel had learned to trust his gut. He stayed close to the wall and moved forward with a degree of stealth uncommon in such a big man.

  The words he heard were in English, and one of the voices was familiar—the cavalry captain called Donelson.

  “—got everything lined up?”

  “I surely do, Cap’n.”

  Gabriel knew that soft drawl, too, he realized. It belonged to Corporal Winters, the trooper who had killed one of Sheriff Slaughter’s posse men and then taken Slaughter and Tadrack prisoner.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Sergeant,” Donelson said. “Remember, no harm is to come to Mrs. Slaughter. You make sure of that.”

  “I understand,” Winters said. “Me and the other fellas will make sure the sheriff and the rest of ’em are dead.”

  Gabriel stiffened in surprise and anger. The two cavalrymen were talking about murdering the prisoners. Chaco had forbidden it. He had promised Señora Slaughter—Gabriel had to remind himself not to think of her as Señorita Smith or Viola anymore—that they would be left behind safely in La Reata when the revolutionaries headed back across the border. Chaco had made that clear to the captain as well.

  It was clear that Donelson planned a double cross. He was going to wipe out the other prisoners and take Señora Slaughter with him.

  Gabriel could not allow that.

  He wanted to confront the two plotters then and there, but he forced himself to wait and listen to see if they said anything else. It would be better to tell Chaco about this startling discovery. He would know what to do.

  Winters went on. “You want us to wait until we’ve done the deal for the rifles, right?”

  “That’s right,” Donelson told him. “But as soon as we have the money, take your detail to the mission and carry out your orders.”

  “What if them greasers try to stop us?”

  “What do you think?” Donelson snapped. “Kill them, too.”

  Caramba! Gabriel thought. The man really was evil. Donelson’s treachery was liable to cause a great deal of trouble, but one way or another, Chaco had to have those guns. The revolution couldn’t begin without them.

  Gabriel drew back deeper into the little niche where the store’s entrance was located as he spied movement in the shadows ahead of him.

  Donelson stepped out of the shadows. He was taller and bulkier than Winters, and Gabriel recognized him. With a cigar clenched between his teeth, Donelson looked back. “You’ve done good work, Winters. I won’t forget this.”

  He strode across the street without a glance toward the doorway where Gabriel stood. The big man waited until he disappeared into the hotel before moving from the shadows.

  He had to get to the mission and warn Chaco. That meant going past the alley where Donelson and Winters had had their rendezvous. Gabriel let a few
more minutes go by, then slid along the wall of the building and risked a look around the corner into the alley.

  In the faint gray light, he saw it was empty. Winters had left in the other direction.

  Gabriel took a step toward the mission, then stopped as pain bit deep into his back.

  Even as big as he was, the sudden agony might have knocked him to his knees if an arm hadn’t clamped around his neck from behind like a bar of iron. He felt the blade’s cold fire as someone shoved it even deeper into his body.

  “I thought I smelled you, greaser,” a voice whispered in his ear. “Spyin’ on me and the cap’n, were you? I reckon you heard more than you need to know, but that’s all right. I got a hunch all you dirty bean-eaters are gonna wind up dead ’fore this is over. I’m just gettin’ a head start with you!”

  Gabriel tried to struggle. He willed his muscles to move, but they refused. It outraged him that a scrawny gringo like Winters could defeat him, but never before had he known such pain. It froze the blood in his veins, stiffened his body, and sent waves of darkness rolling through his brain.

  “Mer . . . cedes . . .” Gabriel whispered.

  Then he knew nothing more.

  Chapter 21

  Leaning against the back of the bench, Slaughter woke with his arm around Viola and her head pillowed on his shoulder. His arm had gone to sleep, but under the circumstances the numbness was more than welcome since it was due to the warm presence of his wife.

  Light had started to filter into the sanctuary through the stained glass in the tall, narrow windows. The sun was up. Sometime today the supply wagons full of stolen army rifles would arrive, he thought. The wagons had had to take the longer way around the Mule Mountains.

  Without turning his head, Slaughter looked around. He seemed to be the only one of the prisoners awake. The others were stretched out on the benches, using blankets that Father Fernando had provided.

  It wasn’t surprising that Slaughter was awake first. He usually rose before everyone else, although the hour was later than normal.

  A different set of guards stood watch over the mission. Chaco Romero was talking quietly to the ones by the double doors.

  Slaughter frowned as he pondered the situation. He didn’t want Romero and the other would-be revolutionaries getting away into Mexico with a load of rifles stolen from the U.S. Army. On the other hand, political shenanigans south of the border weren’t really any of his business except as they affected law and order in Cochise County. He had wanted to recover the money stolen from Tombstone, but now that he’d been reunited with Viola, it was really the only reason he was there.

  He was more outraged by what Donelson and the rest of the deserters had done. They were responsible for the deaths of two of Tombstone’s citizens, and they were traitors to the oath they had sworn.

  Not only that, but if the deal for the rifles was completed as planned, Donelson and his men would have the money. When Slaughter weighed everything, he knew that if it came down to a decision, he would allow Romero and the rest of the bandits to escape if it meant bringing Donelson’s bunch to justice and recovering the loot.

  Of course, most people would think he was insane for even considering these things, he mused, since he was unarmed, vastly outnumbered, and a prisoner. But a man had to be prepared for fate to turn everything upside down. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be ready when the unexpected happened.

  Viola stirred in his embrace. She murmured sleepily, “John?”

  “I’m right here, my dear.” Slaughter pressed his lips to her head and tightened his arm around her shoulders.

  “I was dreaming that we were back in our own bed on the ranch. But we’re not, are we?”

  “I’m afraid not. But we’re together and we’re all right. That’s all that matters right now.”

  She sat up a little straighter, turned her head, and kissed him. Then she slipped out of his embrace and sat beside him on the bench. He moved his arm around to get some of the feeling back into it.

  Chaco noticed that they were awake and went over to them with a solemn look on his face. “I know better than to ask you if you slept well, my friends. My apologies for the accommodations. The church was meant for worship, not to serve as a hotel. But it was the best place to keep you all together.”

  “And the easiest place to keep us under guard,” Slaughter said. “I probably would have done the same thing if the circumstances were reversed.”

  Chaco smiled faintly. “I’m glad you understand, Sheriff.”

  “I didn’t say I approved,” Slaughter responded dryly. “Do you intend to feed us this morning?”

  “Of course. I’ve already arranged for breakfast and coffee to be brought to you from the café.”

  Viola asked bluntly, “When will the rifles be here?”

  “Captain Donelson assures me the wagons will arrive by midday. Shortly after that, all of you will be free to return to your homes.”

  “If you expect us to thank you for that, you’ll have a long wait,” Slaughter said.

  Chaco shook his head. “I expect no thanks for trying to do what is right, Sheriff. When my people are free, that will be reward enough.” He left the mission as the other prisoners were waking up.

  True to Romero’s promise, several women arrived carrying platters of scrambled eggs, peppers, sausage, and tortillas, as well as mugs of coffee. The breakfast was passed around to the prisoners while the guards stood nearby with their rifles ready to make sure no one tried anything.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Luther?” Slaughter asked Gentry.

  The liveryman slurped coffee from the mug in his hand. “Better, Sheriff. Had a headache when I woke up, but I think it’s goin’ away.”

  Grover Harmon asked, “Are those varmints still sayin’ they’re gonna turn us loose today?”

  “As soon as they’ve gotten their rifles and hightailed it across the border,” Slaughter replied. “I suspect that Romero plans to leave a few men guarding us until the others have time to get away. Then they’ll light a shuck as well.”

  “What about those bluecoats?” Pete Yardley asked.

  “I figure they’ll take off for the tall and uncut, too.”

  Despite what he told Yardley, Slaughter was uneasy about the renegade cavalrymen. He knew that Donelson couldn’t be trusted, and the deaths of Jack Doyle and Ross Murdock proved that the troopers didn’t draw the line at murder.

  He looked around at his fellow prisoners and hoped they didn’t all wind up in front of a firing squad. He wouldn’t put that past Donelson at all.

  The morning dragged by. Slaughter was used to staying busy, and the forced inactivity gnawed at his nerves and his gut. He kept watching for a chance to get his hands on a gun and maybe turn the tables on their guards, but Romero’s men knew what they were doing. They remained alert, and they never came close enough for any of the prisoners to jump them.

  Slaughter’s frustration grew.

  Romero looked just as upset, when he came into the mission late in the morning and asked the guards, “Has Gabriel been here?”

  The men responded that they hadn’t seen the big bandido all day. Viola heard that exchange and looked interested. She stood up, and Slaughter came to his feet beside her, causing a couple guards to turn toward them and lift their rifles.

  Romero motioned for them to take it easy. “What is it, Señora Slaughter?”

  “Is Gabriel missing?” Viola asked.

  “No one has seen him today. He left my sister’s cantina early this morning, before dawn, and seems to have disappeared after that.”

  “Maybe he rode out for some reason,” Slaughter suggested.

  “Gabriel would never do that without telling me. He had no reason to leave.” Clearly worried, Romero left the mission.

  Slaughter and Viola sat down again, and he asked her, “What’s bothering you about that big galoot being gone?”

  “Chaco and Gabriel have been friends since they were little boys,” Viola
said quietly. “And Gabriel is in love with Chaco’s sister. Chaco’s right. If Gabriel is missing, it must be because something happened to him.”

  “I know what you said about Romero’s sister, but maybe Gabriel’s just holed up somewhere with one of the, ah . . .”

  “Whores?” Viola laughed humorlessly. “You should know by now, John, that you can say words like that without shocking me. And I don’t believe it. He could have treated me much more disrespectfully than he did. He’s devoted to Chaco, and I think he’s equally devoted to Mercedes.”

  “Maybe he ran afoul of one of those deserters. I don’t trust Donelson and his men.”

  “We’re in complete agreement about that,” Viola said with a firm nod. “I have a bad feeling about the way this is shaping up, John.”

  Slaughter looked at her, then glanced at the other prisoners. “If there’s trouble, you stay close to me, you hear?”

  “Just try getting me away from you.”

  A short time later, another of Romero’s men appeared at the door and spoke to the guards. Slaughter couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but the guards looked more tense and excited. Something was going on, and he had a pretty good idea what it was.

  Viola sensed it as well, and so did the other prisoners. They all got to their feet.

  Mose Tadrack said, “Something’s happenin’, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter nodded. “You’re right, Mose. Unless I miss my guess, those wagons full of rifles just rolled into La Reata.”

  Chapter 22

  Gabriel woke up expecting to feel the searing heat of hellfire and hear the cackling laughter of El Diablo’s imps. Given the life he had led despite his best intentions, he considered it his inescapable fate to have his immortal soul consigned to the deepest pits of Hades.

  To his complete surprise, he discovered that instead of brimstone, Hell smelled like a hog wallow. And Satan’s imps . . . well, they grunted like hogs.

  Was it possible, he began to wonder, that he was not dead after all?

  Memories began to seep back into his brain. The first was pain. Horrible, breathtaking pain, so bad that for several moments it created a high wall so impenetrable that he could recall nothing before it.