Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “But we delivered them to those Mex rebels in that village,” Armstrong said with a confused frown.

  “We just didn’t get paid for ’em,” Jones added acidly with a disgusted look on his face, as if he had just bitten into something rotten.

  Donelson shook his head. “No, this was their actual destination all along. You see, Chaco Romero isn’t the only one I’ve been doing business with. I had another . . . arrangement. If everything had gone as planned, we would have turned those rifles over to Romero and his men and gotten our money for them . . . and then we would have killed those fools and taken the rifles back.”

  “A double cross!” Armstrong said. He slapped his thigh. “I like that way of thinkin’, Cap’n.”

  “I thought you and the other men might,” Donelson said smugly. “Once we had recovered the rifles, we would have brought them down here and delivered them to my other business partner—”

  “And double-crossed him, too!” Armstrong enthused.

  “Well, no. I think that would have been unwise. We would have honored the agreement I made with him.”

  “Who’s this so-called business partner of yours?” Jones wanted to know. He still sounded skeptical.

  Before Donelson could answer, a strident yell sounded in the canyon. “Alto!”

  The command to halt was repeated, or maybe it just sounded like that because of the way it echoed. Donelson hauled back on the reins and brought his mount to a stop. So did the others.

  As they did, uniformed figures appeared above them on the rocky slopes of both sides of the canyon. Rifles were cocked and leveled. Curses and exclamations of surprise came from the deserters as they realized they were under the guns of approximately fifty men.

  A man wearing a uniform resplendent in the late afternoon sunlight even under the dusty conditions stepped out from behind a boulder. He clasped his hands together behind his back and called down, “Capitan Donelson?”

  “Gentlemen, meet my real partner,” Donelson drawled to his men. “General Alphonso Montoya.”

  * * *

  General Montoya and his men led Donelson and his band to their camp higher in the hills. It was in a little grassy bowl next to a spring that was probably the nicest spot within a hundred miles. Cottonwood trees around the spring had provided shade for his men and horses while they’d waited for Donelson’s arrival. Montoya hadn’t known exactly when Donelson was going to get there with the guns, so he’d been prepared to wait for several days.

  Donelson looked around. He suspected that Montoya cared more about the shade protecting his horses than he did about the comfort of the men. The general could always get more men.

  Montoya stopped in front of the tent he had brought with him—his headquarters—although his men had to make do with bedrolls. In the comfortable spot, it didn’t really matter. He pointed out the area Donelson and his men should make their camp, and they moved off in that direction.

  * * *

  Night had fallen by the time Montoya sent for Donelson and had him brought to the tent.

  Donelson’s nerves were taut as he stepped into the tent. He had looked into the background of the man he was doing business with, of course, and discovered that the general had a reputation for ruthlessness, even brutality.

  Donelson didn’t mind that. He was ruthless himself, and he could be brutal when he needed to.

  A small table was set up in the middle of the tent. Montoya’s bunk was at the rear. Food waited on the table, a platter of tortillas and bowls of stew. Montoya was pouring tequila from a bottle into cups.

  The general turned and held out one of the cups to Donelson.

  “Gracias.” The captain nodded his head.

  Montoya waved Donelson into one of the empty chairs at the table. “I apologize for the simple fare, Captain. Traveling in this godforsaken wilderness is not easy. Providing any sort of reasonable amenities is even more difficult.”

  “I assure you, General, this looks very good to me,” Donelson said as Montoya sat down across from him. “Especially considering the way things could have turned out.”

  “Yes,” Montoya said. “I want to hear all about that while we dine. I could not help but notice when you rode into the hills that you did not bring the rifles as we agreed. What happened, Captain?” The general’s voice hardened. “Bear in mind that my men still have plenty of weapons for a firing squad, if not for a revolution.”

  Even though Donelson recognized the clearly implied threat, he couldn’t help but think in a moment of grim humor that everyone in Mexico must be born wanting to overthrow the government. That had been the overriding goal in Chaco Romero’s life, and General Montoya—an officer in El Presidente Díaz’s own army—felt the same way.

  The weapons carried by Montoya’s men were old and sometimes unreliable. His uprising would stand a much better chance of succeeding if his forces were armed with new, modern Springfields.

  In the end, of course, Díaz would probably crush Montoya’s would-be revolution anyway, but Donelson didn’t care one whit about that.

  He admired Montoya at least a little, however. Romero had prattled on about overthrowing Díaz for the good of the people. Montoya just wanted more power. Donelson could understand and sympathize with that.

  He took a sip of the tequila. “It’s true the guns aren’t here, General, but I know where they are.”

  Montoya’s eyes narrowed in the lamplight. “Please tell me you would not be foolish enough to try to change the terms of our agreement at this late date, Captain Donelson.”

  “Of course not. We just ran into some difficulties on our way to fulfill our end of the bargain.”

  For the next few minutes, Donelson explained what had happened in La Reata.

  Montoya grimaced in disgust when Donelson mentioned Chaco Romero. “Peasants,” he spat when Donelson concluded. “They are like la cucaracha, the cockroach. Do you know why I say that, Captain?”

  “Um . . . not exactly sir.”

  Montoya tossed back the rest of the tequila in his cup. “It’s not so much what they carry off as what they fall into and ruin.” He set the empty cup on the table. “So, these peasants have my guns, do they?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then in the morning we will go to La Reata, all of us . . . and we will crush ourselves some cockroaches.”

  Chapter 32

  By nightfall, Chaco Romero had been taken to the hotel on a makeshift stretcher and carefully placed on the bed in one of the rooms. Mercedes was carried over there as well, although she objected strenuously to being separated from Gabriel, who was left behind in her bed in the cantina.

  Viola and Father Fernando had tended to them, cleaning and stitching up the wounds and making them as comfortable as possible.

  While that was going on, Slaughter took de facto command of the forces in the village. The bodies of Romero’s men who’d been slain in the fighting were taken to the mission. They would be laid to rest in a respectable fashion first thing the next morning. Slaughter regretted that he and his men were responsible for some of those deaths, but circumstances had dictated their actions.

  Besides, Brice Donelson’s treachery was truly responsible for what had happened in La Reata.

  The deserters who had been killed would be buried properly, too, although a part of Slaughter wanted to find a gully, toss the corpses into it, and leave them for the scavengers. That would be a barbaric thing to do, however, and he wasn’t going to give in to the impulse.

  The men digging the graves were going to be mighty busy, come morning.

  With that taken care of, Slaughter posted guards on all four sides of the little settlement. The way Donelson and his men had been routed, there was a good chance the deserters would cross the border and just keep going, but as long as there was a possibility they might double back, caution was advisable.

  The sentries were a mix of the men from his posse and members of Romero’s group. Some of the bandits were reluctant to
take Slaughter’s orders, but they knew his wife was caring for Romero, Mercedes, and Gabriel, so they were willing to cooperate . . . for now.

  Satisfied that he had done all he could for the time being, Slaughter went to the hotel and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

  Romero was sitting up in a bed with pillows propped behind him. The would-be leader of the revolution was pale and drawn, but seemed to be alert. He nodded to Slaughter and smiled faintly. “I hear that I have you and your lovely wife to thank for saving my life, Sheriff.”

  “Viola’s the one who kept you from bleeding to death. After that, you saved your own life by calling off your men. They’re the ones who ran off Donelson before he could finish the job of murdering you.”

  “He got away, then?”

  Slaughter nodded. “Unfortunately, he did. I was pretty sure I saw him ride out of town. Since things have settled down, we’ve searched the entire village and the area around it, just to make sure he wasn’t hiding out somewhere. I’m afraid he’s lit a shuck.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “The trail he and the other survivors from his bunch left leads south toward the border.”

  Romero nodded solemnly. “It makes sense that he would flee the United States. He is a deserter from the army, after all.” Romero’s face hardened. “When I have recovered, I will see to it that he is hunted down and dealt with as justice demands. His man Winters tried to murder my sister and my friend.”

  “Winters came pretty close to succeeding, too, but Viola tells me she thinks they’ll be all right. They just need time to rest and recuperate, like you.”

  “How many of my men were killed? Do you know?”

  “Seven dead,” Slaughter replied. “Another dozen or so wounded, some of them pretty badly, but it looks like they’ll all pull through.”

  “That is more for Donelson to answer for.”

  “He’s responsible for the deaths of two of my men. I’d like to see him hang for that. I’m practical enough to realize that’s pretty unlikely, though. He’ll probably never set foot in this country again.”

  “Sooner or later, justice will find him no matter where he goes. I believe this.”

  Slaughter wished he shared Romero’s certainty, but he had seen evil men escape their just deserts too often in the past and he was sure he would again. Some said that final justice would be dealt out in the next life, but that was too far beyond the pale for him to consider. He was a supremely practical man and dealt in the here and now.

  Slaughter picked up the single ladder-backed chair in the room, turned it around, and straddled it. As he rested his arms on the chair back, he said, “There’s something else we need to talk about, Romero.”

  “The money?” Romero guessed shrewdly. “The rifles?”

  “Both, actually. I know where the rifles are.”

  Romero chuckled. “The money is hidden. Donelson never would have found it until I was ready to turn it over to him—which I would have done, had he not betrayed his true nature by trying to double-cross us.”

  “I figured as much. You want to tell me where it is?”

  Romero’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”

  “That money belongs to the people of Tombstone. And you don’t need it anymore. You already have the rifles you were going to buy with it.”

  “Bought with the blood of my men, instead.”

  “Blood is the currency of revolutions,” Slaughter said. “If you don’t know that, you might want to reconsider trying to overthrow Díaz.”

  “I know full well the price that must be paid,” Romero snapped. “But I also know that money could still do the revolution much good in other ways, now that we no longer need it to purchase the rifles.”

  “If you want any sympathy for your cause on this side of the border, you’ll turn that money over to me and let me take it back to Tombstone, to its rightful owners. Otherwise”—Slaughter shook his head—“you’re just a bunch of Mexican bandits.”

  Anger darkened Romero’s face as he leaned forward in the bed. “How dare you! Our cause—”

  “Your cause doesn’t mean a thing to the people whose savings were wiped out when you hit the bank in Tombstone,” Slaughter broke in. “You talk a lot about fighting for the common people. Who in blazes did you think you were robbing when you held up that bank? Sure, some of the mine owners and other businessmen have money there, but so do the fellas who own the livery stables and the hardware stores.”

  Romero still glared, but he let his head sag back against the pillows behind him. “You have, what, eight men?”

  “Counting myself,” Slaughter said.

  “And I have more than twice that many. Plus I know where the money is hidden and you do not. I would say that you should be asking for the money’s return, Sheriff Slaughter, not demanding.”

  “I’m not demanding anything. Just telling you what’s right. Hell, I haven’t asked for those rifles back, have I? And they belong to the United States government.”

  “We will not give up the rifles,” Romero said quietly. “Never.”

  “That’s why I’m suggesting a reasonable compromise. Take the rifles and go back to your revolution. My men and I won’t try to stop you. But leave the money for the people of Tombstone.”

  “And if we do not?”

  “Then I reckon there’ll be more fighting to do,” Slaughter said.

  For a long moment, they regarded each other with cool, level stares. Then Romero sighed and nodded.

  “The money is under the floorboards in the office of my sister’s cantina. You’ll have to move the desk and pry them up. In the morning, you should take it and go, before I change my mind.”

  “I’m not sure I can convince my wife to leave before you’re well enough to travel yourself.”

  “Ask her to talk to me. I will tell her she must go.”

  Slaughter grunted. He knew from experience that telling Viola she had to do something was often the worst mistake a person could make. But maybe Romero could be more persuasive than he was.

  “I’ll tell her. I don’t know how much good it’ll do.” Slaughter stood up. “In the meantime, you should get as much rest as you can. I’m no doctor, but I think that’ll do you more good than anything else.”

  “I agree.” As Slaughter turned to leave the room, Romero went on. “Sheriff . . . whether we agree on everything or not, I appreciate what you have done for me and my men. Without your help we might have fallen prey to Donelson’s schemes.”

  “You know the old saying about the enemy of my enemy . . . “ Slaughter left the room and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  He found Viola in the cantina, changing the dressing on Gabriel’s wound. The big outlaw was awake. He turned his head so he could grin at Slaughter. “Your wife, she is a saint, señor! A saint! A true angel of mercy!”

  Slaughter returned the grin. “She was merciful enough to marry a rough-edged old codger like me, that’s true.”

  Viola laughed. “You’re not really that old, John. But I’ll admit that you’re pretty rough around the edges.” She pulled the sheet up over Gabriel. “There. You ought to be all right until morning.”

  “Gracias, señorita. I mean, señora. When we met I believed you to be unmarried. It takes some getting used to.” Gabriel glanced at Slaughter again. “You are a lucky man, Sheriff.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, amigo,” Slaughter assured him.

  He looked across the hall at the door to Mercedes’ office, which was closed. The knowledge that the loot from the raid on Tombstone was on the other side of that door made him want to go in there, pull up the floor, and recover it.

  There would be time enough for that in the morning, he told himself.

  He took Viola’s hand. “You’ve been running yourself ragged all day, my dear. You need some rest.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I am a little tired. I checked on Chaco and Mercedes before I c
ame over here, and now that Gabriel is all right, too . . .”

  “Go on, señora,” the big outlaw urged her. “Get some rest, as your husband says.”

  “All right. But I’ll make sure someone is keeping an eye on you during the night. If you need me, send a man to fetch me.”

  “This I will do,” Gabriel promised.

  Slaughter led Viola back into the cantina’s main room. He paused. “I could use a drink. How about you?”

  “Well . . . maybe a little one.”

  Slaughter went behind the bar, found a bottle of wine, and poured it into glasses. “I don’t think Mercedes will mind us helping ourselves.”

  “Probably not.” Viola took the glass he handed her and raised it slightly. “To going home.”

  “To going home,” Slaughter agreed.

  They clinked the glasses together.

  Chapter 33

  The night passed quietly, as Slaughter hoped it would.

  Up early the next morning, as was his habit, he checked with the guards currently on duty. They confirmed that there had been no sign of trouble.

  Even before breakfast, Viola had gone to check on her patients.

  Slaughter, on his way back to the hotel, met her as she came out of the cantina. “How’s Hernandez?”

  “Stronger this morning,” she reported with a smile. “He told me he has the constitution of a bull. Mercedes told me the same thing, although she called him an ox instead of a bull.”

  Slaughter chuckled. “He’s almost as big as one of those creatures, no matter what you call it.” He linked arms with her. “Come along, my dear, we’ll get something to eat in the hotel dining room.”

  As they walked along the street, Viola said, “I had a long talk with Chaco, John. He tells me you’re going to let him keep those rifles.”

  “It’s not that I particularly want to let him have them,” Slaughter said with a frown. “But as he pointed out, his forces outnumber what’s left of my posse by more than two to one. Anyway, it’s not my responsibility to recover the army’s guns. I persuaded him to let us take the bank money and the rest of the loot from the raid back to Tombstone so it can be returned to its rightful owners. As far as I’m concerned, that takes care of everything I’m duty-bound to do.”