Texas John Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “A tinhorn gambler and an embezzler?” Donelson laughed. “Please, Sheriff. No one in Tombstone will miss either of those two.”

  “What about the men who died in La Reata?”

  “Some of my men died there, too.” Donelson waved a hand impatiently. “Anyway, there’s no point in arguing about this. My friends want those guns, and they’re going to get them, one way or another. Just turn them over, so that no more blood has to be spilled.”

  “Do you really think General Montoya is going to just turn around and ride away? He’s invaded the United States this morning, Donelson. Unless he’s willing to cause an international incident and draw the attention of President Díaz, he can’t afford to leave any witnesses behind. I’ll bet he’s not ready for Díaz to know that he’s plotting a revolution just yet.”

  That had just occurred to Slaughter, but as he spoke the words he knew the truth in them. It would be better all around for Montoya’s plans if he wiped La Reata and all its inhabitants off the face of the earth.

  “You’re wrong,” Donelson said. “The general gave me his word.”

  Slaughter could tell that Donelson realized the truth, too. It was shaping up to be a massacre.

  It wouldn’t do any good to cooperate. The villagers might as well fight back, Slaughter thought. Their lives were on the line either way.

  “The general wants those guns.” Donelson’s voice was bleak with acceptance.

  “Let him come and get ’em.”

  Chapter 35

  For a second, Slaughter thought Donelson was going to yank out the pistol on his hip and start blazing away.

  But then the renegade captain snapped, “You’ll regret this, Slaughter,” and hauled his horse around to ride back toward Montoya’s force.

  The two Mexican officers, who had sat on their horses impassively without saying a thing during the entire exchange, turned their mounts and followed him.

  “Come on, Mose,” Slaughter said as he wheeled his horse. “We’d better get back to town. We don’t know how long this truce is going to last.”

  Not long, they discovered a moment later when the Mexicans charged, yelling and shooting.

  Slaughter and Tadrack were still well short of the village when the attack began. They leaned forward and urged their horses into a desperate gallop.

  “This isn’t fair!” Tadrack shouted over the drumming hoofbeats. “They should’ve let us get back to La Reata!”

  “I don’t think Montoya cares about fair!” Slaughter replied. “As soon as he could tell we weren’t going to cooperate, he was ready to start the ball.”

  “Well, you did tell him to come and get ’em!”

  When Slaughter glanced over at his companion, he saw that Tadrack was grinning.

  He knew the comment he had made earlier was correct. If they survived, Tadrack would never be content to go back to being a boozed-up saloon swamper.

  But their survival was still very much in doubt.

  Slaughter looked back over his shoulder and saw spurts of dirt and gravel being kicked up by the bullets that struck the ground ten or fifteen yards behind them. Luckily, the horses they had ridden out were fresh after a night’s rest and running well.

  Shots began to ring out from the village. Powder smoke spurted from windows in some of the buildings. Muzzle flashes came from the bell tower in the mission. A smile plucked at his mouth. Viola was taking cards in the game, and that didn’t surprise him at all.

  The covering fire slowed Montoya’s men slightly, enough to give Slaughter and Tadrack time to gallop around the church and put the sturdy building between them and the attackers. They didn’t slow down until they reached the livery stable and raced inside where the horses would be relatively safe.

  Slaughter’s booted feet hit the ground almost before his mount stopped moving. Tadrack was right behind him. A couple teenage boys, grandsons of the liveryman who had been shot down the day before, were waiting to take charge of the horses. Slaughter and Tadrack left the stable and ran back to the church.

  A middle-aged man, also a citizen of La Reata, met them with loaded Springfields. “We have more ready, señores. Those of us who are not good shots can still load rifles.”

  Slaughter nodded. “That’s a very important job. Thank you, my friend.”

  He and Tadrack hurried to the rear of the church and entered the graveyard behind it. They knelt behind a couple tombstones to use the markers as cover. Some of the shots from the attackers were already reaching the mission. Bullets thudded into the rear wall while others ricocheted off the tombstones.

  Even though it seemed rather disrespectful, Slaughter rested the Springfield’s barrel on top of the grave marker behind which he knelt and looked for the flashy uniform with the red sash. When he didn’t locate Montoya right away, he drew a bead on the charging Mexican soldier waving a sword over his head, figuring him for an officer.

  Slaughter pulled the trigger. The Springfield cracked and kicked against his shoulder. The Mexican threw his arms in the air and the sword went flying. The officer toppled off his horse and vanished under the trampling hooves of the other mounts around him.

  Tadrack’s rifle blasted, too, and another rider in the vanguard of the charge flew out of the saddle.

  “Here, señores!”

  Slaughter turned to see the man who had handed them the Springfields. He had carried four more loaded rifles to them, and he had brought a box of ammunition as well.

  “Let’s stagger our shots, Mose,” Slaughter told Tadrack, “and give our friend here time to reload for us.”

  “Sounds good, Sheriff,” Tadrack agreed.

  For the next few minutes, the two men kept up a steady, withering fire. Combined with Viola’s deadly accurate aim from the bell tower and the shots from the village’s other defenders, it all took a toll on Montoya’s men and blunted their charge. The soldiers began to haul back on their reins. The horses started to mill around and kick up dust.

  A moment later, the attackers retreated, spurred on their way by more gunfire from La Reata.

  Slaughter stood up and watched the riders recede into the distance. They left a dozen men and several horses sprawled on the sandy ground behind them.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that they’ll turn around and go home now,” Tadrack said.

  “We dealt them some significant damage, but I doubt if Montoya cares how many men he loses as long as he gets the rifles in the end. He’ll be back.” Slaughter nodded. “And we’ll be ready for him.”

  * * *

  “Peasants!” General Montoya raged at his officers who had survived the opening skirmish. They stood around him with enlisted men holding their horses for them. “You have allowed yourselves to be routed by peasants!”

  “They are well-armed peasants, General,” one of the men ventured to say.

  “Armed with my rifles!” Montoya bellowed.

  Donelson jumped in. “Slaughter’s to blame for this. Romero is badly wounded or dead, so Slaughter’s the only one they have to lead them. He’s stubborn, and he’s lucky. He’s demonstrated that he has the ability to slip out of situations that ought to prove fatal to him.”

  “Then he must be dealt with,” Montoya snapped.

  “We already tried that—”

  “No, I mean he must be killed! You, Captain Donelson, take a small group of men, get into La Reata, and kill this man Slaughter.”

  Donelson knew he was edging into dangerous territory, but he asked, “How are we supposed to get into the village? I’m sure Slaughter has posted sentries all around the place, and it’s broad daylight. I suppose we could wait for night—”

  “I am through waiting!” the general interrupted once again. “Those who oppose me will be crushed at a time of my choosing!” With a visible effort, he controlled his rage. “There will be a distraction, another frontal assault on the village. While that is going on, all eyes will be on the fighting. That is when you and the men you take with you will slip int
o the village, Captain. Kill Slaughter and take as many hostages as you can. Women and children will be best. We will force those fools to see that they must cooperate with us.”

  “All right, General,” Donelson said with a nod. He wasn’t sure that killing Slaughter and taking some hostages would accomplish what Montoya wanted . . . but it was true that Slaughter seemed to be the only natural leader among the defenders of La Reata.

  Unless it was that wife of his, Donelson mused. The fiery Viola Slaughter might be able to rally the men to keep fighting. It would be a good idea to make sure she was one of the hostages, if at all possible, he decided.

  Montoya calmed down. “When you have picked your men, Captain, let me know. I’ll give you half an hour to circle the village out of sight and get into position to the north. Then we will attack again with all the sound and fury we can muster, giving you your chance to infiltrate. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, General. I’m going to take some of my own men with me, if that’s all right.”

  Montoya waved a hand. “Take whoever you like. Just accomplish the task I have given you.” The hawk-like face turned hard as flint. “But if you fail, you should flee back to whatever prison awaits you in the north rather than returning to me. I do not tolerate failure.”

  “We won’t fail, General. I give you my word on that.” Donelson meant it. He was sick and tired of having his plans ruined. He was going to rid himself of the problem of John Slaughter, or he was going to die in La Reata. One of them would not live to see the sun go down.

  Chapter 36

  Slaughter figured Montoya wouldn’t attack again right away. After encountering so much unexpected resistance, the general would probably want to lick his wounds for a little while before launching another assault.

  That gave Slaughter a chance to check the defenses in La Reata. He was pleased to discover that they had suffered no casualties in the first skirmish. A lot of shots had been fired by Montoya’s soldiers, but the thick adobe walls of the buildings had stopped them all.

  Satisfied so far, he climbed the ladder to the bell tower and found Viola reloading the Henry.

  “I need some more ammunition, John. And I think you should send a couple men up here with repeaters. This is a perfect spot to pick off those—” She stopped what she was saying as she finished thumbing cartridges through the rifle’s loading gate. “Well, I suppose I should be ladylike and not use bad language.”

  Slaughter laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “My dear, you’re the only woman I know who can dress like a Mexican bandit, shoot a Henry rifle better than most men, and still worry about being a lady. I’d say you’re the most remarkable lady in the entire territory!”

  She worked the Henry’s lever to throw a fresh shell into the firing chamber and smiled at him. “You’re such a flatterer, John Slaughter.”

  He didn’t care if they were in plain view of the entire village. He put a hand under her chin, tilted her head back a little, and gave his wife a lusty kiss.

  No matter what else happened in the future, Slaughter knew the best thing he had ever done or ever would do was marrying Viola Howell.

  * * *

  Donelson wished he had Lonnie Winters with him. The Southerner was the best pure killer the captain had ever encountered. He was pretty sure that Winters was dead, though. Otherwise, the former corporal would have already shown up.

  It was a shame, but Donelson would just have to make do with what he had—Armstrong, Jones, and three other troopers—the best of the bunch left from those who had deserted with him.

  The six men lay sprawled in a slight depression about a hundred yards from the northern outskirts of La Reata. They had ridden in a wide circle around the town, not wasting any time, but not galloping, either. To have done so would have kicked up too much dust and alerted Slaughter or someone else that something was going on.

  When they’d reached a certain point, they’d dismounted and approached the village on foot, using the scrubby brush that dotted the plains for cover, until finally, they were close enough that they dropped to their bellies and continued on that way.

  Donelson pulled his watch from his pocket and opened it. Half an hour had passed since they left Montoya’s forces. He snapped the turnip closed and slipped it back into his pocket. Any minute, Montoya ought to be starting the attack that would serve as a distraction.

  Sure enough, guns began to roar in the distance. A moment later, the village’s defenders began returning the fire.

  Donelson would have liked to have gotten a little closer to begin the final dash he and his men had to make, but the depression was the last bit of cover. He put a hand on the ground and got ready to push himself to his feet. “If anybody tries to stop us, go ahead and kill them. Good luck, boys. Let’s go!”

  The six deserters charged out of the depression and raced toward La Reata as fast as they could.

  * * *

  Slaughter figured Romero would like to know how things were going, so after he climbed down from the bell tower and left the church, he headed for the hotel.

  He was surprised to find Mercedes sitting in the room with her brother. She had a bulky bandage on her left shoulder and that arm was in a black silk sling, but she had gotten some of her color back and seemed to feel fairly strong.

  Romero looked like he wanted to be in the thick of the fighting. “What happened, Sheriff? Is Montoya gone?”

  “No, he tried an attack but we made his men turn and run. He pulled back a mite, but I’m sure he’ll try again.” Slaughter paused, then added, “Donelson was with Montoya’s men earlier.”

  Mercedes cursed bitterly. “Will that man always plague us?”

  “Not much longer,” Slaughter told her. “I’ve got a hunch that today is the showdown. One way or another, it’ll all be over soon.”

  “We either triumph . . . or die,” Romero said.

  Slaughter shrugged. “In the end that’s usually what it comes down to. We have plenty of guns and ammunition, though, and we hold the town. The people of La Reata are fighting well. I think Montoya can throw his soldiers against us all day without taking the village. Sooner or later they’re going to get tired of being wiped out.”

  Romero shook his head. “They will not turn on Montoya. They all fear him too much. Most of them are no better than outlaws, criminals from the slums and jails of Mexico City. Those are the sort of mindless brutes Montoya and the other generals want in the army. They will fight to the end if Montoya orders it.”

  “Then we’ll just have to kill them until Montoya is the only one left,” Slaughter said coldly. “It’s a shame, but he’ll massacre everybody in La Reata if he gets the chance.”

  “Es verdad. If you will help me get up, Sheriff, I would like to do my part in defending the village—”

  “No!” Mercedes exclaimed. “You are still much too weak, Chaco. You have to stay here and rest.”

  “A man must fight!” Romero argued.

  “You’ve done your fighting in the past, and I’ve got a hunch you’ll do more in the future. Your sister’s right, Romero. In your condition, you’d be more of a liability than a help.” Those were harsh words, Slaughter knew, but they were also true.

  Romero appeared to know it, too. With a grimace, he slumped back against the pillows behind him.

  Before they could say anything else, Slaughter heard guns barking again. The second attack he’d expected had come. He told Mercedes, “Stay with your brother, señorita.”

  “I will,” she promised. “I wish I could be with Gabriel, too.”

  “I have men posted in the cantina. They’ll look after him.”

  Slaughter hurried downstairs and out into the street. He heard the Henry cracking from the bell tower, along with the sound of several Springfields firing up there as well. He had sent Mose Tadrack and a couple of Romero’s men who were good shots to join Viola in the tower. From up there, they could take a heavy toll on Montoya’s men.

  Slaughter st
arted for the church. He would lead the defense from there.

  * * *

  Donelson’s long legs carried him over the ground. The soles of his boots slapped against the dirt. His heart slugged heavily in his chest. He expected to feel the shock of a bullet striking him at any second as he ran toward the village with the five men right behind him.

  He reached the closest building unscathed, and paused to catch his breath as he pressed his back against the adobe wall. The other men arrayed themselves along the wall beside him.

  “Can’t believe . . . we didn’t get shot,” Armstrong panted.

  “Just wait,” Jones said bleakly.

  As soon as Donelson’s pulse wasn’t hammering so loudly in his head anymore, he said, “Spread out. We’ll work our way down the street, three on each side. Find Slaughter, and if you can kill some of his posse or Romero’s men along the way, don’t hesitate.”

  “Won’t they hear the shots and realize we’re attackin’ ’em from this direction?” Armstrong asked.

  “With so much shooting going on everywhere else, it’s not likely,” Donelson said. “Armstrong, Jones, you’ll be with me on the left side of the street. The rest of you take the right side.”

  The men nodded in understanding, then split up as Donelson had ordered. He ducked around the corner of the building and hurried along the street.

  He was passing the entrance to the livery stable when a teenage boy suddenly lunged out, yelling and thrusting a pitchfork at him. The attack took Donelson by surprise, and he might have wound up with the fork’s sharp tines buried in his belly if Jones hadn’t snapped a shot from his rifle that smashed the boy’s shoulder and spun him around.

  Armstrong yelped. “That pup almost got you, Cap’n.” He raised his rifle. “I’ll finish him off—”

  That was as far as Armstrong got. Before he could pull the trigger, a shotgun boomed and a load of buckshot smashed into the squat trooper, shredding his face and upper chest into raw meat. The blast knocked him over backward.