The Avenging Angels

by Michael Dukes

  “We about ready, professor?” Carver said, watching the breed’s every move.

  Lightfoot fanned Carver’s flames a little more by taking a long pull from his canteen. It took him as much time as a man does to pull on his boots. Then he swallowed loudly and gave a big sigh of satisfaction, just for the hell of it.

  Henry Coleman looked on, his features betraying a deep annoyance at the way these peckerwoods were carrying on.

  Lightfoot, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was enjoying himself, offered his canteen to Carver, who slapped it out of his hand with an oath. Wingate, quick to react, kneed his horse between them, barking at Lightfoot and waving Carver down. “You got our attention, Jack! Start talkin’.”

  Lightfoot chuckled as he got down to retrieve his canteen. “Well, seems like there’s a good-sized bunch headin’ in the same direction as us.”

  “Reckon we oughta ease up a little,” Wingate asked, “so we don’t step on their heels?”

  “I’d recommend it,” Lightfoot said, “just to be on the safe side.”

  Wingate nodded and got down from his horse. He began to rummage through his saddlebags for the bottle he bought off Spivey. He turned back around with the cork in his teeth and spat it into his palm. “Well, now, let’s get outta these saddles for the time bein’. Jack? Dan? You fellas wanna settle your differences right here, you just have at it.”

  Carver, caught off guard by this unexpected offer, looked down at Lightfoot, at Wingate, then back again. He swung down with a calm that belied his eagerness to box Lightfoot’s ears.

  “How you want it, breed?” Carver asked, face split by an ugly grin. “Fists or knives?”

  Lightfoot answered by flinging his big skinning knife handle-up into the hard-packed earth. Although he was forty pounds lighter and much wirier than Carver, Lightfoot was apparently confident in his ability to handle himself in a bare-knuckle brawl.

  This seemed to amuse Carver like nothing else. He chuckled as he deliberately mimicked Lightfoot’s gesture—knife in the dirt—then moved in, pumping his fists. Lightfoot slid into a half-crouch, arms out, elbows tucked in close to the sides, his fingers curled like claws—more in a wrestling position than the stance needed for what Carver had in mind.

  When the bigger man seemed a breath away from taking the first swing, a blast from the barrel of Wingate’s gun kicked up dirt at his feet. Wingate fired again as he walked toward them, over Lightfoot’s head this time, and lifted his voice in a roar that could have come from Satan’s own mouth.

  “Enough!” By now he stood between the two and alternated holding his gun on Carver, then Lightfoot. “I can’t hardly believe this . . . When this is all over and done, if either of ye got enough steam left, you can go ahead and eat each other’s livers, for all I care. But fer the time bein’, cool down!” He paused, and when he saw that neither man wanted to continue, he said, “Now, I want you damn fools to shake hands.”

  When they had, however reluctantly, Wingate shoved his pistol back in its holster. “And get your asses back in the saddle,” he growled. “A few more miles won’t hurt us.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The sunlight of early afternoon drenched the sheer rock face to the left of the horseman and diamonded the dewy embankment of the creek beside which he rode. He was dozing in the saddle, the steady rocking of his animal putting him to sleep. Though the sun was shining, the air in the ravine was cold, and sweetened by the presence of the nearby water source. The rider had his coat buttoned all the way up, and the holster that usually rode against his thigh now rested in the V of his crotch.

  Somewhere up in the limbs of a desert willow, a mockingbird sang, further deepening the rider’s doze. As pleasant as it was, it was unfortunate for Johnny Blake. If he had his head up and his eyes peeled, he would have noticed the shadow moving stealthily through the brush on his right.

  In strides that could have been leaps, that shadow was on him, clasping the back of his gunbelt with one hand, shirt collar with the other, and jerking the boy from the back of his shrieking horse.

  Johnny found himself spread-eagle on his back in the grass, pinned to the dirt by a knee belonging to a man holding an enormous Bowie knife. In the silence, the bushwhacker and the bushwhacked stared at each other, trying to place faces. Johnny didn’t dare speak, as the blade was less than two inches from his jugular. At length, the man withdrew his knife just a hair and broke the silence.

  “You a long way from home, boy. You lost?”

  “No, sir, I ain’t lost.”

  The blade moved a tad farther back, but the pressure of the knee did not relent. “Oh! Well, that’s mighty good to hear. If you ain’t lost, then I guess that must mean you know where you’re headed. Where might that be?”

  “I’m bound for the hideout of the Avengin’ Angels.”

  “And just how would you be knowin’ the way to that?”

  Johnny cleared his throat. “I don’t, exactly, sir, but ever’one knows y’all headquarter somewhere hereabouts.”

  “How’s a kid like you have the sand to come here when every lawman in the state don’t?”

  “I ’spose it’s ’cause I got the ingredients, sir.”

  “Well, what’s your name, Mr. Ingredients?”

  “John. Johnny Blake.” He hesitated. “And—and you’re Leroy Brownwell, formerly of St. Louis, Missoura, who shot and killed Asa Grant in Tascosa in July of 1869. Knifed the U.S. marshal up in Fort Griffin back in ’72, and along with only Gabriel Kings and Dave Zeller, robbed the Wichita savings bank in ’73. Shot your way out of a hornet’s nest. Twenty-five-hundreddollar reward on your head, alive or dead.”

  Despite himself, Brownwell was impressed—and just a touch flattered. There seemed to be no high-and-mightiness to the youth, so he decided to hold off on dispatching him then and there. With a narrowing of his eyes, the Missourian sat back on his haunches but did not let Johnny Blake adopt a more comfortable position just yet.

  “Take a breath, there, John,” he said, “unless, o’ course, you’ve come a-callin’ after that bounty.” Again, he lifted his knife point, fixing it like a pistol sight on Blake’s nose. “You didn’t, didja?”

  “Hell, no, sir,” Johnny replied, having fortified his tone with as much strength as he could. He inched up to the props of his elbows—it was as far as Brownwell let him—and said again, “Hell, no! My intention was to ask, and if it comes to it, beg Gabriel Kings to let me ride alongside of y’all. I can shoot with the best,” he went on, “and I’m as darin’ and courageous a soul as you’ll ever come across. I know I ain’t exactly seasoned, but if I was just given the chance—”

  Brownwell stopped him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t go makin’ your case to me, kid. Save it for the chief.” He got up, slapped the dust from his knees, and watched as Johnny slowly did the same. As soon as the kid was on his feet, Brownwell moved with surprising quickness and plucked his gun from its holster.

  “Hey—!”

  “Hay’s for horses, sonny.” The outlaw casually examined the Colt, testing the action, spinning the cylinder. He listened with an approving ear to the buzzing noise it produced and was glad to see that there were no notches—genuine or otherwise—disfiguring the wooden grips. When he saw the weapon was fully loaded, he took the liberty of ejecting one slug, then lowered the hammer on the vacant chamber. He flipped the shell into Johnny’s open hand.

  Smiling, Brownwell shoved the gun behind his buckle. “All right. Let’s go see Kings.”

  He was seated at the head of the long table in the main cabin, staring at the door as if he’d been expecting Brownwell to haul Johnny through it that very second. It was more than a little alarming, though he didn’t look quite as striking as he had on the boardwalk in Refuge. As placid as he may have appeared in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, the look in Gabriel Kings’s eyes was no cooler than the tip of the smoldering cigar in the fingers of his right hand.

  Kings appraised Johnny in such a way that Johnny co
uldn’t tell whether he was more likely to shake his hand or shoot him. He’d shot men before, Johnny was sure, for much less than trespassing.

  Johnny allowed his eyes to pull away from Kings’s cat-still form and piercing gaze—no easy thing—and as they ventured about the place he saw enough guns to arm a small detachment of soldiers. They were on the table, standing in corners, hanging in belts over chairs, suspended over the fireplace. Johnny’s intrigue outweighed his anxiety for a fleeting moment, as he thought of what Kings must have had planned to have such an arsenal out in the open. He glanced about for the crates of explosives Tom Seward must have had stockpiled, but beyond the revolvers and repeaters, all he saw was Kings’s personal guard.

  Andy Yeager was at the table with Kings—Andy Yeager, who in 1875 shot dead the nephew of the mayor of Eagle Pass and was nearly hanged for it but sprung himself from jail the night before.

  Turning around from the fire with a coffeepot in his mitted hand was Sam Woods, and Dick Osborn was in a rocking chair to Johnny’s immediate right, running a cleansing rod down the barrel of a shotgun.

  And there Johnny stood, hat in hand, with an empty holster on his hip, unsure of what to say or how to say it.

  Brownwell made the introductions, pounding Johnny’s shoulder and announcing with a one-armed flourish, “Fellas, allow me to introduce Mr. Johnny Blake, who’s got a brain like an almanac and his heart set on throwin’ in with us.”

  Blake wouldn’t have been willing to lay a bet on it, but he thought he saw a light of amusement flicker briefly, then die in the eyes of Gabriel Kings. The outlaw slowly raised the cigar to his lips, sucked until the tip glowed like a ruby, and streamed smoke. Finally, he said, “I expected to see you a lot sooner, Johnny Blake.”

  “You—you did?”

  “Been a long time since Refuge. You get halfway home afore you decided to turn back?”

  In fact, the worsening condition of his saddle sores had delayed the mission longer than expected. Now appropriately medicated and having dispensed with his overalls in favor of tighter, duck-canvas trousers, Johnny realized that owning up to such a thing would hardly lend itself to a favorable impression in the eyes of these men. Instead, he merely stated, “It’s just that I come a long ways with one thing in mind, and I didn’t fancy goin’ back havin’ accomplished nothin’.”

  Yeager looked up. “You won’t accomplish much gettin’ your head blowed off by some spectacled posseman.”

  “There’s nothin’ big in knowin’ how to shoot a gun,” Kings said. “In takin’ life. In stealin’.”

  Johnny could do nothing but stare. What were they carrying on about? How could they talk like that? Their guns had gotten them everything they had: money without working, freedom in the face of infamy, legendary status in their own time.

  Kings’s voice turned colder. “You got no woman to come home to, no children to carry on your name. You’re lucky to have one safe place to lay your head, count your blessings if you got two. I hear the softest footsteps, even when there ain’t a soul around.”

  “This kind of livin’ ain’t cut out for everybody, kid,” Brown-well said solemnly from behind. “You ain’t got the guts God gave a razorback, you’re apt to get swallowed up. And there’s no goin’ back once you start.”

  The world seemed to grow smaller around Johnny Blake. The bleakness of their words confounded him. The way of living they’d described, these heroes of his, was a far cry from the tales he knew so well. He’d expected to bite an apple, to be welcomed wholeheartedly to the barrel, in fact. For what were these men—these veterans and Southern loyalists, heroes who’d rallied to the call while his cowardly father stayed home in the pulpit—but Robin Hoods misunderstood? Shouldn’t they have been eager to increase their numbers with likeminded souls?

  After a time, Brownwell spoke again. “Well, Kings, whatcha want me to do with this tyro? He’s found and seen a good deal of our little hideaway, and I doubt he’s losin’ his memory, sprout like him.”

  Johnny imagined being taken around back and laid low with that big knife, but Kings did not pass judgment straightaway. The man stood—slowly, as was his practice—and approached, not stopping until an arm’s length separated them.

  Even as Kings towered over him and searched every inch of his beardless face, Johnny sensed he had crossed some threshold. With every creeping second that passed, he allowed the spring wound tight around his body to loosen. He even raised his left hand to hook a thumb in his pocket. He settled onto his heels and willed his breath to leave and enter him more smoothly.

  Finally, just as he got his breathing level, Kings made a ruling. “Give the boy back his gun, Leroy. Sam, get ’im a drink, will you?”

  Brownwell frowned but pulled the pistol from his belt and tossed it back. Kings reached across the open floor to accept a cup of coffee from Woods, then transferred it to Johnny. The kid accepted the drink with a nod and waited until the man he hoped to follow pointed to the door he’d only just come through.

  Kings did not speak immediately but walked out ahead of Johnny, then kept walking as the kid followed close behind, ignoring the coffee in his hands. Kings stopped at the fringe of the yard, just where the cleared ground met the scrub grass, and the kid dared a few steps more until he was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.

  Johnny felt the stares of the others crowded in the doorway but allowed himself the fleeting fantasy of standing with Kings as an equal. He imagined himself sharing in the details of an upcoming heist, of being confided in with some entrenched worry, some tactical concern, and envisioned himself reassuring Kings that all would go according to plan, as they almost always did. He pictured another gun on his left hip and a full beard wreathing his face.

  With his eyes on the looming Chisos, Kings said, “Been a while since some would-be confederate came along, wantin’ to get in the gang, but I will say not a one of ’em ever knocked on our door like you have. Now, if you’ve studied my escapades as close as you make out, I reckon you know I’ve never been much for takin’ on hands I couldn’t swear by.” He paused to fix Johnny Blake with a look. “Every one of them ol’ boys inside, they know me and I know them.”

  Johnny nodded, mumbled, “Yessir.”

  Kings went on. “I can’t weigh the truth that’s in them dime novels about Gabe Kings and his Avengin’ Angels, but we go back to the same skirmishes, most of us, same blood-lettin’s of the late war. We can turn our backs to one another without fear of catchin’ a ball to the spine. That kind of trust ain’t cheaply bought.”

  He took a crunching step into the grass, and Johnny strode to keep up. “I admire the sand it took for you to ride in here, Johnny, but don’t you think of this here as two friends walkin’ down a promenade, sippin’ whiskey and talkin’ ’bout the old days. That ain’t what this is.”

  Kings rounded on him then, and his next words sank deep. “This here’s the last we ever speak on the subject of you joinin’ up with us. One way or t’other. Understand me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What I said in there—what we all said—still stands. What in the hell makes a kid like you wanna twist John Law’s tail and ride with men like us? Life on the farm that damn dull? The gals that ugly where you come from?”

  Johnny scuffed his toe in a patch of dirt. “I reckon it was, Mr. Kings, damn dull. And tell you the truth, I can’t say as I ever figgered myself for the settlin’ down type. Not if it meant turnin’ into the man my daddy become. Domesticated. Gutless. Couldn’t put his Bible aside to give the Yankees what-for, not even after they burnt down the home place and hanged Uncle Jim from the rafters.”

  “It wouldn’t have brung him back,” Kings said.

  Scared and feeling condescended to, Johnny Blake summoned a spark of temerity. “No more’n killin’ Clive Parker would’ve got back your birthright, Mr. Kings, you’ll pardon my sayin’ so.”

  Kings arched an eyebrow, but it wasn’t anger that showed in his face. What it was, Johnny could no
t suppose, but no bullet came, and he continued, adopting a deferential tone. He spoke of rejecting the future his father intended for him, of lighting out before he could be packed off to the seminary, and of one afternoon in Refuge’s Los Toritos Cantina when he’d overheard a regular say that a man with a striking resemblance to Gabriel Kings was known to periodically take up residence at Delilah Young’s Pearl Palace.

  “So what’d I do but rent out a room and wait. Wait, wait, and wait, till the day I saw you come out the front door. And not a moment too soon, Mr. Kings,” he grinned then, “as I’d durn near run outta coin.”

  Johnny’s attempt at charm was lost on Kings, who appeared perturbed. “You could’ve had a hell of a wait on your hands, boy,” he said dryly, dragging on his cigar. “We don’t water there all that often.”

  “Hell, I’d’ve waited till the census, if that’s what it took, sir. You’re all my daddy wasn’t.”

  Kings frowned at that. “No need to run your pa down any fu’ther, son.”

  “Well, could ya understand, Mr. Kings, why I weren’t too keen to turn back, even after what you told me on the steps of the Pearl Palace?”

  “I reckon so,” Kings granted. “But I still ain’t heard a good enough reason to give you a bunk in one of my cabins. You already proved you got the grit to brave these canyons, and I recall you said you can shoot. Hell, most boys in Texas can.”

  Johnny shrugged. “I got no place else to go.”

  “That don’t mean you belong here!” Kings’s voice rose to a rough pitch as he flung the cigar into the dirt. “You stood where I’m standin’ now, boy, you’d know how true that is. Now you best think up a better reason than that, or this conversation’s spent.”

  The words stung. Johnny kept a tight grip on himself but could not meet the outlaw’s eye. He had an eerie feeling that his next words might be his last. Spreading his hands, he spoke resolutely. “I’ve none to offer, Mr. Kings, save that I ain’t goin’ back, and I ain’t settlin’ for anythin’ short of my purpose. I reckon you’re gonna have to kill me here to get shed of me. I only ask, sir, that if that’s what you elect to do, you oblige Mr. Brownwell to keep his knife where it’s at. Gun me down proper, nice and clean.”