They Came to Kill

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Fletch hauled back on the reins, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop, and lunged against Garazano, ramming his shoulder into the officer’s chest. “Get off my wagon!”

  Taken by surprise, Garazano rocked back from the impact. He tried to catch his balance but was unable to. His plumed hat sailed off his head as he toppled off the seat and fell to the ground next to the wagon’s front wheel on that side. Grayish dust billowed up around him.

  Though he looked startled and shaken by the fall, Garazano stayed on the ground only for a second. He sprang up, jerked his saber from its scabbard, and charged at Fletch as he yelled a curse in Spanish.

  CHAPTER 41

  Fletch was already twisting around on the wagon seat and clawing at the revolver on his hip. Preacher jabbed his heels into Horse’s flanks and the big stallion leaped forward. Garazano might have been outraged by what he considered an insult to his honor and his person, but that didn’t matter when he was about to be trampled. He stopped short and threw himself backward, out of Horse’s way.

  Preacher wheeled Horse around sharply and put the both of them between Fletch and the Mexican officer.

  “Hold it right there, mister!” he told Garazano. His right hand hovered near the butt of the Dragoon on that side. He didn’t want to shoot Garazano, but he would if the man tried to stab him with that pigsticker.

  Shooting a Mexican army officer might wind up starting a war, but at the moment, Preacher didn’t much care.

  Garazano’s face was dark with anger. He was so mad he was trembling. With a visible effort, he controlled his emotions and lowered the saber.

  Without looking around, Preacher said, “Fletch, if you pulled that hogleg, you just go ahead and pouch it. This ruckus is over.”

  “No!” Garazano said. “I demand satisfaction!”

  “You can demand up one way and down the other, Capitan, but you and Fletch ain’t gonna kill each other. Now, why don’t you get on your horse and go back to your men?”

  “You cannot give me orders! This is Mexico! I am in charge!”

  The Wylie wagon was in the lead, so when it had come to a halt, the surveyors’ wagon was forced to stop, too. Jamie had noticed that something was going on, and he rode back hurriedly to find out what it was.

  “Captain Garazano, are you all right?” he asked.

  Garazano pointed his saber at Fletch and said, “That man attacked me!”

  “I told you I didn’t need your help, and I didn’t want you on my wagon,” Fletch flared back at him. “So I pushed you off. Anyway, we all know you didn ’t want to help me with the mules. You just wanted to leer at my wife!”

  “How dare you! I demand we settle this like men—”

  “We’re American citizens, Captain,” Jamie said, not bothering to keep the dislike out of his voice. “We may be in Mexico, but we’re not under your command. And you don’t have any right to come between a man and his wife. If you were a gentleman as well as an officer, you’d know that.”

  Garazano’s lip curled at Jamie’s scathing words. It was even money whether he would be able to control his temper, but before the matter could be decided one way or the other, a burst of gunfire came from somewhere back up the trail.

  Garazano exclaimed something in Spanish as he jerked around in that direction. The other members of Jamie’s party, who had been watching the confrontation with interest, stiffened in their saddles and looked toward the shooting, as well.

  “Sounds like a little war done broke out,” Tennysee said.

  “My men must be under attack.” Garazano glanced back and forth between Fletch, Preacher, and Jamie, and back up the trail toward the spot where he had left the patrol. The anger he felt warred with loyalty to his men.

  Loyalty won. Garazano rammed the saber back into its scabbard and ran toward his horse, which shied away from him. He cursed again and tried to grab the dangling reins.

  Another sound made the men turn and look ahead toward the south. Ramirez galloped around the next bend in the trail. The Mexican gunslinger was bent low over his horse’s neck as he urged the animal on.

  Shots came from that direction as well. Powder smoke jetted from behind outcroppings in the wasteland of lava sloping up on both sides of the trail. No ambushers were visible, but they were there, the volley of gunfire left no doubt of that.

  As Ramirez neared the wagons, he jerked in the saddle and almost toppled off, maintaining his grip at the last second. But as he came on, he slumped instead of leaning forward deliberately. He swayed back and forth, indicating the precariousness of his position.

  Preacher could tell the gunslinger was wounded but not how badly. He kneed Horse into motion again and rode hard to meet Ramirez. Preacher might not like the man, but Ramirez was one of them.

  Garazano finally brought his horse under control and mounted, swiftly but awkwardly. He wasn’t too steady in the saddle, either, as he raced back in the direction he’d come from.

  Meanwhile, Jamie shouted, “Take cover!” at his companions.

  Fletch dived into the back of the wagon with Clementine, while Noah Stuart and Chester Merrick scrambled over the seat into the back of their vehicle. The mountain men, the Molmberg brothers, and the half-breed Comanche all left their saddles in a hurry and sought shelter behind rocks or the two wagons.

  As Jamie turned his horse in a tight circle, he drew his Walker Colt and thumbed off a couple of shots into the rocks on both sides of the trail. He didn’t figure he would hit anything unless he was incredibly lucky, but at least maybe he would make the attackers keep their heads down.

  Those hidden riflemen had to be Perro Blanco’s men. Jamie wouldn’t have thought the Apaches had that many rifles among them, but evidently they did. And they were putting the weapons to good use.

  One of the Molmbergs grabbed his right leg and toppled over. Blood spread darkly on his trouser leg as his sibling grabbed hold of him and dragged him underneath the surveyors’ wagon. Jamie didn’t know how badly the wounded man was hit, but both brothers were out of the fight.

  He had known they were running a risk when they’d entered the badlands. This wild, rugged stretch was a good spot for an ambush, and sure enough, the Apaches thought so, too.

  Preacher and Ramirez reached the Wylie wagon. In a display of agility unusual in a man of his age, Preacher dropped off Horse’s back while the stallion was still moving. He caught Ramirez as the gunslinger finally tumbled out of the saddle. Ramirez tried to stay on his feet, but Preacher had to practically carry him to the wagon and help him crawl underneath it.

  The shooting from the rocks came to an abrupt stop, almost as if someone had given a signal for the ambushers to hold their fire. Maybe someone had. Perro Blanco might have done it.

  That didn’t mean the fight was over, though. The Apaches probably had a limited amount of powder and shot and didn’t want to waste ammunition. After only a couple of seconds, arrows began to rain down on the wagons and the area around them.

  One of the arrows struck a board in the side of the Wylie wagon and embedded itself there, only a few inches from Preacher’s head as he straightened from helping Ramirez get under the wagon. The shaft hung there, quivering from the impact.

  Preacher turned, palmed out the right-hand Dragoon, and looked up into the rocks in the direction the arrow had come from. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of one of the attackers as the man shifted slightly to get a better angle with the arrow he was aiming at Preacher.

  That proved to be a fatal mistake. The mountain man’s gun came up almost faster than the eye could follow and flame shot out from its muzzle. Preacher had fired by instinct, not taking the time to aim, but his eyes, nerves, and muscles were in perfect coordination, as always. The heavy ball smashed through the Apache’s bow and ripped into his throat. Preacher saw blood spray high in the air as the man went over backward.

  Another Apache fell forward over a rock as a shot found him, and then a third man went down as well, rolling into plain sigh
t from behind the rocks where he’d concealed himself. The Apaches were better than just about anybody when it came to not being seen unless they wanted to be, but as dangerous as they were, the members of Jamie’s group were their equal when it came to fighting. They were warriors, too.

  At least most of them were. Sporadic, ineffective shots came from inside the surveyors’ wagon.

  Jamie rode up beside it, dropped off his horse, and called through the opening at the front, “Save your bullets if you don’t have a clear shot.”

  “We’re trapped here!” Chester Merrick squealed as he huddled over the shotgun he clutched. He hadn’t fired it yet. “We have to get out of here!”

  “There’s no place to go right now.” Jamie lifted the Walker Colt and triggered another shot. He had spotted only a few inches of an Apache’s shoulder up in the rocks, but that was enough. The shoulder jerked and blood flew as the bullet smashed it. “If we want to go anywhere, we’ll have to fight our way out!”

  That wouldn’t be easy. The Apaches knew these badlands much better than their foes. They had picked a good spot for their attack.

  Jamie heard a rumbling sound over the continuing blast of gunfire and turned his head in that direction. His rugged features twisted into a grimace As he turned his head in that direction, his rugged features twisted into a grimace. The sound was unmistakable. Hoofbeats, a lot of them. A large group of riders was about to sweep around that bend in the trail and come pounding down on the defenders.

  Would it be the Mexican patrol, fleeing from the ambush?

  Or had they been wiped out, and Perro Blanco’s Apaches were about to overrun Jamie, Preacher, and their companions?

  CHAPTER 42

  Capitan Enrique Garazano led the charge of riders around the bend toward the wagons. That was a relief, Jamie supposed, but not much of one. Less than half the patrol followed Garazano. The other officer, Lieutenant Bernardo, was nowhere in sight, and chances were that he had been killed in the fight.

  Garazano had a streak of bright blood on his face but didn’t appear to be badly wounded. A couple of the men following him looked to be hurt, though, and were barely staying in their saddles. In fact, one of them suddenly toppled off and landed in a loose-limbed sprawl that meant death had caught up to him despite his frantic flight.

  The soldiers converged on the wagons. The sturdy vehicles were the best cover around. They rushed up and dismounted so hurriedly and haphazardly that several of them fell down. The scene might have been funny had it not been so deadly serious.

  As one trooper struggled back to his feet, an arrow struck him in the right side of his neck and drove all the way through, the bloody arrowhead emerging on the left side. The man’s eyes grew incredibly wide, and he pawed at his throat as his mouth opened and blood gushed out. He stumbled forward a couple of steps and then fell on his face.

  Another man shrieked as an arrow hit him the back. He tried to reach behind him and pull it loose but slowly twisted to the ground as his strength deserted him.

  Everyone else managed to scramble to cover either underneath or beside the wagons, joining the members of Jamie’s group who were already there. With ambushers on both sides of the road, it was difficult to find a place that promised even a little safety, but Jamie thought the steady and deadly accurate fire of his friends was having an effect. Fewer arrows were flying down from the rocks.

  The Apaches had no stomach for long battles, Jamie knew. They liked to hit their enemies quick and hard and then fade away until the next attack. That seemed on the verge of happening.

  Clutching the saber, Garazano moved alongside Jamie as they crouched next to a wagon wheel. Panting slightly, the officer said, “My men . . . so many of them dead. Bernardo went down in the first volley. We never should have come into this hellhole! This is your fault, MacCallister!”

  “You didn’t have to follow us,” Jamie said. “That was your own choice.” He thumbed off another shot but couldn’t tell if it hit any of the Apaches. Then with a cold smile, he went on. “Anyway, you wanted to find Perro Blanco. I reckon there’s a good chance he’s up there somewhere.”

  “I’m getting out of here,” Garazano said with a note of hysteria edging into his voice. He sounded oddly like Chester Merrick. “We have no chance if we stay here like this, pinned down.”

  “We can wait them out—” Jamie began.

  “No! The savages will kill us all if we stay!” A cunning light entered the officer’s eyes. “I will take Señora Wylie and get her to safety.”

  “You stay away from that woman,” Jamie snapped.

  Garazano lifted the saber. “You do not give me orders, you filthy gringo!”

  “Don’t wave that pigsticker at me,” Jamie warned. He didn’t want to shoot Garazano, but he would if it was necessary to protect Clementine.

  The tense confrontation between the two men ended abruptly as Greybull boomed, “Here they come!”

  Jamie whirled around and saw that instead of giving up, as he had hoped they would in the face of such stiff resistance, the Apaches were attempting a last-ditch, all-out attack, dozens of them swarming down out of the rocks to battle hand to hand with the defenders clustered around the wagons.

  “Let ’em have it!” Jamie bellowed. The Colt roared and bucked in his hand as he fired the remaining two rounds in it. An Apache went down with each shot.

  Preacher appeared at Jamie’s side with a Dragoon in each fist. Shots rolled like thunder as he scythed hot lead through the attackers. Then the Dragoons’ hammers clicked on empty chambers, and Preacher holstered the weapons smoothly, drawing his bowie knife instead.

  “Wish I had my old tomahawk, too,” the mountain man said with a grim smile and the light of battle blazing in his eyes.

  Beside him, Jamie had already drawn his knife, and to Jamie’s left, Garazano stood with the saber poised. The three of them were ready when the tide of bloodthirsty Apaches rolled up to them.

  A fight at close quarters was always bloody chaos.

  Garazano hacked and slashed at the warriors, trying to hold them off as they clustered around him. He was good with the saber. Blood sprayed as the blade ripped across one man’s throat, and then another of Garazano’s swings connected with an Apache’s wrist with enough force that it sheared through flesh and bone and the warrior’s hand flew off, still clutching a knife. The man reeled back, waving the crimson-spurting stump, his scream cut short by Garazano’s saber splitting his skull.

  One of the Apaches leaped at Jamie, knife raised high to come down in a killing stroke, but Jamie caught the man’s wrist and stopped it as the blade swooped toward him. At the same time, he thrust his bowie up at an angle into the man’s chest, penetrating to the heart. The Apache’s eyes widened in the shock of impending death. Jamie pulled the knife free and shoved the dying man into the path of two more warriors whose feet tangled with him. One of those men toppled forward out of control, unable to keep his balance, and Jamie was ready for him. The bowie sliced through his left eye, grating on the bone of the socket, and lanced on into the brain. Gray matter clung to the blade as Jamie yanked it out.

  Preacher kicked a man in the groin, and as the Apache bent over involuntarily, the mountain man chopped down on the back of his neck with his bowie, cutting so deep that the blade severed the spine. The warrior flopped bonelessly to the ground. Another Apache hurtled over him, screaming in hate as he thrust a knife at Preacher. Preacher swept the blade aside with his left arm and drove the bowie into the man’s wide-open mouth, all the way through to the back of the neck. He yanked the knife from side to side as he withdrew it, cutting a ghastly grin into the dying man’s face.

  Bodies piled up around the three men as they fought, making it more difficult for the remaining Apaches to reach them. Jamie, Preacher, and Garazano all suffered minor wounds as they battled the copper-skinned horde, but they were still on their feet, still fighting. Jamie had no idea how the rest of the bloody fracas was going. There was no time to even wond
er about it. All his attention was focused on avoiding the Apaches’ knifes, axes, and lances and dealing out death strokes of his own.

  The clamor of rage-filled screams filled the air. Shots still blasted. The scattergun boomed as Chester Merrick finally got into the fight. The sharp reek of freshly spilled blood stung the nose. It was like being trapped in a madhouse with gore-dripping walls steadily closing in.

  Then the crazed cacophony suddenly fell away. Apache warriors turned and fled instead of continuing the fight. They bounded over rocks and disappeared into the wasteland of ancient lava. The price for defeating the enemy had been too high, and they weren’t going to keep paying it.

  Jamie and Preacher had backed against the wagon. They leaned on the vehicle as their chests heaved from the exertion of battle. Garazano was beside them. He braced himself with his left hand against the wagon while the right clutched the saber. Crimson dripped from the curved blade.

  Jamie looked around. Apache bodies littered the ground on both sides of the wagons. Several of the Mexican soldiers sprawled lifelessly among the dead warriors.

  “Audie! Nighthawk!” Preacher called to his longtime friends. “Are you boys all right?”

  From underneath the other wagon, Audie replied, “We’re here, Preacher, and unharmed, for the most part.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk confirmed.

  “What about the rest of the fellas?”

  Audie came out from under the wagon and said, “I’ll check on everyone.”

  Captain Garazano was steady enough on his feet now that he was able to stop leaning on the wagon and straighten up. He drew his sleeve across his sweaty face, smearing the blood from a scratch on his cheek. Then he glared at Jamie and Preacher and said, “Enough of this madness! You and all your men will leave Mexico immediately—”

  With a faint fluttering sound, an arrow flew from somewhere and slammed into the officer’s chest. The impact drove Garazano back against the wagon. He hung there for a moment, his eyes bugging out as he lowered his head and stared in disbelief at the shaft buried in his body. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no sound emerged.