A Time to Slaughter (16 page)

People were yelling and feet pounded in the street. Somewhere a man yelled, “Here, that won't do!” and another voice cried, “Get the sheriff!”

Jacob had a deep distrust of lawmen and the last thing he wanted was to answer a bunch of fool questions. He rose to his feet and was relieved to see that no one was looking in his direction as overly excited people ran around like headless chickens.

Keeping to the shadows he made his way back to the livery and left the hubbub behind him.

Miles Marshwood stood at the stable door. “What's all the shooting about?”

“Beats me.” Jacob shrugged his shoulders.

“You got mud on you.”

“I tripped. Drank too much, I guess.”

Under his ragged mustache, Marshwood's mouth pruned in disapproval. “Sonny, in my time I seen more drunk men than I care to remember. You're not drunk or even close.”

“All right then. Somebody took a shot at me.”

“Who?”

“Hell if I know. It's dark out there.”

“Was you askin' too many questions at the Lucky Lady?”

“Just one too many, about Zeb Moss. So, yeah, I guess I did.”

“I warned you, didn't I? Did you get any answers?”

“No. But a gal in the saloon tried to pick my pocket.”

“She get your poke?”

“I don't keep money here.” Jacob's fingers strayed to the pocket of his mackinaw. He heard a brief crinkle of paper. “Hey, maybe she gave me money.”

But it wasn't a banknote. The wrinkled scrap of paper had a single word written on it.
SONORA
.

Marshwood looked over Jacob's shoulder. “Hell, boy, that's in Old Mexico. Why would she write that?”

“Maybe it's where Zeb Moss was headed . . . and probably my brother.”

“I'd guess that little gal at the saloon likes you.”

“I doubt it.” Jacob said. “More likely she doesn't like what Moss does to women.”

“Well, I can tell you this, young feller, Zeb Moss had no reason to head fer Sonora, no reason at all. Hell, boy, there's nothing there but mountains and deserts. Seen it with my own eyes years ago, and I doubt if the place has improved since.”

“It's the only lead I've got,” Jacob said. “And the woman risked her life to give me this paper. That means something.”

“Unless she wanted to throw you off the track.”

“Then why be so secretive about it? All she needed to say was that Zeb Moss is headed for Sonora and I would've believed her.”

“You're rolling the dice, O'Brien. But hell, take the chance. You sure as hell ain't going to get anywhere pokin' around here. And next time the ranny who tries to bushwhack you won't miss.”

Jacob stuck the note back in his pocket. “Where do I get a train for Sonora?”

The older man glanced at his watch. “There's a flier leaves here for Albuquerque in an hour. From there you can catch a southbound on the Santa Fe line. I don't know any better than that.”

“It's enough. I'm beholden to you.” Jacob shook the hostler's hand.

“Hell, you didn't stay long.”

“Maybe too long.”

Frozen stiff by a cutting wind, his face black with soot from the locomotive's belching chimney, Shawn O'Brien was relieved when the train clanked to a halt at a water tower a mile south of the Texas border. A couple of minutes later the Pullman's door opened and Zeb Moss stepped onto the platform with Silas Creeds.

Moss smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen, and how was your trip?”

Shawn's jaw felt as though it was frozen in place, but he managed to say, “What do you think, Moss?”

“Uncomfortable, were we? Well, we will be at our destination soon.” Moss nodded to where the track made a V with another. “The rails that swing to the left head due south along the Magdalena River, and that's the route we'll take.”

Shawn worked his jaw a few moments, then asked, “What's your game, Moss?”

“Game? Mr. O'Brien, it's no game. There's money at stake. Oh, and your life, too. But then you already know that.”

“Why Sonora? What's in Sonora that you want so badly?

“You'll learn the answer to that question soon. If you live that long, of course.”

“Zeb, cut me loose,” Uriah Tweedy suggested. “I'm no part of this.”

Moss shook his head. “Tweedy, Mr. Creeds informs me that you're a nasty old man and as mean as a teased rattler. I'm sorry, but I believe you're in cahoots with O'Brien, no matter how much you deny it.”

“I'm a prisoner of circumstances, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy complained. “Yup, that's what I am, a prisoner of circumstances.”

“And a hostage to fortune, no doubt,” Moss said.

“Whatever that means, Mr. Moss, no truer words have ever been spoke. At least in this part of the country.”

Moss laughed. “You amuse me, Tweedy, so maybe I'll let you live.” He slapped his hands together. “Now for some good news. I've ordered coffee for all three of you and one of my ladies will be here directly to serve it. Your hands will be unbound for a while. How is that for a magnanimous gesture?”

“Mag . . . magin . . . just what you said, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy said. “It's true blue as ever was. Can I call you Zeb?”

“No.”

“Magnanimous means generous, Mr. Tweedy,” Uriah Lowth explained.

“Yeah, it was that, too,” Tweedy added.

Moss laughed again and stepped back into his private car.

 

 

An older man who seemed affable enough untied Shawn's hands. “They say there are still some renegade Apaches down this way, but I don't put any store in that talk. I fit Apaches one time, but I didn't make a go of it and they stole my mule right out from under my nose. Those savages are right partial to mule meat and they must've dined well that night.”

Shawn had the Irishman's love of a good story and fine-sounding words and under normal circumstances he would've wanted to hear the gray-haired man's tale, but he contented himself with saying, “You're lucky you still have your hair.”

The man nodded. “Well, what's left of it, anyway.”

His companion was of a different breed. Barely out of his teens, he was trying to grow a man's mustache, but only a downy shadow covered his top lip. His green eyes were older and carried the scars of ancient wounds, and he wore a two-gun rig, seldom seen at that time in the West. Shawn guessed he'd be a Kid of some kind—plenty of those around—and he'd be mighty sudden with the iron . . . and merciless.

As though confirming Shawn's thoughts, the affable man introduced him. “This here is the Topock Kid and he'll be your chaperone.” He smiled. “Don't let that baby face fool you, he's pure pizen. Killed his own pa with a wood ax when he was barely out of knee britches. Didn't you, Kid?”

“Keep it up old man, and you'll join him,” the Topock Kid growled.

“See what I mean.” The affable man stepped into the Pullman car. He seemed glad to leave.

“You drink your coffee and Masters will come back to tie you up again,” the Kid said. “I see any fancy moves and I'll shoot you in the belly.”

“Hey Kid,” Tweedy said, “did you really take an ax to your pa?”

“No. It was a mattock. I bashed his skull in with the flat end.”

“I guess you didn't like him much, huh?” Shawn assumed.

“No, I didn't, and I don't like you, either, O'Brien, so shut your damned trap.”

“Ah, Mr. Topock, I think you meant to say the adze end,” Lowth put in. “A mattock is a farm tool, right?”

“Hangman, are you trying to be funny?” the Kid said, his eyes ugly.

Lowth was spared having to answer. The car door opened and Julia Davenport stepped onto the platform, a tray in her hands. Deep shadows appeared under her eyes and she looked thinner. The dress she wore was stained and torn and the cups on the cheap tin tray rattled as her hands shook.

Shawn tried to rise, but the Kid snarled at him to stay the hell where he was.

“How are you, Julia?” Shawn asked carefully.

The woman angled a short, fearful look at the Moss gunman before replying, “I'm just fine, Shawn.”

“No you're not,” Shawn said. “You look tired.”

“I'm fine,” Julia said again.

Tweedy smiled. “I'm right happy to see you again, Trixie.”

Julia managed a slight smile in return. “How are you, Uriah?”

“Never better.”

Julia handed Tweedy a cup and poured coffee for him. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“That's enough talk,” the Kid ordered. “Pour the coffee, woman, then light a shuck.”

“Trixie, have they done something bad to you?” Tweedy said, ignoring the youngster. “Have you been abused by Zeb Moss?”

“No, Uriah, nothing bad has happened to me, nothing at all.”

“If they did—”

“If they did, what would you do abut it, pops?” the Kid said, sneering.

“Something real mean, sonny,” Tweedy snarled. “Something I done a few times afore when I felt that way.”

“Uriah,” Julia said, “I'm fine, honestly. Look out for yourself.”

“Listen to the little lady, old man.” The Kid grinned and slammed a boot into Tweedy's thigh.

It was a bad mistake.

Moving faster than an old man with the rheumatisms should, Tweedy grabbed the Kid's leg and sank his teeth into the gunman's shin.

Like the others, the Topock Kid conformed to Moss's dress code and affected the elegant broadcloth and elastic-sided boots of a prosperous city businessman. There was no leather between the Kid's shin and Tweedy's strong teeth, and the old man bit deep. The Kid tried to kick him off as he would a cur dog, but Tweedy held on tight and gnawed . . . and gnawed....

Screaming, the Kid's hand flashed for one of his holstered guns.

Shawn anticipated the move and sprang at the man. He grabbed the youngster's lapels and smashed his forehead down on the bridge of the Kid's nose. It was a move Luther Ironside called a “Johnny Reb Kiss,” and it dropped the man real quick.

Splattered with the Kid's blood, bone, and snot, Shawn felt the gunman go limp as his eyes rolled back in his head. “Uriah, let go of his leg!”

Tweedy released the Kid's shin like a rabid hound, his mouth and mustache crimson with blood.

“Move an inch, and by God I'll scatter your brains.”

The Colt muzzle pressed against his temple and the tone of the affable man's voice convinced Shawn that it was not a good time to make a play. He opened his fingers and let the Topock Kid drop to the platform floor.

The affable man stared into Shawn's eyes. “I'm not a threatening man by nature,”—his gun didn't waver—“but right now, O'Brien, you're just a holler and a half from death.”

“What happened here?” Zeb Moss said, stepping onto the platform. He looked down at the moaning Kid and back up. “Mr. Masters, who did this?”

“Your man O'Brien did the nose breaking. The old-timer was the leg chewer.”

Moss glared at Julia. “Did you have any part in this, Trixie?”

Shawn spoke before she could. “She had no part in it, Moss. We were trying to escape.”

Moss's face was black with anger. “I regret keeping you alive, O'Brien. I regret it deeply.” He looked down at the Kid again. His head rolled on his shoulders and both his eyes were black and swollen shut. “Get him to his feet, Mr. Masters. When the hell can he handle a gun again?”

“Two, three days,” Masters said. “Maybe longer. He's pretty bust up, Mr. Moss.”

“Damn it. We meet up with the Arabs tomorrow morning. I can't afford to lose men now.”

“We're getting thin on the ground, right enough,” Masters agreed. “The Kid is one of the best there is.”

“Then see that he's well enough to gun fight by tomorrow, damn it. I don't give a damn how you do it, but get it done.”

Silas Creeds had stepped outside, crowding the platform. He'd heard the last of the conversation. “What about him?” He nodded in Shawn's direction.

Moss scowled, a man torn by indecision. Finally he said, “We need his gun.”

“He won't fight for us, boss,” Creeds pointed out.

“No, he won't. But he'll fight to save his own skin.” Moss took Julia by the arm and pushed her toward the door. “Get inside, you.” To Creeds he said, “Tell the engineer to get this damned train moving. We've tarried here long enough.”

“What about O'Brien and them?” Masters asked.

“Tie them up again. We'll release them when we get to the end of the line.”

Creeds stood at the top of car's iron steps, then turned his head and for the first time expressed doubt about what they were facing. “Boss, can we do the job with what we have?”

“We'll need to, Mr. Creeds. If we can't, by this time tomorrow we'll all be dead.”

“All is ready to welcome the Christian devils?” Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim asked.

Hassan Najid nodded. “As soon as they arrive, a table of salted beef and sweetmeats will be laid out for them, great lord.”

“And rum? I want the infidels to get drunk as hogs.”

“Two casks.” Najid smiled. “Rum enough for ten times their number.”

Hakim smiled. “And what of Abdullah, our brave warrior of Islam? He does not falter in his resolve?”

“No, sir. He eagerly looks forward to paradise and the company of many virgins.”

“Then all is well.” In a giving mood, Hakim said, “The Chinese girl I gave you, the one who will assist our holy martyr, did you enjoy her?”

“She amused me for an hour or two, lord,” Najid replied. “I will use her again.”

“Good, good. Then that pleases me.”

Hakim turned, stared out at the Gulf, and a frown gathered between his eyebrows.

Attuned to his master's slightest swings in mood, Najid bent at the waist in question. “Something troubles you, lord?”

It took a few moments before the sheik answered. With some reluctance, he admitted, “The sea troubles me, Hassan.”

Najid was perplexed. “But, sire, you are the finest sailor in all of Islam.” The man's voice rose into a shout. “You are the Sea Falcon, scourge of all the oceans of the world.”

As Najid knew they would, the sailors lounging nearby wildly cheered their captain.

After the noise died away, Hakim stood in thought, then said, “Here is a story, Najid. Once I met an old man in Jeddah who years before had lost both his legs to a shark. He told me that his fishing boat sank and, being a fine swimmer, he struck out for a distant shore. Now here is the interesting part—he told me he knew there was a shark in the water stalking him long before the beast attacked. He said he couldn't see the shark or smell it, but he knew it was there, lurking unseen. Is that not strange, Hassan?”

“Indeed, lord, but what unseen thing troubles you so? Is it the American warship?”

Hakim waved a dismissive hand. “Pah. I do not fear the American carrion dogs. They are women.”

“Then what, sire?”

“I do not know. But it is out there in the deep and it stares at me with white, shining eyes as big as food platters.”

“Aye, my lord is indeed troubled in his soul. But once we kill the Americans and take their women, all will be well.”

Hakim nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Hassan. Allah willing, this will pass.”

 

 

Commander John Sherburne watched with approval as sailors polished the lenses of the two huge searchlights on either side of the bridge. The
Kansas
now had eyes to see in the dark.

“We'll give then a try tonight, Mr. Wilson,” Sherburne said. “I suspect that's when the rats come out of their holes.”

“Indeed, Captain,” Lieutenant Wilson agreed.

“I thought those lights were just so much damned ballast when I saw them loaded. Now they may prove their worth.”

“Indeed, Captain.”

The commander smiled. “You are still of the opinion that the Arab scow has left the gulf.”

Wilson took the smile to mean that he could be frank. “Sir, I believe she's halfway to the East African coast by this time.”

“Then we'll agree to disagree, Mr. Wilson.” Sherburne took a flask from his pocket. “You still don't indulge?”

“No, sir. I promised my betrothed that my lips—”

“Yes. You told me that already.” Sherburne took a swig and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Give Sergeant Monroe my compliments and tell him I want his marines on deck tonight with full equipment. If we light up the enemy, the marines get a chance to land. I'll command the marine detachment myself.”

“You, sir?”

“Me, sir.”

“I'm sorry, I just meant . . . well, you're the captain and—”

“If I fall in the battle, Mr. Wilson, you are quite competent to take over command.”

“Thank you, sir. But I'd rather hoped to command the marines myself.”

“Why, Mr. Wilson? Glory? Promotion? Your name in the newspapers?”

His earnest round face flushed, Wilson said, “All of those things, sir.”

Sherburne pretended an anger he didn't feel. “Be damned to you, sir. You're trying to usurp my command.”

Wilson was flustered. “No, sir. Not at all, sir. I mean—”

“Go relay my order to Sergeant Monroe.”

“Aye, aye, sir. At once, sir.” Wilson hurried away as fast as his stocky legs could carry him, but Sherburne's voice stopped him. “Oh, and Mr. Wilson . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell Sergeant Monroe that you will lead the marine detachment should it land.”

A grin split Wilson's face. “Yes, indeed, sir.”