A Time to Slaughter (17 page)

The railroad line to the Sonora coast headed straight as a string due south, skirting the timbered foothills of the Sierra Nevada.

Shawn and the others remained bound on the Pullman's platform throughout the dark night, red hot cinders stinging them like hornets. No more coffee—or water, either—was forthcoming. Shawn's mouth was dry and he was wishful for an ice-cold beer and maybe a steak burned black as charcoal to go with it.

“Hey, O'Brien,” Uriah Tweedy raised his voice above the racketing roar of the train. He waited until he saw the white blur of Shawn's face turn in his direction and said, “I hope you didn't think I was turning yeller on you.”

“It has occurred to me,” Shawn replied “More than once, I'd say.”

“Hell, boy, one of us had to be on the loose if we was to have any chance of escape. I figured ol' Zeb would trust me.”

“You thought wrong, Mr. Tweedy,” Thaddeus Lowth pointed out. “And that was most unfortunate.”

“Was it foolish of me to think otherwise, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked. “Under the circumstances, like?”

“A drowning man will clutch at a straw, Mr. Tweedy. There's no blame in that.”

“True spoken words as always, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said.

Lowth directed his attention to Shawn. “What will become of us, Mr. O'Brien?”

“I don't know.”

“But I think you have a good idea.”

“So do you, Thaddeus.”

Lowth hesitated a moment, then said aloud what he'd been thinking. “After Moss trades his women to the Arabs, he has no need to keep us alive.”

“That pretty much nails it,” Shawn agreed.

“But Zeb keeps saying he needs your gun, O'Brien,” Tweedy said. “How do you explain that?”

“Maybe he thinks the slavers will try to cheat him and take his women by force.” Shawn's voice was reduced to a dry croak.

“Whatever happens, I'll save Miss Trixie Lee,” Tweedy said. “Even if I got to use my teeth on some other gunman.”

Shawn smiled. “Bide your time, Uriah. We may come to that pass.”

The car door opened and Masters stepped onto the platform carrying a jug. “I brought you men water.”

“About time,” Tweedy complained. “We're dyin' here.”

Masters smiled under his mustache. “Chawin' a man's leg off give you a thirst, old-timer?”

“Hell yeah. I'm thirsty enough to suckle a she cougar.”

Masters looked at him in amazement. “You ever done that?”

“Only a couple times up in the high Teton country. I never did cotton to it as steady grub, like.”

Masters put the spout of the jug to Tweedy's mouth and the old man drank deep. He nodded to Masters. “Thankee, kindly.”

As Shawn drank in turn, Masters made a bit of conversation. “We'll be near the Gulf of California coast soon. It's rugged, dry country, or so they tell me.”

“How do we get there?” Shawn asked as Lowth took his turn. “All the way on this train?”

“No, just part of the way. The boss says there'll be a welcoming committee camped out by the rails waiting for us. They'll lead us to the slavers' camp.”

“Doesn't it bother you, trading in human flesh?” Lowth wondered.

Masters shook his head. “I can't say that it does. Man pays me well for my gun, I go with the flow and mind my own business.”

“It's a way, I suppose,” Shawn said. “It's not my way, but it's a way.”

“In my profession, it's the only way. And before you ask, I sleep just fine o' nights.” Masters held up the jug. “All right, gentlemen, one more go-round, then you're done.”

 

 

The dragon hiss of venting steam and the clang of the locomotive's bell woke Shawn O'Brien from a shallow doze. To his surprise the night had shaded into dawn and a light rain fell, blowing off a frontal storm in the North Pacific. He lifted his face to the drizzle, enjoying its coolness.

The carriage door slammed open and Silas Creeds scowled. “All right, end of the line.”

Using the Barlow in his hand, he cut Shawn and the others free. “On your feet.”

It took only a fraction of a second for Creeds to reach into the pockets of his coat and come up with his Lightning revolvers. “Down the steps, then stand against the carriage with your hands where I can see them.”

Shawn was stiff, Lowth stiffer, and Tweedy stiffer still. Prodded by Creeds' guns, the three men stumbled painfully down the steps, then backed against the Pullman.

Another gunman took Creeds' place, his cold eyes wary as he held his Winchester on Shawn and the others. Behind him, the Topock Kid watered a stunted legume tree. Finished, he buttoned up and turned, looking like he'd run face-first into a brick wall. Both eyes were closed almost shut and looked as though they'd been dabbed with black, blue, and yellow paint. His broken nose, swollen at the bridge, did nothing for his features.

Shawn reckoned the Kid's own mother—if he had one—wouldn't recognize him.

The young gunman stepped through the misting rain like an avenging demon. Stopping a foot from Shawn, he shoved his battered face into his. His breath smelled like blood as he spoke. “This is the last day of your life. Enjoy it.”

By nature Shawn was not teased-rattlesnake mean like his brother Jacob, but that morning he was nursing a grouch and was in no mood for sass, especially from a two-bit gunman. He drew back his right foot and kicked out hard. The toe of his boot slammed into the part of the Kid's shin that had been chewed by Uriah Tweedy . . . and caused an immediate uproar.

The Kid's face went from anger to agony. He grabbed his tormented shin and hopped on one leg, shrieking like a wounded cougar.

But only for a moment. Rage overcoming his pain, the Kid clawed for his guns.

“Kid, try it and I'll blow your guts out.” The cold-eyed guard jammed his rifle into the youngster's belly and the tone of his voice assured the Kid that he'd pull the trigger.

“What the hell is it now?” Silas Creeds yelled as he hurried toward the frozen tableau of the rifleman and the Topock Kid.

“This boy just don't learn, Silas,” the rifleman said, prodding the Winchester into the Kid's belly.

Suddenly Creeds was enraged. “Kid, stay the hell away from O'Brien! He has fancy moves and if he sees a chance, he'll kill you for sure.”

“Let me kill him!” the Kid screamed.

“No! Now you git,” Creeds ordered. “The boss wants him alive, at least for a spell.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Them boys by the track, or whatever the hell they are, have rum. Go get yourself a drink.”

The Kid angled a hating glance as Shawn. “I'm gonna kill you, O'Brien. I swear to God, I'm gonna kill you before sundown.”

“Be sure to bring some friends, Kid,” Shawn sassed. “Judging by what I've seen of you, you'll need them.”

“O'Brien, you shut your damned face,” Creeds cried. “You're nothing but trouble and I don't know why Moss keeps you alive.”

“Because those nigras, as you call them, are going to turn on you, Silas,” Shawn said. “Depend on it.”

Creeds shook his head and smiled. “You got it the wrong way around, O'Brien. And you can depend on
that
.” He swung on the guard. “Denver, keep everybody away from these three until the boss decides what he wants done with them.”

Turning, Creeds stomped toward the front of the locomotive.

Shawn let out a quick breath. “I could sure use some of that Arab rum right about now.”

“The Kid aims to kill you, O'Brien. Don't take him lightly,” the guard advised.

“I never take cowards with a gun lightly,” Shawn answered.

The storm front moved through and on to the thorny scrub desert country to the east, where the rain hit the ground and dried up in a matter of minutes. A weak sun rose in the sky and the morning grew warmer.

Fifteen minutes after his run-in with the Kid, Shawn saw three Arab seamen walk away from the tracks and head out in the direction of the coast. Moss and his riders showed up shortly thereafter, leading the horses of Shawn, Tweedy, and Lowth.

Behind Moss, Julia Davenport and five other women were roped together on foot. One of the women had flaming red hair and carried a baby in her arms, the mother of the child Shawn had found in the cabin. He recognized the two white women as girls who'd worked in the Lucky Lady. Used and abused by men, they seemed resigned to their fate, ready to make the best of whatever came their way.

But the two Mexican girls, both young and pretty, were frightened and clung to each other as though each was trying to gain courage from the other. They were not saloon girls, but young woman kidnapped off the street because of their glossy hair and flashing eyes.

Zeb Moss kneed his horse closer to the Pullman and removed a gun belt from the saddle horn—all the cartridge loops filled—and passed it to Shawn. “Heel yourself, O'Brien. You'll need this before too long.”

“What's on your mind, Moss?” Shawn asked, buckling the belt around his waist.

“You'll find out. When the shooting starts, just make sure your gun is pointed in the right direction.”

Shawn smiled. “And what direction might that be?”

Moss smiled in return, but without humor. “If you don't find out real quick, you'll be dead.”

Shawn gazed across the flats. The Arabs had stopped and were looking back at the train, waiting for Moss and his men to catch up.

Suddenly Shawn put it all together. “Hell, Moss, you're going to gun the Arabs and take their women.”

Moss nodded. “And their ship. A man can get rich in the slave trade if he plays his cards right.”

“Half the navies in the world are out looking for slave ships, Moss. You ever think about that?”

“I reckon I'll take my chances. In for a couple years, then out a rich man. You can be a part of it, O'Brien.”

Shawn shook his head. “I wouldn't allow myself to sink that low, Moss.”

Stung, Moss leaned from the saddle and stared into Shawn's face. “Get on your damned horse. You try to make a run for it, I kill Trixie. Understand?”

“I hear you loud and clear, Moss.”

“Good. Then we're reading from the same page of the book.”

 

 

The desert brush country stretched ahead of them all the way to the shore. Scattered clumps of paloverde, ocotillo, ironwood, and skeletal limber bush stood in silent testimony that it was a rain-starved land. Tweedy was armed with his rifle and belt gun. Lowth carried only a rope over his shoulder. Shawn rode between them, behind Moss and Creeds.

“You plannin' to hang some poor feller with that there hemp, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked, making conversation.

“In my line of work it always pays to be prepared,” Lowth answered.

“Here, I've been meanin' to ask you something.”

“Ask away, Mr. Tweedy.”

“It's about them fancy drawers your wife makes.”

“I'm listening to you, Mr. Tweedy.”

Tweedy leaned across Shawn and whispered, “Would she make a pair for Trixie? Right fancy, mind, with that there lacy stuff an' all.”

“Why, I'm sure she would. That is, if the young lady is of good character and of gentle breeding.”

“Well, she's all of that now, a schoolma'am by profession.” Tweedy leaned back in the saddle as though he'd fairly stated his case.

Thinking of something else, he leaned across Shawn again. “The drawers are for her to wear on our honeymoon, like.”

“Of course you're talking about Miss Davenport,” Lowth said.

“None other.”

“Then I will consult with Mrs. Lowth at the earliest opportunity and she will give me her opinion on this rather, ah . . . delicate matter.”

“Spoke like a true gent,” Tweedy said, smiling. “And that's the truth of it.”

“Uriah,” Shawn interrupted as Tweedy once again sat back in the saddle. “Has it occurred to you that all three of us could be dead in a few hours?”

“What's that got to do with it?” Tweedy said, suddenly belligerent.

“It seems to be that if the slavers don't do for us, Moss will,” Shawn said.

“Listen, sonny. Ol' Ephraim has been trying to put his claws into me for nigh on twenty year and he ain't kilt me yet. If he can't corral Uriah, a snake like Zeb Moss ain't likely to succeed, is he? An' afore you answer that, a bunch of black pirates with beards down to their belly buttons like them as is leading us ain't going to do me in, either.” Tweedy spat over the side of his horse. “Hell, I haven't made a speech that long since I was a youngster an' first learned how to talk American.”

Shawn grinned. “I sure wish I had your confidence.”

“If it comes to a fight, boy, shoot an' move, shoot an' move. That's all there is to it. It's something ol' Ephraim taught me.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Shawn said.

“You do that, sonny. Live longer if you listen to your elders.”

As the riders neared the gulf, the water came in sight, glittering under the climbing sun. Shawn saw that a couple tents had been erected near the beach and the topmast of a sailing ship was just visible in a well-camouflaged inlet. A table had been set out, groaning under the weight of joints of salt beef, fruit, and stacks of flatbread. A large keg of Jamaican rum surrounded by glasses took up the middle of the table.

Behind the feast stood two dozen white, black, and Oriental girls, all smiling steadily as though they'd been ordered on pain of death to look welcoming. And behind them was a score of swarthy, bearded sailors. They showed no arms but for the cutlasses at their sides.

Catching Shawn's attention were the two men who stepped purposely toward Moss's cavalcade. One was immensely tall, dressed in flowing Arab robes of blue and white, his hand on the hilt of a scimitar in a scabbard studded with pearls and rubies. Beside him, in less elaborate robes, was a scar-faced rogue with shifty, rodent eyes lingering on nothing but seeing everything.

Grinning, Moss swung out of the saddle and stepped toward the tall Arab, guessing, correctly that he was the boss.

Sheik Abdul Basir-Hakim made a deep salaam, straightened, and deftly sidestepped Moss's embrace, leaving the man to drop his arms and look confused.

“Welcome to my humble encampment,” Hakim greeted, teeth flashing white in his dusky face.

“It is an honor to be here, my friend,” Moss replied.

“Please. There is food and drink for you and your men, Mr. Moss, though I fear my poor table does you no honor.”

“Hell,” Moss said, “it looks just fine to me . . . mister . . .”

“You may call me Sheik,” Hakim offered smugly.

Moss clapped his hand on Hakim's shoulder, causing him to wince. “And Sheik it is.” He turned to his men and yelled. “Light and set, boys. There's grub and rum for all of ye.”

A cheer went up from the gunmen. They dismounted and crowded around the rum keg, handing glasses to each other.

Hakim glanced at Hassan Najid and smiled. It was going just as he'd hoped. Soon the American pigs would be drunk and easy to kill.

Shawn remained mounted, as did Tweedy and the fastidious Lowth, who frowned as he watched Moss's gunmen among the women, swigging down rum with one hand, exploring with the other.

Or were they drinking rum?

It was Tweedy who noticed it first. He leaned over in the saddle and whispered to Shawn, “Them Texas boys ain't drinkin'. A man doesn't drink like that, real dainty from a glass like your maiden aunt sippin' sherry at a funeral.”

Shawn studied the gunmen. They seemed rowdy and loud, drinking heartily as they pawed the girls, but no matter how many times they put a glass to their lips, the level of the rum stayed the same. And to a man, they tried to keep their gun hands untangled.

“What do you reckon, O'Brien?” Tweedy asked quietly.

“They're only pretending to drink and they're not sitting on their gun hands,” Shawn said. “Moss is getting ready to make his move and take over the whole shebang.”

“Lookee.” Tweedy nodded toward the gulf. “Over yonder by the shoreline.”

Shawn glanced toward the beach. Arab seamen drifted toward their stacked rifles, and a dozen had already armed themselves.

He glanced to where Hakim and Moss were standing together, examining the female merchandise. Julia looked lost and forlorn, keeping her eyes downcast at the sand under her feet. Moss and the tall Arab were engaged in a deep, hand-waving discussion.

Haggling over prices, Shawn guessed. He eased his hand closer to his holstered Colt.

Didn't Zeb Moss know the danger they were all in?