A Time to Slaughter (21 page)

“I believe your hands are loose, Mr. O'Brien,” Lowth said.

“Well done.” Shawn wiggled his fingers to get the blood flowing again.

“Now, can you reach the knot at Mr. Tweedy's back? Once that is untied we will no longer be bound together.”

“I'll sure give it a try.”

“Don't
try
, O'Brien,” Creeds snapped. “Get it done. And Tweedy, you idiot, help him.”

“Doin' my best, Silas,” Tweedy said, grunting from the effort. “It ain't easy.”

Shawn's hands fumbled with the knots behind Tweedy's back. “Almost there, Uriah. Turn toward me a little more.”

“Damn you for a pair of fumbling pansies,” Creeds cried. “Hurry! We don't have much time.”

Before anyone could say another word, a beam of light glided across the men, turning night into day. A rifle shot sounded, followed by the excited babble of the Arabs.

“What the hell?” Creeds barked.

A wave from the blast of cannon rocked the ground under the sitting men, followed by a storm of shot that ripped through the camp like hail.

Arabs went down, screaming, and one of the schooner's masts erupted into splinters and fell. Toward the shore men were banging away with rifles. A second volley of shot tore them to pieces and they fell like rag dolls.

Shawn continued to work the knot at Tweedy's back, the tops of his fingers bleeding from the harsh rasp of the hemp rope. He heard a sound like an ax hitting a pumpkin, and then blood and brains splashed across the side of his face. Creeds screamed and the rope tightened as he tried to break free.

The Kid sat still as a fence post . . . without his head.

The bloody stump of his neck jetted blood with every faltering pump of his still-beating heart. Creeds screamed again and struggled to his feet.

Men pounded past them, running headlong for the desert, rifles littering the ground behind them. The beams of light followed the Arabs and the cannons roared again, turning the night into a raking, red-hot hell.

“Got it!” Shawn yelled, and suddenly the tension went out of the rope and it fell to his waist. He rose to his feet, got a hand on Tweedy and Lowth, and hauled them erect. “Let's get the hell out of here!”

“Which way?” Tweedy turned his head in one direction, then the other, looking for a safe way to run.

“Anywhere away from those cannons,” Shawn directed. “There's a warship of some kind out there.” He turned and headed for darkness away from the searchlights, Tweedy and Lowth at his heels.

Lowth turned around briefly. “Look!” Lowth hollered.

Shawn followed the man's pointing finger and witnessed the last fight of Silas Creeds' life.

 

 

For some reason known only to himself, Creeds had headed for the schooner.

Two mounted men came at him, riding the horses of Moss's dead gunfighters. One was the Arab sheik, holding a struggling woman in the saddle in front of him. The woman, who seemed to be unconscious, was bundled up in a blanket and her face was not visible. Hakim's rich robes billowing in the wind, dust spurting from his mount's galloping hooves, he held his deadly curved sword upraised in his right hand. Beside him rode another Arab, armed with a revolver.

Creeds dived for the ground, rolled, and came up with a rifle. Getting down on one knee, he raised the gun to his shoulder. He and the Arab with the revolver fired at the same time. The Arab missed. Creeds didn't. The Arab screeched, threw up his hand, and tumbled off his horse.

With the sheik only yards away, Creeds worked the notoriously balky bolt of the Lebel, but the gun was jammed. He grabbed the barrel and swung it like a club at the Arab's rearing horse. An excellent rider, Hakim swung his mount aside and his sword came down in a glittering arc. Creeds' head jumped from his shoulders and rolled on the ground.

Marines were already landing on the beach, but Hakim trotted back to his fallen companion and called out, “Good luck on your journey, Hassan, my friend.” Then he turned his horse and galloped into the desert with the woman.

Unarmed, Shawn could only watch helplessly as the Arab vanished into the darkness.

 

 

“Raise them hands, boys, or I'll drop you.”

A grim-faced marine advanced on Shawn and the others, his rifle bayoneted.

Tweedy shook his head. “It's all right. We're Americans, just like you.”

“I don't give a damn what you are,” the marine “Get them mitts up.”

“Do as he says,” Shawn said, lifting his hands. “After all this, I'd hate to be killed by our own side.”

Tweedy clawed for the sky. “Truer words was never spoke, O'Brien.”

 

 

The left arm of Lieutenant Wilson's coat was stained with blood, all of it his own, but the scarlet spatters across his face were from the Arab he'd killed in single combat with the sword. He was interrogating Shawn, who told his story quickly. “And your Miss Davenport was among the captive women?”

Wilson turned to a marine. “You can put your rifle away. I'll be quite all right.”

The marine saluted and left, and Sahwn said, “Are all the women accounted for?”

“Yes,” Wilson answered. “But I'm afraid that includes three dead from our shellfire and one missing. That is, according to the other ladies.”

Shawn knew the answer to his next question, but asked it anyway. “And the missing woman is Julia?”

“I'm afraid so, Mr. O'Brien.” Wilson's round face was apologetic.

Tweedy said, “Damn him, if that Arab has harmed my Trixie, I'll—”

“Trixie?” Wilson repeated, puzzled.

Before Tweedy could answer, Shawn said quickly, “Trixie Lee is, ah, Miss Davenport's stage name.”

“I see. Well, all I can do is offer you my deepest sympathy, Mr. O'Brien.”

“You're not going to help us look for her?” Shawn said.

“I'm afraid not,” Wilson said. “We must coal at the earliest opportunity and transport those poor women to San Francisco. And there's a child involved.”

“Is the baby's mother dead?” Lowth put in, alarmed.

“No, she's quite well. I regret to say that the three dead captives were all Chinese women and very young.” Wilson met Shawn's eyes. “We can transport you gentlemen to San Francisco, if that is your wish.”

“No, Lieutenant, that won't be necessary.” Shawn shook his head at the invitation.

“Mr. Tweedy? Mr. Lowth?”

“I reckon I'll find my intended and then ride north with her into bear country,” Tweedy said.

“And this quest is not yet over,” Lowth said. “I'll stick with Mr. O'Brien.”

“As you wish.” Wilson hesitated a few seconds and said, “This is hardly the time to ask a favor, but one of the captive women is a very special case.”

“How so?” Shawn said.

“She was a bride who was taken by the slavers on her wedding day along with four other women,” Wilson said. “The others are happy to go to San Francisco with us, but the bride—”

“Her name?” Shawn interrupted.

“She doesn't speak English very well, but I gather her name is Consuelo. She wants to return to her village.” The lieutenant shrugged. “A most singular request since her husband and all the males in the village were killed by the Arabs.”

“Where is the place?” Shawn asked.

“On the coast to the south, I believe. She will point you the way.”

“Why not just drop her off your ownself, sonny?” Tweedy questioned.

“She's never been on a ship before and she doesn't trust us,” Wilson says. “She thinks we may be slavers, and who can blame her?”

“She can come with us,” Shawn said. “I don't see how we can refuse.”

Wilson sighed in relief. “Thank you, Mr. O'Brien. That's a load off my mind. She's a very pretty girl, and a terrible fate could befall her if she set off alone.”

He saluted as a splendid officer in the blue and gold of a navy commander joined the group. Wilson made the introductions and Sherburne listened as his second-in-command told him about the kidnap of Miss Davenport.

“I'm damned sorry, O'Brien,” Sherburne said. “That's the most rotten bad luck.”

“Yes, I guess it is,” Shawn agreed.

The commander turned his attention to Wilson. “You have the butcher's bill, Mr. Wilson?”

“One marine dead and two wounded, Captain. Three of the captive women killed and a few slightly wounded, mostly from flying splinters.”

“And the slavers?”

“Eighteen dead.” Wilson looked a little uncomfortable. “None wounded.”

“The rest fled into the desert, I suppose.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Well, a good night's work nonetheless, Mr. Wilson.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, go see the surgeon and have your wounds attended to.”

After the lieutenant left, Sherburne turned to Shawn, “May I offer you and the other gentlemen the hospitality of my ship?”

“Thank you, Captain, but I must refuse. Miss Davenport is an employee at my father's ranch and I promised to bring her back.”

“I wish I could assist you, Mr. O'Brien, but I must seek a coaling station.”

“I understand, Captain.”

Sherburne extended his hand. “Well, good luck to you.”

“Thankee, Cap'n,” Tweedy said. “Now we're lugging a female along, something tells me we're gonna need all the luck we can get.”

The dead had been buried, what could be found of the victims of the suicide blast in ammunition boxes. A prize crew under the command of Lieutenant Wilson boarded the slave schooner.

Shawn, Tweedy, Lowth, and Consuelo stood by saddled horses that had escaped the slaughter. In silence, they watched the
Kansas
tow the sailing ship into the channel. In the thin morning light, a mist on the water, the sloop set a course south, dragging the schooner a cable's length behind her.

After a few minutes Shawn and the others were alone on a battlefield, surrounded by fresh rectangles in the sand marking the graves of the uneasy dead.

“Mount up. Let's get it done.” Shawn helped the Mexican woman, still dressed in her tattered wedding finery, into the saddle, then mounted himself.

Tweedy swung into the saddle and immediately slid a scavenged Winchester from the boot under his knee. “Stranger comin'.”

Shawn's eyes searched the distance to the north. A rider drew closer through the sea mist, holding a rifle upright on his thigh. The man sat his horse like a sack of grain, his range clothes much worn and ragged, and his great beak of a nose overhung a huge dragoon mustache that had not felt the clip of scissors in a three-month. His mount was a scrawny yellow mustang the size of a mountain goat.

Shawn smiled. “It's my brother Jake.”

“Hell.” Tweedy peered at the man, “Are you sure?”

“Sure I'm sure. Who else on God's green earth looks like that?”

Jacob rode close to the three waiting men and touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy.”

Shawn nodded. “Good to see you again, Jake.”

“Likewise, I'm sure,” Jacob looked at Tweedy.

“You must be Uriah Tweedy. I'm pleased to see you've recovered from your wound and are prospering. That's a five-hundred-dollar hoss you got under you.”

“He ain't mine, beggin' your pardon, Jake,” Tweedy said. “Only thing of mine here is the duds I'm wearing an' they ain't worth ten cents.”

His eyes wary, Jacob looked at Lowth. “And this gentleman?”

Lowth raised his hat. “Thaddeus Lowth by name, and Thaddeus Lowth by nature, Mr. O'Brien. I am a hangman by profession.”

“An honorable calling,” Jacob replied. He turned his attention to Shawn again and smiled. “Dare I ask if you've finally taken a bride?”

“No, she's not mine, but she's part of a long story, Jake.”

“So I missed all the fun, huh?”

“All but the last act, Jake,” Shawn said. “And that's still to come.”

“Tell it.”

And Shawn did, describing his search for Julia that began in Santa Fe and ended with the cannonade that destroyed the slavers.

“And now you're going after this Arab fella?” Jacob asked.

“He has Julia.”

“For a schoolteacher, she's sure caused a lot of grief,” Jacob opined.

“She's my intended,” Tweedy said. “I'd go to the ends of the earth to find her.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” Jacob said. “My hat's off to you, Uriah.”

“Thankee, Jake,” Tweedy said. “Truer words was never spoke. Uriah Tweedy is a romantic to the core, fer sure.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Jacob asked. “I never took a pot at an Arab sheik before.”

“What if I said, no?” Shawn answered with a question of his own.

Jacob shrugged. “I'd tag along anyway.”

Shawn smiled. “Let's ride, brother.”

 

 

They came on their first dead Arab seaman shortly before the sun reached its highest point in the sky.

Bearded and slight, the man had been stripped naked, then hacked to death. His hands and forearms were cut to ribbons, bloody testimony to the fact that he'd tried to ward off the savage blows that killed him.

Tweedy stepped out of the leather and kneeled beside the body. After a closer inspection, he rose to his feet. “Them are machete wounds. Seen the like afore on a Mexican feller who got chopped up fer sparkin' another man's woman.”

He opened his hand and let some silver coins drop to the sand. “Whoever kilt him was not interested in robbery. Them's silver pesos.”

“But why was he murdered in such a horrible fashion, Mr. Tweedy?” Lowth couldn't make sense of the murder.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said.

Consuelo spat in the direction of the dead man, her pretty face twisted in anger. “Dirty pig.”

Tweedy nodded. “He's all of that, honey. And maybe that's the reason for the cuttin'.”

Shawn stood in the stirrups and stared across the desert. Far to the east the high Sierras stood out in purple relief against the sky, seemingly as remote as the mountains of the moon. “I reckon we'll find more dead Arabs.”

Tweedy said, “Yeah, including that sheik feller.”

“Maybe,” Shawn said. “That one seems to have more lives than a cat.”

 

 

Thirty minutes later, they rode up on three dead men. Like the first one, they were mutilated, and one Arab had both his hands chopped off.

But there was another with them. The ancient hag who'd chosen the manner of the white captives' deaths sat hunched over the body of a young man, his bloody head on her lap.

Tweedy couldn't believe what he was seeing. “Hell. It's the damned witch. Looks like she found her long-lost son.”

“Or her husband, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth put in.

“I didn't see her after the warship started firing,” Shawn said.

“Well she escaped somehow,” Jacob said. “Ugly, ain't she?”

Consuelo slid from her horse, crossed herself, and approached the old woman. She said something in Spanish none of the others understood, but she was met with a mute silence. The crone didn't even look at her.

“I guess she doesn't talk your lingo,” Tweedy said.

The Mexican woman ripped the top of her dress and removed a thin silver chain and cross from around her neck. She pulled back the crone's hood, revealing an almost bald head with a few wisps of white hair. Grabbing as much hair as she could, she jerked back the old woman's head and pressed the silver cross into her cheek.

The crone screeched and pushed Consuelo's hand away.

“Witch!” Consuelo crossed herself again, hiked up her dress, and remounted her horse. In the saddle boot under her knee was a rifle.

“What do we do with the old dear, Shawn?” Jacob asked.

“Leave her. She'll die out here without water.”

Lowth agreed. “I must admit, that I feel a certain animosity toward the lady. She is not a nice person.”

“Not a candidate for your wife's bloomers, huh, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy said, grinning.

“No indeed, Mr. Tweedy. My wife wouldn't sell her undergarments to such a vile person.”

Shawn kneed his horse forward. “God, those dead men are starting to stink. Let's get away from here.” Behind him, he heard the harsh whisper of a rifle leaving the scabbard and the
chunk-chunk
of the lever.

Even as Shawn turned, Consuelo fired.

Even holding the Winchester straight out in front of her, she scored a hit. The bullet hit the crone's right clavicle and ranged downward into her chest. At close range the big .44-40 had a devastating effect on such a frail body, and later Tweedy would swear the old woman literally exploded.

Before Consuelo could rack the Winchester a second time, Jacob jerked the smoking rifle from her hands. “
Está muerta
.”

The old woman lay on her side, her eyes wide open in death.

Consuelo spat in the crone's direction. “
Vieja bruja
!”

Tweedy shook his head. “A lesson to us all, Mr. Lowth. Never ruin a woman's weddin', or even be pals with them as did.”

“Indeed, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said. “Hell hath no fury—”

“If you two old philosophers are quite finished, let's ride.” Shawn interrupted. “We've got ground to cover before dark.”

They rode away from the place of death and Tweedy again took the point.

Somewhere ahead of them was Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim, and each and every one of them had a reason to kill him.