Rebel Yell (6 page)

Something must be done about the Hog Ranch soon,
Sam resolved.
Something massive.
He grinned, satisfied. “Still, in all, a good day's work!”

Dusty was a warhorse. He'd been in battle amid the cannon fire, blood, and smoke. The big blast had made him restless but not so much as to spook him into running. Dusty wasn't much for spooking.

Sam went to him. The horse nuzzled him, nudging him with its snout.

“Hey boy! Glad to see me? I'm glad to see you! Some blast, huh? Still it's not so much compared to some we've seen.”

Dusty was lively, alert. Sam got his hands on the animal. The comforting hands reassured the horse, gentling him down. Not that he needed much gentling. He was a warhorse

Sam stroked the animal's snout and sleek powerful neck. He kept up a line of patter, nonsense really, but felt that Dusty took some comfort in the sound of his voice. He knew that he took comfort in talking to him. “You've got more sense than most people I know, horse.”

He poured water from a canteen into his upturned hat and held it under Dusty's mouth so the horse could drink. He gave him two hatfuls. Dusty could have gone for several more, but Sam was running low on water. After Dusty drank, Sam had some water from his canteen.

Strapped to the saddle so that it lay along Dusty's left side, its long axis horizontal, was a long, flat, wooden box. Sam unfastened it, taking it down. He sat on the ground cross-legged. “Indian style” folks called it, or sometimes “tailor style.” Placing the long box on a folded blanket, he unlatched and lifted the lid. Inside, the box was lined with cushiony velour type fabric, with hollow areas shaped to hold gun parts.

He had examined the Winchester earlier and found that no dirt had fouled it and it was in good working order. It had completed a big job and was due for a thorough cleaning and oiling, but that must wait until later. He broke down the rifle, unscrewing the long barrel and add-on stock, restoring it to its basic proportions as a mule's leg.

He fitted barrel and stock extensions in the cushioning shaped spaces designed to receive them. Securing the gun parts, he closed the lid and fastened the box to its fittings on the saddle.

A saddlebag yielded the gun belt for the mule's leg, a custom leather rig with a long thigh-length holster. He holstered the mule's leg, fastening the leather strap at the top to keep the piece buttoned down tight until needed.

Sam took several empty canteens and slung them by the straps across his shoulders. He unfastened a lariat fixed to the right side of his saddle, slipped his arm through the center hole, and slung it over his shoulder.

He patted Dusty's muscular neck affectionately. “Be back soon, boy.” He had a job to do. He wanted accurate information about the butcher's bill for today's fracas—who'd lived and who'd died—but riding to the end of the bench where the cliffs rejoined the flat, then riding to Bison Creek would be a big investment of time and energy. He needed a shortcut and he had one—straight down.

Sam went to the edge of the cliff. The twenty-five-foot drop from cliff top to Bison Creek was a barrier to a rider, but not to a climber. His rope was long enough to reach the bottom. He could climb down and back up.

He scanned the scene below. It seemed empty of all human presence.

Sam hitched one end of the rope to a bent but sturdy tree, testing his weight against it. It passed the test. He let the other end fall down the face of the cliff.

He double-checked the gear on his person, making sure it was all secure and squared away. He pulled on a pair of wrist-length, rawhide range gloves, flexing his fingers inside them for a snug fit, then took hold of the rope and started down. The hempen cord was made to withstand the efforts of a charging bull or runaway horse. It held his weight.

Down he went, using the irregular rock face as a stepping-stone.

He touched ground, taking cover behind a shoulder-high boulder, and loosened the holster strap on the mule's leg to get the piece into action fast. Crouched low, he began prowling the site.

Sam eyed his handiwork and found it good. The carnage was rough, but he'd seen—and done—worse. Always on the side of the angels, of course.

Debris from the explosion was spread over a wide uneven field.

First order of business was to make sure the dead were really dead. A mortally wounded man could still slay a perfectly healthy one. Beware the cunning enemy playing possum. He moved from body to body, Navy Colt in hand.

There were no ringers among the cadavers. The dead were well and truly dead. Some had escaped the reckoning to ride away, he knew. He'd seen them. He wanted a better idea of who had cheated the Grim Reaper and who hadn't.

Some of the bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, others were badly burned. Several had perished not by blast, gunfire, or blade but by explosive-powered shrapnel. Wooden shards and staves had been turned into high-speed lightning-like flying daggers.

A stir of motion behind Sam sent him spinning around, gun ready.

A brave who lay nearby, half-buried under a heap of rubble, was propped up on an elbow, raising his upper body. His arm was upraised and in motion, hand holding a knife ready for throwing. The blade leaped into the air, whirling, glittering.

Sam fired without thinking, shooting the knife out of the air. The brave flinched, eyes wide, hands thrown up in front of his face to protect against shrapnel.

If Sam had had time to think about it, he'd never have made that shot.

Lucky shot! A close one,
he thought.

The brave groaned, sinking back down flat to the ground. The secret of the Comanche's survival showed on his twisted form. His lower body was crushed below the waist, buried under several hundred pounds of rocky debris. His upper body was relatively undamaged, save for swelling and mortification caused by the maiming of his lower half.

He'd been awake and aware when Sam started nosing around the scene. Opportunity presented itself when Sam had turned his back to examine a nearby victim. The brave gambled on a toss of the knife. Sam couldn't help but admire his single-minded dedication to slay a last foeman en route to the Great Dark.

Sam approached him warily. Standing over him, he held his gun along his side, pointing down. He was ready to use it if the warrior had any more surprises.

The Comanche's gaze was steady, his expression set in grim lines of silent suffering. He would fight to the last to keep from showing how great his pain was. “Good shot,” the brave said in English, forming his words with difficulty, his voice weak. “Your gods with you today . . .”

Nothing to say to that. Sam shrugged.

“You—Tejano?” the brave asked, meaning Texan.

“American,” Sam said. “
Yanqui
.” A Yankee.

“Good . . . hate Tejanos.” The brave looked pointedly at Sam's gun, raising his gaze to meet Sam's eyes. “You kill, eh?”

Sam hesitated.

The brave looked down at his body beneath the waist, twisted, mangled, and buried under several hundred pounds of rocks and dirt. “No good.” He shook his head no. “You kill . . . kill quick . . .”

Sam nodded, lifting the gun. The brave nodded encouragingly. Sam pointed the gun at him. He fired once, delivering the coup de grâce of a bullet in the head.

Sometimes the greatest act of mercy was providing a quick neat exit.

The gunshot startled some nearby buzzards feasting on a choice carcass. One buzzard flew away with a great flapping of wings. The others remained earthbound at their places at the feast, returning to their feeding before the last echoes of the gunshot had faded.

Sam resumed making the circuit, going from body to body. When he had examined the last, he totaled up the score.

Most of the top men were dead—Honest Bob Longford and Felipe Mercurio, Eagle Feather and Han-Tay.

Some key players had escaped, most notably Hump Colway. No worries about mistaken identity there. No amount of damage could disguise that body with its distinctive humped back. Nature had compensated him for his deformity by giving him a cunning brain, steel nerves, and plenty of guts. His escape from the killing ground showed he was lucky, too. A formidable combination and a dangerous man.

Hump Colway would be heard from again, sooner probably rather than later.

Maldito, too, that imp of Satan, had postponed his day of reckoning. Sam had very much wanted to bag him, but Maldito had had the Devil's own luck working for him and had escaped. He was a vicious foe. The latest setback wouldn't improve his disposition any.

Rio, Mercurio's bodyguard, also seemed to have gotten clear, but Sam couldn't be sure. Several bodies loosely matched Rio's specifications, but they were too badly burned or blasted to verify their identity. Sam's gut feeling was that when a bad hombre like Rio was among the missing, chances were he was alive.

If so, Rio's future prospects were mixed at best. He was a bodyguard who had failed to guard the body that was paying him. Mercurio, Rio's patron, had been an important man with many powerful and influential contacts in business and criminal circles on both sides of the border. Some of them might take exception to Rio having outlived his master and be minded to correct that oversight.

In any case, Sam Heller's work at Bison Creek was done.

On to Hangtree!

Mabel's Café faced north on the south side of Trail Street, Hangtree's main drag. It was a long narrow space with a dining room in front and kitchen in back. The place was small, modest, and unassuming. The food was good, the portions hearty.

There were nine tables in the dining room—four small square-topped tables for single diners or couples, five larger round-topped tables for groups of three or more. Two small tables bracketed the connecting door to the kitchen. Another two stood against the front wall under a row of windows.

The round tables were all filled. One of the small tables in the rear was unoccupied, as was one in the front.

Luke Pettigrew sat at the other front table. He was busy tucking into a plateful of steak and potatoes. In his early twenties, he was wiry, lean to the point of being gaunt. Lank brown hair reached down past his bony jawline. He was red-eyed from too much drinking. Prominent canine upper teeth gave him a wolfish look, a not unfriendly wolf.

He wore an open lightweight gray Confederate army tunic, lightweight red shirt, baggy brown pants, and boots. A short-brimmed gray forager's cap hung from the decorative knob on top of the back of the empty chair at his table.

He looked every inch the unreconstructed Johnny Reb he was. And damned proud of it!

Luke was a hometown boy born and raised on a ranch outside town. He had enlisted as soon as news of the firing on Ft. Sumter reached Hangtree. He'd served throughout the war years as one of John Bell Hood's Texans, seeing action in that celebrated unit's big battles east of the Mississippi.

In the last year of the war, a Union cannonball took off his left leg below the knee. It had taken him the better part of a year to get home after the surrender at Appomattox.

Luke wore a first-class combination artificial leg and foot strapped to what remained of his leg. The limb had adjustable sliding fastenings, allowing it to be locked extended straight for standing upright or bent at the knee at a ninety-degree angle for sitting.

The Randle brothers walked in off the street, coming through the front door like any other patron. Why not? It was lunchtime and the café served a pretty good lunch.

Most of the patrons were focused on their plates. A few diners took a casual interest in the newcomers. In a town like Hangtree, more than a few folks had reason to be wary of others who might be looking for them.

Casual glances at the duo prompted no flicker of recognition. Sighting no known foe, the curious, the guilty, and the just plain cautious turned their attention elsewhere.

Cort Randle held a rifle pointing down at his side, nothing out of the ordinary in Hangtree on the frontier. He stood to one side of the front door, back to the wall, showing a funny kind of smile as if amused by some private joke.

Devon Randle went down the center aisle toward the back of the dining room, where a set of swinging doors opened into the kitchen. An arm's length or so short of the doors, he'd turned hard on his heels, spinning, shucking a pair of six-guns out of the holsters and into his hands. He'd stepped to the side, out of the way of the swinging doors, so no one could surprise him from that direction.

A medium-sized man, he showed a quick graceful efficiency of movement. He held his guns level, aiming at everyone and no one, gaining the attention of all.

Cort Randle's rifle came up, held hip-high.

The dining room was suddenly quiet, hushed.

“Hell, the food ain't that bad,” said some half-drunk souse.

“No holdup here, folks,” Cort announced. “We don't want your money.”

“As if these yokels have anything worth taking,” Devon said, sneering.

“Now, now. No call to make small of these good people, brother Devon,” Cort said, not really minding what his brother said, but amused.

Devon addressed the diners. “It's possible some of you folks might not know who we are. We're the Randle brothers. I'm Devon and that small excitable fellow with the hogleg is Cort. He's the quick-triggered type. It wouldn't take much to make him cut loose, so if any of you have the idea of playing hero, I'd advise you to think better of it.

“But set your minds at ease. We've got no quarrel with you folks.”

“Not unless your name is Cross,” Devon said laughing, a mean kind of laugh, nasty and lowdown.

Mention of the name
Cross
set off alarm bells in Luke Pettigrew's head. No way he could sit this one out. Not now.

Luke had heard of the Randle brothers. They hailed lately from the Dallas Black Earth region. They came from north Alabama, part of a long line of feudists, soldiers, gamblers—violent lawless men, all. Of late, they'd been based in nearby Parker County, where they ran with the Moran gang—which might mean gang chief Terry Moran and the rest of the bunch weren't too far away.

The brothers were in their mid-twenties. Devon was younger but looked older. He was the brains of the two. Sharp-featured with a hollow-cheeked face, he looked prematurely aged.

Cort, older of the two, was handsome, athletic, and said to be something of a favorite of the ladies when he wasn't off killing and robbing folks.

“I'm a fool for luck,” Luke mumbled to himself.
But what kind of luck?,
he wondered.
Good, bad, or something in between?

That remained to be seen. He reckoned he'd find out pretty soon, one way or another.

On the good luck side of the ledger, he just happened to be having lunch at Mabel's Café in Hangtree town, where a couple of bushwhackers were laying for his partner Johnny Cross.

On the bad side, Luke found himself in the same position as the rest of the café's patrons—covered by the guns of those would-be ambushers, the Randle brothers.

He was on the spot. There wasn't but one person named Cross in Hangtree that the Randles were liable to be gunning for. That was Johnny Cross, Luke's best friend and partner.

Funny . . . Luke couldn't think of any reason why the brothers would be after Johnny. As far as he knew, there was no bad blood between Johnny and the Randles or their gang boss Terry Moran. Not that some of the Texas fast guns needed any more reason than trying to build a reputation to put them on the hunt for another gunslick.

Could be it tracked back to Moran, the Randles' chief? “Terrible Terry” as he was known. An overbearing ambitious outlaw and gunhawk looking to make a name for himself.

No better way to shoot his name into fame than by burning down Johnny Cross. Even if it took a couple back shooters to do it.

No surprise, either, that the Randles dare not face Johnny out in the open—the yellowbellies! They lacked the sand to face him in a fair fight, them and their headman Moran.

“No point in wondering what it's all about,” Luke told himself. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

The clock was working against him. Johnny had gone down the street to the Golden Spur for a few quick ones while Luke, a real chowhound, grabbed some lunch first. Any minute, Johnny was liable to come looking for him without knowing he was heading into a death trap.

One thing worked in Luke's favor. The Randles hadn't known him. They hadn't done their homework. Otherwise, they'd have known that Johnny Cross had an ally who always covered his back in a fight. He was a young, wolfish, one-legged Texas Reb named Luke Pettigrew. Either that or they hadn't spotted him yet.

The latter possibility was unlikely. Cort was standing little more than a man's length away from Luke at the front of the café. It seemed like he didn't know Luke from Adam. And Devon could see Luke sitting there with his crutch propped up in a corner nearby.

So they weren't on to him. That gave him something of an edge, no matter how slim.

The café showed a narrow end to the street. The entrance door was closed to keep out dust and flies. To the right of it, a row of three windows stretched across the upper half of the front wall. The windows were open. To protect against the hot Texas sun, their upper halves were covered with dark green pull-down shades and the lower halves were covered with thin blue-and-white checked curtains strung along a thin brass rod. Only a narrow strip of windowpanes was uncovered, affording passersby a minimal view into the café.

Outside, folks were about their business, going somewhere to eat their lunch, coming from having eaten it, using the lunch hour to run some errands, or just ambling along enjoying the fine fall weather. Their outlines could be seen flitting past the curtained, shaded windows. Their voices rang out as they hailed each other in casual conversation.

A person inside the café need merely call out to them for help—and catch a fatal bullet or two in swift recompense from the Randle brothers. So the captives within stayed silent, tight-lipped.

Luke was a good shot with a long gun but only fair with a handgun. That's why he toted around a sawed-off shotgun, usually slung over his shoulder by a leather carrying strap. Unfortunately, it was hanging by the strap over the round knob across from where his cap hung on the extra chair at his table. It hung muzzle-down.

The chair was tucked under the table; the tabletop screened the weapon from the view of the Randle brothers. Or so Luke suspected; in any case they hadn't called him on it. The piece was within reach, but if he made a play, the Randles were sure to pick up on it and tag him before he could get the gun in play.

Cort Randle spoke to the diners. “Lest any of you get the wrong idea, I'd like to point out that this is a private matter that don't concern y'all. It would be a shame to get killed meddling in something that ain't none of your affair. Keep your hands where I can see them and keep on eating before your food gets cold.”

“I'd best clear the kitchen,” Devon said

Cort nodded. “Go ahead. I've got them covered.” To the diners, he added, “You folks don't want to make a liar of me in front of my brother.”

Devon turned and faced the kitchen doors, toeing one so that it swung inward. He stepped into the doorway, holding the door open with his booted foot.

On the other side of the threshold, the cook stood ready to attack. He was taken by surprise, caught in the act.

He was Brand McGurk, owner and proprietor of the café. He was a grizzled middle-aged man, balding and bearded. A hard item, he was almost as tough as the lean stringy cuts of meat he sent out of the kitchen to the dining room.

McGurk wore a dirty white bib-front apron over a green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, baring brawny, hairy forearms. One arm was held upraised, bent at the elbow, poised to strike with a meat cleaver whose handle was clutched in a raw-knuckled fist. The keen-edged cleaver was the only spot of brightness about the man.

Click!
The hammer of a gun was thumbed into place, muzzle pointed at McGurk's potbelly. “Whoa, pardner,” Devon drawled.

McGurk froze. Behind him, deeper in the kitchen, stood his kid helper Josh, a gangling pimply-faced adolescent.

“Planning on a little meat cutting?” Devon said sarcastically.

McGurk said nothing, staring down at Randle's guns.

Devon waved his gun. “Set the meat ax down on the counter. Gently, gently.”

McGurk obeyed, laying the meat cleaver down on its side and stepping away from the counter. He held his hands up chest high.

“I ought to shoot you for that, but I've got bigger fish to fry,” Devon said. “Go out front in the dining room with the others.”

McGurk moved toward the doorway stiffly, like a man going to the gallows. Josh stood frozen in place, trembling, knock knees quaking.

“Anybody else back there?” Devon demanded.

Josh started to speak, but fear had left his mouth so cotton-dry that he had trouble speaking.

“Spit it out, sonny,” Devon said impatiently.

“N-no, sir. Nobody but me,” Josh said.

“You go out, too,” Devon said, indicating the youngster.

Josh shuffled forward. McGurk sidled past the gunman and through the doorway into the dining room.

Suddenly, savagely, Devon lashed out with the gun, clouting McGurk behind the back of his skull.

A few diners winced in sympathy. A female patron cried out, abruptly stifling herself by bringing a fist to her mouth and gnawing on a knuckle.

McGurk groaned, staggering. His glazed eyes swam in and out of focus. He had a hard head, though, and stayed on his feet. Devon clouted him again.

McGurk's face scrunched up as if squeezed in a vise. His eyes crossed, then rolled up into the tops of the sockets, the whites of his eyeballs showing. He folded up at the knees, falling on the wood-planked floor.

“That's what he gets for trying to play hero.” Devon wagged the gun, motioning along Josh, who'd stopped moving when the gunman laid out McGurk. “Into the dining room, junior.”

The youth lurched forward, scuttling past Devon. Just when he thought he was safely clear of the gunman, he was the recipient of a well-planted boot to the rear. The kick lifted him off the floor into the air.

“Quit dawdling! No wonder the service here is so slow,” Devon said with a mean grin.

Cort chuckled indulgently, as if to say, Who wouldn't be amused by the antics of such a loveable rogue?

The kid stumbled over McGurk's inert form, spilling his length on the floor with a loud outcry.

“Quit your squalling, brat,” Devon said.

“You scum!” an elderly spinster lady spat, no longer able to restrain herself.

A middle-aged woman eating at the same table urged, “Stay out of it, Miss Phoebe—”

“You his ma?” Devon demanded of the older woman.