Die by the Gun Read online

  “What Apache likes fruit pie?” Mac laughed as he began working on the pie for Desmond.

  Taking out the prickly pear fruit, he began skinning them. He split each open. The juicy, sticky interior was mostly seeds. He worked to get them out, then tried one of the pieces. Biting down on it produced a curious taste. Slightly bitter, but he knew ways of making it taste better. He cleaned the rest of the prickly pear fruit of spines and skins, then worked to make a crust using his biscuit mix.

  He popped the entire completed pie into a Dutch oven and turned his attention to preparing the meal for a herd of hungry cowboys. By the time he finished fixing the first batch of boiled greens and a few pounds of steak, the men began riding in.

  He joked with them as he served their food. He was nearing the end of the meal when Desmond rode up and dismounted. The young man’s nose wrinkled, and he looked around.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac asked.

  “I thought I smelled a pie baking.”

  “Just for you.” Mac popped it from the Dutch oven. “It’ll take a spell to cool.”

  “What do you mean it’s for me?”

  “I appreciate you getting help to pull me from under the wagon. It was a damned stupid thing I did and you saved my life.”

  “Hey, I want a piece of that,” one of the men spoke up.

  “Me too!” called another.

  The cry went up from the rest of the cowboys. They crowded around and reached out with their filthy hands, but Mac whacked their knuckles with his wooden cooking spoon.

  “If Desmond wants to share, he can,” Mac declared. “It’s his reward.”

  “I’ll save you. Go on, try to drown yourself in that pond,” Messerschmidt said. “I will wade in and save you for a piece of this pie.”

  The jokes made the circuit, but Mac held firm. When the pie had cooled enough he gave it to Desmond. He dug into it, ate in silence, then spat some of the seeds out.

  “Pie isn’t supposed to be chewy. Here, you can divvy it up.” He handed the plate to Messy, who began spooning out a tiny bit to every cowboy who wanted some.

  “Desmond is right,” the German said. “This is terrible, Mac. You got any more?”

  This set off a new round of jokes. Mac took it good-naturedly, but he watched Desmond. For all his complaint about the pie, he had eaten a fair amount. Passing it on, saying it tasted terrible, might have been his way of sharing. He had never learned to do that gracefully.

  “Help me clean up, will you, Desmond?”

  “I knew it was too good to be true. You bribed me to do extra duty.”

  Despite the griping, Desmond threw himself into the work, and Mac finished a half hour early. The others sat around a fire, swapping lies about their love lives and how much whiskey they could drink and still shoot the eye out of a flying eagle at a hundred yards.

  Desmond moved as if he was on a spring, edging away and then hesitantly returning. He wanted company—and he didn’t.

  “You know how to use that revolver on your hip?” Mac asked.

  “What?” Desmond perked up like a prairie dog on guard duty. “You calling me out?”

  “I’m asking if you know how to use it, that’s all. Before I went on my first trail drive, I had my pa’s revolver and no idea how dangerous I was with it. The trail boss showed me how to draw. I can tell you what all he taught me.”

  “Why would you do that?” Desmond turned suspicious.

  “You need to know things like that, or you’ll end up in a world of trouble.” Mac half turned and drew. He had the Smith & Wesson out, cocked and aimed, before Desmond blinked.

  “You’re as fast as anyone I ever saw.”

  “If the only ones you ever saw throw down were drunk cowboys in Hell’s Half Acre, that’s not much of a compliment. Wait. Watch this.” Mac turned so he faced away from Desmond and drew the S&W again, this time slowly. “See all that I did?”

  “No, I was watching how you stood.”

  “That’s good, Desmond. It’s important to keep your balance. Here’s how to clear leather and not shoot your own foot off.”

  They worked for a half hour until Mac’s shoulder began to hurt.

  “You practice some, and you’ll be good enough,” Mac said.

  “Good enough for what?” Desmond demanded.

  “Good enough to stay alive. Take the cartridges out when you practice the draw.”

  “Why?” He got bristly. “Think I’ll shoot myself?”

  “You need to practice getting that smoke wagon out, cocked, and then fired. Do that a hundred times, and you’ve wasted a wagonload of ammo.”

  Desmond stared at him, a poker face betraying no emotion.

  “Why?”

  “I told you. You can practice the draw. When you get good, we can try some target practice, though too much shooting’s likely to scare the cattle.”

  “No, not that. Why are you doing this?”

  Mac hesitated, then said, “You remind me of somebody.”

  “Who’s that?” Desmond pressed the matter.

  Mac laughed harshly as he answered, “Me. You remind me of me. Now get your ass out on night herd. Flowers will chew us both out if you’re late.”

  Desmond went off without another word, leaving Mac with a good feeling. He saw glimmerings of a real man inside the boy. All it took to bring it out was someone treating him as an equal. At least, he hoped that was true. It’d be hell teaching Desmond to use his gun, only to have him shoot down the first cowboy who crossed him.

  CHAPTER 16

  Quick Willy Means couldn’t see ten feet in front of him. The rain came down in sheets that might as well have been shrouds. He kept his face turned down so most of the rain pelted hard against his hat and ran off the brim, but even so he got water in his eyes and had to wipe it away to see anything.

  “We got to take cover, Quick Willy,” Charles Huffman said. “Ain’t possible to get wetter, but we might not get any more miserable.”

  “Shut up.” Means spoke without malice. He worried over the potential for catching up with the herd and cutting out Dewey Mackenzie. Every passing minute made it less likely.

  “He’s right, Willy. There’s no call to go blunderin’ on in this rain. It’s pure hell out here. I can’t tell if it’s day or night.” Frank Huffman stood up for his brother, which was to be expected. But the edge in his voice surprised Means. After Quick Willy had cut down Arizona Johnston, the two men had been docile enough and willing to follow his every order. Now the rain had washed that compliance out of them.

  “Find a place where it’s dry. I dare you,” he said.

  “We’re close to the river. I hear it roarin’ to beat the band.” Frank cupped his hand behind his ear. “That’s the bad boy. I know it. Them drovers have already crossed by now.”

  Means looked at his pocket watch, trying to determine what time it was. The heavy clouds and driving rain obscured any sunlight trying to filter through. It could be noon or midnight for all he knew. The watch face beaded right away with water. He wiped it against his vest, then tucked the watch away. Ten o’clock. He knew it had to be morning. By now Hiram Flowers had his herd across the river, but the rain would keep him from covering any real distance once he got bogged down in the mud.

  Hiram damn Flowers, Means thought. He spat. He’d fix Flowers good and proper, but only after they snared Mackenzie. Business first, then pleasure.

  “Trees over yonder. I can hear the leaves snappin’ in the wind.” Frank pointed.

  Means turned and walked his horse in that direction. Huffman probably heard the sound of blood pumping in his own ears. How could anybody hear wind in tree limbs in this weather?

  His horse veered suddenly, avoiding a tree. He looked up and saw a small grove of salt cedar holding back the worst of the wind and rain. It was hardly calm or dry in the middle of the grove, but it was better than being exposed on the flatlands.

  “See, Quick Willy?” Charles said. “Frank was right. He’s always right.” br />
  Means dismounted and scouted the area for an even drier section. The best he found was a tiny nest between four trees growing almost trunk to trunk. He tethered his horse in the lee of another large-boled tree, took his gear, and settled down with his back to the wind.

  “What’re we gonna do, Quick Willy? We can’t get close enough to Mackenzie to nab him. I say we shoot the son of a bitch. They’ll bury him, then we dig him up and take the body back.” Charles sounded pleased with his gruesome plan.

  “I’m not a grave robber,” Means said glumly. “Doing it that way might get their whole crew on our trail.”

  “They’d never abandon a drive. I’ve heard about their trail boss. A mean one, he is. But determined. We kill Mackenzie and he’d keep right on herding his cattle toward Fort Sumner.” Frank had it all worked out, too. Neither plan suited Means.

  He wanted Mackenzie alive to collect the bonus from Leclerc. And he wanted Hiram Flowers dead. They had tangled in Abilene, and Flowers had pistol-whipped him until he passed out. The man’s temper then meant his death now. No one did that to Quick Willy Means. No one, especially not a decrepit old drover who never took a bath.

  “The rain’s lettin’ up,” Charles called. “Lookee there. I see sunlight. The storm’s danged near blowed itself out.”

  “We wait a spell,” Means said. They had talked him into getting off the trail and out of the rain. He’d damned well enjoy a rest. Crossing the Pecos after a rain like this would be dangerous, and resting up before they tried it would increase their chances of reaching the other side. Their numbers were too diminished to lose any more.

  He’d had to shoot Johnston. The man had challenged him for leadership. But Means missed Jimmy Huffman something fierce. He had been the smartest of the Huffman boys, even though that wasn’t saying much.

  How Jimmy had gotten himself gunned down in Fort Worth by Mackenzie was something he wished he had seen. Mackenzie would have died on the spot. Chances were good Frank and Charles had had something to do with their brother’s death and lied about what had happened.

  Hat pulled down to protect his face from the rain, Quick Willy drifted off to sleep. Sounds normally brought him awake. This time it was the rain stopping. It no longer pattered against his hat to drip off onto the ground. He sat up, stretched, then shook all over like a dog getting rid of water drops.

  “We hit the trail. You men rested?”

  “Ready to go, Willy.” Frank kicked his brother to get him moving. For two cents, Means would have kicked them both just to vent some of his frustration. Tracking down Mackenzie had been a hell of a lot harder than he’d anticipated.

  He would never give up, never stop hunting until he brought the murdering son of a bitch back. Preferably alive and hobbled in shackles, but if Mackenzie had to catch a few ounces of lead, Means wouldn’t shed any tears over that, either.

  They rode to the banks of the raging Pecos River. The turbulence looked worse than he expected. Means rode up and down the river for a quarter of a mile, hunting for an easier way across. In spite of the heavy rain, he saw tracks where Flowers had driven his herd across the river. From what he could tell, Flowers was a capable enough trail boss. He had been along this trail before and had to know the best spots to camp and to cross.

  “This is it,” Means said.

  “I dunno, Quick Willy,” Charles said, his voice slow and betraying a touch of fear. “That there river’s runnin’ mighty fast. We get caught in the current and we’re goners. If the horse tires, we’re goners, too.”

  “You don’t start now, and you’re a goner.” Means rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. Even a dimwit like Charles Huffman got the message. Pulling his hat down until it mashed into his ears, Huffman let out a rebel yell and got his horse running as fast as he could into the water.

  Means doubted this was a smart thing to do, then he saw how Huffman plunged a dozen yards into the swiftly flowing river. The horse tried to balk, but by then it was too late. All the horse could do was swim for the far bank. Huffman yelled and tried to put his spurs to the horse’s flanks, but underwater that goad didn’t amount to much.

  “Can’t let little brother have all the fun,” Frank Huffman said. He duplicated Charles’s plunge into the water and soon only his horse’s head and everything above his own shoulders were visible.

  Determined not to let his men show him up, Quick Willy Means rode to the edge of the water. He rushed in as they had worked, but he got his horse into the river gradually. Twice the horse denied him, then finally committed itself to the swift current. Means fought the river, in spite of it carrying him across at an angle. After what seemed an eternity, his horse found solid ground and pulled them onto the far bank. Both of the Huffman brothers already waited for him, shaking water off.

  “Flowers got across without ending up this far downstream,” Means said. He found deep, water-filled ruts left by a wagon. Whether this was the chuckwagon with its quarry or the supply wagon driven by one of the cowboys, he couldn’t tell.

  And it didn’t matter. Both would follow the herd. Means only had to follow one set of tracks and Mackenzie would miraculously appear, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  “They’re makin’ good time,” Frank observed. “They crossed this morning, rode out the storm, and then pushed on. I don’t see hide nor hair of them around.”

  “North,” Means said. “If we ride hard we can overtake them before they set up camp for the evening. I want Mackenzie. That’ll be the best time to grab him, before he’s surrounded by all the cowboys as they chow down.”

  “Ground’s kinda muddy, Willy. We ain’t gonna make much speed in this slop. You got a plan to snatch him after the cowboys are fed?” Charles wrung out his bandana and mopped at his forehead. Water leaked out from under the hatband.

  He turned away from the gunman and picked out the details of the trail they had to follow. Keeping tabs on his men wasted his time and annoyed them. More than once he had given perfectly good advice, only to have the recipient consider it an insult and call him out for it.

  Means’s fight was with Mackenzie—and Hiram Flowers. Let Huffman drown himself by inches or all at once if he pulled off his hat.

  It turned dark again as new storm clouds blew in. It was after sundown before he sighted the Circle Arrow camp. Anger welled up inside Means. Mackenzie had cleaned up and sat at a campfire with a half dozen cowboys. Even if he crawled into his bedroll under the chuckwagon, the number of drovers nearby would be difficult to avoid. The smallest disturbance—and they were all on edge, constantly listening for any threat to the herd—and they’d be up, revolvers ready. Anyway, creeping into camp would make him and the Huffmans look like sneak thieves, and Means wouldn’t stand for that.

  “We can wait for him to feed the sorry lot of ’em, then grab him when he heads off on his own in the morning.” Frank picked at his teeth with the tip of a big knife.

  Means knew that was the smart thing to do. But he was at the end of his tether. Chasing Mackenzie for so long had built up frustration that boiled over.

  “We’re not waiting,” he said. “I want him as quick as possible.”

  “If Jimmy and Arizona was still with us, we could hurrah their camp, then you could sneak in and snatch Mackenzie.” Frank Huffman finished cleaning his teeth and slipped the knife back into a sheath at his left side.

  “We’re shorthanded, that’s for certain sure,” Charles said, agreeing with his brother. “What are we gonna do, Quick Willy?”

  “That one, the kid with the red hair and strut in the way he walks. Him and Mackenzie spent a long time together at the campfire.”

  “So?”

  “So they must be friends,” Means said. “The red-haired kid is saddling up to ride night herd. We’ll take him prisoner and use him as bait in a trap. A note will let Mackenzie know what he’s up against, and if he tells any of the others, we’ll kill his partner.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot to put into a note
. You reckon he can read?” Frank scratched himself.

  “You’re right about that, Frank,” his brother said. “Can you write, Willy?”

  Means glared at the two of them. Insulting his education was no more than he expected from them, but Charles had posed an actual problem. What if Mackenzie couldn’t read?

  “To hell with that. We’ll take on an army, if we have to. We take the kid prisoner, find a spot to lay our ambush, and it won’t matter if only Mackenzie or Mackenzie and the rest of the cowboys fall into the trap.”

  “Either way, we got Mackenzie,” Frank said, nodding slowly.

  Means found an old wanted poster and a pencil in his saddlebags. Chewing his tongue, he wrote the note that would lure Mackenzie away from the Circle Arrow and into shackles all the way back to New Orleans. He finished and studied his handiwork.

  “This will do. Now all we need to do is nab the redheaded kid.”

  “I’m up for it.” Charles grinned.

  “Me, too,” his brother added, but with less enthusiasm. Frank thought a moment, then asked, “Where’re we gonna lay the ambush? Should we find a place and then kidnap him?”

  “I know Flowers. He’ll insist on keeping the herd moving. It doesn’t matter if we have the perfect spot. Anywhere will do.”

  Frank Huffman looked skeptical, but Means didn’t care. His patience was at an end. The time had come to grab Mackenzie, get the reward, and move on. As he rode to skirt the camp on his way to take the redheaded cowboy prisoner, he considered his alliance with the Huffman brothers. They weren’t what he looked for in a partner anymore. Their brother had been the reason he teamed up with them. Once Jimmy took the bullet in his heart, Charles’s and Frank’s usefulness died with him.

  “This is gonna be easy. He’s doin’ exactly what we want.” Charles let out a whoop that drew the rider’s attention.

  Charles Huffman didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. Now Means had to act too soon, too close to the camp.