A Good Day to Die Read online

  “I ain’t forgetting this,” Vince said feelingly.

  “I can stand it,” Barton retorted.

  “Git and be damned. Keep out of my fight and you won’t have any of ours.”

  “Done.” The sheriff gave them all one last hard look. “Wonder how many of you will be alive by this time tomorrow?”

  Barton turned and started walking, moving at a steady pace. It was so quiet he could hear the grit of street dirt scuffling against his leather boot soles. He fought to keep his shoulders and back muscles loose and untensed, but it was hard. He was half expecting bullets to come tearing into him any second.

  He kept on walking, eyes front, not looking back. Drawing abreast of the Golden Spur, he cut a side-glance at it.

  Johnny Cross stood framed in the doorway, arms folded on top of one of the hinged batwing doors. He rested his chin on his arms, yellow cat eyes unblinking, smiling lazily at the sheriff as he walked past.

  Nearing the militiamen, a wall of vague oval faces began resolving into recognizable faces: town boss Wade Hutto, his top gun Boone Lassitter, Hutto’s brother-in-law Russ Lockhart, Deputy Smalls, Squint McCray and a couple of his cousins, Karl from the gunstore, others.

  Hutto moved forward to meet him. “How’d it go, Sheriff?”

  “Vince listened to reason,” Barton said, glad to note his voice held steady, without a quaver.

  “That’s great! Good work, Mack,” Hutto enthused.

  “The Ramrod bunch’ll toe the line, but we still need to keep our guns loaded and ready to smash them down at the first sign of trouble—which could be soon—anytime.”

  “Whew! I don’t mind telling you, that was a real nail-biter.”

  “You should’ve seen it from my end.”

  Trouble came sooner than Barton expected. It came without warning out of the west, in a mass of rushing horses, gunfire and war whoops—all accompanied by the ringing of church bells.

  THIRTEEN

  It was mid-afternoon when Sam Heller and Lydia Fisher reached Rancho Grande. One of the biggest spreads in the county, in all north central Texas for that matter, the ranch was bordered on the north by Old Mission Road and the south by the upper fork of the Liberty River.

  Before getting too deep into Grande land, Sam and Lydia were intercepted by a band of vaqueros who patrolled the lush grasslands to deter trespassers, rustlers, and marauders. Ranch master Don Eduardo Castillo had no love for intruders on his private domain, especially Anglos, all of whom he lumped under the label “Texans” and whom he resented for what he felt was their steady encroachment on his land.

  The outriders closed in. Mexican-Americans, they were hard men with grim, unfriendly faces under broad-brimmed sombreros and weapons—guns and rifles—held at the ready.

  “I heard the Grande riders shoot white folks on sight,” Lydia said.

  “Not true,” Sam answered. “Just pesky yellow-haired gals with braids,” he added dryly.

  Lydia looked unsure as to whether or not he was joking.

  Sam was no stranger to the ranch, thanks to previous involvements with the Castillo clan. He was recognized by the jefe, boss of the vaquero band. Sam spoke a few sentences to him in rough, broken Spanish, a language he was learning but still a long way from mastering. He got his message across, though, especially the dreaded word Comanche.

  Of no less dread import was the name Mano Rojo—Red Hand.

  The jefe’s face stiffened, his dark-eyed gaze hardening. Some of the vaqueros muttered curses. All checked their weapons and peered into the distance in search of war parties.

  Mexicans and Comanches had been mortal enemies for more than three hundred years, since the first armor-shelled conquistadors ventured north from Mexico City across the Rio Grande. The rancho had battled for survival against the Comanches for over a century.

  The jefe issued a series of rapid-fire comands to his men, who leaped into action. One wheeled his mount, spurring it southward at top speed toward the rancho, hidden from view by some low ridges. He raced all out to give warning.

  Two more vaqueros peeled off from the group, pointing their horses in opposite directions, one going east, the other going west, galloping away to spread the alert to other working parties tending the herds on the grazing lands.

  The jefe and those remaining escorted Sam and Lydia to the ranch. Twenty minutes of hard riding brought them in sight of the main settlement.

  Here was the core, the inner citadel of Rancho Grande. A sizeable tract of land was enclosed by thick adobe walls ten feet tall. The walls were pocked and cratered by rounds fired in numerous battles, some old, others of more recent vintage.

  The main gate faced south. A set of stout, ironbound dark wooden double doors stood open, allowing a view within. Square-faced columns topped by an adobe arch bracketed the entrance. A bronze bell hung from a black iron chain in the center of the archway. A dirt road stretched across the flat fronting the portal.

  Sam, Lydia, and their vaquero escort rode in under the arch, through the gate, and into a wide courtyard. Stung by the advance rider’s warning, the ranchero was abuzz with activity, swift and purposeful.

  Within high, curved adobe walls, parapets accessed by stairways served as shooting platforms. Sentries on the walls scanned the horizon for sign of hostiles; none had yet appeared. Two-man teams toted crates of rifle ammunition, each man gripping a rope handle attached to a short end of the case. Laboring under the heavy load, they lugged the crates up the stairs onto the ramparts, broke open the lids with rifle butts, and began handing out boxes of cartridges. Riders rushed in and out of the main gate, going here and there on various vital errands.

  The dirt-floored outer courtyard gave way to the stone-paved inner courtyard of a plaza. At its center was a wide, shallow adobe water basin and fountain, fed by a well. Bordering the plaza were outbuildings: stables, a tool and equipment shed, and storehouses filled with supplies of corn and sides of dried, smoked meat.

  Beyond the fountain rose the main building, a three-story structure. An imposing edifice that fronted south, its slanted roof was shingled with orange ceramic tiles. Across the whitewashed adobe and stucco front black ironwork grilles hung on the windows. Ornate rails and balustrades covered the second floor balcony. Lush, extensive gardens and arcades lay on the west side of the building.

  The jefe escorted Sam and Lydia into the inner courtyard. Nodding to Sam and raising a hand in curt salutation, the grim-faced chief turned, riding across the space and out the gate.

  Sam and Lydia dismounted, holding their horses’ reins. They were met by Hector Vasquez, the segundo, the foreman of the ranch.

  He was topped by an outrageously oversized, broad-brimmed sombrero. Its tall crown narrowed to a curved peak, looking like an inverted horn of plenty. Spilling from under it was plenty of hombre, a bearish, barrel-chested, big-bellied man. A pear-shaped face was framed by masses of shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair. Dark black eyes looked out from a bronzed visage whose cheekbones and cheeks were pitted by remnants of long-ago smallpox scars.

  He wore a black bolero jacket with silver trim and frogging, a white embroidered shirt whose front was strained by a massive swelling belly, black bell-bottom pants, and silver-spurred leather boots. Worn low under his big gut was a pair of six-guns in soft leather buscadero holsters.

  “He looks like a bandit,” Lydia whispered.

  “He was, once,” Sam said. “Don’t worry, he’s perfectly respectable now. Probably hasn’t killed anybody this week.”

  Lydia looked at him out of the corners of her eyes.

  “I’m joking.”

  Actually, there was no knowing if Vasquez had killed anybody lately or not. He’d obey cheerfully and with a will if ordered to do so by his patron, ranch master Don Eduardo.

  Shiny sunburst rowels as big as silver dollars sparkled at the ends of his spurs as Vasquez made his way to them, raising a hand in greeting. “Trouble always follows you, gringo. What misery do you bring now?”

&nb
sp; “Nothing a man like you can’t handle, large one,” Sam said.

  “True. But I like to know who I’m shooting at.”

  “Comanches, mucho Comanches.”

  “So you say. Senor Diego says maybe you got scared by a few los bravos Indios, that’s all.”

  Sam looked around at the bustling courtyard. Brawny, heavyset women in white blouses and colorful skirts filled ollas—water jugs—at the basin and carried them inside the hacienda. Gangly boys in baggy white shirts and pants and woven sandals, bent double under the weight of massive bundles of firewood and stowed them away in the outbuildings. Riders came and went, stable hands saddling and unsaddling horses.

  Indicating the urgent movement going on around them, Sam said, “They seem to be taking it seriously enough. And you?”

  “I think maybe there is going to be a fight,” Vasquez said, grinning toothily. A fight was okay with him.

  “Good thinking,” Sam said.

  “And ... the señorita?” the segundo said, eyeing Lydia. “Who is she?”

  “The last of her family. Comanches hit their ranch in the hills today,” Sam said.

  “Aiiee! Pobrecito, poor little one. A great misfortune for one so young.”

  “Old enough to kill a jefe of los Indios.”

  Vasquez gave the girl a second look, longer and more appraising. “So? Well, I expect no less from a friend of yours, young or old.”

  Sam handled the introduction. “Hector, meet Lydia Fisher. Lydia, this is Senor Vasquez, ramrod of Rancho Grande.”

  Bending forward from the waist, Vasquez executed a courtly bow. “Welcome to our home, señorita. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks ... gracias, Senor Vasquez.” Lydia stuck her hand out for a handshake. It all but disappeared inside Vasquez’s massive bear paw of a hand as he clasped hers lightly, shaking it.

  Going to Dusty, Sam took his flat wooden gun case down from the side of the saddle. “I’ll take this. And this.” He reached for a rolled-up dark garment tied in place like a bedroll behind the back of the saddle and tucked it under his arm.

  “Will you see that our horses are taken care of? They’ve had a long, hot ride,” Sam said.

  “It shall be done.” Vasquez whistled, catching the eyes of a couple stable boys, who came on the run.

  Lydia took her rifle from the saddle and held it under one arm.

  “You will not need that here, señorita,” Vasquez said.

  “I ain’t letting go of it till the last Comanche is killed or quits,” Lydia said, her face set in stubborn lines.

  “As you will,” Vasquez said, nodding approvingly. “A fit companion for you, gringo.”

  The stable boys led the horses away. “Will Brownie be okay?” Lydia asked anxiously. “He’s all I got now, him and the rifle.”

  “He’ll be fine. I wouldn’t leave Dusty if I thought differently,” Sam said.

  “Please come with me to the hacienda, if you will,” Vasquez invited. He started toward the big house, Sam and Lydia following.

  Sam eyed the fountain longingly. Hot, tired, and thirsty, he wanted nothing so much as to empty a jug of cool, clear water over his head. He resisted the temptation.

  Rounding the basin, the trio followed a long, straight, flagged path leading to the entrance of the hacienda. The towering structure loomed over them as they neared it. Lydia followed close on Sam’s heels. Vasquez knocked on the front door. It was opened by a servant woman.

  “I’ll leave you here, gringo. Hasta la vista,” Vasquez said.

  “See you,” Sam said. He and Lydia stepped inside. The high front hall with tiled floors was cool. Closing the door, the servant turned and went deeper into the house, gesturing for Sam and Lydia to follow, murmuring, “Por favor.”

  They went down a long hall with white-painted stuccoed walls showing dark brown wooden rafter beams and beam-ends. The walls were hung with spiky, ornate crucifixes and somber portrait paintings in elaborate gilded frames. The portraits were so dark with age their subjects could barely be made out. An unlit iron chandelier hung on a chain from the ceiling.

  Lydia said in a hushed voice, “It’s like a palace.”

  “In its way, it is,” Sam agreed.

  The servant paused at the entrance of the great hall. “Señor Diego will see you now, señor. There are some refreshments prepared for the señorita. If she would be so good as to accompany me?”

  Lydia grabbed Sam’s arm. “I want to stay with you.”

  “It’s all right. I won’t be long,” Sam said.

  Lydia, unhappy and suspicious, allowed him to persuade her to go with the servant woman. She led Lydia down a side passage toward the rear of the house.

  “Try not to shoot anybody,” Sam called after her, only half joking.

  A manservant appeared at the threshold of the hall’s rounded archway, motioning for Sam to enter. Sam followed him into the grand hall, a spacious, chamber two stories high. Stone pillars were set at regular intervals along whitewashed walls. Brightly colored woven tapestries and woolen blankets were hung as decorations. The long west wall was pierced by a row of tall, slender windows with peaked tops.

  In the grand hall were Diego Castillo and Lorena Castillo Delgado.

  Diego was the sole surviving scion of the Castillo bloodline. Age thirty, tall, slim, and elegant, he looked every inch the grandee, imperious and arrogant. He wore custom-tailored clothes with expensive decorative lace at the throat and cuffs, and imported boots of hand-tooled Cordovan leather.

  His father, Don Eduardo Castillo, was the patron, the master of Rancho Grande. Thus Diego must remain “Señor Diego,” able to assume the honorific “Don Diego” only upon the death of his father. Don Eduardo enjoyed excellent health; a fact Sam guessed gave little pleasure to his impatient, ambitious son.

  Lorena Castillo, born Lorena Delgado, was the childless widow of Don Eduardo’s firstborn son. Originally from Mexico she lived at the ranch. She was dark with bold good looks and a sensational physique.

  Masses of black hair fell past her shoulders, framing a wide, sculpted bronze face with wide brown eyes, and a full-lipped red slash of a mouth. She was garbed in a bolero jacket, starched white blouse, and tan riding breeches tucked into knee-high brown leather boots. She was smoking a small, thin black cigarillo and held a pumpkin glass of brandy.

  She was a willful, passionate woman. Sam wanted to trust her. He trusted few women and fewer men. Diego he trusted not at all.

  The manservant ushered in the newcomer, Diego dismissing him with a few words. Nodding acknowledgment of Sam’s presence, Diego smiled thinly. “Ah, Señor Heller. Once again you grace us with your company.”

  He spoke excellent English. His and Lorena’s English was a lot better than Sam’s smattering of Spanish.

  “The pleasure is all mine, señor,” said Sam.

  “A sublime thrill, Lorena, no?” Diego murmured.

  “No.” Lorena shrugged, taking a sip of brandy, content for now to let Diego do the talking.

  “You must forgive my father Don Eduardo for not being here to greet you in person. A slight indisposition has confined him to his bedchamber, alas,” Diego said.

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Sam said.

  “Not at all, thank you. I am sure he will make a full recovery presently.”

  Presently? Most likely as soon as I leave, thought Sam, remembering the Don hated Anglos.

  In the assumption that all Anglos were eager to rob him of his vast holdings, Don Eduardo was far from mistaken. His ownership, well documented by deeds, titles and Spanish land grants, was upheld by a small army of well-armed, hard-riding pistoleros. It was a signal mark of favor that an Anglo such as Sam Heller was even allowed under the Castillo roof.

  Sam had rendered the family several important services in the past and might again in future, so the patriarch allowed him into the hacienda, while shunning direct contact with him, letting such encounters be carried out by his son and daughter-in-law.


  “Señora Castillo,” Sam said, “I regret we’re not meeting under happier circumstances.”

  “Always a happiness to host a friend of Rancho Grande,” Lorena said diffidently. “We saw your arrival through the window. The young one who was with you, who is she?”

  “A friend, Lydia Fisher. A brave girl.” Sam briefly outlined the circumstances that had thrown them together on the plateau and afterward. Diego smiled politely throughout his narrative. Lorena alternated puffs on her slim dark cigarillo with sips of brandy.

  “A most remarkable account,” Diego said when Sam had finished. “Yes, remarkable indeed.”

  “And every word of it is true,” Sam said.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that you crossed paths with some Comanche bravos. Since the end of the great war between your North and South, the savages have become emboldened, once more venturing on their old raiding trails. We have heard of packs of them striking out on the Llano. Some band or two may even be in the county, but surely not in the numbers you claim.”

  “Looks like the Rancho’s getting ready to fight—and a good thing, too,” Sam commented.

  “That is none of my doing, I assure you. My father Don Eduardo has a long memory. The days of his adventurous youth, when the Comanche often tried their strength against the ranchero, is still fresh in his mind. He takes the path of greater caution. It was his order that the ranch be made ready in case of attack.” Diego made a show of smiling tolerantly, as if amused and indulgent of the oldster’s foibles. “In all honesty, I confess I do not share his alarm and in his place I would have done differently.”

  “I thought you might feel that way. Seeing is believing.” Sam set the gun case flat on a drum-shaped side table to free his hands and unrolled the dark garment he’d brought with him, holding an end in both hands and letting it fall free in front of him. It smelled of sweat, smoke, and blood. “Take a look.”

  Diego’s finely formed nostrils quivered in delicate disgust, expressing repugnance. Fascinated, Lorena moved closer for a better look. “What is it?”

  “It belonged to the Comanche known as Black Robe. I took it off his dead body not long ago. He took it off a priest he killed. The story of how he got it is well known throughout the West. I reckon word of it might even have reached inside Rancho Grande,” Sam said dryly.