A Time to Slaughter Page 3

  With a mortally wounded man’s desperation, Joe tried to pull the knife from his throat, his bloody mouth wide in a silent scream.

  Tweedy rose, stepped to the man’s side, and booted him onto his back. Joe’s unbelieving eyes stared at the older man. Joe was stunned by the manner and circumstance of his death.

  “Mister,” Tweedy said, no sympathy in him, “I’m too old a cat to be played with by kittlins.”

  Joe closed his terrified eyes and death took him.

  His Henry up and ready, Tweedy stepped to Link. The boy, who looked to be no more than seventeen, was as dead as he was ever going to be.

  Shaking his head, Tweedy surveyed the scene of carnage. It was a sorry thing to die for a mustang hoss and a one-eyed mule.

  The pain from his bullet wound set in and he breathed through gritted teeth. The ball was deep, too deep to dig out by himself. He needed help badly.

  He tilted back his head and yelled into the night, “Ephraim, you leave me alone now, you hear? Ol’ Uriah is hurtin’ and he don’t need no wintertime bear adding to his misery.”

  It was not in Tweedy’s nature to ask the help of anyone, but getting shot changes a man’s attitude fast. With fat flakes of snow feathering around him, Tweedy remembered there was a big ranch somewhere to the northeast. Dromore, that was it. Maybe they were caring folks who would tend a wounded man. Snow or no snow, he’d ride through darkness for Dromore.

  Maybe they’d put him in a bed with a patchwork quilt.

  Chapter Five

  The morning was dark and cold and the air smelled of raw steel. Snow flurried in the wind and the top of Glorieta Mesa was lost behind cloud. Shamus O’Brien sat in his wheelchair, looking out the window of the parlor. He turned and looked around the room. “I’ve thought it over and I’ve decided that Miss Julia Davenport can stay on at Dromore as our schoolteacher. Any objections?”

  The brothers O’Brien were silent.

  “Luther?” Shamus asked.

  “It’s fine by me, Colonel,” Ironside answered.

  “Then it’s settled,” Shamus hit his fist against the arm of his wheelchair. “Lorena, are you satisfied?”

  She nodded. “You came to the right decision, Colonel.”

  “Quite so. As you said, who are we to judge her?”

  “Hear, hear,” Patrick said.

  “Patrick, I do wish you’d stop saying that.” Shamus scowled. “Makes you sound like a damned Englishman.”

  “Sorry, Pa,” Patrick mumbled.

  “Hear, hear,” Shawn said, grinning.

  Shamus ignored that and spoke directly to Samuel. “Have you heard from your brother?”

  “As far as I know Jake’s still riding shotgun for the Simmons and Smyth stage line up Denver way. I haven’t gotten a letter since the last one.”

  “But that was a month ago,” Shamus argued.

  Samuel nodded. “Jake’s not much of a hand at letter writing.”

  “I worry about Jacob,” Shamus said. “I guess we all do.”

  “Jake can take care of himself,” Ironside said. “I taught that boy all I know and like me he’s hell on wheels with a scattergun. Damn right.”

  Normally that would’ve given Shamus an opportunity to berate Ironside about his teaching methods, but Patrick saved the older man from yet another tongue-lashing when he said, “Rider coming.”

  Shawn stepped to the window and looked out into the snowy, iron-gray morning. “Looks like he’s riding hurt.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Shamus said, crossing himself. “It’s not Jacob, is it?”

  “No. Older man. He’s wearing a bearskin coat and leading a pack mule.” After a few more moments of observation, Shawn said, “Damn, he looks all used up.”

  “Shawn, you and Patrick help him inside,” Shamus instructed. “Maybe all that ails him is cold and hunger.”

  “I done fer the two bushwhackers, but I took a bullet in the shoulder, so maybe they done fer me.” Uriah Tweedy sat in the kitchen of Dromore with the O’Briens and Ironside.

  “Luther, what do you think?” Shamus asked.

  “He’s a scrawny old rooster, but he’s got some meat on his shoulders, and the ball’s still there, Colonel.”

  “We can send to Santa Fe for a doctor,” Shamus suggested.

  “We should do that, Colonel,” Ironside agreed. “This man will need attention after I cut the bullet out of him.”

  “There’s no other way?”

  “No. If it stays inside him much longer it could poison his whole body.”

  “Gangrene?”

  “It’s a possibility, Colonel.”

  Tweedy took a gulp of brandy then said to Ironside, “You done this afore, sonny?”

  “Yeah, during the war a few times. Dug minié balls out of cavalrymen.”

  “How many of your patients survived?”

  “Oh, in round numbers, about half.”

  Tweedy nodded. “All right, then cut away, sonny. I like them odds.”

  “I’m about the same age as you, so don’t call me sonny,” Ironside said irritably.

  “Luther, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then cut away, sonny.”

  “Pat, Shawn, help Luther get Mr. Tweedy onto the table,” Shamus ordered.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Colonel, but I’m right comfy where I am.” Tweedy smiled, but beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead and his breathing was quick and shallow.

  Shamus saw that Tweedy was hurting and asked, “Can you do it there, Luther?”

  Ironside nodded, then said, “Cletus, get more brandy into him. A lot more.”

  “Now you’re talking my language . . . Luther,” Tweedy said.

  “I’ll be drinking right along with you,” Ironside said. “Damn right.”

  Lorena helped Ironside remove Tweedy’s buckskin shirt and under vest, revealing a muscular chest and wide shoulders.

  “You look real good for an old-timer,” Ironside said, smiling under his mustache. “Not as scrawny as I thought.”

  “Huntin’ bear ain’t for sissies, sonny.” Tweedy winced. “I can’t move my shoulder. How’s it look to you?”

  “About what you’d expect,” Ironside said. “It don’t look good, kinda like a big red mouth.”

  “You’ll be just fine, Uriah,” Lorena said, angling Ironside a killer look. “Now drink some more brandy and we’ll soon get the bullet out.”

  “Real nice to have you here, ma’am,” Tweedy said. He glared at Ironside. “Some folks just ain’t sympathetic by nature, I reckon.”

  Luther Ironside, slightly drunk, had an ordinary table knife in his hand. It was a time for digging, not cutting. Lorena held an oil lamp to give him more light.

  Shamus and the O’Brien brothers were reduced to interested spectators, though Patrick held the brandy decanter, should Tweedy or Ironside’s courage falter.

  “You ready?” Ironside said to Tweedy, the knife poised over the ragged wound.

  “Have at it, sonny.” The man held up his glass. “About now I’m feeling no pain.”

  “Me neither,” Ironside pointed out, plunging the knife deep into the wound.

  Tweedy’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth.

  “Damn, it’s in there far.” Ironside probed with the tip of the knife and blood welled around the blade. “Hold on there, old-timer. This ain’t going to be easy.”

  “Easy fer you,” Tweedy said, openmouthed.

  “Pa,” Patrick whispered, “are you sure Luther’s done this before?”

  “He’s done it,” Shamus said. “How well he’s done it, I don’t know.”

  Lorena leaned over and wiped blood from the wound. Ironside dug around inside again. Lorena’s face was pale, her eyes wide, understanding Tweedy’s pain.

  “I feel it,” Ironside said. “I feel the ball.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  Tweedy was tough and he had sand, but the man was in a lot of pain and it showed. “For God�
��s sake, sonny. Dig the damned ball out of there.”

  “It’s stuck, damn it.” Sweat beaded Ironside’s forehead and his right hand was covered in blood to the wrist. “It’s stuck, stuck, stuck.”

  Another tap-tap-tap sounded at the door.

  Tweedy’s tortured breath hissed in and out of him with a sound like a boiling steam kettle.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Somebody answer the damned door,” Ironside yelled.

  Samuel rose and quickly opened the door. “Oh, it’s you, Julia. You’ve come at a bad time.”

  “Samuel, who is it?” Shamus leaned to one side.

  “Miss Davenport.”

  “Then let her in. I’m sure Lorena could use some help.”

  Julia stepped into the room, her face puzzled.

  “We have a wounded man here,” Shamus said. “Luther is trying to get the ball out.”

  Julia could see only the back of Tweedy’s head. She walked closer and Lorena gave her a grateful smile. “It’s deep,” she said.

  Recognition dawned on Julia’s face. “Why that’s Uriah Tweedy.”

  “As ever was, Trixie,” Tweedy said, gasping. “It’s right . . . nice . . . to see you again.” He scowled at Ironside. “You’re a damned butcher, sonny.”

  “Hell, man, I’m doing my best.” Ironside turned to Patrick, “Give me a swig of that brandy, Pat.”

  “And me,” Tweedy rasped out.

  “That’s the last thing you need, both of you.” Julia pushed Ironside out of her way. “I’ll do it. Lorena, wipe off the wound. And Patrick, pour the brandy over my fingers.”

  The woman held out her hand and Patrick liberally doused it with the alcohol. To Tweedy she said, “Uriah, this will hurt, but only for a moment.”

  “Do what you have to do, Trixie. I got a worse hurtin’ put on me than ol’ Ephraim ever done.”

  “Brace yourself, Uriah,” Julia said softly, and plunged her long, slender finger into the wound.

  Tweedy ground his teeth as sudden agony hacked at him. He didn’t cry out, though his face was a twisted mask of torment.

  “Got it!” Julia cried. Her finger came out of the wound, the rifle bullet caught in the crook of the top joint of her bloody index finger.

  Tweedy looked close to fainting, but his ordeal was not yet over.

  “Uriah, there’s a piece of buckskin in there. I felt it,” Julia said. “It’s got to come out, too.”

  “Hell,” Ironside said, “bullets kill a man, not buckskin.”

  “I must remove it,” Julia insisted. “It’s dirty and could cause an infection.”

  Ironside looked at the bear hunter. “Tweedy?”

  “She’s right. It’s got to come out.”

  “Stupid, if you ask me,” Ironside grumbled. “Digging buckskin out of a man.”

  “No one is asking you, Luther,” Shamus said. “Miss Davenport, please proceed.”

  The piece of buckskin was only the size of a dime and it took Julia several endless minutes to find and remove it. By then Tweedy had reached the limit of his endurance and was barely holding on to consciousness.

  “You all right, Tweedy?” Ironside asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Good, because this is gonna hurt like hell, but it will clean the wound.”

  Before Tweedy could utter the NO! that formed in his mouth, Ironside poured brandy over the raw, tattered wound.

  The shock of pain was too much, and Tweedy could no longer hold on. He closed his eyes and plunged into darkness.

  “Luther, was that necessary?” Lorena hissed, her eyes flashing anger.

  Julia said, “Mr. Ironside is not much of a surgeon, I agree, but he’s right. The alcohol will help fight infection.”

  Ironside nodded. “Damn right.” He looked down at his unconscious patient. “Now what do we do with him?”

  “You’ll help the ladies get him into bed, Luther.” Shamus looked at Julia wiping blood off her hand. “I want you to stay on at Dromore as our teacher, Miss Davenport.”

  The woman was surprised. “I came here to tender my resignation. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

  “You are not a burden, dear lady, I assure you.”

  “Did Shawn tell—”

  “Yes, he told us. As Lorena said, I hired a teacher, not a past. I hope you will reconsider and stay on at Dromore.”

  Julia’s face lit up. “Oh, I do. I can’t wish for anything more in the world.”

  “Then the matter is settled. Now get that poor man into bed.” Shamus glared at Ironside. “God knows, he’s suffered enough.”

  Chapter Six

  After stopping overnight, the snow returned with a vengeance in the morning. Silas Creeds sat his horse on the same ridge he’d sat when he caught his first sight of Dromore. He had two men with him, a couple frontier toughs who’d both killed their man in the past. Mercy Larch was a sure-thing back shooter and petty thief and his partner, Luke Manston, was younger but of the same stripe.

  “We do it fast, boys,” Creeds said. “Just in, grab the woman, then out and gone. Understand?”

  “This woman, is she pretty?” Manston asked.

  “Real pretty,” Creeds replied.

  Larch leered. “Big ones?”

  “Big enough.”

  “Do we get to try her?” Manston wondered.

  “Sure, boys, sure,” Creeds said. “Then she tells Mr. Moss and trust me, you’ll never screw another woman again.”

  Manston spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side of his horse. “You could’ve said it plain, Creeds. You’d no call to cut up nasty.”

  “Tellin’ it like it is, boys,” Creeds said bluntly. “Now are you gonna earn your fifty dollars or are we gonna sit here an’ chaw the fat all day?”

  “We’ll see it through, Creeds,” Larch said. “But it’s a hard thing to be close to a pretty woman on the trail and not get a piece of tail.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is,” Creeds said. “Zeb Moss don’t like anybody messin’ with his women.”

  That was a fact well known, and Larch kept silent.

  “Right.” Creeds kneed his horse into motion. “Let’s get’er done.”

  The thermometer on the Dromore stable door hovered a couple degrees above freezing, but ice laced both banks of the creek that ran close to the house. The day was a somber watercolor in shades of gray and black and only the snow-blurred, red tint of the schoolhouse was visible in the gloom.

  Creeds, a muffler tied over his top hat and knotted under his chin, led his men directly to the school door, trusting in the murk to keep them hidden from anyone inside the house. It was unlikely people would venture outdoors too often, but he was prepared to shoot anyone who tried to stop him.

  He swung out of the saddle and barged into the schoolroom, Larch and Manston close behind him. Because of the weather, only a handful of students were present, but the men ignored them and went directly for Julia.

  The woman backed away from them, opening her mouth to scream. A vicious backhand from Creeds silenced her. Realizing trouble, the students ran quickly out the door.

  Creeds watched the kids running away and snarled to one of his men, “Get her damned cloak. I don’t want the lady to freeze to death.”

  Revealing surprising strength, he draped Julia’s unconscious body over his shoulder and walked out into the snow. He draped the woman over the front of his saddle, then mounted up. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Those damned brats will play hob.”

  The three men galloped north for Santa Fe. Ahead of them lay ten miles of rugged, broken country, the kind of terrain that discourages a posse and aids the hunted.

  Julia Davenport groaned and tried to lift her head. She saw the snowy ground under her streak past at a galloping speed and felt Creeds’ hand on her back, holding her down.

  “Stay right where you’re at, or I’ll club you with the butt of my gun.”

  The motion of the horse and her uncomfortable position made talking diff
icult, but the woman said, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Hell, you know where,” Creeds said, a grin in his voice. “Zeb is pining for you something awful.”

  Julia tried to struggle free of the man, but he kept her pinned down. “I swear, Trixie, I’ll bash your brains in if you try that again.”

  The woman quieted, but Creeds knew he had a problem. Around him lay a land of pine-covered mountains and dark gorges, all of it under a blanket of snow. This was not long-riding country and his mount would soon tire carrying its extra burden. If they were to reach Santa Fe before dark he needed to get Trixie on a horse, and the sooner the better.

  Creeds turned and studied his back trail. He saw only the empty land, the falling snow, and the clouds shrouding the mountain peaks.

  He eased up on his horse, slowing to an easy canter and let Larch and Manston get ahead of him. They were muffled to the ears in sheepskins, their heads bent against the keening wind, seeing little, hearing nothing.

  He fired twice, his gun hand extended in front of him. The bullets hit the men in the space between their turned-up collars and the bottom of their hats. It was remarkable shooting in less than ideal conditions, but Silas Creeds was no ordinary gunman. Such gun skill came to him as naturally as breathing.

  He slipped his boot out of the stirrup, raised his right knee, and pushed Julia off the saddle. The woman fell on her back onto the snow and lay stunned for a moment. Then she scrambled to her feet and tried to run in her high-heeled, lace-up boots and heavy winter dress.

  Creeds put a bullet a yard in front of the woman’s feet and said, “The next one will be right between your shoulder blades, Trixie.”

  Julia froze where she was and Creeds ordered, “Go round up the black and lead it over here. And grab one of them sheepskins. You’re going to need it if we don’t reach Santa Fe by sundown.”

  Stepping around the dead men, their bodies already dusted with snow, Julia grabbed the reins of the black mustang and led it toward Creeds.