Texas John Slaughter Read online

  “Such a gentleman,” she said dryly. To tell the truth, she was grateful to him for getting her the clothes, but she didn’t want him to know that. Her gratitude only went so far. After all, he was the one who had kidnapped her in the first place.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” he said when the manzanita bushes were between them.

  “It’s Viola,” she said without thinking, then wished she had lied about it. Since he had heard of Sheriff John Slaughter, there was a chance he had heard of the sheriff’s wife Viola, too. Since he already suspected there was a connection between her and John, that might be enough to confirm it.

  Chaco didn’t seem to think anything about it. “Viola. That’s a lovely name. My name is Chaco Romero.”

  “All right.” She wasn’t about to compliment him on his name. Since he wanted her to keep talking, she asked, “What made you become an outlaw, Señor Romero?”

  That question drew the most animated response she had gotten from him so far. “I am not an outlaw!”

  Viola lifted the nightgown to her waist and stepped into the trousers. “You certainly looked like one to me when you were robbing the bank in Tombstone.” She heard him sigh.

  “That was regrettable but necessary to further our cause.”

  She lifted the nightgown to her neck, draped it in front of her, and put her arms in the shirt sleeves, buttoning it quickly. “You’re a revolutionary!” she guessed.

  “That is correct. My men and I are dedicated to overthrowing the dictator Díaz and the restoration of the rightful rule of law to Mexico.”

  Viola knew that one revolution or another was always brewing in Mexico and had been ever since General Porfirio Díaz had taken over as president a little more than a decade earlier. She had no doubt that some of the revolutionaries were sincere in their desire to improve the lot of their countrymen, but she also knew that many of them used the political upheaval as an excuse for looting, raping, and killing. It remained to be seen which sort of “revolutionaries” these men really were.

  So far, other than Chaco’s stiff-necked prudery, she hadn’t seen any indications that they were anything other than bandits.

  As Chaco had told her, the trousers were too long, but she rolled the legs up at the bottom and saw no need to cut them off. She pulled the nightgown over her head then slipped her feet into the soft leather moccasins, grateful for their protection. Walking around barefoot in the desert was asking for trouble.

  The moccasins were a little loose, but fit fairly well. One of the outlaws must have small feet, she thought. She had hung the hat on a branch. She picked it up, settled it on her head, and drew the strap taut under her chin.

  “Señorita Viola?” Chaco said.

  “I’m here,” she replied. He had told her to keep talking so he would know she wasn’t trying to sneak off, but she had forgotten.

  She stepped out from behind the bushes. The shirt was a little tight across the bosom, so she had been forced to leave the top button unfastened. She had also rolled the sleeves up over her forearms. Strictly speaking, more skin was exposed than there had been while she was wearing the nightshirt, but she felt more decently dressed.

  Gabriel let out a low whistle of admiration. “You look like a little revolutionary yourself, chiquita. I’d say you should give her a gun, Chaco, but she would probably shoot us all!”

  “Until I ran out of bullets,” Viola said.

  Gabriel threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.

  Chaco just shook his head. “The horses have rested long enough. Everyone mount up. I want to be deep in the mountains by nightfall.”

  Chapter 8

  Slaughter scanned the horizon ahead of the posse in search of a dust cloud kicked up by the gang’s horses, but he didn’t see anything. If the bandits had pushed their mounts hard for the first few miles after fleeing Tombstone, they could have a good long lead.

  At least he knew he was still on the right trail. It didn’t take much of a tracker to follow the wide swath of hoofprints left behind by the horses. The bandits didn’t seem to be going to any trouble to conceal their tracks. Evidently, speed was more important than anything else.

  Pete Yardley pushed his horse alongside Slaughter’s. “Sheriff, I hope you’re not holding back on account of me and the other fellas. We can handle a faster pace if you want.”

  Slaughter glanced over at him, a weedy gent in his late forties. “I’m trying to keep from wearing out the horses too soon, Pete. We may have to make a dash later, and I want them to be as fresh as possible.”

  “Oh. Well, that makes sense, I reckon.” Yardley hesitated, then went on. “It’s just that we know you probably don’t have a whole heap of confidence in us. We’re not the sort of fighting men you’re used to having at your back when you’re riding into trouble. But we won’t let you down, Sheriff. You have my word on that.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I’m mighty glad to have you fellows along with me.”

  As a matter of fact, Yardley was right. Slaughter had been holding back a little. He knew if they caught up to the outlaws, his inexperienced posse would have to take on a far superior force. There was a good chance all of them would be shot to ribbons, and then Viola wouldn’t be any better off than she was before.

  Possibly less, because she wouldn’t have any value as a hostage if the pursuit was eliminated.

  Slaughter’s real hope was that redheaded Sammy Shay, the kid he had sent galloping to the Dragoons, would find Stonewall and Burt and send them racing back to Tombstone with a lot of the other men who had gone to the mountains to look for silver. They would be a real posse, and it might be enough to tip the odds in their favor.

  Strategically, that was the best course of action, and Slaughter knew it.

  At the same time, the knowledge that his wife was the helpless prisoner of a gang of vicious outlaws gnawed at his guts like a starving coyote. There was no telling what they might be doing to her, but chances were it wouldn’t be anything good.

  The hours on the trail dragged past, but the day seemed to rush by. The Mules loomed in front of them, maddeningly close to all appearances, but still out of reach. Slaughter’s original estimate of how long it would take to reach the border faded to insignificance. The posse would be spending at least one night on the trail.

  Late in the afternoon, they came to a small creek that twisted through a wider, shallow streambed. It would be a good place to camp, Slaughter decided, because in Arizona Territory a traveler didn’t ignore the presence of water. It was a commodity sometimes difficult to come by.

  “We’ll stop here for the night,” he announced, even though part of him cried out to go on. He had to put aside his personal feelings and be a smart lawman. They couldn’t risk losing the trail in the darkness.

  The men dismounted, glad to be out of the saddle for the night.

  Scrubby junipers and oaks grew along the banks of the streambed, which probably ran full only during times of flash flood. Slaughter set Murdock and Cleaver, the two bank tellers, to gathering enough wood for a small fire. He looked at Herrara. “You won’t mind cooking for us, will you, Diego?”

  “Of course not, Señor Slaughter,” the squat Mexican said. “I brought along some tortillas and frijoles and some cabrito and chiles for stew.”

  Slaughter clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. We’ll eat well tonight, anyway.”

  As a stableman, Gentry naturally took over tending to the horses, with his friend Grover Harmon to help him. The two old-timers let the animals drink from the creek, then picketed them where there was some graze.

  “We’ll set up guard shifts,” Slaughter told the group. “Two men at a time, five shifts. No one should miss out on too much sleep that way.”

  Figuring that it would be a good idea not to have the two oldest members of the posse standing watch at the same time, he split up Gentry and Harmon, pairing the stableman with Ross Murdock and the saddle maker with Joseph Cleaver. Slaughter didn’t want the tw
o inexperienced bank tellers on duty at the same time, either, so that worked out.

  As for the others, he put Herrara with Pete Yardley and Jack Doyle with Chester Carlton.

  That left Mose Tadrack for Slaughter to pair up with. He went over to the swamper. “How are you doing, Tadrack?”

  “I . . . I reckon I’m fine, Sheriff,” Tadrack said. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He held out his right hand in front of him. In the fading light, Slaughter saw how it trembled. “I won’t lie, I’m a little shaky. Could use a drink. But I didn’t bring any with me, and the sun burned all the booze outta me today. So I’ll be all right as soon as my nerves settle down.”

  “I hope so. You’ll be standing guard with me tonight. Think you can handle it?”

  “Sure.” Tadrack smiled faintly. “I don’t sleep much, anymore. Too many nightmares when I do.”

  Slaughter nodded, but he thought that maybe it had been a mistake to bring a drunk along. He had no doubt that Tadrack meant well and wanted to help. Viola had done nothing more than treat him decently, the same way she would have treated a dog.

  But when trouble came, as it inevitably would, could any of them depend on him? Or would his whiskey-starved nerves cause him to fall apart?

  There was no way of answering that ahead of time. Slaughter could only hope.

  “We’ll take the middle shift,” he told Tadrack. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.” As if he’d been reading Slaughter’s mind, he said, “I won’t let you down.”

  The sheriff just grunted and moved off to see how Murdock and Cleaver were coming along with the fire.

  He had them dig out a pit in the dry streambed where the bank, even though it was shallow, would shield the fire from the view of anyone watching from the mountains. It was probably an unnecessary precaution—the outlaws would have to be complete fools not to know that a posse would be on their trail—but Slaughter believed in being careful. It never hurt, and most of the time it helped.

  Once the fire was burning, Herrara got busy with his work, and soon the air was filled with delicious aromas. Slaughter had always enjoyed being out on the range, and the evening wouldn’t have been bad if not for the fear that lurked inside him, fear for Viola’s honor and her very life.

  After they had eaten, Gentry and Murdock took up their posts as guards and the rest of the men spread their bedrolls on the bank and turned in. Slaughter pillowed his head on his folded coat and saddle, wondering where Viola was and what she was doing. With that on his mind, he didn’t expect to sleep right away, but dozed off.

  His slumber was fairly deep, but he woke with the true frontiersman’s knack of knowing when it was time to rise. The night was quiet. A quarter moon hung low in the sky.

  Slaughter had removed his hat, coat, boots, and gunbelt when he lay down to sleep. He picked up his boots first and shook them out to make sure no scorpions had crawled into them. He pulled them on, stomped his feet down into them, and buckled on the pearl-handled Colt. His Henry rifle lay beside his bedroll. He picked it up, and clapped his hat on his head.

  Fairly raucous snoring came from the two old-timers, disturbing the night’s tranquility. Slaughter thought wryly that the outlaws might be able to hear that racket all the way up in the mountains. He went over to Tadrack’s bedroll, hunkered on his heels, and nudged the swamper’s shoulder.

  Tadrack came awake with a quiet cry, almost a gasp of terror.

  Slaughter gripped his shoulder. “Take it easy, Mose. It’s just me.”

  “Sheriff.” Tadrack was breathless. “I-I’m sorry. I was dreaming.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Come on. It’s our time to stand guard.”

  Herrara and Yardley had the shift that was coming to an end. Slaughter and Tadrack walked over to where they stood beside some junipers on the creek bank.

  “Anything going on?” Slaughter asked.

  “Nothing, señor,” Herrara said.

  “Everything’s quiet,” Yardley added.

  Slaughter nodded. “Good. You boys get some sleep now.”

  “I won’t mind that a bit,” Yardley said.

  Once the other two men were gone, Slaughter told Tadrack, “Why don’t you stay here? I think I’m going to take a pasear along the creek and scout around a bit.”

  “All right, Sheriff. What do I do if I see anything unusual?”

  “Let out a holler for me. Hold your fire unless you’re attacked. We don’t want any wild shooting.”

  “I understand.”

  With the Henry tucked under his arm, Slaughter walked along the ragged creek bank. He intended to go a few hundred yards, then swing in a half-circle around the camp and come back to the creek a few hundred yards in the other direction. That way he could be sure no one was trying to slip up on the others while they slept.

  He was just about to turn away from the creek when he heard a faint scuffing sound behind him. He recognized it as the sound boot leather makes on sandy, gravelly ground and started to wheel around. He figured that Tadrack had followed him for some reason, although why the swamper hadn’t called out to him, he didn’t know.

  Slaughter had turned only halfway when orange flame erupted from the muzzle of a gun and split the darkness, practically right in his face.

  Chapter 9

  Now that she was at least somewhat properly dressed again, Viola would have liked to have a horse of her own to ride, as long as she had to stay with these self-styled revolutionaries.

  They didn’t have any extra mounts, however. They had lost a man back in Tombstone, but his horse had run off. So she was forced to continue riding double with Gabriel. She might have asked Chaco to let her ride with one of the other men, but Gabriel was the devil she knew. He was big and crude and from time to time his hand “accidentally” strayed where it shouldn’t have, but at least he didn’t blatantly paw her.

  As they rode higher into the Mules, she asked him, “What’s your last name?”

  “Why do you care, a fine lady like you?”

  “You should have realized by now that I’m not exactly the sort of lady who swoons at the first sign of trouble.”

  That brought a laugh from him. “Es verdad. Most ladies wouldn’t run out into the street in their nightclothes and start blazing away at a bunch of bank robbers with a rifle.”

  “So you admit that you’re nothing but outlaws,” Viola said.

  “I admit nothing.” Gabriel’s voice became harsher. “Someday, my enemies may hang me or put me up in front of a firing squad, but still I will admit nothing.” His tone softened as he nodded toward the man riding ahead of them. “Never doubt what is in Chaco’s heart, though, señorita. Whether you choose to believe it or not, he is a good man. Sometimes to achieve their goals, good men have to make use of . . . not so good men. Like me.”

  Viola left it at that for a few minutes, then said, “You still didn’t tell me your last name.”

  “It is Hernandez. Gabriel Hernandez.”

  “Whatever prompted your poor mother to name you after an angel?”

  “I know. It’s not exactly fitting, is it?” He guffawed again.

  The canyons that led through the mountains were deep and steep-sided. Scrubby vegetation grew on the lower slopes, while the upper ones were mostly bare and rocky. The canyons twisted so sharply and so often that the riders seldom moved more than twenty or thirty yards in a straight line before they had to go around another bend.

  It was perfect country for an ambush, Viola thought. In the past, only large, well-armed bands of travelers dared to venture into such areas because the Chiricahuas would lie in wait for pilgrims in smaller groups.

  A year earlier, the largest band of Chiricahua holdouts under Geronimo and Naiche had surrendered to the army and effectively put an end to the Apache wars. There were still isolated bands of bronco Apaches that raided along the border, however. It would be a long time before the settlers in southeastern Arizona Territory forgot the fea
r they had lived with for so long. The renegades kept that fear alive.

  No matter what her ultimate fate might be, at that moment, Viola was glad that she was with the outlaws. Not even those stubborn bronco Apaches would attack a party so large.

  The canyons climbed gradually toward a pass that would take them through the mountains, but they wouldn’t reach that pass before nightfall. The light was already dwindling. They would need to make camp soon.

  Chaco called a halt when the canyon twisted again and they came upon a spring that formed a small pool where it bubbled out of a rock wall. Junipers surrounded the pool. It was a pretty place.

  Viola wondered if the outlaws had known it was there, then thought it was pretty likely they had. She swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground as soon as Gabriel reined in.

  He swung down beside her and rumbled, “Don’t try to run off.”

  “Where would I go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Maybe . . . but from what I’ve seen of you so far, señorita, I wouldn’t put it past you to think that you could survive out here on your own, at least until that posse catches up.”

  That was exactly what Viola had been thinking, but she wasn’t going to admit it to him. She went over and knelt down beside the pool. Scooping up water in her hand, she drank. The spring water was crisp and cool and tasted good.

  Chaco didn’t have to give orders. The men went about setting up the camp as if they had done it many time before, which they had.

  Viola stayed out of the way, sitting on a little slab of rock she found. She was aware that Gabriel watched her and did nothing to help with the camp, which told her that Chaco had probably given the big man the responsibility of making sure she didn’t escape.

  Deep in the canyon, night fell quickly, a sudden gathering of shadows once the sun was gone. Several of the men built a fairly large fire, however, and it cast its reddish glow from one side of the canyon to the other, including the pool.

  Chaco went over to her. “How are you doing, señorita?”