Pistolero Read online

  The second load yielded better. In addition to some more shelter halves, he found cooking and eating utensils and many little cartons of hardtack and beef or deer jerky. There were also boxes of ammunition for the Whitley-Laidley rifle and some for the lieutenant's revolver, but as he was already carrying enough of both, it was of no interest to him.

  He still had the pocket knife he had taken from one of the soldiers he had buried and then dug up in Isela's little barn. He crouched down and cut the pant leg off one of the soldiers that lay before him now. He tied one end into a knot, making a kind of hobo carry, and filled it with hardtack and jerky, then looked down at the corpse with one bare leg exposed, the trouser leg cut off at the crotch, thinking, That'll puzzle hell out of 'em when they find it...

  There was a long-bladed butcher knife in the tangle of eating utensils. He took it and stuck it down inside his belt, next to the hatchet. He bent over and picked a Whitney up off the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and went back to the mule.

  He knelt down and untied the halter rope from a dead man's leg, then stood and stroked the animal's neck for a few moments. Then, taking a fistful of bristly mane, he hoisted himself onto the mule's bare back.

  "Let's go, old boy," he said softly, taking up the rope and nudging the animal in the ribs with his heels. "There are miles to go before I sleep."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Chapter Ten

  - 1 -

  The one they called El Carnicero decided that the others would die. Nothing against anyone personally, he just wanted all the money.

  He talked them into spending one more night on the river. The horses are tired, he had said. 'Les stay here another night. Whas' the hurry, amigos? Rest and water the animals. Hell, we been ridin' hard too, 'les rest some more ourselves. Los Perdidos tomorrow, how 'bout it?...

  And they had acquiesced, not realizing that he had merely wanted to keep them away from town – out in the desert – where they would be easier to murder.

  One by one, he cut all their throats as they lay sleeping.

  - 2 -

  A mule has an odd, clumsy gait. The distance it takes between steps is so short that the ride – if you're riding one – bumps and rocks and jerks and takes some getting used to. And there are times, if you're riding bareback, when you grab a fistful of mane to keep from sliding off.

  Cole Matthews was just glad to be off his feet; he tolerated the awkward, bumpy ride gratefully and with no problem at all.

  The trail had become easier to follow over the course of the last two or three sandy, dusty miles, and led him to a copse of bushes and trees at the edge of a small river. He sat atop his mule, legs dangling, and put one hand over the other where the saddle horn would be if he weren't riding bareback. He exhaled softly and surveyed the scene.

  Three bodies lay on three bedrolls around the remains of a dead fire. They lay on their backs, and he could see bloodpool from where he sat, and that their throats had been cut.

  He nudged the mule forward, then slipped to the ground and tied the halter rope to a bush. He hooked a thumb over the Mexican Army pistol belt that he wore and looked down on the corpses. Pretty clear what had happened. A bit of a falling out among thieves, and that was not of the slightest interest to him, but what did concern him was what he might scavenge from the bodies.

  The weapons were gone. Not a Colt, a Winchester, or a gunbelt to be found among them. But from one of the bandits, he took trousers and a shirt. From another, a sombrero, and he was made happy by finding his own boots on the feet of the third man. He took the man’s socks as well, but drew the line at anybody’s underwear.

  He laid it all, neatly folded, down on the ground, on a patch of grass, then went to the river.

  He sat at the water’s edge, brought up a leg, and tugged at one of the too-small army boots. He gasped with the pain of pulling it off. His foot was bare and bloody, with many raw abrasions, and broken, running blisters.

  Then, the other boot, and he sighed with relief when he put both feet into the cool water of the gently rolling river.

  - 3 -

  Both horse and rider had come to vehemently hate each other. For his part, the one called El Carnicero was beginning to think that he would shoot the big bay horse. Stupid goddamn caballo was turning out to be less than worthless: defiant and balky and resisting his every command. Couldn't get the damn thing to run, or even to gallop. If he spurred it, the horse would try to throw him; if he applied the bit, the horse would toss its head angrily and try to throw him. He was getting nowhere, inching, meandering through the desert on a horse that only reluctantly walked for him, and fought against him at every turn.

  Damn caballo... He jerked on the reins to bring the spade bit painfully against the roof of the horse's mouth, and kicked hard, sinking the needle-sharp points of his Mexican spurs into the animal's ribs.

  The bay screamed and there came an angry rumbling from somewhere in his chest as he turned his big head around and back. He sank his teeth into the rider's thigh, then arched his back and threw his rear legs high into the air, and El Carnicero was out of the saddle, flying end over end and hitting the ground hard.

  He lay on his back, the wind knocked completely out of him. Then, as he lay gasping, the horse lunged forward, rared up, and came down with another scream, aiming to crush the Mexican's head with his big front hooves.

  El Carnicero rolled to one side, just barely saving himself, and sat up straight, still wheezing, still trying to catch his breath. He scooted backwards through the dirt on his butt, backing frantically away, putting a little more distance between himself and the caballo loco.

  The bay stood looking down at him, holding his head low and snorting softly, hatred in his eyes. He pawed once at the dirt, like a bull.

  El Carnicero examined his leg where the horse had bit him. There were bloody tooth marks in the trouser leg, just above the knee, and it hurt like hell. The big teeth had gone deep, he knew, and that was absolutely fucking it... the goddamn horse would die. He lumbered to his feet and jerked his Colt from its holster.

  He took a few limping steps toward the bay and took him roughly by the halter with his left hand. With his right, he cocked the Peacemaker and brought it to the animal's head.

  "Pudrirse en el infierno, usted bastardo miserable," he whispered. Rot in hell, you miserable bastard...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Chapter Eleven

  - 1 -

  Matthews took the shot. Sitting on the back of a mule from too far away and shouldering a Whitney-Laidley rolling block rifle that he doubted was even sighted in, he had no choice but to cock the thing and take the shot.

  No choice, and no time to think about it. The Mexican – a good two hundred yards off – was about to kill his horse and only friend. He could only imagine the trouble the bay had been bringing the man.

  If it had been his own rifle, he would have gone for a head shot, but he had no faith in the accuracy of the Whitney, so he put his front sight center of mass, square on the bandit's chest. The rifle barked and punched his shoulder, and he watched as, a moment later, the little figure six hundred feet away spun about and fell to the ground.

  He pushed the sombrero to the back of his head and sat look
ing. Adios, culo, were the words in his mind.

  He shouldered the Whitney and nudged the mule forward.

  ~

  He slipped from the mule's back and let the Whitney fall to the ground. He made straight for the Mexican, who was not dead, but was struggling to his feet, a revolver still in his hand.

  There was a dark little hole low in the bandit's shirt, and the shirt was soaking up blood all around. So much for center of mass, thought Matthews. Looked to be a bullet in the stomach.

  He pulled the Nagant from the army holster.

  The Mexican's face was twisted and wolverine-like as he ground his teeth against the pain. He raised his own revolver with a shaky hand.

  Matthews closed the distance between them. He took hold of the man's wrist and shoved the revolver away; with his other hand, he smashed the butt of the Nagant into the side of the bandit's head, a crushing, solid blow, just above the ear.

  It rocked the Mexican. The revolver fell from his hand and he staggered back a few steps. He shook his head as if to clear it, spit some blood into the dirt, and drew a knife from his belt. He smiled. There was blood on his teeth. He went into a little crouch and brought the blade into position to either thrust or slash.

  Matthews brought the .37 caliber Nagant to bear on the man's heart and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing. Click. Misfire.

  He flung the revolver away and reached for the butcher knife stuffed down inside his own belt.

  The Mexican was on him.

  Each seized the other's knife hand by the wrist and they grappled, falling down together in the dirt. Matthews stumbled and was rolled onto his back.

  The Mexican's wrist was small and slippery with sweat, and he wriggled and twisted and snaked hard around and broke free of Matthews' hold on his hand. He brought the knife back for a thrust to the head or throat, whichever he could get to, but Matthews caught the knife by the blade coming down. The razor edge sliced deep into the meat of his palm and the insides of his fingers, and blood was suddenly flowing out of his hand, down and off the tip of the blade, and into his eyes and onto his face.

  The Mexican leaned in close with the effort of trying to drive his blade into Matthews' throat, and Cole Matthews lurched upward, head-butting the man hard in the face, and breaking his nose. That weakened the Mexican's grip on his own hand, and he wrested it free and plunged the butcher knife all the way to the handle in the bandit's side.

  The Mexican gasped and his eyes widened. He pulled back and seemed to sway a little. Blood was flowing down onto his shirt from the broken nose.

  Matthews tried to withdraw the blade, but couldn't. He pulled hard, but it was hopelessly stuck. He had seen it before. A knife or a bayonet with no blood grooves laying deep inside a man... The suction made pulling it out impossible sometimes.

  The Mexican was still fighting, his eyes crazy with pain and blood lust and rage. A growl came from deep in his throat. He held tight to the knife in his hand and was twisting it, wrenching it, jerking it, trying to get it free of Cole Matthews' bloody grip.

  Panic over severed fingers or a cut radial artery surged through Matthews' gut, but he blocked it; he could not – would not – lose control of the knife in the Mexican's hand. He gave up on the butcher knife, leaving the wooden handle jutting out just under the ribcage. He groped for and then fumbled the hatchet out of his belt.

  With a great heave upward, he rolled up and over and forced the Mexican onto his back. He brought the hatchet high overhead and then down hard, trying to split the man's skull, but the Mexican arched his back and twisted, and the hatchet went deep into the center of his chest.

  Square into the sternum, splitting it with a great cracking sound, and the hatchet, too, was hopelessly stuck.

  The Mexican's grip on his knife loosened, and was released to Matthews' hand. He sank slowly to the ground, where he lay sucking hard for breath, his eyes open wide but losing focus.

  Cole Matthews rose slowly to his feet, still holding the Mexican's knife by the blade. He let it fall to the ground and went to the Peacemaker the bandit had dropped in the dirt. He bent over and picked it up. It was already cocked.

  He turned back to the bandit, who lay breathing more softly now, and shot him in the head.

  ~

  He tore a strip of cloth from the dead bandit's shirt and wrapped it tightly around his bloody left hand, then secured it by tucking the end down inside. It would need stitches, he knew, but that was beyond his ability to perform at the moment.

  He went to the bay, which stood patiently watching.

  The horse seemed glad to see him. He nuzzled his big snout into Cole Matthews' hand, then stood with his eyes closed as Matthews stroked the side of his neck and spoke gently to him. The horse groaned softly. Seemed comforted.

  Matthews looked hard at the side of the bit in the horse's mouth, at the heavy and ornate silver cheekpiece that ran the length of the jaw. It wasn't his. And he didn't like the look of it.

  He unbuckled the halter strap behind the animal's ears and pulled the bit from its mouth. As he thought. A Mexican spade bit. There was a little smear of blood on the spade itself, the part of the thing that gouged the roof of a horse's mouth.

  He turned and looked at the body with the hatchet in its chest. The son of a bitch... If he hadn't tossed the Peacemaker aside, he'd put another round in the bastard's head. He flung the bit furiously away, its reins flying. Then he noticed the long, spiky rowels on the dead man's spurs, and he turned back to the bay.

  There were eight or ten scabby and bleeding little puncture wounds in the animal's side, at the ribs. He ground his teeth with anger and indignation, but spoke softly to the animal some more as he gently patted him on the shoulder. Then he unfastened the cinch, lifted the saddle off the horse's back, and threw it angrily to one side.

  ~

  He cut a chunk out of a thick leaf of prickly pear cactus, put it on a rock, and mashed it into pulp with the butt of the Mexican's Colt. He added a little water from his flower pot canteen and mashed it some more.

  Then he smeared the greasy green poultice on the wounds in the bay's ribs; first one side, then the other.

  - 2 -

  In a way, it was like Christmas. He had his guns and his horse back, and two saddlebags full of gold and Mexican pesos to boot. More dinero than he had the time to count, though he still wondered what the hell he was going to do with it.

  The Mexican had been leading three horses. He found his own saddle on one, a roan, and in their respective boots, the Winchester and the Sharps. Hanging from the saddle horn on another horse was his black leather gunbelt with Schofield, push dagger, and derringer.

  As he wrapped and buckled the gunbelt around his waist, he glanced again at the hatchet sprouting from the breastbone of a dead Mexican bandit. He shook his head at the weird trail he knew he was leaving behind him. He noticed the bloody tooth marks in the bandit's trouser leg and smiled.

  He tied down the holster, then pulled the Schofield and examined it. Still loaded with five rounds and seemingly clean enough, though he would hit it with some oil and solvent when he got the chance. Same with the derringer: still two rounds in the over-and-under pipes, and not recently fired. The push dagger was shiny and razor sharp; probably not even taken from its sheath.

  The bay needed to heal up; he would ride the bandit horse that already wore his own saddle, and lead the bay and the mule. Why he would take the mule, he wasn't sure, other than that it had been an affable fellow, and he had simply taken a liking to it. He secured the saddlebags full of pesos and gold to its back.

  He pulled the saddles off the other two bandit horses, removed their bits, and shooed them away. He watched them trot off into the desert thinking, Good luck out there, boys... Find a wild herd if you can...

  He rolled up the serape and tied it down behind his saddle, over the bedroll.

  He made
a final lookaround. Nothing more he needed or wanted from this place. He pulled the sombrero down low on his forehead and tightened the neck lanyard. He adjusted the makeshift bandage on his hand, and stepped up into the saddle.

  He took up the reins and sat for a moment, gazing at the scrubby horizon and calculating how far off that next little town – Los Perdidos? – might be. Three to five miles, he figured. Maybe six.

  Leading the mule by its halter and the bay by a rope around its neck, he nudged the bandit horse forward.

 

  Chapter Twelve

  - 1 -

  There was more to the little town than he had expected. A dozen or more flat roofed adobe buildings clustered around a corral and a parade field comprised a respectably large army post on the outskirts of town. Battalion size maybe, three to five hundred men, judging from the four largest adobes, which he took to be barracks.

  It was the hottest part of the day, the sun just a little past directly overhead. A pair of khaki-clad soldiers sat on a little porch under an overhang roof that fronted one of the adobes, their chairs tilted back and leaning against the wall; each had a rifle leaning against the wall beside him. The unlucky ones, Matthews knew, the ones that had drawn the duty; no other soldiers were about. Even the corral was empty, the horses in their stables and out of the broiling sun.

  One of the soldiers pushed his hat to the back of his head as they watched him ride by. The other gave him a menacing smile and pointed a finger revolver-like, then dropped his thumb, hammer-like. Matthews smiled amiably back and gave them a tilt of his sombrero, and the Mexicans gazed impassively at him.

  The green, white, and red bars of the flag of Mexico hung still and unmoving atop a wooden flagpole at the near end of the parade ground. He looked up at the thing as he rode past, thinking, so this is where all the cannon fodder is coming from...

  All the animals needed water. He nudged the bandit horse forward, leading the mule and the bay, and seeking a well or a fountain of some kind.

  ~

  He came to a circular plaza about in the center of things. It was little more than a rocky patch of ground, but there was a rough plank bench or two, a few hitching rails ringing the square, a naked flagpole, and – all that mattered – a watering trough for horses and burros and donkeys. A disheveled looking old gringo sat slouched on one of the benches.