Border Lords and Armstrong's War Read online

  Silverjack smiled and relaxed his grip on the neckerchief. “All right, Ollie, start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Carlos Macias and one of his men, Pedro Quintano, sat at a back table in the only cantina in Villa Lobo, Mexico. The place was dark and dingy. Four tables with mismatching chairs sat about the place. A fat Mexican dressed in greasy clothes sat behind the plank wood bar, dozing in a rickety chair. Two old wine barrels held up the six-foot-long bar top. Macias and his man were the only customers.

  They sipped warm pulque and watched three gringos stomp in, throwing back the curtain that passed for the bar’s front door. “Dios mio,” Carlos muttered. “Why is it all Norteamericanos act like they own the world?”

  Pedro shrugged his shoulders and kept drinking. As the men approached the table, Carlos nodded to his companion, who stood up and retreated into the shadows behind his boss.

  “Sit down, señores,” Carlos said. His tone belied his contempt for the men.

  “Hey, bartender,” yelled the first man to sit down. “Bring us three glasses of that horse piss you Mexes call whiskey.”

  The Mexican outlaw eyed the three men and appraised them for what they were: American bounty-hunting trash. He had killed many men himself, but never for the price of their hides, as though they were sheep-killing coyotes or wolves.

  The oldest of the three was Burl Compton. Big, mean, and ugly, he respected no man or woman. Burl had a full beard and was beginning to gray at the temples, even though Carlos suspected he was not yet thirty years old.

  Anse Compton was tall as his older brother and built like a scarecrow. His left eye wandered all over the place, never seeming to focus on anything. He wore a thin gambler’s moustache and a thin goatee. A narrow scar traversed his nose horizontally.

  Petey was the youngest. Short and pudgy, even his clean-shaven, fair features and long, straggly hair had already begun to show the strain of riding the hard trails.

  Burl put a finger to his left nostril and blew his nose. Mucus spewed onto the hard-packed, dirt floor. He wiped his nose and looked at Carlos Macias. Defiance filled his eyes. “Damn, Carlos, if you bean eaters ain’t got the dirtiest country I ever saw.” He grinned. What few teeth he had were twisted and brown.

  Carlos curled his lip at the insulting gesture but said nothing about it. “You are late, amigos.” He sighed as he thought how much he would enjoy killing these three men once their purpose was served, then managed a weak smile. “Were you not told by el jefe to be at Lucasville to help with the gold?”

  Burl always did the talking for the brothers. “Yeah, we was, but somethin’ important came up, and we couldn’t get there right away. We rode through there. Looks like you boys tore the town up pretty good. Did you get the gold?”

  “Si, we recovered the stolen gold.”

  “Damn, how much is there? When can we see it?” Burl squirmed in his chair like red ants were racing up his leg.

  “It is safely hidden. Only Pedro and I know where it is. When I receive word from el jefe, I will turn your share over to you.”

  “Well, I guess that’s okay, as long as it don’t take too long. Me and my brothers don’t want to spend any more time than we have to in this stinkin’ country of yours.” Burl downed his tequila in one gulp. He winced and screwed up his face as the tepid liquor burned its way into his stomach. “We’ll wait—for a while. Now we need some food.”

  He turned to the fat bartender, who was eavesdropping through droopy eyelids and repeatedly wiping the same spot on the bar with a filthy rag. “Gordo, hustle us up some beans and tortillas. We ain’t eat nothin’ all day.”

  Chapter 7

  Rubbing his throat, Ollie said, “All I know is that Mr. Burdock told all us Slash B riders that if we went into town that Sunday, we wouldn’t have a job when we got back. When Mr. Burdock says something, don’t nobody question it.”

  “Is Burdock the big he-wolf around Lucasville?”

  “Yessir, marshal, he is. Don’t nobody cross him.”

  Silverjack jerked up on the bandanna with both hands. The cloth went taut.

  Ollie lurched and fell backwards over a log he was standing next to. “Oh, Lord,” he moaned, “I’m gonna die today.” He started crying again.

  “Calm down, Ollie,” said Pharaoh. “You’re not going to die. Jack always pushes too far. This time he’s crossed the line. I’ll make sure this is his last job as a territorial marshal. Come on, let me help you up.” Pharaoh reached for the stricken man’s hand and pulled him onto the log.

  Silverjack’s head shot up; his eyes locked on Pharaoh. Jack’s hand dropped to his six-gun. “You sayin’ I ain’t a good lawman, Pharaoh? I’ve killed men for less.”

  Pharaoh’s right hand brushed his pistol grips. He returned the stare. “That’s part of your problem, Jack. Stand down or pull iron.”

  Silverjack stood still for a few moments, then his body relaxed, and he turned his eyes away from Pharaoh. “This is the last time you talk down to me, Pharaoh,” he said. “Next time we’ll settle it.” He stomped off, disappearing around the sandstone knoll.

  Pharaoh watched him until he rounded the big formation, and then he returned his attention to Ollie. He made a big deal about brushing the dirt off the cowboy. “This isn’t good, Ollie,” he said, frowning.

  “What do you mean, marshal?” Ollie’s eyes darted in every direction like he expected to be ambushed at any second.

  “I’m going to ask for Silverjack’s badge in the morning, but I can’t do anything tonight while we are asleep.”

  “You’ve got to protect me, marshal! That feller’s crazy. I think he wants to kill me.”

  “The best thing you can do, Ollie, is to be completely truthful with me. I mean don’t leave anything out. And I might be able to protect you from him. I might even speak to the judge and keep him from hanging you.”

  “Hanging me!” For the third time, tears formed in the frightened man’s eyes, this time coursing down his cheeks like muddy little waterfalls. “I swear, marshal, I won’t lie to you. Just, please, you have to protect me from that maniac.”

  Silverjack stood by the knoll, out of sight, but not out of earshot. “Maniac,” he said, laughing to himself. “I reckon I’m a pretty good play actor. This ’good guy, bad guy’ routine works every time. Pharaoh will have that younker spillin’ his guts in no time.” He took off his hat and leaned back against the knoll. A cool breeze drifted in from the west.

  Wilson Cosgrove stepped out of Dr. Prater’s office, followed by Abby Boyett. She looked at him and stuck out her hand. “It was very nice of you, Mr. Cosgrove, to come and visit Mr. Daggett. I’m sure that will go a long way toward his recovery.”

  “The least I could do, Miss Boyett. I’ve known Abraham for a long time. I’m so glad he survived.”

  “Are you returning to Gila Bend soon?”

  “Not right away. I must conduct some business that I have been avoiding because of the long trip here. Now, I have no excuse but to get it done.” He reached over and caressed the nurse’s hand. “Don’t worry, Miss Boyett,” he whispered. “I’ll do my best to take Dan’s place.”

  Abby yanked her hand away. “What?” she said, shocked. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Cosgrove?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Boyett. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice sounded strained. “I only meant I would be here if you needed a shoulder to lean on. Nothing more. And please, call me Will. I would really like that.” He smiled, flashing four gold teeth in the front of his mouth. “Now, my dear, I must go and take care of my business. Remember, contact me if there is anything I can do.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

  Abby shuddered as the banker strutted across the street and into the saloon. “Not now, not ever,” she muttered, and turned back into the doctor’s office.

  Will Cosgrove stepped into the saloon and
hurried up to the bar. He waved the bartender over. When the man reached him, Wilson glanced around. Finding the saloon empty, he smirked and turned to the bartender. Both men leaned over the bar and spoke in hushed tones.

  Sleep escaped Ollie as he tossed and tumbled in his bedroll all night long. By the time the sun rolled over the horizon, he had saddled his horse and was itching to ride somewhere—anywhere—as long as it was away from the crazy marshal. His teeth chattered from the morning chill, but he dared not start a fire. Watching the lawmen beginning to stir in their soogans, he breathed a sigh of relief as Pharaoh rose first. “Mornin’, marshal,” he said, waving. “Sure is cold, ain’t it?”

  Pharaoh grumbled and frowned at the cowboy. “How come you haven’t started a fire yet, Ollie? If Jack gets up and there isn’t any coffee boiling, he’ll be mad as a nut-cut bull.”

  Ollie blanched and began to scramble around, hunting the wood he had gathered the night before. With shaking hands, he got a small blaze going and water on to heat. The Arbuckles was boiling when Silverjack emerged from his bedroll.

  “Something sure smells good,” Silverjack said. “Ain’t nothing like a strong cup of Arbuckle’s to get a body goin’.” He put on his hat, shook out his boots, pulled them on, and jumped up. Holstering his revolver, he stretched his arms across his body and back as he stomped over to the fire. Giving Ollie the evil eye, he poured himself a cup of the molten brew.

  “Jack,” said Pharaoh, “You overstepped the line for the last time last night. I’m gonna need your badge.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Jack, don’t make this hard. You’ve threatened your last prisoner. Give me the badge.”

  Silverjack’s hand dropped to his .44. His fingers wrapped around the butt of the six-shooter. His eyes darted between the two men facing him. Turning the tin cup up, he drained its contents. Dropping the cup on the ground, he took his hand off his .44. “Ain’t either one of you worth a pinch of dirt. Y’all deserve each other.” He spat coffee grounds, turned, and strode to his horse. Stepping into the saddle, he nudged Bess over next to Pharaoh. “I ain’t got no badge, marshal. I lost it a long time ago.” He laughed, ripped Bess around, and took off at a gallop, throwing up a cloud of dirt and rocks.

  “He didn’t give you his badge, marshal.”

  “What?” said Pharaoh, watching Silverjack disappear around the knoll.

  “He didn’t turn in his badge.”

  “Didn’t you hear him say he lost it? Besides, we need to break camp and head back to Lucasville.”

  “Okay, marshal, whatever you say.” Ollie scratched his rear end and smiled.

  In Lucasville, Will Cosgrove sat at a corner table in the Ocotillo café and dug into his bacon and eggs like he hadn’t eaten in days. He was a large man with broad shoulders and big hands. He had worked hard to get to the position he now had and, in his mind, had earned his developing paunch and graying hair. His mood was jovial, and he greeted everyone who came through the door.

  As he took a biscuit and sopped the last of the egg from his plate, he looked up to see Abby and Dr. Prater enter. He waved them over to his table and stood up as they arrived. “Good morning, folks,” he said, flashing his gold teeth. “Please sit down, and let me buy you breakfast.”

  Abby frowned as Will pulled a chair out from the table. “Hello, Mr. Cosgrove,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She sat down and turned her attention to Dr. Prater. “Samuel, perhaps I should go back and stay with our patients. I’m concerned that Mrs. Wheeler won’t know what to do in case of an emergency.”

  “Nonsense, Abby,” said the doctor. “Mrs. Wheeler doctored people here long before I came to town. Chances are she knows as much or more than I do about taking care of our patients. Relax and enjoy your coffee.”

  The waitress brought two fresh cups of coffee and refilled the banker’s cup. Abby usually used cream and sugar, but on this day she drank her coffee black. Dr. Prater stirred two heaping spoons of sugar into his cup and took a sip.

  “So, Mr. Cosgrove, did you finish that business you were telling Abby about?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe I did. I should be hurrying back to Gila Bend, but the quiet solitude of your little town and the breathtaking scenery around here is compelling me to stay a few days longer.” Will smiled at Abby when he mentioned the scenery. She did not smile back. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking about renting a buckboard and taking a ride out to the countryside. Abby, would you do me the honor of guiding me around to the most scenic sites? I’m sure you know all the best places to ride.”

  Abby’s eyes darkened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cosgrove, but I have work to do at the office. I can’t go with you.”

  “Abby,” said Dr. Prater, “I think that’s a dandy idea. You need to get out into the fresh air. You’ve been cooped up in my office ever since Dan was…” His voice trailed off. “Ever since the tragedy. I believe a ride would do you a world of good. Besides, I think Mrs. Wheeler and I can hold down the fort for a little while without you.”

  Abby glared at the doctor and bit her lip.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” said Will. “I will make haste to the livery stable and see what might be available for our trip.”

  “Mr. Cosgrove,” said Dr. Prater, “there is no need for you to rent a rickety buckboard. I have a nice buggy and a splendid horse boarded at the livery. I want you to take it. Your ride will be much more enjoyable.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Prater, for your generosity. I will accept your offer.” The banker turned to Abby, gold teeth sparkling. “I will pick you up at the doctor’s office in half an hour.” He stood up, said goodbye, and sauntered out the door.

  Dr. Prater bid him goodbye and went back to his coffee. He smiled at Abby. “Mr. Cosgrove seems like a nice man. You should have an enjoyable afternoon.”

  Abby stood up and glared down at the doctor. Her lips were squeezed together so tight that they turned white. She sucked in a deep breath and looked like she was about to have a fit.

  Shaking a clenched fist at Dr. Prater, she stormed out of the café.

  Silverjack followed the bank robbers’ trail south. No attempt had been made to hide the hoofprints, and he found them easy to follow. He dug a thick piece of jerky out of his saddlebag and gnawed on it as he rode. “Bess, I hope Pharaoh learns somethin’ from that waddie.” He patted the mare’s neck. “I know one thing—I ain’t too thrilled to be ridin’ into the lion’s den by myself. That’s for dang sure.”

  The sun was a blinding ball of fire overhead when Silverjack topped a slight rise and spied a small adobe hut below. A rickety-looking corral housing half a dozen goats and a tired looking burro stood beside the hut. Needing fresh water and hoping for a hot meal, Jack rode Bess at a slow walk down the hill. As he rode up to the door, he saw no sign of life around the place. “Hello, the house,” he said. “Hola la casa. Yo cuero agua, por favor.”

  The door cracked open, and a long-barreled musket appeared. “I speak English, señor. You are a Norteamericano. We have no water for you. If you do not leave muy pronto, I will shoot you.”

  “Damn,” Jack said under his breath. “Okay, amigo, I will go, but how about some water for my horse first?”

  “Go now or I shoot you. I mean it, señor.”

  “Okay, hombre, I’m leavin’.” Jack nudged Bess and they started away. “Sure do admire this South-of-the border hospitality, don’t you, Bess?”

  The mare didn’t answer.

  Chapter 8

  Silverjack rode on until the middle of the afternoon, when he found a little shade behind an enormous boulder. It was the only boulder for miles. He tied Bess to a small clump of sagebrush. Taking out his canteen, he drank a small sip and poured the rest into his hat. Bess quickly slurped up the small amount of water. Jack sat down and leaned in against the rock. Pulling his wet hat over his eyes, he was asleep in no time.
/>
  Bess whinnied. Silverjack opened his eyes. He heard something besides the mare. Straining his ears to listen, he could barely hear voices. After listening for a minute, he decided it was two men talking in Spanish and broken English. He closed his eyes just enough so he could see through his lashes. “We should shoot this one, Juan?” said one of the men who sounded American.

  “No, Blacky,” said the other, “I want his clothes. We bash in his head with a rock. Mucho sangre, pero es okay.”

  “Hell, yeah, it’ll make much blood. Let me do it. Draw your gun, Juan—just in case he’s playing possum.” Blacky picked up a large rock and crept toward Silverjack. Standing over the prostrate man, he raised the rock above his head. Silverjack kicked him in the groin and rolled away, pulling his .44 as he did. Blacky doubled over and fell on his face, retching into the sand. Juan fired but missed. Jack fired and hit the Mexican in the knee. Juan dropped to the ground, firing as he fell. Jack emptied his six-gun at the fallen man. Reaching for his boot gun, Jack came to one knee and fired once more. It was a wasted bullet. Two of the rounds had buried in Juan, one in his chest, one in his throat. The chest shot had killed him.

  Silverjack reloaded his pistols as he looked around for any more assailants. Finding none, he turned his attention to Blacky. The man lay in the dirt, groaning, covered with his own vomit. Jack walked over to him and removed his pistol. Then he walked over to Bess to make sure she was okay. He patted her neck and then turned back to Blacky.

  “What are you two doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked.

  Blacky had managed to sit up and was wiping his face with his bandana. He looked up at Jack but did not answer

  Silverjack aimed his .44 and fired. Dust jumped up between Blacky’s legs, and he scrambled backwards. “I just kicked you in the balls a while ago,” he said. “If you don’t answer my question, next time I’ll shoot you down there. What are you doin’ out here?”