Border Lords and Armstrong's War Read online

  “We was just ridin’ around and we saw you sleepin’, so Juan decided we ought to rob you,” said Blacky, a sullen look covering his face.

  “Aw, to hell with it,” said Silverjack. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m gonna shoot you in the head and be done with it.” He thumbed back the hammer on his .44 and aimed it at Blacky’s head.

  “Don’t shoot!” hollered Blacky, sliding backward on his rear end. “We ride for Carlos Macias. We scout the area to make sure no laws or Federales are prowling around.”

  “Are we close to where Macias stays?”

  “We’re about five miles from where he is. Can I have my canteen? I need to wash this puke off my face.”

  “I ain’t gonna waste no water on your face. Get up. You’re gonna bury your compadre, and then we’re gonna go see Carlos Macias.”

  After the dead outlaw was placed in a shallow grave, Silverjack tied Blacky’s hands to his saddle and tied Juan’s horse behind him. He mounted Bess and instructed Blacky to lead the way to Carlos Macias.

  They rode for a few hours until the outlaw halted his horse. Silverjack rode up beside him. “What is it?” he said.

  “There’s a small village over the next hill,” said Blacky. “Carlos should be there.”

  “That’s just fine. Let’s go see him.”

  “No. You have to let me go. If he finds out I led you here, he will kill me.”

  “You should have thought about that, amigo, before you tried to rob me.” Silverjack lifted his left leg and kicked the outlaw’s horse in the rump. The animal took off at a trot up the hill.

  At the top of the hill, Blacky stopped again. Several stunted mesquite trees grew all over the hill. “See,” he said, “I told you the truth. Carlos is down there in the cantina. Now, you’ve got to let me go. I tell you, Carlos will kill me. He’s a ruthless cutthroat.”

  Silverjack drew his .44 and rode up next to Blacky. “I’m gonna cut you loose,” he said. “You get down and walk over to that tree yonder. Make a move, and I’ll be bringing Macias your dead carcass.”

  Blacky got down and trudged to the tree. Silverjack followed him. He made the outlaw face the tree, and he ran several strands of rope around it. Jack knotted up the rope just enough so that Blacky could get loose in a couple of hours if he worked hard at it. He remounted Bess and grabbed the reins of Blacky’s horse. “See you,” said Silverjack as he dug his heels into Bess’s ribs.

  “Wait, you can’t leave me like this!” hollered the outlaw.

  “I believe I just did,” said Silverjack, smiling.

  Riding down the gentle slope of the hill, Silverjack stuffed the last of his jerky in his mouth as he scoped out the village. Maybe two dozen adobe huts baked in the afternoon sun. A larger building on the near edge of the village had tienda, or “store,” written on it in bright red letters. Riding into the village, Jack noticed a whitewashed building across from the tiny town square with cantina written on it. A wooden well stood in the middle of the square. Two women wearing colorful but faded dresses were drawing buckets of water and pouring them into large earthen jars. Jack tipped his hat as he rode up, and the women grabbed their jars and scurried up the street. Jack dismounted, drew a bucket of water, and drank his fill. He removed his bandanna and dipped it into the water. He washed his face and neck and put the bandanna back on. A small wooden watering trough stood at the corner of the well. He poured the remaining water into the trough and led the three horses to it. As the horses drank, he retrieved another bucketful of water and dumped it into the trough.

  Silverjack stretched and looked around. “Hard to believe people can live like this,” he said. These Mexicans are some muy tough folks.”

  After the horses were watered, he led them to the cantina and tied them to a post in front. Two other horses were tied there. Jack stretched, his muscles complaining. “Hell,” he said, “I hope I ain’t makin’ a big mistake.” He fingered the long scar on his face and stepped inside.

  Chapter 9

  The sourness of the cantina assaulted Silverjack’s nose. He curled his lip as he looked around the dimly lit room. The place was empty except for two men sitting in the shadows at a back table. Wide-brimmed sombreros obscured their faces. A foul smell emanated from the direction of the bar, where a short, round sweat-soaked Mexican stood. Sullen eyes stared at Silverjack from under a tangled mop of mud-colored hair. Silverjack hitched up his gun belt and strode toward the man. He placed both hands on the dirty wooden plank disguised as a bar top.

  “Give me a shot of tequila, amigo.”

  Silverjack kept his eyes on the bartender. The stinking man glanced at the two men at the table. His head bobbed and he reached under the bar. Silverjack tensed but kept his hands in place. A gush of air escaped his lungs as the bartender’s hand rose above the bar, clutching a bottle of tequila.

  The bartender scowled as he poured two fingers of the fiery brew into a dirty glass. Silverjack threw the tequila down his throat and shook his head. “Whooee, that’s hot stuff, amigo,” he said, grinning. “But it sure tastes good. Pour me another one. I’ll be back directly.” Pitching a silver coin on the bar, Silverjack sauntered over to the two men sitting at the back table. Fingering his scar, he pulled a chair out from the table, spun it around backwards, and dropped into it. “How you boys doin’ this afternoon?” he said. Sure is hot, ain’t it? Can I buy y’all a glass of pulque to celebrate?”

  “Que paso con este gringo?” said the man sitting to Silverjack’s right.

  “What are you celebrating, señor?” said the other man.

  “Well, pardner, I’m celebrating the death of that dirty lawdog, Dan Cable.”

  “Señor, why should we celebrate a man’s death?”

  “Why?” Silverjack’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. “Because you’re the ones who killed him.”

  The afternoon sun glared down on Pharaoh and Ollie as they rode into Lucasville. The deputy marshal held up his hand, and they reined in their horses in front of the burned-up shell of the town marshal’s office. Pharaoh stared for a long time at the charred remains, and then he looked over at his riding companion.

  “Ollie.” His voice was grave. “You’re not officially under arrest, but I aim to keep you with me until this mess gets sorted out. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, marshal. I’ll stick to you like a blood tick on a hound dog’s hind end.”

  Pharaoh scowled. “See that you do. We’ll take our horses to the livery. After that, I want to talk to that wounded banker, Daggett. He knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Say, marshal? Talkin’ about Banker Daggett made me think of something you might want to know.” Ollie scratched behind his right ear. He pulled his hand away from his head and mashed a tiny spider between his fingers. Wiping the spider’s remains on his shirt, he continued. “I remember about two weeks back, me and some of the boys were in the saloon throwin’ a few beers down our gullets. All of a sudden, a big commotion caused us to look out in the street. Well, sir, there was a freight wagon sittin’ in front of the bank with one of its wheels busted all to pieces. Dangedest thing you ever saw.”

  “What broke the wheel?”

  “That’s the funny part, marshal. That ol’ banker was out in the street just a-cussin’ the driver to beat the band. And that driver was shakin’ like he was scared to death. Right away some fellers came up and started unloading the wagon.”

  “Was the wagon’s cargo gold?”

  “Everything was sealed up tight in crates, and I reckon nobody knows except the banker, and he ain’t sayin’. But I’m with you, marshal. Whatever it was, the men who unloaded it had to bend their backs to carry the stuff into the bank. You want to know what I think, marshal?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Prater was saying goodbye to Mrs. Wheeler, the local midwife, when Abby entered his office. Her straw-colored hair whisked in eve
ry direction, and her face flushed crimson. Mrs. Wheeler nodded to Abby and hurried out the door. Abby never looked at the woman. She stomped up to the doctor, stopping when her nose almost touched his.

  “Hi, Abby. How was your ride with Mr. Cosgrove?”

  “Samuel, you had better not decide who I go buggy riding with again. That Cosgrove is nothing but an old lecher.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I don’t care what you thought then, and I don’t care what you think now.” Abby stood on her tiptoes and pushed her face forward until her nose mashed against the doctor’s nose. “He kept trying to put his hands all over me.” She shuddered. “He told me he would buy me anything I wanted if I would go to Gila Bend with him.”

  Dr. Prater stepped back and put his hands up between himself and his attacker. “I’m sorry, Abby. I had no idea that Cosgrove was that kind of man. I will speak to him immediately.”

  Abby closed her eyes and forced her rapid breathing to slow down. She ran her hands through her unkempt hair and stretched her neck. “You don’t need to talk to anyone, Doctor. I made it damn clear to that old fool that if he even spoke to me again I would geld him like a worthless bull.”

  “Excuse me, is someone getting gelded?”

  The distraught nurse jerked her head around to see Pharaoh and Ollie standing in the doorway. Pharaoh was smiling, while Ollie stood behind him peeking over his shoulder.

  “Humpf,” she said, and stormed past the two men and out the door, almost knocking Ollie over as his feet got tangled up trying to get out of her way.

  Pharaoh watched her until she disappeared around a corner, and then he turned toward the doctor. “I reckon my timing’s not too good, Doc, but I need to ask your banker a few more questions.”

  “No, your timing isn’t good, marshal. I just gave Mr. Daggett a sedative, and he will be out until tomorrow morning.”

  Pharaoh pursed his lips and rubbed his neck “I guess I’ll have to wait, then. Doc, do you mind telling me what got Miss Boyett all riled up?”

  Dr. Prater chuckled. “I don’t know much, except she sure doesn’t like Will Cosgrove. From what she told me, he’s not quite what he appears to be.” He paused. “All of my patients are resting now, marshal. May I offer you a cup of hot coffee?”

  “Sounds good, Doc. We need to talk, anyway. You know Silverjack doesn’t like Will Cosgrove, either. He’s always said the man was a crook, but nobody’s ever caught him doing anything illegal. He bears watching. Let’s get that coffee, and we’ll talk about Cosgrove, Daggett, and a few other things I’ve got on my mind. Ollie, don’t leave this room. I’ll call you if I want you.” Ollie looked around until he spied a cane back chair in the corner. He mumbled to himself as he crossed over and plopped down in the chair. Pharaoh ignored him and followed the doctor into his office.

  A small, scarred desk, two old chairs, and a tall, narrow file cabinet took up most of the space in the doctor’s tiny office. Pharaoh sat at the chair across from the desk. In a moment, Dr. Prater walked in carrying two steaming cups of coffee. After handing one to Pharaoh, he grabbed the chair behind the desk and spun it around to face his visitor.

  “You have questions for me, marshal?”

  Pharaoh got right to it. “How long has the banker been in Lucasville?”

  “Daggett or Cosgrove?”

  “Daggett.”

  The doctor ran bony fingers down his small moustache. “Let’s see. I guess he came to Lucasville a bit over two years ago. Said he was going to put Lucasville on the map. Nobody paid much attention to him accept Buck Burdock.”

  “Burdock owns the Slash B ranch.”

  “Yes, he does. That and most of the land for miles around.”

  “I’m guessing that he had something to do with the bank coming to Lucasville. How does Burdock fit in with the rest of the people around here?”

  “That’s a good question, marshal.” Dr. Prater drained his coffee cup. He offered Pharaoh a refill, but the marshal declined. The doctor got up and stepped around the corner. A blue enamel coffee pot gurgled on the wood stove in the corner. He refilled his cup and stood for a minute staring at the wall. He shook his head and went back to his office. Easing into his chair, he took a sip of his coffee. “Most folks here don’t care for the man. They believe he is after their land and wants the town as his own.”

  “Are they right?”

  “I think they are. There is something unsavory about Burdock, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  Pharaoh nodded his head and called Ollie into the room. The cowboy didn’t respond, and he called again. Still no answer. “If that boy’s gone, he’s in a world of trouble,” said Pharaoh. He stood and walked into the front room. Ollie sat in his chair with his head down. His hat was pulled over his face.

  “Wake up, Ollie,” Pharaoh said, disgusted.

  Ollie didn’t move. The marshal lifted Ollie’s hat. Ollie’s head lolled back; round, lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling. A thin red line creased Ollie’s throat from ear to ear, and a steady flow of crimson pumped down his neck, soaking his shirt with blood.

  “Damn!” said Pharaoh. He stepped to the door and searched in all directions. Not even a dust devil disturbed the empty streets. Lucasville looked as dead as Ollie Dunsmore.

  Chapter 10

  As Silverjack spoke, Pedro Quintano tensed up, and his hand moved across his belly to his six-gun. Carlos Macias reached over and put his left hand on his friend’s arm. He put his right hand on the table.

  “Señor,” said Carlos, “you should be more careful of who you accuse of murder. Pedro here, he does not care for gringos.” His eyes narrowed like a rattlesnake about to strike. “For sure, ones who carry badges, Marshal McDonald.”

  Silverjack had taken a big chance in accusing these men of Dan Cable’s murder. From their reaction, he knew he had hit pay dirt. What he hadn’t expected was to be recognized. He had to play out the hand he had been dealt, but one wrong move and he would be an ex-badge toter.

  “And you are Carlos Macias. I heard you were El Hombre Grande, the big man in these parts. I didn’t know you needed a nursemaid to protect you. Maybe I’ve got the wrong man after all.”

  Carlos barked something in Spanish and waved two fingers at the bartender. Pedro stood up and faded into the shadows. The bartender waddled over with two glasses of pulque, and then he disappeared as well. Carlos removed his hat and laid it on the empty chair beside him. He stuck a hand in a pocket of his maroon vest and pulled out a shabby deck of cards.

  “Señor, now we are alone. As you see, I do not fear you or your badge. As a Norteamericano, in my country your badge is worthless. I spit on your law. But, as a man, I respect you. Many of my fellow countrymen fear you. You are well known in Mexico, Silverjack McDonald.”

  “Well, how ’bout that.” Silverjack grinned and removed his hat. He ran fingers through his silver-gray hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “I never knew I was famous down here. Hell, I might just move to Mexico and get me a job with the Federales. I bet they would appreciate a man as well-known as me ridin’ with them. You could even put in a good word for me, señor.

  Carlos couldn’t help but smile at the crazy gringo. “Call me ‘Carlos,’ señor, and, con permisso, I will call you ‘Jack.’”

  “That’s all right with me, Carlos.” Silverjack stared into Carlos’s intense black eyes and tried to use his peripheral vision to watch the shadows. The room seemed to be empty, but his body tensed up like it was spring loaded. In spite of the heat, a dirty, brown icicle oozed down his back.

  “Bueno, Jack, let us play poker. I know how much you Norteamericanos like to play this game. We will play one hand, and it will be, as you say, ‘winner take all.’”

  “What are the stakes? I ain’t got much money.”

  Carlos laughed and began shuffling the cards. “I do not want your money,
Jack. I want your life. If you win, you may ride back to Arizona unharmed. You have my word on it. If you lose, I will feed you to my hogs.”

  In spite of himself, Silverjack swallowed hard.

  “Well, hell, Carlos, them ain’t exactly my choice for stakes, but bein’ that we’re playin’ with your cards, I reckon we’ll play house rules. Deal them pasteboards.”

  Carlos nodded and pushed the deck toward Silverjack for him to cut. Jack waved the opportunity away, and Carlos snatched the deck from the table. He began to deal. His long, deft fingers flicked a card, face up, to Silverjack. An Ace of Spades. Carlos dealt himself a king. He looked over at Silverjack, face expressionless. He spun a deuce in his opponent’s direction and laid his second card down beside his king. Another king.

  Silverjack blinked, but he kept a straight face. He downed a long swig of pulque and made a sour face.

  “You do not like our national drink, Jack.” Carlos looked at the deputy and spat on the floor.

  “It ain’t one of my favorites, but it’ll do to clear the dust out of my gullet.” Silverjack fingered his scar. “Since we’re playin’ for my life, how ’bout you answerin’ a couple of questions for me?”

  “Sure, Jack, I am in no hurry to kill you. Ask your questions.”

  “Why did you kill Dan Cable?”

  “I expected this question, Jack. Many years ago, Ranger Cable shot my brothers to death. Enrique and Miguelito were all the family I had.” Carlos breathed deep and shook his head. His eyes glistened. “In a few seconds, Ranger Cable ruined my life. I swore to avenge my brothers someday, and now it is done.”

  Carlos slid a card to Silverjack. Six of diamonds. He dealt himself an eight of hearts. “I can’t abide by it, but I understand why you killed Dan. Why’d you rob the bank?”