Border Lords and Armstrong's War Read online

  “Ah, this I should not tell you.” Carlos lifted his glass of pulque and chugged down the fiery cactus juice. “But, because I respect you, and you are not going anywhere, I will tell you why.

  “The bank was full of gold. We took it for a man I do not know. That is the truth. A gringo came to me, maybe two weeks ago. He would not tell me his name, but he said that if I help him rob Lucasville, I would have mas oro, more gold, than I could ever spend.” Carlos ran a finger under his nose and pursed his lips. “I have plenty gold, señor, so I tell him no. Then he tell me Ranger Cable is the law in this town. I change my mind. I tell him, if he give my men gold, I will go, but the ranger is mine. That is all there is.”

  “Where is the gold now?”

  “Jack, you ask questions like you think you will not be dead soon.”

  “It’s not over ’til the last wolf howls, and I ain’t even close to my last holler.”

  Carlos cackled with laughter. He raised his left hand and flipped it forward. Pedro emerged from the shadows to stand beside his boss. A fleeting smirk crossed his lips as he stared down at Silverjack.

  “Pedro,” said Carlos, still smiling. “What do you think of this gringo?”

  “I think we should kill him now, jefe. He is too dangerous to let live.”

  “Señor, I think Pedro likes you.” Carlos laughed again. “But he is right. It is a shame, but we must kill you. You know where we stay, and if I let you leave, perhaps the Federales will soon know, too.”

  While Carlos hee-hawed, Silverjack eased his .44 out of its holster. He sucked in the foul air—maybe his last breath on earth—and braced his feet on the floor. He leaned a bit to his right, ready to dive sideways and shoot at the same time.

  As he coiled to make his move, a loud commotion outside the cantina caused him to stop. Pedro again stepped back into the shadows. Two massive hands appeared at the door and ripped down the curtain there. Burl Compton barged through the entrance with the curtain in hand. His two brothers stepped in behind him and spread out. Burl wadded up the curtain and tossed it aside.

  “Macias, there has been a change of plans.” Burl Compton pawed at his face like something was on it. “The boss sent a man to tell us to get the gold and take it to him. Tell me where you’ve got it buried, and we’ll dig it up and deliver it.”

  Carlos dropped the cards and slid his hands under the table. “Señor Compton, I know nothing of this. I will not turn the gold over to anyone until I hear from el jefe himself.”

  Burl wiped his face again. “Hell, Macias, you don’t even know who he is. Give us the gold now, or we will bury you right here in this stinkin’ cantina.”

  “No, hombre, I will not give you the gold.”

  “After what you did in Lucasville, there’s got to be a right smart reward for you, Macias. If you don’t tell us where the gold is, we’ll kill you and claim the reward.” Burl’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “After we kill you, I think your pepper belly sidekick will tell us where the gold is hidden.”

  Pedro emerged from the shadows. “Piss on you and your mangy brothers, maldito. You are dead men.” All hell was about to break loose, and Silverjack was caught in the middle. He had to make a decision whether to throw down on Carlos and Pedro, or side with them against the Comptons and take his chances later. Burl Compton snarled an oath, and Silverjack made his move. He straightened his coiled legs and spun around in his chair at the same time.

  The Compton Brothers pulled iron and started shooting. The Mexican outlaws commenced firing at the same time. Silverjack raised his pistol, took aim, and fired two bullets into Anse Compton’s chest. Anse fell back against the cantina wall and slid to the floor. Everyone was firing, with lead flying in every direction. Oblivious to the screaming bullets, Pedro stood with a flaming six-gun barking from each hand. Carlos had flipped the table over and was slinging lead from behind it. The two remaining Comptons kept moving around, shooting from the hip. Pedro took a bullet above his right eye. He died before he hit the floor. A slug shattered Petey Compton’s right kneecap, sending him screaming to the floor. He dropped his six-gun and grabbed his wounded knee. While he writhed in pain, a bullet tore through his brain, tearing out a fist-sized chunk of his skull. Burl dropped to his knees, blood oozing from half-a-dozen holes in his body. Despite the wounds, he kept firing until a bullet tore into his heart and ended his life. In less than a minute, four men were dead.

  Carlos rose from behind the table and dropped into the closest chair. He began to reload his pistols. When he finished, he eased the six-guns into his holsters. Looking down at his dead friend, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Silverjack looked around and realized he still sat in his chair. “Damn,” he said. His hat lay on the floor behind him, and a searing pain pounded his left ear. He reached up. Blood trickled through his hand as he felt around. His ear was still there, at least most of it. A half inch of the top was gone. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he said as he removed his bandanna and held it against his ear to staunch the blood.

  Using his free hand, he checked his body for other wounds. A bullet had gone clean through his buckskin shirt without touching him. He found a slight graze on his neck that burned like the dickens but didn’t draw blood. He removed the bandanna from his ear and stuck it in his pants pocket. Reloading his pistol, he looked over at Carlos. He stood up and moved away from the chair. The outlaw stared at him, but his eyes were not focused.

  “Pardner,” said Silverjack, “seems we didn’t get to finish our card game.”

  “It makes no difference now, señor; everyone is dead. Pedro is dead. All because of filthy gold. Such a waste.” Silverjack was about to speak when Carlos jerked his six-gun and pointed it at Jack’s stomach.

  “Hey, now, Carlos, what is this?” Silverjack backed up a step and raised his hands. “We just shot a bunch of bad guys to worm food, together. How about an even chance? You owe me that.”

  Carlos frowned. “I owe you nothing, señor, but I will give you something, anyway.” He tried to laugh but the sound died in his throat A trickle of blood ran down his chin. “These gringo fools died for gold that was not theirs. I will never understand Norteamericanos. The gold is behind the bar. Poncho, the bartender, will find you some burros to load it on.”

  “Behind the bar all the time. Well, I’ll be damned if that ain’t a hoot. Wait a minute—you’re giving the gold to me?”

  “Shut up and listen, Jack. The gold belongs to your Americano government. It was stolen many years ago from a military train.”

  “Hell, I recollect that. Jessie James and his gang was supposed to have robbed that train up in Missouri. Nobody ever found the gold, and the James boys swore they didn’t pull that job.”

  “They did not rob the train. The ones who did fought over the gold and killed each other until only one man was left alive. This one kept the place where the gold was hidden a secret for many years. He never went back.” Carlos coughed into his hand. More blood poured through his lips. Silverjack could tell by the way Carlos was acting that he had been gutshot, but he said nothing.

  “The hombre was killed in Tucson two years ago. As he died, he told one man where the gold was buried. That man is el jefe of the bank robbery in Lucasville. He is the one who told me that Ranger Cable was there.”

  Silverjack fingered his scar. “Carlos, why ain’t you keepin’ the gold?”

  “Dead men have no use for gold, Jack.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack cocked his head.

  “I have been shot in the belly. I am dying.” Carlos coughed again. “Take the gold back to your country. I believe you are an honest man, Jack. You can get this job done. Buenas suerte, good luck. I think you will need it. The man behind the robbery—his name is Burdock.”

  “I thought you didn’t know his name.”

  “I lied,” said Carlos, trying to smile but failing.

&nbs
p; “Let me look at your wound, Carlos.” Silverjack started toward the wounded man. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

  “Stop,” said Carlos, waving his pistol at Silverjack. “I will not die slowly.” He stuck the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 11

  Pharaoh had been quiet ever since McCorkle, the undertaker, had removed Ollie Dunsmore’s body. He sat on a bench outside the doctor’s office and reassessed the situation. Dan Cable had been murdered by Carlos Macias, whose gang ransacked Lucasville and stole an undetermined amount of gold. Where had the gold come from? He had to wait until tomorrow to ask Abe Daggett, who had been sedated by Dr. Prater. Two women were dead, and Ollie had been murdered right under his nose. Silverjack, if he was still alive, was somewhere in Mexico searching for Carlos Macias. This had turned into a tough case with way too few clues.

  He removed his hat and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. Was Daggett a suspect? Buck Burdock threw a wide loop in the area. Was he involved? What about Will Cosgrove? Jack didn’t trust him, and he had a nose for bad men. The whole situation gave Pharaoh a headache. Standing up, he started inside to ask the doc for a headache powder when he noticed Abby Boyett running up the street. Her clothes were disheveled, and as she got closer, he could tell her face was flushed. She looked like she had been crying. When she stepped up on the porch, Pharaoh stood in the doorway and confronted her. “Miss Boyett, are you okay?” he asked.

  Fire raged in her eyes as she tried to push her way past Pharaoh. Tears streamed down her red cheeks, and she drew back her fists. She stood like that for a moment, then she collapsed against Pharaoh’s chest. Pharaoh caught the fainting woman and lifted her in his arms. He turned sideways and carried her into the doctor’s office, then into the room where the two dead ladies had been. Laying Abby on the nearest cot, Pharaoh hurried to get Dr. Prater from his office.

  “Doc, Miss Boyett has fainted. Her clothes are messed up, and she’s been crying.”

  Both men hastened to the stricken woman’s side. Dr. Prater knelt and took hold of Abby’s wrist. “Her pulse is racing, but I believe she will be okay. Bring me a glass of water, marshal.”

  By the time Pharaoh returned with the water, Dr. Prater had loosened Abby’s clothing, and her pulse had returned to normal.

  “Marshal, please raise Abby’s head while I give her a little water.”

  Pharaoh complied, and Dr. Prater separated Abby’s lips. He trickled water down her throat and she swallowed. Within a few moments, the young woman’s eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes. She lay unmoving, staring at the ceiling. All at once, her eyes flicked left and right, and she jerked to a sitting position. The doc took hold of her shoulders and held her firm.

  “Abby,” he said. “You are okay. This is Sam. You’re safe in my office. Relax.”

  “Sam, oh, Sam,” Abby’s voice quivered, and she trembled. “Thank God I made it here.”

  “Miss Boyett,” said Pharaoh, “can you tell us what happened? You walked into my arms and collapsed.”

  Abby glanced over at him. “I fell into your arms?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned from Pharaoh’s gaze, color creeping into her pale features. “Oh, I’m sorry, marshal. I must have been so upset I didn’t know where I was.”

  “Abby.” Dr. Prater’s voice was soft but firm. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Cosgrove attacked me.”

  “What!” said Pharaoh, straightening up. “Where did you last see the man?”

  “In the stable. I punched him in the nose and ran out of there.”

  Pharaoh charged out the door and headed toward the livery stable. He reached the wide, wooden door and stopped. The door stood open, and noise echoed from inside. The racket sounded like a scuffle was going on. Pharaoh palmed his six-gun and stepped around the door.

  He glimpsed a shadowy figure running out the opposite side of the stable. “Stop!” he yelled as the figure disappeared out the back. Instead of following the person, Pharaoh ran back out the front door. A man emerged from the alley and jumped for a horse that was standing with its reins trailing the ground. He scooped up the reins and mounted in one blurred motion. He jerked the horse’s head sideways and kicked it hard in the ribs. The terrified animal’s knees buckled, and it almost fell. As the horse regained its balance, Pharaoh shot the rider out of the saddle.

  The riderless horse galloped down the street. Pharaoh cocked his .45 and stepped toward the downed man. His bullet had caught the man in the back of the neck. The body lay motionless in the dirt, his face buried in fresh horse manure. “Cosgrove, looks like you fell right in it,” Pharaoh said, curling his lip at the pungent odor. Avoiding the man’s flop-covered face, he stuck a boot toe under the body and rolled it over. He leaned down and stared into the face of a stranger.

  “Dang, you’re not Will Cosgrove. Who in blazes are you?”

  Pharaoh noticed a long skinning knife sticking out of the man’s boot. He stared at the hilt a moment and realized there was blood on it. He grunted and quickstepped back into the barn. Will Cosgrove lay in a back stall. He was on his back and his legs were spread out, his head positioned at an impossible angle. When Pharaoh stepped up to the body, he realized Cosgrove’s head had almost been severed. Only a small strip of bloody flesh joined the head to the body.

  Pharaoh rounded up a few men, who carried the two bodies to the undertaker’s office. Before the corpses were taken away, Pharaoh threw a bucket of water into the face of the killer. He was identified as Tiburcio de la Hoz, a local horse wrangler who was known to be good with a knife. No one knew who he might have been working for.

  Pharaoh felt relief as he stepped back into the doctor’s office. Abby was sitting in a chair talking to Dr. Prater. Her demeanor was something less than cordial.

  Dr. Prater lowered his gaze and held his hand up. “I know, I know, Abby. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’m sure if Cosgrove is still in the area, the marshal will find him. That bounder will not get away.”

  Abby and the doctor looked up as Pharaoh approached them. He explained what had happened and told them about Will Cosgrove and his apparent murder. Both were shocked at the turn of events.

  “Doc,” Pharaoh said, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “any idea who de la Hoz might have been working for?”

  “Not offhand, marshal, but I’ll tell you who might know. Casey, the bartender, knows everything that goes on in Lucasville. When his patrons get a little liquor under their belts, they tell him everything they know. The man’s a good listener.”

  “Casey, huh? We had a little run-in with him when we first got to town. I’ll go over and prod him a little bit—see what I can find out.”

  “Marshal,” said Abby, “I want to thank you for helping me earlier. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here to catch me. It isn’t like me to react the way I did. I guess the thought of Dan being gone, plus everything else that has happened, upset me more than I realized.”

  “I just happened to be there when you fainted. Anyone else would have done the same thing. Now, if you would excuse me, I have a bartender to scare.”

  Pharaoh walked into the street and headed toward the saloon. Abby’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from sight. Her lips were parted and, just for an instant, her tongue flicked out and moistened them. Pharaoh stepped through the swinging doors of the saloon and observed the place. Except for the bartender, and four men playing cards at a front table, the place was empty. Pharaoh sidled over to the card players and, with his hand resting on the butt of his .45, spoke to them in soft tones. The men looked around at each other and, almost on cue, rose as one and exited the saloon. Their gambling stakes were left where they lay.

  The bartender watched the scene play out and kept wiping the same glass like he was trying to rub the clear off of it. He was sweating a ri
ver when Pharaoh approached the bar.

  “Give me a cold beer, Casey,” Pharaoh said in a menacing tone.

  “Sure thing, marshal. Anything for the law.” Casey’s hands trembled as he drew a mug of beer. “Here you go. No charge.”

  Pharaoh chugged the whole brew and slammed the mug down on the bar. Casey jumped like he was poked with a stick. Keeping his eyes locked on the bartender, Pharaoh removed his hat and set it on the bar. He rubbed the left side of his face and sighed.

  “Casey, I’m going to make this real simple. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully. If I sense you’re lying, even one time, I’ll quit asking and tell Silverjack you called his mother a real bad name. The last man who said something bad about his mama is still missing. Are we clear?”

  Casey looked like he was about to bawl, but he nodded his head. “What, uh, do you want to know, marshal?”

  “Who was Tiburcio de la Hoz working for?”

  “He worked for a lot of people, marshal, now and then. Mostly, he just hung around town and bragged about how good he was with that pig sticker of his.”

  Pharaoh inhaled through his nose and blew the air out his mouth. “Last time, Casey. If you think I’m bluffing, go ahead and mess with me. Who was de la Hoz working for when he cut Will Cosgrove’s throat?”

  Casey’s tremble turned into a full-blown shake. “Marshal, they’ll kill me if I spill my guts. I can’t tell you.”

  Pharaoh stuck his hat on his head, making a big deal out of straightening it and getting it just right. “Casey, I’m disappointed in you, but you made your choice. Jack should be back in town anytime. I’ll be sure to let him know how uncooperative you’ve been.” He took one step toward the door when the bartender blurted out a name.

  “Burdock. The chili eater worked for Burdock. When the old man needed some dirty work taken care of, de la Hoz was his man. He could use that knife better’n most men can use a six-shooter. Cosgrove, Daggett, and Burdock were in cahoots to share that Yankee gold. Cosgrove got greedy. He thought him and me were partners because we went way back, and he tried to hire me to kill Burdock and finish off Daggett.”