And Kill Them All

I mumbled, “Beats all I’ve heard in a while.” Then, with considerably more force and vigor, I added, “Well, suppose we’d best get ourselves together, arm up, and go see about it. Bothers the hell out of me that people are shooting up the property. That they woke me up. And here I am a standin’ in the door, in my drawers, and don’t have the least idea as to who they are or why they’re doing it.”

Ever the philosopher, Boz said, “As you are well aware, Lucius Dodge, I don’t care for such blatantly mischievous and dangerous behavior myself. Never have condoned the thoughtless deeds of arrogant, unthinking bastards as would roust me out of a night of much-needed, rejuvenating slumber by firing off their pistols in such an unthinking and promiscuous manner.”

Shook my head and grinned in spite of myself. “Jesus, Boz. I’d ask you to repeat all that, but I know you couldn’t do it on a bet.”

Tatum chuckled and slapped his leg without thinking, then grimaced and sucked in a quick, hissing breath.

“Well, guess maybe you’d best amble on back down to the corral and saddle us a couple of them bangtails, Boz. I’ll ride Grizz—if he’ll let you get close enough to catch him.”

“Oh, I’ll catch him all right.”

“While you’re doing that, I’ll roust Paco out of the sack. Have him cook us up a pot of coffee thick enough to float a Colt’s pistol and load us up a sack for traveling.”

“He ain’t gonna like gettin’ woke up this early.”

“Probably not. But, time we get ourselves dressed and armed he should have coffee cooked. Drink a cup before we set out.”

Boz rubbed his neck. “Have him throw some of the biscuits and ham from last night into a saddlebag, too. Figure by the time we get situated, should have decent enough light to travel. Head on up to Turkey Mesa. See if we can figure out what in the blue-eyed hell’s going on, and why we weren’t invited to the dance.”

“That’ll work.”

“Oh, you want me to wake Glorious, Lucius? Might need him and that big ole shotgun of his. ’Specially if we run into anything like real trouble. Besides, he knows the area a hell of a lot better than either of us.”

Our friend Glorious Johnson had come down from Fort Worth on his own when he heard the news that the pair of us had got ourselves shot in Rio Seco. Man had turned out a godsend. Took on plenty of work around the place that we still had a spot of trouble doing.

“Might as well. Figure the more folks we have along for the ride the better. From the sound of all that gunfire, sure as hell seems to be a sight more than one or two of them doing the shooting—whoever they are.”

Boz was on his feet before I could say anything else. He hobbled down the sloped, grassless hill toward the corral, like a man walking a ship’s deck on choppy seas.

I trundled my way to the back side of the dog-run house’s rough, open porch. A covered deck separated the raw, divided structure’s kitchen from my sleeping quarters and personal digs. The shaded portion of the open porch also served as a makeshift dining area—weather permitting.

Bear, all happy with the excitement and movement, let out a throaty snort and wagged his thick, bur-infested tail. He shot from his preferred perch on the steps and headed down the hill behind Boz.

Second or so later I could hear my friend calling to the dog, then yelling for Glorious Johnson to hoist himself the hell out of the sack and get himself on the move. And that we had a situation to look into. That’s the way Boz described all the shooting and commotion of the morning, “. . . a situation.” Little could he have known just how grotesque, bloody, or god-awful that situation would prove.

7

“SOMETHIN’ REAL BAD’S A-WAITIN’ FOR US . . .”

HAD TO CALL the Messican’s name three times before a bleary-eyed Paco Matehuala stumbled from the shelter of the lean-to shed tacked to the kitchen’s board-and-batten back wall. Never one to complain because his newly acquired gringo jefes kept odd hours, our sleepy-eyed, muddle-headed cook wobbled up the back steps and onto the central part of the porch. He pulled a coarse, cotton shirt over splayed hair, then, without comment or protest, staggered toward his soon-to-be-stifling kitchen.

According to my big-ticking Ingersoll pocket watch, a bit more than half an hour had flown by when Boz ambled back up from the corral. He led a pair of saddled, drooping hay burners. Bear and a yawning Glorious Johnson followed.

I snapped the turnip-sized watch’s silver-washed cover closed, shoved it into my vest pocket, and watched as Paco stood on the veranda’s steps and poured Tatum and Johnson a steaming cup of Arbuckles aromatic Ariosa coffee, then retreated back to his oppressive workplace.

Cup of black, tonsil-searing, up-and-at-’em juice in hand, Glorious Johnson lurched, as though still not quite awake. He groped his unsteady way around a fine bay gelding, laid a long-barreled Greener across the saddle, then, finally, focused the totality of his waking concentration on the smoldering mug.

“Damn, that’s good stuff,” Boz said, after his first nibble at the cup.

Johnson sipped in silence. He dipped his close-cropped, ebony head in agreement, but still said nothing and made no sound.

Fully furnished out in high-waisted pants, shotgun chaps, riding boots, spurs with Mexican rowels, and a Texas-crimped, palm-leaf sombrero the size of a wagon wheel, I hopped off the porch and jingled over to the blue roan. One-handed, I stuffed a sack of grub Paco had prepared for us into the leather bags tied behind Grizz’s well- used California-style saddle.

I leaned against the ever-patient animal’s muscular rump and went back to work on my own beaker of belly wash. The Messican’s coffee did taste mighty good. Got to thinking as how if the day went bad Paco’s stump juice might well prove the best part of our unscheduled morning.

“Tell you true, Boz,” I said, after sucking down near half the contents of my cup, “this here Arbuckles sure beats the hell out of cooking parched grain, way we’ve often had to do during a goodly number of our other days as rangers. Beats the hell out of that stuff we used to get from down in Mexico, too. Suppose we ought to stroll on down to Del Rio soon as we have a chance. Buy ourselves another five or ten pounds of these beans. Mighty tasty.”

Glorious Johnson grunted, as though still half asleep, then wordlessly went back to chewing at his still- steaming cup.

Almost to myself, since I’d got no response to my thoughtful observations, I added, “Paco says we’re starting to run low on the wonderful stuff. Another two weeks or so, we’ll be slap out.” Pointing at Boz’s mount with my near-empty beaker, I added, “You bring that cut-down coach gun of yours along?”

“Hell, yes, I brung it,” my friend said, as he fussed over the buckle on one leg of his chaps.

Except for a flashy, bloodred, bib-front shirt, Boz’s outfit could have easily passed for a close match of mine. “She’s loaded up with heavy-gauge buckshot and ready for action. Put one of the Winchesters in your saddle scabbard, Lucius. Figured between my coach gun, your big ole rifle, Glo’s Greener, and all this iron we’re packing around our waists, oughta be way more’n prepared for just about any set of circumstances we might happen on. ’Course, if none of that works out, and we should all get kilt deader’n hell in a preacher’s front parlor, could always use our weapon-laden corpses for boat anchors.”

A grin played across my coffee-dampened lips. “Still referring to that amputated popper of yours as Hortence, I suppose?”

Tatum and Johnson both flashed toothy grins at the shared joke. Boz shook his head. “Naw. Naw. Not anymore.”

“Oh. And why not?”

“Well, got to figurin’ ...”

Glorious Johnson chuckled, then said, “Now there’s a bad sign, if’n I ever heered tell of one. Ole Boz Tatum gets to figurin’ and chickens is prone to stop laying. Both of ’em bad signs.”

Feigning mild irritation, Boz said, “As I was tryin’ to say before bein’ so rudely interrupted, got to figurin’ as how a woman as wicked as Hortence Smeal don’t deserve to have a damned fine English-made shooter like this ’un