Death Rattle

could lumber back up to the bar.

“I don’t figger we should leave a drop of whiskey in this damn rathole,” Thompson bellowed.

Felix Warren squeaked in disbelief, “Y-you ain’t gonna break ever’ bottle, are you, Phil?”

“Stupid idjut! We’re gonna take their likker with us!”

It reminded Bass of a swarm of single-minded wasps, how the white men turned and swept through the place. They ended up finding several big baskets in the cribs behind the bar, along with a pair of the dingy tick mattresses. These they set down on the bar itself and proceeded to load up what glass bottles and clay jugs were left on the shelves. Between the bottles and jugs they stuffed handsful of old, musty straw they yanked from the dirty mattresses hastily split open with their knives.

Bass was the first to spot the furtive shadow peek in at the doorway, gesturing to the Americans. He hurried to the guide, who began talking in his native language, eyes like milk saucers.

“Slow, slow down, Frederico,” he begged, grabbing the Indian by the shoulders. “Habla espanol, dammit!”

Taking a gulp, Frederico started very, very slow, sorting through the vocabulary in the foreign language. Every now and then Titus grasped a word.

“Where did you go when the soldiers rode up?” Scratch asked.

“Hide,” he said, and pointed around the corner of the cantina.

They both looked up suddenly, gazing down the long lane at the distant thunder of approaching hoofbeats.

Frederico cried, “We hide now! Vamos! Vamos!”

Far down the wide, rutted lane Titus could see how the villagers were backing against the adobe walls of their huts and shops, dragging children into the folds of their skirts or hoisting them onto those simple carretas they rushed to wheel out of the way. Stubborn mules brayed and confused sheep bleated as herders whipped the animals out of the avenue and up alleyways as the pack of oncoming horses drew nearer and nearer.

Then Bass saw them, realizing he didn’t have much time.

“Bill! Peg-Leg!” He hurtled his call in the doorway. “We’re in the soup now! A whole heap o’ soldados coming!”

By the moment he reached his own animals and began untying them, the rest of the Americans were bursting out the door, a half dozen of them lugging the heavy woven baskets by their handles, the necks of bottles and sprigs of musty grass bristling from the top of each basket.

“Tie that on the back of my horse,” Adair demanded as he and Reuben Purcell lunged up with a basket of their own. Together they hoisted it atop the packs on the horse as Bass stepped up to quickly diamond-hitch it down atop the rest of the load and tied it off.

“You wastin’ time to steal this here whiskey might well make it the last drink you’ll ever have!” he growled at them.

Adair’s eyes flashed at Scratch, then flicked down the narrow avenue, squinting in the sun. “We get our asses out of this fight, I’ll damn well buy you a drink, Titus Bass.”

Over the noisy chuffing of their horses, the clatter of bits, and squeak of leather, the trappers could suddenly hear the panic-ridden screams of those villagers leaping out of the way as the soldiers pressed on, shouting as they first came in sight of the Norteamericanos. For now, all sound was focused, funneled, trapped entirely between the adobe walls on either side of that narrow, dusty street.

Snagging hold of the big round saddlehorn the size of a Mexican orange, Titus swung into his saddle without using the big cottonwood stirrup. He took up the lead rope to his packhorse and pranced it to the cantina door as Williams burst into the light. “You the last one, Bill?”

“Wasn’t no one else in the back,” Williams declared as he skidded to a halt with that sight down the lane. “Shit!” he grumbled as he got his first look at the soldiers.

“We gotta slow ’em down with lead!” Peg-Leg hollered from atop his horse.

“Aim low,” Bass advised.

“Low?” Smith roared.

“We kill a bunch of these soldados,” he huffed, adrenaline firing his veins, “ain’t a one of us ever gonna get out of Californy alive—they’ll bring in soldiers from all around to track us down to the last man!”

Williams demanded, “You really think we can get outta this scrap ’thout killin’ a passel of them soldiers?”

“Scratch’s right!” Smith shouted as his partner clambered into his saddle and pulled up his long rifle. “Drop their horses first. Bass, you and Coltrane, Curnutt and Kersey—you niggers’re our best shots! Get up there and blow some holes in that first rank!”

With a lot of jostling those four trappers arrayed themselves across the wide, rutted street. In seconds they found their horses too fractious to work from the saddle, so all dropped to the ground and threw their rifles to their shoulders.

“When I give the word!” Smith bellowed behind them as he leaned over to sweep up some loose reins.

“I want four more of you boys to bring your guns up here—have ’em for these shooters,” Williams ordered behind Peg-Leg. Then he stared down the street at the on-rushing enemy, shaking his head while he asked, “How the hell many of them bastards is there?”

“More’n we care to get tied down scrapping with, Bill!” Smith roared as he peered up the street. “Now, boys! Fire! Fire!”

Those four long rifles belched gray smoke, their staccato echoes reverberating off the adobe walls of the homes and shops lining the dusty street. Huge lead balls, each one more than a half inch in diameter, slammed into the chests or necks or heads of those onrushing horses at the front of the charge.

Pitching forward or rearing backward in a skid, whinnying in pain and shrieking in terror, the small Spanish barb horses collided at the front of the formation, hurling their riders this way and that. One cavalryman landed under the hooves of the oncoming horses. Another smacked against a wall with his horse as it crumpled in front of three other mounts close on its tail. And the third was flung into the side of a wooden display of fruit, while the fourth slammed into a wagon stacked with crates stuffed with live chickens. Bloodcurdling squawks and white feathers both exploded into the late-afternoon sky.

Williams ordered, “Get up here with them loaded guns!”

Warren, Corn, Adair, and Samuel Gibbon all passed off their rifles to one of the quartet of marksmen, taking the empty weapons before they dropped back four or five paces to reload.

Throwing back the frizzen, Scratch assured himself the pan on the strange gun was primed. Dragging the big hammer back to full cock he snapped the frizzen into place over the pan and brought the butt to his shoulder. Different feel, this cheekpiece, different too how the front blade nestled down in the base of this rear sight— wondering how the rifle was sighted, just how far away the ball would strike center. Were these iron sights set for eighty yards? Maybe a hundred?

The next rank of soldiers had regrouped and forced their way through the clutter of downed horses and spilled riders. Close enough now that Titus figured it didn’t much matter by the time he set the rear set trigger and lightly nestled his finger against the front trigger. He’d hold midway between the bottom jaw and that cleft between the horse’s legs.

It went off with a surprise.

“Get back here to your horses!” Smith hollered as the roar of those four guns was still rattling down the adobe channel of that village street.

Horses were rearing, falling, spinning, cavalry soldiers pitching off under hoof.

“Load ’em on the run, boys!” Williams commanded. “Let’s get gone while we can!”

Titus took one last look over his shoulder, back down the lane as he brought the packhorse around behind him and leaped into the saddle. A few of the big Mexican animals were thrashing, bleeding in the dirt. Others already lay still, humped against one another where they had fallen. Two of the motionless animals had pinned their riders beneath them, still in the saddle. Soldiers swore, screamed, shrieked for their comrades to help free them from under their dead or dying animals. Echoes bouncing and rebouncing from the mud walls of that bloody street in Pueblo de los Angeles.