“Do you see that trail out yonder leading north?” said Slaughter. “That’s your trail. Hit it.”
Slaughter was a small man, and the giant from Bitter Creek bridled at this audacity.
“Do you know who I am?” he blurted ferociously.
“Hit that trail,” said Slaughter, “and hit it quick.”
For a moment Gallagher stared into Slaughter’s hard black eyes. The bad man saw something in those eyes that convinced him that that trail over yonder leading north was, after all, his trail. Without a word, he hit it.
Driving his herd up the Pecos bound for market at Las Vegas, Slaughter went into camp near Fort Sumner at the old Bosque Grande ranch of John Chisum, cattle king of New Mexico. Bent on revenge, Gallagher, who lived in these parts, rode alone to Slaughter’s camp. He was armed with a shotgun loaded with buckshot and two six-shooters. This armament, formidable under ordinary circumstances, again proved Gallagher’s lack of perspicacity. He was plainly a blundering rank-and-file desperado who knew only how to pull a trigger. Slaughter, on the other hand, was a master strategist. He had not fought Comanches and outlaws all these years in the Panhandle for nothing. Gallagher’s prospective fourteenth victim was different from all the other thirteen.
Gallagher saw Slaughter standing alone on an open hillside that sloped from the Pecos and rode toward him at a gallop. His idea was to get to close quarters as quickly as possible, where his double-barrelled shotgun would give him every advantage. None of his murders had ever looked easier. But, to Gallagher’s amazement, Slaughter did not wait quietly to be massacred. With his long-range rifle, Slaughter shot Gallagher’s pony from under him while the bad man was still out of shotgun range. Horse and rider went down in a smother of dust. This was disconcerting. But, having disentangled himself from his pony, Gallagher went charging forward on foot, opening fire with a six-shooter. Still he was badly handicapped. At the distance, his six-shooter was no match for Slaughter’s rifle. One of Slaughter’s bullets broke Gallagher’s right arm. Gallagher drew his second six-shooter and still went forward firing. He staggered under the impact of a second bullet that struck him in the breast. Two more tore through his body and brought him down. Slaughter’s cowboys carried the wounded man to the Bosque Grande ranch house. Slaughter stood at the side of the bed as Gallagher was dying.
“You done right, Slaughter,” said Gallagher. “If you hadn’t got me, I’d ha’ got you. I don’t mind much bein’ killed. It would ha’ served me right if I had been downed twenty years ago. But it kind o’ pains me to be out-generalled that-a-way. Ef I’d had any sense, I’d fetched along a rifle. I didn’t have no business with that shotgun. I’d oughter knowed better.”
That was the whole trouble with Gallagher—lack of generalship. He seems to have had courage. If he had mingled a little brains with it, the “man from Bitter Creek” might be living yet. He “oughter knowed better.”
When he had sold his herd at Las Vegas, Slaughter discovered that he had lost many cattle on the drive up the Pecos. On his way back to Texas, he combed the herds of ranchmen in a hunt for his brand. This was his right under the law. But there was mighty little law on the Pecos in those days, and the effrontery of this stranger in demanding the return of his own property was deeply resented by the cattlemen of that wild country. But Slaughter’s courage was clean strain and, painstakingly and patiently, he saw the dangerous job through to the end. From John Chisum’s range, Slaughter gathered in sixty of his lost steers. Chisum produced a bill of sale to show he had purchased them. Slaughter smiled grimly in the old cattle king’s face.
“And you got ’em at a fine bargain,” Slaughter said as he ordered his cowboys to drive the cattle away.
From the herd of a man named Underwood, Slaughter reclaimed more than a hundred of his cows. Underwood swore he would have the cattle back or kill Slaughter. With two friends, Underwood rode to Slaughter’s camp. When he saw the three heavily armed men approaching, Slaughter dismounted on the opposite side of his horse and levelled his rifle across the saddle.
“I bought and paid for them cattle,” shouted Underwood as Slaughter covered him.
“Try to take them,” answered Slaughter.
But Underwood thought it diplomatic to decline the invitation and, with his two companions, rode home.
Farther down the Pecos, two rustlers and two half-breeds announced their intention of murdering Slaughter. A Mexican vaquero with Slaughter became panic-stricken as he saw the four bravos galloping toward camp.
“Fight or git,” ordered Slaughter.
The Mexican got. Before he went, Slaughter in a jiffy paid him what money was coming to him, and reached for his own rifle at the same moment. By the time Slaughter had drawn the gun from the sheath, the Mexican had faded to a speck in the distance and was still going. Slaughter dropped a few long-distance bullets among the four enemies who were lifting the
