‘Dan Tobin passed word to me that you’d be coming,’ explained the man who had brought the condition of Waxahachie Smith’s back to the attention of Teodoro Fuentes, as they stood together in the darkness by the corral of the hacienda about five miles from Ascension. ‘Got the description real good, including the way you tote that Peacemaker. But, when I saw those quirt marks, I thought for a moment you wasn’t him. Fact being, I still wasn’t all the way sure until you just now told me that “eleven, twenty-three, sixty-one” number’s Dan allows you keep using.’
Despite the comment he had made after explaining how he had supposedly acquired the scars, following some more discussion, the Texan had been hired by the older of the Fuentes brothers!
Called upon for verification, Javier Fuentes had sullenly confirmed that his behavior had been as Smith claimed. On the Texan demanding to know why he had not mentioned Teodoro was in town, the hostler had said he forgot. Then, to lessen the wrath he assumed the omission had aroused, he admitted having heard enough to make him believe Smith considered the Dumb Ox was contemplating a robbery.
Apparently satisfied as to the motives of the Texan, the older brother had asked his name and why he had not come sooner in search of employment. He replied he was ‘Matt McCabe’ and that, having learned of the flight of everybody from the Rancho Miraflores, he had concluded whatever had been planned was cancelled and had gone to look for work elsewhere. Failing to find any, a chance visit to the gathering place for outlaws in the village on the Bonham County line had informed him of the latest need for hired guns and he had decided to come to offer his services. Knowing how quickly news spread, particularly to such places, Teodoro had found nothing unlikely in what he was told. Having admitted that he knew how to handle cattle, although disinclined to do so, Smith had been informed this would be required if he wanted to be employed. Claiming he was too close to the blanket to refuse, but refraining from asking why he would be expected to work as a cowhand—knowing it would be unwise to show too much curiosity—he had been accepted.
Accompanying the Fuentes brothers to the hacienda they were using, the Texan had been accommodated with their men in the bunkhouse. Even though some of them had been in Flamingo, his identity was not challenged. He had concluded this was a tribute to the success of the changes he had made to his appearance. Nor had he discounted the part played by the way in which he was now wearing his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker revolver. Men experienced in such matters only rarely changed the style of rig in which they carried their weapons. liv Therefore, if anybody remembered him as he had looked and armed, they would have noticed the gunbelt was of a pattern requiring a different kind of draw to that he had used in the town and reach the requisite conclusions.
By careful questioning, Smith had ascertained that the gunslingers were to act as handlers for the vast herd of cattle which was being held near Lake Guzman prior to being split into smaller bunches and delivered to various places in Texas. Too wise to display what might be regarded as excessive curiosity and knowing he would learn more later, he had allowed the matter to drop.
Having emerged from the backhouse after answering the called of nature, Smith had been accosted by the man with the eye-patch. After a few seconds desultory conversation, he had been asked about the newness of his gunbelt and replied it was recently purchased to replace its predecessor which had sustained some unspecified damage. Wanting to change the subject, watching for any suggestion that it might have some meaning to the man, he had told how Sheriff Daniel Tobin tried to order him from Flamingo and was thwarted by him quoting the mythical ‘Article Eleven, Twenty-Three, Sixty-One, legal ruling’ used during his first meeting with Sir John Besgrove.
The result was unexpected!
Looking around with great care to ensure they were not being overheard, the man had made a surprising declaration. In spite of his unprepossessing appearance, he was not the vicious hired gunslinger he appeared. Instead, he had introduced himself as ‘Donald Garfew Beech’ and he was an agent for the United States’ Secret Service. lv
‘You mean there isn’t any such legal ruling?’ Smith drawled. ‘Well I’ll be switched if I haven’t been leading good folks astray for quite a spell now, thinking there was. Anyways, what’s this sending herds to Texas all about, amigo?’
‘It’s something a whole heap worse than what they was trying to do over to Bonham County,’ Beech replied. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve figured it out, but it wasn’t rustlers stealing cattle who were killing off the fellers on the range.’
‘Back home to Texas we call ‘em “cow thieves”,’ Smith remarked, the other having an accent indicative of origins in Illinois. ‘I knew there was something mighty strange had happened, way none of the cattle they wide-looped showed up again and was coming ’round to figuring along those self-same lines.’
‘We hadn’t got the main idea when we sent word to the boss that something was being planned by the liber-rad soft shells down to Mexico City,’ Beech admitted. ‘Fuentes’ men only went out on rainy nights when their tracks would be washed away, excepting for things like gunning down anybody they came across and enough other signs to make it look like they’d stolen some cattle. Seems like they reckoned doing it would stir up a shooting fuss between the ranchers. Then that’d bring in the other white folks and Chicanos in Bonham County and it’d spread, helped by them, all the way along the border to California.’
‘Why pick on Bonham County?’ the Texan inquired, although he had an idea what the answer would be. ‘What I was told, more times than not, the white folks and Chicanos thereabouts get along good and friendly.’
‘That’s one reason it was picked. Those sons-of-bitches in the house are like their scummy breed all over. Stirring up folks of different kinds against one another’s a favorite way of theirs to try to overthrow the elected Government. A place where white folks and Chicanos get on’s not in keeping with what they want. Only this time, that spread the Fuentes’s kin had in Bonham County gave them somewhere they could live and work from without over many questions being asked about why they were there.’
‘I’d say that hophead son-of-a-bitch, Javier, played hell with their notions by what he did.’
‘You’d say the living truth. What I’ve heard, he’s lucky Teodoro didn’t kill him. As it was, big brother was so pot-boiling riled, he personally gave it one of the yahoos up to the Green River with a knife—which I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the guts—and turned loose that overgrown son-of-a-bitch you made wolf bait to break another’s back when they showed at the ranch house, ‘cause they’d sided the kid in the bushwhacking.’
‘I’m pleased he didn’t kill the hop headed son-of-a-bitch,’ Smith said quietly, yet there was a chill of deadly menace in his tone. As Sheriff Daniel Tobin had not mentioned finding the bodies of the murdered men, he assumed they were taken away by the fleeing party for some reason and disposed of, possibly by being sunk in the Rio Grande. ‘’Cause I’ve got notions along those lines myself.’
‘So Dan told me,’ Beech admitted. ‘And, even if it wasn’t for what they’re working on now, I’d be willing to help you.’
‘I’m obliged, amigo,’ Smith declared with genuine sincerity. Then, as something in the voice of the secret agent had warned the latest affairs of Teodoro Fuentes went beyond just being of considerable importance, he continued, ‘Just what is it they’re working on now?’
‘Have you heard of anthrax?’
‘Some. Folks do say it’s a mighty fierce kind of illness and real easy to be catching to boot.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. Once it takes off, it spreads like a wind-blown prairie fire—And Fuentes’ crowd aim to see that it gets spread all through Texas.’
‘How?’
‘Seems there was an outbreak down south a ways not too long back, but it was stopped afore it got out of hand. Only these liber-rads got hold some blood from cattle’s had it and they’re planning to use it on the herds they’re sending into Texas.’
‘ I thought you had to be near a critter that had it afore you can catch it,’ Smith remarked, showing no sign of the grave concern he felt as he visualized what would happen to his home State if the scheme succeeded.
‘They reckon not,’ Beech replied. ‘They allow it can be given by using a hypodermic syringe to put the blood from one’s had it into another that hasn’t.’ lvi
‘Is that Doc Grantz’s notion?’ the Texan inquired, glancing at his gloved hands and realizing he had not seen or even heard any mention of the man responsible for their mutilation since reaching Ascension.
‘Not so far’s I know,’ the secret agent answered. ‘Seems like he lit a shuck when he was told he’d be expected to do some of the injecting, but Teodoro’s been letting on’s how he ran ‘cause he wasn’t stopping Javier wanting to sniff down that white stuff copious.’
‘I’ll find him when I’m through here!’ Smith asserted, but the words seemed more to himself than his companion.
‘And we’ll do all we can to help you,’ Beech promised. ‘But we’ve got to stop these bastards first. If they get that damned disease going all through Texas, their cruddy liber-rad friends in the U.S. of A are going to spread word that it was brought in deliberate’ by cattle from Mexico and figure there’ll be such a public outcry that Congress’ll have to take what’s called “punitive action” to quieten it down. Which’ll give us a war and those bastards hope to be able to get control both here and below the border while it’s going on.’
‘I can’t see those hired guns being willing to chance being around anything so dangerous as anthrax,’ the Texan pointed out.
‘None of them know anything about i—!’ the secret agent commenced.
‘Hold the talk down, amigo!’ Smith hissed urgently, looking over his companion’s shoulder. ‘That greaser who rubs up to Fuentes’s coming.’
‘Mean looking critter, isn’t he?’ Beech asked.
‘I’ve seen pleasanter.’
‘Strange thing is, he’s got five kids and they’re all as cute as a speckled pup. ‘Course, his wife’s real pretty and I reckon it was a case of the fascination of the horrible that made her take to him.’
‘I get the feeling you know him.’
‘You could say that. His real name’s Ruiz Cervantes and he’s sure done a good job of apple-polishing to Fuentes. It was him who learned what was doing by listening through the wall with a drinking glass, while it was being talked over with the soft shells’ s owns the hacienda and some more of their stinking breed.’
‘I always heard you spies was real sneaky jaspers,’ Smith claimed, but there was a suggestion of admiration in his voice.
‘Aw shucks, we hoped’s folks wouldn’t notice that,’ Beech answered, then swung his gaze to the Mexican. ‘How’s things, Paco?’
‘Bueno, amigo,’ Cervantes replied and, gesturing with the bundle he was carrying, he continued in accent free English, ‘When I touch some of these off, it’ll stir things up more than a little hereabouts, I’d guess.’
~*~
‘I’m responsible for my brother!’ Teodoro Fuentes informed the owner of the hacienda in a cold fashion. Never one to take kindly to having his actions questioned, his manner was less polite than might have been expected of a guest and fellow conspirator in a scheme intended to lead to his kind being able to overthrow and replace the present Government of Mexico. However, he felt no concern over having left his gunbelt in his room. He was armed with a weapon he preferred to use should the need arise. ‘And I’ll make good and sure that he doesn’t cause any more problems!’
‘It’s a damned pity that he was allowed to cause the first one in Texas,’ replied the haciendero, a burly “man of the people” who took delight in letting it be obvious his origins were lower on the social scale than those of the brothers and the majority of their compatriots. ‘I still say you should have left him sniffing that damned white powder in Mexico Ci—!’
The rift between the two leaders of the conspirators was not allowed to develop further!
There was the boom of an explosion some distance away, followed by the bellowing of startled cattle and drumming of their hooves as they began to take flight!
‘What in God’s name ?’ Javier Fuentes croaked,
having been standing and glowering at their seated host, who had started the dispute by speaking most disparagingly about him having caused the death of the Dumb Ox.
‘The herd’s been stampeded!’ the haciendero bellowed, bounding to his feet with a violence which sent his chair skidding across the dining-room. Without explaining further, he raced into the entrance hall. With the brothers following on his heels, he threw open the front door. Going out, he saw men in various states of dress pouring from the bunkhouse. ‘Get your horses, every one of you. We’ve got to help the night herders. Move it, damn you. Unless they’re stopped, you’ll all be riding the hell away from here in the morning without being paid.’
Like Smith, all the gunslingers had been hired because they possessed a working knowledge of handling cattle. While they would not have obeyed under normal conditions, having elected for a less arduous means of earning a living, they realized a failure to respond would see the end of their current lucrative employment. With that in mind, they sprinted to where—as they had been instructed by the haciendero in anticipation of such a need—each had a saddled horse tethered along the posts of the corral ready for immediate use.
‘Are you coming?’ the owner asked, his manner indicating he did not believe anything of use would result from an answer in the affirmative.
‘Of course I am!’ Teodoro replied, the question having been directed at him. Although he had no desire to run the risks of helping to try to halt the stampede, he was goaded into agreeing by the attitude of his fellow conspirator. ‘Tell somebody to have horses saddled for Javier and me.’
‘Trust you not to be ready!’ the haciendero grunted and set off to where his own mount was waiting.
‘Go and fetch our hats!’ the older brother commanded his sibling, more after the fashion of addressing a servant, without noticing their host had not given the instructions he requested before swinging into the saddle and setting out for the herd. ‘I’ll make sure there’s nothing lying around to show what we’re up to.’
While Javier was hurrying upstairs, looking annoyed but knowing him too well to argue when such a tone came into his voice, Teodoro went into the owner’s office. He knew everything incriminating was locked in the massive safe, but wanted to be able to claim he considered the precaution justifiable when questioned by his host about the delay in his arrival at the stampede. Waiting until hearing the footsteps of his brother descending and the drumming of many hooves fading rapidly away, he strolled into the hall. As he was taking the sombrero he was offered, he saw one of the gun-slingers coming through the front door.
‘Have you saddled horses for us?’ Teodoro demanded, wondering why ‘Matt McCabe’ was carrying what appeared to be some kind of Winchester repeater by its fore grip in his right hand.
‘No,’ Waxahachie Smith denied, his gaze running from Javier to the older brother. ‘Do you remember Ransome and Don Jose Cordoba?’
‘What if I do?’
Dropping the sombrero while speaking, Teodoro put his hands behind his back in a casual seeming fashion. Then, deciding that not wearing a gunbelt might prove advantageous as it would convey the impression he was unarmed, he started to liberate the knife from its sheath up his left sleeve.
‘How about this?’ the Texan inquired.
Staring at the left hand raised by the bearded man, Teodoro first realized it and its mate were no longer covered by the gloves which had not been removed previously in his sight. Then a chilling appreciation struck home. He realized what it was that looked different.
The forefinger had been removed!
‘You!’ Teodoro gasped in his native tongue, having believed until the understanding struck home that he was confronted by an ordinary gunslinger who the friends or relations of the Cordobas had hired to take revenge for their murder as there was no legal way by which this could be brought about.
‘Me!’ Smith confirmed, also speaking Spanish.
‘Get him!’ Teodoro close to shrieked and, hoping to divert at least some of the Texan’s attention towards his sibling— despite being convinced his secret weapon would prove as unexpected and efficacious as it had in the past—he forced motion into his numb body.
Long addiction to first marijuana, then cocaine and its ‘harmless’ substitute, heroin, had rendered Javier’s never over active mentality even slower. Having been subjected to adverse criticism over the incident at the livery barn in Ascension, his pleasure at ‘McCabe’s’ intervention avenging his humiliation at the hands of the Dumb Ox hand changed to hatred. Now, while he was uncertain of exactly what was arousing Teodoro’s hostile response—being too dull witted to notice, much less appreciate the significance of the mutilated hand—he was more eager to oblige than was usual when receiving an order. Letting out a hiss of rage, he sent his hands towards the butts of his guns.
As the knife was brought around preparatory to being thrown, its owner discovered its presence was not unexpected and there were indications that it might fail to prove efficacious on this occasion!
On hearing of how Teodoro had killed one of the men who assisted Javier in the ill-advised ambush, Smith had remembering something he had been told in Flamingo. According to Sheriff Tobin, Moses ‘Cousin Cyrus’ Claybone had died as the result of a knife wound in the throat received prior to the mutilations performed on the body. He had realized he could not recollect seeing Fuentes wearing such a weapon. Nevertheless, he had not discounted the possibility of one being carried in concealment and he suspected it was hoped he would be lulled into a sense of false security by the absence of a gunbelt so it could be produced with the anticipated surprise effect.
Even as the older brother spoke, the Texan went into action. Tilting the Colt New Lightning rifle forward with his right hand, the left flashed over to meet it. Closing the three fingers and thumb around the small fore grip, grateful for having been granted sufficient time to gain proficiency with the new type of action, he thrust it back and forward to set the firing sequence into action. Aimed at waist level and by instinctive alignment, the weapon crashed in response to his movements.
With a sensation of shock, Teodoro realized his ploy had gone terribly wrong. Not only had his concealed knife failed to achieve the surprise he had envisaged, his attempt to cause Javier to be selected as the greater danger was also coming to nothing. Seeming to be drawn by some magnetic force, the octagonal barrel of the ‘Winchester’ lifted until it was pointing directly at the centre of his chest. Then, before the knife was far enough around to be released in the hope of preventing the shot, it was too late. Flame and white powder-smoke erupted from the rifle’s muzzle. Something smashed into his torso and he felt himself being pitched backwards with his weapon leaving his fingers. He had hardly time to realize it would not go near its intended target before his body struck the floor. However, he remained alive just long enough to have the satisfaction of seeing he would not die alone.
Gobbling similar incoherent sounds to those he had made during the ambush outside Flamingo, except this time they were inspired by terror, Javier tried to bring out his fancy handled Colts. He had never troubled to take the time required to handle them properly, so fumbled the attempt. Although he managed to get the right side gun clear of leather while the attention of the Texan was being given to Teodoro, that did not save him. Swinging his way even before his sibling’s body arrived on the floor, the rifle spoke again.
And again!
And again!
Operating the trombone slide action of the Lightning with deft skill, Smith caused it to fire at a speed which even a Winchester in skilled hands could barely equal. Empty cases flew through the ejection slot, to be replaced by loaded cartridges from the tubular magazine. Because of the changes made to accommodate Smith’s mutilated hands, there was no slight pause spent depressing the trigger far enough to liberate the sear. Instead, almost as soon as the replacement round arrived in the chamber, it was discharged.
Although the first bullet sent at Javier missed, due to the rifle being turned in a horizontal arc while they were being dispatched, the next two and three of the four following them in very rapid succession all found the intended target. Sent reeling against the wall, he was prevented from falling as the flat-nosed .44 caliber bullets—a precaution against an accidental jolt upon the priming cap of the preceding round in the magazine causing a premature explosion—continued to strike his body and tear apart the internal organs.
‘There’s some might say you’ve got him!’
Hearing the words brought Smith to a realization of what he was doing. Letting out a long sigh and watching the body of his second victim crumpling from the wall now bespattered by blood and shattered fragments of bone, he lowered the rifle with the slide in the forward position. His gaze went to where Donald Garfew Beech was coming into the hall carrying a bundle under his left arm and a can of kerosene in each hand.
‘I reckon you might say I have,’ the Texan agreed. ‘What’s it like out there?’
‘The fellers riding to the herd won’t have heard you,’ the agent replied, the removal of the black eye-patch proving it was unnecessary as the eye was not in any away affected. ‘There’s only the womenfolk and a couple of peons left. I told ‘em to keep clear of the main house here until I’d found out who was doing the shooting.’
‘Let’s hope they do,’ Smith declared, then prepared to help with the plan devised by Beech and Ruiz ‘Paco’ Cervantes. The latter had created the diversion he required to achieve his revenge, while also ensuring there would be at least a delay before any herds could be sent to Texas. Now, using more of the dynamite found by his companion, the white agent was going to blow open the safe containing the blood from the infected cattle. However, it was not intended to rely solely upon this to remove the menace. ‘Leave me spread the kerosene and make ready for the fire. You go fix up the explosion.’