Stand Up and Die

Sean Keegan busied himself breaking open a box of shells for his Springfield. “You figure four of them rustlers are paying a visit to Matt and our mustangs?” He opened the breech and slid a shell inside. Without waiting for Breen to reply, Keegan shouldered the heavy carbine, leaned against a rock, and drew a bead on the entrance to the cave. “Four puny arse rustlers, against Matt McCulloch? I know who I’d be betting on.”

Breen drew the hammer back on his Sharps, and a few feet away from Keegan, he lined up the sights in the telescope with the cave. “There is the matter of that herd of mustangs being scattered nine ways from Sunday.”

“If anybody can round up a herd of mustangs, I’d say Matt McCulloch’s the one to do it.” Keegan drew a breath, held it, then exhaled. “And me figures that young Comanche buck ain’t no slouch in that department, neither.”

Keegan aimed. Breen aimed. Neither touched the trigger. They were listening, not for the sound of rustlers or horses, but of distant gunfire in the direction of the camp.

“There’s also the fact that Otto Kruger and Poison Platte aren’t likely to help out Matt or the Indian in a time of trouble,” Breen said.

Keegan did not look away from the gunsights. “That’s your problem, Jed. You was the bloody bloke who brung them two killers along.” He touched the trigger and the Springfield roared, shoving back his right shoulder as though a mustang had kicked it hard.

The report of Breen’s murderous Sharps echoed the thunder from Keegan’s cavalry carbine.

Even as they turned around, opening the breeches, ejecting the smoking brass cartridges, and shoving fresh loads into their respective guns, the deadly pinging of ricocheting bullets rose out of the cave, accompanied by the curses and screams of men inside.

Breen turned back around first, cocked the Sharps, and aimed. Keegan was just a second behind. Their long guns roared, and they reloaded again, hearing the deadly ping-ping-zing-ping-zing-ping of heavy lead bouncing around the insides of the cave.

“Why don’t you use a Winchester or Henry repeater?” Breen asked.

“Hit a body with them toys, that body might not know he’s been hit,” Keegan said, snapping the breech shut. “Hit one with this baby, he’s down for the count.”

They came up quickly, and Keegan swore. “Damn. One of them monkeys made it out. He’s heading for the horses.”

“I see him,” Breen said as he swung the rifle to his left. “You keep the others in the cave.” He waited, finding the running man in the scope, then led the barrel ahead of the rustler.

“It’s dark,” Keegan snapped. “You can’t—”

“He’s got a white hat and a white shirt,” Breen reminded him, then barked furiously, “Keep them others in that damned cave. I’ll take care of—”

Keegan’s Springfield roared, and a moment later, so did the Sharps. Breen kept his right eye on the edge of the telescope, searching briefly, then smiling. “That one’s down for the count, too,” he said, and began reloading.

“I’ll say he is,” Keegan said. “You blowed his bloody head off. Or at least his hat. I saw it flying.”

“My bad,” Breen said. “I was aiming for his body. Bigger target, you understand.”

They were already reloaded, and had aimed into the entrance. The long guns spoke again.

* * *

The glow of the cigarette told Matt McCulloch two things. First, the location of one of the men. Second, that these rustlers—or at least this one—was a damned fool.

McCulloch had removed his boots and spurs and pulled out the Apache moccasins from his saddlebags, lacing them up over the legs of his thick trousers before leaving his camp. He had greased his face from the keg hanging beneath the covered wagon, although his dark beard stubble would hide most of his skin, which was more bronze than white anyway. He moved silently in the darkness, looking back every now and then at the campfire where Otto Kruger, under orders of obey or face a grisly death when McCulloch returned, walked around the fire and smoked one of Jed Breen’s cigars. McCulloch figured Breen wouldn’t mind. It was for a worthy cause. Survival.

In the darkness, he had moved low but quickly across the flats and making a wide circle before coming up behind the men, or at least one man. The horse snorted and pulled back—reined tightly to a flat rock. The rustler with the cigarette turned around quickly. McCulloch flattened himself silently onto the ground.

The tip of the cigarette grew red, then vanished, and a moment latter it moved down, glowing from the air as the rustler took the smoke out of his mouth and brought it down to the side.

“Quiet, boy,” he whispered.

The horse snorted again, making the rustler grow suspicious. When a second horse snorted and stamped its front hooves, the burning tip of the cigarette dropped to the ground. McCulloch heard the boot grinding it out. Next he heard the sound of iron and leather, followed by the clicks of revolver hammers being eared back.

McCulloch turned his head away from the man he had spotted. Two horses. Two men. He’d already seen one, but the other had to be around nearby. The other two horses were gone, and McCulloch knew he’d find them with the herd of mustangs.

He could not see the man, but knew the rustler was coming, searching, investigating, and wasn’t quite the idiot McCulloch had taken him for. He made no sound, and in this dark, moonless night, McCulloch could not see him. But it didn’t matter. The man had made a mistake that would prove fatal. He had smoked a cigarette, and the smell of tobacco hung over him like the bull’s eye of a target at a fancy sharpshooting contest.

McCulloch rose without making a sound, drawn by the smell of cigarette smoke on the rustler’s clothing and hands. He stepped forward like a ghost, grabbed the man’s right arm with his left, gripping him like a vise—the only gamble here was if the rustler was a lefthander. He wasn’t. McCulloch could tell by the weight of the fool’s arm. He clutched a revolver, but before he could squeeze the trigger, the knife blade had cut deep into the man’s throat. Blood sprayed in the darkness, and the man tried to scream but McCulloch had cut too deeply. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that spinal column that connected head to body, he would have decapitated him.

Keeping a tight grip on the right arm, McCulloch shoved the blade deep into the man’s back, piercing the heart, just to make sure. Then he wrapped his right arm around the man’s waist, feeling the stickiness and the warmth of the blood pouring from the severed throat, and laid the corpse on the ground. He pried the fingers from the man’s revolver. A short-barreled Colt from the weight and feel, and lowered the hammer, then shoved the weapon into his waistband. He might have need of that gun in a minute or two. He might have to risk firing, scattering the mustangs, to save his own life—and the life of Wooden Arm.

That second man had to be around somewhere. McCulloch listened. But for the time being, all he heard were the muffled shots in the distance. And that told him Jed Breen and Sean Keegan were doing their jobs. McCulloch had to finish his.

* * *

The horses outside the cave bucked and squealed over the fury of gunshots, screams of men, and ricochets.

“Winchesters or a Henry would come in handy about now,” Breen said as he stuck the barrel of the Sharps in a bucket of water he had lugged up to their shooting perches. Steam hissed and rose from the water. “Keep a steady fire.”

“Them puny bullets would shatter into pieces the moment they hit that granite.” Keegan fired. “Fellows in that cave would never know they’d been hit. The lead we’re throwing down there, it don’t break apart so easily.”

Grinning, Breen began wiping the water off the Sharps with a bandana.

Keegan had already reloaded. “That water don’t ruin the barrel?”

“No.” Breen draped the wet bandana over his shoulder and found another cartridge to ram into the Sharps. “That’s a trick I learned from a buffalo hunter some years back.” He fired, listened for the ricochets, and started reloading.

“Maybe I should try it,” Keegan said, and Breen tossed him the bandana. “Help yourself. I’ll keep those boys inside for six more shots.”

* * *

Frightened by the scent rising from the river of blood that trailed from the corpse of the rustler, those two horses still stamped their hooves in the darkness, snorting, trying to pull free from their tethers. That was all McCulloch heard from around him. It might have been drowning out the sound of the other rustler left in camp, and McCulloch knew he couldn’t wait there forever. He had to get to the mustang herd, stop those two rustlers from easing the animals away or stampeding them.

He came up to his knees, looked left and right, then stared off into the darkness where he saw the fire from his campsite.

“Hell’s fire,” he whispered. “That sneaky little toad.”

He came up, and sprinted through the darkness, drawing the dead rustler’s revolver from his waistband, hoping his feet didn’t land on some night-hunting rattlesnake. A cowboy boot might protect one’s calves from those deadly fangs, but an Apache moccasin wasn’t that thick.

The rustler’s plan was simple and conceived well. McCulloch had to give the gang credit for that. One man stays with their horses, keeping the scent and sound away from the mustangs or the camp. Two men rode out, ever so quietly, to the herd of mustangs, where they would begin to ease the ponies out to their hideout. The rest of the men would stay in their camp—too many men make too much noise—but keep their horses ready in case they heard gunshots and knew their plan had been foiled. If all went well, if everything went according to plan, the fourth man would sneak into McCulloch’s camp, and kill everyone as quietly as possible.

A gamble. But rustling always was a gamble.

McCulloch slowed as he moved closer to the camp. With the campfire between them, the rustler with the gun was nothing but a shadow. He had his gun trained on Otto Kruger and Poison Platte, but McCulloch couldn’t see Wooden Arm anywhere. Blood rushed to the old Ranger’s head. That sniveling little cutthroat of a coward. He had sneaked up behind the Comanche boy and slit his throat—much as McCulloch had done to the rustler’s pard.

Worse, the gunfire remained steady from the hills to the west. That told the rustler in McCulloch’s camp that surprise had been thwarted, and that no help would be riding from that cave. Of course, that also meant that the money they might get from selling those mustangs would be more. Less of a split four ways—make that three—than ten.

“Where the hell are the others?” the rustler demanded, waving his gun at Kruger. “What the hell is going on here?”

McCulloch listened as he crept closer to the fire. The German killer and the pretty redhead who’d poisoned scores of men to death kept their hands raised. No stampeding hooves. The mustangs remained calm, but McCulloch knew one shot might send them running like hell. He looked down at the guns in both hands, holstered his Colt, put the other back behind his waistband, and drew the knife.

It was risky. He’d never be able to rush the man. Too much distance. And throwing a knife was hard to do . . . to make that perfect throw that would kill a man.

“Hell,” the rustler said. “I’m getting the hell out of here. Elliott’s plan has gone to bust.” He turned away.

McCulloch lowered himself, hoping the fool hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. He didn’t think he had. The flames from the campfire would have blinded him.

McCulloch waited. He heard the man’s footsteps, and quietly unsheathed the knife.

* * *

“What do you think?” Keegan asked as he swabbed down the Springfield’s barrel for the second time.

Breen listened, shook his head. “No sound.”

“Could be playing possum,” Keegan said.

“Yeah.” Breen turned his head. “Nothing from back at our camp, either.”

Keegan rose. “I think I’d be betting that our barrage cut them bloody dogs to pieces.” He drew a deep breath, checked the Remington in his holster, and said softly, “I’ll go down there. You get back to Matt and those damned mustangs. If any of them rustlers are still alive in the cave, they shall feel an Irishman’s coup de grâce.”

“Good luck.” Breen turned, took a few steps, and looked back after he stopped. “Don’t forget to bring those horses with you.”

“Aye. Instead of forty to sell in Precious Metal, we shall have fifty if the good Lord’s willing.”

Breen grinned, even though Keegan couldn’t see him, and hurried back to find his own horse.

* * *

McCulloch could let the rustler go. Let him run away. In fact, he had almost talked himself into doing that. No risk of shot and stampede. Nothing along those lines.

Suddenly the rustler straightened, turned, gagged, and began coughing as he staggered back toward the fire.

“You . . .” he gasped. “You . . . you . . . dirty . . . little—“

McCulloch popped up, moving quickly to the rustler’s back. He had staggered past the campfire, and fallen to his knees, pointing with his right hand at . . . who else? Poison Platte. Clutching his left hand around his larynx, blood spilled from his mouth. He dropped onto his chest, rolled over, and brought both hands to his throat as he convulsed and gagged and bled profusely from his open mouth.

His pistol was nowhere to be seen. He had probably dropped it when the poison began taking effect.

McCulloch didn’t know what Charlotte Platte had come up with, but he saw the coffee cup by the fire, and saw the rustler kick, jerk, gasp, and breathe out one hoarse death rattle before his body relaxed, and the blood slowly stopped leaving his mouth.

He kicked the tin cup over, but it was empty, so he kicked it into the fire, glanced once at the dead man, and walked toward Jed Breen’s two prisoners.

“Do I thank you?” he asked the widowmaker.

After pushing back her hat, she shrugged. “Probably not. That was for you when you got back. The damned fool just got thirsty.”

McCulloch felt revulsion. But he aimed his own Colt at Platte and Kruger. “Where’s the Comanche kid?”

After prisoners shook their heads, McCulloch looked past the wagon and toward the flats where the horses grazed—or were being pushed slowly away. “If either of you move from where you stand right now, I’ll shoot both of you dead.”

He started toward the flats, but stopped, and raised his gun at the back of the wagon. A voice called out in a language McCulloch had heard but never come close to mastering. It was Comanche, but it came from a young voice. The wooden-splinted arm came into view, waving awkwardly, even painfully, and then the teenage Comanche stepped into view.

Wooden Arm smiled.

“Stay here,” McCulloch said, not bothering to use sign language, but hoping the tone was one the boy would understand. “Watch them. I’ve got to take care of the last two—”

His voice stopped. His mouth hung open. For Wooden Arm’s right hand held something, one dark, one silver, and McCulloch knew—providing Breen and Keegan had done their jobs—the danger had passed. From the lack of sound from the hills, McCulloch figured they were safe now. For the time being. He had heard only muffled shots from what appeared to be heavy caliber rifles. That likely meant the other six were dead or at least out of commission.

And Wooden Arm had finished the job.

“Mein Gott!” Otto Kruger gasped.

For what the Comanche kid held in his good hand were two scalps.