Chapter Thirty-one
“The boys tell me we’ll need a mule team to haul the gold to Mexico, Cap’n,” Barney Merden said. “Horses are no good for the hard country between here and Sonora.”
“Team? How many is that?” Nate Condor asked. It was a sailor’s question. He was not a landlubber.
“I reckon four, maybe six,” Merden said. “The wagon itself is heavy and it’s got a load to haul.”
“Where can we get that many damned mules in a hurry?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, boss,” one of his gunmen said. “There’s a stage station just to the north of the Playas Dry Lake. Always mule teams there.” He was a former lawman by the name of Steve Placket. Over the years he’d killed four men.
Condor considered that. “Good. We’ll go round ’em up and then head directly for the Apache Hills and the wagon.”
“We got a problem, though, boss,” Placket said.
Condor was irritated. He didn’t want to hear about problems. “What the hell is it?”
“The station is run by old Hick Gunter and he’ll be a handful. By times, he’s been a buffalo hunter, army scout, and lawman, and he’s tough as a knot in a pine board.” Placket grinned. “Got himself a pretty young wife he calls Sally an’ a yeller cur dog by the same name.”
“He scare you, Steve?” Merden said, his mouth twisted in a sneer.
“Hick don’t scare me none, but he’s a man to walk around.”
“Yeah, well we don’t have time to walk around anybody. We kill him and take his mules and maybe his woman if she’s pretty enough.” Condor’s eyes became dangerous. “If that sets all right with you, Steve.”
Placket shrugged. “I’m fine with that, boss. Do we wear the masks?”
“No, we’re done with that, by God,” Condor said. “It was the boss’s idea, what he called ‘a dramatic flourish,’ and it didn’t work worth a damn.”
He waved a hand at Merden. “Get the people mounted, Barney. We’ll go get our bloody mules.”
When Condor stepped outside, he’d only eight men sitting their horses. His numbers were dwindling. A couple had recently lit a shuck when they heard Dallas Steele was in Recoil. Apparently they’d run into the Fighting Pink before and wanted no part of him.
Condor shrugged it off. The fewer who were with him in Mexico, the less he’d need to kill.
The stage station was a few miles farther north and east of the dry lake than Placket remembered, closer to the Coyote Hills in harsh desert brush country. It consisted of a single low cabin with two glazed windows to the front, a few outbuildings, a small barn, and a pole corral. Eight years before, it had withstood an Apache attack and the army had counted five Indians dead on the ground after Hick Gunter got through with them.
Condor studied the place through his field glasses and made out a dozen animals in the corral, half of them mules. He turned to Merden. “There are our draft animals, Barney. We make this fast, in and out, you understand? The stage line uses the wagon road and I reckon so will the army if it’s around.”
“I got you, Cap’n,” Merden said. “We’ll get it done real quick.”
“Keep the shooting to a minimum so we don’t draw too much attention. In other words, shoot to kill, man, woman, child, or animal, understand?”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n. It will be as you say.”
“We go visit, real peaceable, like we’re honest travelers passing through. We’ll all look so innocent that old Hick will invite us inside for tea and cake.”
This brought a laugh from the men as Condor waved them forward.
But as they drew closer to the cabin, it seemed that Hick Gunter was not entirely a sociable man. He stood outside his cabin, short and stocky, like a figure hewn from granite. He held a Henry .44-40 in his hands and his gray eyes were guarded, wary but not unfriendly. He looked like a man willing to take things as they came, good or bad. “What can I do fer you boys?”
It was a mild surprise to Condor that the man was a fighter, or had been at one time in his life. He had the look of a man who was hard to kill.
“I need mules,” Condor said. “I’ll take all you have.”
“I got mules, but they ain’t for sale. They belong to the stage company.”
A pretty girl wearing a blue gingham dress and a white apron opened the door. “Hick, is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, Sally,” Gunter said. “Git back in the house while I talk with these gentlemen.”
After the door closed, Condor said, “Now, about those mules—”
“They ain’t for sale. Clean out your ears, boy, because I already done tol’ you that.”
“Ah, you’re under the misconception that I’m buying,” Condor said, his deep-set eyes like stone. “I’m not. I’m taking.”
“Is that the way of it?” the old man said. “I took ye fer a thief of some kind.”
Condor didn’t answer. He was there for mules, and he didn’t have time for conversation. He drew and shot Hick Gunter in the chest.
Then the ball opened.
Hit hard, the old man staggered back. But he was getting his work in.
Condor’s horse went down kicking as a bullet slammed into its chest. Condor was thrown clear, but he landed with a thud. All the breath gushed out of his lungs and left him open-mouthed and gasping on the ground.
Guns hammered into the hot stillness of the day. Two of Condor’s men went down and a third sat slumped over in the saddle, coughing up black blood.
Gunter, on one knee, his face ashen, levered his rifle. The entire front of his shirt was splashed scarlet, but the old man had sand and was game to the last. His body jerking from the impact of round after round, he finally fell on his face and went down.
Screaming, Sally Gunter ran to her husband and threw herself on his body, her slender frame racked by great, heaving sobs.
Able to finally suck in some air, Condor rose unsteadily to his feet. “Get the damned mules!” he yelled. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
But Steve Placket swung out of the saddle, lust and the desire for revenge tangled in his blue eyes. “Ain’t she pretty?” he yelled.
He threw himself at Sally and tried to kiss her, but she attempted to ward off his unwanted advances.
Condor stepped around the struggling pair and walked to the corral. “Round up the mules, Barney, on the double. And cut out a horse for me.”
“Right, Cap’n,” Merden yelled, pointing northward. “Dust to the north!”
“Damn you, get it done,” Condor yelled. “We’re running out of time.”
Within a few minutes the mules were loaded up with harnesses and hurriedly led out of the corral.
“Let’s go!” Condor yelled. “Get the hell out of here.”
The dust cloud was getting closer.
Placket was still tearing at the girl and Condor roared from the stolen horse, “Steve, leave that alone. Let’s go.”
The man ignored him, overcome with lust.
Condor glanced to the north. The dust was close and there was no time to lose. “Placket!”
The man ignored him, intent on the girl.
Condor drew and shot Placket in the temple. When the gunman dropped, Condor’s gun roared again and the girl collapsed, a red rose blossoming between her eyes.
“Damn shame, Cap’n,” Merden said. “I mean, a pretty woman going to waste like that.”
They rode south, driving the mules toward the Apache Hills.