THE IDEA OF betrayal nagged at Onslow’s mind with a keen ache. Yet there had been less guards instead of more. Despite the storm the bridge had finally been blown, trapping the federales on the other side where they would be dealt with by Gonzalez and his men.
So …
‘Here come the wagons!’ It was Jamie Durham, shouting from outside the carriage.
Onslow stepped carefully along the central aisle, not wishing to walk in the blood that was still seeping from the pile of bodies.
Madden was by the engine, in the process of tying the driver and fireman with rope. McCloud was levering open the sliding doors of the freight wagons, having used his gun to shoot off the locks. The rain hissed and fell about them, stinging their hands, their faces, making the ground on which they walked a shallow lake.
The first pair of wagons were driven by two of the men they had been lent by Gonzalez; a further two Mexicans were in each wagon to help with the loading. The six would make the journey south along with the Americans.
Gonzalez would bring up his own wagons later, arranging the transport of his share of the haul.
‘Señor!’
Onslow waved his arm in acknowledgment and the leading wagon drew to a halt alongside the train.
‘All is well, señor?’
‘Si. All is well. Let’s get loading.’
As he spoke it struck him: if the carriage didn’t contain what it was supposed to, then what about the freight cars?
Onslow turned fast and ran, vaulting up into the car.
‘Have you looked?’
McCloud spun round. ‘Hell, no. Not yet. Besides ...’ Onslow seized the iron bar that McCloud had used on the doors and broke open the nearest crate. The wood buckled and splintered; nails bent and sprang from where they had been hammered. Onslow’s hands moved aside the oiled paper.
Guns.
Winchester rifles.
He moved over to another crate of a different size and shape. Opened it with the same swiftness and purpose as he had the first.
Pistols.
Another.
Ammunition.
And another.
More rifles.
Onslow dropped the bar to the floor of the freight wagon. ‘Satisfied?’ asked McCloud, puzzled.
Onslow nodded. ‘Yes. Only ...’
‘Only what?’
Onslow looked at him. ‘In a way I almost wish I wasn’t. I thought maybe I had it, but I didn’t. I don’t like that.’
‘What the hell are you talkin’ about? We got what we were after, didn’t we?’
But Onslow had jumped back down from the car and was shouting to the Mexicans to begin work. It was no night to be standing around in.
Jamie came up and pointed north. ‘After that shootin’ match a while back, there ain’t been a thing. Guess they must have cut them federales to pieces.’
‘Yes,’ said Onslow, ‘seems that way.’
Jamie began to move off again and help with the crates, but Onslow delayed him with a hand on his shoulder, ‘What you did back at the bridge. That was fine.’ He smiled a rare smile. ‘I might have known you’d have an ace in the hole.’
Jamie nodded, walked away, pleased yet almost embarrassed. Glad for once that his mask covered his emotions.
He was climbing up into the second freight car when the day split apart.
Jamie recognized the sound even as he flung himself flat: even as one of the Mexicans was hurled against the side of the train and held up for second after second by a deadly hail of fire that used shells as nails to fix his body to the carriage.
Blood leaked out and was washed down to the ground by the steady plummet of rain.
The sound of a Maxim machine-gun.
‘Jamie! McCloud!’ Onslow called their names as he rolled sideways, having been caught between the horse-drawn wagons and the train.
‘Jesus Christ!’
The wetness soaked his clothes and his eyes became caked with mud; when he tried to wipe them clear, still rolling over and over, he only made them sting.
From above him someone was firing back and he guessed that it was McCloud with one of the Winchesters. Onslow almost laughed. One single Winchester.
‘Who the fuck ...?’
Onslow pulled himself up into the freight car and slid sideways, taking cover behind the double thickness where the door had been fixed back.
Someone ran across the space in front of them, ran until he threw up his arms and faltered, almost fell, picked himself up. The machine-gun chattered on. The man was tossed round in a circle, a descending spiral from which he dropped into the churning mud.
Another of Gonzalez’ men. Which left four. And where ...?
‘Take a look at that!’ It was Jamie. Onslow and McCloud hurried across the floor of the car, moving round the crates quickly, spurred on by the sound of the Kid’s voice.
They saw the reason for it soon enough.
A troop of federales riding full tilt in from the south-west, coming at them like cavalry. Officers at the front with swords drawn. At the head a figure Onslow stared at but could not immediately make sense of. The uniform not right. The color. The tall, peaked cap.
‘Where the hell have these bastards come from?’
Onslow knew the answer to McCloud’s question but he didn’t bother to give it. Not then. Words were too precious. But as he gave orders, the thought whirled round in his mind. These were the men who were supposed to have been in Matamoros. Who were supposed to have boarded the train. Who were supposed to have been dealt with by Pablo Gonzalez. Who knew the plan of attack as well as the gringos did themselves.
‘Madden?’
The word broke from Onslow’s mouth between demands that the crates be searched for a machine-gun and that the Mexicans—the four that remained—be armed.
‘Where the goddam hell is Madden?’
Only the storm, the cover of a darkness that was so powerful that it almost made day into night, knew the answer to that. For now.
Onslow wanted him: wanted him bad. But there were other things to do that could not be ignored.
The federales had divided into two groups, moving to encircle the train, leaving the Maxim that they had planted in the cover of hills to seal off any possible retreat.
‘Where’s that damned gun?’
It was essential that they held out until Gonzalez and his men arrived. Just as the blowing of the bridge was intended to give them breathing space before the federales could arrive, so now it kept help from reaching them with any speed.
Onslow lay flat, the shoulder stock attached to his Mauser, firing into the lines of riders, firing fast, emptying clip after clip, spreading panic.
Still the machine-gun tore into the train from the east, ripping the woodwork apart.
‘Jamie!’
‘Major?’
‘I want that taken out. Out! Right?’
Jamie nodded and moved to the edge of the car, then slipped down to the ground. If there was sufficient darkness from the storm to enable them to move the Maxim into position, then he should be able to get close enough to blow the blasted thing to smithereens.
Jamie Durham still had a couple more aces: a couple more sticks of dynamite.
And now two of the Mexicans had struck lucky.
‘Señor! Señor!’
Onslow pushed a fresh clip up into the Mauser and rolled onto his side, looking along the freight car. The rifled, rounded barrel of the Maxim machine-gun looked incongruous in the Mexican’s hands.
‘McCloud, you know how to put that thing together?’
McCloud jumped across the car. ‘You bet your sweet life I do!’
Meanwhile Jamie Durham had made good some hundred yards of ground, moving in an arc towards the hills on the far side of the track. Whoever was firing the machine-gun was using it more sparingly now. Jamie doubted if that was because they were running short of ammunition; thought that it was rather some part of a predesigned plan.
All right.
He went forward again, trying to avoid the sporadic burst of firing, keeping clear of the areas of land where the water had gathered. Running bent double. Crouching. Waiting. Running again. Rain and cloud covering him.
At the foot of the hill he could pick out the spot where the gun was placed. Another seventy-five yards along, in the dip between the sides of the slope. A scrubby couple of trees to the rear.
He took his time now, not wanting to warn them of his approach. Anxious to eliminate not only the gun but all of the men who were stationed with it.
‘Where the hell is that Gonzalez?’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘If the other bridge hasn’t come down in this damned storm.’
Onslow glanced round at McCloud. ‘Isn’t that thing ready yet?’
‘Almost.’
‘Okay. Get one of the Mexes to feed the belts for you. Move it in here by the doorway. I’m heading along to the front. Make them spread their fire.’
A volley of bullets streaked through the opening above Onslow’s head. Instinctively he ducked, then moved the stock of the Mauser back against his shoulder. Enjoyed for a second the firmness of it and then he had fired. Two federales came from their mounts almost simultaneously, the last catching his boot in the stirrup and being dragged across the earth, face and chest twirling, turning, bouncing up and down from the waterlogged ground.
‘Right.’
‘Cover me.’
Onslow waited for the first note from the Maxim, then jumped for the ground and ran. Low. Fast. His hands grabbed the rail at the back of the carriage and he sprang over and knocked the door open with his shoulder.
Two federales were at that moment entering at the far end of the coach. Onslow brought up the Mauser and fired fast. Even as he got off the first shot he realized that one of the federales had used his own gun. Onslow heard the shot merge with the roar of the Mauser and knew that it had sped wide.
Not so the 9mm slugs that Onslow had driven into the two Mexicans.
The first shot shattered the leading federale’s arm, smashing the bone exactly at the elbow, exploding it apart so that shards of bone splintered through the gaping holes in his uniform sleeve. Tatters of uniform surrounded a wound that seemed to be little more than a bloody hole. Wide and growing wider.
The second shot was higher and placed to the right of the first.
It passed through the flesh of the man’s left shoulder, punching through the body like a fist. It wrenched a large hole at the rear of the shoulder, having deflected slightly upwards off the shattered bone.
A hole like a lower, wider, redder mouth appeared in the neck of the man behind and instead of words it screamed blood.
The third and fourth shells struck the leading federale in the chest and burst his heart asunder.
Onslow made for the center window, clearing it of any remaining glass. He could see the shapes of the federales more clearly now; the clouds were lifting, lightening. Although the rain still fell, it was less fierce.
Under the sudden fire from McCloud’s machine-gun, the majority of the Federal troops had fallen back and were regrouping out of range. Onslow took careful aim at one of the stragglers and put a 7.63mm shell neatly through the back of his neck, immediately under his hat and above the line of his collar.
They had a few minutes in which to think. Reload and reassess and think. They ...
Onslow spun round at the sound from behind.
‘Drop it!’
Onslow’s mouth opened, eyes stared; his fingers faltered fractionally.
‘Now! Drop it!’
He let the heavy Mauser slide from his grasp and down onto the bullet-torn upholstery of the seat.
‘Madden.’
For then it was all he could say.
‘You figured I’d hightailed it.’
‘What else would scum like you do?’
Madden grinned. ‘But I’m here.’
Onslow didn’t ask why; guessed that Madden was about to tell him anyway. And the more the man said, the more time there was in which to think of a way of getting out from under the Colt automatic in Madden’s right hand.
The space between them was small—less than that a man might fall in, die in.
‘See, I like to play things through to the end. An’ I didn’t know for sure how well those Mexes’d deal with you an’ the rest. Thought I might need to take a hand in it myself.’
‘What d’you stand to get out of this, Madden?’
The grin broadened. ‘Like I said before, enough arms for a man to sell an’ make himself a living.’
‘That would have been yours anyway. You didn’t need to set this up.’
‘But I did.’
‘There’s more than the guns, then?’
Madden nodded briefly. ‘Money I took an’ had to earn.’
The left side of Onslow’s face twitched. ‘Who paid you, Madden? Who in God’s name paid you?’
The scarred face shook from side to side: the finger began to move back inside the trigger guard. Onslow knew he had a split second in which to move.
The roar of dynamite to the east of the train burst through the moment. Madden responded to his reflexes, unable to prevent it. His body jumped, hand dropped, head jerked sideways. Automatic responses to the noise behind him.
Onslow had started too, but was quicker to recover. He dived at Madden, fingers groping for his gun arm, weight crashing into him and knocking him backwards across the aisle. The two men went down heavily between a pair of seats, landing on cracked glass. Onslow had his hand at Madden’s wrist and was increasing the pressure. His right fist went for Madden’s face but at the last moment, the face dodged aside and he punched the floor, jolting pain back along his arm.
Still, the Colt remained in Madden’s grasp. Onslow’s own pistol was in his holster. He moved his hand back for it and Madden managed to get one of his knees up into Onslow’s chest. It caught him under the heart and his mouth opened with a grunt. Madden forced his own right arm up several inches, the barrel of the gun coming round towards Onslow’s head.
A second explosion seemed to shake the train and from the end freight car McCloud opened up with the Maxim again. The federales were attacking once more.
Onslow twisted himself sideways in another attempt to get at his own gun and this time Madden got both knees up and levered him into the air. He lost his grip on Madden’s wrist and as he fell a boot cracked against his temple.
Stunned, instinct made him roll sideways.
The Colt automatic exploded so close to him that the sound seemed to fill his head from ear to ear. A pain that was sharp and bright tore at his left arm.
Onslow rolled again, turning, blinking his eyes, seeing Madden standing there in the aisle, steadying the bulky Colt, not wanting merely to wound. Not this time.
Onslow dived sideways and pulled at his own Colt, free to do so at last. He fired as he went, uncertain as to his exact aim but knowing that the one chance might be the only one he would get.
The sounds of the two guns merged into one.
Onslow hit the seat and bounced off it, left hand going down flat onto the floor to break his fall. A surge of pain shot from arm to brain and back round the whole of his left side. Wincing, Onslow pushed himself up and looked at where Madden was still standing.
Feet splayed apart, gun arm by his side, fingers slackly holding the butt, Madden looked across the short distance at Onslow. A shiver ran through his body and he shook. Something flashed behind his eyes and was gone. The entire left side of his shirt and coat were awash with blood.
He began to sway, backwards then forwards. His lips parted and his tongue pushed between them, out into the air. It seemed purple, already swollen. His scarred cheek twitched into its usual lopsided grin and he fell backwards, the back of his head striking the center of the carriage floor and not moving.
Onslow gritted his teeth from the wound in his arm and went to him. He bent over and went through his pockets, but there was nothing there that answered any questions.
He looked at Madden one final time: the strange grin was fixed onto his face, like an obscene death mask.
Through the broken train windows, Onslow could see Jamie Durham sprinting across the flat ground. Behind him the sound of rifle and pistol fire was all but drowned out by the heavier fire of the Maxim.
Whoever had planned the operation, thought Onslow, had failed to account for every eventuality ... but then, so had he. It was as painful to him as the bullet wound in his upper arm.
‘How we doin’?’ Jamie called.
‘I think we’re holding out okay.’
Jamie saw Madden’s body and whistled. ‘He came back then?’
Onslow nodded. ‘He had to make one mistake.’
‘And him?’
Jamie pointed through the space that had been a window. In the middle distance the German officer was fighting to control his mount as machine-gun bullets skidded through the mud around it. Now that their own machine-gun had been knocked out, the federales were not in such a strong position. Time had robbed them of the element of surprise; the gringos had worn down much of their strength in arms and number. Now the officer struggled to maintain a united attack, but the train was becoming increasingly invulnerable.
Onslow left Jamie in the passenger coach and made a dash for the freight wagon—he wanted to get a better look at that man before it was too late. And while the light allowed. There was no telling how permanent the lull in the storm might prove to be. Already fresh clouds were gathering to the east.
At last Onslow got him in focus. He wore a gray uniform, the jacket longer than usual and buttoned up the front to end in a high collar that stood up and almost covered the neck. The collar was green with yellow ribbon on the edging, as were the cuffs. The rest of the uniform was gray, except for the strangely tall peaked cap, which was half gray, half green.
As the officer turned and turned again, the high arch of his animal’s head tossing mane and tail in the wind, Onslow picked out other details. Brown leather gloves with three lines on the back; gold epaulettes on the shoulders; the blue cloth under the oddly small saddle, one side of it spotted with someone else’s blood; the sword that was sheathed in black leather and swayed in its position just rear of his body on the left side.
Finally the face. Lean and long, a nose that razored down its center until it reached the short, clipped moustache and the small, tight mouth.
Even as Onslow looked at him, the man seemed to stare through the distance that separated them directly into Onslow’s glasses. Bright blue eyes that held a threat of unusual power.
And then the head turned sharply away, the man moved his horse round, drew his sword and waved it in a signal. The remaining federales began to retreat, riding off to the southwest, leaving the bodies of the dead and dying stretched or huddled in the dank mud of the plain.
Onslow felt that he would encounter the German again.
Pablo Gonzalez led his men at full tilt, firing their weapons when there was little chance of hitting the enemy. Nevertheless, they spread a great deal of confusion.
McCloud pushed himself up, face and arms stained with dirt and sweat, the metal of the machine-gun burning hot. Onslow put down the field-glasses and stood beside him, glad to see the rebel soldiers riding towards the train. A few of them gave chase to the federales, but soon relented and rejoined the main group. They were happy enough to see the enemy driving off and the load of arms and ammunition intact.
Jamie vaulted up into the freight car and clapped one hand to Onslow’s arm, the other to McCloud’s shoulder.
‘Even with those bastards double-dealin’ on us, we managed to pull through. Didn’t we? Didn’t we!’
Even Onslow had to smile, to share the younger man’s sense of pride. They had done it: they had won through.
So far.
The rain had ceased: the light of what day lingered on spread itself over the plain, the hills, everything as far as the eye could see.