There were nine in the Triangle H bunch, including Hansen himself and the two hard rock ranchers, Dodd and Coogan. The cowhands under Hank Nolan were a ragged, dirty lot, about the same as would be found on almost any ranch of that period; indeterminate ages, long and lean, unshaven, skins the mahogany color that comes from a lot of exposure to weather and too little exposure to soap and water. They were Red Pepper, Kid Regan, Chip Wolsten and Tom Danby and a ’breed called Laramie.
And every last one of them was as drunk as a skunk.
They had stopped by a creek down from the Tombstone trail, appetites sparked by the liquor. Somehow, Nolan managed to shoot two jackrabbits and they skinned and roasted them on spits over a fire amongst some rocks above the creek. While they ate, the stone jugs of whisky were passed around and there was more drinking than eating done.
Climbing to the top of the rocks, Nolan had called for the others to come and take a look across the creek and he had pointed to the neatly tilled rows of small crops running across fertile flats towards a distant sod-roof cabin.
“A goddamn sodbuster!” Nolan slurred. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide more’n a lousy sheepherder, it’s a sodbuster.”
Like all cattlemen of that period, they were suspicious of the homesteaders who were slowly encroaching on what had always been considered free range. They saw the wide open spaces disappearing under the plow, the cattle range shrinking and civilization moving right up to their doorsteps. Feeling ran high enough for violence in many cases; beatings, burnings, shootings, lynchings.
“Aw, come on,” Hansen growled, near as drunk as his men. “We ain’t got no time to be messin’ with sodbusters ... Let’s get back onto the trail.”
“Ain’t no hurry,” Nolan said. He looked thoughtfully at the pile of big boulders where they stood, his eyes resting on an egg-shaped rock on the very top. “Hey, now! Look at this!” Nolan shoved his shoulder hard against the rock and thrust with his legs. The rock moved very slightly. He looked at the others with a crooked grin.
“Just a little shove, fellers, one good heave-ho and that rock’ll fall smack down across the creek! Right at this narrow part below where the water’s runnin’ fast!”
They looked at him blankly. “So?” asked Hansen, a little irritably.
Nolan’s grin broadened. “So it not only jams across the creek, it’ll almost dam it! The water backs up and floods across the sodbuster’s nice neat pastures and drowns his crops! How about that, huh?”
It seemed to appeal to most of the drunken cowpokes and Nolan looked at Hansen expectantly. “Okay with you, Matt?”
Hansen hesitated, then took a long swig from the stone whisky jug he was holding. “What the hell? Why not?”
He set down the jug and jumped up onto the higher rock beside his foreman, yelling to the others to come up too. They gathered around the base of the egg-shaped boulder, staggering, slipping and cursing. Regan almost fell off into the creek but Pepper grabbed his shirt just in time and hauled him back onto a more solid footing. Then they gave a concerted heave and the rock moved, but not past the point of balance. It settled back creakingly.
They tried three more times and by then the sweat was streaming from their bodies and it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. A few of the men sat down and opened another jug of whisky, swigging deeply. Nolan seemed intent on getting that boulder down off its precarious perch and shouted at them to start looking around for strong branches that could be used as levers. Hansen wiped sweat out of his eyes, reached down and took the new jug from Chip Wolsten. He drank deeply and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.
“Hell with this, Hank,” he growled. “Gettin’ too much like hard work. Let’s get movin’.”
A few of the others growled agreement, but Coogan and Danby were already off somewhere in the timber looking for poles to use as levers. Nolan took a long pull at the stone jug.
“Lousy sodbusters!” He swayed and moved his boots hurriedly to firmer footing. “We can’t pass up this op—op—this chance to louse ’em up, Matt! Be criminal to pass it up!”
His words were slurred but his tone still came through ugly and cold. Matt Hansen waved his arguments aside and stood up, shaking his head. “Ain’t worth it, Hank. We’ll mosey, I reckon.”
“Well, I don’t reckon!” Nolan snarled and Hansen looked at him sharply, started to speak but stopped as Tom Danby came staggering and skidding back down the slope, yelling and waving wildly, his face alight with drunken excitement.
“What in hell’s gotten into you!” Hansen demanded.
Danby pointed back up the slope in the general direction of the trail. “Got me an idea! For some—fun!” he panted. “Stage is comin’. Laborin’ up the grade. Them hosses’ll be plumb tuckered by the time they get to the top.” He grinned, gave a short laugh, unable to keep it in. “We done it down in Socorro once, six of us.”
“Done what, damn it?” demanded Nolan irritably.
“Held up the stage!” Danby answered. “Just for the hell of it. Never hurt no one and we dumped all the stuff we stole where it could be found, but we sure threw a scare into them stuffed-shirts of passengers! We’d been whoopin’ it up in town, just like we done, Matt, and the sheriff run us out. All the townsfolk were kinda snooty about it, but we sure scared the pants off ’em when we pulled that hold-up! I mean, that’s what we done, really! We scared the pants right off ’em!”
Hansen frowned and Nolan’s face straightened slowly as Danby’s words sank in.
All at once, the balancing rock was forgotten as the drunken men gathered around Danby, passing the whisky jug from hand to hand.
~*~
The stagecoach moved slowly up the grade through the hills and the easier pace seemed to induce the passengers to doze. Most of them had either travelled this route plenty of times or lived in the general area so there was little interest in the scenery. It was impossible to read with the jolting of the stage and only the widow woman had bothered to bring any tatting to keep herself occupied. The other women dozed, leaning against each other, and the men either slept or closed their eyes and pretended to.
But it was all new to old Hernandes. It was the first time he had been out of Mexico except for a few miserable border towns. This was entirely different country to what he was used to and he liked the darker, healthier green of the leaves and the bigger stature of the trees. There were brightly colored birds in the branches and his old eyes sought them out as the stage rolled on.
Up top, the driver held the reins loosely, letting the team make its own pace. Experience had taught him that there was no need to drive the horses hard once they had started up the trail. They knew there was no other way but up for them to go and they lunged against the harness and pulled without any need of a cracking blacksnake whip. Consequently, he tended to dream away the time, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Beside him, Link Somers lay back across the stage roof, on top of some soft luggage under the tarp. His shotgun was propped in its place by his seat where his boots now rested. His hat was jammed over his eyes and his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t take the opportunity to take it easy on this run.
It was while old Hernandes was looking at a bright blue wren amongst the lower branches of the timber by the trail, that he saw the horsemen in the brush. Three of them, pulling bandannas up over the lower halves of their faces. Startled, having to think of what he wanted to say and then laboriously translate the thoughts into English, Hernandes turned to the cowboy next to him and shook him. The man grunted and moved irritably on the seat, finally lifted his hat from over his eyes and looked angrily at the Mexican.
“What in tarnation you doin’?” the cowboy demanded.
Hernandes pointed with a trembling finger. “Señor. The men … I see men!”
“Judas priest! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Listen, you old greaser, we all seen men before. What’s so special about these hombres, eh?”
The widow tittered and the cowboy, encouraged, smiled, turning away from the old man. But Hernandes grabbed his arm and the cowboy swung back, really angry now. “Look, you old goat, I told you—!”
“They come!” Hernandes cried and pointed out the window.
The cowboy’s face paled this time as he saw the masked men riding in from the side towards the coach, guns in hands. “Hell almighty! It’s a hold-up!”
He yelled the words and the others started out of their dozes. The drummer blinked his eyes and couldn’t believe what he saw as one of the masked bandits rode alongside the window and brandished his six-gun. “But—but ...” the drummer stammered. “How? I mean—why? We—we aren’t carrying anything valuable.”
“Mebbe no one told ’em that,” growled the cowboy. “Well, I ain’t got anythin’ worth riskin’ my neck for and if the rest of you are smart you’ll just let ’em get it over with quick as possible and let ’em be on their way. No sense in stickin’ our necks out.”
“But I have a case full of valuable samples!” protested the drummer, wincing as there was a fusillade of shots from up front and the stage slewed to a shuddering halt, tumbling passengers into a heap.
Outside, the driver reined down sharply as the first gunshots were fired into the air and the band of nine men came in from the front and both sides. The noise startled Link Somers fully awake and he sat up, instinctively groping for his shotgun. But, as his brain cleared—swiftly from long training—he stopped the movement towards the gun and stared down at the men milling about the coach. They were all masked—some of the bandannas only partly covered the men’s mouths—and they all had guns in their hands. Someone let out a wild yell that had drunken overtones. Link Somers frowned, saw two of the bandits swaying unsteadily in their saddles. By Godfrey! They were all drunk! And they sure weren’t acting like professional stage robbers. By now, a man who knew his business would have had the passengers out and lined-up and disarmed. These hombres could be shot from their mounts by passengers inside the stage.
Somers hoped like hell that no one would start anything. He was damned if he aimed to risk getting his head blown off on account of those passengers or the few dollars in the strongbox.
“Throw down your box, mister!” one of the bandits ordered and the words were slurred, confirming Somers’ suspicions that this was more a drunken prank than anything else.
The driver looked at him, licking his lips, face white with fear: he knew that usually the driver and guard were the first ones killed in a stage hold-up. Somers shrugged and carefully reached down under his seat and grabbed out the green-painted strongbox with the Wells Fargo legend on it in gilt. Hell, they hadn’t even ordered him to throw down his guns! These were rank amateurs. And that made them dangerous, coupled with their drunkenness. If he did make a move to get the drop on them now, someone could easily panic and start blazing away. Likely he would be killed and he didn’t aim to leave this life that way. So he threw the box down where it landed in a puff of dust. One of the bandits, a redhead whose face was almost totally exposed, climbed down and picked up the box, hanging it over his saddlehorn by the rope handle.
“This’ll be all the proof we need to show we really done it, Laramie!” the redhead said.
The swarthy man beside him growled at him and cursed him for using names but it was too late now. Both the driver and Somers knew who they were. Somers thought he had recognized that red-haired kid: they were the cowpokes who had driven the beef herd into Tucson and whooped it up so much that Marshal Tanner had kicked them out. Looked like they were still drunk and still celebrating ... Damn fools! They could get themselves killed!
“Everyone out!” Hank Nolan bawled, adjusting his bandanna mask as he wrenched open the coach door. He reached in and hauled out old Hernandes by his shirt front. The material ripped as he heaved the Mexican roughly past him, sending the old man sprawling to hands and knees. Like Somers, Nolan despised Mexicans.
Hernandes gagged for breath and struggled to get to his feet. The widow climbed out next and helped him to his feet. The cowboy, flushed some, stepped down and steadied the Mexican on the other side. The other passengers got out fearfully as Nolan ordered them to line up. Pepper and Coogan were up on top of the stage now and Pepper planted a boot against Somers’ back and kicked him out of his seat to land sprawling in the dust. The guard sprang up angrily and instinctively reached for his gun. Matt Hansen leapt his mount forward and kicked Somers on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees.
The driver climbed down hurriedly, hands held shoulder-high, indicating that he wouldn’t give any trouble. Somers got to his feet slowly and lifted his hands. His face was dark with anger but he made no more hostile moves, not even when Taco Dodd disarmed him and went around checking the others for guns too. When he had collected all the guns—one from the cowboy, a derringer from the drummer, and a small pepperbox pistol from the widow—Nolan lined up all the passengers, Somers and the driver. He walked down the line, looking at them closely. Then he stepped back as Pepper threw down a leather case that burst open and frilly, colored lace underwear spilled out into the dust. The drummer groaned.
Nolan picked up some of the clothing: a pair of pantaloons; a corset. He held them up and laughed. The masked men laughed with him and let out a concerted wild yell that had the passengers cringing.
“Okay,” Nolan said, turning back to them. “You ain’t got anythin’ worth stealin’, so you got to give us somethin’ for our trouble, right boys?” The bandits gave another wild whoop of agreement. “Sure you have. You got to entertain us, so I’ll tell you what to do.”
“Aw, don’t spoil it for ’em, Hank!” Matt Hansen cut in, stifling a guffaw. “Let ’em guess as they go along. Take it a step at a time!”
“Good idea,” agreed Nolan, swaying a little unsteadily as he tossed the underwear down on the ground again. He cocked his gun and held it on the frightened group. “Right ... first thing, you start gettin’ undressed!”
Naturally, there were protests, gasps of shock, and the mother on her way to join her soldier husband, held her daughter’s face against her bosom as if to protect her. But there was no protection, no protest that the drunken bandits would listen to: the order was to undress and Nolan gave them to a count of ten to get started or he and his men would do the job for them.
The cowboy was the first to commence. He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off, revealing his lily white torso. The young woman turned swiftly away, gasping. The widow looked at his corded muscles appreciatively and the other woman closed her eyes slowly. The drummer started next and when Nolan moved towards the soldier’s wife, she reluctantly began fumbling at her bodice. In ten minutes, they were all down to their underwear, the women shy and red-faced, huddling together; even the widow was afraid of rape as she looked into the drink-wet eyes of the bandits while they passed around their stone jug of whisky.
“Now that weren’t so bad, was it?” Nolan said, jug in one hand, gun in the other, his bleak eyes on the old Mexican who stood silently, his scrawny legs protruding from beneath the tail of the ragged shirt he was allowed to keep on because he had no underpants, a concession to the finer feelings of the womenfolk, Nolan claimed. “But it’s gonna get better. First off, you men start gettin’ dressed again. No, not in your own clothes, cowboy! In these!”
The bandits laughed as Nolan kicked the case of underwear samples towards the men. They began to protest but Nolan fired a shot into the ground near the old man’s foot and made him jump awkwardly and the others hurriedly picked up the garments. The cowboy, red-necked, turned to the drummer with a pair of pantaloons.
“Come on, mister, this is your stuff! Lend a hand and show us how to put it on!”
The bandits almost fell off their mounts with drunken laughter as they watched the antics of the men getting dressed in the unfamiliar, ill-fitting ladies’ underwear. Nolan picked a pair of frilly lace pink pantaloons for Hernandes and stood over the old man as he struggled into them. Then he got Coogan to lend a hand and they put a pair of corsets on the Mexican, hauling the string taut, with a knee in the middle of the old man’s back, until his eyes popped and the breath wheezed through his teeth. Then they did the same to the other two men.
They offered to help the ladies get dressed in the men’s discarded clothing but each said they could manage well enough and the drunken bandits stood back, laughing, as the women dressed in the baggy trousers, shirts and coats. They made them wear the men’s hats, too, roaring uncontrollably as Hernandes’ large sombrero fell down and almost completely hid the face of the girl. The driver and Link Somers were kept till last and made to dress in the underwear too. Somers was flushed with anger and embarrassment and wished now he had kept reaching for his shotgun as he had started to do when the stage had rolled to a stop. Going down fighting would have been better than this, he reckoned.
When they were dressed, the drunken men made them all parade up and down in front of them, the men being instructed to move like women, in short, mincing steps, holding their hands out from their sides with little fingers crooked. Danby found lip rouge and face powder in the handbag of the widow and went from one man to the other, smearing it on their faces so that they resembled clowns.
“All right, I reckon that’s enough,” Matt Hansen said suddenly, tiring of it all. “We’ve got a long way to go. Let’s mosey. We’ve had our fun.”
The cowhands obeyed instinctively though reluctantly, but Nolan made no move to go. “I ain’t quite through yet!”
Hansen checked as he wheeled his mount away, his eyes cold over the top of his mask as he looked down at his foreman. “Okay, but don’t be long.”
He rode off and Coogan and Pepper followed. But Nolan motioned for Laramie, Wolsten, Dodd and Coogan to stay and Danby certainly didn’t intend to go yet until the very end anyway.
Nolan bundled everybody into the coach, except the old Mexican. They had to shove and squeeze to fit everyone aboard as it was one of the smaller Concords, and they jammed the doors tight with wedges hastily cut from a nearby branch. Laughing, Danby and Laramie turned the team around and got the coach facing back down the steep grade, the way it had come. Nolan held the scrawny arm of the old Mexican in a vice-like grip and dragged him over to the front wheel. The old man stared at him soberly, his leathery face comical with its smeared lip rouge and powder.
“Now, you old son of a bitch,” Nolan growled. “You climb up there and you drive this here coach all the way back to Tucson, you savvy? You try to stop anywhere and we’ll be close by and we’ll shoot you out from under that greasepaint, savvy?”
“I—I never drive,” Hernandes stammered, shaking violently.
“Then you’re about to learn, ain’t you, greaser?” snarled Nolan. “Now climb up there and get goin’ before I blow your head off!”
The old man started to climb awkwardly up the wheel spokes towards the seat but it was obvious that he was too frail and weak. Cursing, Laramie stepped forward and lifted the old man bodily, depositing him roughly on the driver’s seat.
“Now, pick up them reins!” Nolan ordered, seeing the passengers craning their necks at the windows in the jammed doors as they tried to see what was going on.
The old man picked up the mass of rein ends awkwardly and began to sort them out into pairs. But before he had done so, Nolan and the others let out a chorus of wild yells, loosed off a half-dozen shots into the air and Laramie leaned from his saddle and slapped one of the rear horses across the face with his hat.
The team lunged and hit the harness with a jolt that almost unseated the old Mexican and then the team was away, dragging the swaying coach after it. Hernandes fought to pick up the rein ends he had dropped, hanging tightly to those he still held. But the horses were out of control, frightened by the gunfire and the yelling. They hit the downgrade and gathered speed and the stage bounced over a rock and swayed and rocked. The cowpokes doubled up with laughter, at the image of the passengers wearing each other’s clothes, thrown into a tangled heap between the seats. The stage lurched and swayed on, still increasing speed. The cowpokes fired off one. final volley, reined around and, sharing the whisky jug, sent their mounts racing after Hansen and the others.
It had been a good prank, they reckoned.
Hernandes’ eyes were bulging in his head as the stage raced down the slope and the mountainside became a blur to him. He tried to sort out the reins to exercise some control, but the team was bolting and even if he knew which reins were which he would not have had the strength to control them. The cowboy, splendid in his lace underwear and smeared facial makeup, was trying to squeeze out of the window so that he could climb to the top of the stage and lend the old Mexican a hand. He knew if he didn’t that the team could well overturn the coach taking a bend too fast or, worse, go clear off the trail and over the edge of the mountain.
But he was still clawing his way up to the top when Hernandes dropped all the reins and threw himself back in the seat, one hand clawed like a talon into his bony chest, face contorted in unendurable pain, his breath rasping in his throat, the skin under the make-up taking on a bluish tinge. There was a strangled rattle coming from his throat that the cowboy heard even above the roar of the wind in his ears and the thunder and creaking of the runaway stage.
“Judas! Look out!” he yelled and threw himself bodily out of the window to hit the trail hard and roll as the stage swayed past the point of balance on a bend and tilted, spinning wheels leaving the trail.
Then it crashed over onto its side and Hernandes’ body was flung for several yards as the stage rolled and wood splintered and dust boiled up. The horses were dragged off their feet and their threshing and whinnies added to the din. The passengers yelled and screamed and the coach upended and splintered, flinging luggage and people all over the mountainside as it skidded on along the trail on its side, spinning, shattering, a wheel flying away into the trees with a humming sound only to smash to matchwood against a cedar twenty feet above the ground.
As the dazed and bleeding cowboy staggered to his feet, coughing in the dust as he stumbled forward on rubbery legs, he saw the huddled body of Hernandes at the base of a tree, his eyes wide and staring, mouth open like a black hole in his slack face.
It was obvious that the old Mexican would never see his daughter now.