CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Use it, Broussard,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Get yourself out of here.”
“We’re all getting out of here,” the gambler said. He looked around, then checked the loads in the Colt. “Six, that’s perfect. I can make a good accounting of myself.”
Buttons shook his head. “Red isn’t going anywhere. You’re on your own.”
“Then leave him,” Arman Broussard said. “We can get help and come back for him.”
“Get help where?” Buttons said. “There is no help. We’re in the middle of a stinking desert.”
“Muldoon, Red might never recover. You’ve got to think of yourself. Stay here and they’ll work you to death. You’ll leave your bones in this mine.”
“I won’t leave Red,” Buttons said. “He’s my shotgun guard, he’s my friend, and he’s saved my life more times than I can count. If he does die, I want to be around when it happens. Say a prayer for him maybe. Maybe say a lot of prayers.”
“You’re an honorable man, Muldoon,” Broussard said.
“I don’t know about that, but I won’t desert a friend. Never quit on a friend in his hour of need. I think that’s wrote down in the Patterson stage rule book.”
“And where does that leave me?” the gambler said. “It leaves me feeling guilty for running out on you.”
“Why should it? You ain’t my friend or Red’s either,” Buttons said. “Hell, Broussard, you ain’t even a bona fide, fare-paying passenger of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. You got the gun, now look to save yourself. And you’d better git going.”
“If I escape and gun some of the Rathmores, they’ll kill you for sure.”
“Then that’s the chance I’ll have to take,” Buttons said, a stubborn man with no backup in him. “I’ll stay right here with Red to the end.”
Broussard sat in silence for a while and then said finally, “I have to try it. The woman gave me my opportunity and I must take it.”
“Of course, you do.” Buttons managed a smile. “And when you reach civilization, send the Rangers, a whole passel of Rangers.”
“Buttons . . . I . . . I mean, I wouldn’t last long with doing pick-and-shovel work. I’ve never done a day’s hard labor in my life.”
A Mexican sniffed his tears and the shifting light from the oil lamp crawled over the wall, back and forth, moving a little at a time. Outside, a woman laughed and a man cursed as though he’d just stubbed his toe.
“Don’t justify your actions to me, Broussard. If I was the man with the gun, I’d do the same thing you’re doing.” Buttons nodded to the far wall. “There’s a full canteen over there. Take it.”
“Muldoon, no hard feelings?” the gambler said, his face anxious, as though he feared what Buttons’s answer would be.
“No hard feelings. Get it done, gambling man, and good luck.”
Broussard rose to his feet and the mourning Mexicans turned and stared at him. He put his forefinger to his lips and whispered, “Silencio.” He picked up the canteen, put the strap over his shoulder, and then walked on cat feet to the entrance.
Both guards were still there, one of them smoking a pipe, but their Winchesters were propped against the walls and they stared at something happening deeper in the arroyo, giving Broussard the edge he needed.
He chose the pipe smoker to his right, quickly covered the few yards that separated the guard from himself, and slammed his Colt into the man’s head. As his companion groaned and dropped, the other guard turned, saw what had happened, and grabbed for his rifle.
“I wouldn’t,” Broussard said.
The man ignored him and tried to bring the Winchester to bear. Broussard fired, and his bullet crashed dead center into the man’s naked chest. It was a killing wound and the bearded guard knew it. He screeched as he staggered back and slammed into the hard rock of the mine shaft wall.
Broussard didn’t wait to see the man fall. He ran out of the mine into darkness and headed for the mouth of the arroyo. Footsteps pounded behind him, and the gambler turned and saw the Mexicans hard on his heels, making their own break for freedom.
One of the Rathmore brothers loomed from the darkness in front of Broussard, his arms extended as he yelled at him to stop. Broussard brushed the man aside and the Mexicans trampled over him.
Broussard ran out of the arroyo, then turned his head, expecting a pursuit, but all he saw were the Mexicans, all nine of them following him as hounds chase a fox.
“Get the hell away from me!” the gambler yelled. “Vete! Vete!”
Broussard sprinted into brush heavy with greasewood, prickly pear, and sage, and bent low, making himself as small as possible. The Mexicans did the same and he cussed them out in Cajun that they didn’t understand. Figuring his contrary state of mind, they kept a distance between themselves and the man with the deadly six-gun.
The darkness closed in around Broussard, and after a few minutes, he straightened up and slowed to a walk. The Mexicans were no longer eating his dust, but still followed, small, thin men dressed in white shirts and pants and rawhide sandals. Broussard couldn’t figure out why the little men clung so close to him. He had given them no encouragement and he could only think that they drew some comfort from the gun in his hand. If there was a fight with the Rathmores, the gringo could defend them.
Broussard took a drink from the canteen, let the Mexicans have a swallow, and then said, “Any of you boys speak English?” He got no response and tried, “Habla usted Ingles?” All he got were blank stares and a few grins.
Drawing on the little Spanish he knew, Broussard told the Mexicans he was headed south. They could go in any direction they liked, just so long as it wasn’t the direction he was taking.
This declaration was greeted with nods and grins and plenty of “Sí,” “Sí,” “Sí” . . . but when he started walking again, the Mexicans followed him like a bunch of wiry ducklings trailing their mama.
They walked through the cool night, Broussard intending to bed down during the heat of the day. The wild land around them was dry as a bone and one canteen would not last ten men for very long. It was a worrisome thing.
At first light he stopped walking and looked back at the Cornudas, surprised at how far they’d come. He saw no dust in the distance, no sign of pursuit. Brossard was sure the Rathmores had horses stashed away in one of the canyons near a spring, including the members of Button Muldoon’s team that had escaped the cooking pot. Why were they not out hunting him? Then it dawned on Broussard . . . the answer could be numbers. Papa Mace had seven sons, and two of them were dead, possibly the best of them. He’d only five fighting men of dubious value. Attacking across open ground into a gun and a man trained to use it could cost him dearly.
That was Broussard’s belief . . . but in the end Papa Mace would call the shots.
* * *
First light brought the dawning of another scorching day. By noon, heat waves shimmered, and in the distance, dust devils spun like dervishes. The air was thick and hot and hard to breathe. Once the whole region had been the bottom of a vast sea and the ground was hard and gravelly overlying a layer of compacted lime as hard as granite. The Chihuahuan Desert was not land for the plow, nor was it suited for humankind, yet both men and women challenged the wilderness to do its worst and endured.
Over the next three days Broussard and his nine Mexicans would be put to the same test . . . and only the strongest of them would survive.