Trail Hand (17 page)

We came galloping through the trees, the stallion snorting like a demon possessed, the roan following right on his tail.

After racing through the gates of the McFarlen place, I fired a warning shot. It was a risky thing to do with nervous ranch hands around to fire back, but I hoped I was moving too fast for anyone to take clean aim.

I hauled rein and the Morgan slid about twenty feet, not stopping until his front hoofs were practically on the front doorstep. As I leaped from the saddle, several of the wranglers came running up from behind with their guns drawn.

I faced a large, bearded man standing on his front porch, cradling a sawed-off double-barreled twelve gauge in his arm.

“McFarlen?” I coughed. He nodded back at me. “There’s not much time to explain. Brett Davies and about fifty of his riders are right behind me and they’re aiming to burn you out. They’re the same ones who rustled your brother-in-law’s herd. Trust me, I was the scout for
Don
Enrique.”

McFarlen’s wife appeared in the doorway. She was a small, heavy-set, but attractive lady who I guessed to be in her late forties.

“Ana, git in the house and open the rifle case!”
She disappeared inside as McFarlen turned around. He was about to gesture to one of his men, but the cowboy, already thinking ahead, had begun to slam closed the heavy shutters running the length of the house.

Being ex-military, McFarlen had built the ranch house as best he could in order to protect it from attack. Even so, with only eleven men, I knew it would be hard to hold it against a sudden massed assault.

Some of the men were already running through the door and taking positions at window slots that were cut into the shutters. A short stocky Oriental in a leather apron began desperately banging on a dinner chime. He was trying to attract the attention of the other wranglers still out in the far corral, to get them headed back to the big house.

“With that many coming at us, we’ll need to send someone for help,” McFarlen said, looking around desperately.

At precisely that moment a big bore rifle, probably a Sharps, rang out and one of McFarlen’s wranglers was flung forward to the ground, dead before his face ever smacked dirt. Any chance of getting outside help died with him. Other shots ricocheted on both sides of us.

Yanking the Henry from my saddle scabbard, I gave the bay a whack on the rump and wheeled toward the door, barely clearing it as three or four bullets splintered the jamb near my face. After slamming the door shut with my back, I slumped down and took stock of the situation around me.

Counting Mrs. McFarlen who held a Remington rifle in her arms like she knew how to use it, we made a total of thirteen. Some of the men were
grabbing rifles out of a long wall rack and handing out boxes of ammunition. The rest had already started shooting back.

McFarlen positioned himself next to the far window. He had laid the shotgun by his side and was shouldering a long Springfield .45–70 Trapdoor rifle. The cabin walls were solid log and seemed strong enough, but we were taking a tremendous barrage of rifle fire. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the windows and doors would splinter.

Eventually, I feared, Davies would either try to rush us in force or burn us out. I prayed the McFarlens’ outer storeroom had none of the blasting powder usually found on most ranches.

“Is there a cellar exit to the back, or an escape tunnel around here?” I asked hopefully.

McFarlen shook his head. “Never had the chance to finish one. Ever since we got here, I’ve been fighting just to finish the basic framework and to get the corrals put up.” His eyes never left the Springfield’s sights the whole time he spoke.

I managed to pick a rider off with my Henry, but there were plenty more to go around. I thought about our chances. It was hot and the only water available was from an outside well. Even though the house was inaccessible from two sides, we were outnumbered and boxed in.

“I’m open to suggestions!” McFarlen called out, similarly aware of the hopelessness of our predicament.

“Well, we could move back East and take up dairy farming,” I quipped. “I for one would be glad to go with you. You suppose they’ll let us leave here peacefully?”

Just then a large slug burst one of the shutters and took out the windpipe of a cowboy at the far end of the room.

“I doubt it.” McFalen shrugged, chambering another shell. He gestured toward his wife. “I wouldn’t mind this so much but for my Ana. She’s been as fine a wife as any man could hope for, and don’t deserve this.” His sadness, evident as he paused to watch her, was understandable.

She had long black hair worn in a bun on top. It was beginning to gray, but I thought it gave her face more character. Her bluish-gray calico dress was worn but clean, and she had on a full-length apron. Around her neck was an oversize silver crucifix, giving her the appearance of someone who was used to the finer things in life but who was now making do with less.

What I could see of the main room confirmed my suspicion that she kept both herself and her husband’s home as proper as their means allowed. I doubted that she was the type ever to complain, and was sure that, if need be, she would gladly give her life to save her husband. McFarlen was right, she didn’t deserve this.

Their home was pretty well shot up by now and most of us were holding low, unable to take careful aim without exposing ourselves. I made up my mind that I was not going to die on my knees, trapped inside this house.

“Maybe we could take this fight out to them and buy you enough time to slip her out of here,” I suggested.

“You might be able to hide out somewhere in back.”

I looked over as Mrs. McFarlen’s rifle bucked in
her arms. “It’s not right for her to go out like this, but, judging by what I see, she won’t leave here without you.”

McFarlen nodded to me, tears welling in his eyes. The room was in ruins and several of the men were already wounded.

“Boys, what say we go out on our feet, fighting? At least we can try to give the McFarlens a chance!” I shouted at the others.

“I’m with ya, mister,” one of them replied. “Anything’s better than this.”

A few other cowboys nodded. They all fired a round or two, and then bunched up behind me at the door.

“When we spring this door, you two cover the missus,” I said, pointing to the pair on my left. “Try to block Davies’s line of fire and let the McFarlens slip out around back. The rest of you head with me to the corral. If we can get into the horses, maybe we can scatter things up and use ’em for cover.” I tried to sound more optimistic than I really felt.

We let go another volley as McFarlen pulled the bolt on the door. Seven of us poured out the door, firing as we went. I had my Henry in my hand and the Navy Colt fully loaded in my holster. I levered another round and fired the rifle.

We made it through the door and onto the verandah, but not much farther.

Davies and his men had left the cover of the trees. They had chosen that very moment to remount and were now charging down on us. One man dropped on my right, shot in the leg. We were firing as fast as we could, but they kept on coming. There was no place for us to go, so we spread out in the open all along the verandah.

I was so mad I didn’t care about dying just as long as we took some of the 4 Boxers with us. I didn’t expect I’d have to wait very long for my time to come when, all of a sudden, I heard a loud Comanche yell in the distance off to our left.

Riding down off the ridge and heading for us at full tilt was a solid line of
vaqueros
, standing in the stirrups and firing as they rode. I never saw a more glorious sight, and several of the ranch hands shouted their relief.

I fired my rifle at the nearest 4 Box rider, sending him off his horse and into a corral log. The arrival of all those
vaqueros
at the same time as the 4 Box attack was purely coincidental, but it sure caught them off guard.

Davies didn’t know where to turn first. Instead of finishing off a few lone ranch hands, his men now found themselves trapped between a solid row of rifles on one side, and twenty charging
vaqueros
barreling down on them from another.

Several cowboys were immediately shot off their horses and an instant later it became one big free-for-all. Once everyone collided, the
vaqueros
began using their machetes. Up close, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

I fired my Henry point-blank into a rider coming straight at me. He took it right in the chest, toppling off backward in a sort of slow roll.

Off to my left I noticed Chango Lopez on foot, pursuing a Davies man who, to my horror, turned suddenly and shot him point-blank in the side. For an instant I could see the look of terror on the cowboy’s face as Chango, seemingly unaffected, grabbed him up in those big arms of his and crushed his skull.

At this point everything was up for grabs.

I emptied my rifle and dropped it on the porch. Charging into the fracas, I tried to find Luke Pierce. I turned straight into a second group of horsemen charging down at us. Davies must have held Pierce and thirty or so others in reserve, and they’d waited until now to attack. The element of surprise created by the
vaqueros
’ arrival was about to be eliminated, overcome by the sheer force of numbers.

With almost military precision Pierce galloped his men in a straight column along the edge of the long barn, about 100 yards from the main fight, and then wheeled left to face us. A company of Rangers couldn’t have executed the maneuver any better.

“Damn,” I grunted. “Look out, boys, they’re charging!” I shouted to those around me.

“
¡Atrás, muchachos!
” a
vaquero
called out.

Pierce and his men spurred their horses, and almost as one they leaped forward at us. I was on foot, surrounded by horses and falling bodies. Even if we had had more men, there wasn’t time to bring enough guns together to stop the charge. I swear I caught Luke Pierce staring at me with an evil grin on his face. It must have been obvious to him that he had us dead to rights.

The 4 Box line was galloping straight at us about twenty-five yards away when I noticed a movement on the roof of the long barn, right behind Pierce’s men. Fifteen men suddenly stood up and simultaneously fired one tremendous volley. The blast was so loud I flinched, but surprisingly the fire was directed downward, right into the back of that charging line of men and horses.
Instantly about half of the men were shot out of their saddles, and several horses flipped horribly, end over end.

I looked back up to see a line of Mexicans on the roof, whistling and jeering as they continued their withering fire. Sonora Mason stood in the middle of them, laughing.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered, waving up to him.

Luke Pierce miraculously survived the volley, managing to turn his horse at a dead run and flee the scene. I caught a glimpse of Brett Davies trying to escape, but I ran around him and blocked his path. Davies pulled up short once he recognized me.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted, spurring his horse in an attempt to run me over. Davies came on so fast I was forced to fan my pistol from the draw, slip shooting from the hip. The first bullet took him in the right eye and, as he raised his hands up in reflex, the second and third slammed into his chest. His horse was jerked back by the pull on the reins and fell over on him, crushing an already dead body.

I looked around, realizing that the tide now had turned in our favor. Several of the cowboys and a few
vaqueros
were dead, but even though both groups were still mixed together in fierce fighting, it was clear the 4 Box brand was losing.

Over to my left a cowboy was about to use his rifle to club McFarlen from behind. I pulled my Bowie from my boot sheath and threw it right to the hilt into his back. Davies’s men evidently intended to go down fighting.

Wheeling to my right, I found Chavez alone, fighting off three cowboys. He was mounted on a
large gray with a long dark mane and tail, but the 4 Box riders had his horse trapped between them. One was blocking the front while the other pressed his horse in from behind. A third cowboy was keeping Chavez busy on his right. They were too far away for me to reach in time, especially on foot. Since I had emptied my Colt and was now without knife or rifle, all I could do was wait for the inevitable outcome. I stood there watching the fight as a helpless observer.

It was obvious the
caporal
was doomed. There was no way he could react in time to protect himself from a three-sided attack. At least none that I could think of.

Just then Chavez drew his machete out from its sheath, and with a loud yell struck out violently to his right, embedding the blade into the nearest cowboy’s neck. As the remaining riders in front and behind were preparing to shoot, his horse did something I’d never seen before, or since for that matter.

That gray rose up on its haunches, sort of like a dog begging, and launched itself straight up in the air. Chavez actually seemed to be part of his mount. I have seen Comanches do some incredible things on horseback, but nothing like this.

The front hoofs knocked the cowboy right off his horse, which then spooked and immediately hightailed it out of there with its rider angling behind, hung up in his stirrup. And as if that weren’t enough, the gray, which was now up in the air and horizontal, kicked straight out backward like a mule.

Six feet off the ground with a rider sitting calmly aboard, and this horse is kicking out backward
like a mule! The cowboy attacking from behind was caught completely by surprise. Hit full force in the chest by both rear hoofs, he was flung from his chestnut like a rag doll. I hate to think how many ribs were broken. Every 4 Box rider who saw that move knew it was all over, and those who were still able immediately hightailed it for the next territory, our bullets flying after them.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open as Chavez calmly rode up to me. I wasn’t sure how he would react to my presence amidst all this bloodshed. My hand rested on the butt of my pistol. It was empty, but at least he didn’t know that.