By the Horns Read online

  Lon Chalmers reined to the left and came to a halt within a few yards of the shack. Owen drew rein in front of the stable. Bartholomew gestured at Pitney to stay well back, then came to a stop between the two cowboys. All three sat quietly, waiting. They did not wait long.

  Leather hinges creaked and the shack door swung out. Through it came a burly Mexican in a brown sombrero and a brown leather vest decorated with silver studs. His huge spurs jingled loudly. Strapped around his thick waist was a pair of pearl-handled revolvers. Swarthy features curled in a cold smile. “What is this? Four gringos have come to visit Paco?”

  “Then you are Paco Ramirez,” Bartholomew said, stating it, not asking. “We have the right place.”

  Ramirez’s bushy brows knit. “You have heard of Paco, gringo? From who, Paco wonders? Paco wonders, too, why you are here?”

  Lon Chalmers slid his right boot from its stirrup, swung his leg over his saddle horn, and slid to the ground, his back to his horse and his hand on his Colt. Not once did he take his eyes off Ramirez. “Tell your pard at the window to step out where I can see him.”

  “You have eyes like a hawk, hombre.” Paco Ramirez shifted and barked a command in Spanish. Not one but two more men came out of the shack, their clothes much like his, their dark faces similarly stamped with the imprint of the worst traits human nature offered. Both wore pistols. They stepped to the left, spreading out until they were six feet apart.

  “I was told there are more,” Bartholomew said.

  Ramirez grinned wickedly. “There are, gringo. Plenty more, eh?” He hollered, again in Spanish, and four more Mexicans materialized out of the dry air, two from the stable and two from behind other buildings. Nearly all were grinning, as if at a great joke.

  “Nice herd you have there.”

  “It is not very big,” Ramirez said, “but it is big enough for Paco’s needs.”

  Bartholomew kneed his mount over to the fence. One of the men who had come out of the house turned as Bartholomew’s horse moved so Bartholomew was always in front of him. The rancher dismounted and studied the animals. “Strange, how many brands there are.”

  “I bought them from many different ranchos.”

  “You have bills of sale, do you? Signed by the former owners?” Bartholomew’s face had hardened.

  Ramirez laughed. “Who bothers with those little pieces of paper, eh, gringo? I use them to light my cigarros.”

  “That’s not very wise. Without proof, there are some who will say you helped yourself to these animals without their owners’ knowledge.”

  “Those who say so would be calling Paco a liar. That would upset Paco. It would upset Paco very much.”

  “Paco’s inglés es muy excelente.”

  “Gracias, gringo. Your español, it is pretty good. But so there is no mistake, I say this next only in your language.” Ramirez paused. “It is not healthy for you to be here.”

  “Why, Paco, was that a threat?” Bartholomew quietly asked.

  “No, gringo. You know what it is. So please, por favor. Paco does not want trouble.”

  “Then Paco should keep proof that all his cows are his. Otherwise he is bound to have trouble whether he wants trouble or not.”

  “Can you count, gringo? There are seven of us and only four of you. So again, por favor, climb back on your caballo and go. Because I know how gringos think. If you and these others do not return to where you came from, more gringos will come, and more after them, until poor Paco has gringos up to his ears.”

  “Poor Paco should not help himself to gringo cattle if poor Paco does not want gringos knockin’ at his door.”

  The amusement in Ramirez’s eyes faded and was replaced by flinty resentment. “No more, gringo. Do as Paco has told you, and do it pronto.”

  Bartholomew stayed where he was. “Why, look there,” he said. “As I live and breathe.”

  “Look where?” Ramirez glanced down the hill and then up the hill. “I do not see anyone.”

  “Yonder.” Bartholomew pointed. “That longhorn with the Bar 40 brand. And there’s another. And another. Why, there must be five or six. They have strayed a long way off their range.”

  “You know of this Bar 40, gringo?”

  “I own the Bar 40, bandido. I would call you a rustler but I hear that when you are not busy stealin’ cows, you steal money.”

  Paco Ramirez scowled. “So that is how it is. You have come all this way over a few cows?”

  “I do not expect you to savvy. But to a cowman, his cows are his life, and when you take one, you insult him worse than if you called his mother a puta.”

  Ramirez digested that, then said confidently, “But there are still seven of us and only four of you. That one”—he jabbed a thumb at Alfred Pitney—“has not the cojones, eh? So maybe it is really seven to three, and the three are cowboys. Good with cows but maybe not so good with pistolas.”

  Slowly turning, Bartholomew came back and stood between Owen and Lon. He motioned at the latter. “I would like you to make the acquaintance of one of my hands. His name is Lon Chalmers. Maybe you have heard of him? Not quite four years ago, it would be.”

  “Chalmers?” Ramirez repeated, scratching his stubble. “I cannot say I have. It is importante?”

  “Four years ago,” Bartholomew reiterated. “In a cantina in Piedras Negras.”

  Ramirez jerked his head up, his eyes widening. “He is that one? Es verdad? You would not lie to Paco?”

  Lon Chalmers finally spoke. “Es verdad.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt in an attitude of casual indifference, but under his sandy hair his face was chiseled from marble.

  “This Paco does not like.” Ramirez looked at his companions and said something in Spanish, the words tripping swiftly from his tongue. To a man, they tensed and studied Chalmers with keen interest.

  “We are taking the Bar 40 cows back with us,” Bartholomew announced.

  “Paco is feeling generous today, gringo. Paco thinks he will let you. With his blessings.”

  “That is not all,” the rancher said. “We must make sure Paco does not help himself to any more Bar 40 cattle.”

  “So you want Paco to give his word, eh?” Ramirer’s smile reeked of insincerity. “Very well. Paco swears by the Blessed Virgin that he will never again come near your Bar 40. How is that?”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “What else can Paco do? Or is it you want him to take his men and go south to Coahuila? Or west to Sonora?”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “You still do not savvy.”

  Astonishment, and something more, caused Ramirez to scowl darkly. “It is a joke, gringo, yes? You tease poor Paco? You would not go so far, would you?”

  It was Lon Chalmers who answered him. “Whenever you’re ready to roll the dice.”

  “An hombre like you?” Ramirez said to him in mild surprise. “Over a bunch of stupid cows? How can this be?”

  “I ride for the brand,” Lon said proudly.

  “Paco sees.” Ramirez lowered his arms. “But maybe you are not the man you were, eh? Four years is a long time. You are maybe not so fast as then, Paco thinks.”

  “Paco thinks wrong.” Without taking his eyes off the bandit leader, Lon raised his voice. “I’ll take our friend, here, the one on my left, and the two on my right. Mr. Bartholomew, can you take the string bean nearest you? I’d be obliged. Owen, that leaves the last two.”

  “We will kill you, gringo,” Paco Ramirez hissed. “You and these cow herders and the gringo with the small hat.”

  Lon said nothing.

  “Paco knows how you gringos are. You think you are better than us, eh? More noble than us lowly greasers. So you will let us draw first, and you will die. Because Paco is quick, too. Paco would not have lived so long if Paco was not.” Ramirez poised his hands over the pearl handles of his twin pistolas.

  “Paco has it all worked out,” Lon Chalmers said. “Except for his mistake. But it is the mistake that makes all the difference.”
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  “What mistake?” Ramirez angrily demanded.

  “Thinkin’ I’m noble. Thinkin’ I would do like a marshal or a sheriff and let you go for your hardware first. Lawdogs can’t gun folks in cold blood. But I’m not wearin’ a badge. I can shoot anyone, anywhere, anytime.” And with that, Lon’s right hand flashed down and up, moving so fast it was a blur. One instant the Colt was in its holster, the next it boomed like thunder. The slug tore through Paco Ramirez from sternum to shoulder blade and the bandit leader staggered back with a look of incredulity on his swarthy face.

  Even as he fired, Lon Chalmers pivoted on a boot heel and instinctively centered his Colt on the chest of the bandido to his left. The man was much too slow in reacting; his fingers had not yet curled around his revolver when Lon’s Colt banged a second time.

  The two shots had been fired so swiftly there was barely a whisker between them. Now Lon reversed direction, swinging to his right, the Colt low in front of him, his knees slightly tucked. The rest of the bandits were belatedly clawing for their revolvers. Lon fired, and the temple of a third Mexican burst in a shower of hair and skull bone.

  Just like that, Lon fanned his Colt, slapping the edge of his left hand against the hammer while keeping the trigger pressed. His fourth shot in half as many seconds dissolved a dark eyeball and blew out the rear of the fourth bandit’s skull.

  The man Bartholomew faced had been looking at Ramirez and was so shocked at seeing Ramirez take a slug, he was sluggish in reaching for his pistol. Bartholomew had the precious twinkling of time he needed to take deliberate aim at the middle of the man’s face and squeeze.

  That left the Bar 40’s foreman.

  Owen was not as quick as Lon Chalmers but he was faster than his employer, and his first shot rang out before Bartholomew’s. The throat of the bandit in front of Owen flew apart, spouting a scarlet fountain. Owen spun. He had not mastered the trick of fanning, as Chalmers had, but he could bang off several shots in succession more swiftly than most. He proved it now by putting three slugs into the last Mexican before the man could fire.

  In the silence that ensued, the only sounds were Alfred Pitney’s sharp intake of breath and the moo of a cow disturbed by the blasts.

  “That’s that,” James Bartholomew said.

  Lon Chalmers immediately began to reload. He did not look around when Pitney clucked to his sorrel and came over close to the body of Paco Ramirez.

  “You killed them.”

  “That was the general notion, English.”

  “But how? I mean, I never saw anyone draw and fire a gun so fast in my life. You shot four men before a single one got off a shot.”

  “They were born with a bad case of the slows,” Lon said.

  “There is more to it than that.”

  “I wasn’t always a cowboy,” Lon said. “When I was younger I was wild and reckless. I lived by my wits and my Colt. I gambled. I spent my nights with doves. I was in more than a few shootin’ scrapes.” About to slide a cartridge into the cylinder, he stared at the body at his feet. “Once, down to Piedras Negras, I killed five men when they accused me of cheatin’ at cards and went for their artillery. One of them winged me. I got blood poisonin’ and about lost an arm. It made me think. When I ran into Mr. Bartholomew not long after that and he offered me a chance to start over, I jumped at it. I’ve been a cowboy ever since, and made some good friends, like Owen.”

  “Were they right, Mr. Chalmers?”

  “Who?”

  “The five men in Piedras Negras. The five men you killed. The five who accused you of cheating. Were they right?”

  Lon Chalmers twirled his Colt into its holster. “As right as right can be.”

  9

  Feathers and Frying Pans

  Owen and Lon Chalmers were given charge of the cattle. Bartholomew told them to swing wide of Carro, in case Ramirez had friends there.

  “Mr. Pitney and I will catch up with you by noon tomorrow at the latest. Once we’re back at the ranch, we’ll check the brands, and I’ll send word to as many owners as we recognize.”

  They had mounted and were about to depart when a sound from inside the shack caused Lon Chalmers to whip around in the saddle and streak out his Colt, and Owen to yank his Winchester from its saddle scabbard.

  The sound was a strangled gurgle ending in a high-pitched whine, and there could be no doubt it came from a human throat. Bartholomew swung down. Flanked by his punchers, he moved warily to within a few feet of the shadowed doorway. “Come on out, whoever you are,” he commanded.

  No one appeared. Lon gave the rancher a questioning look, and Bartholomew nodded. Instantly, the former gun hand darted inside. Owen had the Winchester to his shoulder, prepared for the worst. Tense seconds went by, and then Lon filled the doorway and beckoned for them to enter. Pitney brought up the rear.

  The inside was filthy. Dirty dishes and cooking utensils were haphazardly piled beside a wooden bucket never used to bring in water to clean them. Clothes and other personal items were scattered about the floor. The place reeked of body odor and other unsavory odors. Cards lay on a table ringed by chairs. Blankets lay against each of the walls.

  Lon led them across the room to a dark doorway. Instead of a door, it was covered by a tattered blanket. He pulled it aside and indicated they should precede him.

  Bartholomew stepped through first, and grunted in surprise. Owen slid through with his Winchester still tucked to his shoulder, then lowered it and uttered an oath. Pitney, his face scrunched in disgust at the filth and the reek, merely poked his head in the room, and gasped.

  All the room contained was a bed that had seen better times. Spread-eagle on it, her wrists and ankles bound to the wooden frame, was a woman from north of the border. A female of exceptionally obese proportions. Her face was a moon of pale skin, her neck hung in folds, her breasts were pendulous watermelons, her thighs a pair of alabaster pillars. She was so wide, the bed barely contained her.

  “How hideous!” Pitney blurted.

  A gag was over her mouth. Her pale blue eyes mirrored mute appeal as she tugged at the ropes binding her and mouthed words they could not understand.

  Bartholomew moved to the head of the bed and hurriedly undid the gag. As he removed it, she coughed and spat, then barked angrily at him, “About damn time! I thought you were going to stand there all day ogling my lovelies.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The wrists, you idiot,” the woman said, wriggling them. “The wrists and the ankles so I can get up and find something to wear. You don’t expect to get so grand a view for free, do you?”

  “Ma’am, I assure you—”

  “Spare me your male lies. Hustle, damn it. If you knew how long I’ve been lyin’ here, you wouldn’t be standing there like a lump of wood.”

  Bartholomew took one side, Owen the other, and they soon had the woman free. They reached down to help her up but she pushed them away and came up off the bed in a rolling wave of pale flesh. Without any explanation, she waddled from the room, shoving Pitney from her path with a curt “Out of my way! The outhouse is calling!” She was out the front door with surprising swiftness.

  “Land sakes!” Bartholomew breathed.

  “What do we do with her?” Owen asked.

  “We could add her to the herd,” Lon said.

  Pitney shuddered and followed them out, saying, “What would those men want with a woman like that?”

  “What do you think they wanted?” Lon rejoined. “Or don’t you Brits like a jab now and then?”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” Pitney said. “Besides, you couldn’t pay me to jab her, as you so quaintly phrase it.” He shuddered again. “It would give me nightmares.”

  “She is a lady and will be treated as such,” Bartholomew informed them.

  “If she’s a lady, I’m the ruddy queen.”

  “How do you reckon she got here?” Owen wondered.

  Lon Chalmers replied, “The ocean dried up and she was stranded with the rest o
f the whales.”

  Bartholomew colored. “Enough of that kind of talk.”

  By then they were outside. The outhouse door slammed and the woman came around the rear corner of the shack. She made no attempt to cover herself, and was fussing with her tangle of light brown hair, which had not been washed in so long it was filthy.

  “I must look a sight.”

  “No more than a buffalo with mange,” Lon said, earning a stern glance from his employer.

  “What is your name, ma’am?” Bartholomew inquired. “And how is it you came to be among these bandits?”

  “First things first. You wouldn’t want the sun to burn my delicate skin to a crisp, would you?” The woman waddled inside.

  The four men looked at one another and after a bit Lon said, “I say we light a shuck while we can.”

  “Just run off and leave her?” Bartholomew shook his head. “It wouldn’t be decent.”

  “Well, it’s a cinch we can’t keep her,” Owen said. “Not unless you want Proctor to use you for target practice.”

  Pitney adjusted his derby, commenting, “What is the problem? We turn her over to the Mexican authorities and let them deal with her.”

  “That’s the last thing we want to do,” Bartholomew said, indicating the bodies that lay in postures of violent death.

  They hushed as the woman reemerged. She had slit a blanket in the middle and was wearing it as an oversized poncho, a rope tied around her waist as a belt. “I don’t know where my dress got to,” she remarked. “That damn Paco probably burned it to spite me.”

  Bartholomew asked, “Do you have a name, ma’am?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone? Folks call me Sweet Sally. My last name is Fitzsimmons but I don’t hardly ever use it. I’m from Rhode Island originally. My husband took me west. He worked for the railroad. But there was an accident and he was run over by a train, leaving me a widow. I had twenty dollars to my name. It didn’t last long. One thing led to another, and I ended up doing what most girls do when they need to eat and don’t have any other means to earn their food.”

  “We understand.”

  “How could you? You’re men.” Sweet Sally glanced down and saw her former captor. “Well, lookee here. Mr. Come-with-me-and-we-will-pay-you-a-hundred-gringo-dollars-a-week. My ass.” She raised her right foot and brought it smashing down onto the dead bandit’s face. Ramirez’s nose crunched and his mouth was pulp. “I wanted to kill him so bad I could taste it.”