The Winchester Run Page 30

  “Tunstall,” said Nelson, “when I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

  Nelson kicked his horse into a lope and rode on. Mac said nothing, his eyes on the sun. He studied the rugged terrain with approval, and found many stone-littered ridges and drop-offs where a wagon might be disabled. Mac slowed his mount, allowing the lead wagon to come alongside him. For just a moment, Port Guthrie caught his eye, and quickly the teamster held up three fingers. In three hours—the sun a little more than an hour away from its daily rendezvous with the western horizon—they would make their desperate bid for freedom. Mac dropped back until he rode behind the seventh wagon. Sergeant Embler was on the box, while Privates Willis, Odell, and Konda trailed well behind. There was simply no way Mac or his friends could reach the weapons within Trinity’s wagon, until Embler and the outriders were eliminated. One thing bothered him. As long as the wagons were moving, the positions of the soldiers were predictable, but when Mac and Red made their desperate move, the wagons would be standing. If the soldiers gathered around Trinity’s wagon, some of Mac’s comrades would die attempting to reach their weapons. He rode on, troubled, unsure as to what he could do to forestall such a tragedy.

  The Rio Colorado. December 18, 1873.

  Ranger Bodie West had unsaddled his horse and spent the night on the Colorado, for it was near sundown when he had learned where the elusive wagons had gone. Again he had eaten jerked beef and drunk river water, for the wind was out of the north-west, and he didn’t wish to reveal his presence with a fire. He ate breakfast under the same circumstances. He then saddled his horse and took the trail of the wagons, confident that he could overtake them before sundown.

  The left rear wheel of Port Guthrie’s wagon lurched over a stone and then slid off to one side, throwing the massive weight of the load on an axle that had been purposely and surreptitiously weakened. The axle snapped, and Guthrie reined in the teams. The rest of the wagons ground to a halt behind him. Lieutenant Nelson, who had been riding ahead, wheeled his horse and came galloping back. Mac and Red made it a point to be there, for everything depended on Nelson’s response to the situation. Port Guthrie did his part convincingly, speaking before Nelson could get past his anger.

  “It ain’t more than an hour till sundown. We might as well wait till mornin’ to start on this. Somebody will have to fashion a new axle.”

  “We are not waiting until morning,” Nelson said stiffly. “We will begin immediately, working by firelight, if necessary. This wagon will be ready to move out at dawn. Tunstall, you and McLean secured a tree for previous repairs, and you are ordered to repeat your performance. Privates Puckett and Haynes, you will accompany them. Do not hesitate to shoot either or both, if circumstances warrant it. Now move out.”

  “Cut your own damn tree,” said Mac. “I’m through taking your orders.”

  “That goes for me, as well,” Red said.

  It was a calculated risk. The temperamental Nelson could simply shoot them both, ending their bid for freedom and dooming their comrades. But the man’s need for the axle overcame his temper.

  “Tunstall,” said Nelson, in a more conciliatory manner, “you and McLean found and cut a perfect tree before, and I am asking you to do it again.”

  “Last time,” Mac said, “I wasn’t shackled.”

  “Me, neither,” said Red.

  “Very well,” Nelson said. “I will remove the manacles. Just bear in mind that should you attempt to escape, I will personally shoot two of your friends. Privates Puckett and Haynes, you are responsible for seeing that these men locate the necessary wood and are returned here as quickly as possible.”

  Careful not to come between the captives and his men with Winchesters, Lieutenant Nelson removed the manacles from Mac and Red, freeing their arms and hands. There was a light of victory in Port Guthrie’s eyes, but the rest of Mac’s outfit showed no outward emotion. The main trial—recovering their weapons—was yet to come. Mac and Red each took an axe from one of the wagons. Mounting their horses, they rode out, while Privates Puckett and Haynes followed, their Winchesters cocked. Unable to communicate, Mac and Red rode close enough for eye contact, and the grim look in Red’s eyes said that he would follow Mac’s lead. A problem that hadn’t been resolved required the taking of the weapons of their guards without Puckett or Haynes firing a shot. The bark of a Winchester could be heard for miles, proof enough that Privates Puckett and Haynes were in trouble. There was a light wind out of the west, and with that in mind, Mac rode north. Red rode alongside him, while Puckett and Haynes followed. They passed up many suitable trees, and Red spoke not a word. If there were shots, the farther they were from the stranded wagons, the less likely were those shots to be heard. They had ridden almost ten miles, when Mac reined up. He spoke loud enough for Puckett and Haynes to hear.

  “That one’s the right size. Let’s go with it.”

  The oak was on the crest of a ridge, with a sudden dropoff to a dry arroyo, and it was with this in mind that Mac began his cut. After a few minutes, he paused in his work, speaking to Red.

  “Finish it, and I’ll do the trimming and topping.”

  Predictably, when the tree came down, it was along the ridge, parallel to the steep drop-off. Mac began lopping off limbs, and in so doing, stumbled. With a yell, he tumbled over the drop-off. It was a controlled fall, and he seized one of the tree’s limbs.

  “Hey!” Puckett shouted.

  He ran toward the place where he had last seen Mac, and it was as much a break as Mac could have asked for. He seized the startled Puckett by one leg and sent him plunging over the rim. Puckett screamed, and for just a moment, Private Haynes forgot about Red McLean. Red moved like a vindictive cat, seizing the Winchester. He wrenched the weapon free and slammed the butt of it into Haynes’s face. Haynes dropped without a sound, and Red quickly cocked the Winchester. But there was no danger. Mac had hauled himself up and was looking into the arroyo.

  “Haynes is out of it,” said Red. “What about Puckett?”

  “He went over headfirst, into some rocks,” Mac said. “He’s dead as he’ll ever be. I’ll go down there and recover the Winchester.”

  Red finished trimming and topping the tree. They would still need a new axle. When Mac returned with the Winchester, he examined the silent, unmoving Haynes. Red looked at him questioningly.

  “Remind me never to get on the bad side of you while you have a Winchester in your hands,” Mac said. “You busted his jaw, but that won’t make a hell of a lot of difference. His neck’s broken, too.”

  “Him and Puckett’s learned what the rest of those varmints are about to learn,” said Red grimly. “When you stack the deck, never allow your opponent to get his hands on the cards. I think we just filled an inside straight, amigo. My Winchester’s fully loaded.”

  “So is this one,” Mac replied. “It’ll be plenty dark enough, by the time we reach the wagons. Let’s ride.”

  Red had looped his lariat around the butt of the newly trimmed tree and had dallied the other end around his saddle horn. He and Mac had slipped the Winchesters into the saddle boots and were about to mount, when a voice stopped them cold.

  “You hombres back away from your horses with your hands up. You’re covered.”

  Numb with shock, Mac and Red obeyed the command.

  “Now,” said the voice, “I reckon you have some good reasons for the killing of those bluecoats.”

  “Damn right we do,” Red replied. “They’re part of a pack of deserters who stole our wagons and have kept us in irons for longer than I care to remember. We were let loose only because one of the wagons broke an axle. We aimed to take these Winchesters and free the rest of our outfit, or die trying. Since you got us by the short hairs, just who the hell are you?”

  “The name’s West. Bodie West.”

  He stepped out of the brush, looking for the world like a Texas cowboy. But there was a Colt tied low on his right hip, and pinned to his vest was the famed star-in-a-circle shield of the
Texas Rangers. Mac laughed and Red was speechless.

  “Starting with your names, I reckon you’d better tell me the rest of it,” said West. “From the time you and your outfit were taken captive, until now.”

  “I’m Mac Tunstall,” Mac said, “and this is Red McLean.”

  Mac started the story and Red finished it.

  “Before we go any farther,” said West, “you should know that the military—at least, the ordnance officer in Austin—didn’t forsake you. I didn’t come this way by accident. You and your outfit owe a mighty big debt to Captain Vance. He believed—and the two of you have proven him correct—that these arms were to be smuggled out of the country by sailing ship. Rangers from the Houston outpost are riding the coast, looking for that ship.”

  “After our experience with this Lieutenant Nelson and his deserters, I was about to drop the army into a hole so deep it would never have crawled out,” Mac said. “I reckon I’ll have to revise that opinion and just call it even. Of course, we still have to free the rest of our outfit.”

  “I believe we can do that,” said West, “but only if we do it my way.”

  “We’re listenin’,” Mac said.

  “I’ll challenge this Lieutenant Nelson,” said West. “Who’s next in command?”

  “Sergeant Embler,” Mac said. “He’s always closest to the wagon where our weapons are, and may be more of a problem than Nelson.”

  “When I challenge Nelson,” said West, “the two of you will be in a position to call on the sergeant to surrender his weapons. How much a threat are the rest of the soldiers?”

  “With Nelson and Embler out of it,” Mac said, “the rest will fold like a bunch of empty feed sacks.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” said Red, “but these varmints are just renegades decked out in army blue. Why risk our necks with a challenge, when we can just gun them down?”

  West laughed. “Spoken like a true son of Texas. I’d have to agree with you, if these men were just common outlaws, but despite what they have done, they’re still soldiers, and subject to military discipline. I must demand they surrender in the name of the State of Texas. If they refuse, then we are justified in using whatever force may be necessary.”

  “We’ll do it your way,” Mac said, “as long as Red and me can cover you.”

  “I’m counting on that,” said West. “Just forget about Nelson, and concentrate on this Sergeant Embler and the others that I won’t be able to watch.”

  “You got it,” Mac said. “Red, leave that damn tree here, and let’s ride.”

  “Damn it,” Buck said, “I don’t like the way Nelson stalks around with that Winchester under his arm.”

  “Nor do I,” said Haze. “It’s like the varmint’s just waitin’ for some reason to shoot some of us. I wonder what’s takin’ Mac and Red so long?”

  “It’s a good sign,” Port Guthrie said. “You may be surprised.”

  And so they were. There was the sound of a horse approaching, and Nelson cocked his Winchester. But the horse came on, and when it was close enough for the moonlight to reveal a rider, there was none.

  “Who are you? Where are you?” Lieutenant Nelson shouted.

  “I’m here,” said West, off to Nelson’s right. “I am Texas Ranger Bodie West, and I demand, in the name of the State of Texas, that you surrender.”

  Nelson began firing at the voice as rapidly as he could lever in the shells, but West had issued his challenge from a belly-down position, and the slugs went over his head. He cocked his Colt and fired three times. Once at the muzzle flash, a second time to the right of it, and a third time to the left of it. Nelson stumbled backward and fell.

  “Nelson’s down,” West shouted. “The rest of you lay down your arms and surrender, in the name of the State of Texas.”

  “Damn you and the State of Texas,” Embler bawled. “Men, this is Sergeant Embler, and I am in command. Kill him!”

  “Embler,” Mac shouted, “this is Tunstall and McLean. We’re armed and we’re within range. If you don’t surrender, we’ll cut you down, along with any man obeying your command.”

  “Don’t shoot,” half a dozen frantic voices cried. “We surrender.”

  “Shoot, damn you,” Embler cried.

  From beneath Trinity’s wagon, he cut loose with a Winchester. While Bodie West was unable to see him, and he was beyond the range of the Ranger’s Colt, Mac and Red faced no such limitations. They began firing, and after the first volley, there were no more shots from beneath the wagon. The next voice they heard was Port Guthrie’s.

  “Embler’s done for, and the rest have surrendered.”

  Someone had thrown more wood on the fire. The corporal and six privates had their hands up, and looked terrified. Bodie West had recovered his horse, and stood beside the animal. Mac’s outfit stared at the Ranger as though they couldn’t believe he was real, and it was Trinity who recovered first. With a glad cry, she ran to Mac, and then everybody began laughing and shouting. When the uproar finally subsided, Mac spoke.

  “Red and me haven’t had supper, and Mr. West don’t look well fed, either.”

  “Nothing but jerked beef for three days,” West admitted.

  “After we eat,” Mac said, “we’ll make plans for going on to Austin.”

  Supper was a joyous meal, and afterward, savoring the hot coffee, they listened while West told them what had been done on their behalf in Austin, and how he had come upon Mac and Red as they had freed themselves from Puckett and Haynes.

  “I believe this pair of Texans would have freed the rest of you without any help from me,” West said, “but I can truthfully tell the military that these two dead men were given every opportunity to surrender.”

  “The others will be turned over to the military at Austin, I reckon,” said Mac.

  “Yes,” West replied, “and since it’s no more than a day’s ride, I’ll take them with me when I ride out tomorrow.”

  “There’s seven of them,” said Buck. “Can you handle that many?”

  “Please,” West said, trying to look offended, “I’m a Ranger.”

  After the laughter had subsided, Corporal Irvin spoke.

  “We won’t cause no trouble. All we’re wantin’ is to get back to our outfit. We been lied to and misled.”

  “Sure,” said West, without sympathy, “save it for the court-martial.”

  “For the sake of water,” Mac said, “should we return to the Colorado and follow it on to Austin?”

  “You can,” said West, “but you’ll be taking the long way home. Traveling almost due north from here, you’re not more than forty miles from Austin. You’ll find springs, maybe a creek or two, and you’ll still get there in time for Christmas.”

  Bodie West rode north the following day, and so intimidated were his seven captives, he hadn’t bothered roping their hands.

  “I reckon it’s time for Red and me to ride back for that tree that’s to become Port’s new axle,” Mac said. “Red, get a couple of shovels. We’ll bury Puckett and Haynes while we’re there.”

  “While you’re gone,” said Guthrie, “the rest of us will jack up the wagon. I reckon, for the first time in my life, I’m goin’ to enjoy replacin’ a busted axle.”

  “Well,” Haze said, “I reckon Buck and me can bury Nelson and Embler.”

  “Yeah,” said Buck, “elsewise, all the buzzards and coyotes in south Texas would end up sick or dead.”

  When Mac and Red returned with the trimmed tree, Port Guthrie cut what he needed for the new axle and set to work on it with an axe. Still it was near noon before the job was done and the wagon ready for the trail.

  “I know it’s the middle of the day,” Mac said, “but if nobody objects, I’d like to head north, toward Austin.”

  Their shouts and cheers told him they agreed, and with Port Guthrie’s wagon leading, they moved out. The men again carried Colts, and their Winchesters rode in saddle boots. Trinity was on the box of her wagon, while Hattie, Rachel, and
Elizabeth rode horses.

  Austin, Texas. December 19, 1873.

  Captain Vance and Lieutenant Schorp were speechless when Bodie West delivered his seven captives. The officers spoke not a word until West had told them the story of the missing wagons and announced they would soon be arriving in Austin.

  “I suppose there’s no point in reporting the sailing ship that’s anchored in Matagorda Bay,” Vance said.

  “No,” said West. “We know why it’s there, and we know it’s waiting in vain, but we have no proof of what was about to happen. The important thing is the wagons and their cargo haven’t been lost, and the persons responsible for taking them have been captured. So I reckon all’s well that ends well.”

  Captain Vance sighed. “I suppose I should be more satisfied, but I’m saddled with the realization that the military gets not a shred of credit. It all goes to one Texas Ranger.”

  “I don’t want any credit,” said West. “When you file your report, tell them you rode out, captured the deserters, and saved the wagons. It could win you that promotion you may otherwise never get.”

  Captain Vance laughed. “I’d be promoted one day and busted the next, for exceeding my authority. I suppose I’ll have to content myself with the safe arrival of the arms.”

  Austin, Texas. December 23, 1873.

  “Yonder she is!” Mac shouted, when at last they could see the distant town that was the end of a long, hazardous trail. “Thank God we can finally rid ourselves of these damn wagons and enjoy some peace.”

  But there was no peace, for the Sunday edition of the town’s newspaper had published the story of the missing wagons, their mysterious cargo, and the fight to save them. There was a brass band waiting, and the mules were terrified of the unfamiliar sounds. Captain Vance was called upon to speak, and when he did, he gave special credit for the saving of the wagons to Texas Ranger Bodie West, without detracting from the sacrifices Mac and his outfit had made. When there was no escaping it, Bodie West spoke to the crowd, and he told of the desperate plan involving Port Guthrie’s wagon, of the killing of Puckett and Haynes, and the taking of their weapons. Finally, Mac Tunstall was forced to speak on behalf of himself and his outfit. He said little about himself or his people, but thanked Bodie West and Captain Vance for their concern. The event lasted an entire day, and nobody was able to escape until dark.