The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 24

The herd was ready to move out, but the deacon took his sons Gideon and Zedock aside and led them close to his wagons.

“You know what to do,” he said. “The Mexicans I hired are all good with the iron and they’ll back your play.”

Santee bunched a fist into Gideon’s shirt, pulling him close to his own scowling face.

“I want all the Harcourt hands dead, you understand? Shoot them. Then shoot them again. Let not one of them escape you.”

“Is this afore or after we sell the herd?” Gideon asked.

He was small and thin like his father, and every bit as spiteful and mean. Even whores stayed clear of him after he marked a few, and dogs ran from him in the street.

“Damn it, where is Enoch when I need him?” the deacon said. “After, you idiot. After you get the money from the army quartermaster.”

“We come back here, Pa?” Zedock said.

The deacon let out a slow hiss of exasperation.

How the hell had he sired idiots like these?

“I went over all that already. First you send a rider on a fast horse to tell me you made contact with the army. Then you head back here your own selves with the money.” He laid on some sarcasm. “I’ll be the only man standing, so even you two will be sure to recognize me.”

“We’ll do as you say, Pa,” Zedock said. “You can count on us.”

“Let’s hope so,” the deacon said. “If you foul this up, don’t come back because I’ll kill you on sight.”

He lashed at the two young men with his riding crop.

“Why the hell are you standing there with your mouths hanging open? Mount up and git going. And make sure you keep the Mexicans in check. I’ll deal with them later.”

Santee watched the herd move out, the cattle drifting through a cloud of yellow dust.

He smiled, happy at the way things had worked out.

There were seven Harcourt riders and seven of his own—his two sons and five Mexicans fresh off the Texas border, where they’d played hob, robbing, raping, and killing.

Killing Trivet had evened the odds and he was confident Gideon and Zedock could do the rest.

He looked around the camp.

A couple of Harcourt’s punchers were holding the remaining half of his herd in a box canyon three miles to the south. Only two of his men were in camp, the cook and an older hand who had pleaded sickness from an attack of piles.

When the time came he’d handle those two himself.

As for Beau Harcourt, he was sulking in his tent. The deacon smiled. Even the sight of somebody else’s blood had been too much for him.

Now the man expected a share of the army money and that made the deacon’s smile stretch into a grin.

He’d pay Harcourt off all right. In lead.

Santee’s wagons were parked under a stand of pine and wild oak and he watched his women walk back and forth, their hips swaying. He walked in the direction of the wagons.

But he stopped in his tracks when he saw the four riders coming in.

Damn it, even at a distance, they looked like specters of death on horseback.

Santee’s hands dropped to his guns.