The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 33

“Is it done?” the deacon said, standing in darkness near his wagons.

The vaquero nodded. “Sí, señor. It is done.”

The man’s face was strained, and that troubled Santee.

“Cutting a man’s throat bother you?” he said.

“Only the throat of the puncher. He lived in the saddle and nursed cows as I do. Now he is dead and I feel a little sad for him. As for the other one, it is no big thing to cut the throat of a cook.”

“Our work isn’t done yet,” the deacon said. “There’s one more.”

“The man in the tent?”

“Yeah, him.”

“He doesn’t like vaqueros, calls us lazy greasers. Him, it will be a pleasure to kill.”

“He’s still got his gun hand and he’s slick with the iron, so we’ll step careful,” the deacon said.

“I will get the job done, señor.”

“No, we both will,” Santee said.

He whispered something into the Mexican’s ear that made the man grin.

The deacon slapped the vaquero on the shoulder. “All right, let’s gun that son of a bitch.”

“Wait,” the vaquero said. “Do you hear it?” He hesitated, then said, “There it is again.”

“Yeah. Sounds like wolves.”

“I thought all the wolves were gone from this valley, many years ago.”

“Maybe they’re from up north, passing through to visit kin.”

“It is strange, though,” the vaquero said. “I mean, the wolves being here.”

Irritated, the deacon stepped toward the tent.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I don’t want to talk anymore about the damned wolves.”

Harcourt’s tent glowed dull orange in the darkness. The fading moonlight made the surrounding shadows deeper, darker—more ominous.

The deacon heard no sound from the herd. Around midnight he’d heard the cattle rise and graze for a few minutes before bedding down again.

With all his punchers out, the last thing he wanted was for the herd to run when he started shooting.

Unlike the longhorn scrubs he’d driven up the trail from Texas, Harcourt’s cattle were white-faced shorthorns, placid creatures less inclined to stampede. But still, it was a worrisome thing.

He could use the knife on Harcourt, of course.

But Deacon Santee had never been much of a hand with the blade, though he’d cut uppity women a few times. Besides, the manner of Harcourt’s impending death amused him.

He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

On cat feet the deacon and the vaquero moved to the tent.

There was nothing to see from the front, so they moved to their right—and struck gold.

Harcourt sat on his cot, a dark silhouette against the background lamplight. His right arm moved occasionally, bringing a glass to his mouth.

The deacon smiled.

Lordy, Lordy, this was perfect.

He drew his guns and beside him the vaquero did the same. The young puncher grinned, enjoying this as much as his boss.

“Good evening, Beau,” Santee said, quietly, like a man starting a conversation.

He fired as Harcourt jumped up from his cot.

Between them, the deacon and his vaquero pumped fifteen shots through the tent canvas. All but two of them hit their target.

Harcourt’s body jerked like a rag doll as the heavy .45 balls tore into him, shredding his back and chest. Blood spattered the inside of the tent canvas as Harcourt’s dying shrieks spiked into the night.

The deacon stepped out of a cloud of smoke and walked to the front of the tent.

He lifted the flap and looked inside, grinning.

Miraculously Harcourt was still alive. He lay on his back on the cot, his upper body drenched scarlet with blood. A bullet had torn away his lower jaw, and his eyes were wild.

Still grinning, the deacon took time to reload a revolver, then stepped beside the cot. He pushed the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson between Harcourt’s terrified eyes.

“Nobody steals Deacon Santee’s woman,” he said.

He pulled the trigger.

The herd was restless, most of them standing, but they showed no inclination to run. Gradually the cattle calmed and began to graze and the deacon was pleased.

The shorthorns would put on beef for the drive south, and that was all to the good. He could count on fewer losses.

He reloaded both revolvers, deep in thought.

The bodies of the men he’d killed could remain where they lay. He’d send the vaquero to his sons and tell them to bring back the army herd for the trail south. They should arrive before noon and the dead men shouldn’t be stinking too badly by then.

Except the cook.

Santee grinned. He’d gunned a trail cook once and the man had swelled up overnight and already stunk to high heaven come sunup, probably on account of him eating too much.

He nodded. It just went to show that moderation in all things was the key, something he himself practiced.

The deacon glanced toward the wagons. He had unfinished business with Maxine, or was it Leah? He couldn’t remember. No matter, once the vaquero was gone he’d do both of them.

But then the damned Mex sidled up beside him and told Deacon Santee something that ruined his plans and his evening.