HIVE OF VILLAINY
“How about it, barkeep?” Saber asked. “Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut?”
“As God is my witness,” Mort declared.
Saber grinned. His right hand came up from under the table holding his Colt. He fired once. Mort’s body and the chair crashed to the floor, and Saber placed the revolver on the table and picked up his fork. “Never trust anyone with religion, boys. They’re liable to turn on you no matter how much you pay them.”
“What do we do with the body?” Twitch asked.
“The same thing you did with Hank’s. The coyotes and buzzards hereabouts will be fat and sassy come tomorrow.”
Twitch motioned. “And the saloon? Do we burn it to the ground when we’re done eatin’?”
“You do not. I’ve always wanted to have my own waterin’ hole. We’ll stick around until Dunn and Hijino have stirred up a hornet’s nest. Then we’ll crush the hornets just like this.” Saber slammed his fist down on the fly that had landed next to his plate.
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska,
Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—Ralph Compton
Chapter 1
The first rider came from the north. He appeared at Wolf Pass from out of the vastness of the wild and rugged Nacimiento Mountains.
Mort Decker was emptying a spittoon in the dawn light when he glanced up and spied the man and horse in deep shadow at the edge of the clearing. Instantly, Mort stiffened. He was not wearing his revolver, and his scattergun was under the bar. He relaxed when he saw it wasn’t an Indian but he was upset with himself. Carelessness could get a man killed.
The rider just sat there.
Mustering a friendly smile, Mort raised a hand in greeting.
The rider did not respond.
Mort tensed up again. The newspapers and the politicians liked to crow that much of the West was settled and civilized, but that did not apply to New Mexico Territory. Wolves of the human variety were all too common; hostiles and outlaws were as thick as fleas on a bluetick hound. Kit Carson had whipped the Navajos, but small war parties of young hotheads acted up on occasion. The Apaches were still to be feared, too, especially with Geronimo on the loose. Then there were the white bad men, killers, and cutthroats of every stripe.
It was no wonder, then, that some folks said it was crazy of Mort to build his saloon so far off the safe and beaten path. But Mort never had cottoned to towns and cities, never had liked being up to his armpits in people and having to abide by a host of laws. His saloon enabled him to make a living, yet sometimes entire weeks went by when he did not see another soul. He liked it like that.
Now, lowering his arm, Mort turned and went back inside. His saloon was the only one in the Nacimientos. It granted him a certain immunity from the high-line riders, an immunity Mort did not take for granted. He set the spittoon down and went around the bar. Placing his hand on the scattergun, he waited.
The clomp of hooves announced the rider’s arrival. Mort envisioned the man wrapping his reins around the hitch rail. Spurs jangled, and a silhouette filled the doorway. Really filled it. Mort had not realized how big the man was: shoulders as broad as a bull’s, a chest a grizzly would envy.
The big man strode to the bar and leaned on an elbow. He wore typical cowboy garb: a high-crowned hat, a brown shirt, Levi’s, and batwing chaps. Strapped around his waist was a black-handled Colt. Nothing unusual in any respect, yet Mort could not shake the feeling that this cowboy was more than he seemed.
“Mornin’, mister. You spooked me out there. I don’t often get customers this early.”
“Whiskey,” the man said.
Mort reached for a bottle.
“I hate watered-down bug juice,” the man casually commented. “The last barkeep who pulled that on me lost all his front teeth and an ear, besides.”
“Oh?” Mort reached for a different bottle. He opened it and filled a glass, all the while thinking furiously. Yes, it was common practice for saloons to water their drinks. Most folks accepted it and did not raise a fuss. He placed the glass in front of the big man and held out his palm. “That will be two bits.”
The rider fished in a shirt pocket and slapped a coin into Mort’s palm. In a smooth motion he upended the glass, gulped the contents in a single swallow, then wriggled the empty glass under Mort’s nose. “Bring the bottle and leave it.”
His ears burning with annoyance, Mort did as he was told. He recognized the signs. The flinty eyes. The hard features. The whipcord steel that lurked under the surface, waiting to spring at the least little provocation. He had encountered lobos like this rider before.
To cover his nervousness, Mort busied himself cleaning glasses. The rag he used needed washing, but his customers were generally not finicky.
“How long have you been here?”
Mort looked up. The rider was regarding him with an intensity Mort found disturbing. He hoped to God the man didn’t intend to rob him. Mort always dreaded that happening, and liked to imagine himself defending his property and his life with his guns blazing. But he did not make a try for his scattergun. A tiny voice at the back of his mind warned that if he did, he would be dead before he touched it. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Since five o’clock.”
“No, I meant your place here,” the man said, gesturing at the ceiling and walls.
“Oh. Pretty near four years now, I reckon,” Mort responded, and stressed the fact that if he were to be bucked out in gore, it would anger some people, by saying, “I have the only whiskey mill in these mountains.” Maybe anger them enough to treat the culprit to a hemp social.
The rider chugged whiskey and let out a contented sigh. “You must know all there is to know about these parts.”
Some of Mort’s confidence returned. “That I do, friend. I daresay there isn’t a gent for a hundred miles around that I haven’t met, or a place I haven’t been.” He was exaggerating, but what was the harm?