A Good Day for a Massacre. William W. Johnstone
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before the first winter snows. Their types were a dime a dozen on the western frontier.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Slash said.
“Don’t let’s chase the nanny goat around the apple orchard,” the kid said, canting his head and twisting his face angrily. “We seen you comin’ up this trail two days ago. You had a good load on ya. You came up from Fort Collins. We followed you out of town. Now, your wagon bed is empty, and we’re thinkin’ you mighta made a tidy little sum for deliverin’ them goods up to one o’ the minin’ camps in the higher reaches.”
Pecos glanced at his partner and said, “Slash, I think they’re fixin’ to rob us of our hard-earned wages. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t like it, Pecos. I don’t like it one bit.”
Pecos looked at the limey and then at the kid standing on the opposite side of the trail from him, aiming his rifle out from his right hip. “Why don’t you four raggedy-heeled vermin get yourselves some honest jobs? Try workin’ for a livin’!”
Given his and Slash’s shared past, Slash glanced at him skeptically. Pecos caught the glance and shrugged it off.
“Wait, wait, wait,” the kid said, scowling again, again canting his head to one side and staring at the two former cutthroats through skeptically narrowed eyes. “Did you say Slash an’ Pecos?”
Slash winced.
Now that he and Pecos had given up their outlaw ways and had bought a freight company in Fort Collins and become honest, hardworking, and more or less upstanding citizens, he and his partner had tried to forget their old handles and call each other by their given names instead. Slash was now Jim or Jimmy, and Pecos was now Mel or Melvin.
Old habits died hard.
The kid grinned like the cat that ate the canary and slapped his thigh. “I’ll be damned!”
“What?” asked the Mex.
The kid glanced at each of his long coulee-riding partners in turn and said, “You know who these two old coots are?”
“Who?” asked the limey.
“Why, they’re Slash Braddock and the Pecos River Kid, that’s who!” The kid threw his head back and laughed, showing that he was missing one of his eyeteeth.
“You mean,” said the Brit, dubiously, “you think these two old men sitting here in this freight wagon are Slash an’ Pecos?” He stared at the two freighters and shook his head. “No. No. Nonsense. You’re gettin’ soft in your thinker box, Donny boy.”
“We ain’t that old, fer chrissakes!” Slash said, scowling angrily at the younger men, all four of whom were now laughing at him and his partner. “We ain’t but fifty or so . . .”
“Give ’er take,” put in Pecos.
“Whatever,” Slash said. “That hardly makes us old men. Besides, were you fellas raised by wolves? Don’t you know you’re supposed to respect your elders, not rob and belittle ’em?”
The limey shook his head again and stared in disbelief at the two middle-aged freighters. “Damn, you two sure have changed. I’ve seen pictures of you both in the illustrated newspapers, an’, an’, well . . .”
“Yeah, well, we all get older,” Slash said, indignant. “Just wait—it’ll happen to you, amigo.”
“What’s Slash Braddock an’ the Pecos River Kid ridin’ a freight wagon for?” Donny asked, keeping his rifle aimed at the two former cutthroats. “You mossyhorns get too stove up to sit a saddle? Your peepers dim so bad that you can’t shoot?”
He smiled again, mockingly.
“As if it was any of your business,” Pecos said, “which it ain’t, we was both pardoned by none other than the president of the United States his ownself. So we got no more paper on our heads, and we’re free to live honest lives workin’ honest jobs, which is exactly what we’re tryin’ to do.”
That wasn’t the entire story. The agreement was that they’d be pardoned for their many sundry sins in exchange for working under the supervision of Chief Marshal Luther T. “Bleed-Em-So” Bledsoe unofficially from time to time as deputy U.S. marshals, hunting down the worst of the worst criminals on the western frontier. Between those man-hunting jobs, they were free to run their freight business, which they’d been doing now for six months, having bought the small outfit from an old man in Fort Collins who’d wanted to retire and live with his daughter in Denver.
“You’re also free to get robbed by blokes like us,” said the Brit, narrowing his eyes threateningly again, clicking back his rifle’s hammer. “Now . . . back to how much money you’re carryin’, which, by the way, we’ll be relievin’ you of.”
CHAPTER 2
Pecos turned to Slash and made a face. “Ah, hell. How much we got, Slash?”
Slash sighed as he reached inside his black wool suit coat, which he wore over a pinto vest and suspenders.
“Slow, now,” the limey warned, steadying the aimed Spencer in his hand.
Slowly, Slash reached into the breast pocket of his chambray shirt and withdrew the manila envelope in which he’d collected his and Pecos’s pay after delivering an organ to a canvas dance hall up in Boulder and sundry dry goods and whiskey to a mercantile in Estes Park.
He ran a thumb over the slender stack of bills, making soft, clicking sounds. “One hundred and fifty dollars.”
“What?” the kid said, shocked.
“You heard me.”
“You mean you two old cutthroats ran a load of freight all the way up there into them mountains and are only bringin’ down one hundred and fifty dollars for your trouble?”
Slash felt the flush of embarrassment rise in his leathery but clean-shaven cheeks. Pecos glanced at him. He, too, looked sheepish. It used to be they’d done jobs for thousands of dollars. They never would have done a job—taken down a train or a stagecoach—unless they were sure they’d take home at least three times what they were carrying today for a whole lot more work.
Now, here they were busting their backs several days on the trail for a measly one hundred and fifty.
“That ain’t so bad,” Slash said, indignant.
“And it’s honest,” Pecos added, defensively.
“Jesus Christ!” said the limey, glancing at the kid. “From now on, I reckon we’d best keep our sights on whole freight trains instead of single wagons.”
“And on younger men,” said the redheaded mongrel, Cord, mockery flashing in his eyes.
Slash said, “You could try makin’ an honest livin’ your ownselves.”
“We tried that,” Donny said. “We been bustin’ rocks for two summers. The winters damn near killed us. We found a little color, all right, but not enough for a stake. Hell, this is easier.” He moved toward Slash’s side of the wagon, keeping his rifle aimed straight out from his hip. “Throw it down.”
“We need that money more than you do,” Pecos said.
“You don’t need it.” The kid stopped and looked up darkly at the two former cutthroats, his mouth lengthening, though the corners did not rise. “You ain’t gonna need a dime from here on in.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Pecos said.
Quietly, the kid said, “Throw the money down, Slash Braddock. Just toss it down here by my right boot.” The kid tapped the toe of his boot against the ground.
Slash glanced at Pecos. Pecos looked back at him, expressionless.
Slash