Massacre at Whip Station Page 5

  His son had come out to talk to him about riding with B.W. when the stage left. They were in the middle of that conversation when they heard the hooves. Slash went up to the hayloft with a shotgun to lay down fire if necessary.

  “Pa!” Jackson yelled as he ran. But that horse-fall had cost him some improperly healed ribs and breath and Joe’s hearing wasn’t what it once was. So he concentrated on running rather than shouting.

  “Pa!” Jackson tried again when he was nearer.

  This time the two Mission Indians heard him and turned. A moment later Joe O’Malley appeared just inside the door frame, looking out. That was his customary place. If there was a situation, Joe wanted to be able to duck behind the jamb for cover. Crouched in the shadows, he would be a difficult target for men on horseback with sun-accustomed eyesight.

  The two Mission Indians moved into the station behind him, hovering in the near darkness, also watching. This matter of Tuchahu and his trip to see President Johnson affected them, too, as both Indians and as cavalrymen. General Rhodes Guilford, commander of the 1st California Cavalry Battalion, had ordered them to see to the safety of the holy man. He had not told them of any threats he was aware of; he did not have to. Indian members of the 1st had been placed at every stop in California to watch, listen, and act if necessary. A successful attack on the Serrano, even a scurrilous public affront, would cause grave and unpredictable repercussions among the local Indian population. Even historic enemies among the savages might be united in outrage.

  The riders were charging forward four abreast. It took Joe just a moment to assess the situation. The fine dust trail floating well behind them, visible in the late, slanting sun, told him they had not come from the east, the direction of Civil Gulch. They had ridden from the northeast.

  Privately, Joe had already worked out the timing. Two men, chasing the stage, had just enough time to retreat, gather up partners, and ride out. That would put them low in the foothills, a three-mile stretch of caves and abandoned mines.

  The frontiersman raised a hand for his son to stop running. Jackson came loping to a halt. Joe half-turned to the Indians. Sisquoc had moved to the front door of the station to protect the occupants in the event of an attack.

  “I’m going out,” he said. “You cover me and the station.”

  Malibu acknowledged and Joe strode forward. He did not want to present a figure who seemed either alarmed or concerned by whoever was coming in.

  “Where’s Slash?” Joe asked as he was within talking range of his son.

  “Hayloft with the rifle,” Jackson replied.

  Joe looked in that direction, saw his grandson in the shadows. He made a waving motion. The riders would take it to be a greeting. He was actually signaling the young man to do nothing if shots were fired by the newcomers.

  Meanwhile, Jackson was squinting ahead, to the south. He thought he saw what looked like a dust devil stirring up rust-colored sand along the stagecoach trail. It was tough to say, given the creeping shadows and boulders in the way.

  “Maybe someone coming toward the entrance,” Jackson said. “Box us in.”

  “Could very well be,” Joe said. “Folks seem to be organized. You keep watching.”

  Still looking ahead, the frontiersman knew at once what Malibu and Sisquoc would also recognize. The horses thundering in were cavalry. They were of uniform look preferred by the U.S. Army: dark colored for night riding, good expansive breathing, probably geldings. Each was about fifteen hands high and around a thousand pounds each, about five years old.

  “Bought or stolen by Confederates for infiltration, most likely,” Joe thought aloud.

  “What was?” Jackson asked.

  “The horses,” Joe said. “Don’t look like the boys’re in blue.”

  “What’s their beef with Butterfield?” Jackson wondered.

  “I expect they’ll inform us,” Joe replied.

  The senior O’Malley reached into his pocket and pulled out a chaw of tobacco. He pushed it in his mouth. Gert had brought the sun-dried brick from one of her recent Indian visits. It was a peace offering to her grandfather whose supply had run out. Joe had been saving this for when she couldn’t see him use it. Now was that time. It helped him to think instead of doing what came naturally. Lives other than his might be at risk.

  Renegade Rebel troops still roamed the Southwest. They had lost home and cause yet retained the desire for blood. Joe didn’t blame them. He’d take to the warpath if someone took Whip Station. But he also could not support their methods, which included occasional raids on shipments by rail and coach, and also attacks on homesteaders, sodbusters, and even sodbusters just looking for work. Some of those were men from the ruined South. To his knowledge, though, none of the ranchers or sheepherders who occasionally came by reported actual visits from anyone who announced himself as a Confederate.

  Joe angled the shotgun across his chest—pointing away from the men but not so it couldn’t be swung around quickly. Jackson’s left hand was hooked casually in his waistband.

  The four men reined hard as they reached the two O’Malleys. Their sudden halt briefly covered the two men in dust, which was no doubt the visitors’ intention. Careful, seasoned riders would have angled off. As the fine grains settled, Joe saw a quartet of young to middle-aged faces he did not recognize. All wore a patchwork of clothes ranging from deerskin to Eastern-cut trousers. These had likely come from a chest of wardrobe the Rebels once used to pass as whatever they needed to. One of them had Union-issued binoculars in a case attached to his saddle. The brown case was white-scuffed on one side. No doubt where a soldier had fallen on it, scraping it against the ground.

  “O’Malley?” said one, his face a devilish orange in the setting sun.

  “Mr. O’Malley,” Joe replied over his chaw. “You’d’ve known who we are if you come in the front, like guests.”

  “We did!” shouted a voice from behind him.

  Joe did not look away. Jackson was already facing in that direction. The elder O’Malley wore a look of genuine unconcern. His gun was loaded with scattershot that could take most of them down from where he was standing. He did not want to lose that advantage.

  “Two men crawling on the rocks, by the sign,” Jackson told his father.

  “You ain’t guests, belly-walkers!” Joe shouted over his shoulder.

  None of the men rose to the insult.

  “Which one of you is the snake who shot Dick Ocean?” Joe provoked. He wanted to know the burning point of their fuse.

  The leader did not prolong what was ultimately time-wasting palaver. But he wasn’t exactly cool.

  “Tell the Mission Injuns to come out,” the leader snapped with sudden impatience or irritation—it didn’t matter to Joe which. “And get the man down from the hayloft, too. The one who made this visit necessary. Everyone else stay where they are.”

  It was obvious that one of the men had been watching the station for some time. Sisquoc and Malibu had arrived a good hour before the stage to tell Joe about the special visitor.

  Joe spit at the foot of the man’s horse.

  “No one comes to my home and tells me what to do,” he said. “Especially when I don’t know his name or his purpose.”

  The leader leaned forward.

  “Our purpose is to see the three parties I just named standing with you two,” said the man with his first show of impatience.

  “What if we don’t oblige you?” Jackson demanded.

  The mounted man replied, “Then people will die on both sides. If that’s what you want, we are ready.”

  “Spoken like a true Rebel,” Joe said.

  The man seemed unclear whether that was an insult or a compliment, which is what Joe had intended. The ensuing silence was broken only by the daily wind that rose from the west at dusk, carrying the faintest hint of salty sea breeze.

  Joe decided to stay in the present game, which was truce instead of war. He motioned for Slash to come down and, without turning, cal
led for the two Mission Indians to come out. Joe then moved the shotgun so it was under his arm, pointing in the direction, though not directly at, the man who had spoken. The move wasn’t made in a threatening way. Joe was just letting the man know that he would be one of those casualties. The other three men pointed their own weapons at Joe and Jackson.

  Slash and the Indians emerged in the twilight, dragging long shadows behind them. Jackson saw one of the men on the rocks nod to his boss, letting him know that the man from the hayloft was on his way.

  All the while Joe was looking for additional clues as to the identities of the men. Something that might allow him to scare them off or at least talk them down from whatever they were planning. The man beside the apparent leader had a leather cartridge box on his belt. Joe could not read the stamp except for the GA in the center. Georgia. Definitely a Reb. The third man had a tin-tip scabbard and sabre that also looked like those he had seen on former Rebels. The last man wore a US belt buckle, not CSA. It might have been taken from a captured or dead Yankee. Confederates were sometimes like Injuns that way. They liked souvenirs.

  So they were Rebels. Unless they were friends or kin of the man Clarity Michaels shot, or had some gripe with the Indian Bureau, Joe couldn’t imagine what they’d want with anyone here.

  By this time the three O’Malleys and the two Mission Indians had lined up shoulder to shoulder. Like his father, Slash stood with his back to the four men, his eyes on both of the men side-lit by the setting sun on the top stones of the entranceway. They were shifting side to side a little, the rocks having been baking in the sun all day and still not cooled. Slash knew the feeling. He also knew that rattlers sometimes moved to the top of the rocks to catch the last of the sun’s heat. He watched hopefully for any sudden movement by the men.

  Just then, the group heard a brief conversation, a short commotion, and then a moan from inside the station.

  “Sarah?” Jackson yelled, turning toward the doorway.

  Joe’s fingers tightened around his shotgun.

  “I’m all right—we are all right,” the woman shouted back.

  “What was it?” Joe demanded. His eyes were fixed on the leader, daring him to interfere.

  “B.W. got hit on the head.”

  Joe gazed hard at the leader of the horsemen. The man looked down with equal resolve.

  “No one touched the ladies and no one will, as long as they stay cooperative,” the leader said. “All you folks have to do is nothing.”

  “Who’s in my station, striking my visitors?” Joe demanded. “Either you talk or I’m going in.”

  “The Whip got uppity and had to be dealt with,” someone declared from the door of the station.

  CHAPTER 5

  The O’Malleys and their Indian companions turned toward the voice.

  The man who spoke drew an oath from the lips of Joe O’Malley and a scowl from Slash. It was the barrel-chested Kennedy, who adjusted his Union hat to block the orange sun and walked confidently forward. The Indian shaman was behind him and Hathaway was behind him. Hathaway was the only one who was armed. He had a gun pointed at the back of the Serrano.

  The Indian did not seem to understand what was expected of him. He walked along, looking at the riders and at the O’Malley party—stoic but there was hesitancy in his steps. There was noise at the entranceway as the men on the rock climbed down. Slash resolved to cut the head off the next rattlesnake he saw for its failure to do its job. The men emerged from behind the boulders on horseback. They were leading three other mounts, saddled and riderless.

  “You committed violence in front of our women,” Joe said as Kennedy approached. “You will answer for that.”

  “Now, O’Malley, there is no need for anyone else to get struck,” Kennedy said pleasantly. “No one has died and no one need die.”

  “Except Dick Ocean, nearly,” Jackson remarked.

  “An accident, I assure you,” Kennedy said. “Too little rain, too much dust. The target was a horse.”

  Joe turned back to the man in front of him. “That how you lost the war?” he goaded.

  The leader snarlingly raised his gun and Joe beat him to it. The shotgun was leveled at the man’s chest and he froze. His companions raised or cocked their weapons but the leader shouted at them to hold.

  “I second that, to everyone!” Kennedy barked. He reached Joe’s side. The burly man wore a relaxed, satisfied expression that gave the frontiersman a fever. The man from the Indian bureau regarded Joe. “Please lower the gun so no one makes a stupid mistake.”

  Joe obliged. He glared at Kennedy and turned toward him, the shotgun swiveling with him.

  “You weren’t a Reb,” Joe said, spitting around his chaw.

  “No,” Kennedy replied, twitching a little as the glob landed by his boot.

  “So what’s your game when you’re not scaring women?” Joe pressed.

  “I’m afraid that cannot be shared at present,” the man remarked. He looked at Joe’s shotgun. “And you can lower that, Mr. O’Malley. You understand, I hope, that our intentions here are not violent.”

  “I hear the words, but I see yer guns.”

  “Have it your way,” Kennedy said. “But don’t do anything hasty.”

  Joe remained just as he was and the riders who had been at the front of the station rode to Kennedy’s side.

  “Three extra mounts,” Joe said. “It appears you intend to kidnap a guest from my station.”

  Kennedy frowned. “A harsh word to apply when speaking of a Red Man,” he said.

  “One who just visited with our president.” He added, “Your president.”

  Kennedy just smiled his beefy smile and mounted one of the horses. Still smiling, he drew his pistol and pointed it at Joe’s head.

  “I have had enough of you, Mr. Joe O’Malley,” Kennedy said. “Point your shotgun at the ground, sir, and shut your mouth or your son will be wearing your guts.”

  Once again, Joe did not oblige.

  “I’ll give you courage if not brains,” Kennedy said. He kept his gun level with Joe’s forehead while Hathaway drew his own handgun and urged the Serrano to mount another of the steeds.

  The shaman declined, crossing his forearms diagonally across his chest, and shutting his eyes.

  “Eagle spirit ain’t gonna help you,” Hathaway said, jerking his knee hard into the small of the shaman’s back. The Serrano buckled a little, then stood erect, his hands still pressed gently to his breast, wings in repose. Hathaway swatted the man’s headdress from his graying hair. “Fly if you want, but get up there!”

  “Leave him be!” Gert shouted from the door. “He’s a man of peace!”

  “Go back inside!” Jackson yelled.

  The abductors ignored her. Hathaway continued his assault on the Indian.

  “Red Man, we are already behind schedule,” he said. “You can ride the horse or run alongside it, leashed to the saddle, don’t matter to me. Make your call.”

  The shaman didn’t move and, huffing impatiently, Hathaway walked to the lead rider and took the braided rawhide ranch rope from its hook on the saddle. He walked back to the shaman and, shaking the rope out, began to loop it around the point where the man’s forearms crossed. Hathaway took a step back and pulled the knot tight. He went to lash the other end to the saddle horn.

  There was a loud pop from the station and the rope blew apart in the middle. The shaman didn’t move but Hathaway was startled as his end went slack. A second pop chewed off the segment that dangled from the fist of the Indian agent. The rope was chewed off leaving just an inch behind. This time, Hathaway felt the buzz of the bullet as it whizzed past.

  “Next one takes your thumb!” a woman shouted from the house.

  Kennedy turned in his saddle. “The lady sharpshooter.”

  Hathaway’s fist opened at once and the tiny remaining piece of rope dropped to the dust.

  “A woman?” the leader of the Rebel group said with disbelief. He wheeled his horse from t
he line, turned it toward the station, and spurred the animal forward. At the same time he drew his six-shooter and peered into the darkness beyond the doorway.

  A shot from inside punched through the shoulder of the man’s gun arm. The wounded man listed to one side and turned his horse from its charge. A fourth shot split the reins of the man who was next in line. This man took a fistful of mane in his hands to steady the steed. Before any of the others could act, Slash had drawn his knife, spun, and put a cut in the saddle cinch of the next rider. The horse was startled and reared, the rider fighting to steady him causing the compromised saddle to slide off—him with it.

  All of that happened within moments. The fourth rider, as yet untouched, swung his horse toward the back of the station and rode off. The man holding the mane moved to the side of the injured leader and took the reins. Without waiting for instructions, he followed his companion back the way they’d come. The Rebel with the slipping-and-sliding saddle remounted and did the same, although with less speed.

  Joe took advantage of the confusion to rally Jackson and the shaman, hustling them toward the station. Slash followed behind. He had left his gun in the loft and, anyway, cared less about justice than about catching up to his father and grandfather and protecting their retreat.

  Kennedy and Hathaway did not try to stop the O’Malleys. Hathaway mounted and, covered by the two men who had been at the front of the station, all four of the would-be kidnappers rode off—without the man they had come for or the horse to which he was about to be tied.

  The door to the station slammed shut just as the two retreating riders turned. They peppered the door and windows with gunshot, then rode off hard before the O’Malleys could return fire.

  * * *

  From inside the station, Joe heard the hoofbeats and peered cautiously through a shattered pane of glass. He resented, down to his heels, having to be cautious in his own home and promised himself these men would be made to atone.

  The varmints were not quite out of range but, detestable as they were, and though his desire for revenge was strong, he would not shoot them in the back.