Episode 7

Blood Christening

They returned to the wagon camp, leaving the animal squeals behind them. The looting of the wagons and corpses had already begun.

Men were tearing aside the canvas covers from the wagons and rooting through the loads. They tossed fat bundles to the ground. The bundles were wrapped in oil skins and tied with cords. A few were cut open to reveal stacks of folded blankets inside. Others held bolts of woolen cloth. Wooden crates were being lifted down from another wagon with greater care. Ryderdale was standing by the smoky fire, a bottle in his hand.

“Real Kentucky whiskey, Temple. Cases of it packed in straw,” Ryderdale roared. The Texican tipped the bottle back to take a mouthful that he spat in a stream into the fire. Flames exploded, sending a swirling column of embers high into the air.

“How many did we lose?” Ben said.

“I seed Briggs fall with a bellyful of buck. Couple others. That fella from Galveston said he was a sailor. And that Mex with the buck teeth,” Ryderdale said.

“Diego,” Joe said.

“That’s the one,” Ryderdale said and took another long swallow.

Ben stepped to the fire and snatched the bottle from his hand.

“Plenty of time for that back at the bolt hole,” Ben said, voice hard.

Ryderdale curled a lip but nodded.

“It’ll be sun-up soon. We need the mules hitched to the wagons. And get Reyes to make sure the horses in the remuda are watered and fed and on a line,” Ben said, voice louder, regaining command of the chaos.

“We’re taking the wagons?” Ryderdale said.

“We’re taking it all. When are we going to see a strike bigger than this? We sell off the load in Mexico and live like kings out of the Bible a while,” Ben said.

“Here’s to Solomon and all his gold!” a man said where he stood on the bench of a wagon.

“And all his wives,” another said and raised a bottle in each hand. The men laughed at that, even the Mexicans who didn’t understand the remark.

“Take a few healthy pulls, boys, then cork those bottles,” Ben shouted to all. “We have work to do between here and dawn. We need clear heads. And we need to be well shy of this place before the sun gets high.”

Joe looked to see men taking long slugs then slapping corks back in place in mute obedience. Ben Temple had seen them this far; they trusted his word and his mind to see them the rest of the way. The men fell to work hitching the teams while others went up into the rocks to bring down the horses the raiders had left on lines. Reyes was found and sent to prepare the remuda of horses for travel. Others moved among the dead, stooping to remove guns, holsters and any other valuables from the bodies lying about the camp. A few of these still clung to life and were finished off, amigos as well as strangers, with a knife to the throat or a rifle butt to the skull. It was a mercy to both. A wounded man didn’t last long in this country. Even were a man to have a chance at surviving his injury, pity turned quickly to resentment among rough men on the trail. Better for all that they die sooner than later.

“What do you need me to do, Ben?” Joe asked.

“You done enough for one night, snakehand,” Ben said, acknowledging the swiftness of young Joe’s hand earlier.

Joe’s eyes glittered over a shaky smile.

“Look around and find yourself some better irons, son,” Ben said, patting Joe’s shoulder as he stepped past him. “And a decent pair of boots before they’re all taken.”

Joe hared off to search the dead men. He came upon a man lying in the shadows under a wagon. A tall man dressed in dark clothes. Joe squatted down and took the man under the arms and dragged him into the glow of the firelight. The man wore a long black coat over a black vest. A gray-haired man with a long face and eyes staring red as rubies. A silver crucifix hung from a chain on his neck. Joe yanked it off and stuck it in a pocket of his shirt.

About the man’s narrow hips was a holster rig of Spanish leather studded with brass rivets. A holster set with left-hand draw like the hand Joe favored. Mounted at a slant athwart the waist was a second holster for a smaller weapon. Joe unbuckled the belt and slid it off the man before crawling beneath the wagon for the guns it had held. He found a big Walker Colt in .44 and a slimmer Colt chambered to take a .32 ball.

He had to cinch the belt to the last hole in the loop before it would stay on his bony hips. The Walker weighed down on his left side to mid-thigh. The palm of his hand rested easy on the worn staghorn butt.

“Looks like a gun wearing a boy,” Ryderdale scoffed. Some of the others guffawed. Joe raised his eyes to bore into the bigger man’s, cold and hard. Ryderdale swallowed his smile and returned to help a couple men working to lift a wagon tongue from the ground for the approaching mule team.

“Snakehand,” Joe said low in a whisper to himself. He tried a few pulls. The big Walker cleared the leather with an ease that felt natural as breathing.

From off in the dark came an agonized cry. Joe sniffed and his nose filled with the smell of burning fat and hair. The Indians were having their brand of fun with the survivors.

For the second time that day, Joe was grateful that there were no women among those on the wagons. He was surprised to find that, in addition to his left hand on the butt of the holstered Colt, his right was touching the pocket of his shirt in which the silver crucifix rested.