The Slaughterers Read online

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  Also by Robert Jeschonek

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  The Slaughterers

  Robert Jeschonek

  THE SLAUGHTERERS

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert Jeschonek

  www.thefictioneer.com

  Cover Art Copyright © 2013 by Ben Baldwin

  www.benbaldwin.co.uk

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in August 2013 by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.

  A Pie Press book

  Published by Pie Press Publishing

  411 Chancellor Street

  Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

  www.piepresspublishing.com

  Also by Robert Jeschonek

  The Masked Family

  The Slaughterers

  As a faint smile played over his lips, the man in the white headdress reached back and took hold of the leather-wrapped handle behind his head. His sword sang as he slid it from its scabbard on his back and swept it around, the curved blade gleaming in the midday sunlight.

  "Now then." His voice was deep and steady, unbroken as a desert horizon at sunset. "Who among you has heard of Damascus steel?"

  The ragtag trio of thugs gaped at him. The barrels of their tarnished six-shooters never wavered, though; all three stayed fixed on the man with the sword who was standing between them and the girl.

  "I ain't heard a' that," said the thug in the middle, who was fatter and filthier than the other two and did most of the talking. "But I'll bet it ain't no match for good, old-fashioned lead." Sneering, he wagged the gun he was pointing.

  "You will lose that bet." The swordsman kept smiling as he waved the sword, which he called "Sahar," meaning "dawn." He was keenly aware of all the players in the scene. The girl he was defending, a beautiful young blonde in a blue and white dress, stood behind him. Though the swordsman was a stranger who'd arrived in the town of Oasis just a few minutes ago, he hadn't hesitated to intervene when he'd spotted the thugs pawing at her.

  Thirty feet away stood the swordsman's only traveling companion--his horse. The white-coated steed--a fine Arabian named Reeh al-Qiyamah, or "wind"--lapped from a watering trough in front of the general store.

  If anyone else was nearby, the swordsman could see or hear no trace of them. If there were townspeople, they were hidden away from the action.

  The defense of the woman was up to him. "Damascus steel is the finest steel ever created," he said. "A blade fashioned from it can do such damage as you have never imagined."

  "Good ta know," said the middle thug. "I got plans for that knife."

  The sword-wielder's headdress fluttered in the hot Arizona wind. A double band of black cord held the white scarf in place around his temples and above his ears.

  "Has it occurred to you gentlemen," he said calmly, "that this 'knife' might have plans for you?"

  "Hand it over now." The fat thug sneered and wagged his gun. "Or we'll take it from ya later."

  "An' then we'll take Meg Haines there," said one of the other thugs, a wild-eyed young man whose shaggy hair and beard were somehow shaded deep green. "Just like we planned on afore you showed up."

  "Don't worry, Meggy," said the fat one. "We'll take good care a' ya'."

  "Go to Hell." Meg snarled the words. "Just wait till my brothers get a hold of you."

  "I'm outta patience when it comes to them boys," said the fat one. "We'll kill 'em just the same, an' use this napkin-wearin' sissy-boy's knife to cut 'em into steaks for the pigs." He roared with laughter at his joke.

  The swordsman bowed his head. "There is no god except Allah," he said softly, "and Muhammad is his messenger."

  "What th' hell?" Another thug, a gangly beanpole with leprous skin, grimaced. "What's this 'Allah' stuff he's goin' on about?"

  When the swordsman looked up, he was smiling sweetly. "He is my rock and my protector," he said. "And I am his sword."

  With that, he suddenly leaped forward. Before the thugs could squeeze off a single shot, he swung Sahar in a flashing arc that knocked the guns from their hands...one, two, three.

  Still smiling, he brought the blade back across, slashing at the thugs' arms. The fat one and the beanpole both cried out as their gun arms spouted bright red blood above the elbow. The green-haired one lunged toward the swordsman and caught the edge of the sword in his rib cage for his trouble.

  Wrenching it free, the swordsman saw the first two bandits scramble for their guns. He reacted by slicing Sahar across the beanpole's back, then spun around to whack the fat one's head with the flat of the blade.

  Howling and clutching at his wound, the beanpole toppled. The fat thug yelped and staggered but stayed on his feet, still heading for his gun in the dirt.

  A quick slash through the pit of his left knee was enough to end that. He went down hard like a sack of flour, thudding on his huge belly in the baking sand. The guns were out of reach, at least.

  That left the green-bearded one to deal with...but not for long. He dropped to his knees and got his hands on his gun, jerking it around. He even pulled the trigger.

  And the gun didn't fire.

  In the heartbeat that followed, the swordsman whirled, hoisting Sahar overhead. He swung it down with blistering force through green-beard's wrist, sending his gun and the hand holding it rolling to the ground.

  Only the swordsman was left standing. The three thugs wailed and twisted in the dirt at his feet, bleeding into the dirt.

  "There now." The swordsman smiled. "The sword did have a plan for you, did it not? As does mighty Allah himself." With a flourish, he swung Sahar up and slipped it into its scabbard. "You have learned a valuable lesson and lived to tell of it. The lesson is this: lead bullets are no match for Damascus steel." He pushed his brown frock coat back from his hips, exposing a gunbelt with two revolvers in the holsters. "Though bullets do have their place, in case you fail to learn the first lesson."

  He let the coat fall back in place, then brushed the dust from it and took a deep breath. The air in this town was nowhere near as sweet as that in the high country. They could call the place Oasis as much as they liked, but it didn't come close to being one.

  "Might as well kill 'em while you have the chance," said Meg, who'd taken shelter behind Reeh al-Qiyamah at the trough. "They'll be up to the same old tricks soon enough."

  "I choose not to kill today, unless it is unavoidable." The swordsman smiled. "It is Ramadan."

  Meg frowned. "Whatever that is, Mister." She shrugged. "I'm just glad it didn't keep you from gettin' 'em off me like you did. Thanks."

  "If you'll excuse me." The swordsman bowed to Meg and gestured as if tipping a hat, though his headdress wasn't made to tip. "I don't mean to be rude, but I have pressing business in Oasis. I've got to empty this town before every man, woman, and child in it ends up being savagely butchered."

  *****

  "Badder?" The old sheriff frowned from behind his desk in the dusty office. "You say your name's 'Badder?'"

  The swordsman pronounced it again, stressing the "bah" sound of the first syllable, as in "raw." "Badr. Call me Badr."

  "Badder." The sheriff kept rhyming it with "sadder."

  Badr smiled. "Close enough."

  "That's it?" The sheriff narrowed his eyes, deepening the network of creases around them. "Just 'Badder?'"
/>   "My full name is Abu Badr ibn Ahmad al-Medina." Badr tipped his head to one side. "And yours?"

  The sheriff hesitated, stroking his bushy gray mustache, then pushed himself out of his chair and reached over the desk for a handshake. "First name Clay, last name Flint."

  Badr bowed and shook his hand. "As-salam alaykum."

  Flint scowled. "Come again?"

  "Peace." Badr nodded and pulled back his hand. "Though it will soon be in short supply, I fear."

  Flint gestured at the empty chair on Badr's side of the desk, then dropped back into his own chair. "Why's that, exactly?"

  "Because." Badr remained standing. "You're next in line."

  "For what?" asked Flint.

  Badr's voice turned ice-cold. "Extinction."

  Flint frowned without comprehension.

  "Slaughter," said Badr. "The murder of every living soul in the town of Oasis."

  Flint leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "Is that so?"

  "It is so." The white scarf of Badr's headdress, or keffiyeh, flapped as he nodded forcefully.

  Flint reached into the vest pocket of his black coat and drew out a faded brown drawstring pouch. "And who's gonna do all this slaughterin', exactly?"

  "A gang of marauders," said Badr. "Though little is known about them."

  Flint opened the pouch and pinched out a wad of chewing tobacco. "How come?"

  "Because they have never left any survivors," said Badr. "I followed their trail through two other towns due East of here, and have not found a single witness left alive."

  Flint stopped short of plugging the tobacco into his mouth. "Which towns?"

  "Heart's Desire and Rusty Hinge."

  Flint lowered the tobacco. "Heart's Desire?"

  Badr nodded. "Thirty miles east of here, along Bonita Creek. Sixty-two souls, all dead by the time I got there."

  "Dead how?" Flint's face turned ashen. "What happened to 'em?"

  "Shot or cut," said Badr. "Then scalped."

  "Dear God."

  "I performed the Salat al-Janazah in their memory," said Badr. "The funeral prayer. Then I rode out as fast as I could, in hope of catching up to the killers."

  "And did you?"

  Badr nodded. "I chose not to engage them, though. There were too many of them--twenty men, heavily armed--and I'd seen what they'd done to Heart's Desire and Rusty Hinge. I decided instead to outrace them to their next target, the next town in their path. This one."

  Flint finished plugging the tobacco along his left gumline, then dusted off his fingertips. "So how far away are they?"

  "Two hours behind me, at most."

  Flint sniffed as he cinched up the drawstring pouch and dropped it back into his pocket. "And you say the same thing happened at Rusty Hinge?"

  Badr nodded.

  "That's pretty big news." Flint squinted his right eye. "How come I ain't heard nothin' about it till now?"

  "Because Allah sent me to you first," said Badr.

  "Allah?" Flint squinted harder.

  "God." Badr clenched his fists at his sides. "He has sent me with this warning that could save the lives of all your people, if you choose to heed it."

  Flint grunted and stared at him. "I don't suppose this Allah of yours can give me a good reason to believe you?"

  "Lying is considered a great sin in my faith," said Badr, "and besides that, goes against my own personal code." He bowed his head. "I swear to you, I speak the truth."

  "So I just have to take your word for it," Flint said gruffly. "You with the funny hat and weird accent and god I never heard of."

  Badr lifted his head and met Flint's gaze. "Can you afford not to, Sheriff?"

  Flint stared a moment more, then got up from his chair. "So tell me." He clomped across the room to a hook on the wall where his gunbelt was hanging. "What do you propose we do about all this, Badder?"

  "Get everyone out," said Badr. "As fast as we can. And pray for the strength to escape our enemies."

  *****

  "We ain't goin' nowhere," said the tall, brawny farmer. "'Specially not on the say-so of this here crazy foreigner." His sour gaze fixed on Badr, who sat astride Reeh al-Qiyamah in the middle of a half-plowed field. "Now get off my property."

  "Fine. Don't listen to him." Flint tugged the reins in his hand, and the chestnut horse he was riding took a step forward. "You want your family to end up scalped and murdered, that's your business, Bill."

  Farmer Bill snorted. "We got enough guns to put them Injuns in the ground if they try."

  "They aren't Indians," said Badr. "They're like you. Men of European descent."

  "Bounty scalpers, must be." Flint spit a glob of chewed tobacco on the ground. "Passin' off dark-haired scalps as Injun ones and gettin' paid just the same by the government."

  Bill laughed. "Then they sure as hell ain't gonna want my scalp." He patted his sweaty red hair with a filthy hand. "All Irish, and so's my wife an' kiddies."

  "They may kill you just the same." Badr inhaled deeply. The smell of dung hung heavy in the air, reminding him of the stables back home in Riyadh, in Arabia. He had spent so many happy hours there with his older brother Fayd, back when times were simpler. Back before either of them had gotten so mixed up in trouble in the New World.

  "Well, good luck to you, then." Flint turned his horse and started away across the field. "There's still some folks around who might want savin'."

  As Badr followed, he had his doubts. He and Flint had already covered a lot of ground, and no one seemed to be taking their warning seriously.

  At the rate things were going, the marauders would have plenty of scalps to choose from when they arrived.

  "Not many more to see," said Flint as he steered his mount back toward town. "Maybe we should just give up."

  Badr and Reeh al-Qiyamah drew up alongside him. "What about you? Will you be leaving?"

  Flint leaned to one side and spat more tobacco on the ground. "How can I? The people of this town are my responsibility."

  "Even if it means staying here to die needlessly, as none of them have heeded your warning?" asked Badr. "Because that is what will happen, make no mistake."

  "You might be wrong about that," said Flint. "We got a lotta guns and a lotta crack shots in these parts. Those scalpers might just meet their match here."

  "You are ready to die?" said Badr. "Though it could easily be prevented?"

  Flint cleared his throat. "I'll make my stand, if that's what it takes."

  With that, he snapped the reins, spurred his horse, and headed for town at a fast gallop.

  Behind him, Badr patted Reeh al-Qiyamah's neck. "It is time to go," he said softly, "and yet..."

  Reeh al-Qiyamah nodded, as if in answer to his words.

  "Perhaps I shall stay just a bit longer, and make sure he is fully prepared."

  Badr said a few words in his native Arab tongue, and Reeh al-Qiyamah took off in Flint's dusty wake.

  *****

  Flint rode straight to the saloon, tied his horse to a hitching post out front, and stalked inside. Badr did the same, though he tied Reeh al-Qiyamah to a different post in reach of a watering trough.

  Inside the saloon, a dozen people stopped what they were doing--drinking, playing cards, bartending, whoring--and listened to Flint's sharp voice cut through the smoky air.

  "You probably already know by now, don't ya?" Flint stood with his coat pushed back and his hands on his hips, not far from the butts of his pistols. "Company's comin', and you'd do well to get out fast."

  "When they gonna get here, Clay?" A burly, blond-bearded giant of a man gestured with a shot glass full of amber liquid. "How long, do you reckon?"

  When Flint looked back, Badr took it as his cue. "A half-hour," he said. "Give or take."

  Suddenly, one of the three men at the card game spoke. He looked like a dandy who'd fallen on hard times, right down to his threadbare purple waistcoat, cracked monocle, and tattered spats. "Well, if the sheikh says so..."


  People snickered around the room--but not everyone. A few went on staring darkly at Badr, while a few others pretended to mind their own business. As for the giant with the shot of whiskey, he downed it with a gasp and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

  Flint stepped to one side and kicked over a chair, which stopped the snickering. "He does say so, and I believe him. Far as I can tell, he's a good man."

  "I hear he run off Clancy and the Rumsey boys today, all by his self," said the giant. "Without firin' a shot."

  "It's true." Meg Haines, who'd been sitting at the piano, spoke up. "It was three against one, and he took 'em down like hay with a sickle."

  "Sounds like he's purty handy with that pig-sticker." The fallen dandy clapped his hands. "Well, don't just stand there, Sheikh. Do some tricks for us! Let's see you juggle that sword! Or better yet, give it a swallow!"

  People laughed out loud at that. Flint looked like he was about to make a move, but Badr shook his head.

  And drew Sahar from the scabbard at his back.

  As the dandy and his pals roared with delight, Badr swept the sword in a lazy figure eight. He walked past Flint toward the card game, continuing to trace that curving path in midair.

  Then, he lashed Sahar up and brought it down hard, cleaving the table in two. The halves fell away on either side, dumping drinks and cards and greedily tended pots of cash and coins all over the floor.

  "There's more where that came from." Badr flashed Sahar around some more, then returned it to its sheath. "More tricks, that is."

  "See what I mean?" Meg beamed and clapped. "I told you he was somethin'!"

  The dandy and his fellow card players were too busy fighting over the up-dumped money to offer comment.

  "All right, folks," said Flint. "You've heard what we came to say. Up to you if you choose to act on it." He pushed the hat up on his head and glared around the room, giving everyone an ugly look. "But you're takin' your life in your hands if you don't."