Journey into Violence (3 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

A high-riding full moon bathed the Kerrigan ranch in metallic light and out in the brush country coyotes yipped their hunger. The horses on the corral were restless, usually a sign that they'd caught the scent of a bear or cougar.

As sleepless as the horses, Frank Cobb stood in darkness under the oak outside the cabin, the tiny, scarlet glow of his cigarette rising and falling as he smoked. He turned his head as the cabin door opened and Kate stepped outside. She wore a green robe over her nightdress and her luxuriant mane of red hair was pulled back with a ribbon of the same color. As she stepped closer, Frank saw that she carried a steaming teacup in her hand.

“I brought you this. It will help you sleep,” she said, extending the cup and smiling. “It's two o'clock in the morning and you have a full day ahead of you.”

Frank took the cup and sniffed. “What is this?”

“Chamomile tea. It's very calming.”

Several times on any given day, Frank was struck by what a spectacularly beautiful woman Kate Kerrigan was, and in the moonlight, he was enamored of her yet again. He sipped the tea then said, “I'm sorry about tonight, Kate. I guess I pretty much ruined everybody's supper.”

Kate smiled. “Trace and Quinn ate like wolves and so did Moses. Ivy and Shannon always pick at their food, so there's no need to blame yourself for that. Why do you hate Hank Lowery so much, Frank?”

“It's getting late,” Frank said. “Best I turn in and grab some shuteye.”

“It will take the tea some time to work, so tell me about him. Come into the house. We'll sit in the dining room.”

Despite his depressed mood, Frank managed a smile. “Kate, four framed walls and a few roof rafters don't make a house, despite what the pirate tells you.”

“It is a house because I say it is a house. Frames and rafters do not make a home. It's the people who live within the walls that do that. Besides, I have my hearthstone in place, so the new Kerrigan home is on a firm foundation, even though it shakes and creaks.”

Frank laid his teacup on the dining room table, pulled out a chair for Kate, and then sat.

Kate eased him into his story. “All right, where is Longdale?”

“It's a settlement in the New Mexico Territory, up in the Rio Hondo country. Before the massacre it was a cow town like any other—small, dusty, and drab. Longdale slept six days a week and only woke up on Fridays when the punchers from the surrounding ranches came in to drink and dance with Annie and Bettie. It had a general store with a saloon attached, a blacksmith's shop, some scattered cabins, and not much else.”

Kate said, “Who were Annie and Bettie? Need I ask?”

“Working girls, Kate.”

“Ah, I see. Were they pretty?”

“The punchers thought they were.”

Kate smiled. “Please go on with your story. I ask too many silly questions.”

“A waddie shot dead during an argument over water rights started it. The Rocking-J Ranch and the Slim Chance Horse and Cattle Company claimed the same creek that ran off the Rio Hondo and one morning during roundup their hands got into it. It started with fists and then went to guns and during the scrape a feller who rode for the Rocking-J by the name of Shorty Tillett got shot and another man was wounded.” Frank drank the last of his tea and built a smoke. “After that, both outfits gunned up and brought in professionals. One of them was a draw fighter out of Amarillo who called himself Stride Lowery.”

“He was related to our Mr. Lowery?” Kate asked.

That “our Mr. Lowery” rankled, but Frank let it go. “He was Hank Lowery's twin brother.”

“Oh, I see,” Kate said, but she really didn't.

Frank lit his cigarette. “The ranchers' war lasted three months. During that time seven men were killed, another crippled for life, and Stride Lowery was one of the dead. Finally a peace conference was called, to be held at the saloon in Longdale. At three in the afternoon Levi Fry, owner of the Slim Chance, rode into town with two punchers. A few minutes later the Rocking-J crew arrived. Jesse George, a careful man, brought along three men. One of them was Mordecai Bishop, an Arizona Territory revolver fighter who'd made a name for himself as a fast gun in the Lee-Peacock feud in the Texas four corners country. Well, the seven men got to cussin' and discussin' and the ranchers poked holes in the air with their forefingers. They got to drinking and then to talking again.”

Frank stopped talking and listened into the still, mother-of-pearl night. “Coyotes are hunting close. They're making the horses restless.”

“Did the ranchers reach an agreement?” Kate asked.

“We'll never know. Hank Lowery stepped into the saloon and locked the door behind him. He had a Colt in each hand, cut loose, and put a lead period at the end of the last sentence those boys uttered.”

“But why?”

“Why? It seemed that he blamed both parties for his brother's death. Whatever the reason, when the smoke cleared seven men lay with their faces in the sawdust, five of them dead and two dying. Later I was told that old Levi Fry was gut-shot and crawled around the floor on his hands and knees coughing blood. Lowery's guns were shot dry, but he drew a .32 hideout, shoved the muzzle into the back of Levi Fry's head, and pulled the trigger.”

Kate drew her nightdress closer around her shoulders. “Frank, why should the Longdale Massacre trouble you? You weren't involved.”

“But I was, indirectly anyway. I'd worked a roundup for old man Fry and he'd paid twice what he owed me. I liked that old man and he didn't deserve to die the way he did.”

“Hank Lowery says he didn't shoot Mr. Fry while he was on the floor,” Kate said.

“And you believe him?”

“Well, no. But I don't disbelieve him, either.”

“Kate, Lowery is a cold-blooded killer. He proved it in Longdale.”

“Has he killed anyone since?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, he may have. He says he has angry men on his back trail.”

“Who are they?”

“He wouldn't say.” Kate was silent for a while. The moonlight tangled in her hair and turned the fair Celtic skin of her beautiful face to porcelain. Finally she said, “Hank Lowery wants to join our drive. He says he's worked cattle before, and we could use another hand.”

It took Frank a few moments to recover before he said, “What did you tell him?”

“I said I'd speak to you. And I told him something else, Frank. I said if he killed a man while he was under my employ, I'd hang him.”

“Kate, Lowery is a professional gambler. When was the last time you saw a gambler eating dust? Riding drag? And he's a shootist. I bet you never saw one of them punching cows, either.”

“And that's the whole point. Lowery wants to make a fresh start and put his violent past behind him. He thinks he might prosper in Dodge as a merchant, perhaps in the lumber business.”

“He wants to be a storekeeper? And pigs will fly.” Frank flicked away his cigarette butt. It glowed like a firefly before hitting the ground. “I'll tell you something about the Colt's revolver, Kate. It casts a mighty long shadow. A man who's lived by the gun and made a reputation can run, but he can't hide. Sooner or later the past catches up to him and he's forced to draw the Colt again. John Wesley tried to go straight and so did Dallas Stoudenmire, two men I knew and liked. Now Wes is rotting in Huntsville and five months ago Dallas was shot down in El Paso. Lowery will end up the same way.”

“I aim to take a chance on him, Frank,” Kate said.

“Then you're making a big mistake.”

“I took a chance on you, remember? You turned out all right.”

“Have it your own way, Kate. You're the boss. But if Lowery harms or even
threatens
harm to me or anyone I know, I'll kill him. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Kate said. “But it will not come to that. I will not let it happen.” She rose and walked into the moonlight, her back stiff.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

By cowboy standards, at forty years old Les Bowes was an old man, but there was not a man in Texas who knew as much as he did about cattle and their ways. He'd gone up the trail for the first time in 1866 with Charlie Goodnight and Oliver Loving and ten years later was a top hand on Goodnight's JA Ranch in the panhandle. In 1880, he became a member of the Panhandle Stockman's Association and had a hand in killing several nesters and rustlers.

Stove-up and hurting, he'd nonetheless let Kate talk him into one more drive before he moved to Philadelphia to live with his widowed sister.

As he spoke to Frank, Bowes's face bore a worried expression. “The cattle are strung out all over the range. Even the yearlings are no longer close to their mamas.”

Frank immediately saw the implications for a delay of the roundup. “How scattered, Les?” he asked as the other hands gathered around, their curiosity roused.

“A fair number, maybe five hundred head, drifted south. That's what I know so far. I suspect we'll find other bunches to the west and north.” Bowes dropped his eyes to the cigarette he was building. “I saw hoss tracks, Frank.”

“Rustlers?”

“Could be.”

Frank nodded. “Your mount is used up. Saddle another horse and we'll go take a look-see.” He turned to Trace. “Keep bringing in the yearlings. I'll ride south with Les. Lowery, you'll come with me.”

“I got a bad feeling about this scattered herd business. It's making me uneasy,” Trace said, the branding iron with its distinctive KK head smoking in his gloved hand.

Frank nodded. “Me, too, Trace. Me, too.”

* * *

Normally, a grazing herd will spread out in groups of three or four over several acres, but they will keep each other in sight. That wasn't the case with the Kerrigan herd.

“They've been hazed, deliberately scattered.” Frank lowered his field glasses. “They're strung out for miles in every direction.”

Nobody had asked his opinion, but Hank Lowery said, “That's why the calves have been so slow coming in. The drovers can't find them.”

“That would explain it all right,” Les Bowes said.

Irritated, Frank said, “Then maybe one of you pundits can tell me why.”

“What's a pundit?” Bowes asked, his browned, lined face puzzled.

“It means expert,” Lowery said.

“Or know-it-all,” Frank said. “Let's ride and see if we can find the rest of the herd.”

After two hours of searching through sagebrush and piñon under a burning sun, they found several places where cattle had forded the Pecos. Frank waved the others forward across shallow white water and again picked up cow tracks that headed south and due west.

An hour later, they stumbled on a sight they hadn't reckoned on. The bodies of three dead Mexicans were already buzzing with fat black flies.

All were young men who'd crossed the border in search of work. At least that's what Frank deduced since all three had carried packs on their backs and clothing and scraps of food were scattered around the corpses. A small, framed image of the Madonna of Guadalupe lay near the corpse of the youngest of the three, a boy in his late teens.

Frank swung out of the saddle and examined the dead men one by one, then he rose to his feet. “They were shot at close range. The oldest has a powder burn around the bullet wound in his chest.”

“Apaches?” Lowery said.

Les Bowes shook his head. “White men. Boot tracks all over the place.”

Lowery walked off a ways.

“The Mexicans saw faces that they could later identify. That's why they were murdered,” Frank said. “A bullet can shut a man up real quick.”

Lowery returned. “Four riders headed”—he chopped down with a bladed hand—“that way. Due north.”

“How long ago?” Frank said.

The gambler shook his head. “I'm not that good a tracker.”

“We're going after them,” Frank said. “See where the tracks lead us.”

“I'm not wearing a gun, Cobb,” Lowery said. “If there's killing to be done count me out. I'm all through with that.”

Frank turned hard eyes on the man. “Lowery, I think I disliked you less before you got religion.”

Lowery smiled. “Very good, Frank. Very funny. Maybe I'll write that in my memoirs.”

Bowes spat into the dust at his feet. “Yeah, and make sure you write this, sonny. The pen is mightier than the sword except in a swordfight. The rannies we're going after will shoot you dead as hell in a parson's parlor whether you're heeled or not.”

“It's a chance I'm willing to take, Bowes,” Lowery said. “Like you, I'm riding for the brand.”

“Head back to the ranch, Lowery,” Frank said. “If we meet up with those four gunmen, you'd only be a liability and maybe get me or Les killed.”

“I could draw some of their fire,” Lowery said. “There's always that, huh?”

“I told you to go back to the ranch.” Frank's handsome face was stiff with anger. “Maybe you reckon you've already killed more than your fair share or maybe you're yellow and have always been. Either way, I don't want you around.”

Hank Lowery looked as though he'd just been slapped. “That's a hell of a thing to say to a man.” He turned, mounted his horse, and rode away at a canter. Soon, he was lost in the rippling heat haze.

Bowes used his fingers to wipe the sweatband of his hat and settled it back on his graying head. “I never seen a man turn coward right before my eyes before. You ride for the brand, you fight for it.”

“Despite what I said, I don't think he's a coward, Les,” Frank said.

“Then what the hell is he?” Bowes said.

Frank shook his head. “I don't know.”