Nate Coffin's Revenge (12 page)

“Who the hell are you? Better yet, what the hell do you want?” I snapped.

Stupid son of a bitch didn’t even react to my mild rebuke. Lamebrained fool had all the outward personality of a stick of stove wood. Started talking like some kind of mechanical music box. “Name’s Porter Atwood, Ranger.” He made a halfhearted motion at his badge. That’s when I noticed one point of the star was broken off. “Deputy Marshal Porter Atwood.”

“Well, you’ve answered one question. Second one’s still the same, Deputy Atwood. What the hell do you mean wakin’ me up this ungodly time of morning?”

Hooked his meaty thumbs behind filth-encrusted suspenders, grinned like a tubby possum eating peaches, and proudly declared, “Marshal sent me over. Always do what the marshal says. Yessir. Always do.”

Had begun to feel that I’d been awakened by the village idiot. “Why?”

“Whaddaya mean, Ranger?”

“Look, Atwood. Want you to think about my next question very carefully. I’m only gonna ask you once. Why did Marshal Matthews send you here to wake me from a sound sleep?”

For about the count of three he looked like a Hidalgo County brush popper who’d just woke up and discovered a tarantula the size of a pullet in his boot. After several seconds of puzzlement, some kind of light went on behind his heavy-lidded eyes and he said, “Oh, Marshal said as how he shore could use yore help, if ’n you’ve got the time and inclination.”

“Help doin’ what?”

Well, he looked at me with all the confusion of a wood-pecker in a petrified forest. Shook my head and said, “Go back to the jail and tell him I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes. Think you can do that without gettin’ lost along the way?”

He rubbed tobacco juice dribbles off his nasty chin with a stained shirtsleeve and nodded like a drunk duck. “Hell, yes, I can do’er. Ain’t nothin’ to it, Ranger.”

“Head on out then, Deputy. I’ll be down shortly.” Poor churnhead nodded like he understood. ’Bout the time he got to the end of the hall I called out, “Remember now, try not to get lost.” Certain he didn’t understand the joke either time, but at least he grunted like he heard me.

Got myself in no hurry. Dressed and armed up in my own sweet time. Passed the entrance to Dianna’s room on the way out. Wanted desperately to see her. Hold her. Hear her voice again. Smell the heat and fire of her.

Stopped and quietly pressed my ear to the closed door. No movement inside. Considered knocking. At the very least I should have let her know what had just transpired, but thought better of such action when I checked my two-dollar Ingersoll pocket watch and realized just how early the hour truly was.

Stepped into Ridley Matthews’s office to find the portly marshal, Atwood, and another deputy who appeared even shorter on thinker-box filler than either of his fellows. Tall, thin, and hawk-nosed, the unnamed lawman gave the red-faced appearance of someone who spent way too much time in one of the local whiskey emporiums with a dipper of stump squeezin’s attached to a trembling, clawlike hand.

Matthews hopped up from his desk like a man who’d been struck by lightning, or caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Coffee, Ranger?” he asked, and gifted me with a blazingly counterfeit smile.

Seemed an odd response to my expected entrance. Puzzled me some at first, but I accepted the tin cup and flopped into the only empty chair. Figured they were all idiots just this side of being institutionalized in the nearest insane asylum and had to be humored.

Matthews resumed his well-worn seat and assumed a surprisingly officious air. “You know, Ranger Dodge,” he droned, “few years ago a feller named Herman Wallace ranched some out on Turkey Creek. Got into a dispute over borrowed cattle. Seems Wallace harbored the belief as how a neighbor, Simp Richards, spent most of his time throwin’ a wide loop on animals what belonged to the owners of surrounding ranches. Guess one day ole Herman finally got all he wanted. Rode over to Simp’s place and shot the man dead as a rotten fence post. Then, Herman went to runnin’ and hidin’. Nobody around these parts would admit to havin’ seen the man since. Mighty frustratin’ for a lawman, as you might well guess.”

“And what, Marshal Matthews, has any of your profoundly sad tale about rustlin’ and murder got to do with gettin’ me out of bed at the butt crack of dawn?”

His confused eyes swirled around in a beet-red face before he said, “Well, ’pears the murderous son of a bitch decided to return and, from all indications, has taken up residence in his old ranch house out Turkey Creek way. Just wondered if you might be willing to come along with us. Help make the arrest.”

Couldn’t believe my ears. “You mean to tell me Willow Junction’s three fearless, redoubtable, and mostly stalwart lawdogs can’t get this job done on their own?”

Matthews dismissed my obvious slur with the wave of a nervous hand. “Herman Wallace is widely known as a cold-blooded killer, Dodge. More trouble than we can handle, to tell the absolute truth. Don’t have many killers here’bouts, or a famed Texas Ranger available to offer aid and assistance in such matters.”

“Hell, Marshal, hate to be the one to point out the obvious again, but there’s three of you boys. Ain’t that enough?”

“Look, Dodge, sad truth is us town boys don’t really have much in the way of experience when it comes to dealin’ with brazen murderers. You got to admit, this ain’t Fort Worth, Dallas, or one of them Kansas railhead towns, like Wichita or Abilene. They’s mostly nothin’ but farmers and ranchers here’bouts. Not many man killers. None but Herman Wallace since I’ve been in office.”

Racked my brain, but couldn’t readily figure any way to weasel out of his appeal. Man had politely requested assistance and, in obedience to my sworn oath, I felt compelled to comply.

Matthews wanted to leave as soon as possible. Told him I’d be glad to help, and headed directly for the livery. Met back up with him and Atwood about fifteen minutes later.

“Where’s your other deputy?” I asked.

Matthews leaned on his saddle horn, threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, then said, “You mean Jiles?”

“That his name?”

“Yeah. Pinky Jiles. Well, he’s fine enough here in town, but ’bout as worthless as half a haircut for any kind of real action. Man can’t hit his own ass with a set of antlers and five jabs.” He and Atwood laughed at his lame joke. “Even worse with a pistol. Main reason I asked for your help, Dodge. Besides, I cain’t just go off and leave all our fine upstandin’ citizens completely bereft of at least somethin’ akin to law. Just never know what might come to pass during my absence.”

The revelation that Deputy Pinky Jiles was about as useful as a screen door in the bottom of a rowboat didn’t come as any great surprise. However, I cared not one whit about leaving the town, and especially Dianna, in the care of a man not worth his feed. Ugly threat of Nate Coffin, or any number of his henchmen, making an unexpected raid loomed large in my mind as we spurred our animals and headed for Turkey Creek.

Much to my increasing vexation, Willow Junction’s chief lawman had failed to let me know, in advance, that the Wallace spread lay out in the briars and brambles nearly thirty miles from town. After we’d traveled over rolling hills for nigh two hours, I got to wondering just how long the trip would take.

“How much farther, Marshal Matthews?” I asked.

“Oh, not more’n five miles. Should be there in another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour at the most. Ain’t that far away.”

Whole irritating situation had begun to get under my skin by that point. Went to thinking as how I should have stopped at the hotel desk and at least left word for Dianna as to my intentions. Now the unplanned trip was taking much longer than I expected. Virtually all the law in that part of the country had vacated town, left it in the care of a known drunk and idler. Man very likely couldn’t have saved himself from any problem much more threatening than which brand of tarantula killer to swill down first.

About the time I had given up ever arriving at the Herman Wallace spread, we stopped under a sheltering stand of cottonwoods on the bank of what Matthews proclaimed was Turkey Creek. Heat forced me to remove my hat and cool an aching head from a canteen. Stepped down and refilled with clear, running water from the rocky stream.

Matthews pointed to a spot a bit farther up and said, “Ranch building is just over yonder, Dodge. You can barely make it out ’cause of all these trees here on the creek. Herman built as close to water as he could get. Live oaks all around the main house as well. Bit tight in this spot here, but plenty of cover provided by several sizable boulders all around the place. Should be able to sneak up on him unawares. Have the murdering skunk under the gun and in our custody plenty quick.”

Pulled my big popper and strapped a bandolier of shotgun shells over my pistol belt. Neither of the other lawmen bothered with any kind of additional weapon. Stuck with a handgun each. Being as we’d made the trip in search of a known man killer, it puzzled me some that they didn’t at least carry their rifles. Way I had it figured, both would have been a hell of a lot better off toting a shotgun. Tied the animals in scrubby bushes and silently picked our way from spot to spot for the rest of the way.

Stand of trees bled out on a deep, grass-covered field. Sun-dried, knee-high grass had overtaken what had once been a rail corral. No animals of any kind in evidence as I could detect. Low log-and-plank main house had suffered from considerable neglect, as had a smaller cabinlike structure formerly used by hired hands.

Situated amidst several large boulders, the compound of main house, split-rail corrals, and outbuildings lay at the back of the meadow between a number of massive live oaks and our spot near the creek. Front door stood ajar on the owner’s main residence. Appeared to have been ripped from its leather hinges. Roof of the barn had caved in and, if anyone had asked me at the time, I would have vowed the entire place was totally abandoned. Should have listened to what my whispering sense of right and wrong tried to tell me.

Without any warning, an uncomfortable feeling that something about the entire situation rang false fell on me like a frozen steer dropped from the rafters of Heaven. As Boz might have said, felt like we’d done gone and started chopping on the wrong tree.

Matthews quietly motioned us all into defensive positions. I took a spot to his right, behind what was left of a water trough near the crumbling corral. Atwood stayed attached to his leader like a scared kid. The pair of them hid behind a wagon-sized boulder about sixty feet from the front entrance.

Had barely got myself settled when the marshal yelled, “Herman Wallace, I command you, in the name of the law, to present yourself for immediate arrest in the killing of Simp Richards.”

Nothing. Not one sound. No movement. So he tried again with the same exhortation. That time he added as how we’d blast the bejabbers out of ole Herman if the murderous neighbor killer refused to show himself, and damned quick.

Still got no response. Place was quieter than a snowstorm at midnight. Glanced over to where Matthews and Atwood cowered. Near as I could tell, neither man appeared to have any intention of taking the bull by the tail and really confronting the nasty situation.

Cocked both barrels on my short-barreled blaster, and waited while Matthews yelped out his ultimatum one final time. Nothing. Not a single sound in reply. Appeared as how any action from our side would have to start with me. Got myself bucked up to make a run for the door. Figured I’d go in blasting. Clear the main room out with both barrels of buckshot, throw the big shooter aside, and finish up with my pistols.

Soon as I stood and exposed myself, a hailstorm of bullets, from behind, fell all around me. Partially rotted boards of the trough, where I’d just been hiding, burst into shards of flying splinters.

Whirlwinds of dust squirted up around my feet as I turned and heeled it for the open door of the main house. Red-clawed, yellow-toothed death chased me and peppered my footfalls every step of the way. Hot lead buzzed past my flaming ears like angry hornets.

Terrible thought crossed my heaving mind ’bout then. For the first time in my riotous life as a Texas Ranger, wondered if I would make it to safety alive.

10

“. . . I DONE BEEN SHOT BLIND.”

STILL THINK ON that frightful dash as the longest twenty steps I’ve ever had to run in my entire life. Don’t have the slightest recollection of how I dodged a sizzling curtain of hot lead that zipped past my ears, singed smoking spots in the sleeves of my shirt, knocked the hat off my head, and destroyed the heel on one of my boots. Heavenly intervention’s the only explanation I’ve ever managed to come up with.

Tried to count the shooters as I hoofed it. Figured as how there had to have been at least four men slinging lead my direction—not well, but they sure as the devil poured it on heavy. Hell of it was Matthews and Atwood appeared to be leading the gutless attack. Poor back-shooting, dumb sons of bitches had drawn me into a clumsy and ill-conceived ambush. Felt like a complete fool for having fallen for their ham-fisted ruse.

Crashed through the disintegrating ranch building’s front entrance. Landed hard on the dirt floor littered with tree limbs and trash. Cyclonic storm cloud of blue whistlers chewed the framework around the sagging doorway to bits, kicked up more dirt on all sides of me, and chiseled deep pits into the crumbling cabin’s back wall. Rolled and got to my feet in a heartbeat.

Headed for the back of the tumbled-down building fast as I could leg it. Blasted the partially closed rear entrance to smithereens with both barrels of buckshot. Wood splinters filled the air like a swarm of lightning bugs on a hot summer night. Smashed my way through the pellet-riddled planks in a whirlwind of rotten wood fragments and flying dust. Thanks to a merciful God, my less-than-intelligent ambushers hadn’t thought far enough ahead to cover the rear entrance.