Outlaw's Bride (18 page)

“Thank you, Everett. I’m afraid my skirt is already beyond saving. This is some mess, isn’t it?” She picked her way to Judge McMann’s side, and Johnny took her elbow as she stepped to the wooden walk in front of the title office.

Everett waited until they were on their way home before he made his way back across the street.

T
hat night, Ragan lay in bed and listened to her father’s restless movements. She could hear the cattle in town even from this distance, and the incessant bawling frazzled her nerves.

Every time she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the racket, an image of the vile red-bearded man and his gang arose in her mind.

Who were those horrible men who had seemed to know Johnny? She didn’t want to admit that it mattered. He would serve his sentence, and be gone before she could wave goodbye, but it did matter. Drat it all. It mattered a great deal.

There was a quiet movement somewhere in the house, and her eyes flew open. She sat up, trying to distinguish that sound from those made by the noisy cattle. A door creaked, and she was instantly on her feet. “Papa. Papa!” She flew through the rooms, outside, and down the porch steps to catch up with Fulton Ramsey, who was already at the gate. He fumbled with the catch. “Papa, it’s nighttime. Where are you going?”

“They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Listen. Can’t you hear them? They’re going to hurt my family. I have to protect my girls. Hurry, help me find your sisters.”

She turned his frail form back toward the house. “Your daughters are asleep, Papa. You come back to bed too.”

His bare feet were wet and muddy by the time she got him inside. “Let’s get you washed and then back into bed.”

Holly stood in the doorway in a sleepy stupor. “Is something wrong?”

“No. It’s all right.”

Becca and Jo appeared. Ragan sent them all back to bed, and then she led Fulton to the kitchen table and sat him down.

“You know this is never going to end, don’t you?” There was no hesitation in his voice now. His eyes were clear and keen, his tone lucid. “No one is going to take care of this town. You might as well accept that.”

“We’re doing all we know to do, Papa.” She rinsed the mud off his feet and gently toweled them dry.

“Others can’t make decisions for you.” He stood up, his chin firm. Ragan followed him to his room, and when he sat on his bed, he looked at her with eyes so sad her heart wrenched. Then he was gone again. “You must listen to me. Noah listened when God told him what to do, and he—”

“I know, Papa, I know.” She helped him lie back on the pillow and then pulled the quilt over his gaunt frame.

“And he took two of each…”

How she longed for the old papa, the one she’d briefly glimpsed moments earlier. She needed his advice, not about the town but about her heart. The feelings Johnny McAllister stirred alive in her. A man deemed criminal. There could be no future between McAllister and her. She felt hot tears roll down her cheek.

Later she softly closed the door, the sound of bellowing cattle drowning out her father’s repetitive words about the animals Noah had taken into the ark. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she whispered softly, “I know, Papa. I know.”

C
attle packed the streets of Barren Flats for five endless days. It seemed the animals were everywhere. There was talk of little else, and the subject was close to being exhausted in the McMann home.

“If I never hear another steer bawl, it will be too soon,” the judge declared after dinner Saturday. “Ragan, I don’t even want you to cook a roast anytime soon.”

She put a thick slice of apple pie on Johnny’s plate. Their eyes met and she looked away. This fascination with him had to stop. There could be no future together; he cared nothing about her or her town. “We have to be encouraged that the raids have stopped.”

“Humph. Gunshots are preferable to this constant racket and the flies.”

“I don’t want gunshots or cattle.” Ragan dropped the knife into the sink and then took the end of her apron and wiped her forehead. “I’d prefer a good, old-fashioned thunderstorm.”

A streak of lightning flashed, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that shook the kitchen floor.

Laugh crinkles formed around Johnny’s eyes. “Be careful what you wish for.”

The judge chuckled. “Sounds like you have a connection with a powerful force.”

She did have such a connection. God could do all things. Apparently
he chose not to answer her pleas for the time being. If her every prayer were to be answered, she would ask that Johnny McAllister was an upstanding, solid citizen. That he wasn’t a prisoner. And that she could act on these perfectly irrational feelings she was having about him…

Another loud
crack
followed, and Ragan went to look out the window at the building storm. The air was as still as glassy water.

A low rumble began and quickly grew into a roar.

Turning away, she whispered, “Tornado.”

Johnny took hold of the judge’s chair. Lightning illuminated the kitchen as they headed for the doorway. Closer and closer, the roar increased. The house shook with pounding vibration.

Ragan grasped the door frame as the porch quivered beneath her feet.

Johnny paused, grabbing the porch rail and listening as rain drummed down on the roof. He shouted. “It isn’t a tornado!” His eyes swept the sky, and then he looked in the direction of town. “It’s cattle!”

“Cattle?” Ragan frowned, trying to shield the judge from the rain with her apron.

“Stampede!” He pointed toward a dark mass moving from Main Street.

Ragan’s eyes widened at the sight. “The cattle. They’re coming straight toward the house!”

Riders rode the perimeter of the giant herd, trying to gain on the lead animals. Rain pelted the outbuildings and ran in rivulets on the parched ground. Blurred images thundered past, trampling shrubs and flower beds. The din of pounding hoofs competed with the sound of the driving rain; it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. When the chaos moved past and on down the road, Ragan turned to stare in shock at Johnny.

His words barely penetrated. “On to the next plan.”

The skies cleared from the brief shower, and the sun came out. Lifting the kitchen window, Ragan wrinkled her nose at the strong odor.

“The air smells of sulfur,” the judge remarked, sitting at the open front door.

“Sulfur? Smells like—” Johnny glanced at Ragan. “Like the Hostetlers have a manure problem.”

Hot, damp air enveloped the house. The stench spread throughout the rooms, saturating furniture and drapes.

Ragan pressed a hanky to her nose. She could just throttle those Hostetlers! How would she ever get rid of the odor?

“We might just as well go look at the stampede damage.” Judge McMann fanned the air in front of him as he rolled out the door and down the walk. “Phew-ee.”

Phew-ee, indeed. This was ten times worse than the raids! Ragan hurried to catch up with the two men.

The three held handkerchiefs to their noses. Ragan felt something bite her left ankle. She lifted her leg and kicked at a fly at the same time Johnny slapped his neck. The judge shook his foot to ward off two large, green, buzzing insects.

The stench was more pronounced now. The downpour had turned the rutted street into liquefied manure. It was impossible to walk anywhere except the wooden walkway without shoes slipping and hems and cuffs sucking up the muck. Huge flies buzzed, landed, and then bit. Mosquitoes attacked in angry swarms. Ragan’s nose wrinkled, and she pinched her nostrils tight.

“I’ve seen all I need to see.” The judge wheeled his chair around.

Everett hurried toward Ragan with a clean roll of butcher paper.

“Oh, Everett, thank you, but it’s no use. There’s no way to salvage this dress now.” If that boy would just find someone to care for besides her!

The judge patted the clerk’s arm. “You’d better get back inside before these bugs eat you alive, son…or you’re overcome by the fumes.”

Everett obeyed, for once seeming anxious to leave.

People stood in doorways. A few balanced on hitching posts, and some high-stepped their way across the street.

On the other side, an angry mob surrounded Rantz and the Hostetlers.

“How do you expect us to conduct business in this stinkin’ mess?” Shorty Lynch demanded.

Trish Hubbard buried her nose in her mother’s skirt. “I’m going to spit up, Mama. Honest.”

Lillian guided her youngest to the side of the general store and held the little girl as she doubled over.

“Now, folks.” Buck Hostetler waved his arms above his head. “Folks, let me have your attention, now. There’s no harm done here. Don’t get excited.”

“No harm? Our town stinks like a privy, the road runs with cow manure, and the flies are eating us alive! What do you mean no harm?” Rudolph Miller’s massive form towered above Buck. He crossed his beefy arms over his chest and stared. “What are you gonna do about
this
mess?”

“Well.” Buck glanced at Billy. “Give us a minute to think about it.” He took off running when Rudolph came after him.

Florence Banks slapped a fly off Hubie’s back, and then she pinned Billy with a withering look. “You’d better do something, and do it quick, young man.”

Billy swatted a fly. “Now, folks—”

“Clean up this mess!” the crowd roared.

Billy lifted a manure-stained hand for quiet and started to pace importantly in front of the crowd. “The way I see it, this is your town, and we gotta have more cooperation outta you.” He motioned for Buck to come back and stand by his side.

“Taking care of our town is what we paid
you
fer.”

“And what we want you to do,” Buck continued, ignoring the jeers, “is for each family to come up with a barrel of lime and a rake.” He paused, making a dramatic, wide-armed sweep of the area. “Line those barrels up and down the street—the whole street, both sides—and dump the lime in piles from north to south. Then everybody rake the
lime until it covers the whole street. That will take care of the smell and the flies.”

The crowd fell silent.

Buck, who apparently sensed confusion, went on. “The sooner you get back here with the rakes and lime, the sooner we’ll get rid of the stink. Once we get rid of the stink, then me and my crew can get on with another plan.”

“We’ve had enough of your plans, Buck,” someone called.

“Go back to Brown Branch!” Timothy Seeden yelled. “Thanks to you, we live in Manure Hollow.”

Buck’s hands shot to his hips resentfully. “I
said
we’re going to clean this up. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

Jesse Rehop approached Judge McMann and his party. “I think I’ve had about all I want for my money. How about you, Judge?”

“Disgraceful,” the judge snorted. He nailed a fly on his knee and brushed the squashed remains aside. “We can’t have Sunday services this week. No one could stand it.”

Carl Rayles moved to the front of the crowd. “People! Listen! Buck’s suggestion isn’t a bad one. The lime will quell the odor, and when the manure is covered, the flies will quieten down. I say we bring in the lime and take care of this disgusting problem as quickly as possible.”

The town finally agreed they had little choice. The flies were eating them alive.

The barnyard stench imprisoned Barren Flats as the citizens set to work. The first barrel of lime arrived, and the men raked it from boardwalk to boardwalk. Flies scaled walls and clung to screens and windows.

An occasional “Those stupid Hostetlers” marked the strained silence.

By late afternoon, some progress was noted. The flies still buzzed, but the lime made it possible to walk without the aid of a handkerchief blocking the nostrils, even though it caked trouser cuffs, skirt hems, and boots.

The judge, Ragan, and Johnny stood at the edge of town, watching the cleanup.

Everywhere they looked, a thick layer of white dust crusted the ground. “Looks like a summer blizzard,” Ragan murmured.

“Doesn’t smell like snow.” Johnny’s observation made her smile.

Mazilea was in front of the general store, sweeping the porch in a mad frenzy. Leaving Johnny and the judge to their own devices, Ragan approached the harried shopkeeper.

“Can I help, Mazilea?”

Mazilea shot her a hopeless look. “President Grant couldn’t help with this one! Just
look
at this. That…that stuff is everywhere. On my floors, in my curtains, clogging the air. I can’t sweep it out, dust it off, or mop it up.” To prove her point, she picked up a broom and attacked the white substance marring the porch. Her efforts merely rearranged the white powder. “Someone ought to tar and feather those Hostetlers.”

“What are you doing now, Buck?” The judge stood up in his wheelchair, a vein throbbing in his neck. Buck and Billy were digging a hole in the middle of the road.

“Easy, Judge,” Johnny said.

Buck glanced up and swiped his shirt sleeve across his sweaty forehead. He flashed a toothless grin. “We’re diggin’ a ditch clean ’ cross here, so when the raiders come, they’ll fall into it. Then we’ll all run out and capture them.”

Johnny laid a hand on the judge’s shoulder. By now, Proctor’s face was red, and the blood vessels pounded in his forehead.

“A ditch doesn’t stink,” Johnny reminded him in a low undertone.

The judge looked at him, aghast. “You can’t mean you think any of this nonsense will work!”

“No, it won’t work. But you’re already out a hundred dollars. What do you have to lose?”

“Buck,” the judge began again, “that is about the dumbest idea I’ve ever witnessed. And I’ve witnessed some dumb things lately. How will the stage or our own wagons get through?”

The boy paused, scratching his head. Billy looked blank as he considered the question.

“Have you given any thought to the damage this ditch will cause to animals? If a horse hits that hole, it’ll break its legs. If you think cow manure stinks, wait until you have a ditch full of rotting horse carcasses.”

“Well,” Billy viewed Judge McMann as if he were the simpleminded one. “The horses will jump
over
the ditch. Jest the riders will fall into it. I think. Least ways, that’s the way I have it ciphered.” He looked at Buck, and they both nodded.

“Yep. That’s how I got it ciphered too,” Buck agreed.

The judge looked at Johnny, who shrugged. “Maybe the gangs are also idiots.” He looked around at the townsfolk. They didn’t deserve this. These were good people.

Mazilea and Shorty were trying hard to eke out a living in this forgotten little town. Their trade was affected by the marauders. Jim and Polly Ann, down the street from the judge, were trying to raise their boys to be upright citizens, and as far as he could tell they were doing a good job of it.

The Homers, the Plummers, Widow Keeling, Julia Curbow—all were suffering. Maybe it was time to step in.

“Now see here, Judge.” Billy was clearly getting put out. “We got us a job to do, and we intend to give Barren Flats its money’s worth. You’re jest gonna have to step back and let us do what we was paid to do.”

Closing his eyes, the judge took a deep breath. “Billy, with all due respect, I believe it is time for you to go home.”

A few bystanders stepped forward, ready to back up the edict.

“Yeah, Billy. It’s time for you to go on back to Brown Branch,” Mayor Rayles said loudly, and others joined in.