Texas Blood Feud (17 page)

Chet drove the big black mares to Maysville for a barrel of flour and to have some cornmeal ground. Both of the mares were bred to a mammoth jack, and he expected some more good mules from them in the spring. The four mules stolen were from the big team. Matt and J.D would not find that good a grade of mules in San Antonio. He reined up at Grosman’s Store, set the brake, and tied off the reins. When his boot soles hit the ground, they came from all corners.

There were four of them. Earl came in the lead. Red-faced, his wrinkled shirt half out of his pants. Unshaven and red-eyed, he looked like he’d just crawled out of a whiskey barrel. No way Chet could gun them down. They were too scattered, and they either carried sticks or rifles. He’d badly misjudged ’em. They’d set this trap for him, knowing sooner or later they could separate him from the rest.

Maybe it was by pure bad luck, but they had him between a rock and hard place.

“Earl! I can get one shot off and I sure aim to gut-shoot you.” He held his left palm up to stop them. “They may get me, but you’re going die an agonizing death.”

They froze. Then the others looked at Earl for the word on what to do next. He repeatedly smashed a four-feet-long club in his palm, and the hatred danced in his dark eyes His breath roared in and out of his nose like a hard-run horse. “You sumbitch—”

Chet drew his Colt and blasted the hard dirt inches from his left boot. Dust and grit flew up. Earl threw up his arm to protect his face and eyes.

“Next one’s in your gut. You call for it.”

“You killed my boy—”

“He stole my remuda along with his friends.”

“He was just a damn boy.”

“He took on a man’s job as a rustler and took his chances.”

“He was—”

“Earl, if he’d made it to the Nation and sold those horses, you’d’ve laughed at me and said go get ’em back.”

“He was my youngest.” Earl looked close to tears.

“He was old enough to know better. Now, you ready to die in this street or not? I’ve got business to take care of.”

“Come on, boys.” Earl gave a toss of his head like he’d thought better about the deal.

“Earl?”

“What?”

“Stop driving cattle on the bar-C. I won’t stand for it.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me. I watched ’em night before last. They were your boys and the Campbells. I’ll make buzzard meat out of them next time they drive cattle on my place.”

“You got to prove that.”

“You want more dead kinfolks and boys, send them back. I’ll be waiting with a big gun.” He knew which one, too.

“Come on,” Earl said to the others. “I’ll get that sumbitching Byrnes one day.”

Chet took aim with his pistol and shot Earl’s right boot heel off. He staggered and went down on his knee. “Why you—”

“You watch who you call that. Next time, I’ll aim higher and shut your mouth.”

They helped Earl up and looked back hard at Chet, but they’d also seen his marksmanship as the thick-set Reynolds hobbled on his heel-less boot, cussing all the way. They must have hitched their horses in the alley behind the saloon. Chet kept his eye on them as he poked out the empty casings and reloaded the cylinders with cartridges from his belt.

When he stepped inside the store’s shady interior, he saw Old Man Grosman heading for the counter carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Behind the counter again, he stowed it underneath and then straightened up before he spoke. “I was watching them bullies.”

“Thanks. Helluva a reception I got today. I’ve got a list Susie sent me to fill and while you fill it, I’ll drive down and get my meal ground. His old steam boiler running?”

“It was yesterday.” Grosman let out a breath and shook his head. “Them Reynolds folks better smarten up. Two of his boys are facing murder trials. He’s going to lose ’em all.”

“Revenge is all he can see. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Watch your back,” Grosman said, holding Susie’s list up to the lamplight to read it.

Chet could hear the huff of the steam engine over the rattle of the wagon when he drove the mares down in the bottoms. Buddy Lee ran the mill machinery that ground corn as well as sawed lumber with the same power source. Buddy Lee was not the picture of industry—he’d rather drink or talk than work. But if one was lucky and found the boiler fueled and the engine running, one had a chance to get what he needed. This day Chet hoped it would be ground corn.

“Chet Byrnes, you old rascal.” Buddy Lee stood up and adjusted his overall suspenders.

“What’cha need?” he asked over the whirr of the red belt driving the steel grinder that was shattering the corn falling out of a hopper into the mill.

“Two hundred pounds of cornmeal.”

Buddy Lee looked at the sun. “I guess I’ve got time to grind it.”

“Good. How much more of that you got to run?”

“Aw, he ain’t coming fur this till Friday. I can start in on yours shortly. Throw some chunks of that wood in the firebox. I’ll sack this last and we can do yours next.”

“Thanks.” One thing had gone right.

In no time, his corn was cracking through and Buddy Lee showed him a handful of the product. “That good enough?”

Chet agreed,

“You and them Reynolds folks still at war?”

Chet told him about the incident earlier, and the miller shook his head. “They’re crazy.”

“But they’re crazy enough to hurt my family. No one is safe after they murdered Jake Porter’s wife.”

“That was the mean damn part. I liked her.”

“Everyone did. She was a fine lady.”

Buddy Lee hoisted the half-full sack of whole corn over his head and poured more corn in the hopper. “She was no part of that war,” he said.

Chet agreed, feeling a gnawing in his gut. He didn’t have her anymore either.

Late in the afternoon, he drove home with his six-gun in his lap. Nothing happened, and everyone rolled out when he drove in. They unloaded the wagon, and Reg took charge of the team to put them up.

“Have any trouble today?” Sammy asked as he climbed on to help him.

“Earl and three Campbells tried to jump me when I got to town. I about shot Earl in the foot and they backed off. Then, walking away, he called me a son of bitch and I shot his boot heel off.”

Reg shook his head in dismay from the seat. “They’re crazy.”

“After you put those horses up, don’t dally around, supper’s ready,” Susie said to them.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Shot off his boot heel?” she asked.

Chet took off his hat and hung it on a peg to wash up. “Yeah. He needed his filthy mouth washed with lye soap.”

“You better not go anywhere alone either,” she said, and with a swish of her skirts went inside.

He agreed to himself with a nod, and hand-washed his face. She probably was right. At last he dried his face as Dale Allen joined him to wash up.

“Boys said you shot Earl’s boot heel off today.”

“Anyone calls me a son of a bitch better think about it.”

Dale Allen shook his head. “I’ll be glad to be headed for Kansas. You have a solution for them pushing cattle on us? We’re riding good horses into the ground sending them back. Not counting the work we haven’t gotten done.”

“I told Earl if he didn’t stop, I’d shoot the next drivers.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He left cussing mad on one boot heel.”

“We’re in a no-win situation, aren’t we?”

“Outside of killing them all, yes, we are.”

“I’ll help you stop these damn fellas driving those cattle on us.”

About to replace his hat, Chet stopped in the doorway and blinked at his brother. “Thanks. I’ll sure call on you when the time comes.”

“Good enough. I been watching the mare’s-tail clouds all day. It may rain again.”

“We could use it on the oats.” Chet went inside and hung his hat on the rack. Dale Allen hadn’t ever offered him a hand to do anything. But even he was tired of this foolishness. Maybe that would be how they’d solve it. Shoot a few more. That wasn’t as easy as it sounded either, simply killing folks.

“We’re fattening three turkeys for Thanksgiving,” Susie announced to him, busy putting out bowls of steaming food.

“Sounds fine.” He went and took Baby Donna for May. Holding her up, he talked to the infant and she made bubbles for him. A quiet small baby, she liked him to gently shake her, and smiled in return.

“You’ll be walking soon,” he told her and took his seat.

“Any Comanches about?” Rock asked from the other end of the table.

“No, Paw, there aren’t any signs of them,” he said in a nonchallenging response.

May came and took the baby. “About her bedtime.”

“Night, Donna.”

“You better keep that baby close. Them red niggers will get her.”

“The baby will be fine, Paw.”

“No one’s ever fine living in Comanche country. We all should have stayed in Arkansas.” Rock shook his head.

“Too late. We’re all Texans now.”

“Ain’t too late to go back. Abe Cooney brung us here. He was restless, always looking for new land. Mark and me, we came. My brother Mark, he left for a while and went back to Louisiana. He brought Louise back. I ain’t seen him in years.”

“He got killed in the war, Paw.”

“War killed lots of good men.”

“We better eat, Paw.”

“Yeah, you got guards out every night, ain’t you?”

“I sure do.”

“Good. Good.”

Susie nodded from behind him to indicate that his concerns were satisfied, and everyone ate in silence, not daring to arouse his suspicions and start him over again. The young boys ran out to check on something. Reg and Ray headed for the bunkhouse. May had not returned from putting up the baby. Dale Allen excused himself and headed for the blacksmith shop to burn some midnight oil. Paw went off to bed and left Susie, the two Mexican girls working dishes, and Chet to drink his coffee.

“How’s Mother?” he asked Susie.

“Wasting away. She won’t eat. She doesn’t care.”

“I need to take those boys off of cattle herding for a day. Fix them lunch in the morning. They can go cut wood tomorrow.”

“Think that’ll help?”

“They won’t mind herding cattle after a day of that.” He chuckled.

“What do you know about Sammy?” Susie asked, sliding in opposite him.

“Nothing. He’s a good man as a swing rider. Any reason?”

“He’s polite around us. I just wondered.”

“Ask Reg. They pal a lot. When is Louise coming home?”

“I suspect in a few weeks.”

Chet looked at his coffee. “That won’t be easy either.”

“I bet you’ll make it work.”

“I’ll have to. You girls getting along all right?”

“Sí, senor.”

“The only ones that are, besides you and me,” he said to his sister.

May came in the kitchen and smiled. “Is there any coffee left?”

“Sure,” Susie said, and frowned at her. She wore a shawl and looked ready to go outside.

“I’m going to take some hot coffee and raisin pie out to him in the blacksmith shop,” May announced.

Chet nodded his approval.

Susie hurried around to help her get it ready. On a wicker tray covered with a blue cloth, May left to build a relationship with her husband. God, Chet hoped it worked. He and Susie shared a nod at May’s departure, and he went to shave with a kettle of hot water off the range.

Scraping his face with a straight-edged razor at the smoky mirror, he wondered how it would all work out. He needed to go to Mexico and see about the cattle they were holding for him down there. Leaving the ranch would not be best under the circumstances. Maybe by Christmas, things would settle down enough to let him make the trip.

Funny that Paw mentioned his brother at supper. He couldn’t hardly believe that he really was dead. Mark Byrnes could have slipped through the cracks. But Chet had no way to know for sure. News of his death had come by word of mouth. It was too late in the war for anything official to come from the Confederacy. Still, in seven years, he should have shown up. He was dead, he had to be—why didn’t Chet believe it? It was like some unseen hand kept poking him. Mark Byrnes is not dead.

Phillip and Josephine had been kidnapped before the war, and he had no doubt they’d lost their lives in the traumatic change from being little kids to Comanche slaves. Cagle was two years younger than Dale Allen. He’d been near twelve at his disappearance—he might have survived. Some boys taken at that age had showed up again. The Comanche considered them to be future warriors and later, when found, they were more Injun than white around Mason. Some even liked the wild Indian ways, being waited on by squaws, and returned to being Comanche. An old lady had cried herself to death because her only son, who the army bought back, would not stay and farm with his father.

Who wanted to be “John” and work like a slave when he could be Yellow Hair and live like a buck?

Rain beat on the roof of the bunkhouse on Friday when he got up. The precipitation had set in for the day. After breakfast, the older boys went down to the barn to fool with the Barbarossa colt. Dale Allen and May went off to work in the blacksmith shop. Astria was tending the baby for her. The small boys were playing some card game they’d invented. Chet worked on the ranch books at the desk. With all the extended family and hired hands, it was hard to make the money last. But it had always been that way for him. Somehow, so far, he’d managed to keep them afloat.

The cattle they’d deliver in Kansas the next summer would make them a good profit and should end his money worries. He entered all the expenses, dipping the straight pen in the inkwell and using his best penmanship to write down each item in the ledger and the cost. Bookkeeping was not his favorite job, but he took a pride in it, and in earlier times, his concise way of recording things had convinced bankers to loan him all the money he needed. Bankers liked bookwork. While his education was hardly more than five grades due to the lack of teachers or money to pay them, he had learned from an old neighbor named Jarvis how to do bookkeeping and why. Jarvis was long gone, but his stern lessons had not been wasted on a young Chet.

In January, he’d need to go to Mexico and get the steers he had contracted for. That would require money he’d have to borrow in San Antonio. No problem. Fred Lewis at the Grand Bank of Texas would loan him that money. But he’d also need a list of all the supplies the drive would require. Hans Grosman would cover that at fifteen-percent interest, and if Chet was lucky, he’d only need that money for six months.

“You look deep in thought,” Susie said, coming by the desk.

“Aw, sis, I’m a damn cowboy, not a chair jockey. Maybe I could teach you how to do this.”

“Sure, now I have help, I’d love to do it.”

“Well, it goes like this. You take all the receipts and enter them. See this one written on this scrap of butcher paper for the salt I got? Seven dollars. You write salt here, then the price.”

“I could do that. When do I start?”

“Right now—” He turned an ear to the dogs barking. Someone was outside. He scraped the chair on the floor. “I better go see who it is.”

A blast of cool air and dampness swept his face when he stepped out on the porch to better see the rider under a slicker. When the unknown person dismounted, he could see that under the wide-brim hat it was a woman—Kathren Hines.

“Get in here. What are you doing out in this kind of weather anyway, girl?” Then he wanted to bite his tongue for sounding so sharp.

On the porch, she took the sodden hat off and shook her head as if to free her shoulder-length locks. Her hair, exposed to the rain, was curly around her face, and she nodded. “Pretty dumb of me, but I needed to ask a favor of you.”

“You two quit gawking at each other and come in this house out of that weather,” Susie ordered.

Gawking? They were talking. He stepped aside, and Kathren hesitated.

“But I’m all wet.” Kathren looked unable to consider it.

“It will dry,” Susie said, and caught her sleeve. “You will catch a death of cold out there.”

Inside, he helped her out of the slicker. Then Susie hustled her off to the fireplace to warm up.

“Why are you out today?” Susie asked.

“I need some help and didn’t know who to turn to. Someone’s been rustling my cattle.”

Chet frowned at her as he joined the two of them standing before the hearth. “Any idea who?”

“I can guess, but I can’t prove it. So far, they have taken maybe a dozen or more. At first, I thought they were straying, and I began making wide circles when more weren’t around. You know, the ones that came to the windmill tank at the house on a regular basis.”

“Get some chairs,” Susie said to him. “I’ll get us all some coffee and we can talk more about this.”

He brought back two kitchen chairs and set them down. It still roiled his guts to look at Kathren. “Here, sit down, I’ll go get another one.”

“Chet.” She stopped him, obviously because they were alone in the room. “I’m sorry. I know you have lots of problems of your own, but I didn’t know who to trust any longer.”

He agreed and excused himself to go after the third chair. Susie brought out the coffee and cups on a tray.

In the kitchen after the other chair, he heard Kathren ask Susie, “Where is everyone?”

“Some of them are out fussing with Chet’s new stallion in the barn. Rock went back to sleep, he sleeps a lot, and Mother is bedridden these days.”

“Sounds awfully quiet in here,” Kathren said over the crackling of the fire.

“I guess we’re a quiet bunch,” Susie said.

“Now who do you think’s behind the rustling?” he asked, turning the chair backward and straddling it to face Kathren.

How many times had he considered what it would be liked to have her for his wife? Her blues eyes sparkled. The firm chin line molded her handsome face, and her lower lip looked like half a rose petal. Wet tight curls framed it all and trailed off.

“I think that Mitch Reynolds is in on it.”

He stopped. Would they murder her, too, if they knew she’d come to him for help? “You’ve seen him around your place?”

Susie frowned. “Oh, Kathren, those boys are killers.”

Kathren nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve never been afraid before. Never thought I couldn’t handle things. But after Marla’s murder—I’ve lost my nerve.”

“Where did you see him?”

“I was down on the Barren Flats yesterday searching for my lost cattle and looked back. I could see his hat in the cedars. I’d know it anywhere. It has a broad silk-bound brim. Besides, he’s riding a bay horse with lots of white on his face, too.”

“Did he follow you?”

Kathren nodded. “I doubled back and watched him reading my tracks.”

She closed her eyes and wrung her hands in her lap. “I never slept a wink last night.”

“Where’s your daughter?”

“At my parents’ house. Oh, if she’d been there, I think I’d’ve climbed the walls.”

“He came around last night?”

With a pained look on her face, she started to speak. “The wind and all—maybe it was nothing. The house was locked and barred. But I knew I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. I had—no one else to turn to.”

“Rain’s lets up, I’ll ride over and look around. Meanwhile, Susie can fix you some food and you’re welcome to sleep some here if you can.”

“You have enough trouble. You don’t need mine.”

“Like it or not, I think we have to do something. Rustlers and folks snooping around needs to be cleared out.”

“Have some coffee first and get warmed up,” Susie said to both of them.

He accepted the steaming cup. Where should he start? He’d need to come around in the back way and to surprise anyone lying in wait. Best get Sammy to go with him. Reg knew how to run things around the ranch better than the new man. Blowing the steam off his coffee, he nodded—that would be the plan.

“You stay here until we’re satisfied that there is no one at your place,” he said to Kathren.

“Will you go by my folks’ and tell them part of the story? Dad doesn’t need to get all involved in this. His heart’s been acting up—that was why I—came here. Tell Cady it will only be a day or so and I’ll be home.”

He agreed, and slipped on his own raincoat to go find Sammy. He located him and Reg in the barn driving the buckskin Barbarossa colt around with a light harness. After he explained what they needed to do, Sammy went to get his things. Reg tied the colt up and helped Chet catch the two horses out in the muddy lot. They both about fell down in the slop trying to rope mounts, but they finally got them and led them inside to saddle.

“She thinks it’s Mitch?” Reg asked.

Chet nodded, then finished cinching up Dun and slapped down the stirrup. Bugger was stomping around inside a box stall. The horse’s actions reminded Chet that he needed to finish him off and get him back to Neddy. One big powerful horse and an athlete as well—make a horse for a crusader in armor, but he wasn’t a draft horse. Sammy broke into his thoughts.

“We need rifles?”

“Maybe a dozen before its over, but two would do.”

“You want that Sharps?”

“Sure.”

The rain was beginning to break up, and a colder north wind swept in on its heels. They packed their bedrolls in case. After a quick lunch, they stuffed jerky in their pockets and hit the muddy road. He left Susie to explain to Dale Allen their purpose. It looked like things between him and May were healing. Her helping him in the shop had drawn them closer—Chet hoped it worked. Louise would be back any time.

They short-loped their horses toward Maysville, and took a cutoff short of town, so in two hours they worked their way through the hills from the east down to Kathren’s place. The wet cedar bows Chet brushed his legs against soaked into his bull-hide chaps. He’d shed his slicker and wore his jumper. Across his lap, the Sharps rested.

“I can see the house.” Sammy reined up his horse.

Chet nudged Dun over and got out his field glasses. He scanned the pens and stopped. A blaze-faced bay horse stood in the back corral. “She’s got company.”

“Who?”

Chet handed him the glasses. “Check in the back pen when he lifts his head.”

Sammy took them, peered across the way, and then let the binoculars down. His eyes narrowed, he looked at Chet, as serious as Chet had ever seen him. “Sum bitch, that’s Mitch Reynolds’ horse all right. What’s he doing here?”

“Good question. I aim to ask him the same.”

“Where’s he at?”

“In the sheds or house. We better go in on foot.”

Sammy agreed. “I can’t believe this. What’s he doing here?”

“Scaring the crap out of Kathren Hines.”

“Yeah. You’ve sure got some nice enemies. Real nice.”

“Cowardly bastards,” Chet said, and tossed his head for Sammy to go left while he’d go right. Both were armed with their rifles. Chet put a cartridge in the chamber of the .50-caliber. The cartridges were individually wrapped in waxed canvas to keep them dry. He hoped the ammo would work when he needed it. The day had warmed some, but the north wind still carried a chill.

Moving through the live oak and cedars to work downhill, he paused and nodded with approval at Sammy when he waved to him before he went behind the pen containing the horse. No sign of Mitch. Chet stopped at the edge of the cover and watched Kathren’s hens scratching around the small coop between him and the house. Where was Mitch at?

Obviously, so far Sammy had not found him in the sheds. Chet saw Sammy for an instant duck before he went into the last shed, a large hay shed to Chet’s left. Shortly, he reappeared with a head shake—nothing. Chet made a sign for him to stay over there. He’d take on the house. The Sharps leaned against the henhouse wall, he walked softly toward the back door across the open yard. His fist wrapped around the Colt’s redwood grips.

Then he spotted the corpse. Kathren’s wet collie lying dead beside the back steps. A wave of anger swept over him. His breath shortened and his fingers squeezed the .44 so hard, his fingers ached. His first step on the bottom landing sounded gritty. He tried to make his foot fall quieter on the next one. It groaned slightly. His left hand twisted the knob, and the door opened with hardly a breath.

There was barely enough light in the kitchen, but he eased the door shut behind him, and that cut off the sound of the wind and any more air rushing inside. All the time, he tried to hear anything, like a sole on the floors or a creak of a floorboard. Then it came to him—someone was snoring. Had he caught the fugitive asleep?

Slowly and still cautious, he moved into the living room where Kathren’s double bed was near the fireplace. There, curled up on top of the sheets in a fetal ball, was the nearly six-foot fully dressed form of Mitch Reynolds—snoring away.

His six-gun holster hung on the bedpost. After sizing up the situation, Chet nodded to himself. He slipped over and stuck the muzzle of his cocked gun hard to the back of Mitch’s head.

“I ought to kill you here and now.”

“Huh? Don’t kill me!”

“Don’t move. I ain’t made up my mind yet if I will or not. What are you doing here?”

“Ah—ah—no one was home. Shit-fire, get that gun off my head.”

“You were going to kill and rape her, weren’t you?” He had Mitch’s face buried in the mattress under the hard-pressed muzzle.

“No—no—I swear to God—”

“God won’t have you. Admit it right now. You were going to rape and kill her.”

“All right—all right—what’cha going to do with me?”

“Take you to Mason and let you hang for killing Marla Porter. Now, where did you sell the cattle you rustled from Kathren?”

“I never—”

“Gawdamn you—” When Sammy broke in the front door, Chet whirled to see the shocked look on his face as Chet held the gun on Mitch.

“You all right?” Then Sammy motioned at the prisoner.

“I caught him sleeping.” Chet turned back to Mitch. “Now, who bought those cattle you stole?”

“I ain’t telling—”

Chet reared back and smashed Mitch’s collarbone with the six-gun. The .44 went off in the bedding. The room boiled in gun smoke. Mitch was screaming for his life. With a hold on his shirt collar, Chet dragged him out of bed crying and squalling like a baby through the fog of gun smoke onto the porch, and stomped on his back with a boot to make him lie flat facedown.

“How’s your hearing now?”

“I never stole no—”

Chet drove a boot toe hard into his ribs. “Pretty soon, you aren’t going to need to hear me.”

“Aw,” Mitch groaned. “Drake—Dover Drake.”

“How many?” Drake was a butcher down in the brush. Chet knew how to find him.

“A dozen maybe—”

Chet stomped him on the shoulder blade with his boot heel. “How many?”

“Sixteen.”

“What did he pay you?’

“Five—I mean four bucks a head.”

“Cheap enough price to get hung for.” He shook his head in grim disgust “Where’s Kenny at now?”

“New Mexico—I think.”

“Where?”

“New—” A hard jab in his back with Chet’s boot heel cut him off.

“I said where’s he at?”