The Iron Wagon (3 page)

“But
what?”

“I really think you should leave town and forget this revenge against Chief Brockman you’ve got in your head.”

Kail frowned fiercely. “Like you just said, Uncle Chad.
Not
a chance!
” Then he helped his uncle settle himself back on the parlor sofa.

Several hours later, when the clock on the wall neared four o’clock, Kail got up from the overstuffed chair, woke his uncle, and told him he had to leave.

Chad blinked. “I’ll walk you to the door.” He decided to try one more time. He gripped Kail’s upper arm with a trembling hand. “Please, Kail! Don’t kill Chief Brockman! That’s not going to bring Kent back.”

They drew up to the door. Kail yanked his arm from his uncle’s grip, opened the door, and looked into his tear-filled eyes. “No, killin’ Brockman won’t bring my brother back, but it’ll sure make me feel better!”

As Kail headed toward his big, black-maned, gray-bodied horse tied to the small hitching post in front of the cabin, Chad silently told himself that as soon as Kail rode away, he would go to the nearest neighbor’s house and ask if he could borrow one of his saddle horses. He would take a shortcut, gallop to the federal building, and warn Chief Brockman about Kail’s plans.

Kail swung atop his horse and with bulging eyes stared back at his uncle. “I’ve
got
to do this, Uncle Chad.”

He dare not let Kail suspect that he was going to leave the house at that moment. He gave Kail a dull look, stepped back, and closed the door. He stood there until he heard the horse trot away.

Suddenly Chad clutched his chest, gasped for breath, and collapsed on the floor. He breathed hard for several seconds, then stopped breathing altogether.

He was dead.

A
t four forty-five that warm afternoon, Paul Brockman turned Chance onto Broadway Street, a block south of the federal building. With his shopping parcel tied to the saddle horn, he figured that instead of riding Chance to the rear of the building, where his father’s horse Blackie was in the small corral, he would just pull up to one of the hitch rails in front. He would wait inside and chat with some of the deputies until his father was ready to head for home.

As Paul drew nearer to the federal building, he saw that the hitch rails directly in front of the building were full. He’d need to use an open spot a few buildings down. Just as he was dismounting, about twenty-five yards away from the front door, he saw deputy U.S. marshal Whip Langford exiting. Paul tied the reins to the rail, then smiled at the approaching man. “Howdy, Uncle Whip. How come your horse is tied out front instead of being in the corral in the rear?”

Returning the smile as he drew up, Whip said, “Well, I’ve been gone from the office since early morning, I returned only a few minutes ago, and now I’m going home. How come you’re here?”

Paul explained; then Whip told him about his morning activity catching an outlaw. While Paul and Whip stood on the boardwalk talking, Paul noticed his father come out the federal building door with Fred and Sofie Ryerson. They paused to chat for a moment.
Paul loved the Ryersons and was smiling at the scene as a man on a big gray horse with a black mane and tail rode past him and Whip.

The mounted man drew his gun and aimed it at John Brockman’s back. There was a quick catch in Paul’s breath and a sudden rapid beating of his heart as, with lightning-fast action, he reached forth, grabbed Whip’s gun out of its holster, snapped the hammer back, aimed at the rider, and squeezed the trigger.

The .45-caliber slug plowed into the man’s back, ripping through his heart.

At the sound of the gunshot, John wheeled about to see a gun drop from the man’s hand as he was falling out of the saddle. John watched the man hit the ground beside the gray horse; then his son came toward him with a smoking gun in hand and Whip Langford at his side.

Paul and Whip dashed past the gunman, now sprawled motionless in the street. They glanced at him and quickly saw that he was no doubt dead.

People on the street, including the Ryersons, looked wide eyed at the scene as Paul raced ahead and reached his father before Whip. Paul was shaking badly as he threw his arms around his father.

John hugged his son until Whip drew up, then let go of Paul and looked at the gun in his son’s hand that was still smoking a bit. “Son, what happened? Did you shoot that man on the gray horse?”

Unable to speak at the moment, Paul slowly nodded his head.

“Where did you get the gun?” John asked his son.

“From my holster, Chief,” Whip interjected. “He did it to save your life.”

John blinked. “T-to save
my
life?”

“Yes—Papa,” Paul choked out. Then taking a deep, cleansing breath and running his hands over his eyes to clear away the mist that had formed there, Paul explained with a trembling voice what had happened.

His features a bit pale, John swallowed hard and nodded.

One of John’s deputies, Barry Sotak, who had come on the scene only moments before, knelt beside the gunman who lay in the dust. He rose to his feet. “Chief Brockman, this man is dead.”

While the crowd looked on, John, his son, and Whip headed that way.

When they drew up to where the corpse lay, Deputy Sotak said, “Some of the crowd told me what happened. They said Paul saved your life by shooting this man.”

Chief Brockman nodded. “He sure did.” John knelt and examined the dead man, who lay facedown. After seeing where the slug had hit him in the back, John turned him over, then looked up at Paul. “Son, you were explicitly accurate. You put the slug into the left side of the would-be killer’s back, and it plowed right through his heart.”

The crowd gathered in a close circle as Paul said in a tight voice, “I had no choice but to shoot to kill, Papa. I
had
to save your life.”

John laid a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I know you had no choice, son. Thank you.”

Many of the people in the crowd cheered Paul for what he did.

John bent over and removed the would-be killer’s wallet from his hip pocket. John removed an identification card and examined it carefully. “His name is Kail Gatlin, and he’s from North Platte, Nebraska. I’ve heard of him. He was a quick-draw gunslinger and well known in Nebraska.” John took a deep breath. “Well, he’s dead now.”

Paul swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I had to kill him, Papa. Since I’m too young to wear a gun, I had to snatch Uncle Whip’s out of his holster and use it to keep him from shooting you.” Wiping at the tears filling his eyes, Paul hugged his father again.

John wrapped his arms around his son. “Again, I thank you. You killed a man, yes. But it wasn’t your choice. He was in the wrong and made a very unwise decision. It’s okay, son. You did what you had to do.”

John still saw the pain lurking in Paul’s eyes. “Son, we’ll talk more about this later. Okay?”

Paul nodded. “Sure, Papa. We’ll talk more about it at home.”

As the crowd was still in a tight circle, looking on and listening, John heard the familiar voice of the
Rocky Mountain News
reporter just behind him. “Chief Brockman …”

John let go of Paul, turned, and set his gaze on the reporter. “Yes, Bart?”

“I know of this gunslinger, Kail Gatlin. He’s a nephew of Denver resident Chad Marks.”

The chief U.S. marshal nodded. “I have met Mr. Marks.”

“Well,” Bart Gilmore said, “I have just learned from some
folks in the crowd that Chad’s next-door neighbors found him dead in his cabin less than half an hour ago.”

John’s eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

“Yes sir. Chad has had serious heart trouble for several months. It appears that he died of heart failure.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear this. Chad was a good man.”

Paul Brockman was still quite shaken when he and his father arrived home. After they put the horses in the corral, they headed toward the ranch house. They saw Breanna, Ginny, and Meggie quickly come through the kitchen door onto the back porch.

“We’re sure glad you gentlemen made it home just before we put supper on the table,” said Ginny.

“Yeah!” Meggie chimed in. “We were afraid we would have to eat supper without you!”

As father and son stepped up to the porch, John said, “I have something to tell you ladies.”

John and Paul solemnly moved up the steps, and then John began to explain. Breanna and the girls listened intently as John told them the story of Paul saving his life in front of the federal building.

While the girls stood in shock, mouths wide open, Breanna stepped up to Paul, placed her arms around him, and hugged him tightly while saying with a trembling voice, “Thank you, my son, for your quick thinking and actions. I’m so grateful to
the Lord that you were on the scene and that the training your papa has given you resulted in your saving his life.”

The girls hugged their father while Breanna hugged Paul; then they switched. As Breanna was in John’s arms, tears flowed down her cheeks. Reality had set in, and she knew just how close she had come to losing the love of her life.

Pressing her close to him, John said, “Everything’s all right now, sweetheart. I’m here safe and sound, thanks to the Lord’s using the quick thinking of our boy.”

Breanna sighed. “Thank You, dear Lord, for Your precious hand of protection on this cherished husband of mine.”

While the two sisters hugged their tall brother around the waist, Meggie gazed up at Paul, a lopsided grin lighting up her face. “You did good with Uncle Whip’s gun, brother of mine!” Then she laughed. “Remind me to always stay on your
good
side.”

Paul chuckled. “I’ll do that.”

Ginny sniffled, and Paul looked down into her tear-filled eyes. Paul gave her a good squeeze, and the three of them stood there, just holding onto each other. Each one thanked God in their hearts for His love and goodness in sparing their papa’s life.

The next morning, Thursday, August 23, 1888, the front page of the
Rocky Mountain News
told the story of fifteen-year-old Paul Brockman saving his father’s life the day before. As people all over the Denver area read the article, they designated young Paul a hero.

On that same morning, when Chief Brockman arrived at the federal building, having already read the
Rocky Mountain News
article before leaving home, he found Pastor Robert Bayless there waiting to see him.

They sat in the chief’s office, and Pastor Bayless told John that in the midweek prayer service at church the previous night, Whip Langford had told him all about Paul saving John’s life. When John gave some details about the incident that Whip hadn’t mentioned, the pastor was even more impressed with Paul’s courage and determination.

“Will Breanna still be coming to church on Sunday morning?”

John told him she sure was planning on it. This made the pastor happy.

Pastor Bayless rose to his feet. “Well, Chief, I’d better get on back to my office at the church. I’ve got some studying to do on my sermons for Sunday.”

John also stood and smiled. “I want you to know how very much I appreciate the deep compassion you’ve shown Breanna since she was knocked down the stairs at the hospital and injured so seriously.”

“Thank you, Chief. It’s because I love Breanna as I love you and all of your family.”

At these words, John opened his arms, and the two men embraced masculine-style, patting each other on the back. Tears misted John’s eyes as the pastor left the office.

An hour after Pastor Bayless left John’s office, there was a knock on the door, and the deputy on duty at the front desk
opened the door. “Chief Brockman, Sheriff Walt Carter and a group of his deputies are here to see you.”

John smiled. “Send them in.”

When the county sheriff and ten of his deputies entered the office, they all told Chief Brockman how proud they were of Paul.

This touched John deeply. “I will most certainly tell Paul what you’ve said.”

With a smile on his lips, Sheriff Carter held out a brandnew gun belt with a shiny new Colt .45 revolver in the holster.

“What’s this all about?” John asked.

Sheriff Carter handed John the set. “We all know Paul is planning to become one of your deputies when he reaches twenty-one years of age. This is a gift from me to Paul, for him to wear and use when he becomes a lawman.”

John gripped the leather and the gun, a sparkle in his eyes. His son would love this gift.