The Law of a Fast Gun (16 page)

“I don’t know,” Tex said. “All I know is he needs a doctor.”

“No doctor is going to look at one of us.”

“Yeah, Deekus, what was that all about?” Brandt said. “I thought this was going to be like before, when you broke me ’n’ Tex and Cracker out of jail. I thought we was just goin’ to make a lot of noise. I didn’t know we was goin’ to actually shoot at people.”

“You seen the marshal come out there, didn’t you?” Deekus asked.

“Yes, but all he done was hold up his hand.”

“So, was we supposed to stop?” Deekus asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that would be a hell of a thing, wouldn’t it, if we
had rode this far, then stopped just ’cause the marshal held up his hand?”

“Well, no, I wasn’t plannin’ on stoppin’,” Brandt said.

“You thought we would do what? Just ride on through?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“If we hadn’t stopped, he would have shot us like he done that cowboy from the Slash Diamond. So, look at it like we just beat him to the draw.”

“But what about them two women?” Cracker asked. “What did we shoot them for?”

“Yeah, and one of ’em wasn’t even a woman. She was just a little girl,” Tex said.

“Didn’t nobody mean to kill them, ever’body was shootin’ and they was just at the wrong place at the wrong time is all,” Deekus said.

“We’re goin’ to have the whole town down on us,” Cracker said.

“The whole town is already down on us,” Deekus said. “The only thing is, they don’t know who we are. Let’s shuck out of these now,” he added, taking off his duster. “No need in just callin’ attention to ourselves.”

“What about Abe?” Tex asked again.

“What about him?”

“If he don’t get to a doctor soon, he’s goin’ to die.”

“When he dies, throw him belly down across his horse,” Deekus said calmly. “We don’t want to leave him out here where folks can trace him to us.”

“I ain’t dead yet,” Abe growled.

THE CITY COUNCIL, WHICH NORMALLY MET ONCE
a month, met for the second time in less than a week. The subject of the meeting was the raid against the town the day before.

“It was Jessup, I know it was,” George Schermerhorn said after the meeting got underway.

“I’m not so sure,” Cornett said.

“Hell, Mayor, you know it was Jessup,” Schermerhorn insisted. “He’s the only one we’ve been having trouble with. I mean, if you ask me, we should get a posse together and go out there and clean out that nest of sidewinders.”

“May I enumerate all the fallacies in that?” Webber asked. The city attorney began counting off the points on his finger. “Number one, the riders were wearing dusters and masks so nobody was able to identify anyone. And number two, the Bar-J outfit had already shipped all their cows and pulled out yesterday morning. It hardly makes sense that they would do
something like this when they were on their way back to Cherry County.”

“I agree with Webber,” Cornett said. “There’s no sense in going off half cocked.”

“How many dead?” Jubal Goodpasture asked.

“Five,” Cornett answered. “Including Marshal Trueblood, as well as Pastor McCall’s wife and daughter.”

“Damn,” Cornett said, shaking his head. He sighed. “I’ll tell you the truth, boys, this reminded me of some of the raids the Bushwhackers and Redlegs pulled during the war.”

“That’s why I think it was Jessup,” George Schermerhorn said. “He was a Bushwhacker.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Come on, James, I know you’ve heard the rumors. Everybody knows he is Jesse Cole.”

“Like you said, George, they are rumors.”

“He admits, himself, that he fought for the South.”

“Lots of people fought for the South. That doesn’t make them all Jesse Cole, or even Bushwhackers.”

“Well, how about this? He paid cash for the Bar-J Ranch. Now, where do you think he got that kind of money if it wasn’t something he stole during the war?”

“Hell, maybe his family had money. The fact that he paid cash for the ranch doesn’t prove anything. Besides, first things first. We need to decide whether we are going to close the railhead to any future cattle shipment and disassemble the loading pens.”

“If we’re going to decide, we better decide it quick,” Jubal said, looking out the window.

“Why?”

Jubal pointed. “Looks like the good folks of the town have already voted.”

“Tear it down!” someone shouted. “Tear the son of a bitch down!”

With a roar in a hundred throats, the men and several boys
of the town began tearing down the loading pens. Axes, picks, and sledgehammers did their work until, within a few minutes, nothing was left of the pens but scattered pieces of broken wood.

“Here comes the train, boys!”

“Pile the wood on the track, stop the train!”

As the train approached, the engineer, seeing the commotion around the track, applied the brakes so he came to a halt a few feet short of the pile of wood. The engineer leaned out of the cab as several of the men approached.

“What is this?” he called down over the sound of percolating steam.

“Back up!” one of the townspeople shouted up to him. “We ain’t loadin’ no more cows in this town.”

“I can’t back up. The local will be coming along about an hour behind me.”

“All right, then, go on ahead. The thing is, you can’t stay here.”

“I need to take on some water.”

“Do it and be gone.”

Half an hour later, as the train was pulling out of town, an armed posse of at least twenty men met the combined herds of the Slash Diamond and the Rocking T.

“What is this? What’s going on?” Charley Townes asked.

“You can’t bring your cows into town,” now acting marshal Foster said. “The loading pens have been closed.”

“They ain’t just closed,” one of the others in the posse said. “We’ve done tore them sons of bitches down.”

The others in the posse laughed.

“I’ll be damned,” Townes said to Evans. “I don’t know how the son of a bitch did it, but he did it. Jessup just doubled the price he’ll be getting for his cows.”

Back in town, Hawke was sitting at his table in the Hog Lot, staring morosely into his drink. John Harder, Mayor Cornett, and Millie were sitting at the same table.

“I’m with Schermerhorn,” Harder said. “There’s no doubt in my mind but that they were from the Bar-J. The only thing is, I can’t prove it.”

“I don’t think anyone could prove it,” Hawke said. “They were covered up pretty well with their dusters and kerchiefs. I saw them as well as anyone, and I couldn’t identify a single one.”

“Well, where else could they be from?” Harder asked.

“The cowboy that Deputy Foster killed was from the Slash Diamond,” Cornett said. “It could’ve been a bunch of cowboys from that outfit, out to get revenge.”

“You really think so?” Harder asked. “I mean, don’t forget, the Slash Diamond and the Rocking T both tried to bring their cows to town today. It seemed pretty clear to me that they didn’t know anything about what happened yesterday.”

As they were talking, Robert Griffin came into the saloon. He stood just inside the door for a moment, as if letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Then he went to the bar. Robert Griffin was a known teetotaler, so seeing him go to the bar got everyone’s attention.

“Bob, can I talk to you for a moment?” Robert Griffin asked.

“Sure,” Bob Gary said.

All conversation at Hawke’s table stopped so they could hear what Robert Griffin had to say.

“You’re a good friend of the parson, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you can talk to him,” Robert Griffin said.

“Talk to him about what?”

“He said he isn’t going to preach any of the funerals, not for the marshal, not for Mr. Gates, or Mr. Lankford, not even for his own wife and daughter. In the meantime, I’ve got five decedents needing funerals.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bob said. “Mr. Harder, is it all right with you if I step away from the bar for a while?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Harder said. “I’ll tend bar till you get back.”

Bob took off his apron then looked over at Hawke. “Hawke, would you mind going with me?” he asked.

“No, I don’t mind at all,” Hawke answered. “If you think it will do any good.”

“I know that Gideon sets a great store by you,” Bob said. “I think it might help to have you come along.”

As the two left, Harder got up from the table and walked behind the bar.

“Mr. Harder?” Robert Griffin said.

“Yes?”

“I’ll have a drink, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Harder poured some whiskey into a glass and shoved it toward him.

“More, please,” Robert Griffin said.

Harder poured a little more.

“More.”

Harder filled the glass to the top. Robert Griffin paid for the drink, then turned it up and drank it all. Showing absolutely no effect from it, he slapped the glass back down on the bar.

“Thank you,” he said.

Harder, Millie, and the others stared at him in silent surprise as he walked back out.

Hawke and Bob Gary found Gideon, not in the church, but in the parsonage. He was sitting in the parlor, the room darkened by the heavy shades drawn over the windows.

“That’s far enough,” Gideon said as Hawke and Bob approached him. Gideon was in a rocking chair with a shawl draped over his shoulders. His hair had not been combed, and he had a two-day growth of beard. His eyes were red-rimmed, his pupils dilated, his face drawn.

“Gideon, it’s me,” Bob said. “Hawke is with me.”

“What do you want?” The words were cold and clipped.

“Well, nothing in particular. We were just checking on you,” Bob answered. “We wanted to see how you are getting along.”

Gideon didn’t answer.

“Robert Griffin is getting worried. In fact, the whole town is getting a little concerned.”

“Why?”

“Well, there are some funerals that need to be conducted. Matt Trueblood, Harlan Gates, Lymon Lankford.” Bob paused for a moment. “And Tamara and Lucy.”

“No,” Gideon said. This time the word was strained and filled with pain. Gideon stared straight ahead as tears streamed down his face.

“Do the funerals, Gideon,” Bob said. “They need them, the people of the town need them, and you need them.”

“Why do I need them?”

“It will help God begin the healing process.”

Gideon stared at Bob with a face twisted in anger and disgust.

“God?” he said. “Did you say it will help God begin the healing process?”

“Yes.”

Gideon laughed, an evil, demonic laughter from hell.

“Why, you poor deluded son of a bitch,” Gideon said. “Haven’t you learned by now that there is no God?”

“Major—” Bob started, but Gideon held up his hand to stop him.

“Go away, Sergeant,” he said. “Please, just go away.”

There was no church service for any of the dead. Instead, they were buried in five adjacent graves in the cemetery, with James Cornett saying a few words.

After the abbreviated funeral, which Gideon McCall did not attend, Hawke returned to the Hog Lot. Technically, the Hog Lot was closed, a sign outside explaining the situation.

THIS DRINKING ESTABLISHMENT WILL
BE CLOSED FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS DAY
OUT OF RESPECT FOR VICTIMS OF THE
DASTARDLY RAID ON OUR TOWN

There were some who were allowed in, but they hadn’t come as customers. They came as John Harder’s close friends. Mayor Cornett was there, and so was Deputy Foster, Jubal Goodpasture, Vernon Clemmons, and George Schermerhorn. They were sitting with Hawke, Harder, Bob Gary, Millie, and Trudy, two tables having been drawn together to accommodate them.

“You fired the preacher?” Millie asked, surprised by the announcement Jubal had just made.

“We didn’t have any choice,” Jubal explained. Jubal was a member of the church board. “We had to fire him. I mean, if you can’t get a preacher to give you a decent, Christian burial, what’s the purpose of having one in the first place?”

“Don’t you think you could have given him a little more time?” Bob Gary asked. “After all, he just lost his wife and daughter. That’s a hard blow for any man to take.”

Jubal nodded in agreement. “It is at that,” he said. “Bob, I know you ’n’ the parson are close. And I’ll tell you true, I was for givin’ him a little more time. But the board voted five to one to fire him. The ladies don’t have a real vote, but even they voted three to one to fire him.”

“Let me guess,” Hawke said. “The woman who voted to keep him was Mrs. Rittenhouse.”

Jubal looked at Hawke in surprise. “You’re right,” he said. “How’d you guess that? She’s been such a thorn in his side all this time, her votin’ to keep him on surprised the hell out of me.”

Hawke shook his head. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’m not surprised at all. Evelyn Rittenhouse is a thorn in Gideon’s side because she is serious about her religion.
That means she’s also serious about such things as compassion.”

“Yeah, well, you coulda knocked me over with a feather when she spoke out to keep him,” Jubal said.

The bat-wing doors swung open then and a man stepped through, then stopped. He stood for a long moment just inside the saloon, making no advance toward the tables or the bar. His odd behavior caught the attention of those seated around the table.

“I’m sorry,” Bob Gary called toward him. “But the saloon is closed.”

“They did it,” the man said.

“I beg your pardon?” Bob Gary asked.

“It was just like it was in the war. They did it. Only there ain’t no war. I told the major it was wrong, but he told me it was none of my business. I was just to cook the grub and stay the hell out of it.”

“Who are you?” Cornett asked. “What are you talking about?”

“My name is Westpheling, Stan Westpheling, but most folks just call me Poke. I cook for the Bar-J. That is, I did cook for the Bar-J. I just quit.”

“Poke, come over here and have a seat,” Harder invited. “Would you like a drink?”

“Do you have any coffee?”

“Coffee? Yes, I’m sure we do.”

“I’ll get it from the kitchen,” Millie offered.

“And, ma’am, if you would,” Poke said, “put a shot of whiskey in the coffee?”

Millie smiled. “I’ll do it,” she said.

“Now, what were you talking about?” Harder asked. “What do you mean they did it, and that it was just like the war?”

“You know them riders that come into town Sunday to shoot up the place? Well, they was all ridin’ for the Bar-J.”

“I thought the Bar-J had already left,” Cornett said.

“Yes, sir, we had,” Poke replied.

“So, what you are saying is, the entire Bar-J outfit turned around, came back, and shot up our town?” Harder asked.

Millie returned with the coffee then, and Poke reached for it before answering. He took a swallow, then nodded. “Thank you ma’am.” Then he looked at Harder and answered his question.

“No, not the whole outfit,” he said. “Truth is, most of ’em didn’t know nothin’ about it. The only reason I knew was ’cause I was up already and I seen ’em leave. Then, later, I seen ’em come back, only when they come back, young Abe had done got hisself kilt. He was belly down over his horse.”

“But why?” Cornett asked. “Why would a bunch of riders come into a town on Sunday morning and kill five innocent people?”

“Did you close down the loading pens?”

“I beg your pardon?” Cornett asked.

“Did you close the loading pens?” Poke repeated.

“You damn right we did,” Schermerhorn said emphatically.

“That’s why they did it.”

“No, that can’t be right,” Jubal said. “We didn’t close the pens until after the raid.”

“You don’t understand,” Poke said. “Major Jessup didn’t do it
because
you closed the pens, he did it to
make
you close the pens.”

“Why the hell would he want to do that?” Cornett asked.

“I think I can answer that,” Clemmons said. “With the pens closed, the other two cattle companies can’t ship their cows. If they can’t ship their cows, that makes the cows Jessup shipped more valuable.”