The Red River Ring (2 page)

Chapter II

She stepped to the front window when she heard the dog's commotion. She recognized him even with his back to her as he wrapped the reins through the hitch post ring.

“He got the letter,” she said softly.

She reached into John's hall desk drawer, fetched his .32 caliber revolver, and slipped it into her skirt pocket. She opened the front door before he made it to the porch steps. He was dressed well enough in spite of his chaps; gray vested suit, white shirt and black tie, matching gray Stetson and nickel plated revolver hammer jutting just past the line of his open coat. His shape and build were about the same as when he left, but his hair was gray and his fifty years showed in the lines of his face. She wondered how he'd react to her extra fifty pounds.

He looked up, stopped, smiled for a brief moment and removed his hat. “How are you, Mary? You look real good.”

She could tell that in spite of the years that he was the same man. She was relieved that he was in good health.

“Thank you. The years pass.” she said.

“I got your letter. It took nearly four months for the thing to catch up.”

“I didn't know if you would get it. I heard that you were living near Dallas.”

“I was surprised when I got it.”

“In spite of the letter, I can't think of anybody in this world who will be glad to see you back.”

He stood silently for several moments, placed his hat on his head and turned for his horse.

“Wait,” she said urgently. “I shouldn't have said that. I need to talk with you.”

He hesitated by his horse, fumbled with the reins looped through the iron ring, nodded, and returned to the porch.

“I won't be long,” she said. “I've got some hot coffee on the stove. I'll get you a cup.”

Pommel sat on the porch steps and examined several nice homes lined on both sides of the street. He reasoned that her husband must be fairly prosperous or else she had done pretty well with the ranch.

“I suppose you still drink it black,” she said as she stepped through the door.

“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”

After giving him the cup, she stepped back to the door and leaned against the wall.

He waited watching the street traffic but she did not speak.

“There was a man on the road today who tried to bushwhack Temple,” he said.

“Was Temple hurt?” she asked.

“No. He never knew about it. I stopped it before it took place.”

“Stopped it how?”

“I killed him.”

She was silent for a moment. “Do you know who the man was?”

“Soap Withers,” he answered.

She stepped to the railing of the porch, folded her arms and nodded. “That would figure. Lately, he's been seen with Colredge a lot.” She moved down the steps so she could watch his reactions. “How did you find out what was going on?”

“I didn't. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Otherwise, Temple might well be dead at this moment.”

“Just an odd coincidence?” she asked suspiciously.

He nodded without looking away from his coffee cup. “I know what it sounds like but it's the truth. Before he died, he told me of the Ring and the trouble you've had with them.”

“The Ring is the reason I wrote you,” she said. “They gave us some trouble for a while but we thought we set them straight. Now they're back and worse than before.”

He swirled his cup in a tight circle to catch the grounds before pitching the dregs. “I'd say they're a long ways from being set straight.”

“That's why I wrote you. The boys aren't experienced in these matters and it's going to take a man with a particularly tough attitude to shut the Ring down.”

“So you wrote me.”

“You're their father and you've… well, you've faced these problems before. I'm afraid it's going to take someone who can be particularly unpleasant and I don't want the boys to get hurt.”

He placed the cup on the step and started for his horse. “From what I heard, you may be selling the boys short.”

“Have you talked to the boys?” she asked.

“No, unless you say different, I'll stay clear.” He untied the reins and prepared his horse.

“It might be best if you spoke with Fritz Blomberg,” she said. “You could probably talk easier with him.”

Pommel lifted himself into the saddle and gathered his reins. “I've got nothing to say to Blomberg.”

“Where are you going?”

“I guess I'll ride up to Pampa and have a visit with Tom Bent.”

“You do and it will be the last ride you make.”

A cruel grin formed at the corners of his mouth. “I'm not over-the-hill yet. I can take care of myself.”

“What do you think you're going to accomplish?”

“Have a look see. Make some talk. Make a few holes if necessary,” he said as he turned his horse away from the hitching post.

“I don't want that yet. I want to do some planning before you just take over.”

“No, you want to tell me what to do. I'll play out my own string and tell you what needs doing if it comes to that.”

“You haven't changed one bit,” she said bitterly.

“Not by a long shot,” he answered under his breath.

She silently watched him ride away. When he was gone from sight, she started up the street towards Blomberg's second floor office.

Blomberg was just getting ready to light his pipe when she walked into the room.

“Is there a problem, Mary?” he asked.

She stepped past his desk to the window. “I just saw Pommel,” she said without looking at Blomberg.

“Where?”

“He came to the house. Said he shot Soap Withers to save Temple from being ambushed.”

“I'm glad he was able to help. How did he look?”

“The same… older. He hasn't changed that much.”

“Is that all he said?”

She turned away from the window glaring toward the German. “Isn't that enough?”

“Why is he here? Why now?” Blomberg asked.

“I wrote him about six months ago.”

“You wrote him?” the elderly fat man asked as he finished lighting his pipe.

“You certainly seem unconcerned. What are we going to do? He said he was going to Pampa to confront Tom Bent. I warned him that he would be killed and he just laughed it off. What if Bent thinks the boys sent him? He could send his men back for revenge.”

Blomberg lifted himself slowly from his chair and hobbled toward her. “Settle down. I doubt that Black Tom has ever laid eyes on Pommel. Quite frankly, I'm glad you wrote him. The idea of having Pommel involved could solve a lot of problems for us. We have never been able to move on the Ring in force without our men getting shot to pieces. If Pommel is anything like he was in the old days, he could make quite a dent before the Ring realized what was going on.”

“Is that all this means to you?” she asked as she moved away from him. “How many people Pommel could kill before the Ring realized what was going on? That sounds like the kind of tactics the Ring uses.”

“Maybe that is just what we need to do. If we don't do something, it is just a matter of time before the Ring does some serious damage. I don't like putting it this way, but chances are it will be one of your boys who gets hurt the worst. The local law is useless and I don't want the Rangers involved. Pommel could give us a badly needed edge.”

“Maybe we should just sell out and let the Ring have it?”

“You know Temple and Reese will never go for that. You're making excuses when you know that we're all locked into this fight.”

She returned to the window and stared upon the empty street. “I'm scared. Things have gone too far. We're going to be badly hurt if we don't find a solution. I don't want to lose the boys.”

Blomberg kept his distance. “It may be providence that your letter reached Pommel.”

“Don't blaspheme, Fritz. I don't want to hear that kind of talk.”

Blomberg allowed her the privacy of her thoughts. He returned to his chair and tamped his tobacco before lighting his pipe.

“Why would he return after all these years, even if he got the letter? What does he hope to gain?” she finally asked, more to herself than the German.

“What did he say?” Blomberg asked.

“Only what I told you.”

“Did he say where he had been or what he had been doing?”

“No, and I didn't ask. He was dressed well. His horse and saddle were very nice. I imagine he's done well for himself.”

“It must have been difficult for you,” Blomberg said.

She hesitated before speaking. “No. It's been so many years. He was more like a ghost than my former husband.”

“Has he changed?”

“No, he's the same old Pommel. When I suggested he talk to you, he let me know in short order that neither of us had any sway over him what-so-ever.”

Blomberg chuckled and shook his head. “That sounds like him. Remember when those Comancheros were raiding our herds in ‘57? Off he went, all by himself, to get that stock back. We all told him it was suicide. Told him we'd never see him again and he was a fool for trying. But, two weeks later, there he was, shot full of holes with thirty head more than what was taken.”

“Fritz, please,” she said softly.

“I'm sorry, Mary. I just remember those old days fondly and Pommel was a big part of our lives back then.”

“I remember those days too. I remember the endless lonely days, and terrible nights. I remember trying to keep a ranch going and take care of two infants while Pommel was off chasing Comanches, or rustlers, riding for the Rangers, or fighting for the Confederacy. It was always something, wasn't it? Pommel was a big part of our lives. A big empty promise with no time for his wife and boys. I remember how many times I made excuses and forgave him. And the one time I really needed....” She bit her lip and fought for control. Tears formed in her eyes and she turned back toward the window.

“I shouldn't have brought it up,” Blomberg said.

“I guess it hasn't been so long, has it?” she asked after composing herself. “At least not long enough.”

Fritz nodded and puffed his pipe. “I guess not.”

She forced a smile and left the room.

Fritz hobbled to the window and watched for her. He smiled at her determined stride and swift pace. He took a puff on his pipe and thought of the first time he saw her. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, standing barefooted in front of that filthy adobe dugout with two half-naked blonde babies clutching her skirts and a ten-gauge shotgun almost as long as she was tall, in her hands.

“The hell it hasn't,” he said with a smile.

Chapter III

Pommel swung down from his saddle to stretch while his horse drank. The big stud stepped to the edge of the creek as Pommel measured the sun against the horizon. He figured it was nearly four o'clock. He pulled his watch from his vest and checked the accuracy of his guess. It read three-thirty on the nose.

As he closed the watch cover, he thought of Mary. She had gained some weight and aged a bit, but by and large she was the same, still pretty, still as independent as ever.

He smiled.

A horseman appeared on the far bank of the creek. He was dressed in black and looked to be in his early twenties. He rode a nice little black and white pinto with neatly trimmed black saddle. A fancy concho decorated holster housed an ivory grip Colt double-action revolver. It was a quick draw rig, worn high, butt slanted to the rear.

“You know where you're at?” the rider asked.

“I reckon I'm at the edge of water. Otherwise, my horse wouldn't be drinking,” Pommel said without smiling.

The rider hesitated before smiling and nodding. “You're a right smart hombre, ain't ya?”

“Say your piece and I'll be on my way,” Pommel said as he gathered his reins and drew the stallion back from the water.”

“And sullen too,” the rider said.

Pommel swung his horse to the left so the stud would be between himself and the rider, and could be mounted without losing sight of the man's movements.

“I asked you a question, mister. I think I deserve a better answer than you gave,” the rider said.

“As much as I have enjoyed your sterling conversation, I think I'll be on my way,” Pommel said.

“You're on Quick 5 range. We don't allow no trespassing.”

“Put up a sign. The last time I heard, Quick 5 didn't cover all of West Texas.” Pommel said as he urged his stud forward with a slight touch of his spurs. The sorrel plunged into the shallow stream and easily crossed to the other side.

The rider moved his pony to intercept Pommel. They met at the top of the bank, close enough to touch.

“Don't get smart with me, old timer. I'm in no mood for a humorist,” the rider said with a growl.

“Sonny boy, I can see that you're a real tough hombre, and probably real fast on the draw. You've scared me real bad and I doubt I can contain my water if you get much tougher. So, why don't you let me pass and go find a rabbit to shoot?”

Anger flashed across the rider's face as his hand edged toward his revolver. “Why you old cuss, I'll show you -”

Pommel knocked the rider from his saddle with a hard blow from the back of his hand.

Already out of its holster, the rider's revolver flew from his hand as he crashed into the dirt. Once the rider regained his senses he scanned the area for his gun and started to crawl for it. He stopped and gazed into the bore of a .44 when he heard Pommel cock the hammer.

“Look, stupid,” Pommel growled. “Even Mercury himself couldn't get to that shooting iron before I was to drill him. You ain't Mercury.”

“Who?”

“Get up. I'm tired of screwing with you.”

The rider awkwardly rose to his feet.

Pommel motioned him toward a fallen tree with the point of his revolver. “What's your name?”

“Who wants to know?” the rider asked sullenly.

Pommel's eyes narrowed as he drew a fine sight on the rider's chest with his revolver.

“Pac McMurphy,” the rider said urgently.

Pommel drew up the point of his revolver. “You're the youngest of the McMurphy brothers.”

“Yeah, I'm the youngest. How'd you know?”

“You fellows make it a habit of acting like fools?” Pommel asked.

“What do you mean?” Pac asked.

“Don't ever confront a man if you don't plan to make a fight of it. Ain't nothing wrong with a man watering his horse. I don't care whose range it is. Never run a bluff without an out. You should have never let me get as close to you as I did. Don't telegraph your draw. If you're going to pull that gun, do it without running your mouth. Boy, you just came within a cat's whisker of dying... because you're stupid. You were playing a stupid game and you ain't got any idea of how dangerous it is. You want to play with a gun, pull that one out of the front of your pants and play with it. You damned sure ain't ready to play with the other one. You get my drift?”

Pac nodded sullenly. “Yes, sir.”

“Sit down on that log and don't make a move,” Pommel ordered.

Pommel swung down from his mount and picked up the revolver. “Nice gun. I'm going to teach you a lesson, boy. I'm taking this gun with me, and your horse. While you walk back home, unarmed, you think about the stupid things you did today and how lucky you are to be alive.”

“Horse thief,” Pac said bitterly.

“That horse will be back home hours before you are, sonny.”

“I paid twenty-two dollars for that Colt, mister,” Pac said.

“Yep,” Pommel said as he remounted his sorrel. “It ought to take you at least a month to save enough to buy another one. Not a long time when you figure how long it is to be dead.”

“I still don't know your name,” Pac said as McMurphy rode away with horse in tow.

“No, you don't,” Pommel said with a laugh.

Pac McMurphy shook his head angrily and struggled to contain his temper until the stranger was out of sight. Once he was alone, he tore into a tirade of swearing, oaths and self-admonishments. No man had ever buffaloed him so completely, especially not some geezer old enough to be his grandfather.

Pommel watched the lad's antics from the ridge top with a smile. Pac was smaller, much finer boned and darker than the older boys. There was a lot of his mother in the boy.

After Pac settled down and angrily started for home, Pommel slipped the Colt into the kid's saddle bag, tied the reins to the saddle horn and slapped the pinto on the butt. As he knew it would, the pinto made for the barn. Someone would probably send out riders when the pinto showed and Pommel knew he needed to be far away before the boy was located. In a straight up gunfight, he didn't have a chance against Pac. Neither bluff nor apologies would put the boy off of a gunfight after such humiliation. Pommel didn't feel much like dying and equally didn't like the idea of killing her youngest child. It was best that he never see the lad again.

As he thought of Mary, Pommel felt the old pain of betrayal and disappointment in his guts. It had been a long time since he had held such feelings. He wished he had been more civil with her. They could have talked longer and he could have heard more about the boys. But he couldn't. The pain should have left years ago, but when he was with her it all came back. All the while she talked and was near him it felt like ants were crawling up his legs.

He thought of the first time they came to the Palo Duro, the births of Temple and Reese, the way she looked in the moonlight, and the way she trembled when they made love. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, turned his sorrel to the north and continued toward Pampa.