The Taylor County War (10 page)

The six riders had slowed to a
canter, but now stopped completely as Andrew Rogers held up his
hand. He was a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties with a smug,
arrogant face, dressed in clothes that fitted him so well they
looked to be tailor made.

“Is that you, Sublette? Who’s with
you?”

“It’s me, Jimmy Spotted Owl! And
none of you had better come any closer or I’m going to throw some
lead your way. Some of your scum killed two good friends of mine
today, as well as a young boy that should be running and playing
with his friends, instead of waiting for his folks to come and
collect his body.”

“And I’m here, too,” Logan called.
“Dr. Logan Munro. I’ve just been treating a patient.”

“You mean you’ve been treating a
goddamned wounded rustler!” Rogers shouted back. “Him and the gang
he belongs to have killed six of my men. They shot them down in
cold blood when my men caught them red-handed rustling some of my
cattle. I saw their bodies back there, and we followed your trail
and saw your smoke.”

Marcus’s blood started to boil. He
clasped the rifle firmly. “That is an outright lie. Those men rode
right at us and started firing indiscriminately. My pupil Obie
Wilkins is dead, and another one, Ethan Hartman, is in that shack
badly wounded.”

Rogers’ sneer was echoed by his
men. “I want that wounded rustler, Sublette, I don’t care how old
he is. I mean to take him in and let the law deal with him.”

He coaxed his horse toward them.
“Come on, boys,” he said. Then, to the boy’s defenders, he added,
“You men would be advised to put those weapons down. I have the law
on my side.”

Marcus dropped his head to peer
through the telescopic sight of his rifle. “That is far enough! I
warn you that I have a clear bead on you, Rogers. One more step or
any false move from any of these men and I will blow a hole through
whatever it is you have instead of a heart. As for having the law
on your side, that is hogwash and you know it.”

Rogers immediately stopped and his
expression turned ugly. “I don’t like to be threatened, Sublette.
Just put that rifle aside and let’s talk in a civilized fashion.
You have my word, none of my men are going to draw leather.”

Marcus cautiously raised his head
away from the telescopic sight, but kept the rifle where it was;
confident that if needed he could shoot Rogers out of his saddle at
the first sign of treachery. “I suggest you start talking.”

“Wolf Creek is a town that is about
to change,” Rogers said. “It would do folks well to make sure they
are on the right side of the people who will be in charge.”

“For a man who doesn’t like to be
threatened, you don’t seem to mind handing them out.”

“It is the way of the world. The
same goes for you all. I can be a powerful friend to have. All I
want is for you to give me that wounded rustler so I can hand him
over to the law in Wolf Creek.”

Logan Munro gave a dry laugh. “Now
I do believe that I have heard everything. It sounds as if Mr.
Rogers believes that we would trust him to take care of Ethan,
after all the blood that has been spilled around here.”

He took out the scalpel that he
always kept in his top pocket and pulled off the cork that he used
to protect the blade. He held it up to the sunlight so that the
blade gleamed. “Let me just tell you something, Mr. Rogers. You
might say that this scalpel is one of the tools of my trade. I’m
pretty deft with it, if I say so myself, but I certainly do not
appreciate threats being made to any of my patients or to any of my
friends. Apart from Dr. Jefferson Cantrell, the town dentist, I am
the only doctor within fifty miles of Wolf Creek. That means if a
person needs pus letting out of an abscess, or a broken bone needs
fixing, or any intimate operation needs doing, then I am the man
you come to. I took an oath to help anyone who needs me, and I
always keep it. But just you be aware that threats make me nervous,
and if I get nervous my hand could slip. And when I have a scalpel
in my hand and my hand slips – well, that could be mighty dangerous
for anyone that is under the blade.”

He flicked his wrist back and then
tossed the scalpel at the other side of the wagon, where it
embedded itself in the very top of the wood and quivered. He looked
at each of the riders in turn, nodding at each one to emphasize
that he had committed their faces to his memory.

“And that goes for anyone who backs
up a man who threatens one of my patients.”

The sound of horses coming from the
southeast drew everyone’s attention. There were four riders
advancing quickly.

“Its Frank, with John Hartman and
his two eldest boys, Chris and Tim,” said Marcus.

“That evens things up, some,” Jimmy
Spotted Owl said with a nod.

They rode up to the shack. “What’s
going on here,” John Hartman demanded. “Where is Ethan?”

“Ethan is going to be just fine,
John,” Logan said reassuringly.

“Your boy is one of the gang of
rustlers who shot up six of my men, Hartman!” Rogers cried out.
“We’re going to deliver him to the law in Wolf Creek.”

“The hell you are!” snapped Chris
Hartman, a red-haired young man with a firm jaw, in his early
twenties. His hand settled on the handle of his gun.

“Don’t do anything rash, Chris,”
John Hartman said firmly. “And the same goes for you Tim. Leave
this to me.”

Then to Rogers: “No-one is going to
deliver my son anywhere, Rogers. I don’t care how many bullyboys
and gunhands you hire. Just let me tell you this, if I find that
you were in any way responsible for what happened to my son, I will
personally come calling on you.”

Rogers tossed his head back and
laughed. “You! I look forward to the day that happens. It would
save me a whole lot of trouble. You and your kind belong to the
past, and have no place here in Taylor County. I give you fair
warning to take your family and clear out of here.”

A couple of distant gunshots rang
out from the west.

“Well, look who’s coming!” Jimmy
Spotted Owl exclaimed, screwing his eyes to make out the group of
riders. “Its old man Breedlove hisself, and it looks like he’s got
Billy Below and a whole bunch of men with him.”

“I see Abner Wilkins with him,
too,” added Marcus.

Another shot rang out, its
intention clearly being to draw attention to the fact that they
were all armed and ready.

Andrew Rogers cursed under his
breath, seeing that his men were getting spooked. The odds were
suddenly very much against them, and they knew it.

“You all have not heard the last of
this,” Rogers said. “Those changes I mentioned are coming whether
you like it or not. Anyone who isn’t with me will regret it.”

He spurred his horse, and he and
his men charged away.

Marcus let out a sigh. “Doc, why
don’t you take John and his sons in to see Ethan? I’ll greet Abner
Wilkins and try to explain how his son, who was under my care, is
now dead.”

Chapter Four

Sam Gardner tried to suppress a
yawn –not quite successfully. One escaped him anyhow, and came out
sounding like a sharp bark. Judge Leonard McDonnell shot an annoyed
glance at the marshal, who shrugged and smiled apologetically. The
judge was still peeved about the incident the previous month, when
Gardner had fallen asleep in his chair and dropped his wolf-headed
walking stick, letting it clatter loudly on the floor and startling
everyone. Gardner could not help it that he worked late hours, and
was not accustomed to stirring at this time of the day.

Appearing in court was Gardner’s
least favorite part of the job. It was even worse than the
seemingly endless paperwork. He supposed he should count his
blessings that it only happened for two or three days on the second
week of each month.

Wolf Creek had neither a court
house nor a city hall. Mayor Dab Henry’s office at the saloon he
owned, The Lucky Break, served as the latter, while the saloon
itself became an impromptu courtroom. The judge stood behind the
bar where Rob Parker normally poured drinks –the barstools were
cleared away, and a witness chair was procured from one of the card
tables.

That chair was currently occupied
by a scrawny man named Dace Fennels, who was accused of aggravated
assault and attempted murder. Gardner’s deputy Seamus O’Connor, who
served as bailiff since the unfortunate demise of his predecessor
Fred Garvey during a bank raid, stood near the prisoner with his
beefy arms crossed. Judge McDonnell insisted that all men sit
hatless in his courtroom, but made an exception for O’Connor’s
battered stovepipe hat, perhaps because he was on duty. Gardner
considered McDonnell very pleasant and easy to get along with, for
a judge and a redheaded man.

Dace’s lawyer had just coaxed his
client, without much need for encouragement, into a melodramatic
recounting of the mistreatment he suffered during childhood and the
moment he was saved by the light of Jesus. This was a frequent
tactic in the defense attorney’s arsenal. Jules Traynor could
probably have served as a revival preacher himself –he had the
loquacious oratory and rich voice for it. Perhaps he realized early
on that folks were more forgiving of drunk lawyers than drunk
preachers.

“Is the defense quite finished?”
Judge McDonnell said in his customary even tone.

Traynor took out a white
handkerchief- matching his suit and his thin hair –and dramatically
wiped his forehead with it, even though the October air had caused
no perspiration. Then he replied, his eastern Arkansas accent
drawing out each syllable.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, “I
suppose we must conclude the defendant’s testimony at this point
–to continue establishing my client’s sterling character and the
unhappy circumstances he has surmounted might lead to an accusation
that we are playing on the Christian kindness and grace of our fine
jurors. Mister Jackal may object, not being a Christian and
therefore not understanding we who are.”

William Jaeckal, the prosecutor,
rose angrily to his feet. Jaeckel, a blond Texan whose parents had
come from Germany, was three decades his opponent’s junior, and
half his weight.

“I object, Your Honor!” he said.
“My name is pronounced ‘Yockle,’ not ‘Jackal,’ as Mister Traynor is
well aware. He pulls this contemptible trick every single time, in
an attempt to prejudice the jury!”

“Objection sustained,” McDonnell
said, “as it is every time. The jury will disregard the
comment.”

“And Lutherans are Christians!”
Jaeckel added.

“Of course they are, sir,” Traynor
said, then gave a broad wink to the jury.

“Very well, then,” McDonnell said.
“The bailiff may escort the defendant to his seat, and prosecution
may call their first witness.”

Jaeckel, who had just sat down,
stood again. “The prosecution calls city marshal Samuel Horace
Gardner.”

Seamus swore him in, and the
marshal took the “stand.”

“Marshal Gardner, were you called
to the Wolf’s Den Saloon on the night of September
twenty-ninth?”

“I was, yes.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, it was just after midnight, as
I recall.”

“And what did you find there?”

Gardner stroked his goatee. “I
found the accused standing over the prostrate figure of Layton
Skinner, whose ear he had bitten off. The poor devil had a hunting
knife stuck in his side.”

Jaeckel held up a knife, its blade
crusted with dried blood.

“Is this the weapon, marshal?”

“It is, indeed.”

“And is Mister Skinner in this
courtroom?”

“He is.”

“Can you point him out for us?”

Gardner leveled a forefinger at a
surly man in the audience. “That’s him yonder, with the one ear,”
he said.

“What did you do?”

“I said, ‘here now, you’ll be
coming with me.’ Then the accused reached down for his knife, so I
dented his skull with my walking stick.”

“Then what?”

“Then he fell unconscious, like any
halfway sensible person.”

“Very well. No further questions,
your honor.”

“Your witness,” McDonnell said, and
Traynor approached the marshal.

“Marshal Gardner,” the defense
lawyer said.

The marshal nodded in greeting.
“Hello, Jules.”

“Marshal Gardner, am I to
understand that you assaulted this citizen, for no other crime than
standing nearby an injured man?”

“As I said, he reached for his
knife.”

“Did he retrieve it?”

“No, inasmuch as he was out
cold.”

“So you are only assuming he was
reaching for a knife. He could have been reaching to scratch his
ankle. You would strike a man for that?”

“I’ve been known to shoot men for
looking funny. When they stood behind guns that were shooting at
me.”

“Very witty, sir, but not an answer
to my question. The fact is, you did not actually see my client do
anything at all, nor did you investigate before attacking him.”

“Well, there was also the matter of
the stabbing, not to mention the biting.”

“You have testified that the knife
was in Mister Skinner when you entered the room. You had no
evidence, nor to my knowledge have you gathered any, that my client
put it there. Then you ascribed evil intent to a simple gesture on
his part –there are any number of reasons why my client could have
bent down at that moment that do not involve an intent to harm an
officer of the law.”

“I suppose he could’ve suddenly
remembered where he left his knife.”

“Did you actually see Dace Fennels
stab the victim?”

“Well, no, Jules, when you put it
like that. I didn’t actually see it happen.”

“Is it possible, Marshal Gardner,
that you simply assumed my client’s guilt because you are
prejudiced against him?”

“In the sense I am prejudiced
against ear-biters and stabbers, yes, I suppose that’s
possible.”