Author: William W. Johnstone
Category: Western
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* * *
Up on the high seat, the driver fought the “ribbons,” as the six reins were called.
“They say Sheriff Peabody is gettin’ along just real fine,” Sam Parsons said. Sam was driving the coach. Hank Waters, his shotgun guard, was riding alongside him. “It was that Eastern doc who done it. He’s the brother-in-law to Deputy Conyers, ’n the deputy, he wrote ’im a letter, or sent ’im a telegram, one or the other, don’t know which it was.”
“More ’n likely it was a telegram,” Hank said. “That’s what you’d send in case of it bein’ an emergency ’n all.”
“Yeah, well I’m glad he done it, ’cause the sheriff now, he’s a real good man,” Sam said.
“Ha, did you see the sheriff dancin’ at the cattleman’s dance last month, cuttin’ up ’n prancin’ around somethin’ grand?”
“Well, sir, the sheriff is a widow man now, seein’ as his wife died a few years ago. ’N ever widow woman in the whole county sees him as someone they could maybe possible marry up with. Once women gets to a certain age, it ain’t good for ’em to be alone. Fact is, they nearly ’bout, almost can’t stand it, so they go on the prowl for someone like the sheriff.” Sam’s long dissertation nearly left him breathless.
“Yes, sir, I reckon that might be why they’s so many womenfolk that’s after the sheriff now. It sure don’t seem right to think about him layin’ there in the doc’s office all shot up now,” the shotgun guard said.
“Speakin’ of that dance, Hank, I sure as hell don’t know how it is that you managed to get Dolly Murphy to dance with you at that selfsame dance. I mean she’s as purty as little pair of red shoes, ’n you, why, you’re uglier ’n a horny toad,” the driver said, teasing the man who was riding beside him.
“What are you talkin’ about, Sam? Why, I been told I was right handsome!” Hank replied.
“Yeah? Who would tell you a thing like that?”
“My mama told me,” Hank replied, and he began to laugh. His laugh was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. “Uhh!”
“Hank!” Sam shouted as he saw the front of Hank’s shirt begin to turn red from blood flowing from a chest wound.
Looking back up, Sam saw four men blocking the road in front of him. All four men were armed. Three of the men were pointing pistols at him, and the fourth had a rifle. Sam was certain that it was a rifle shot that had hit Hank.
He considered trying to run on through them, but realized that such a thing would be foolish. Reluctantly, he pulled the coach to a halt.
“Well now, looks to me like as if you was a-thinkin’ ’bout tryin’ to run us down. Was you thinkin’ that?” the man with the rifle asked.
“I give it a thought,” Sam agreed. “But I seen I couldn’t do it.”
“Uh huh. Well, mayhaps you ain’t as dumb as you look. Let’s see if you’re smart enough to follow orders. Tell your passengers to climb down from the coach.”
“You folks inside,” Sam called back to his passengers. “Climb out.”
Three people exited the coach, two men and a woman.
“It’s Lanagan!” the older of the two men said.
“Yeah,” Lanagan said. “And now that you know who I am, you know that you’d better do what I say. You,” he added, pointing at the woman. “Get over here.”
“What do you want with my wife?” the younger man shouted, putting his hands protectively around the woman.
“You done shot Hank,” Sam said. “Don’t you be doin’ no harm to none o’ my passengers.”
“Now, driver, you ain’t really got nothin’ to say about that, seein’ as we got you good ’n covered. But, she ain’t goin’ to be hurt none if you do what I tell you. ’Matter of fact, there won’t nobody be hurt if you cooperate.”
“You say there won’t nobody be hurt, but you done kilt Hank.”
“Well, let’s just say there won’t nobody else be hurt,” Lanagan said.
“What do you want?”
Lanagan pulled his pistol, pointed it at the woman’s head, and cocked it. “You know what I want,” he said.
“Gary?” the woman cried out in fear.
“Don’t do anything, Bobbi Lee,” Gary said. “The man said he won’t hurt you, and at this point we have no option but to take him at his word.”
“It depends on whether the driver does what I tell ’im to do,” Lanagan said.
Joad had not realized they were going to kill the shotgun guard as they had, and he didn’t like it. He liked even less the idea of perhaps shooting a woman, but he thought it best not to say anything.
“Lower your pistol ’n I’ll toss the money pouch to you,” Sam said.
Lanagan smiled, an evil smile. “Well now, driver, you really ain’t in no position to be a-tellin’ us nothin.” He eased the hammer back down and lowered his pistol. “But to show you what a nice guy I can be, I’ll do it.” The smile left his face. “Now throw down the money pouch,” he ordered.
Sam reached under the seat and pulled out a canvas bag, then tossed it down.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “All right, you folks get back on the coach ’n get on out of here. You too, Bobbi Lee.” Lanagan added, with a smile. He let the woman go, and she hurried over to let her husband help her climb back in to the coach.
“All right, driver, your passengers are back in the coach, you can go now.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Sam snapped the whip over the team.
“Heeyah!” he shouted, and the six-horse team leaped ahead, jerking the coach into motion.
* * *
Lanagan watched the coach until it was well down the road, then he turned to Claymore. “Open it up,” he ordered.
The top of the pouch was locked, but Claymore was able to cut through the heavy canvas with his bowie knife.
“How much is there?” Lanagan asked, once the money was removed.
“Damn,” Claymore said.
“What is it?”
“There ain’t no more ’n five hunnert dollars here,” Claymore said.
“Five hundred?” McCoy said. “You got five stacks of bills there, man!”
“Yeah, but look at ’em. They’re all one-dollar bills.”
“Damn, why would they make a money shipment o’ nothin’ but one-dollar bills?” McCoy asked.
“Banks do that sometimes when they need money to make change and such,” Lanagan said.
“That’s only a hunnert ’n twenty five dollars apiece,” McCoy complained.
“It’s five hundred dollars, ’n it ain’t goin’ to be divided.”
“What do you mean, it ain’t goin to be divided?” McCoy asked.
“I told you what we’re goin’ to do with it,” Lanagan said. “Think of it as seed.”
“Seed?”
“Yeah, if you was a farmer, ’n you got some seed corn, you wouldn’t eat it, would you?”
“No, that would be dumb,” McCoy said.
Claymore laughed. “Clete’s right. This is like seed corn. You don’t eat your seed, ’cause you can plant it ’n get a lot more.”
“Yeah,” McCoy said. “Yeah, I understand now.”
“We need somethin’ that pays a little better,” Lanagan said.
“There’s a bank over in Salcedo,” McCoy suggested.
“No, no banks,” Claymore said. “We already did that ’n it didn’t turn out so good.”
Lanagan raised his hand. “No, now, let’s not be too quick,” he said. “True, we lost a couple of men, but we came away with some money. What do you know about the bank in Salcedo?” Lanagan asked McCoy.
“I’ve give some thought to hittin’ it my ownself,” McCoy said. “It prob’ly don’t have more ’n five thousand dollars, but there ain’t but one lawman in Salcedo, him bein’ an old man that more ’n likely won’t be able to do nothin’ to stop us.”
Lanagan smiled. “All right, we’ll hold up the bank in Salcedo.”
* * *
“Holdup!” Sam shouted as he bro
ught the stagecoach into Audubon, with the horses lathered from their gallop. “We been robbed, Hank got kilt! Holdup!”
By the time the coach reached the station, more than three dozen people, attracted by the driver’s shouts, had gathered to meet it.
“It was Clete Lanagan!” Sam said. “He stoled the money ’n kilt Hank.”
“What are you goin’ to do about this, Deputy?” someone asked Dalton who, like the others, had come to meet the coach.
“I’ll go after them as soon as I can raise a posse,” Dalton replied. “What about you, Garland? Will you be part of the posse?” Garland Castleberry was the man who had questioned Dalton.
“I wish I could, Dalton. But I got a wife ’n kids to look after.”
For two hours Dalton tried to raise a posse, but he could get no one.
“You’re the one that’s gettin’ paid,” McKinley said. Abner McKinley was a clerk in the feedstore.
“Sam said there were four of them,” Dalton replied. “Surely people aren’t expecting me to go after those four men by myself?”
“Like I said, you’re the one we’re payin’,” McKinley said,
* * *
“Sheriff Peabody is counting on me,” Dalton said to Tom and Rebecca when he returned to the sheriff’s office. “He is counting on me, and I’m failing him.” He made a movement with his hands to show his frustration. “Lanagan, Claymore, most likely, Seth McCoy, and a fourth man I don’t know anything about held up the stagecoach and I can’t even raise a posse. That means I’m going to have to go after him myself.”
“You’ll have to raise a posse, Dalton. You certainly can’t go after them by yourself!” Rebecca said.
“I have no choice, I have to go by myself. I’ve tried to raise a posse, sis, I really have. If Sheriff Peabody hadn’t been shot, then I’ve no doubt but the two of us could get a few more to help, but seeing as I’m by myself, I’m not able to get anyone.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tom volunteered.
“You will not!” Dalton said. “You’re a doctor, you’re not a lawman.”
“I will be if you deputize me.”
“No,” Rebecca said. “Dalton’s right. He can’t go after them himself, and you would be no help going with him.”
“I’ll try again to raise a posse,” Dalton said. “Maybe now that word has gotten around as to what is going on, I’ll find someone courageous enough to let me deputize him.”
A few minutes later, Dalton stepped into the Blanket and Saddle Saloon.
“People!” he shouted, loudly holding up his hands to get everyone’s attention. “People!” he called again.
All conversation stopped and everyone looked over at him.
“First of all, I have good news to report. By now most of you have heard that Dr. Whitman operated on Sheriff Peabody, and he managed to get the bullet out. Now he and Dr. Palmer both tell me that Sheriff Peabody is coming along fine, and they expect the sheriff to make a full recovery.”
“Here now, that’s damn good news, deputy!” someone said, and several others agreed.
“The bad news, which many of you already know, is that Hank Waters was killed by the same people who shot Sheriff Peabody. According to Sam, the driver, there were four men who held up the stage, Lanagan and Claymore being two of them. I’ve no doubt but that one of the other two was Seth McCoy, but have no idea who the fourth one was.”
“McCoy? Ain’t he the one that murdered that store clerk ’n his wife up in Antelope, a couple months ago?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Dalton said. “And I’m sure you can see that nothing good can come from having those men running free. So the reason I’m here is, I’m raising a posse, and I’m asking for volunteers.”
Several of the patrons who had been paying close attention to Dalton up until now turned away from him, as if purposely avoiding his eyes. Nobody volunteered.
“What about you, Ross? You went with Andy and me three months ago when we tracked down Zeke Muldoon. Will you join me?”
“Well, I . . . uh . . . I’d like to, Deputy, but m’ wife, she . . .” Ross paused in midsentence.
“Muley? You were with us on the last posse,” Dalton said, turning to one of the others.
“I’m sorry, Deputy,” Muley mumbled, staring into his beer.
The Brown Dirt Cowboy, the Ace High, and the Watering Hole, the other three saloons in Audubon, proved just as unproductive as far as recruiting a posse was concerned. Dalton also tried to get volunteers from the freight company, but he was unsuccessful. When he returned to the sheriff’s office, Marjane was there with Rebecca. Tom was absent.
“Where’s Tom?” he asked.
“He’s with Papa,” Marjane replied.
“Is Andy all right?” Dalton asked, anxiously.
“Yes, he’s doing well,” Marjane said. “Dr. Whitman just wanted to check on him.”
“What about the posse, Dalton?” Rebecca asked. Dalton shook his head. “I didn’t get a single man. I know Andy could raise a posse,” Dalton said. “But nobody wants to trust their life to me.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Rebecca said. She smiled. “And I’ve come up with an idea.”
“You have? Well, I hope it’s a good one, because I’ll be honest with you, Becca, I don’t know where to turn next.”
“Uncle Kirby,” Becca said. “If we ask him, he’ll help. I know he will.”
Dalton shook his head. “Why would Smoke Jensen help?”
“He’ll help, because he’s my uncle,” Rebecca said. “If I ask him to come, I know that he will.”
“Smoke Jensen?” Marjane said. “I’ve heard of him. Dalton, I didn’t know you were kin to Smoke Jensen. Why, he’s famous!”
“I’m not related to him, Becca is,” Dalton said.
“He’s my uncle, and you are my brother, and that makes all of us part of the same family,” Rebecca insisted.
“He’s your uncle, but not Dalton’s uncle?” Marjane asked, confused.
“Becca and I have the same father, but not the same mother,” Dalton explained.
“Dalton Conyers, we certainly do have the same mother. I was raised from the time I was a baby by the same woman who raised you. Julia Conyers is every bit my mother. She just isn’t my biological mother,” Rebecca said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rebecca began an account of her personal history and Marjane, fascinated by the story, hung on every word.
“I was an adult before I learned that Dalton’s mother and my mother were not the same. The woman who raised me was the only mother I had ever known until a few years ago, when I met my real mother. Her name was Janie Davenport, and she lived in Dodge City, Kansas. That was when I learned that I also had an uncle. I had been with her almost a month before she told me, and I asked her why she hadn’t told me before.
“‘I thought it best not to, but as I think more about it, you have the right to know about him. Kirby thinks I’m dead,’ she told me. ‘He thinks I died a long time ago. I’m afraid I was quite a disappointment to him. No man wants a whore for a sister, so I let him think that.’
“I told her not to talk like that, but she explained why she did.
“‘It’s true, honey, as much as I hate to admit it,’ she said. ‘During the war, I ran off with a man named Paul Garner. I was young then, much younger than you are now. Paul was a gambling man, and he promised me a life of fun and excitement. At the time, anything seemed better than living on a dirt farm in Missouri. Paul and I went to Fort Worth and stayed there until the war was over. Then after my gambling man got himself killed, I got a job as bargirl working in one of the saloons in Hell’s Half Acre. That was when I met Big Ben Conyers, your papa. The Colonel was fresh back from the war, a wounded hero. Oh, he made quite a presence, Becca. He was a magnificent and kingly looking man. I fell head over heels in love with him, and one thing led to another, until I became pregnant. I feared that he might run away then, but he didn’t. As soon as he learned I was pre
gnant, he moved me out to his ranch and I stayed there until you were born.’
“That was when I asked her if she and Papa had ever gotten married. Mama said that Papa had asked her to marry him, but she couldn’t do it. And when I asked her why, she explained.
“‘Honey, your papa was one of richest men in Texas. Before I met him I was a gambler’s widow, and a part-time soiled dove. Can you imagine what his enemies could have made of that? Someone would have said something and your father would have challenged him. He would have either killed someone, or gotten killed himself. I would not have been able to accept either outcome.
“I didn’t fit in his society, Becca. I was a mule in horse harness. So one morning I just left. I know that sounds harsh, but believe me, it was much better for both of you. And I found out that within a couple of months after I left, your papa had married a decent and respectable woman.’
“Of course, she was talking about Julia, Dalton’s mama, and the woman who had raised me,” Rebecca continued. “She wanted to know if Julia had been good to me, and when I answered that Julia had been a mother to me, the only mother I had ever known, I felt a little guilty about it, but she told me not to.
“‘You can say it, honey. She has been a mother to you. And judging from the way you turned out, she has been a much better mother to you than I could have ever been.’
“‘But you are my mother,’ I told her, not exactly knowing where to go with this.
“‘Yes, I am your mother,’ she replied, almost as if apologizing. She was quiet for a long moment. ‘After I left your father I went farther west, where I whored for quite a number of years, then I met Oscar. Oscar didn’t care that I used to be on the line. But I want you to know, Becca, that I have reformed. And you know what they say. No one is more righteous than a reformed whore.’
“She told me that when she learned that her brother thought she was dead, that she thought it best not to ever tell him any different.”
Tom stepped into the sheriff’s office then, his arrival interrupting Rebecca’s story.
“How’s Papa?” Marjane asked, anxiously.
“He’s complaining about the food,” Tom said with a little chuckle. “That means he’s doing very well.”