Pray for Death

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Wanting to push on in an effort to overtake Hawkins and McGee before they reached their destination, wherever that might be, he knew he had to rest his horses. The sorrel he had taken for his packhorse looked especially in need of a good rest. What the hell, he decided. I’m not likely to catch them before they get where they’re going. So I might as well not kill my horses while I hunt for them. With that settled, he unloaded the horses of their burdens and made his camp, with the intention of starting fresh in the morning.

  CHAPTER 16

  Always sensitive to Buster’s signals of company coming to call, he woke right away when the buckskin gelding nickered a greeting to the two horses that stopped in the trees on the creek bank, short of his camp. He rolled over on his side and pulled his rifle up beside him. He couldn’t see who his visitors were, but he knew they had to be approaching his camp from downstream. Never forgetting Hawkins’s promise to settle with him, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that he and Tiny, suspecting he was trailing them, had doubled back to look for him. When he had climbed into his bedroll, he had taken precautions for just such an unannounced visit. He had built his fire close to a clump of laurel bushes that grew at the foot of a line of oak trees. With his bedroll up against the bushes, he was close enough to the fire to feel its heat, but also able to roll out of the bedroll into the bushes. Clutching his rifle now, that’s what he did, quietly enough so he could then crawl behind one of the oaks. He waited for his visitors to make their move.

  In a few minutes, a couple of shadows separated from the stand of trees lining the creek bank and moved toward his fire. It was obvious they had not seen him escape his bedroll, and they were approaching very cautiously, hoping to surprise him. They were close enough now that he could see it was not Hawkins and McGee. He eased away from the tree and moved carefully along the bushes until he could circle around behind the two men, both holding rifles. They stopped then, realizing there was no one in the bedroll. “Best you just stand right there and lay those rifles on the ground,” Will warned. “If you don’t wanna get shot, you’d do well not to make any sudden moves.” Both men jerked visibly upon being surprised by the voice behind them, but they slowly laid their rifles on the ground. When they had done that, Will said, “Now turn around and state your business in my camp.” They did as he instructed.

  Since neither man was wearing a sidearm, Will took a moment to look them over. One of them, obviously the elder, spoke out. “I reckon you know what our business is, since you’ve been thinnin’ out our cattle for the past couple of weeks.”

  “Where’s the rest of your friends?” the younger man spoke up then. “They workin’ on somebody else’s herd tonight?”

  “I hate to disappoint you fellows,” Will said, “but I ain’t one of the men you’re lookin’ for.” He let his rifle drop to his side, and with the other hand, he pulled his coat aside to expose his badge. “My name’s Will Tanner. I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal outta Fort Smith. Right now, I’m tryin’ to track two fugitives, so I’m a little too busy to rustle your cattle.”

  Not sure if they could believe him or not, they were reluctant to accept his story, even though he no longer aimed his rifle at them. “All right if we pick up our rifles?” the older man asked.

  “Sure,” Will said, “as long as you ain’t thinkin’ about usin’ ’em.” He watched them carefully. “You raisin’ cattle on this land?”

  “Tryin’ to,” the older man answered, “leastways between this creek and the Red River. But it looks like that bunch of rustlers across the Red in Texas have decided we’ve got too many cows.”

  Will was surprised. “You own land from right here all the way to the Red River? That’s a long way from here, ain’t it?”

  “It ain’t that far,” the younger one said. “Ain’t but about eight miles. And we don’t own the land. It’s all free range, and there’s three families grazin’ cattle on it. We got together and wrote the Texas Rangers about those rustlers, but they ain’t done nothin’ about it yet. So we’ve been tryin’ to watch our herds as best we can till they do. Ain’t that right, Cal?”

  “Everybody knows it’s that damn Hawkins family that’s doin’ it, but ain’t nobody been able to catch ’em at it,” Cal said. “They come over the river, cut out a part of your herd, and drive ’em back over to Texas to sell.” He paused when he saw that his statement had obviously caught Will’s attention.

  “Did you say Hawkins?” Will asked.

  “Yeah, Hawkins,” Cal answered. “They’ve been rustlin’ cattle for years. Most of it was in Mexico, but since settlers moved into this territory in Injun Territory, I reckon they’ve found it’s easier to just ride across the Red.” He hesitated, but then decided to ask, “You looked like you got real interested when I said it was them Hawkinses.”

  “One of the two men I’m tryin’ to catch up with is named Hawkins,” Will said. “Helluva coincidence, ain’t it?” There was suddenly some sense to the path Hawkins and Tiny had taken, instead of continuing south into Texas. Hawkins had to be a member of the family notorious for stealing cattle. Odds were too much against it being a coincidence. “Do you know where this Hawkins family is located in Texas?”

  “Not exactly,” Cal answered. “Somewhere not too far from Wichita Falls is what I’ve heard.” He paused then to say, “I reckon we owe you an apology for tryin’ to sneak up on your camp, but we thought we’d caught one of those scoundrels alone. My name’s Cal Wiggins.” He nodded toward the younger one, “He’s my brother, Sonny. We’re sorry for wakin’ you up.”

  “That’s all right,” Will replied, “no harm done. Nobody got shot.” He figured it a good deal to get the information about the Hawkins family, anyway. “Sorry to hear about your trouble with rustlers. There ain’t much I can do to help you right now. I’m on the trail of two pretty dangerous outlaws and I’m tryin’ not to get too far behind ’em. When I can get to a telegraph office, I’ll wire my boss in Fort Smith and tell him about the trouble you folks are havin’ out here. Sorry I can’t offer you much more right now.” They were disappointed, but said they understood the problem, so Will pushed for more information. “I know where Wichita Falls is, but I don’t know how far it is from right here.”

  “’Bout fifteen miles,” Sonny said. “Wouldn’t you say, Cal?”

  “That’s about right,” Cal answered. “It’s ’bout eight miles to the Red where the Wichita River empties into it and follow the Wichita ’bout seven.” He turned and pointed. “Yonder way,” he said. He turned back to face his brother. “I reckon we’ve done messed up this man’s sleep enough. We’d best get along back to the house. Looks like the Wiggins cows ain’t scheduled to get stole tonight.” He offered his hand to Will and they shook. “Good luck with catchin’ those two outlaws.”

  After saying good luck with their cattle problem, Will watched them disappear into the shadows of the tree line to get to their horses. He didn’t feel like trying to go back to sleep. He had a decision to make. Should he continue along the common wagon road, hoping to find the hoofprints that would lead him to Hawkins? With a strong hunch now that Ward Hawkins was a member of the Hawkins family of Wichita Falls, or at least close kin, would his best bet be to go directly to Wichita Falls on the hopes that someone had seen Hawkins pass through? He wrestled with the decision for a while longer, telling himself that he might even be able to cut the distance between himself and the two outlaws if he went directly to Wichita Falls. In the end, he decided to leave it to chance. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his lucky silver coin. “Heads, I go straight to Wichita Falls. Tails I stay on the road.” He flipped the coin in the air.

  * * *

  Fanny Hawkins walked out to the front porch of the large two-story house to watch the sun set behind the trees on the other side of Bobcat Creek. Pulling her favorite rocker over closer to the edge of the porch, so she could see the setting sun at a better angle, she sat down heavily. She reached into the pocket of the sheepskin vest she wore against
the cold and took out her corncob pipe and knocked the ashes out of it on the heel of her boot. From another pocket of the vest, she pulled a small drawstring sack of tobacco and carefully filled her pipe. Next, she fished around in her pants pocket for a match. Finding one, she reached down to strike it on the floor of the porch, then lit her pipe and puffed a few times to get it started. Giving it a minute or two to burn, she used her finger to tamp the burning ashes down again. She found another match and relit the tamped-down tobacco, satisfied now that it would burn evenly and provide her with a good smoke. Inhaling the strong tobacco smoke deep into her lungs, she prepared to enjoy her favorite moment of peace. It was then that she saw the two riders approaching along the path that followed the creek. Knowing that her boys were still sitting around the supper table, she wondered what varmints were coming to disturb her peace at this late hour.

  Puffing steadily on the corncob pipe, she watched the two riders, unable to identify them at that point. It was of no serious concern to her, for she feared no one. And for that reason, she gave out no shout to alert her sons, but unconsciously dropped her hand to rest on the Colt .45 she wore. When the riders grew closer, she thought there was something familiar about one of them, the way he sat his horse, maybe. She wasn’t sure. There was a big man with him, his arm in a sling. “Now, who the hell . . . ?” she started, curious, but not concerned. If it was another one of those Texas Rangers coming to ask her a bunch of questions about her cattle business, they’d get the same answers as the last one. Could be they wondered if she knew anything about why that last one suffered a gunshot wound on his way back to Houston. She had already told them that he was fine when he left her ranch.

  The two riders left the creek and rode directly toward the front porch. Without so much as a call-out to say who the hell they are, she thought, they’re acting like they don’t need an invitation to just ride right on up to my door. Without waiting for an invitation to step down, they did so. It was not until that moment that she recognized the one she had been trying to place. A wry smile formed on her weathered face and she reached up to take her pipe out of her mouth. “Well, well,” she clucked sarcastically, “what the hell are you doin’ here, Ward?” He had changed his appearance with a heavy mustache and beard, but she knew she should have recognized him.

  “How you doin’, Fanny?” Ward Hawkins responded. He, like his three brothers, had always called his mother by her given name. “I thought it was high time I paid the old homeplace a little visit—see my mama and my brothers.”

  “Haw,” she huffed. “What for? Ain’t nobody around here said they wished they could see good ol’ Ward again. It’s been about three years since you left here and went off to be a big shot somewhere. Where was that?”

  “Houston,” Ward answered.

  “Yeah, Houston,” Fanny went on. “Well, I don’t remember any big story in the newspapers about Ward Hawkins bein’ elected governor of Texas. Last I heard of you, the Rangers were lookin’ for you for robbin’ a bank.”

  “You ain’t ever bought a newspaper in your life,” Ward said. “If you had, you wouldn’t have read it ’cause you can’t read.”

  “I can read a feller’s face good enough to know when he’s come runnin’, lookin’ for a place to hide. Who you runnin’ from, the Rangers? Have you led a bunch of Rangers to my door?” Her standing with the Texas Rangers was poor enough without adding on some of his trouble.

  “No, I ain’t led no Rangers to your door,” he insisted. “I just had some business I was carryin’ on in Indian Territory that ran into a little trouble. I decided to leave till it cooled down. And since I was so close to Wichita Falls, I figured it’d be a good time to see how you folks over here are doin’ without me.”

  “Pshaw,” she spat. “We’ve been doin’ just fine since you left. We’re runnin’ more cattle to market now that you ain’t here.” She shifted her attention to Tiny then. “Who’s this puny little feller you got with you?”

  “Tiny McGee,” Ward said. “He’s a business partner of mine.”

  A dumbfounded spectator to that point, Tiny had stood by his horse, witnessing the strange reunion between a mother and her son. With the sarcastic woman’s gaze fixed on him now, he attempted to respond. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miz Hawkins.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Fanny replied. “A business partner, huh? How come you’re carryin’ your arm in a sling? Sometimes business ain’t so good, is it?” She turned her focus back on her son. “In Injun Territory, was you? You got them deputy marshals after you, so you had to skip outta Oklahoma, so they couldn’t follow you. Now you expect me and the boys to take you back?”

  “No, I don’t,” he replied. “I don’t expect you to do nothin’ for Tiny and me except let us sleep in the bunkhouse for a couple of nights, and maybe give us a little grub if you think you can spare it. If you don’t, we can cook our own grub. We’ve got supplies. I’ve got a big job we’re fixin’ to go on and I’ll pay you for your trouble. I’d pay you up front, but we had a little bad luck when the Oklahoma deputies found our cash supply.” He preferred not to tell her that he and Tiny had been thrown in jail and that was when they lost all the money they had.

  “You’re broke, ain’tcha?” Fanny asked. A satisfied smile spread across her rough features.

  “Hell, no, I ain’t broke,” Ward came back right away. “If you’ve got to have your money up front, I’ll pay you up front. I’d just druther we waited till after we cash in on the job we’ve got lined up. I’ll be a lot more generous then.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills to let her get a glimpse of it. It was money he and Tiny had stolen from Jasper Johnson, and there wasn’t much, at that.

  There was still much resentment for her eldest son from the rest of her sons, as well as herself. He had thrown his nose in the air and walked away from the workaday world of rustling cattle, the only world his brothers knew, and his father before him. When her husband was slain, knocked out of the saddle by a Mexican rancher’s bullet, she and her other sons had expected Ward to take over his father’s role and continue to build the Hawkins brand. But Ward figured he was too good to work cattle, especially other people’s cattle, because it was too much work, and most of it at night. Luckily for the Hawkins family, Fanny was tough enough to step in and run the business of cattle rustling, herself. Her first impulse at this moment was to tell her eldest to go to hell and get off her ranch. On second thought, however, she thought she might enjoy letting him stay for a while to let him see how little they missed him. She decided it would give her great pleasure to rub his nose in the failure of his grand plans and the success of the family business in his absence. She got up from her chair and walked to the edge of the porch, taking a moment to knock the ashes out of her pipe, using a porch post. Then, straightening up to her full height, she looked down at her wayward son and his friend at the foot of the steps, looking much like an evil queen, although a queen wearing men’s trousers, boots, and a sheepskin vest. “All right, Ward, I’m gonna let you stay for a day or two. You’re too late for supper, so you’ll have to feed yourselves, if you’ve got any food. There ain’t nobody in the bunkhouse, so you and Tiny can bunk in there. Your brothers sleep here in the house, since they’re still members of this family. You can take breakfast in the house in the mornin’. The boys ain’t got no run planned for tonight, so breakfast won’t be till six o’clock. I’ll tell Maudie to set a place for you.”

  “Much obliged, Fanny,” Ward said, trying not to exhibit the relief he felt. “We’ll take our possibles down to the bunkhouse and turn our horses out.”

  “I’ll tell your brothers, so nobody takes a shot at you goin’ in the bunkhouse,” she said, a pleased smile on her face now, feeling that he had come begging. She stood on the porch, watching the two of them walking down to the bunkhouse. “The prodigal son’s come home, John Henry,” she announced to her late husband as she went back inside.

  “Damned if that ain’t the most t
ender homecomin’ I’ve ever seen,” Tiny remarked as they led the horses across the barnyard. “It almost had me in tears.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, Hawkins said, “Hell, I was happy she didn’t draw that Colt .45 she wears. At least we’ll have a place to hole up for a few days while we plan how we’re gonna take that bank.” He shrugged and added, “I never said Fanny was gonna welcome us with open arms. After we turn the horses out, we’ll build a fire in the stove. There used to be a coffeepot in the bunkhouse. We’ll make some coffee and eat some of that jerky we brought.”

  * * *

  “Who was you talkin’ to, Fanny?” Lemuel Hawkins asked when his mother came into the dining room where all three sons were sitting around the table. “It sounded like you was talkin’ to somebody out there on the porch.”

  “Ain’t you boys the sharp ones,” Fanny answered him. “Good thing it weren’t the Texas Rangers or renegade Injuns, ain’t it? Maybe the house would be on fire with you still settin’ around the table.”