Tanner's Revenge

by Michael Stewart

  ‘They took them, Señor Jack,’ said Xalvador. ‘The men who killed them, they took the rings.’

  Jack didn’t doubt the old man was telling the truth. Xalvador would brand himself with a red hot iron sooner than steal from anyone, dead or alive.

  Jack covered his ma with the sheet and said. ‘We’ll bury them, and say some words. Then you can tell me what happened.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ten years earlier, when Jack had left home to see the world, the ranch had employed six cowmen, and his ma and pa had owned several hundred head of cattle. But since then a succession of droughts had taken their toll. Now there were fewer than thirty cattle, sorry specimens, and the only ranch hand left was Xalvador.

  ‘I was down by the river just after sun up,’ said the old man, ‘pulling out a calf that had got itself stuck in the mud. I heard shots from the house. I rode back fast as I could, but by the time I got here your ma and pa, they were dead, and the men who had killed them were gone. . . .’

  The river was about three miles east of the ranch house, and marked the border of the ranch. Beyond the river was another ranch, the Petersons’.

  ‘I saw nothing could be done. I was going to bury them straight away, but then I thought you would want to see them first. So I rode to Dry Rock and got the telegraph man there to send a message to you in Paradise Flats. . . . Did I do the right thing?’

  Jack rested his hand on Xalvador’s shoulder. The old man looked frail, but the muscles under the shirt were hard as iron. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘What you do now, Señor Jack?’ Xalvador asked. Jack could see fear rising up behind the grief. Xalvador was wondering if Jack was going to sell the ranch. He was worried he was going to lose his job, and the home he’d known for the past thirty-some years, but he didn’t want to say it out loud.

  ‘I’m not going to sell the ranch,’ Jack assured him.

  The men who’d killed his ma and pa had taken whatever money they’d kept in the ranch house. But Jack’s folks had been smart, they’d kept the bulk of their money in the Rancher’s Mutual Bank in Dry Rock. He’d have to check on how much that was.

  ‘I want you to take care of the ranch till I get back. I’ll arrange things so you can draw out money from the bank when you need it.’

  Xalvador didn’t need to ask where Jack was going, or what he was going to do. He already knew. ‘I will pray for you. I will pray to the Blessed Virgin a hundred times a day for your safe return.’

  Jack didn’t doubt it. If Xalvador said he would pray to the Virgin Mary a hundred times every day, that’s exactly what he would do.

  It was too late in the day to go to the bank. Besides, his horse needed to rest. Both Jack and his horse had a lot of hard riding ahead of them. So Jack spent the night in the ranch house, in the room that had been his when he was a boy.

  He woke up at dawn, and there were a couple of heartbeats when he thought that if he got out of bed and went out to the kitchen he’d find his ma and pa in there, his pa drinking that strong, syrupy coffee he liked, and his ma frying pancakes. But then the moment passed, and he remembered.

  Less than thirty minutes later he was out in the desert, studying the ground for tracks.

  It didn’t take long to find them. There’d been five horses, he reckoned. Five men. They hadn’t taken much trouble to conceal their tracks. Maybe they thought they didn’t need to, out here in the desert. Which suggested they didn’t know much about deserts.

  They’d come from the north, and spent some time on the bluff two miles north of the ranch house, probably watching, counting how many people were in there. Jack found the remains of a fire, behind a boulder so the glow wouldn’t be visible from the house. They spent the night here, Jack thought. Watching and waiting. The men had kicked the ashes, trying to conceal where they’d been, but they hadn’t tried very hard.

  And Jack could see where they’d tethered the horses, on the other side of the bluff. The horses had defecated, and the men hadn’t buried the spoor like they should have done.

  The men had picked their moment, a little after dawn, and then they’d raided the ranch house. Jack figured that maybe three or four of them had gone down there on foot, so they couldn’t be heard, and surprised his ma and pa.

  Most of the provisions in the house had gone, and that’s what the men had been after – the food. His ma’s rings and the money had been a bonus. Maybe they’d intended to kill his ma and pa all along, or maybe killed them because they’d put up a fight, which Jack knew they would have done.

  Maybe one or more of the men had been wounded. Then the one or two men who’d stayed behind with the horses had ridden down from the bluff with all five of the mounts, and they’d all headed south.

  Jack could read the whole story, written into the dirt.

  They were outlaws, no question about it. And they were heading towards Mexico.

  The sheriff in Dry Rock was a man named Tom Harper. He’d been sheriff for about a year and a half, and didn’t have the brains of a jackass.

  ‘You ain’t been out to my folk’s ranch yet,’ said Jack when he found the sheriff in his office, feet up on his desk, chewing a wad of tobacco.

  ‘I don’t have to go out there to know who killed ’em,’ said Harper.

  ‘Yeah? So tell me.’

  ‘Injuns,’ said Harper. ‘They got them Pimas up there. They killed your folk. I figure to get a posse together, ride up there, round a few of ’em up. Make ’em confess. Then we’ll have us a hanging party.’

  The natives who lived in the valley north-east of the ranch were Akimel O’odham, also called the River People. Some white folk called them the Pima. Jack’s ma and pa and the Akimel O’odham had lived side by side for years, there’d never been any trouble.

  ‘It weren’t them,’ said Jack. ‘Whoever it was, they rode down from due north. They rode horses with shod feet, which makes ’em white men. They stole food and carried on due south. They’re outlaws, heading to Mexico.’

  ‘You’re guessing.’

  ‘I used my brain instead of sitting on my fat behind.’

  Harper didn’t like that. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on to the floor and rose up out of his seat. ‘Say that again,’ he said.

  ‘You heard,’ said Jack.

  Harper was a big man, but he was slow. He came around table and swung his right fist at Jack’s head. Jack ducked the blow and jabbed his fingers into the man’s throat.

  Harper gasped for air. And while he gasped for air, Jack deprived the man of his gun and badge. He slipped the badge into his shirt pocket. ‘You don’t deserve it,’ he said. The man wasn’t listening, he was too busy trying to breathe. Jack opened up the gun and shook the cartridges out.

  ‘You could’ve killed me,’ croaked Harper, sitting back down heavily on his chair, his hands up around his bruised throat. ‘That’s attempted murder.’ He wasn’t looking at Jack, he was looking down at the floor, his eyes watering.

  Jack tossed the six-gun onto the desk. It landed with a thud. ‘You’re even stupider than you look,’ he said. ‘You know I’m deputy over in Paradise Flats?’

  ‘Don’t make no difference,’ said Harper. ‘I’m sheriff, right here in Dry Rock.’

  ‘Maybe you should telegraph Sheriff Bob Webster, ask him how many people I’ve killed. You heard of Mort Tolson? Supposed to be the fastest draw west of Kansas? Well, I shot him right between the eyes before his gun had even left his holster. . . .’ Jack demonstrated his quick draw. Pulled his gun, waved his Peacemaker in front of Harper’s face. Harper looked scared. Jack said, ‘Now, are you going to be helpful?’

  Harper nodded, his eyes wide. Jack had read his man exactly right. Harper was a blowhard, a bully who’d spent his life intimidating people with his bulk, but when challenged he folded like damp paper.

  ‘If you don’t want me to drag you out into the street and humiliate you in front of the whole town, you’ll tell me if you’ve heard of any robberies due north of h
ere. About a week ago maybe, give or take a day?’

  Harper indicated the wall behind Jack. ‘All the wanted posters are over there.’

  ‘When did the last batch arrive?’

  ‘Arrived by stagecoach from Phoenix five days ago.’

  The posters probably wouldn’t tell Jack what he needed to know. It took time to typeset a Wanted poster, even if it didn’t have a picture on it, which most of the posters didn’t. And then you had to print out a few hundred copies, and wait for the ink to dry, and dispatch them by train or stagecoach or rider to the various Sheriff’s Offices for miles around. Nevertheless, Jack scrutinized the posters.

  Meanwhile behind him, Harper had picked up the six-gun from his desk and reloaded it. ‘Turn around, you sonofabitch,’ he said.

  ‘These posters ain’t no good to me,’ said Jack. ‘The next batch of posters might be of use, but I don’t have time to wait around for ’em. The men who killed my ma and pa already have two days’ head start, and I don’t want to wait around here longer than I have to. By the way, if you call me a sonofabitch again, I’ll break your nose.’

  ‘I said turn around!’ snarled Harper.

  Jack turned and saw that Harper was pointing the six-gun directly at his head. A sick grin spread across Harper’s face. ‘Nobody makes a fool of Tom Harper,’ he said.

  Jack said, ‘If you say so,’ tipped his hat and walked out the door.

  ‘You get back here!’ yelled Harper.

  Outside, Jack was crossing the street already, heading for the newspaper office.

  ‘I said, get back here, you sonofabitch!’ yelled Harper, coming out of the door of the Sheriff’s Office.

  There were quite a few townsfolk out on the street. And they all stopped and turned to see what all the commotion was all about.

  Jack also stopped and turned. He said, ‘I told you what would happen if you called me a sonofabitch again.’

  Harper jumped off the boardwalk, on to the dusty street, pointing the gun at Jack’s head.

  Jack said, ‘Now haven’t I just finished telling you I shot dead the so-called fastest draw west of Kansas?’

  ‘I never heard of any Mort Tolson, and I never heard of you,’ said Harper. ‘But it don’t matter how fast you say you are, I got the drop on you. I dare you to draw. I dare you – go for your gun, you sonofabitch! I am just itchin’ to blow a hole in your skull!’

  So Jack drew. And Harper squeezed the trigger of his six-gun.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The hammer of the six-gun clicked. Everybody had gone silent, and the click sounded loud.

  Harper stared stupidly at his gun, wondering why it hadn’t fired. He squeezed the trigger again and again, still aiming it at Jack, but each time he squeezed it the gun just clicked.

  Jack had his own gun aimed at Harper’s belly.

  When Harper had squeezed his trigger six times, he squeezed it another six times, and then finally his sluggish brain figured that maybe the gun wasn’t going to fire.

  ‘When I took your gun off you, I bent back the firing pin with the flat of my knife,’ Jack told him. ‘You’re going to have to take it to the gunsmith’s, get it fixed. But only after I’ve shot you in the leg.’ He lowered the gun so it was aimed at Harper’s right thigh.

  ‘No!’ screamed Harper. ‘No! Don’t shoot me! Please!’ He was backing away in the direction of the Sheriff’s Office.

  ‘Aw, it won’t hurt much,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll just graze you. You’ll limp awhile, then it’ll just be a scar. . . .’

  ‘No, please!’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said Jack, ‘otherwise I might shoot something else by accident, and you won’t like that nearly so much.’

  Harper froze.

  The crowd of townspeople was getting bigger every moment, people pouring out of the saloon and the general store and the bank to watch. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in Dry Rock, so this event was a pleasant distraction. Somebody laughed.

  ‘Please don’t shoot me,’ whimpered Harper. ‘I ain’t never been shot before.’

  ‘Shoot him,’ yelled a woman.

  ‘Yeah, shoot him,’ yelled somebody else. ‘He’s the worst sheriff this town’s ever had. You’ll be doing us a favour.’

  A woman in a low-cut dress with feathers in her hair said, ‘Can I shoot him? He’s always wanting us saloon girls to entertain him for nothing, on account of he’s sheriff.’

  ‘But he only got to be sheriff on account of he’s the Mayor’s nephew,’ said another woman, dressed much the same.

  And old man Griffiths, who Jack knew from years back, who’d come out of the general store wearing his customary apron, said, ‘And he’s always wanting goods on account. But he and I both know he’s never going to pay his tab.’

  Jack stared Harper in the eye, raised his aim a little. ‘The more I hear about you,’ he said, ‘the less I like you.’

  He looked like he was squeezing the trigger. Harper screamed ‘No!’ again and kneeled in the dirt. ‘Please, no!’

  Jack fired a bullet into the ground, about six inches from where Harper knelt, quivering, eyes squeezed shut. ‘Damn,’ said Jack. ‘Missed. I’ll have to try again. Hold still. . . .’

  ‘Please. . . .’

  A few long moments crawled by. Everybody went silent. This time it looked like Jack Tanner really was going to shoot the quaking Harper. The only sound was Harper’s whimpering. Then Jack said, ‘You know, I just figured out a way that I don’t have to shoot you.’

  Harper opened his eyes, blinked at Jack.

  ‘I reckon I might decide not to shoot you if you tell all the nice townsfolk here that you don’t want to be sheriff any more.’

  Harper mumbled something at the ground.

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Jack. ‘You want to try it again? Louder this time, so everybody can hear. . . .’

  There was a commotion in the crowd, and a fellow in a nice suit and a pearl grey derby hat pushed his way through. His belly strained the material of his fancy vest. ‘What’s going on here?’ asked the man. And Jack could hear from the tone of his voice how important he thought he was.

  ‘This is just a wild guess, but could you be the mayor?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I am indeed,’ said the man. ‘Wallace P. Dunning. And that man you’re threatening to shoot is the appointed sheriff.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ said Jack. ‘He was just about to tell everybody how he don’t much want to be sheriff any more.’

  Harper figured he was saved. He hauled himself back up onto his feet and pointed a finger at Jack. ‘He jumped me, Uncle Wally. Attacked me from behind!’

  ‘Liar,’ said Jack. ‘You swung a punch at me. Everything after that was self-defence. That’s the law. You should read up on that sometime, what with you supposed to be the sheriff. Not that it matters much now, because you’re still going to tell everybody you don’t want the job. And your Uncle Wally turning up don’t make no difference.’

  The mayor was getting red in the face. ‘I will not stand for this outrage!’ he bellowed. ‘This is civil disobedience! This is rioting in the street! I would be fully within my rights to see you hanging from a gallows before the day is out! Where’s the deputy?’

  A tall, thin man standing up on the boardwalk in front of the general store said, ‘Over here, Mister Mayor.’

  Jack recognized the tall, thin man. It was Zeke Cundey. Somebody else Jack knew from childhood. ‘Hey, Zeke,’ he said.

  Zeke nodded. ‘Hey Jack. Sorry to hear about your folks. They was nice people.’

  ‘Much appreciated,’ said Jack. ‘You deputy here, huh?’

  Zeke shrugged. ‘Pay’s OK, and it’s easier than digging ditches. Every now and again I have to throw a drunken cowpoke in the jail to cool off for the night, but otherwise there ain’t much for a lawman to do around here. Guess it’s much the same over in Paradise Flats.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Jack.

  The mayor didn’t like the way
this was going. ‘Deputy Cundey, I demand that you arrest this man right now, and hold him in jail till he can have a fair trial and get hanged!’

  Zeke squinted at the mayor, thought a moment, scratched an itch on his cheek, and said, ‘Well, the way I figure the situation is this: at this precise moment I’m not sure if your nephew is still sheriff of this town or not. As for you, well I’m wondering if you’re going to be mayor for much longer, especially as it seems your words don’t seem to carry much weight around here. So I think I’ll wait till I can be sure of who I’m supposed to be taking orders from, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Jack looked around at the surrounding crowd. ‘Any of you townsfolk want this Dunning fellow to continue as your mayor?’

  ‘Not me,’ said old man Griffiths. ‘I voted for him two years ago, but I was duped. He promised to bring prosperity to Dry Rock, but so far the only people he’s brought prosperity to is himself and his fool nephew.’

  A whole lot of people seemed to agree with that sentiment. One woman – she looked like she might have been another one of the ladies from the saloon – shouted ‘String ’em both up!’ And just about everybody whooped and hollered in agreement.

  Jack fired another bullet into the hard-packed dirt, to shut everybody up. ‘That ain’t the right way to do it. We do everything nice and legal. If enough people say they don’t want Dunning to be mayor any more, then you get to vote for a new one.’

  ‘You sure that’s the way it’s done?’ asked old man Griffiths.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Jack. ‘Hands up who wants Dunning to stay on as mayor.’

  Nobody put their hand up.

  ‘OK,’ said Jack. ‘So now we got to have nominations. Anybody want to nominate anybody?’

  ‘I nominate you,’ said one of the saloon girls.

  ‘I’m going to be busy a while,’ said Jack.

  Somebody nominated old man Griffiths, and when Jack asked if he accepted the nomination, old man Griffiths said, ‘Guess I couldn’t do a worse job than Dunning.’ So Jack asked for a show of hands to see if anybody wanted old man Griffiths to be mayor, and the majority stuck their hands up, so that was that. Dry Rock had a new mayor.