Josh cleaned up as best he could. The scar across his forehead was fading, but the scar along the side of his head was livid. He looked at himself in the window pane and wondered what such a beautiful woman could see in him. Through the window, he saw Colonel Sturgis returning with the jacket and a hat.
Colonel Sturgis came in and handed Josh the hat. “I noticed yours. I have a couple of extras. Figured you could use a new one.”
Josh tried the hat on. It was just a fit. “I can surely use a new one. I’m much obliged, Colonel.”
He had just slipped on and buttoned the jacket when Fianna came into the dining room. She had cleaned up and changed to a lovely soft yellow dress that accentuated the curves of her young body. Her auburn hair cascaded down over her bare shoulders like a waterfall in an evening sunset, but it was her face Josh couldn’t take his eyes from. Framed by the red of her hair, her emerald green eyes were lit with happiness. Her full red lips were spread in a smile only for him, exposing perfect white teeth. I’m the luckiest man in the world. He looked around the room. Everyone was awestruck with Fianna. Pat offered her his arm and escorted her through the men in the dining room, to Josh.
The ceremony went quickly. Josh could remember only those deep emerald pools and being prompted by Mr. Diehl to say, “Yes.”
He heard Fianna whisper, “Yes.”
Mr. Diehl said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Josh looked down at Mr. Diehl and Pat said, “Aye, you can kiss her now, laddie.”
There were chuckles around the room as Josh bent his head and kissed his wife for the first time. Pat came up and kissed his sister and congratulated Josh. The other men in the room took their turn at congratulating the newlyweds. Fianna and Mrs. Diehl were laughing, and everyone was enjoying the wedding. Josh said to Mr. Diehl, “Thank you for all you’ve done. But we do need to start for Colorado—”
Mrs. Diehl heard him and interrupted, “Josh Logan, what do you mean? It’s the middle of the afternoon. You can spend the night here and leave early in the morning—when everyone is rested.”
That brought a chuckle from the room.
Josh laughed, and smiled at Fianna. “Mrs. Diehl, you didn’t let me finish. I was about to say, we do need to start for Colorado, but that will wait till morning. Today we’ll enjoy the company of friends, and as you said—get a good rest before we leave.”
That brought another round of laughter. The celebration continued through the afternoon. Mrs. Diehl had fixed a massive plate of donuts, and Tiny was enjoying himself immensely, as was everyone else.
Josh slipped the jacket off and handed it back to Sturgis. “Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the loan.”
“I couldn’t have done it for a better man. You’ve rid us of vermin we don’t need here. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks, and good luck to you also.” Josh caught Fianna’s eye across the room. She was laughing and thoroughly enjoying herself. She was a vision. This was her day. “I need to check on Chancy. I’ll be right back, and we can move the party upstairs, if that’s alright with you?”
“Why, husband, you’re a bit forward aren’t you?” Fianna said with laughing eyes. “Yes, go check on your Chancy. I’ll be waiting.”
“Would you like me to go with you?” Tiny asked around a donut.
“No, Tiny,” Josh said. “I wouldn’t want to be the one to get between you and bear sign.” That brought a huge laugh from everyone. “I just want to check on Chancy, and I’ll be right back.”
Josh stepped outside of Diehls’ Emporium and Boarding house, turned right, and headed to the stable. His boots rang hollow on the boardwalk before he cut across the street. He noticed the stable doors were closed. I thought Tiny kept the stable open, except at night. He put the momentary concern aside. Tiny probably closed it for the wedding. Josh opened the smaller door and stepped into the stable. With the doors closed, it was dark inside. He stood for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
He felt like a mule kicked him in his left jaw. Dazed, he staggered to his right and fell into the hay pile.
Bartholf reached down, dragged him up, and yanked his Colt out of the holster. “You won’t be needing this, soldier-boy.” He tossed the gun across the stable. “Where’s the map?”
Josh’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light. He could make out Bartholf clearly. “Are you crazy? You had a chance to be safe—to be gone. Now you’re back for that stupid map?” Josh shook his head, “We burned the map in the house—it’s gone. And Bartholf, there never was any gold.”
Bartholf stared at Josh. “No map? You burned the map?” He let out a sound, like an animal in pain, and swung at Josh again.
Only this time Josh wasn’t there. He slipped under Bartholf's left jab and planted a quick right hook to Bartholf's floating ribs. It was like he was hitting a wall. Bartholf didn’t even wince. Bartholf kicked out and caught Josh backing up. Josh went sprawling onto the floor of the stable. Bartholf was on him cat-fast. He kicked at Josh and caught him a glancing blow in the ribs. Josh rolled again, and as Bartholf aimed a kick at the side of his head, Josh grabbed his boot and twisted hard, throwing Bartholf to the ground. Josh leaped to his feet. Bartholf was on his feet in an instant. He moved in, grinning.
Josh hit him with a straight right jab to the mouth, splitting his lip. Bartholf spit blood and continued to grin, blood showing on his teeth. He feinted with a left jab. Josh fell for it. He dodged to his right, directly into Bartholf’s uppercut. It caught him in the solar plexus. He doubled over, back pedaling quickly, trying to get air into his paralyzed lungs and to stay away from Bartholf.
Bartholf moved in again. Josh had barely caught his wind when Bartholf hit him with a straight left jab that caught him above the right eye. The skin split, and blood gushed into his eye. The blow had rocked him back on his heels. He lost his balance and fell through the door into the street. He scrambled back to his feet as Bartholf came through the now open door. Josh stepped in close, feinted with his right and kicked Bartholf on top of his left kneecap.
They were in the street now. Bartholf went down into the dirt. He held his knee for a moment, then slowly got up. Josh was breathing heavily, but was feeling good. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body and his scalp was starting to tingle. Josh knew rage was taking over, and he didn’t care. This was the animal that had pulled his wife onto the horse by her hair.
Bartholf was more cautious now. He threw a left jab, and Josh tossed it off. Sure enough, Bartholf came in with a high right cross. Josh went in under it with a left cross. He put all of his weight behind the punch and slammed Bartholf directly over the liver. The bigger man stopped and folded over from the pain. Josh stepped in and hit him with a right, a left, and a right to the face, smashing his lip and cutting his eye, then he straightened Bartholf up with an uppercut to the chin. Bartholf fell back against the hitching rail in front of the King 7. The hitching rail gave way, and he sprawled on the boardwalk.
The liver punch had hurt Bartholf. Josh could see his eyes widen in concern with the realization that he might have met his match. He lay on the boardwalk for a moment, recovering, then pushed himself up to his full height and swung his arms, stretching his back muscles. He glanced away from Josh, then charged. His shirt was torn, and the bulging biceps pushed through the rents in his shirt. Josh tried to move back, but Bartholf came on too fast and managed to get his arms locked around him. The pain in his back was intense as Bartholf squeezed. Josh hit Bartholf a left and right in the face, but Bartholf continued to increase the pressure. In desperation, Josh cupped both hands and slammed them over Bartholf’s ears. The instant increase in pressure burst Bartholf’s left ear drum. Bartholf dropped Josh as blood erupted from his left ear. He grabbed for his ear, and Josh hit him with another hard hook to his liver. Bartholf went to his knees. He looked up in time to see Josh’s big left fist coming straight for his jaw. The sound of the collision between Josh’s fist and Bartholf’s jaw rivaled the cra
ck of a musket. Bartholf’s lower jaw was askew, and he was on his knees with his head lolling from side to side. Josh started to move in again when Pat grabbed him. He turned on Pat with his left hand cocked, “It’s me Josh,” Pat said. “It’s over. You beat him. You beat him good.”
Josh looked at Pat as if he didn’t know him, “Do you know what this animal did to Fianna?”
He felt the rage slowly fading. He looked down at Bartholf and then at his fists. His hands were bloody and bruised. He took a deep breath. His body ached all over. Josh looked around him, realizing for the first time that a crowd had formed. He found Colonel Sturgis. He slowly walked over to the colonel, “Sir, could you take care of this man? He was with Pierce when he shot Mr. Diehl and kidnapped Fianna.”
“He’ll be dealt with, Major Logan. I must say this has been the best fight that I’ve ever seen. I’m glad to have known you.”
Logan nodded. He was tired. His arms felt like stumps, and his hands were starting to ache. He staggered forward a step and felt someone take his arm and guide him toward the Diehls’ Emporium and Boarding House. He looked down through his blood covered eye and saw his lovely Fianna.
She looked up at him with those emerald green eyes that he loved and said, “You know, Josh, we could stay for two days—before we leave for Colorado.”
Suddenly, he felt his fatigue slip away. “Why, Mrs. Logan, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
Epilogue
It was another hot day in West Texas. The wind scattered a fine dust over the landscape, but the coyote didn’t notice. She was panting from exertion. The pack rat she was chasing had run into his hole, and the hole went deep into the ground. Her pups had not eaten, and she needed to feed them. The pack rat wouldn’t be much of a meal, but it would be something, at least until she could kill something bigger.
She had been digging quite a while when she felt a vibration in the ground. She came up out of the ravine to see what was happening. There, across the prairie, was a sight that she seldom saw. It was a wagon with several horses, one a big gray, and three humans. The coyote’s curiosity got the better of her, and she trotted toward the wagon. She sat on her haunches, licked her front leg for a moment, and watched the red-headed woman point at her. The coyote sat there and scratched behind her right ear as the wagon slowly passed by.
The coyote lost interest and trotted back to her quest. She could hear the wagon slowly moving northwest. The pack rat had tunneled even deeper into the sand. As the coyote dug, her foot hit a rock. The pack rat must be under the rock. She increased her digging, dirt flying out behind her for six feet. The rock was heavier than most rocks, smooth and hard to move. Her foot kept slipping off the rock. Still, she continued to dig. Her pups depended on her. She could smell the pack rat. It wasn’t far. She became more frantic. The sun was setting, and she must get back to her pups. She managed to get one foot behind the rock and pulled with all of her might. The pack rat came dashing out as the rock fell and rolled down into the ravine. She had to jump to get out of the way as other rocks followed, but she was ready for the pack rat. She grabbed him and shook him until she knew he was dead, then, with the satisfaction of knowing that she had food for her pups, she trotted proudly out of the ravine and turned toward her den. She had a ways to go and wanted to get there quickly. The setting sun felt good on her back as she trotted away to feed her pups.
The angle of the ravine allowed the setting sun’s rays to glint off the rocks she had exposed. They were in the bottom of the ravine, their heavy weight already beginning to force them deeper into the soft sand. They were rectangular in shape and gold in color.
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FORTY-FOUR CALIBER JUSTICE
Donald L. Robertson
CHAPTER ONE
The sweet, putrid stench of death and burned flesh, wafting on the soft spring breeze, slammed into Clay when he topped the hill just north of home. The ranch house rested quietly in the valley below, surrounded by a sea of bluebonnets.
Clay kicked Blue in the flanks. The surprised roan, tired from three days of chasing cattle, raced down the hill, dodging the prickly pear and cedars. Like his pa had always taught him, Clay slipped the hammer thongs off both the Remington Navy revolvers as he leaned over Blue’s neck. His hat blew off, but he didn’t slow.
The body was hanging from a massive limb on the big, old oak next to the ranch house, the oak he used to climb and daydream among its cool branches, always soothing during the hot summers. The oak that had provided shade and respite now held a body—a body shot, hanged, and burned. Turkey buzzards, their red heads glistening in the sun, sat in the tree and on the ground.
He yanked Blue to a sliding halt and leaped from the saddle, his eyes riveted on the burned remains. Tears filled his eyes as he recognized the body. The fire had burned his pa, and the bullet hole in the side of his head had disfigured him, but he was still recognizable.
“Pa, you can’t be dead, you just can’t.” Clay’s tears streamed down his sun-browned cheeks and fell in the dust, making miniature volcanoes as they hit. His father’s body swung lightly in the breeze.
Movement near the barn caught his eye. In one smooth motion, he wheeled around and palmed the Remington. Buzzards pecked and pulled at another body. The Remington bucked twice, the shots coming so fast they sounded as one. An explosion of black feathers erupted, and two buzzards became food for their kin. Clay wheeled back at the sound of wingbeats, the shots chasing the other buzzards out of the tree and into the air, where they circled slowly, patiently waiting.
He trotted over to the body at the barn. It was Slim, riddled with holes. An empty .44 Henry case lay near his body. It was a wonder Slim had managed to get off even one shot with all the bullet holes in him. Slim had been with them as long as Clay could remember. His pa and Slim had been good friends long before the war.
Ma. The thought hit him like a sledgehammer. He raced to the house, dreading what he might find.
A cool wind moaned softly through the breezeway. He opened the door into the kitchen and study. Ma must’ve been cooking. The fire in the stove had burned out. Flour was in a mixing bowl on the table, and the churn was nearby with a chair pulled up to it, but no Ma. Dishes and pots and pans were scattered across the kitchen. Books from the shelves in the study were lying about the room.
Clay had so many good memories here. Memories of laughter around the table with Pa and Ma and Slim, crowded together with the smell of fresh-baked biscuits, of Ma making peach preserves. Ma was so pretty. Everybody said so. At the barn dances, all the men danced with her. Pa just stood back with his confident smile. He sure loved Ma, and she him.
Clay looked into Slim’s room behind the kitchen. Empty. Slim’s makeshift chest had been torn open, and all of his things were strewn about the room. The mattress had been thrown back and ripped open with a knife. Ticking was everywhere. His pillow had been sliced, and feathers covered the ripped mattress.
Clay stepped out of Slim’s room onto the breezeway. He glanced to the right, barely noticing the blooms of the peach trees and grapevines his ma had planted. She loved her orchard. Nothing moved behind the house except the leaves on the trees.
Three quick steps took him across the breezeway to the door into his room. He pushed it open. His room had also been torn apart. Everything lay scattered. The drawers of his bureau were on the floor, and clothes were tossed about. His bed had been sliced open, along with his pillow. These weren’t Indians. This was the work of white devils. Thieves. Killers. He turned to his left and opened the door into his ma and pa’s bedroom, always so neat and clean.
She lay silent on the bed. Her neck was black from bruising, where two big hands had choked the last breath of life from her. Clay’s tears flowed
freely, cutting little rivers through his dusty face. A sob escaped him. He grabbed a sheet from the floor where they had been scattered and covered his mother’s tiny, bloody body. Her face was calm and peaceful in death, as if the ravaging and raping of her body had not reached her soul. Clay stood silent, looking at her. Gabrielle Amalina Chevalier had brought him into this world, had brought laughter and happiness into this house and made it a home. She lit up any room with her smile. Her smile was gone forever.
He had no idea how long he stood there, but, in time, the tears stopped. His soft gray eyes took a steely shade, and the promise of laughter that constantly played around the corners of his eyes and mouth disappeared. The softness of the seventeen-year-old hardened, and his heart turned cold.
“I promise you, Ma. They’ll pay. Whoever did this to you will pay. I’ll not rest until every one of these men is dead. I promise you that.”
Clay picked up a quilt, walked out of the bedroom, and turned right onto the porch. There was gruesome work to do. He walked over to Blue, mounted him, and eased up to his pa. He wrapped the quilt around his pa and hugged him, for the last time, with a muscular arm. Reaching up with the bowie knife that Slim had given him, he sliced the rope. He hardly noticed the weight of his father. Clay laid him gently across the saddle and rode a few yards to the field of bluebonnets that his ma loved. He stepped down from the saddle and gently placed his father on the ground.
Holding Blue’s reins, he walked over to Slim. Slim had grown up with Pa. They’d gone to war together. When Pa started this ranch, Slim had pitched in. Pa always said that Slim was more than a brother could ever be. They had seen the elephant together and survived. Ma had liked Slim. He was just an all-around likable guy. But crossing him could be a fatal mistake. He had been deadly with a gun, a knife, or his fists. To Clay, Slim was like an uncle. What Pa hadn’t taught him, Slim had.
Logan's Word: A Logan Family Western - Book 1 (Logan Family Western Series) Page 26
