"It's out of your jurisdiction," Cully pointed out.
At last, Brennan broke in and laughed. "You'd best learn to let your elders change their minds once in a while, Cully. Isn't that right, Marshal?"
"Right as rain, Marshal," Flint agreed.
Cully looked past Flint and saw Nicholas Stockbridge riding into town, surrounded by several heavily armed Pinkerton agents. Behind him came the rest of the posse that had originally left Abilene, and riding with them were Hannah and Elizabeth. Someone had loaned the older sister a duster to wear. Elliott Pannier rode close beside her, his arm in a sling and his eyes never leaving her. With the bloody bandage on his arm and a gun tucked in his belt, he looked nothing like the rather mild, dry executive who had come to Abilene on Nicholas Stockbridge's special train. And from the way Elizabeth was looking at him, it was obvious she no longer found him at all boring.
"Where's Roland Stockbridge?" Flint asked, his face becoming solemn.
Cully nodded toward the saloon. "In there. Wolfe killed him." Quickly and quietly, so that only Flint and Brennan could hear, Cully told them about Wolfe's connection with Roland Stockbridge, revealing that Roland had been the one who set up the aborted train robbery with Wolfe. "Everything fell apart after that," Cully finished. He saw that Nicholas Stockbridge, his daughters, and Elliott Pannier had dismounted and were walking toward the saloon. He took a deep breath and frowned. "Now, what do I say to them?"
"I reckon that's up to you, son," Brennan said.
"That's right," Flint agreed. "You make up your mind, Cully, and do whatever you think is right. Brennan and I will back you up."
"Thanks." Limping on his bullet-creased leg, Cully strode forward to meet the Stockbridges and Pannier. He saw the smile on Hannah's face as her eyes met his, saw the looks of gratitude on the faces of Stockbridge, Elizabeth, and Pannier. As he looked at their faces, he made his decision.
Hannah ran ahead to meet him, and taking his arm, she drew it around her and let him lean on her. She looked up at him and said anxiously, "Are you all right, Cully?"
He smiled. "Reckon I'll be just fine, once I can get off this leg for a while."
"Have you seen Roland?"
Nicholas Stockbridge echoed the question.
Cully looked around at all of them, meeting their worried gazes, and then said slowly, "I'm sorry. I've got some bad news for you."
Epilogue
“You did the right thing, Cully,” Lucas Flint told him the next morning as they were getting ready to pull out of Elysium. "There was no need for any of them to know the truth about the boy. That just would have made the hurting worse."
Cully carefully hoisted his saddle onto his horse's back. He knew there were plenty of people around who would have been glad to handle the chore for him, but he was going to have to learn to manage with a sore leg for a while. Might as well start now, he thought.
"You and Brennan knew what I'd do, didn't you?" he asked.
"Let's just say we had a pretty good idea," Flint replied. Already in the saddle, he turned his horse to ride back among the other members of the group and check their progress in getting ready to leave for Abilene.
Cully's leg was bandaged, and Brennan's arm was back in its sling. The two of them had spent most of the night sitting around a fire with Flint and Angus, talking about the violent events of the past week and trying to make some sense of them. They would never know the full story of Roland Stockbridge's treachery, but it was clear to Cully from some of the things that had been said that the young man had been consumed with ambition, a lust for power as much as money. And it was likely that he never would have had enough of either, having such a strong-willed man as Nicholas Stockbridge for a father.
There was some good in Roland, though, Cully thought. Probably the main reason he had come with the posse in the first place was to get a chance to kill Wolfe, but Cully felt sure that he had been partially motivated by his feelings for Elizabeth, too.
No matter what he had been in life, Cully hoped his family could remember him well, and that was what counted.
During the conversation the night before, Cully had also had some of his suspicions confirmed by Tom Brennan.
"I followed you, Angus, and Pannier when you left the last time," Brennan had told Cully. "The more I thought about it, the more I realized that you'd been right all along, Cully. I was letting my hate get in the way of my brain, and that's not a good thing for a lawman. I'm sorry, son."
Cully had grinned across the fire and sipped his coffee. "I'm just glad you ran into Angus and the others when I sent them back to the horses. Wolfe would have killed me for sure if you hadn't showed up when you did."
"Maybe, maybe not. You're pretty good with that gun." To Abilene's marshal, he said, "You'd best keep an eye on this one, Lucas, or somebody's going to hire him away from you." Brennan nodded thoughtfully. "Why, with the proper training, we might even make a U.S. marshal out of him."
"Not likely." Cully had laughed heartily.
Now, as he pulled himself up into the saddle, the deputy glanced over and saw Brennan several yards away. The federal lawman was sitting on top of his white horse, the strap of his big black hat tight under his chin, that knowing grin on his face. Brennan laughed as Angus, who sat astride his horse next to him, said something.
Tom Brennan was a piece of work, all right. Cully was going to miss him once they got back to Abilene and Brennan went on to his next assignment.
"How do you feel this morning, Cully?" a gentle voice asked, drawing his attention the other way.
Hannah Stockbridge had ridden up beside him. Although there was deep sadness in her eyes because of her brother's death, she had a sweet smile on her face for him.
"Why, I'm feeling fine," Cully said, grinning back at her. "Strong as can be, and ready to ride back to Kansas."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that. You can't be too careful with bullet wounds, though." Hannah leaned over in the saddle, moving closer to him, and lowering her voice. "I'm going to appoint myself your personal nurse, Cully Markham. Anything you need, I'll be right there for you."
"I'll hold you to that," Cully replied.
Everyone was mounted now. It was a big group, what with the Pinkertons and the original posse members. Nicholas Stockbridge rode alone with his grief, but Elizabeth and Pannier were side by side, the way Cully figured they would be from now on. Flint rode up to the front of the group and waved his arm, and slowly they got underway. Brennan joined Flint at the front, and with the two marshals leading, the riders left Elysium behind.
Cully glanced over at Hannah Stockbridge and had to grin again. Getting back to Abilene promised to be a lot more pleasant than leaving it.
Rancher’s Revenge
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Prologue
Ira Powell sat at the simple plank table in his family's rough-hewn cabin and stared at his gnarled hands clasped tightly in front of him. The Georgia night outside the cabin was ominously quiet, the air heavy with the dampness of an impending storm. Ira Powell wasn’t brooding about the weather, however, but about another storm brewing evilly all around him.
Worry gnawed at the whole family. Ira's wife Hattie moved around the table, serving a supper of fried chicken, potatoes, and greens, but as she placed the platters on the table, she kept glancing nervously at the door and the window beside it. Across the table from Ira sat his twenty-year-old son, Tom, a frown creasing his haggard, lined face. The young man looked much older than his years, but then, so did his parents. In one
corner of the large room, the girl, Violet, anxiously chewed her lower lip while she stood at the stove and stirred a pan of gravy.
Several hours had passed since the two carpetbaggers dressed in fancy suits had driven their shiny carriage to the Powell farm and informed the family that they would have to leave.
"It's all perfectly legal, Mr. Powell," one of the men had said with a smirk. "Your taxes on this land were due yesterday. You failed to pay them, so we've met that obligation and taken over the farm."
"But it's not right," Ira had protested desperately. "I'm a law-abiding man, but the taxes have gone up so much. It's unreasonable!"
"It's the law," the second man said firmly. He was a fat man and was perspiring heavily in the humid Southern heat. He tipped his bowler hat back on his head and pointed the cigar he was smoking at Ira. "You trash have to learn that you can't mess with the government. You had better be gone by tonight, or we'll put you off."
Tom, who had been standing behind his father, had said, "This is our land, and we're not leavin', mister. You try to put us off, and you're liable to get a bellyful of buckshot!"
Ira Powell had seen the look of raw hatred that passed between the two carpetbaggers then, and he had wished that Tom had been able to restrain his anger. These men were dangerous.
Without saying another word, the carpetbaggers had furiously whipped their team into motion, and the carriage had lurched down the narrow track in a cloud of red Georgia dust. With a sinking feeling—a deep, growing sense of foreboding—Ira had watched them go. He had known that trouble would come. Some of his neighbors had tried to resist when the Northerners first arrived, and ugly violence and tragedy had been the result.
These thoughts plagued him now as he mechanically ate the supper Hattie had set before him. He fervently prayed that the hate that had ravaged the South after the Civil War wouldn’t touch his family.
The sudden pounding of hoofbeats shattered the stillness of the night and dashed his hopes.
At the sound of angry voices outside the cabin, Tom lunged to his feet. He snatched up the shotgun that lay on the bench beside him and took a step toward the door. Ira moved quickly to stop him.
"Wait," he ordered his son. "I'll talk to them."
Hattie clutched at her husband's arm. "Be careful, Ira," she pleaded with him. "Don't make them angry."
"I'll just tell them to go and leave us in peace," he told her, patting her shoulder. The war and its aftermath had been cruel, and Ira had hoped to spare her any more anguish. She had been sickly for the last few years. He turned, opened the door, and stepped into the night as a man shouted his name.
Ira Powell faced the terrifying sight of a dozen men on horseback. Several of them carried torches; others held rifles in their hands. The man in the lead grinned down at him and said, "Howdy, Powell. I thought you was told to get off this here land."
"Hello, Sawyer," Ira replied. His throat was dry, and his voice cracked. He recognized the man as a local roughneck who would do just about anything, legal or not, as long as the price was right. The men with Sawyer were cut from the same cloth, all of them hired thugs.
Ira cleared his throat and went on, "This is my place. You've got no right to be here, and neither has that Northern scum you're working for."
"The law says different," Sawyer replied, still grinning arrogantly. He jerked a thumb at the battered piece of tin pinned to the front of his dirty shirt. "I guess you didn't notice the badge. The fellas and I are special deputies now, appointed by the mayor."
Tom strode through the open cabin door and stood behind Ira. He still held the shotgun and started to raise it as he shouted, "Get off our land, you dirty thieves!"
"Look out!" one of the men cried. "He's got a gun, Sawyer!"
"No!" Ira screamed. Seeing out of the corner of his eye that Sawyer was reaching for the pistol strapped to his hip, Ira whirled around. As the thug's gun cleared leather, Ira grasped the barrel of the shotgun and forced it down, pushing Tom out of the way.
Sawyer's gun cracked.
A piercing scream burst from the cabin. Ira jerked around, pulling the shotgun from Tom's hands and flinging it to the ground.
"You didn't have to shoot!" he exclaimed, staring in horror at Sawyer. He turned toward the cabin door in time to see Violet dash outside, her hands covered with blood, her eyes wide with anguish.
Tom grabbed the shoulders of the shaking, terrified girl and pulled her to a stop. "Mama?" he asked in a choked voice.
Violet shook her head. "She's hurt bad, Tom," she stammered hoarsely. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Ira ran into the cabin. Behind him, he heard Sawyer laugh and then shout, "Burn the place down! The new owner's got no use for a shack like this!"
Desperately scanning the room, Ira's gaze fell on his wife. Hattie was slumped on one of the benches near the table. Her hands clutched at her middle, and blood flowed freely between her fingers. As she looked up at him, Ira saw a trace of a smile on her lips. Then she fell on her side, and her eyes glazed over.
"Noooo!" Ira wailed. He sobbed as he ran to her and gathered her limp, lifeless form in his arms.
Through the black veil of grief enveloping him, he heard Tom's angry shouts, Violet's frightened screams, and the curses of Sawyer and his raiders. A shotgun boomed; pistols cracked. A moment later, Tom ran into the cabin, dragging Violet with him. He slammed the door behind him as bullets thudded into the thick, plank walls. The window beside the door shattered as slugs struck it, spraying shards of glass all over the room. A pair of torches flew through the opening, their flames igniting the faded curtains.
Tom frantically clutched at Ira's arm. "Come on, Pa!" he said. "We've got to get out of here!"
The wooden walls burst into flame as Tom tried to drag Ira to the window in the back wall of the cabin. That window was their only hope of escaping death, for within moments the cabin would be an inferno.
As he stumbled toward the window, Ira looked over his shoulder at his wife's body. The small part of his brain that was still rational knew Sawyer's bullet had missed Tom, gone through the open door, and struck Hattie. Grief overwhelmed the rest of his mind.
Tom swiftly broke the window with the butt of the shotgun, smashing the glass several times to make the opening as large as possible. Then he helped Violet through it, being careful not to cut her on any of the jagged glass remaining in the frame. The young man urged his father through the opening next, then scrambled through the window himself.
A thick stand of pines grew close to the back of the cabin. The three fugitives ran for the safety of the trees. Ira could hear the raiders at the front of the cabin still shooting, whooping, and laughing as the fire caught hold and the simple building blazed.
As tree branches lashed at his face and body, Ira Powell stumbled in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity. He knew he was leaving not only his beloved wife but all that he had worked for throughout his life. He was numb with shock. It was gone now, all gone—and it was all perfectly legal.
At dawn the next morning, Ira Powell stood in the doorway of Frank Boyle's cabin and watched the sun rise. Frank's cabin was two miles over the rugged hills from the Powell farm, and the three weary fugitives had found shelter there.
Ira turned and looked into the cabin at the sleeping forms of Tom and Violet. They had collapsed in an exhausted slumber that had overcome their grief and terror. Ira had been awake all night, his mind churning, his heart broken. He sighed and looked once more at the brightening sky and Frank Boyle's hard-won homestead, so like his own.
Seeing Frank chopping wood in a corner of the yard next to the barn, Ira stepped through the cabin doorway and wearily walked over to him.
"Thank you for taking us in, Frank," he said solemnly as the neighbor leaned on his ax. "You know you might get into trouble for helping us."
"I'll take that chance," Frank said. "Shoot, we're neighbors, Ira. Neighbors got to help each other out." The man's mouth twisted in a scowl. '"Sides,
they'll be coming for my place soon enough anyway. I can't pay my taxes, either."
"Why don't you and your family leave before that happens?" Ira asked. During his sleepless night he had forced himself to think of a new life to avoid feeling his pain and loss. He knew other poor farmers in the area were experiencing the same problems he and his family had faced. In a very short time they, too, would be driven from their homes.
Frank shrugged. "It might not be a bad idea to make a new start, but where would we go?"
"I've heard of some folks who make it their business to help immigrants go west," Ira told him. "They're some sort of religious society in Atlanta. I think we should all go talk to them, Frank. Your family, and what's left of mine, and all the other folks around here who've been losing their land."
As he put his thoughts into words, excitement grew in Ira, and he began to plan even more. He and Tom could go back to their farm and salvage what they could. Other families in the area might want to pack up their belongings, too, before they lost them to the violence of the carpetbaggers and their henchmen. Ira had a vision of a whole wagon train of his friends and neighbors, escaping the hell of a vengeful Reconstruction and heading west to a new land. Hattie would like that, he thought. She would like knowing that her family was going to survive and prosper with a fresh start.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 59
