"Enforcing the law and making sure that everyone is treated fairly is my job," Flint said.
The man grunted, lifted the bottom of his bandanna, and spat contemptuously. "Doesn't look like you're doing a very good job of it, Marshal. Otherwise you wouldn't be out here taking part in this little shindig."
Before Flint could reply, Ira walked toward the man's horse and said, "The marshal is here because he was invited, mister. And now you are, too."
Stunned, both Flint and Copeland looked at him as if he had lost his mind. The leader of the riders uttered an incredulous, "What?"
"You're invited to join us, you and your friends. There's good music and dancing and some fine punch. So why don't you join the festivities?"
Tom Powell cried, "Pa! What—"
Ira waved his son into silence. "How about it?" he said, looking up at the bearded man.
Finally, the man shook his head. "You are one crazy old coot," he muttered. Looking back at Flint, he went on, "I reckon these people know what we want. They're to get out of these parts as soon as possible or suffer the consequences. In the meantime, my men and I will be patrolling the area, and we won't stand for any trouble from sodbusters." He urged his horse forward. "And just so you don't forget—"
The animal pushed against the table piled high with food and punch bowls as the man reached down and grabbed its edge. In a single movement, the table overturned with a gigantic crash, scattering food and breaking plates and bowls. The children wailed in protest, and their mothers sobbed.
The rest of the raiders suddenly tilted their rifles and started firing into the night sky. As they boomed their weapons into the blackness, they spurred their horses and galloped out of the circle of light, vanishing into the darkened Kansas prairie.
Doug Copeland raged a torrent of profanity at the cloud of dust the raiders left in their wake. The settler men rushed to Copeland, Flint, and Ira, clamoring to know what they planned to do about this new threat. Any thought of continuing the party was abandoned. The women had begun to collect their children and herd them into the wagons.
"Quiet!" Flint roared. "Quiet, please." When the clamor around him subsided, he said, "You men go on home. I don't think anything else will happen tonight, but keep your eyes open anyway."
Grumbling and disappointed, the settlers boarded their wagons and rolled away from Copeland's ranch house, scattering to the soddies they had built. Flint and Ira watched them go.
Saying he needed a real drink, Copeland stalked into the house.
"What do you think, Marshal?" Ira asked.
Flint considered his answer for a moment. He was well aware that Tom was standing nearby. The young man was furious at what had happened tonight.
That was understandable, Flint thought. He had a burr under the saddle himself. "Those weren't just cowhands out to have a good time," he said. "I'm not sure who they were or what they really want, but I intend to find out."
"They looked like they meant business," Ira said drily.
Tom said, "I don't think any of us should go anywhere from now on without havin' a gun with us."
That suggestion came as no surprise to Flint, and he couldn’t dispute Tom's logic. The situation was now more dangerous than ever.
"Stay close to home, and be alert," Flint said. "I'll be looking into this."
"Look hard, Marshal," Tom said coldly, "before too many folks get killed."
10
During the long ride back to Abilene, Lucas Flint thought about what had happened and tried to come up with a plan to keep the trouble from getting worse. With the arrival of these new raiders, the situation had become intolerable.
As had been pointed out to him, Copeland's ranch was outside his jurisdiction. Friendship for Ira Powell and a desire to maintain peace in Abilene had motivated his actions. But he could legally wash his hands of the whole affair and simply throw anyone who made trouble in town, cowhand and sodbuster alike, into jail.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Flint knew he couldn’t operate that way. He had always worked on the side of justice, and he couldn’t close his eyes now.
As he crossed the bridge over Mud Creek and walked his horse into town, he could hear the merry strains of music coming from the courthouse at the other end of Texas Street. Normally bustling with relaxing cowboys on a Saturday night, the street was deserted, a sure sign to Flint that the dance was still in full swing. Seeing that no one was waiting for him at the marshal's office, Flint continued on to the courthouse and tied up his horse.
Several groups of men stood on the lawn around the stately building, talking and passing flasks back and forth. Some of them nodded and said hello as the marshal walked toward the front door. He returned the greetings and stepped through the doorway into the brightly lit hall, taking off his hat as he did so.
Quite a few couples filled the floor, which had been cleared of chairs for the occasion. The small platform where the town council usually sat was now a bandstand. The musicians who stood there and played were more skilled than their counterparts at the settlers' dance and matched them in enthusiasm. Everyone appeared to be having a fine time.
Scanning the crowd, Flint noticed Cully standing near the table where the punch bowls sat. He had a cup in his hand and was smiling as he sipped it and watched the dancers.
Flint saw Rose Keller dancing with a tall, burly, bearded man. Recognizing the man as Leslie Garrison, the town's new schoolteacher, the marshal frowned. He had heard about Garrison and his prizefighting past from Cully and Angus, and the newcomer's athletic ability was apparent from the graceful way he moved as he danced.
Stifling an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy, Flint decided that Rose could dance with whomever she pleased. He liked and admired the doctor, but the two of them were only friends. Nevertheless, at that moment he wished she were in his arms, moving like a dream to the spirited music.
Shaking his head, he started around the edge of the room, heading toward Cully. He had more important things to think about than who was dancing with whom.
Cully saw him coming and grinned. "No trouble, Marshal," he announced as Flint walked up to him. "Everything's been quiet."
"That's good," Flint replied. "I'm surprised you're not dancing. I figured Alice Hammond would have worn your boots down to bare feet by now."
Cully laughed. "She's been trying, and so have some of the other ladies. I'm just resting before I go back out there."
Flint gestured at the punch cup in the deputy's hand. "Anybody try to spike that?"
"No. That's going on outside."
Flint remembered the men standing outside the building and nodded. "As long as they don't start any trouble, I don't mind." One of the dancers caught his eye. "I see Houston Day is here."
Cully glanced at the barrel-chested rancher, who was whirling a local widow around the dance floor. Day's wife had passed away several years earlier, and he was regarded as a prime catch by the unattached, middle-aged women of the town. "He's been here all evening," Cully said. "Most of the other ranchers are around, too."
"I've been wondering about that," Flint said thoughtfully.
Cully looked sharply at him. "Something happen out at Copeland's?"
"Let's go outside, and I'll tell you about it."
Cully put his cup on the table and followed Flint through the back door of the building. Once outside, the marshal quickly told Cully about the masked riders disrupting the farmers' dance.
"Day's men have been here the whole time," Cully said when Flint was finished. "Billy, too. So it couldn't have been them. Do you think they were some cowhands from one of the other spreads?"
Flint shook his head. "I don't think so. They didn't act like cowhands on a tear. They were out to do more than throw a scare into those settlers. Given the least excuse, they would have shot up the place."
"And if a lawman hadn't been there," Cully speculated.
"I imagine you're right. We were lucky tonight, Cully. I've got a feeling that as
long as those men are in the area, things are just going to get worse."
"Sounds to me like they're hired guns brought in by the ranchers."
"That's the impression I got, too," Flint agreed. "I think I'll ride out to the Rafter D next week and have a word with Houston Day."
"He's inside. Why not tonight?"
Flint shook his head. "I don't want to spoil the dance. And Day's just the type to get his back up and make a scene. I'd rather talk to him at his ranch." Flint ran a tired hand over his face. "Why don't you go on back inside and enjoy what's left of the dance?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Go to the office. I've got some thinking to do."
Cully nodded. "All right." He forced a grin. "We'll get it all sorted out sooner or later."
Flint wished he could be that optimistic.
As the deputy returned to the party through the rear door, Flint walked across the broad lawn surrounding the courthouse toward the street. As he reached the boardwalk, a laughing couple strolled arm in arm out of the front door of the courthouse.
Flint heard his name and turned to see Rose Keller and Leslie Garrison. In the light spilling out from inside, Flint could see that Rose's smiling face was flushed from the dancing. She had never looked prettier, he thought.
"Hello, Lucas," Rose said merrily. "Have you met Leslie Garrison, the new schoolteacher?"
"Not formally." Flint extended his hand to the big man. "I've seen you around, Mr. Garrison. You're hard to miss."
Leslie returned the firm grip. "So are you, Marshal. I'm glad to meet you. Dr. Keller has been singing your praises all evening long."
Flint glanced at Rose, whose blush deepened. "I just told Leslie about some of the things that have happened since you came to Abilene, Lucas."
"It has been eventful," Flint admitted drily.
"We came outside for a breath of fresh air," the teacher said. "Aren't you coming into the dance, Marshal?"
"I've been inside to speak with Cully. I've got to go to the office now." Flint lightly slapped his thigh. "I picked up some buckshot in this leg not long ago. Don't know if it'd be a good idea to do any dancing just yet."
"Well, Lucas, as your doctor, I can assure you that a dance or two isn't going to affect your injury," Rose said.
Flint smiled. "Maybe not, but I really do have some work to do." He turned to Leslie. "I am curious, though, about how you're getting along with Emery Thornbury, Mr. Garrison."
Leslie laughed, a deep, booming sound. "We haven't killed each other yet, Marshal. I guess that's something. Let's just say that we have different philosophies when it comes to educating children."
The man certainly didn’t sound like a former bare-knuckle brawler, Flint thought. Slugger Garrison, that was what Angus had called him.
"I wish you luck, Mr. Garrison," Flint said. He put on his hat and extended his hand to Leslie again.
"Good night, Lucas," Rose said as he strolled to the hitchrack.
"Good night," he called back.
As he rode to the office, he put thoughts of Rose and Leslie Garrison out of his mind and concentrated on the settlers' problems. Dismounting, he ambled into the office and lit the fire under the coffee. He was certain it would be a long night.
Flint tossed his hat on a peg and shrugged out of his coat. When the coffee was ready, he poured a steaming cupful, sat down at his desk, and pulled a thick sheaf of papers from the top drawer. The documents were wanted posters and law enforcement circulars he had received during the last several months.
In less than an hour, Flint found what he wanted. He spread the circular in front of him and examined it once more. The description matched, even though there was no picture to verify it.
According to the document, the man called G. W. Ramsey was known to be operating as a hired enforcer for ranchers throughout the West. Over the last few years, he had ranged from Texas to Montana Territory. Ramsey had had numerous brushes with the law and was implicated in a suspicious fire that had wiped out a sodbuster family in Nebraska, but no warrants had been issued for his arrest. The circular merely alerted lawmen to be on the lookout for Ramsey in their vicinity.
Flint, his expression bleak, pushed the paper away and sat back in his chair. He was fairly sure the man who had led the raid on Copeland's ranch had been G. W. Ramsey. Ramsey wouldn’t be here in Kansas unless someone had hired him and his crew of hardcases. The stakes had gone up tonight. Now somebody was playing for blood.
Over the next few days, the marshal's worries about G. W. Ramsey and his hired men became a reality. Reports reached him of new raids on the tenant farms at Copeland's D Slash C. At first the settlers were merely harassed, much as they had been when they first arrived. Then the attacks became steadily more serious. More crops were destroyed, more animals were killed, and at least one soddy was razed after its interior was gutted by a fire started on the thatched roof. The men who brought this destruction were always masked and struck at night.
Ramsey was staying busy, Flint thought as he seethed in frustration.
He knew the bearded man and his companions were camped somewhere nearby, but several forays into the countryside hadn’t unearthed the gang. The time had come, Flint decided, to visit Houston Day and demand some answers.
On the morning the marshal reached the decision, he was sitting at his desk, finishing a cup of coffee, when Cully burst through the door.
"Ira Powell is coming down Texas Street in his wagon, Marshal," Cully said in a rush. "Tom's with him, and they both look like something terrible has happened."
Flint stood up and followed Cully onto the boardwalk. He looked west and spotted the wagon driven by Ira and beside it, Tom on horseback. Even at this distance, Flint clearly saw their grim expressions.
He stepped into the street and walked quickly to meet them. Ira hauled on the lines, bringing the wagon to a stop, as Flint approached. Not bothering with formalities, the lawman simply asked, "What's wrong, Ira?"
"We've got Guy Yarbrough in the back, Marshal," Ira said heavily. "He's dead."
Flint stared at the sheet-covered form in the wagon bed. He was vaguely aware that Cully now stood beside him, tense and ready for trouble. In a voice he barely knew as his own, Flint said, "What happened?"
"Those damn marauders killed him, that's what happened," Tom Powell said. The young man's eyes blazed with anger. "They came up to his place last night, yellin' and shootin' and scarin' his wife and kids to death. Guy never was one to take that.
He ran outside when they started throwin' torches on the roof of his soddy. He had a shotgun in his hands, so they just cut him down, Flint. The man never had a chance!"
"The boy's right, Lucas," Ira said. "We got the story from Beatrice Yarbrough. Violet's with her and the children at what's left of their place." He looked more haggard than ever as he shook his head and went on, "I don't know what they'll do now that Guy's gone. It's going to be bad for them."
Flint took a deep breath, outrage at this senseless killing surging through him. He had been afraid that something like this would happen. That no one had been killed before now was only pure luck.
"I'm going to put a stop to this, Ira," Flint said. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way."
"That's mighty fine," Tom snapped, "but it's a little late for Guy, isn't it?"
Trying to ignore the angry words, Flint turned to Cully. "Take them to the undertaker. Tell him that the town's paying for the funeral. If the council doesn't like it, I'll pay for it myself."
"You won't do it alone," Cully said. He nodded toward the boardwalk.
Several men and women stood on the boardwalk silently staring at the lawmen and the wagon. From the shocked expressions on their faces, they had obviously heard the news about Guy Yarbrough's murder. No one jeered or hurled insults now. Violent death, the tragedy of a family left on its own, might have opened a few eyes, Flint thought.
The word would spread through town. By noon, everyone would know that the myste
rious night riders had killed a man. Some would say that Guy Yarbrough was only a sodbuster and, as such, didn’t matter, but others would understand. Understand—and maybe change a little.
The marshal turned and started toward his horse. "I'm going to Day's place," he said over his shoulder to Cully.
He stopped at the office to pick up his hat, then swung onto his horse and rode northwest out of Abilene. The ride to Day's Rafter D would take about an hour; by the time he reached the ranch, he might have calmed down a little. Somehow, though, Flint doubted it.
The marshal had been on Day's range for fifteen minutes before the ranch headquarters—a large two-story frame house with a soddy nestled on the rise behind it—came into view. That soddy had been Houston Day's home when he first started the Rafter D. As he and the ranch prospered, he had built the house for his wife and only son.
When several cowhands working the range on either side of the trail spotted the marshal, they turned from their chores and rode toward him. The grim-faced men kept about fifty yards away but paralleled his progress toward the ranch house. Flint turned in his saddle and noticed that two men had fallen in behind him. He was ringed by a hostile escort, and the anger he had nurtured during his journey was now coupled with a malignant tension.
Flint rode up to the house. As the cowhands sat on their mounts in the ranch yard and watched in silence, he swung down from his horse, stepped onto the porch, and knocked on the door. A moment later, the door was opened by Houston Day himself. He frowned when he saw Abilene's marshal standing there with a grim look on his lean face.
One of the cowboys called, "This man's trespassin', boss. You want us to run him off?"
Day shook his head and waved the punchers away. "You boys get back to work," he growled. "I'll handle this." As the hands returned to their chores, Day regarded Flint speculatively. "What can I do for you, Marshal?"
"I suppose you've heard about the new trouble those farmers on Copeland's ranch are having," Flint said.
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