Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  Lone Star Legacy

  Book Two

  Stoner's Crossing

  Judith Pella

  Copyright © 1994 by Judith Pella

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6298-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Cover illustration by Joe Nordstrom

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  To my son Jon, whose good-natured spirit is the model

  for the character, Jonathan Barnum.

  “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.”

  Matthew 5:8, KJV

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to take a moment to offer thanks to some folks who had a special part in this book. First, to my friend, attorney William Barnum, who initially suggested that Deborah needed a good lawyer; he also gave me many helpful tips. Also, I’d like to mention the invaluable assistance of Angela A. Dorau, Assistant Archivist of the State Bar of Texas; she gave me much information on the legal history of Texas. Finally, some very special thanks to my friends, Don and Ame Cook, and their children, Beth, Mike, and Ben, for their wonderful hospitality—in the true Texas style!—while I visited that grand state in which this book is set.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1: Pursuit of the Past

  Part 2: Capture

  Part 3: Leonard’s Daughter

  Part 4: Sam’s Quest

  Part 5: Carolyn’s Legacy

  Part 6: Pursuit of Hope

  Part 7: Into the Fray

  Part 8: Two New Friends

  Part 9: Questions, but Few Answers

  Part 10: Confusing Encounters

  Part 11: Day in Court

  Part 12: Mysterious Arrival

  Part 13: Guilty or Innocent?

  Part 14: Secrets Revealed

  Part 15: Frontier Justice

  Part 16: Truth and Peace

  About the Author

  Books by Judith Pella

  Back Cover

  Part 1

  Pursuit of the Past

  1

  The high plains stretched out before the tall rider like an endless horizon of searing death. And it was only May, not even summer yet.

  The palomino mare picked her way across the rocky, broken ground with as much care as her anxious rider would allow. The rider had to force himself not to drive the animal faster, to push her to keep pace with the pounding of his own heart. He glanced back several times but saw only the undulating heat waves that dogged him as relentlessly as any human pursuer.

  If only he had checked his water supply before he had been forced to take flight! That had been purely stupid, like a greenhorn kid or one of those city dandies who had lately been trying their hand at ranching. He knew better. He had been riding this wild country for more years than he cared to admit.

  He reached for his canteen just to see if…maybe…

  One quick heft told him it was only half full and would never be enough to see him across the Llaño Estacado. But he hoped to heaven he wouldn’t have to go that far.

  Perhaps a prayer or two wouldn’t hurt right now, but that wasn’t exactly his style. Now, if the preacher were here, the rider thought, I sure wouldn’t stand in his way if he wanted to send a word heavenward.

  The rider had to admit to himself that he might not be in this fix if he had listened more to the preacher in the first place, walked the straight and narrow, and all that. But he was more apt to act first and think about the consequences later—if he ever did. Usually the thrill of some wild and dangerous challenge far exceeded any retribution that might happen as a result. In the old days, being wanted by the law—with a noose ever dangling in his future—had never stopped him; in fact, that had only heightened the thrill. Sure, he had settled down some since then. What man doesn’t as he begins to feel his age and his mortality?

  But, unfortunately, Griff McCulloch was no saint. He doubted he ever would be.

  Griff twisted in his saddle once more to view the ground he had just traversed. Nothing. Only heat following him, and heat in front of him—heat, and no prospects of water for miles. His mouth tasted like dirt and tumbleweed, but he couldn’t afford to indulge himself. He’d need water a lot more later on.

  He was about to swing his gaze forward once more when he saw what he had been both dreading and anticipating for hours. It was faint, but there was definitely a cloud of dust southeast of him, some five miles off. Griff had been almost certain he had lost him, but that Pollard was a better man, at least a better tracker, than Griff had given him credit for.

  Well, it was probably best this way. They had been destined for a showdown ever since that day nineteen years ago when they had first crossed paths. And then again, some ten years ago when he had seen the fellow at Fort Griffin, Griff thought it was going to blow up in his face. But nothing had come of it. Griff had managed to get himself and Deborah away without being seen. He had been ready to kill Pollard that day, but the ex-sheriff had disappeared, not to turn up again until last night in the Double Eagle Saloon in Danville.

  Griff dug his heels into the palomino’s flanks. This was no time to ruminate over past mistakes. Pollard was on his tail and closing fast. If there was going to be a showdown, Griff would just as soon be the one to choose the battleground. In the distance ahead, about a mile away, he could make out a pile of big boulders that would give him some cover in a gunfight.

  He had no doubt this was about to turn into a fight. He had sworn ten years ago to kill Pollard if he brought danger to Deborah, and he hadn’t changed his mind since.

  “Geeiup!” Griff urged the mare. She held back a little, for she had enough good sense to know this wasn’t the kind of terrain you raced over carelessly. Griff was no fool either; he knew—

  It happened quicker than thought, faster than he could berate his foolish panic. The palomino went down, a hoof caught in a crevice in the dry, cracked earth. Griff rolled away from the animal as it fell, but escaping personal injury would hardly matter if his horse was hurt. She was a fine beast—better, even, than the palomino he had lost years ago in the battle with the Comanche.

  It didn’t take him long to see that he had another score to settle with Pollard.

  The horse would have been back up on her feet if she were uninjured. When Griff came up to her, she lifted her head and shook her golden mane a bit as if in affectionate response. But she made no attempt to stand.

  “You okay, girl?” Griff murmured as he examined each of her legs. He groaned inwardly as he felt the bones grind unnaturally in her right foreleg. She gave a pathetic whinny, and he gently eased the leg back to the ground.

  Griff cursed bitterly. He wanted to blame Pollard, but he knew it was his own fault. If he hadn’t panicked…if he hadn’
t let that drifter rile him last night…if he hadn’t been drinking…

  But there had been a celebration. A cowhand friend of his from another ranch was getting married and having his last fling before tying the knot. And Slim, off selling horses in Fort Worth, hadn’t been there to keep Griff from the bottle. Griff knew he ought to be careful, but one thing just led to another, and before he knew it, he was drunk. The problem was, liquor always made him ornery as a polecat. When that drifter accused him of cheating at cards, he just got horn-mad.

  “You take that back, you low-down sidewinder!” Griff had slurred.

  “Make me!” challenged the drifter.

  “You calling me out?”

  “You bet I am!”

  Everyone in the Double Eagle had scattered, and someone had gone after the sheriff.

  Griff and the drifter faced off, and even though Griff had easily twenty years on the kid, he still outdrew him without so much as losing his breath.

  When Pollard showed up, Griff was still drunk—but not too drunk to immediately recognize the man who had officiated at the attempted hanging of Deborah Stoner, now Deborah Killion. When the saloon doors burst open and Pollard appeared, Griff was still standing over the dead drifter holding his smoking gun. Both men exchanged shocked looks. Griff didn’t wait to find out if Pollard recognized him or made the connection to Deborah. He holstered his Colt and bolted.

  He had been too drunk to think straight. He probably should have hid out somewhere close by, but, instead, he lit out west, figuring to draw Pollard out on the barren plains and kill him there so no one would be the wiser.

  For all these years—it was 1884 now—he and Deborah had managed to keep a low profile and not cross the path of anyone who had been involved in those proceedings at Stoner’s Crossing. They stayed away from town as much as possible, Deborah hardly ever going in, and he only when necessary for business and the occasional evening of recreation. A man couldn’t live like a hermit, no matter what. Deborah seemed to prefer the solitude of the ranch, but Griff had to have some action, even if just three or four times a year.

  There was no reason why they couldn’t have gone on like that forever. Who would have thought Pollard would find a sheriffing job in Danville, a little more than a day’s ride from the ranch?

  It occurred to him that Pollard might have told someone in town about him and Deborah, but Griff couldn’t worry about that now. For the present, he just had to concentrate on Pollard. Get him…or die trying. And dying was becoming a strong possibility, for without a horse he had little chance of surviving.

  He had to quit thinking that way, or he’d give up entirely. “Your not dead yet, you old buzzard!” he told himself crossly. “Now get moving.”

  He loosened his saddlebag and rifle from the palomino. He still had a chance of eliminating Pollard. Last night he had not been planning on a shoot-out, any more than he had planned on a long trek across the Staked Plains. But a quick examination of the contents of his saddlebags turned up enough ammunition for his rifle and Colt to give that sheriff a good fight. There was a rock about two hundred yards away. It was barely two feet high and only a little wider, but it was the best cover that was readily available to serve him for protection. He loaded his Sharps buffalo gun, which he had no doubt would be a sure defense against anything the sheriff had.

  He had one thing to do, however, before he moved his gear and prepared for the battle.

  Griff drew his Colt from his holster and spun the chamber around to make sure it was full, though he’d only need one bullet for what he must do. He licked his dry lips. All the water in the world wouldn’t have helped him just then.

  He stood over his injured palomino. “You were a fine horse,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “If I ever get another one like you, I’ll treat her more decently.”

  He pulled the trigger, and the shot reverberated in his ears. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes but would never admit the moisture there was anything more than sweat.

  Then he gathered up his gear and went to the rock to wait.

  Pollard would have heard the shot. If the sheriff had any doubt at all as to the position of his quarry, that uncertainty would now be erased. He’d be within rifle range in a matter of minutes.

  Griff was as ready as he’d ever be.

  2

  It wasn’t long before that distant cloud of dust took the shape of a man on horseback. Griff peered over the edge of the rock and watched the rider approach. It was Pollard all right, heading straight for him.

  Pollard stopped and, squinting against the glare of the sun, spent a moment apparently studying the place where the horse had fallen. Then his gaze swept the surrounding area, resting occasionally on a scattering of rocks similar to the one where Griff had found refuge.

  Griff smiled to himself and set the muzzle of his rifle on the rock, taking careful aim. The sheriff obviously wouldn’t be expecting this, no doubt thinking he was out of range of most rifles. But the Sharps had a range of almost double a Winchester. Griff could pick off Pollard like a duck in a pond. Still, even in his outlaw days, Griff hadn’t been one to kill needlessly. Best give the sheriff a chance to state his purpose first. Griff might just learn if Pollard had revealed his discovery to anyone else in town.

  “If you’re on foot,” Pollard shouted, “you ain’t got a chance. Give it up now and it’ll go easier for you.”

  “You ain’t got nothing on me, Sheriff. That gunfight in Danville was fair and square.”

  “So why are you running?”

  “Who says I’m running?”

  “I’m taking you in, McCulloch. I reckon after nineteen years it’s about time I caught up with you.”

  Griff stared down the sights of the buffalo gun and fired, blasting a hole in the parched earth two yards beyond where the sheriff stood. Pollard jumped in surprise, then dropped to his knees. But when Griff tried to fire again, his rifle jammed, giving Pollard a chance to scramble to the cover of a small boulder about fifty yards away, placing Griff well within range of the sheriff’s Winchester. But Pollard didn’t fire.

  “Hey, what’re you shooting, man? A feller don’t stand a chance against a cannon like that.”

  “You figure I oughta give you a chance?”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t think I gotta explain that to you. I’m taking you in for past crimes, McCulloch, and I’m getting even for you rescuing Caleb Stoner’s daughter-in-law.”

  “Past crimes are one thing, Pollard; Deborah Stoner is quite another. She’s innocent, and you know it.”

  “She was convicted of murder by a proper trial and everything.”

  “What’s it to you, Pollard? You think to make a name for yourself by hanging a woman?”

  “That would go a long way to making up for all the trouble that woman brought me. I spent three years in prison because Caleb convinced the court that I was in cahoots with you. Caleb made sure I was disgraced as a lawman after that. I spent years sweeping saloons to pay for enough drinks to keep me going. This here badge I’m wearing is only a deputy star that I got because no one else would take it. I reckon to get paid back now. The five thousand dollar reward Caleb is still offering will sure help.”

  Griff had never heard about the reward, but then he had never made any inquiries for fear of stirring up a hornet’s nest. At least he now knew why Pollard had set out after him alone. He thought Griff could lead him to Deborah, and he sure wouldn’t be willing to share the reward money with anyone else in town. So, it was pretty certain that Pollard had told no one about his suspicions.

  “Now, you just take me to the Stoner woman,” Pollard went on, “and maybe I’ll cut a deal with you.”

  “You don’t know where she is?” prompted Griff.

  “I got a pretty good idea,” said Pollard. “I asked about you in town last night. Fellers said you worked for a woman named Deborah Killion. I don’t reckon that’s just a coincid
ence of names. But I figure she’ll come along a lot more peaceably if I got you with me. So I suggest you cooperate. Otherwise, you’re just gonna die out here, and I’ll still bring her in.”

  “Yeah, I’ll cooperate all right,” sneered Griff, drawing his pistol. “Like this—” He punctuated his words with gunfire.

  This time he wasn’t aiming for the dirt. But Pollard ducked in time, and the bullet whizzed over him, inches from his head.

  Pollard returned fire, his bullet taking a chunk out of Griff’s boulder. Bits of rock flew in Griff’s face, one large piece leaving a bloody gash in his left cheek.

  Griff fired again, raising his head a little higher from his hiding place in order to take better aim. That was just the mistake Pollard was waiting for. His shot tore into Griff’s left shoulder with painful force. Griff choked back a yell and ground his teeth together; he didn’t want his adversary to know he was wounded. The bullet had only grazed him, but the pain seared his arm like a fire. At least it was only his left arm. Griff took off the kerchief from around his neck and stuffed it into the wound; then he fired again.

  They exchanged several more rounds of gunfire, but it soon became clear to Griff that in their present positions, they were engaged in a classic Mexican stand-off. It was entirely possible for them to hold each other off until one or the other ran out of ammunition—or died of thirst. Griff had no idea how much ammo or water Pollard had, but even the washed-up deputy would have had more time to prepare for this confrontation than Griff had last night. Griff figured he’d have to be the one to break the draw. The best way would be to keep out of range of Pollard’s Winchester and still stay close enough to make the best use of the Sharps’ range. But even if his Sharps didn’t jam again, there was simply no cover to make that possible.

  The next best thing was to get Pollard out in the open. That still meant Griff would have to expose himself, but at least then they’d both be at a disadvantage. It was the only way.