Fury at Troon's Ferry

by Mark Bannerman

  Angus and Fitzsimmons crept cautiously through a rain-dripping grove of trees, the leaves showing the yellow of late summer. With their guns at the ready, the two men moved towards the higher ground overlooking the creek. Again, doubts assailed Angus. The outlaws could be a hundred miles away by this time. Alternatively, lead might start to fly at any second. Life could be over and done with in the time it takes a bullet to travel a few feet. Consequently, both men moved with their heads ducked into their shoulders, their eyes darting around. They were sodden, having left their yellow slickers with the main party; these would have made them as obvious as sunshine in a storm.

  But they reached the higher ground and it was then, as they crouched against the earth, that they heard the clink of cooking-utensils and the low murmur of voices. They had struck lucky! In a small ravine, half-hidden by a big catclaw bush, they glimpsed the flicker of a campfire, and standing about it was a group of men which Angus immediately recognized as that which had crossed on the ferry the previous evening. Even as they watched, one of the group began stamping the fire out. Angus spotted the boy with the chipmunk cheeks standing back from the others, finishing coffee from a tin cup. Maybe he was still unpopular with his companions. If he’d known that his rash words had drawn pursuit, he would have been looking even more doleful now. The gang’s horses were tethered further along. The animals were stirring restlessly, snuffling the air, as if suspecting impending departure, or maybe they sensed the nearness of danger.

  Angus and Fitzsimmons exchanged nods, then stealthily back-tracked to where Ringrose and the remainder of the posse were waiting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Maybe we could wait till night,’ somebody suggested, ‘catch ’em when they’re asleep.’

  Angus spoke his mind. ‘I don’t think they’ll be hanging around that long. I somehow got the impression they were planning on moving out soon.’

  Ringrose nodded. He wiped rain from his face with the back of his hand. He looked weary and unwell, but he said: ‘If they’ve shared out the loot, they’ll most likely scatter. We’ve got to hit ’em now. We’ll split up, half of us get below ’em, the rest cross the creek out o’ sight, get above ’em so’s they don’t hightail over the mountain. We’ll hit ’em from two sides.’

  Most of the posse nodded their agreement. Angus felt a tingle of fear taking hold of him. He couldn’t help but wish there was an experienced gunfighter or two in the posse, but they were all ordinary townsfolk, apart from the marshal himself who was past his best years. He wondered whether, despite the outlaws’ apparent carelessness, they had set guards who were now reporting back that they were about to be attacked. He prayed not.

  The marshal split them up, sending Angus, Fitzsimmons and another fellow down-creek, there to cross over and get along the far rim, impressing upon them the importance of quiet. Ringrose and the remaining force intended attacking from this side.

  Angus led the two around a bend in the creek. They waded across, bracing their legs against the rain-swelled current. Everywhere appeared silent and peaceful, apart from the steady fall of rain. Once over the water they were thankful of the cover provided by the age-gnarled rocks. Stealthily, they clambered upward, holding their weapons up to prevent them clinking against the hard surface. At last they reach a suitable vantage point and gazed down. Thank God they hadn’t waited until darkness. Already some of the outlaws were saddling their horses and mounting up in readiness to travel on. Angus and his companions sprawled down on the rocks, hugged their rifles into their shoulders and, at a nod, opened fire. This was the first time Angus had ever fired his Spencer in anger and it gave him an uncomfortable feeling. Simultaneously Ringrose’s guns blasted out from the far side.

  The outlaws were caught in a crossfire and two fell, their horses rearing in panic. Another was crouched down, obviously hit. The remaining three ran off on foot into the cottonwoods and aspen that fringed the bank.

  Realizing that they had achieved their purpose, Angus and his companions scrambled down through the ferns, hollering to Ringrose that they were coming. Meanwhile Ringrose and the remainder had waded the creek, bracing themselves against its flow, firing as they went. The chipmunk-cheeked kid lay dead upon the ground, the back of his head a bloody mess. Two of his companions sprawled motionless close by. Ringrose and one of his deputies disappeared into the trees in pursuit of those who’d run off – and soon the vicious snap of pistol fire erupted.

  Excitement was pumping inside Angus; his eardrums thrumming. The acrid taint of gunsmoke came on the rain.

  It seemed everything had been too easy to be true. He recharged his Spencer. The sound of shooting had him blundering in Ringrose’s wake into the trees.

  Almost immediately he stumbled over the crouching Will Gallywed, the deputy who had accompanied the marshal as he’d taken up the chase. He was holding his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers. But he waved Angus away. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he gasped. ‘Bullet just grazed my ribs. I’ll get back to the others. You best go and help the marshal.’

  Angus hesitated, then nodded and rushed on.

  A minute later, he found himself on the edge of a clearing – with a man’s bullish back turned towards him. He recognized the straggling silver hair. Angus pulled up, holding his breath. From the far side of the clearing Marshal Ringrose’s voice sounded. ‘This is Marshal Ringrose. We got you covered, Duquemain. Get your hands raised!’

  The man with his back to Angus stiffened. ‘Allez, Marshal,’ he called in a deep, French accented voice. ‘You ’ave caught us. We give up!’ He lifted his hands slightly.

  Right then, Angus noticed there was a derringer pistol tucked in the Frenchman’s boot.

  As Ringrose stepped from the trees, his long-barrelled Navy Colt levelled, Duquemain jerked into motion, throwing himself to the side, his hand clawing for the derringer. The overweight marshal, more sluggish than he used to be, was caught by the speed of the outlaw. Ringrose fired but missed, the bullet winging past Angus’s left ear. Ringrose would have fired again but his gun misfired. Meanwhile Duquemain clambered up, laughing scornfully, raised his derringer and took careful aim, knowing that he had the marshal at his mercy. The lawman braced his rotund body for the bullet.

  Angus fired his Spencer from the hip. The bullet took Duquemain in the shoulder, causing the breath to explode from his lungs, pitching him forward, his derringer flying. Ringrose immediately stumbled to him, dropping his considerable weight, knees first, on to him, pinning him down. Angus joined him, recocking the Spencer. Somehow, the marshal fumbled with handcuffs and fastened the wrists of the writhing Frenchman.

  ‘My God, Angus,’ Ringrose gasped. ‘You saved my skin. I’m sure grateful.’

  Angus would have enjoyed his moment of glory had not Duquemain turned, blood pumping from his shoulder. His dark features were grimacing with pain, but he fixed Angus with his stare, hatred blazing from his deep-set eyes.

  ‘One day,’ he hissed, ‘I will make every man in zis posse pay for what’s happened. Especially you, Monsieur Ferryman. You will wish you ’ad not been born!’

  His threat, its reptilian menace, made Angus’s stomach churn.

  Records of the events that followed are noted in Pawney Bend’s court documents. How the three surviving members of the gang, having recovered sufficiently from their wounds, were placed on trial before the circuit judge, Isaac Marrow. Henri Duquemain was sentenced to ten years in the state prison, lucky to escape the rope, saved only by lack of firm evidence. His second-in-command, Silas Glaswall, and Johnny Kypp, the man with the pock-marked face, each got five years.

  Ringrose’s posse had been lucky in many ways, particularly in timing their arrival just at the moment when Duquemain had recalled his lookout man in readiness for the gang to continue its flight.

  It was unfortunate that the same luck was not to extend into the future life of Angus Troon.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For two years following the trial life at the ferry-cr
ossing settled back into its normal routine. In Pawnee Bend Marshal Ringrose took his well-earned retirement, handing his badge over to his younger deputy, Fred Terrill. Most folks gradually forgot about the bank robbery and the subsequent violence, but Angus did not. On lonely nights, he would sometimes awaken sweating with the nightmare in which Henri Duquemain returned to fulfil the awesome act of vengeance he’d promised, his hatred enflamed beyond all natural provocation or reason.

  Angus knew that at the ferry, which lacked immediate neighbours, he was highly vulnerable, but he reckoned he had another eight years before Duquemain was let loose.

  One Sabbath he left Ed Mullins in charge at the ferry and rode towards town. Several families of Russian settlers had bought land in the area. So-called sodbusters, they had sweated behind their teams and ploughshares and planted red wheat which had taken to the Kansas soil well. Angus wondered if he might try a field of it on his own land. But today his mind was mostly fixed on attending church. He knew he’d frequented the saloon too much of late, drinking, gambling and falling to temptation at ‘the palace of sinful pleasure’ which had windows of blood-red glass. He figured his soul needed some attention.

  Pawnee Bend sat abreast of the point where two main cattle trails converged. It offered a wide street and a multitude of high-framed, wood-fronted structures. On the outskirts were a few classy residences. The town’s only church was a building with shiplap siding. Apart from a tall brick chimney, the church’s most notable feature was the Gothic-style, arched window above the entrance door. Steps led up at the front.

  At the service Angus knelt and prayed for the departed spirits of his mother and father, prayed that he might be worthy of them. Afterwards the congregation rose and sang two hymns, then the Reverend Havelock stepped into the pulpit and railed against sin and the evils of lustfulness.

  But despite his attempt to pay attention Angus felt he was being watched. Glancing to the side he met the blue-eyed gaze of a young woman who smiled and looked away. She was slim, her skin smooth and fair and slightly flushed with the heat. A straw bonnet sat at a rakish angle on her golden head. A blue cotton dress fitted itself closely at neck and shoulders and waist, and she was wearing a heavy crucifix. He thought her immensely pretty. For some reason his body was suddenly tingling, particularly in one department. He could not understand himself. When he dared to sneak another glance in her direction, the sermon was over and the congregation had launched into the closing hymn. She was singing devoutly; he could hear her voice amongst the others, sweet and earnest.

  As the Reverend Havelock concluded the service and people dispersed he spotted the girl, clutching her Bible. She went up to the minister and kissed him on the cheek, and realization dawned on him. She must be Leah Havelock, the reverend’s daughter, who had been away for some years in San Fransisco. He felt a restlessness surge over him, a frustration, but he returned to Judas, jerked the bridle reins from the hitching-rail and mounted up. He rode homeward in a flurry of confusion.

  The last time he had seen Leah Havelock was at the schoolhouse. Her mother had only recently passed away, and he recalled Leah as a pale-faced child, a little shy and very serious. Maybe because she was a minister’s daughter the other children tended to stay clear of her and she did not get involved with the sneaky games and smutty backchat that often went on behind the schoolmarm’s back. And when she had gone to San Francisco to stay with her aunt, it seemed natural because she was different from the others. And anyway, it didn’t seem right for a father to bring up a daughter single-handed.

  But now she was back, and she had blossomed into young womanhood in no uncertain way.

  Where previously Angus had been indifferent towards her, he now found she was constantly on his mind. Had the brief smile she had given him been some sort of invitation? No female had ever stirred him in this way, implanted in him a sick longing that he feared might never be assuaged. What had he to offer to a refined young lady like her? Maybe she already had an admirer – maybe she was even promised to some educated fellow who was an example of good God-fearing living, fitting her father’s high moral principles. The possibility brought panic to Angus.

  How could he be in love when all he had to cling to was the brief smile she had given him? Yet he was. And what did he, a clumsy, occasional drinker, poker-player and whorer, have to offer a person like her? His ways had been the very target of her father’s damning words when he had delivered his sermon.

  But if, in going to church, he had sought to see the wickedness of his ways, then it had had the desired effect. He vowed that henceforth he would stick closely to the righteous path. But he needed to do more than that. He could certainly attend church again on the following Sabbath, but that meant going an entire week without seeing her. Anything could happen during that time. She might even fall in love with some other local man. There would be, he felt certain, plenty of rich ranchers ready to throw their hats into the ring.

  After the next two days, Ed Mullins, struggling to make his words intelligible despite his cleft palate, upbraided him for not paying attention to his work. He knew this was right. He couldn’t eat or sleep for thinking about Leah. He realized how downright lonely, how meaningless, his life was.

  So on the Wednesday he drove the wagon into town on pretext of picking up supplies. ‘By chance’ his sauntering walk took him past the minister’s fine white house with its columned porch and double-sash windows. Glancing over the fence he saw the neat garden with its well, and an old white dog asleep on the path. He longed for sight of Leah, but she was nowhere to be seen; the front door was firmly closed, and the windows gazed at him with blank eyes.

  He waited as long as he dared, and then wandered back to town bitterly disappointed. Maybe he should have hammered on the door, told the Reverend Havelock that he had fallen for his daughter, and that he was in the process of reforming his ways so as to be in a position to ask for her hand! But he had lacked the courage for that. Furthermore, how could he expect a young woman used to life in San Francisco to be at all interested in a man who lived in a humble dwelling at a remote, out-of-town ferry?

  But hope drove him to church again the following Sunday. He was rewarded in a way beyond his wildest dreams. He was in the process of mounting the church steps, other folks all around him, when he felt a touch on his arm and turning, his heart took a flip.

  She was smiling at him and in a voice entirely lacking the shyness of her childhood, she said, ‘Angus Troon, I’m sorry to hear that you’ve lost your father, but I heard how hard you tried to save him from the river, how you helped to round up those nasty outlaws and how you saved Marshal Ringrose’s life.’

  He felt his cheeks tingling. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

  Her face was heart-shaped. She looked so feminine, and she smelt faintly of lavender.

  At last he managed a nod and a smile. ‘How did you get on in San Francisco? Was it better than Pawnee Bend?’

  ‘Oh … it was different. But I wanted to come home. This is where I belong, Angus.’

  He was touched by the way she remembered his name.

  She went on: ‘Daddy wants me to go back, to take up a teaching appointment.’

  He quickly sought to cover his disappointment. His eyes fell upon the cameo brooch clipped to her dress at the curve of her breast. ‘Your brooch is so pretty,’ he said.

  Sadness clouded her eyes. ‘Yes, it belonged to my mother.’

  He regretted that he had reminded her of her deceased mother, but before he could speak again, she touched his arm. ‘We must go inside. The service is about to begin.’

  As they stepped into the church, she said, ‘May I sit with you, Angus?’

  After the last hymn he nervously enquired if she would walk out with him. She smiled, hesitated, and then bobbed her blonde head.

  That afternoon, in the warm spring sunshine, he was relieved to learn that she was not committed to another man. They wandered through meadows and woods, aware of the
scent of bluebells. Somehow, this year, the flowers seemed bigger, brighter and sweeter than ever before. Before long her hand slipped into his and their togetherness seemed natural. They started singing ‘Rock of Ages’ as they walked down the centre of a trail, and they laughed at themselves. She told him that when she had mentioned to her father that they were walking out together, he had said that they should have a chaperon. But she had told him not to talk nonsense.

  She had a zest for life. He noticed how it blazed from her eyes, betraying itself in the manner she held her nether lip between her teeth.

  ‘I love Kansas so much, Angus!’ she exclaimed. ‘I love the air, the rivers, the hills, everything. I longed to come back when I was away.’

  Presently they sat on the wall of the truss-bridge, watching silver trout flashing through the water beneath them and Angus had never felt happier in his life. But then he recalled her earlier words.

  ‘Do you think you will go back to San Francisco, Leah?’

  She sobered, her brow furrowed, then she said, ‘I must go where the Lord guides me.’

  When Angus took her home their heads were so close that he could see how her lips and eyelids quivered; she opened her blue eyes full on his, like a lovely wild animal, and then she laughed, said, ‘Thanks, Angus,’ and turned indoors.

  Two days later, he received a pretty card, passed on to him by a traveller who was travelling through. It was from Leah, inviting him to tea on the following Wednesday.

  In the subsequent weeks he learned so much about Leah, about the strength of her faith in the Lord and in prayer. He also became better acquainted with her father and found him to be an affable and kind man with a lively humour, and not just the fierce deliverer of fire and brimstone that he appeared in the pulpit.

  Gradually Angus sensed something mysterious about Leah, some secret depth that was beyond his reach. Moments when she was quiet and seemed to drift away – but she always returned. Then one day the Reverend Havelock told him how, even from a child, she had had the ability to converse with the Lord, and there was a warmth in her hands that could bring healing.