Rantz snickered as he came over. “Knock ’em right off their horses.”
“Knock them off their horses?” The judge studied the rope. “That’s your plan?”
Buck approached, sweat rolling down his baby-faced features. “Knock ’em offen their horses, and then the sheriff’s deputies can arrest ’em and throw ’em in jail.”
Ragan was glad that Johnny wasn’t witnessing this. “Is that wise? The impact could hang a person, couldn’t it?”
“Naw, jest knock ’em offen their horse, ma’am.” Billy pointed to several coils of rope lying on the ground. “We got us four ropes.” He grinned. “We’ll catch ’em all, don’t you worry none.”
Her heart sank.
“Billy, let me see if I understand you.” The judge appeared to study the plan. “The gangs will ride into town. You’re banking on them being blind; that they won’t be able to see the rope strung across the road. When they stupidly ride into the rope, they’ll be knocked off their horses, and all the deputies have to do is sashay out there and tie them up. The gangs will just keep riding into the rope until there are no more to ride in, or the four ropes give out. Is that your plan?”
Buck nodded. “Yessir.” He flashed a toothless grin.
“Ragan?”
“Yes, Judge?”
“Take me home. I have a splitting headache.”
“Yes, Judge.” She turned the chair and started off.
“String a rope! I’ve heard it all now.”
“Yes, sir.” She bit back a grin. “Can we agree not to mention this to Johnny?”
“Have mercy. Maybe the boys will change their minds before they can put the plan into action.”
They passed Rantz, who was trekking across the street, dragging a trail of rope behind him.
“Then again, I guess that’s too much to hope for.”
A commotion had erupted at the saloon. Ragan moved the judge’s chair to the shade of the building, and they watched as a crowd of men hustled in and out of the bar, carrying chairs.
“Morning, Shorty, Hubie.”
“Morning, Judge, Ragan.”
“What’s going on?”
Hubie hoisted another chair onto a buckboard. “Hostetler told us to make space for the prisoners.”
“You honestly believe there are going to be some?”
Shorty frowned. “Well, shore. Billy says the jail ain’t gonna hold all the gangs.”
“Ragan?”
“Yes, Judge?”
“My headache’s getting worse by the minute.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saturday morning dawned dry with a hot breeze. Ragan wiped her forehead with her apron hem before setting eggs and ham on the table. “Is it ever going to rain again?”
She poured coffee, watching Johnny salt his gravy. “It’s been three days and no raids.”
The judge grunted, reaching for the sugar bowl. “Through no virtue of the Brown Branch bunch.”
Unfolding his napkin, Johnny laid it in his lap. “I understand those ropes are causing quite a problem.” He met Ragan’s eyes, and she could swear he was laughing at her. Well, who wouldn’t laugh? The Hostetlers’ idea was downright embarrassing. To think the town had spent money on this fiasco.
“Most idiotic situation I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness,” the judge grumbled. “Everyone’s complaining because they have to park their buggies outside of town. Harold Bradshaw was mad enough to eat nails yesterday. He had to carry fifteen sacks of grain to his wagon because of that rope. Lowell Homer turned his wagon upside down when he tried to cut between the mercantile and Sheriff Lutz’s office. Dumped the whole load of hay on the jail steps. Where the cat hair is Alvin Lutz?”
Ragan carried a skillet to the sink. “He’s down in his joints, Procky.”
“We might as well not have a sheriff.”
“Was Lowell hurt?” Ragan asked.
“No, you know Lowell. Hardheaded as a gourd. That team pulled the wagon on its side and strung hay all the way down Main Street. It’s a disgrace, I tell you. We’ll be the laughingstock of the county.”
Johnny reached for the butter, trying to catch Ragan’s eye, but she refused to accommodate him. “Ahh, yes. The old rope trick.” He casually buttered a biscuit and then bit into it. “Who knows?” Ragan finally looked at him, and he winked at her. “It might work.”
“Five days and no raids,” Judge McMann said.
The silence of the last few days was unsettling, and Ragan’s nerves were on edge. A rope wasn’t going to keep the gangs away. The outlaws were only biding their time until they could devise their own plan. In the meantime, everyone in town was inconvenienced.
“Well, it’s what we wanted,” Ragan said as she turned a shovelful of potatoes in the garden. “You’re not unhappy about that, are you, Procky?”
“Of course not. Just wondering if anyone’s actually dumb enough to ride into those ropes.”
“Actually, one person has. Holly mentioned last night that one of Ted Rowser’s boys from Tom’s Canyon rode into town yesterday and hit the rope. Knocked him clean off his horse. Almost hung himself, Holly said. He has a fierce rope burn across his neck.”
She wasn’t at all surprised at Johnny’s snicker. Naturally he found the situation amusing, but poor Keith Rowser had failed to see the humor.
“Keith was real upset. When he finally got up, he threw a punch at Billy. Sheriff Lutz had to separate them and threatened to haul them off to jail.” She knocked a clod of dirt off her hoe, pinning Johnny with a critical look. He was still snickering. “It’s not funny. Keith could have been seriously hurt.”
Johnny’s features immediately sobered. “I don’t doubt that. If a rope’s taut enough, it’ll take a man’s head off.” He pitched a potato into the pan.
Judge McMann shook his head. “How long is this nonsense going to last? Townsfolk inconvenienced, Lowell tearing up his wagon and losing all that hay, the stage not getting through, and now we’ve nearly decapitated one of our neighbors’ sons.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t think we can afford the Hostetler boys.”
At the sound of gunshots, the judge straightened in his chair. “Listen.”
Hoofbeats and rounds of fire sounded near the south edge of town.
“They’re coming!” Ragan threw the hoe aside, and reached for Kitty. She thrust the cat toward the judge. “Quick! Into the house.”
“Wait!” The judge held up his hand. “Listen.”
The noise of horses and guns gradually receded.
“They’re leaving.”
They stood silently, straining to make out the retreating hoofbeats.
“Doesn’t seem as if they captured the riders,” Ragan said.
The three exchanged looks.
“There wasn’t enough time,” the judge replied. “Let’s go have a look.”
The Hubbards and Kincaids joined them as they hurried toward the post office. An air of expectancy hung over Barren Flats.
“We made the girls stay home,” Lillian explained breathlessly. “We don’t want them witnessing all this violence.”
People streamed into town to see the first evidence of their hardearned money at work. Florence and Hubie Banks stood in front of the saloon, discussing what had just happened.
“What’s going on, Hubie?” the judge called as they got closer. “We heard the riders coming, and then it sounded as if they turned around.”
“There were eight to ten of ’em, Judge. They rode up and saw the rope. That must have caught ’em by surprise, because they turned around and hightailed it out of town. Jim Allen followed them, and he rode back a minute ago and said they were still out there, huddled together on that ridge out near Coyote Road.”
Johnny turned to look over his shoulder. “They’re just sitting there on their horses?”
“Yeah, that’s what Jim said. Wonder what they’re up to now?”
Billy and Buck strode down Main Street, smiling. “No need to get upset, folks
. We skeered ’em off.” Billy gave the judge a smug look. “Our plan worked. The minute they spotted that thar rope, they decided not to try their luck.”
Buck chortled. “Skeered ’em to death.”
Thundering hoofbeats interrupted them.
Riders appeared, guns blazing. Reining in at the rope, they slashed it with their knives. Then their horses trampled the tattered remains as they galloped into town.
The townsfolk scattered, and the marauders charged toward the saloon. Ragan pushed Judge McMann through the open doorway. The front window shattered and shots ricocheted off the Oasis sign. Glassware exploded and bottles flew from the shelves. Florence groaned as a bullet hit the gold-framed mirror hanging behind the bar. The frame split and crashed to the floor. A single triangle of glass dangled from the right-hand corner.
The hoodlums rode up and down Main Street, whooping and firing. Then they sliced the rope guarding the north end of town and galloped off.
An eerie silence settled over the stunned population.
Hubie slowly crawled to his feet, setting a chair upright. “Anybody hurt?”
Ragan felt Johnny’s hand on her arm.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he helped her up.
He moved to assist the judge back into his chair.
“I’m okay, son. Thank you. I’m so thankful Maddy isn’t here to see this. It would break her heart.”
As they descended the Oasis steps, Buck ran past carrying what was left of the ropes. Flashing his toothless grin, he called out, “Jest a small setback. We’ll git ’em. Don’t you worry none.”
“Idiots,” the judge grumbled as the crowd dispersed. “We’ve bought ourselves a hundred dollars worth of idiots.” He motioned for Johnny to take him home, and the three were silent as they left Main Street.
Chapter Thirty-Four
You know…” Everett closed his left eye and squeezed off another round. The bullet missed the target. “I never believed that rope trick would work in the first place.”
“Really.” No one in his right mind would think the rope plan would work. The idea was laughable, though the town’s situation wasn’t at all funny.
It was only a matter of time until a tragedy was sure to happen. A toddler was almost trampled yesterday. Johnny hated to think of another family suffering as the Ramseys had.
“You’re jerking your arm, Everett. Hold it steady.”
“Sorry.”
Squinting first one eye and then the other, Everett took aim and fired again. That bullet also missed its mark, and wood chips flew from the base of a nearby scrub oak. At this rate, the clerk wouldn’t be ready for the Founders’ Day shooting contest in six months, much less six weeks.
“If that don’t beat all!”
Johnny bent to pick up the spent shells. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“It went up faster than I’m learning to shoot.”
The two men scanned the practice area. They’d been at it for more than an hour now, and Everett had leveled everything in sight with the exception of his intended target.
“Well, Founders’ Day is still a ways off.”
Everett eyed the barrel of his pistol sourly. “I’m never going to make it.” He glanced Johnny’s way. “How come you’re allowed to move about on your own so much lately?”
Johnny felt a prick of conscience. The judge had sent him to repair the church bell tower this morning, but he had slipped off with Everett for a few minutes of target practice instead. The judge’s trust was misplaced, and he didn’t feel good about it.
“Ragan’s canning beans today. Judge McMann told me to come alone.”
Everett whistled. “You must be gaining Proctor’s trust.”
“Looks that way.” He could walk away from Barren Flats and never be seen again. Hadn’t the judge thought about that? The old man had a heart of gold. Unfortunately, he left himself wide open for defeat.
It was a shame he would be the one to derail the judge’s program if he found Bledso. It wasn’t right, seeing how McMann had been so good to him. He treated him more like a son than a prisoner. But then, whoever said life was fair? It wasn’t for Judge McMann, with his stove-up limbs, or for Ragan’s brother, and certainly not for his family, lying cold in their graves.
Everett settled himself on a log. “You know, Judge McMann and Ragan work hard to prove lawbreakers sometimes deserve a second chance.” He slid Johnny a hopeful look. “You wouldn’t do anything to mess that up, would you, John?”
“Why would I do anything to mess it up? I’m living in paradise.”
He had good food, a roof over his head, a clean bed to sleep in, and a woman who cared more about him than anyone had in a long time. Her affection came too easily lately. She was the last thing he thought about at night, and the first thing he looked for in the morning. His resolve was slipping. He couldn’t have both Ragan and Bledso, and it was getting harder to remember that.
Everett polished the pistol handle with the cuff of his shirt. “No… don’t suppose you would. You haven’t tried anything funny with the gun or anything like that.”
Nor would he try anything funny with the gun or anything like that. Not until he needed it. Still, the admiration in Everett’s voice bothered him. He’d be yet another to be disappointed in him, another who would walk away and say, well, what did we expect from a man like Johnny McAllister?
Lightening the mood, Johnny smiled. “I had the distinct impression you didn’t like me when you met me, Everett.”
“Well, I didn’t. Not at first.”
“Because of Ragan?”
Everett’s face flamed, and Johnny felt a little sorry for the lovesick kid. He’d been tempted to impress her a time or two himself.
“She’s some woman, isn’t she? Pretty as spring grass. Someday I’m going to marry her. She isn’t interested in me right now, but she will be, someday.”
The artless declaration disturbed Johnny. Not just because of the stab of envy; it also bothered him because Everett was so gullible, and he was sure to be disappointed when his dream failed to materialize. Ragan had made her intentions clear. Everett was just too blind in love to accept them.
“Well, I’m sorry I was so rude to you when you came to town, John. I thought Ragan would fall like a rock for you, but she didn’t.” Everett brightened. “She doesn’t appear to care any more for you than she does for me.”
If the cheerful observation was meant to comfort him, it missed its mark. But then, Everett was a pitiful shot. And Everett had never held Ragan in his arms…
Johnny glanced at the sun. It was close to noon, and he still had repairs to do at the church.
He nodded for Everett to precede him out of the grove of trees.
A few moments later Johnny followed. The two men exited the woods at different points, Johnny turning toward the church lane, and Everett heading to town.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ragan was churning butter the next morning when young Clayton Miller showed up on the porch looking hungry.
“Mornin’, Miz Ramsey.”
“Come in, Clayton. What brings you out and about so early?” She motioned the boy to the table and placed a plate in front of him. Filling Clayton was like filling a hollow stump.
But Clayton had more than biscuits on his mind this morning. He was breathless with excitement. “Got me a job! The Hostetlers hired me and Junior to—”
“Junior and me,” Ragan automatically corrected, pouring a large glass of milk.
“Hostetlers hired Junior and me to tell everybody in the area to bring what cattle they have left to Main Street, quick as they can.”
“Cattle?” Judge McMann wiped his mouth and then pushed back from the table.
“You know, cows.”
“I know what cattle are, son. Why do the Hostetlers want everybody to bring their cattle to the middle of town?”
“Buck said they’re gonna pack the town plumb full of cattle so the gangs can’t ride through.” His
message delivered, Clayton helped himself to two slices of bread and spooned a heap of apple butter in the middle. Folding each slice in half, he set upon the food with the gusto of a growing fourteen-year-old.
Ragan glanced at Johnny. He gave no indication that his opinion of the Hostetler’s newest plan was any higher than the last one. He kept his head down and avoided her eyes. Sighing, she realized that though he warmed at times he didn’t intend to thaw. The thought made her heart ache, and she realized she had grown far fonder of this man than prudence and common sense warranted. Perhaps he was a criminal at heart. Perhaps she’d let her attraction to what seemed vulnerability override all that she had been taught. Papa’s mind wasn’t good enough to notice his daughter’s plight. How she wished she could go to him, pour out her heart, and ask for wisdom. Of course, his first concern would be for Johnny’s soul, and Ragan didn’t know if the man’s soul belonged to God or Satan, but the Johnny she caught occasional glances of suggested he knew about God. He knew passages from the Good Book, so somewhere in the life he refused to talk about someone—perhaps his mother—had instilled a sense of accountability in him.
Clayton finished the last of his treat and washed it down with a long swallow of milk.
The judge chuckled. “Have some more, son. There’s plenty.”
The boy pushed back from the table and stood up. “No, thank you, sir. Junior and I are going to borrow Mr. Banks’ cart and mule and spread the news.” He puffed out his chest, and he would have looked very important if it weren’t for the apple butter ringing his upper lip. “I’m to tell folks to bring those cows pronto, ’ cause we don’t want no more—”
“Any more,” Ragan said, handing the boy a clean napkin.
“Any more raids,” the boy finished as he swiped his mouth clean. His freckled face beamed. “Thanks for the bread and apple butter.”
Ragan stuck a thick slice of ham between two pieces of bread, wrapped the sandwich in a clean towel, and handed it to Clayton as she walked him to the door. “All that work is bound to make a body hungry.”
“Yes, ma’ am. It sure does. Thank you kindly.” He tucked the food into the bib of his overalls and jumped down the steps, turning to wave as he headed off. Ragan returned to the kitchen to clear the table.
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