by Bill Brooks
Court, as usual, was held in Moody Baker’s Gentleman’s Club because there never had been a consensus on spending money for a real courthouse, even though the law had long since come to Pecos. At least in the form of Texas Rangers it had.
When Judge Price had hammered the court into session, Moody Baker shouted that the bar was now closed and would be until court was dismissed. A groan went up from the spectators, who were mostly men, but a few women—some of questionable reputation—had also come to the trial, drawn by the dark handsomeness of the man on trial.
The judge appeared frail in his black suit of clothes, but boasted a full mane of snow white hair and shocking blue eyes—an appearance that drew comment from one of the spectators to remark how much he thought the judge looked like Moses.
“How would you have any idea what Moses looks like?” asked the man sitting next to him.
“I seen a painting of him in a museum in Dallas once.”
“You are a damn fool,” said the second man, and then each one laughed, but not loud enough to disturb the proceedings.
The judge’s voice was deep and resonant and commanding.
“What have you got for me, Ben?”
Texas Ranger Captain Ben Goodlow stood and said, “Your honor, the state of Texas presents for trial, Johnny Montana and Miss Katie Swensen.”
“What are they being charged with?” The judge frowned slightly over the indigestion of this morning’s breakfast: eggs and chili.
“Well sir, we arrested them for the robbing of the Rawly Bank and Trust, and armed robbery of a pocket watch and twenty cents from one Joe Turner in Wise County. And also, the robbery of a Chinese laundry in Boleweevel of which they took a jarful of Indian head pennies and some clean shirts.”
The circuit judge ran a bony stretch of fingers through his snowy hair.
“Did Miss Swensen do any of the actual robbing or is she just considered an accomplice?”
“I don’t know, judge,” said Captain Goodlow. “I have my suspicions though.”
“And what might they be, Captain?”
“I doubt that she ever held a gun on anybody.”
“Ma’am,” said Judge Price, peering across at Katie Swensen. “Did you help to rob these poor people?”
“I. . . I suppose I did in a way.”
“You mean you was along when this feller robbed them?”
“Yes. . . yes sir. I was along.”
“This man your husband, is he?”
“No sir.”
“He your paramour?”
“I love. . . loved him, yes sir.”
The judge sat back in his chair and fell silent for a long full minute. One of the spectators coughed and some heads swiveled around to see who it was.
“Your honor,” said Ben Goodlow, breaking the silence. “These folks are also wanted in Arkansas for the killing of a state senator. I have sent wires to the authorities there that we have captured them. They have requested extradition to have these two stand trial in that state.”
“Ordinarily, Ben, since they were caught here, they would be tried here for their crimes while in Texas.”
“I understand, judge. But, we ought to consider that murder is a worse crime than anything they’ve done here in Texas and what’s fair for everybody ought to be considered.”
The hoary head of the judge now turned its attention to Johnny Montana.
“You have any of that money you stole off that farmer or that Chinaman or out of that bank in Rawly, son?”
“Not a penny.”
“They have any possessions on them when you caught them, Ben?”
“Just a pair of horses and a fancy pistol that belongs to Senator Gray from Arkansas.”
The deep creases and lines in the judge’s weathered face looked like where old rivers and arroyos cut through the Texas soil.
“Fellows like you ain’t wanted in Texas, son,” admonished the judge, fixing his ice blue gaze on the sullen face of Johnny Montana.
“I can’t say it has been any sort of pleasure for me neither,” said Johnny.
“I’ll not tolerate your intemperance in my courtroom. You best hold your tongue!”
The two men locked gazes, but that of the prisoner gave way first. And then Judge Price turned his attention back to Katie Swensen.
“A handsome young woman like you,” he said. “Seems to me could have done a lot better in life.” He saw the tears sliding down her cheeks and refrained from delivering a sermon to her about the tragedies of travelling the wrong road in life.
“It is the order of this court that the prisoners be remanded in the custody of the Texas Rangers, and that they be returned to the jurisdiction of the state of Arkansas for the purpose of standing trial for their crime in that state. May God and Judge Parker have mercy on your souls.” The judge banged his gavel sharply on the block of pine.
Moody Baker shouted that the club was open for business and chairs slid out from under the thirsty as they made their way to the bar.
“Take them back to their cells, Pete,” said Ben Goodlow. “I’ll make arrangements to begin their transport back to Ft. Smith.”
Pete Winter was a tall, youthful ranger who wore his pistol in a cross-draw high on his left hip. He possessed the lanky, handsome, windburned features of Texas men. He was a soft-spoken man whose gaze seemed to take in everything at once.
“Yes sir, Captain.” His voice had a polite drawl of a man who had been raised to respect horses, women, and his elders.
He had never witnessed a woman in chains before, and it bothered him now, but he would not allow it to affect his duties as a lawman.
He touched Katie Swensen lightly on the arm in order to direct her to the door. “Ma’am.”
Johnny Montana gave him the eye, but the ranger ignored it and nodded with a dip of his head that the outlaw should follow the woman.
The outlaw had to shuffle step because of the irons around his ankles. The chain clanked on the floor as he walked. The judge sipped a whiskey and said to the lawman, “Ben, if those two are found guilty in Judge Parker’s court, he will hang them. I’m damn glad it’s him and not me that’s facing hanging a woman.”
“A young woman like that falling so far from grace seems a shame, judge.”
“That it does, Ben. That it does.”
Henry Dollar licked the salt from behind his thumb and then drank down the glass of tequila; its taste was biting. He had ridden to Mobeetie and wired his report to Captain Ben Goodlow at the ranger station in Pecos:
FOUND JIM MCKINNON’S BODY. LOCATED HIS KILLERS IN BIG RIVER. ALL DEAD IN SHOOTOUT. HAVE BEEN ADVISED OF RUSTLING RING OUTSIDE OF TASCOSA. AM GOING THERE NEXT. IN YOUR SERVICE, H. DOLLAR.
Tascosa wasn’t much more than a good day’s ride. He’d rest part of the day, and head out once the sun dropped beyond the horizon. But right now, he sat on a low bench, leaning his back against the cool adobe wall of a small cantina. He splashed two fingers more of tequila into his glass; it cut the dust out of a man’s mouth better than anything he knew of.
The heat of the day like it was, nothing much moved on the lone street of Mobeetie, except the wind. He had left his animal for care and feed at a livery on the south end of the small town. It had been his first task, seeing that his horse was cared for; a man who cared more for himself than his animal was a damn fool.
He closed his eyes and sipped the tequila and thought of other times, better times.
He had left Texas only once; that was to go fight in the War Between the States. He was a rawboned boy full of grit and fight in him, and it seemed the war was one way to let it come out. The idea of war seemed too glamourous to him.
His daddy had owned a small hardscrabble place up where the wind blew all the while and where the creeks were dry most of the year.
His ma had died early in life, so had two younger brothers. After that, life seemed to get lonelier. And finally, he had grown old enough and the war had come.
He had simply gott
en up one morning and saddled his horse and went into the small house where his pa was busy eating his breakfast of corn cakes and sorghum and black coffee.
“I’m joining the war,” he had said.
The old man had kept at his meal for a time, chewing with the intensity of a man facing a full day’s worth of labor.
“I figure I’ll be back in a year, maybe less,” he had said to his pa, awaiting some sort of response.
Finally, the old man finished the last corn cake and wiped his mouth, and swallowed some coffee and then said, “I’d go with you if I could.”
Then the old man had gotten up and taken down the heavy old Colt’s pistol he kept hanging from a peg and handed it to him.
“She fires somewhat to the left and she’s heavy as hell, but she’ll get the job done.”
It was the first gun he had ever killed a man with.
It all seemed so long ago as he sat there sipping the whiskey.
After the war, he had drifted west again, through Kansas and the Indian Nations and finally back to Texas and back to the hardscrabble ranch.
The old man had died or drifted away. He found the small ranch abandoned, tumbleweeds blown up against the door, the rooms empty, the corrals empty. Only the wind seemed the same.
The next morning he rode away.
He drifted for a time, picking up odd jobs. But the times were poor and he was just another loose-footed rambler cut loose after the war had ended.
Finally, he did what best suited a man like him, a man that knew horses and how to ride them, that knew guns and how to use them, that knew what it was to be tested by gunfire. He joined the Texas Rangers, D Company in Pecos. That was sixteen years ago and he hadn’t regretted it once.
He finished the tequila, stood and stretched and watched the sky turn to crimson as the sun settled beyond the far horizon.
It didn’t seem like much to look at, the way it lay flat and endless, but, he knew he would never leave it.
Texas still had the one thing he craved: wildness.
He thought about the troubles he’d be facing in Tascosa as reported to him by the constable at Mobeetie: cow thieves. They were a common lot. Seemed anymore that a man would rather steal a cow than herd one.
Well, he had dealt with them before. Tascosa was just one more place that needed a little law worked on it.
He walked down the street to the livery stable, the loose ring of his spurs trailing behind him, and paid the livery boy six bits for graining and watering his horse.
He put the double rig saddle on the buckskin and mounted.
“Come on, Ike,” he said with a light pat to the horse’s neck. “Let’s clear out before they start playing music over in the cantina, it’ll just make me one to loaf around here and watch the senoritas dance. I don’t think I can stand the temptation.”
Chapter Five
Captain Ben Goodlow arrived at his office before daybreak. The first chore was to set a pot of coffee to brewing on the potbelly; the second, to write a message to be sent by telegraph to the U.S. Marshal's office in Ft. Smith.
He sat at his desk, took a stub pencil in hand and wrote the following: Have in custody, Johnny Montana and a Miss Katie Swensen, believed to be responsible for the murder of Senator W.F. Gray. Need to make arrangements with your office for the transport and deliverance to your jurisdiction of this couple. I am prepared to deliver them under the authority of a Texas Ranger to some predetermined point of juncture to be handed over to a Federal officer from your district. Please advise as to your providing such an officer and as to where and when. Respectfully, Captain Ben Goodlow, Texas Ranger Station, Pecos.
The lawman reread the message and then laid the stub pencil down and checked the coffee. The warm rich smell had permeated the room. The coffee not quite ready, the captain walked the message over to the telegraph office and handed it to the telegrapher, a man named Sparks.
“Send this now, Charley,” he said.
“Billed to your office, Cap?”
“Bill it to my office,” said the ranger. “I want you to bring me the answer as soon as one arrives—don't dawdle, Charley.”
“Oh, no sir, Cap. Sending them two back to Arkansas to be hanged, huh?”
“Sending them back, whether or not they’re hanged is up to the state of Arkansas.”
“She’s a terrible good-looking woman, Cap. I can’t imagine no judge ordering a rope put around her neck.”
Without further comment, the lawman turned and walked back toward his office. He thought about the woman standing before Judge Parker’s court—The Hanging Judge—and wondered what the outcome would be. He doubted that even Parker would hang a woman. He hated to think that he might.
Pete Winter was waiting for his boss when Ben Goodlow reached his office; the young ranger was also an early riser. He stood there by the potbelly, blowing the steam off a tin cup of hot coffee.
“Pete,” greeted the captain as he shut the door behind him.
“Captain.”
“I just sent a wire to Ft. Smith regarding the transport of the two prisoners back to the authorities there. I should be hearing soon as to how we’re going to arrange things.”
Pete remained silent while he sipped at his coffee. He, like most men of his cut, was not a great talker. Whatever ideas he had on a matter, he kept to himself.
Ben Goodlow had raised Pete Winter. He and his wife, Frieda. To be sure it had been an odd circumstance the way that Joe Winter had simply rode to their ranch one day with young Pete in hand and said that since his wife had died, he could no longer raise the boy. Ben had known Joe for a long time. There never was a question about taking over the responsibility. Pete came to be like their own.
He was proud of what he saw now, standing and sipping coffee. Aside from what he could teach the boy about horses, guns, and men, Pete Winter seemed to possess all the natural instincts and abilities that a fighting lawman needed.
To the Captain’s way of thinking, Texas Rangers were a special breed of men. It took more than just carrying a gun and a badge and arresting hardcases. He had always warned his boys, “Most of the men you will go after have a lot more mean in them than you do, but mean don’t make a man tough.”
He also taught them such matters as never abusing their horses or their prisoners. “Any man that does,” he warned, “will not get along with me.”
As a Texas Ranger, Pete Winter fit the bill just fine in the captain’s mind. The sandy-haired boy had grown into a fine young man—tall and handsome, polite as a parson, and tough as a mustang.
Pete Winter was the youngest ranger in the company, but time and again, he proved to be one of the finest, most resourceful lawmen the captain had ever known. He trusted the young ranger completely.
Ben Goodlow drank the hot as hell coffee and removed the battered Stetson from his head.
“Pete, I have requested that the Marshal’s office in Ft. Smith send us one of their men—at least partways—to meet us and take charge of the prisoners.”
“Makes good sense, Captain.”
“Trouble is, the Federal Marshals are so overburdened, it ain’t likely that anyone will be sent all the way to Pecos to escort those two—not for some time anyway. It’s why I volunteered that we’d escort them to some halfway point, hoping that would expedite the matter. I’d like to wash my hands of this business as soon as can be done.”
“How many men you plan on sending as an escort, Captain?”
“Just one, Pete—can’t spare more, and even if I could, I figure one ought to be plenty.”
“I reckon you’d want Henry Dollar for the job,” pouring a second cup of coffee.
“Henry’s the most seasoned man of the outfit, but Henry’s up in Mobeetie, got a wire from him yesterday. He found Jim McKinnon’s body....”
Both men lapsed into a moment of respectful silence.
“Anyway, Henry’s on his way to Tascosa, seems there’s a rustling ring operating over that way. He won’t be back f
or a couple of weeks. I want to send you as escort for the prisoners, Pete.”
The young lawman shifted his weight as the only indication of what the captain had just said.
“Well, Ben, you know I will if that’s what you’ve decided.”
“Don’t let this job fool you, son. Travelling over most of the country you’ll have to cross can be dangerous at best, carrying along two prisoners makes it even more so. Most of that land is desolate, without water. It’s a bad country all around. There’s still some renegade bands of Comanche roaming around out there and hardcases the law ain’t caught up with yet. Any one of them can kill you and will if given the chance.”
“I’ll stay cautious, Cap’n. When should I prepare to leave?”
“As soon as I get word back from Ft. Smith. You go ahead and get your possibles ready, go down to the livery and pick out a pair of riding horses and a pack mule to carry your provisions with. Get supplied over to the trading post—I figure two weeks worth ought to do it. Be ready when I get word.”
Pete Winter adjusted his sweat-stained Stetson so that it touched the tops of his ears and drank the last dregs of his coffee cup.
“I’ll get ’er done, Cap’n, you just yell out when you’re ready for me to start.”
Ben Goodlow watched his protege step through the door, cross the street, and head for the livery. The boy was chock full of belief in himself, exactly what the older lawman knew he would need for such a journey.
Having worn the badge for as long as he had, Ben Goodlow knew that whenever a job enforcing the law looked easy, it usually wasn’t—too many good lawman had died believing otherwise.
He thought briefly about assigning another ranger to the escort, but let the thought pass without giving much credence to it. If the boy was big enough to wear the badge, he was big enough to do the job.
Eli Stagg dismounted his mule in front of the U. S. Marshal’s office in Ft. Smith, Arkansas.
The lawman at the desk lifted his gaze in time to see the grizzled countenance of a man who smelled like campfire smoke and grease glaring down at him. The effect was unnerving.
