Cyrus Temple digested that. “There aren’t many town tamers.”
“It’s a dangerous profession. No one in their right mind would take it up. My sister and I help our pa.”
“A name, boy. I want your name.”
“Byron Carter.”
“Never heard of you.”
Byron set the book in his lap. “We use a different name for taming. Pa says it’s to protect sis and me. Personally, I think he does it to rub their noses in the fact he’s not what they think he is.”
“I’ve lost your trail.”
“He looks Indian but he’s not. Our grandmother’s doing, and he hates it.”
“So what handle does he go by?”
“Asa Delaware.”
Temple reacted as if Byron had poked him in the eyes. “The hell you say.”
“The hell I do,” Byron said, and laughed.
“Someone hired him to do in Studevant?”
“They did. He was going to decline, but then he learned what Studevant is like and Studevant’s law dogs beat me black-and-blue. And here we are.”
“Studevant never told me any of that. Asa Delaware, by God. And Studevant thinks it’s just some idiots out to make him look like a fool.”
“Oh, that, too.”
Temple looked across the meadow and then to the right and the left. “It occurs to me this is suddenly damn serious. Where’s that pa of yours, anyway?”
“Right behind you,” Byron said.
Temple started to turn, and Asa pressed the muzzle of the Winchester shotgun to the back of his head.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Hell,” Temple said.
“I heard you say you hurt my girl.”
“She started it.”
“No. You did by coming after us. Who else has Studevant brought in, or did he figure you were enough?”
“I am all I know about.”
“Well, then,” Asa said.
“I’d like to strike a deal,” Temple said quickly. “I lower my rifle and you lower yours and let me walk away. I leave Colorado, and you finish your vendetta or whatever this is.”
“No,” Asa said.
“I won’t tell Studevant about you. Hell, I won’t even talk to him. I’ll get on my horse and head straight for Wyoming. What do you say?”
“I’ve already said it.”
Temple’s voice hardened. “My Sharps is pointed at your boy. I squeeze this trigger, it’ll blow a hole in him the size of a pie plate.”
“Not quite that big.”
“You might get me, but I’ll kill him.”
“How many have you?” Asa asked.
“Have I what?”
“Killed.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“I like to know the tally.”
“I’ve never counted them.”
“Sure you have. Everybody counts them. Some brag on it, but even the ones who don’t brag have counted.”
Temple was quiet a bit and then said, “Twenty-two, damn you.”
“I heard about that sheepherder and his family. Ranchers hired you to get the sheep off their range.”
“Nothing was ever proved. I was set free.”
“But you did it.”
Temple was angry and went to turn but caught himself.
“Who are you to judge me? You’re not God Almighty.”
“True. I’m just a man.”
“You heard me about your boy. Lower your weapon or he’s a goner.”
“One last question. Where did you tie your horse?”
“My horse? What do you want him for?”
“I wouldn’t want him to starve if he can’t get loose.”
“Damn you, Delaware. I’ve tried to be reasonable.”
“Some do at the end. They think they can talk their way out of it. I usually let them have their say because they relax a little and that slows them a hair when we get to it.”
Asa took a quick step to one side and fired at Cyrus Temple’s hands. The buckshot blew the Sharps from Temple’s grasp, and blew off his left hand at the wrist.
Temple screamed and staggered and held up the stump. Blood spurted in large drops, splattering his face and his bearskin coat. “No!” he cried.
“Yes,” Asa said, and shot him in the face.
Byron came over holding his book and looked down at the convulsing hulk. “You can see his brains.”
“What’s left of them.” Asa worked the Winchester’s lever. “Let’s go find your sister and that horse.”
“What if he’d squeezed that trigger?”
“He didn’t.”
As they hurried, Asa glanced back and said, “He was right about one thing though.”
“Which is?”
“It’s time we got serious.”
72
Arthur Studevant was eating breakfast at the finest restaurant in Ordville. He should know. He owned it.
A pair of waiters fawned over him. They’d brought his poached eggs and toast with a glass of orange juice on a silver tray and laid it out for him as if laying it out for a king.
That pleased Studevant mightily. He liked being treated as befit his status.
The trappings of power, was how he liked to think of them. And he loved power more than anything. The power to rule others’ lives. The power to control them, to bend them to his every whim.
He loved power more than he’d ever loved another human being. It was his passion, his tonic, his everything.
Studevant couldn’t say exactly when he fell in love with it. The oldest of eleven children, he’d been put in charge of their day-to-day chores and whatnot because his father was always off conducting business and his mother flitted about like a hummingbird to keep all the appointments on her social calendar.
He’d gotten used to telling the others what to do and when to do it. He treated them decent but expected them to obey, and he supposed he’d carried some of that with him into his adult life.
Not that he cared where his lust for power came from. The important thing was to have it, to exercise it, to have control.
Now, as he spooned poached eggs into his mouth and chewed with relish, Studevant closed his eyes and for a few moments all was right with the world. He was literally tasting the delicious trappings of the power he loved so much.
Then Studevant opened his eyes and Marshal Pollard and Deputy Agar were entering the restaurant.
Cray and Dray glanced at him, and Studevant nodded.
Agar, always tactless, spoke before he was addressed. “Mr. Studevant, sir, you’re not going to believe it.”
The taste of the eggs grew bitter in Studevant’s mouth.
“Such a nice start to the day, too.”
“Sir?” Agar said.
“Shut up.” Studevant set down his spoon and focused on Pollard. “Let me hear it.”
“That tracker fella,” Pollard said.
Studevant brightened. Evidently he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. “He’s found them?”
“Somebody found somebody.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You need to come see.”
Reluctantly, Studevant rose and snatched his cane from where he had leaned it against the wall. Not that he needed a cane to get around. The gold knob was so heavy, he could crush a skull with it. “My first instincts were right. You bear bad tidings.”
“You have to see,” Pollard reiterated.
“How far?”
“The end of town. A crowd is already there. I have some of my deputies keeping them back.”
“We’ll take my carriage, then.”
Studevant didn’t demand the full details. While Pollard wasn’t always as sharp as he would wish, P
ollard was a genius compared to Agar. And if Pollard said he had to see it for himself, then see it he would.
The Gray Ghosts sat on either side of him. To his amusement, Agar kept glancing at one and then the other and nervously licking his lips.
Studevant had often imagined the pleasure he would derive from using his cane on the deputy’s skull. He did so now. It lightened his foreboding a little.
Then they turned the last corner, and ahead were a few lots and the fringe of woodland that stretched for miles up into the high country.
An old oak reared higher than the rest, its mighty branches a testament to its endurance. And there, hanging by his ankles from a rope tied to a limb, was Cyrus Temple. The lower half of his bearskin coat had folded out on itself and hung down over his shoulders and head.
Already dozens of citizens had gathered to gawk. Several deputies ensured the curious didn’t come too close.
All eyes swung toward the carriage as Studevant alighted. Keeping his features impassive, he strode to the crowd, and it parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
Studevant placed the end of his cane on the ground, leaned on the gold knob, and sighed. “So much for the Tracker. How long would you say he’s been dead?”
“I’m no doc, but my guess would be he was killed yesterday and brought here last night,” Marshal Pollard replied. “He must have bled out before they brought him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Lift the coat and hold on to your breakfast.”
“The breakfast I didn’t get to eat?” Nonetheless, Studevant used his cane to raise the bottom of the coat high enough to see Temple’s head. Or what little was left of it.
“Shotgun,” Pollard said. “Has to be.”
A stirring at the back of Studevant’s mind gave him pause. He sought for the cause, but it proved elusive. Shrugging, he let the coat drop.
“There’s more,” Pollard said.
“When it rains, it pours. What else?”
“It’s pinned to his back.”
“To his backside, actually,” Deputy Agar said, and tittered as if it were a great joke.
Studevant rested his cane on his shoulder as he walked around. A sheet of yellow lined paper had been tacked to Temple’s britches. He read the first line out loud: “‘To the coward Arthur Studevant.’” A burning started at the nape of his neck and spread up his neck and face. “Those sons of bitches.”
Studevant ripped the note free and read the rest, growing hotter by the moment.
To the coward Arthur Studevant,
We send your tracker back to you with our regards and our contempt. We had hoped you would come yourself but that requires courage of an order you don’t possess. Only a yellow cur rapes women and terrorizes the elderly. Do you hear that barking? That’s you.
Studevant smothered a violent oath. The note was signed, A Friendly Farmer. He crumpled it and glowered at the world and everyone in it. “How many have seen this?”
“I don’t know. There were twenty people or more here when we arrived.”
“Did Fiske see it?”
“I haven’t seen him. If he was here, he left before we were sent for.”
“I’ll bet he has,” Studevant said. “I’ll bet he rushed back to put out another of his damnable special editions.” Shaking his cane in fury, he made for his carriage. “Come with me, all of you.”
“What about the body?” Pollard asked.
“Have it cut down and dropped in a hole.”
Studevant boiled all the way to the Ordville Gazette. He was out of the carriage before it came to a stop. When he shoved open the door, a tiny bell tinkled.
Richard Fiske was at his press, excitedly changing the type. An owlish man who wore spectacles, he half-turned and frowned. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”
Ignoring Fiske’s two employees, Studevant walked over and gave the printing press a hard rap with his cane. “No,” he said.
“Freedom of the press, by God,” Fiske said. “Or haven’t you heard of the First Amendment?”
“Until all this started, I thought you were on my side,” Studevant said.
“I’m a newspaperman. I report the news. I don’t take sides one way or another.”
“I won’t be publicly disgraced.”
Fiske motioned with the box of letters in his hand. “I’m not the only one who read the note. By now it’s spreading all over town. My printing it won’t make a difference.”
The hell of it was, Studevant thought to himself, the man was right. He could beat Fiske’s face in and it wouldn’t prevent the inevitable.
“Do you want my advice, Arthur?”
Studevant didn’t respond.
“We’ve shared more than a few drinks together at the club. I happen to believe you didn’t rape that girl. And I think that old biddy with her wild accusations is half out of her mind.”
“You’re making a point?”
“It can’t keep on like this. No one will blame you if you go out after them. You have to end it or everyone in town will look down their nose at you. You’ll lose all respect.”
Studevant had a troubling thought. Without respect he’d lose something else. His power. “Perhaps you are my friend, after all.”
“What will you do?”
“What do you think?” Studevant rejoined. “I’m going out after them and bury the bastards.”
Part Six
73
The town tamers hadn’t gone back to the meadow after they hung Cyrus Temple from the oak tree. They had climbed to a ridge that overlooked the west end of town and dismounted.
Overhead, stars sparkled. A crescent moon added its pale light. To the north, a coyote yipped and was answered by another.
A patch of rock offered a convenient spot to sit. Asa made himself comfortable and placed the Winchester shotgun across his legs.
Noona and Byron joined him.
“Get some sleep if you’d like,” Asa said.
“What about you?” Noona asked.
“I reckon I’ll sit here a spell.”
Byron chuckled. “Our tree apple should cause quite a stir come morning.”
“For a poet, you’re awful bloodthirsty these days,” Noona teased.
“I just want it over with,” Byron said. “I want to get on with my new life.”
Noona stared down the mountain at the few lights that speckled the town at that hour of the night. “Do you reckon it will work, Pa? Will it goad him enough to draw him out?”
“We’ll know come daylight or soon after,” Asa predicted.
“I’m sorry about that Tracker getting the better of me,” Noona said. “I didn’t hear him sneak up, and I should have.”
“He got his,” Byron said. “He thought he was so slick, but Pa was slicker.”
Asa looked at him. “Never gloat over killing a man, son, no matter how much he deserves it.”
Byron tilted his straw hat back on his head. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve never once heard you gloat over all those you’ve sent into eternity.”
“When you put an end to a man, you end him permanent,” Asa said. “It’s not a thing to take lightly.”
“You’ve never expressed this sentiment before,” Byron said. “I’d never have guessed you felt this way.”
“What? You reckoned I enjoy blowing out brains?”
“More or less,” Byron said.
“Hell, boy. How can you have lived with me for so long and know me so little? And me your own father.”
“Don’t start up again, please,” Noona said. “We’ve been getting along pretty well and I’d hate to have it spoiled.”
“Don’t look at me,” Byron said. “I’m being as friendly as I know how.”
“All I have on my mind,” Asa said, “is whe
ther Studevant will come, and how many he’ll bring.”
“Those gray fellas for sure,” Noona said. “And the marshal and four or five deputies.”
“Eight or nine,” Byron said. “We’ve faced worse odds.”
“Doesn’t matter if there’s two or twenty,” Asa said. “We have a job to do.”
“But is it, though?” Byron said. “The town didn’t ask us to come. That Preston woman did. And the town isn’t paying us. She is.”
“You worry it like a dog worries a bone,” Asa said.
“I don’t care who hired us. We’re doing the right thing,” Noona said.
“Yes, we are,” Asa said.
“Arthur Studevant isn’t on a Wanted circular,” Byron said. “He doesn’t have the law after him. He’s not a bad man, as such.”
“He’s worse than any bad man we’ve ever come across,” Asa said. “We need a whole new word for him. Cecilia Preston calls him a demon and that fits.”
“Weldon Knox was wicked as could be,” Byron reminded him. “And devious, too.”
“Knox can’t hold a candle to Studevant. Knox lorded it over a ranch. Studevant lords it over Ordville and Bentonville and God knows where else. He has the law in his pocket and is friends with the governor and senators and the like. If he ever goes into politics, he could run the whole country.”
“Can you imagine what that would be like?” Noona said.
“This country would be a living hell.” Asa paused. “You were with me when I talked to those people. Arthur Studevant is the most evil son of a bitch we’ve ever come across.”
“Watch your language, Pa,” Byron said. “There’s a lady present.” He put on a show of glancing every which way. “Somewhere.”
“I should kick you,” Noona said, but instead she laughed and swatted his arm.
Silence fell until Asa stirred and said quietly, “I couldn’t walk away from this, you two. Not and be able to look at myself in a mirror.”
“You haven’t heard me complain once, have you?” Noona said.
“I have,” Byron admitted. “I was dead set against it until they beat me and I learned better.”
“I learned something important this time, too,” Asa remarked. “Bad men don’t always look like bad men. They don’t always wear pistols and tote rifles and beat people in the open or gun them down in the street. Some bad men wear suits and tote canes and have others do their beating and shooting.”
Town Tamers Page 22
