Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  Trouble was, his skirmish with the table occupied Fred just long enough for Cyrus Shaw to lean in and bounce a bony fist off his chin followed by a left to his stomach. Even putting all his weight behind the punches, however, didn’t provide much impact for the slight Cyrus—especially not against the substantial anchor presented by Fred. In response, the latter uncorked a whooshing backhand that landed with a meaty splat! Cyrus was spun around like a top, turning a full 360 degrees and sent staggering backward.

  By that point, the stocky Harley had launched himself at Bob before the marshal was completely untangled from the still-groggy Conroy. The oldest Shaw son was an experienced brawler who knew how to put power into his punches so that they drilled in deep and were packed with hurt. Bob took a hard bang to the ribs and then an uppercut that damn near snapped his head off his shoulders before he was able to tie up Harley’s arms and drag him into a clinch. Bob hung on tight, sucking for wind from the blow to the ribs and at the same time trying to quiet the bells the uppercut had set to ringing inside his head.

  While Bob and Harley lurched back and forth, each struggling to gain advantage over the other, Peter ran from the farthest point opposite where the Shaws had been seated and made a running dive to land in the middle of the knot of bodies that had formed when Moses and Wiley had surged back to gang up on Vern. He succeeded in breaking apart the knot, each man splitting away, wobbly on their feet but nobody going down. And then, like pieces of a lodestone jumping back together, each party involved—four of them now—sprang inward again and began furiously raining blows on one another.

  While that was going on, the three men who’d been standing at the bar made a successful bolt out the door. And the other trio, the ones sitting at the small table with the laboriously acquired pitcher of beer, dropped low and made their own exit by scrambling on hands and knees out under the bottom edge of the tent wall. The half-emptied pitcher of beer was left behind like an abandoned old friend.

  Behind the precariously tilted plank bar, Swede was holding Conroy upright and trying to snap him out of the last of his grogginess. “Come on, man, get your damn head cleared,” he urged. “This is your chance to make a break.”

  Conroy looked around blearily at the brawl spilling back and forth across the middle of the room. “Shouldn’t we be helping them . . . the Shaws, I mean?” he mumbled.

  Swede shook his head. A kind of sadness settled over his face and crept into his voice. “No. I fear the jig is up for us. I’ve been through this kind of thing before. The best we can hope for now is to stay out of jail—which is where those fool Shaws are surely headed. Otherwise, it’s time to throw the key in the water bucket and kick the dirt from this town off our boot heels for good. At least we should be able to get away with enough to start over again somewhere else.”

  An even deeper sadness tugged at Conroy’s face. “Too bad there ain’t one more thing we could be takin’ with us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ol’ Sol . . . I sure wish you’d’ve let me keep him, Swede.”

  * * *

  In the meantime, the brawl was beginning to show some signs of running out of steam.

  The Macy brothers were still trading blows with Moses and Wiley at a frantic pace. But sixty-year-old Moses was showing some definite fatigue, his shoulders slumping, his counterpunches coming slower and with less pop. A cut over Wiley’s left eye was affecting his vision to the point where he was taking nearly two blows to every one he threw, and the latter were landing far less effectively than they had been earlier.

  Ever since Fred’s shattering backhand had rattled young Cyrus to his very core, the conflict between the two of them had amounted to something that resembled a game of keep-away more than an actual fight—with Cyrus ducking and dodging this way and that in order to keep out of the crushing grasp of the lumbering Fred.

  The clinch Bob had locked in with Harley turned out to be something neither man wanted to release for fear of opening himself up to a punishing blow on the break. Finally, Harley made the mistake of momentarily exposing his face when he lifted his bullet head from the way he’d been keeping it tucked low and grinding against Bob’s throat. Bob, taller by nearly five inches, took full advantage by slamming downward with his forehead and crashing it hard onto the bridge of Harley’s nose. Harley yelped painfully. At the same time, Bob felt cartilage flatten and turn to pulp as hot blood gushed out the nostrils of the ruined nose and poured down over the marshal’s cheeks.

  Shoving Harley back a ragged step and a half, Bob immediately threw a roundhouse right followed an instant later by hard left. Blood flew from the bloody lump that used to be Harley’s nose each time his head whipped to one side or the other. Stepping closer, Bob ended it with a swooping uppercut that started at knee level and streaked upward until his fist solidly clipped the point of Harley’s chin. The oldest Shaw son flung his arms wide and fell straight back, rigid as a slab of timber, until his shoulders crashed heavily to the dirt floor.

  Moments later, Moses was the next to go. Under a flurry of punches thrown by Vern, the old soldier sort of folded up. It started with a sagging of his knees and then the rest of him crumpled down, section by section, until he was a gasping heap with his fists hanging limply at his sides. His youngest son, Wiley, went down soon after, taking a vicious blind-side right cross from Peter that twisted him halfway around and then pitched him unconscious across his fallen father’s legs.

  That left Cyrus, the middle son. The escape artist who’d been nimbly avoiding Fred’s grasp except for that one nerve-numbing blow. Distracted by seeing his father and brothers dropping all around him, Cyrus’s nimbleness faltered just long enough for Fred to finally clamp hold of the back of his shirt collar. The scrawny lad continued to squirm and twist, trying to pull away, but now that Fred had finally gained a hold he wasn’t about to lose it.

  Breathing hard, backhanding a trickle of blood from one corner of his mouth, Vern looked on with mild amusement. “You got a kind of slippery fish there, Fred?”

  “You could say that,” Fred replied, also breathing hard from his exertions trying to catch Cyrus. “Little turd is slicker than a greased pig at a rodeo.”

  “You want us to hold him for you so’s you can clobber him one?” asked Peter.

  Fred made a face. “Naw, much as I would like to land a good lick on the wiggly damn worm, that wouldn’t hardly be fair. Besides, by the look of how his old man and brothers are laid out, he’s gonna have his hands full tending to them.”

  “You damn right I’ll tend to ’em,” Cyrus snapped back defiantly. “And when I get ’em on their feet again, we’ll take another run at you law dogs and we’ll see who’s left layin’ the next time.”

  Bob stepped closer. “Son,” he said wearily, “I don’t have near the reluctance my kindhearted deputy does about smacking you in the jaw, I don’t care how lopsided the odds are. You keep running your mouth, especially in that snotty tone, I will be very happy to show you.”

  Cyrus glared heatedly at the marshal for a moment, then clamped his mouth shut tight and said no more.

  Bob nodded. “That’s better. In case you haven’t guessed, you and your clan are on the way to jail. We’ll send the doctor around to your cell by and by. After that, you can think long and hard how smart it would be to get in any kind of hurry to tangle with me and my boys again.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “So what were you hoping to accomplish? Find the few places left on your face that weren’t already covered by scratches or scabs and see if you couldn’t fill them in with fresh bruises? You’ve got one ear left, too, that you once again failed to get damaged.”

  Consuela asked these questions as she dabbed gently at Bob’s face with an alcohol-soaked cloth. The marshal was seated on a wooden chair in his kitchen, Consuela hovering fussily over him as she applied the sharp-smelling cloth. On the other side of the table, also perched on a wooden chair, Bucky looked on with openmouthed fascination.

  �
�Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a mite?” Bob said in defense of himself and the recent events at the Red-Eyed Goat Saloon. “I only got hit once . . . in the face, that is.”

  “But how many punches did you land, Pa?” Bucky wanted to know. “Twenty or thirty at least, I bet. Right?”

  Bob grinned with half his mouth—the half that didn’t hurt quite so much. “Somewhere short of that many,” he allowed. “But I got in some pretty good licks, all the same.”

  Consuela’s expression grew even more troubled. “There can be nothing ‘pretty good’ about putting your hands—or fists—on the likes of human trash such as Moses Shaw and his sons. The two or three times I have had the displeasure of seeing them when they came to town was as close as I ever want to come. They have a stink about them and the look of pure evil. Just the touch of their eyes on a decent woman is enough to make her skin crawl. Behind the bars of your jail is a good start, but they belong locked away somewhere even deeper and more secure.”

  Bob almost wanted to laugh at Consuela’s intensity. “How about the lowest pit in the bowels of Hell?” he suggested.

  Her expression remained grim, not recognizing that he was teasing her a bit. “That might be a good start.”

  Bob sighed. “Well, my jail is the best I can do for now. Drunk and disorderly, interfering with an officer of the law in the performance of his duties . . . A night, or two at most, then I’ll have to turn ’em loose. Putting them up any longer, feeding ’em and such, is more bother and expense than they’re worth. And with the closing down of the Red-Eyed Goat—their favorite drinking hole when they hit town—maybe they’ll have reason to come back around less frequently than before.”

  “Giving the wolf less sheep to prey upon does not change him from being a wolf,” declared Consuela as she scrutinized Bob’s face a final time to see if there was anything more she needed to do. “And what of the man who ran this Goat place? Him you did not put behind bars at all? I thought you were convinced he had something to do with the attempt to burn down the big new saloon that is about to open?”

  Bob sighed again. He’d already gone through this with his deputies and was getting a little sick of explaining it. But, for Consuela, he was willing to exhibit some extra patience.

  “The hardest thing for any lawman to accept,” he said, “is when you’re convinced, way down bone deep, that some no-good so-and-so is guilty of something . . . only you got no way to prove it. Not without contriving a piece or two of evidence, and if you start doing that then it puts you on the same side of the line as those you’re up against.”

  The marshal shook his head. “That’s where we were at with Swede Simkins, the hombre that ran the Red-Eyed Goat. Yeah, I feel certain he used his man Conroy as a go-between to hire those other two skunks to try and burn down the Crystal Diamond. But I don’t have any proof. So, since Swede’s ready to pull up stakes and leave town and no fire actually took place and the two directly responsible ended up dead, I’m willing to settle for that. It’s the best we’re likely to get. As long as Swede and Conroy steer clear of these parts and never show up in my town again, I can live with it.”

  “The last time you failed to put some bastardos behind bars, after the trouble at Bullock’s just the other day,” said Consuela, clearly unconvinced by Bob’s rationale, “you almost were not able to live with it. They showed back up and came close to killing you.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Bob replied dryly, his patience starting to wear thin, even with Consuela. “That’s only about the twentieth time in the past hour somebody’s brought that little piece of poor judgment to my attention.”

  Not liking to see even a minor disturbance flare up between his father and Consuela, Bucky abruptly spoke again. “You said you took off work early today because you had a surprise for us,” he reminded Bob. “You’re still gonna get around to that, ain’t you, Pa?”

  “You bet I am,” Bob responded, grinning as his gaze shifted to the boy. “As a matter of fact, anybody who needs to do anything to get ready had better hop to it because in just a minute or two the first part of the surprise is due to come rolling up.”

  “Get ready for what? What is going to come ‘rolling up’?” Consuela wanted to know.

  Bob’s grin widened. “Joe Peterson, from the town livery, is gonna be dropping off a buggy and team of horses for us. We’re gonna take a ride out to Finn’s Meadow. Before leaving town, we’ll stop by the Bluebird Café and pick up the picnic lunch I arranged to be made up and waiting for us—ham sandwiches, pickles and potato salad, a big ol’ jug of lemonade, and whatever else Teresa can think to throw in. Whatever she includes, you know it’ll be tasty.”

  “We’re going on a picnic? Oh boy!” exclaimed Bucky.

  “Why not?” said Bob. “It’s a nice day, we’ve got three or four hours of daylight left. We can spread a blanket, take on a good feed, and watch dusk settle in.”

  “I wish you would have given me some warning,” said Consuela as she began untying her apron. Her lovely face looked thoughtful even as the corners of her mouth were being lifted by a pleased smile. “I could have prepared something here and made it unnecessary to—”

  Bob cut her off, saying, “It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise if I’d given you warning. This way all you have to do is choose a proper blanket and some eating utensils. Bring them, along with your appetite and your own willingness to relax and have a good time, and everything else is all set.”

  “Very well. I can do that,” said Consuela, a wide, dazzling smile now on full display. “But this is so . . . so unlike you.”

  Bob scowled. “Which is exactly why, after we got done scuffling with those doggone Shaws earlier, I had me a thought on some things and decided a change was in order. Seems like for several days running it’s been nothing but one no-account rascal after another looking to butt heads with me over some cockeyed reason. Cussing me, threatening my friends or my town, shooting at me . . . I figured it was time to take a little break from all that. I’ve got three good, competent deputies to handle things while I step away for a few hours. And who better to step away and spend some relaxing time with than my two most favorite people in the world?”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Hellooo! Hello, the picnic . . . Rider coming in!”

  This announcement rang out from a fringe of trees running along the south edge of Finn’s Meadow. It came in a strong baritone voice that easily reached the spot toward the center of the meadow where Bob, Consuela, and Bucky had spread their blanket in the shade of a towering oak.

  As the three picnickers turned toward the voice, they saw a lone horseman emerge from the trees and approach them at an easy canter. The horse was a thick-chested roan gelding, its rider a trim, well-dressed man wearing a friendly smile, a black-handled Colt in a cross-draw holster on his left hip, and a wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat.

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” the smiling man said when he was close enough to rein up. “I heard some shooting a few minutes ago and thought it was worth coming to have a look. Once I had, I figured another good idea might be to let somebody know I was back there in those trees. You know, just to make sure no stray bullets got tossed my direction.”

  “I’m not in the habit of tossing around stray bullets,” Bob told him. “I shoot in somebody’s direction, I make sure I got good reason to do so.”

  “My pa’s a town marshal and one of the straightest shooters around,” Bucky added firmly. “In fact, what you heard was him practicing for a shooting contest that he’s entered and is gonna win.”

  The stranger chuckled. “In that case, I wish I would have run into you a little earlier, son. Might have saved myself twenty-five dollars. You see, I’ve entered that same contest. But now, according to you, it doesn’t sound like I have much of a chance.”

  “It’s going to be a fair contest. Everybody will have their chance, mister,” said Bob. “You just have to take into consideration that my son is a little biased.
”

  “The way it should be. Wouldn’t give you much for a boy who wasn’t proud of his father.”

  Consuela stepped forward. “Would you like to take a break from the saddle for a few minutes, Mr. . . . ?”

  The stranger inclined his head and pinched the brim of his hat. “The name’s Delaney. Clayton Delaney. And I very much appreciate the offer, ma’am, but I don’t wish to intrude any more than I already have.”

  “It wouldn’t be that much of an intrusion,” Consuela assured him. “We’re mostly already done eating and, as you heard, have moved on to target practice.”

  “There’s a leftover ham sandwich and plenty of lemonade still in that jug. You’re welcome to light a spell,” said Bob. “Maybe we can even burn a little powder together, get an idea what we’re up against with one another.”

  “Ironically,” said Delaney, “that’s exactly what I rode out here for—to get in a little target practice. And a cup of that lemonade certainly sounds inviting.”

  Bob gestured. “Climb on down, then. Get out of the sun. Bucky will take your horse and put him with our team.”

  Once Delaney had dismounted, Bob went ahead and finished making introductions. When he’d finished, Delaney said, “I have to admit to recognizing you, Marshal. You were pointed out to me earlier today at the train station.”

  “You came in on today’s train?” asked Consuela as she held out a cup of freshly poured lemonade.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Yes. Now I remember seeing you there as well,” said Bob. “And later, when I put my name down for the contest, I remember seeing the name ‘Clayton Delaney’ already on one of the lines. But I had no way of connecting the two.”

  “Well, now you do.” Delaney took a sip of his drink and declared it to be excellent.