Dead Man's Revenge

by Colby Jackson

  McCarthy didn’t leave with the others. “I need to get the story for my newspaper. What happened in there?”

  “You sure you want the story for your paper?” Blaylock said. “Or are you worried that we might have damaged your property?”

  McCarthy looked down the street at the newspaper office. “My property’s fine.”

  “I mean the saloon. Aren’t you a partner in it?

  “I’ve heard that rumor,” McCarthy said, “but that’s all it is: a rumor. I’ve told you before, Blaylock. I’m not responsible for what people think.”

  Blaylock took a step toward the editor, his fingers curling into fists. Tolliver put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hold on, Sam,” Tolliver said.

  Blaylock stopped and looked at McCarthy.

  “You need to get a grip on that temper of yours, Blaylock,” McCarthy said.

  “And you need to watch your mouth,” Blaylock told him.

  Tolliver squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll walk Mr. McCarthy back to his office and tell him what happened here, Sam. You might want to go have something to eat at Daughtry’s. Maybe get you some of that apple pie while you’re there.”

  Sam forced himself to relax. His fingers uncurled. “Apple pie sounds good. I might just do that.”

  He stood where he was as Tolliver and McCarthy walked away. As soon as he was sure they wouldn’t look back at him, he turned and went back into the alley beside the saloon.

  7

  Blaylock climbed the stairs on the side of the Bad Dog Saloon a second time. This time when he went inside, he took a more careful look at the rooms, but they were still empty and still bare. There was no sign that anybody had been in them other than the open window.

  Looking out at the street, Blaylock saw that McCarthy and Tolliver were gone. Not disappeared like the shooter, he thought. They were most likely in McCarthy’s office having a little talk about the ruckus and about whether McCarthy was a partner in the saloon.

  Satisfied that no one had been spending any time in the rooms, Blaylock went downstairs. He and Tolliver had been careless in their search. They’d been so puzzled by the shooter’s disappearance that they hadn’t looked into the room that Blaylock figured for the saloon owner’s office.

  The door to the room wasn’t locked, so Blaylock opened the door and went inside. Like the rooms upstairs, this one was empty. But there was another door. Blaylock crossed the empty space and opened the second door. This room was obviously intended as the private living quarters for the saloon owner, as there was no other entrance to it. It, too, was unfurnished, but there were signs that someone had been there. Blaylock saw a pencil stub, an empty can, and a cigarette paper. They could have been left there by whoever built the place, but Blaylock didn’t think that was the case.

  Blaylock didn’t disturb anything, though he didn’t think that whoever had been there would risk coming back anytime soon, if ever. He left the saloon by the alley door and went to have some lunch and some apple pie for dessert.

  #

  Daughtry’s was small and clean, filled with the smell of good cooking. Blaylock had fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy, and he topped it off with coffee and pie. Mrs. Daughtry, a trim woman in her late twenties, served the pie herself.

  “I hope the pie’s as good as usual,” Blaylock said with a smile.

  Mrs. Daughtry pushed a stray lock of brown hair away from her face. “You can count on that,” she said, and turned to go.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a question?” Sam said.

  Mrs. Daughtry turned back. “About the pie?”

  “About your customers.” Sam described the three men who’d harassed his wife and daughter. “Ever seen those fellas?”

  “We get a lot of customers,” Mrs. Daughtry said. “I don’t remember them all. It’s a funny thing, though.”

  “What’s that?” Blaylock said.

  “Marshal Tolliver was in here only yesterday asking the same thing.”

  Blaylock chuckled. He should have known that Tolliver was doing his job. “Never mind, then,” he said. “If you do see those men, be sure to let the marshal know.”

  “It’s a funny thing, . . .” Mrs. Daughtry began.

  “Let me guess. The marshal said the same thing.”

  Mrs. Daughtry smiled. She looked almost pretty when she smiled. “Exactly.”

  Sam laughed, and Mrs. Daughtry went to see about her other customers. Sam started to eat his apple pie. It was delicious, but while he ate, he couldn’t help thinking about whoever had been in the room in the Bad Dog Saloon. Was it possible that the three men who’d accosted his wife and daughter had been staying there? If so, they’d been gone for a while. Besides, there couldn’t have been more than one man shooting at him. Three wouldn’t have been able to get through that trapdoor without him hearing them. He was beginning to think that the incident in Mr. George’s store wasn’t just a chance encounter.

  So who was behind it? Not three strangers. They didn’t know Blaylock or his family. Someone had put them up to it, and the logical suspect was McCarthy. Blaylock had thwarted his plans, and McCarthy didn’t like it. He was using his newspaper to turn people against Blaylock, but maybe his plan wasn’t working fast enough. He’d called in some rowdies to speed things along. Maybe he’d even let them stay in the saloon for a while.

  What did he hope to gain? If McCarthy thought he could drive Blaylock away from Rancho Diablo and get his hands on the land so he could turn it over to his friend the senator, he had another think coming. Blaylock wasn’t leaving. Threats to his life and to his family weren’t going to drive him away. He’d have to do something about them, however, and do it soon.

  The problem was that he didn’t know what to do. It was hard to fight men you couldn’t find. It wasn’t like fighting ghosts, but it was just about as aggravating.

  Sam finished his pie, paid his bill, and went home.

  #

  When Blaylock got back to the ranch, there was more trouble waiting for him. He’d hardly gotten his horse unsaddled before Gabby Darbins brought him the news.

  “Something’s wrong at the sawmill,” Gabby said. “The gosh-darned millwheel ain’t turnin’.”

  Blaylock stood and listened. He didn’t hear anything, which was a bad sign. The millwheel should have been turning and the gears grinding. The big saw should have been whining through logs.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what happened. Me and the boys come out this mornin’ like we do ever’ day, and things seemed a little slow. We didn’t know what to think about it, but we started in to workin’, anyway. Then the wheel just flat stopped.”

  “The boys” to whom Gabby referred were Randy, Duane Beatty, and Mike Tucker. Blaylock had known Beatty and Tucker before he’d come to Texas, and he was glad to have them working for him. They had talents that Blaylock lacked, and they were good workers. So was Randy, who was a bit younger than the other two. Building the sawmill had been quite a job for five men, backbreaking work, but they’d all stood up to it, even Gabby, who was older and just a little less inclined to put in a full day than he’d been when he was a youngster.

  There was still plenty of work ahead of them, too, but since Blaylock’s family had joined them, they had his two boys to help out. The boys weren’t full grown yet, but they could do a day’s work when called on.

  The family was living the new ranchhouse now, and the hands had a bunkhouse, though it was going to have to be enlarged. Blaylock planned to gather a herd of cattle eventually, and that would take even more men. He’d need a good-sized bunkhouse.

  For now, however, he was trying to make some money by selling timber from his land. Trees grew all over it, and the timber yard was full. They’d already sold some of the lumber they’d made in the mill, and with the town growing like it was, business was good. That is, when things were working, which they didn’t seem to be now.

  “What stopped the waterwhee
l?” Blaylock asked.

  “Now that’s a funny thing,” Gabby said, but he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. “Seems like the water’s not getting’ to the headrace from the river no more.”

  “What? How could that be?”

  “You just come on along with me,” Gabby said, “and I’ll show you.”

  Blaylock followed the bandy-legged little man past the sawmill. The sawmill wasn’t exactly an architectural marvel, but it was good enough. The big log building stood two stories tall and was hidden from the river by thick trees. The roof had been thatched at first, but now it was shingled, and the new roof did a fair job of keeping out the rain and weather.

  Blaylock and his men had blasted and dug a stream to channel the spring water from York’s Peak, more of a high hill than a real peak, to power the wheel that was now stilled. Blaylock noticed that the water in the millpond had just about all drained back into the channel that led down to the river.

  Looking ahead, Blaylock saw Randy, Duane, and Tucker standing near the river bank. They were looking at a makeshift dam of stones and wood that partially blocked the headrace.

  “How did that get there?” Blaylock asked.

  Gabby took off his battered hat and slapped it against his thigh. “How in the consarned heck would I know that? You think I put it there? The way you work me for daylight ‘til dark, I’m so weakened down I can hardly lift my coffee cup in the mornin’, much less build a dam by the light of the moon. Anyways, we already made our own dam and blasted it to tarnation. Why’d we want to build another one and make all our work be for nothin’?”

  When they’d cut the channel, they’d dammed it up so the water wouldn’t interfere with their work. It had been a big day when they’d blasted the dam and set the water flowing. Blaylock could still remember how proud he felt when the big millwheel had begun to turn for the first time.

  “It must’ve been done last night,” Duane Beatty said as Blaylock and Gabby walked up.

  Duane was a tall young man, well over six feet. He had curly black hair and black eyes that spoke of his Cajun heritage. He liked to laugh and have a good time, and he liked to dress in fancy outfits. At the moment he was wearing work clothes stained with dirt, a far cry from what he preferred.

  “It sure wasn’t here yesterday,” Tucker said. “Whoever did it worked fast. It’s a clumsy job.”

  Tucker and Beatty were good friends, but they were as different as two men could be. Tucker was even younger than Beatty, small and compact, quiet, and not prone to fancy clothes under any circumstances. He had dirty blond hair and the cold gray eyes of a killer. And he could be a killer when the occasion demanded. He was as deadly a man as Blaylock had ever known, but he was always in control. He never killed or even fired a gun unless it was called for.

  “It might be a clumsy job,” Randy said, “but it’s mighty damned effective.”

  Blaylock looked at the makeshift dam. It didn’t stop water from flowing down the streambed, but it allowed only a trickle, not nearly enough to turn the waterwheel.

  “It was runnin’ a little slow this mornin’,” Gabby said, “but not enough so’s we’d be worried about it. Look here.” He pointed to the front of the dam, where the limbs and sticks were thickest. “I betcha this here trash was just loosed on us an hour or so ago. Floated down here and blocked things up good and proper.”

  “Let’s go have a look,” Blaylock said.

  “Don’t have to,” Duane said. “Come over here.”

  Blaylock joined the tall young man, who pointed to the ground. It was hard and dry, but there was plenty of evidence that someone had been trampling around, gathering stones and putting them in the stream.

  “Looks like they came along here,” Tucker said, pointing along the riverbank.”

  “Prob’ly three or four of ‘em,” Gabby said. “But where in tarnation are they now?”

  “I can tell you where,” Blaylock said.

  “Me, too,” Randy said.

  Gabby looked first at Blaylock, then at Randy. “How in heck can you tell me where they went? Are you like one of them medicine show people who claim to have second sight? One of them injun medicine men that has a spirit vision?”

  “Nope,” Blaylock said. “Just using common sense. Right, Randy?”

  “Right. They did their work here and went up on the peak to wait for morning to float the sticks and trash down and jam things up enough to stop the waterwheel. They wouldn’t stay up there, though. They came back down and left.” He pointed to the spot about fifty yards upriver where the water curved around a tree-covered curve in the riverbank. “My guess would be they came from that way. There’s plenty of cover along the bank. They could go back there without being seen.”

  “Wonder why we didn’t hear ‘em last night, then,” Gabby said.

  “Your snoring would cover up the noise of a buffalo herd,” Tucker said. “That and the waterwheel.”

  Gabby ignored the remark about his snoring. “By golly, let’s go up there and see if they’re still around. We’ll teach ‘em to mess with our mill.”

  Blaylock knew the men wouldn’t still be around, but he thought it was worth a look. Maybe they’d left behind some clue as to who they were or where they’d gone.

  “Let’s go see what we can see,” he said.

  #

  They walked along the riverbank, following the few signs there were. When they rounded a little bend, the tracks stopped.

  Gabby took off his hat and pulled a ragged bandana from a pocket. He wiped his forehead and said, “Disappeared, by golly. Vanished in the air, just like they was some kinda haints.”

  Duane laughed. “There’s no such thing as a haint.”

  “Shows what you know,” Gabby said. “You ever hear about Hiram Birchman?”

  Duane nodded, and Blaylock knew the story, of course. That didn’t stop Gabby, however. He launched into the tale.

  Birchman had been the original owner of Rancho Diablo, and his story wasn’t a happy one. He’d failed at his attempt to do anything with the land, and his wife had left him, taking their child with her. Not long afterward, Birchman had hanged himself in his barn. The barn had still been there when Blaylock bought the place, but he and Gabby had torn it down. Blaylock hadn’t wanted Jenny to see it or to think about Birchman.

  As Gabby told the story now, he’d asked Blaylock not to tear down the building. “That’s where Birchman’s spirit was. It was cooped up in that barn, and now it’s a-loose. I’ve heard it moaning in the night.”

  “I haven’t,” Duane said. “Any of you other fellas?”

  Nobody had.

  “Then you ain’t been listenin’. And what about them Injuns?”

  “What Injuns?”

  “The ones that cursed this place. That bad water and the smell of it is a part of the curse. Some say Injun spirits walk these here woods at night. I’ve seen ‘em a time or two.”

  “I haven’t,” Tucker said. “Maybe you ought to lay off that extra glass of sarsaparilla you’ve been drinking every night.”

  “You can laugh if you want to,” Gabby said. “Just don’t come lookin’ for me to help you when those haints carry you off.”

  He stalked off and sat on a rock with his back to the others.

  “You think he really believes that stuff?” Randy said. “He sure seems mad at us.”

  “He might believe it a little bit,” Blaylock said. “But don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it.”

  “I just hope he’s wrong,” Randy said. “I don’t want to have to mess with any haints.”

  Blaylock thought about the way the shooter in the saloon had disappeared. He laughed, mostly at himself but a little bit at Randy and Gabby.

  “We might have a few other things to worry about around here,” he said, “but haints aren’t one of ‘em.”

  Gabby turned around and looked at them.

  “I know what I know,” he said.

  8

  “You’re s
ure you didn’t kill him?” Dick Dockett asked Jones.

  Jones’s tongue flicked out of his mouth. “’Course not. You said not to kill him, didn’t you? You’re paying me to do what you say, and you said not to kill him. Just scare him, is what you said.” Jones’ right hand went up and tugged at his long hair. “I don’t think I scared him, though. He’s not the kind that scares easy. Didn’t faze him when I shot the hat right off his head. Anyway, he ain’t dead. He came after me, and I took another couple of shots at him before I slipped away. He never even knew I was gone.”

  “All right,” Dockett said. “What about you two?”

  Frank and Earl sat at the rickety little table with Jones and the two Docketts, Jacob and Dick. They were at Dockett’s place, to which he and Jacob had returned when Dockett had recuperated from his fight and near-drowning at the hands of Sam Blaylock.

  It had taken Dockett months of planning, and he’d stayed out of sight the whole time, paying only a couple of visits to Shooter’s Cross well after nightfall. Jacob had gone all the way to Waco to get their supplies so as not to be seen by anybody who might know him.

  When he was ready to move against Blaylock, Dockett himself had gone to Dallas and looked around town for some men he thought would be up to the job. He was careful in his inquiries, and he didn’t make any hasty decisions. Eventually he decided on Earl, Frank, and Jones, all of whom seemed to be just the kind of hardcases he was looking for.

  Earl was working as a bouncer in a saloon, Jones did the same job at a whorehouse, and Frank was a local tough who’d been in and out of trouble all his life. The scar on his face attested to one of his narrow escapes.

  None of the men was wanted for any crimes, though Dockett believed they’d all done a few things they wouldn’t want the law to know about. He didn’t ask, and they didn’t tell. All he cared about was whether they minded doing a little rough work that might involve shooting and fighting, and all they cared about was how much he could pay them. They came to an agreement without any trouble.