Killing Texas Bob

by Ralph Cotton

  A big miner wearing a ragged shirt and a battered bowler hat called out to him down the bar, ‘‘For it being none of your business, you sure are running your mouth about it, mister.’’

  ‘‘Who said that?’’ Leonard looked back and forth, then homed in on the big miner. Drinkers standing at the bar between the two stepped back, anticipating trouble. ‘‘I happen to care about the law,’’ Leonard said, thumbing himself on the chest. His right hand fell instinctively to his holstered Colt. ‘‘When I see a man like Thorn killed, I’ve got a right to speak my mind on it.’’ He reminded himself that he was here to stir up the crowd, not get into a fight. He took his hand off his pistol.

  ‘‘I’ve got a right to speak my mind too,’’ said the big miner. ‘‘I’ve never known a better man than Texas Bob. You’ve been sore-talking him ever since I walked in here. I think you’re just an agitator.’’ He narrowed his gaze on Leonard. ‘‘What is your angle in this, mister? Who’s buying your dinner?’’

  The words stunned Leonard for a moment. But he recovered quickly and said with a red face, ‘‘You talk a bold game for a man unhealed.’’ He looked the man up and down, noting his lack of a firearm. ‘‘Somebody give this man a gun! I won’t be accused.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want a gun,’’ said the miner, rolling up his ragged shirtsleeves. ‘‘Instead of giving me a gun, put yours on the bar, stranger,’’ he said to Leonard. ‘‘I’ll break you up for kindling.’’

  ‘‘Hold it, gentlemen!’’ said Smith, acting as though he and Leonard weren’t together. ‘‘This is not the time to fight among yourselves! There’s a man in that jail who needs hanging!’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ a drunken teamster called out. ‘‘I don’t know Bob Krey. But I did know Sheriff Thorn. I’m sick of seeing time and money wasted on trials. Krey’s a murderer. Hang him! It’s that simple!’’

  ‘‘Here’s a man who makes sense!’’ said Smith. ‘‘Somebody get a rope. Let’s go do what needs doing!’’

  From the open front door of the sheriff’s office, Frisco Phil smiled as a roaring cheer came from within the saloon. ‘‘It won’t be long now,’’ he said to Price, who stood at the battered desk, a cup of coffee in hand. ‘‘They’re building up a strong head of steam.’’

  Price turned and faced Texas Bob, who stood holding the bars with both hands. ‘‘Look at all the trouble you’ve caused, Krey,’’ he said seriously. He started to say more, but before he could, Frisco cut in.

  ‘‘It won’t matter much longer,’’ Frisco said to Texas Bob. ‘‘They’ll soon come charging in and take you away from us.’’ He grinned and gave a shrug of helplessness. ‘‘What can we do to stop them? Just us two hardworking deputies up against an angry mob, them all liquored up and bent on hemp justice. Hell, we won’t stand a chance. Will we, Deputy Price?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Price said flatly, staring at Bob. ‘‘I suppose we’ll have to step aside and let them have him, unless there’s something in it for us.’’

  Bob only returned the stare, offering no response. He knew Price was hinting at the stage money.

  ‘‘All right,’’ Frisco said impatiently. ‘‘Let’s not dally around like three schoolgirls!’’ He walked over to the cell and said, ‘‘We want that money, Bob Krey, and we want it now.’’

  ‘‘What money?’’ Bob asked calmly.

  Frisco’s gun came up quickly from his holster and cocked only inches from Bob’s chin. ‘‘You know what money! Now where is it? I won’t ask you again.’’

  Texas Bob stared him coldly in the eyes. ‘‘If I die the money dies with me. If I live, the money is all mine. That’s a fifty-fifty chance of me staying alive and getting rich. I can’t turn those odds down.’’

  Frisco batted his eyes, looking confused. ‘‘What does he mean by that?’’ he asked Price.

  ‘‘Well, I’ll be danged.’’ Price looked surprised, but only for a moment. Walking to the cell, he said, ‘‘Don’t tell me that our honest, decent, do-gooder Texas Bob has a greedy streak in him!’’

  ‘‘Then I won’t tell you, Price,’’ Bob said. ‘‘I don’t think you’re smart enough to understand.’’ He turned to Frisco. ‘‘Tell me something, bartender. If you found a bag of money laying in the dirt out there, nobody around, what would you plan to do with it? Would you come toting it back to town, like a good little boy, so it can end up back to a bank somewhere?’’

  Frisco grinned. ‘‘Not even if I’d been kicked in the head by a mule.’’ He uncocked his pistol and lowered it a little. ‘‘But that’s just me. Call it the way I was raised.’’ His grin widened. ‘‘The question is, What about you? What’s the first thing you’d think?’’

  ‘‘The first thing I thought was ‘What a piece of luck,’ ’’ said Bob. ‘‘There I was, running from a crime I didn’t commit.’’ He looked back and forth between them as he spoke. ‘‘I come upon a bag of money stolen by the very man who jackpotted me in the first place.’’ He centered his gaze sharply on Price for a second. ‘‘I figured you owed me that money, Price. All I had to do was make it to Mexico and I’d be set for life. Let the law chase its tail, far as I was concerned.’’

  ‘‘Ha! I knew it!’’ said Price, slamming his fist into his palm. ‘‘I knew that no man could be as good as you had everybody thinking you are, Mr. Texas Bob!’’ He sneered Bob’s name, unable to contain his glee.

  ‘‘I wish Mary Alice and all those moony-eyed doves could see you now! You’re as phony and no good as the rest of us!’’ He spread his arms toward the ceiling, as if exposing Texas Bob to heaven. ‘‘But I saw through it! I was right! I was right!’’

  Frisco and Bob stood watching, bemused. ‘‘Jeez, Price!’’ Frisco said after a moment of stunned silence. ‘‘I’m trying to find out where our money is. Can you give me a hand here?’’

  Bob cut in, saying, ‘‘First of all, it’s not your money, bartender. It’s mine.’’ He thumbed his chest. ‘‘As far as where it’s at, you’ll never hear it from me.’’ He gave them a determined stare.

  ‘‘Then kill him,’’ Price said. ‘‘I don’t want it getting out, what happened out there.’’

  ‘‘Kill him?’’ Frisco looked astonished. ‘‘How are you going to explain killing him?’’

  ‘‘He tried to break jail,’’ Price said stubbornly. ‘‘What’s the difference? You said yourself, Judge Bass will go along with whatever we tell, so long as it ends up Texas Bob is dead.’’

  ‘‘Don’t talk crazy,’’ said Frisco. To Texas Bob he said, ‘‘I have never yet seen money that can’t be shared among reasonable gentlemen willing to cooperate.’’

  ‘‘You have now,’’ said Texas Bob. Nodding at the gun in Frisco’s hand, he said, ‘‘Go on and shoot. I’m not giving it up, not after what Price here put me through. Call this my act of parting vengeance.’’ He gave Price a triumphant look.

  Frisco turned angrily to Price, his gun tightly in hand. ‘‘See? You and your danged vengeance! I ought to shoot you! You pigheaded son of a—’’

  Price cut him off, his hand poised on his holstered gun butt. ‘‘Can’t you see he’s trying to play us against one another?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I see that,’’ said Frisco, ‘‘and he’s doing a dandy job of it! I want that money. Shenlin, Roby and Kane all three died getting it. I want it!’’

  ‘‘In that case you better make sure nothing bad happens to me,’’ said Texas Bob. He turned, walked to his bunk and stretched out on it.

  ‘‘If you won’t shoot him, I will,’’ Price said angrily, stepping forward, his gun coming up cocked and pointed.

  ‘‘Wait!’’ said Frisco, stepping in front of Price. He said to Bob, ‘‘Are you saying something can be worked out between us?’’

  ‘‘Not if I’m killed by a lynch mob,’’ Bob said matter-of-factly, propping his arms behind his head, relaxing.

  ‘‘Bolt that door!’’ Frisco demanded of Price. ‘‘Nobody’s taking him out of this cell until
we know where that money is hidden!’’

  ‘‘The judge is not going to like that one bit,’’ Price warned. ‘‘He’d as soon they drag him out of here, save the trouble of having a trial.’’

  ‘‘To hell with what the judge wants,’’ said Frisco. ‘‘I want that money.’’

  From his bunk Bob said coolly, ‘‘You want the money, I want out of here without getting lynched. What did you say about reasonable gentlemen finding a way to share it?’’

  Frisco gritted his teeth, turned and walked to the front window, hearing cursing and gunshots coming from the direction of the Bottoms Up Saloon. ‘‘They’re liquoring right up, Price,’’ he said. Walking quickly back to the cell, he asked Texas Bob, ‘‘What do you have in mind? Three-way split?’’

  Bob considered it with a grimace, then said, ‘‘All right, three ways is better than nothing, provided I don’t hang in the process.’’

  ‘‘Then it’s a deal,’’ said Frisco, a new grin coming to his face. ‘‘Now tell us where it is.’’

  Bob, saw he could play his hand no further without offering something to the pot. ‘‘I hid it beneath a cactus!’’ he lied.

  ‘‘Oh, a cactus! There, you see?’’ said Frisco, still grinning. ‘‘He hid it under a cactus.’’ His pleasant mood suddenly turned black. ‘‘In a territory full of cactus from here to hell and back!’’ He turned on Bob and said, ‘‘I’m getting my fill of you too, Texas Bob.’’ He gripped his pistol tightly.

  ‘‘The best thing for you to do right now is settle down and keep me from hanging,’’ said Bob, seeming to make himself more comfortable. ‘‘Tonight, when everybody is asleep, we’ll take three fresh horses and slip out of town. It’ll be morning before anybody knows we’re gone. By the time they get onto our trail, it’ll be too late. We’ll ride straight to the money, split it up and go our own ways.’’

  ‘‘I’ll get us some horses lined up,’’ Frisco said, ‘‘as soon as we see how this lynch mob is going to act.’’

  ‘‘Wait a minute, Frisco!’’ said Price, looking at him in disbelief. ‘‘We’re busting him out? We’re riding him to get the money? We’re going to trust him?’’

  ‘‘Have you got any better ideas how we’ll get the money?’’ Frisco snapped at him.

  ‘‘What about the ranger?’’ Price asked. ‘‘No matter how much of a head start we get, Burrack will be right up our shirts.’’

  Frisco looked at Texas Bob. ‘‘Does the ranger know where the money is?’’

  ‘‘Do I look that stupid?’’ Bob lied. ‘‘I hid the money before I rode down to the stagecoach and joined Thorn. I didn’t even tell him where I hid it.’’

  ‘‘Then he won’t know where we’re going,’’ said Frisco. ‘‘We’ll cover our tracks, hit some high trails, cut through some streams. The ranger might be good at tracking, but I’m better at hiding.’’

  As Frisco spoke, a roar of cursing and cheering resounded from the direction of the Bottoms Up Saloon.

  Price gave him a serious look, clutching his shotgun close to his chest. ‘‘I can’t believe I’m about to stand off a lynch mob for a man I’d have given anything to see hang.’’

  ‘‘Get your mind right, Deputy,’’ Frisco demanded, ‘‘or you’ll be giving up your share of the stage money.’’

  Chapter 20

  The ranger rode hard and fast all the way back to Sibley. When he arrived on the dirt street, the crowd from the saloon had just spilled out onto the street, milling and shouting and firing pistols wildly into the air. Taking a deep breath, Sam slowed his horse almost to a halt, then nudged it forward at a cautious walk. As he neared the main body of the drunken crowd, he slipped his rifle from his saddle boot and held it propped up on his lap.

  ‘‘Uh-oh, a lawman coming,’’ a drunken voice called out from the boardwalk.

  In the street guns lowered and fell silent. Eyes turned toward the ranger. The crowd settled slowly as he rode to the heart of it. At the center of the crowd stood a burly retired army sergeant named Sheppard Kerns, who worked part-time as a bouncer at the Bottoms Up. Sam looked at the rope hanging in his thick hands, seeing the noose he’d tied in one end of it.

  ‘‘Drop the rope, Kerns,’’ Sam said calmly, still stepping his horse toward him. ‘‘I won’t allow a lynching here, and you know it.’’

  ‘‘It’s not what you’ll allow, Ranger,’’ said Kerns in an angry, drunken voice. ‘‘We the people will decide what goes on here today. We’re sick of the robbing and killing, and the law doing nothing about it!’’ A drunken roar from half the gathered townsmen cheered him on. ‘‘We’re sick of town funds going to providing trials when we already know the man is guilty as sin to begin with!’’ Kerns shouted, shaking the noose in his hand.

  ‘‘Shep doesn’t speak for us, Ranger,’’ a man called out from the right. ‘‘We’re here trying to stop them from hanging Texas Bob. He’s an innocent man!’’ But the ranger didn’t take his gaze off of Kerns.

  ‘‘It sounds like Bob Krey has as many folks on his side as he has against him, Kerns. If you’re speaking for half these men, what about the other half? Aren’t they the people too?’’

  ‘‘Not if they don’t side with us, they’re not,’’ said Kerns. ‘‘Sheriff Mike Thorn was a damn good man—a good friend of mine. I’m seeing to it his killer swings!’’ Again he shook the noose.

  ‘‘Sheriff Thorn was a good friend of mine, too,’’ Sam said to Kerns, nudging his horse up even closer. The big man spread his feet shoulder width apart, making a rigid stand for himself in front of a throng of supporters. ‘‘You know me—I don’t play favorites and I don’t bend the law. I know Texas Bob is innocent. But even if he was guilty, I would still be sitting here, stopping you from lynching him.’’

  ‘‘You sound awfully sure of yourself, Ranger,’’ said Kerns. ‘‘I don’t see nothing being stopped. I fought for this country. I earned the right to stand here today and speak my mind.’’

  ‘‘Nobody earns more rights than the next man in this country, Kerns,’’ Sam said. ‘‘We’re all born with the same amount.’’ He leaned down a little, trying to keep the conversation between them. ‘‘You’ve spoke your mind. Now drop the rope and back off.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do more than speak my mind, Ranger!’’ he bellowed, taking a step forward, grabbing Sam’s horse by its bridle. ‘‘Rush him, men!’’ he shouted.

  Kerns’ supporters surged forward—but then stopped abruptly. The ranger’s rifle rose high in his gloved hand. The butt stock slammed down with a sickening thud on the big sergeant’s forehead.

  The crowd gasped in unison. ‘‘My God, he’s killed Shep!’’ a voice cried out. The big man dropped spread-eagle on the dirt, his glazed eyes wide open, staring blankly at the sky. A thin trickle of blood ran down his upper lip. The rope lay loosely on his broad chest.

  ‘‘He’s not dead, but he’ll wish he was when he wakes up,’’ Sam replied, looking at the big oval knot already rising in the center of Kerns’ forehead. His rifle swung toward Kerns’ supporters. ‘‘So will the lot of you if you don’t break it up out here and go about your business.’’

  ‘‘You tell them, Ranger!’’ a voice called out from the other group of drunken townsmen. ‘‘What about Texas Bob’s rights? He was a veteran same as Kerns here.’’ The man pointed down at the knocked-out bouncer.

  ‘‘Texas Bob’s a killer!’’ shouted one of Kerns’ supporters.

  ‘‘And a thief,’’ another voice shouted.

  ‘‘You’re both damn fools, and black-hearted liars to boot!’’ another townsman replied heatedly.

  ‘‘All of you break it up,’’ Sam said in a stronger tone of voice. ‘‘The middle of the street is no place to settle anything.’’

  ‘‘That’s a damn funny thing for you to be saying, Ranger,’’ a man shouted with a dark laugh. ‘‘You settle everything in the street!’’ He gestured a hand down at the ground. ‘‘Look at poor ole Shep laying here.’’
/>   Inside the saloon, watching from the corner of a dirty window, Trigger Leonard gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. ‘‘That blasted ranger.’’

  Beside him Mitchell Smith said, ‘‘Yeah, we should have shot him dead as soon as we saw him riding in. Nobody would have known we did it.’’

  ‘‘That’s not the way I want it to play down,’’ said Leonard. ‘‘Once I kill him, I want the world to know I did it. But I want it to be legal-like—one-on-one.’’

  Across the street, at a second-floor window of the Markwell Hotel, Judge Bass pounded a fist on the window ledge, watching as the ranger began dispersing the crowd in all directions. ‘‘Damn you, Sam Burrack!’’ he said aloud to the dusty windowpane. ‘‘Why is it so hard, killing Texas Bob?’’

  In the street, Sam stepped down from his saddle, rifle in hand, while Kerns’ supporters lifted him from the dirt and carried him inside the saloon. Looking back and forth warily, Sam caught a glimpse of the two gunmen lurking about inside the bat-wing doors.

  ‘‘If I catch anybody inciting a lynching, they’ll get the same as Kerns, or worse,’’ he said. ‘‘Sheriff Thorn is dead. Out of respect for him, let the law take its course.’’

  One of Texas Bob’s defenders called out, ‘‘The law has broke down here, Ranger! Anybody can see that with one eye shut.’’ The man pointed a finger toward the Markwell Hotel. ‘‘The only thing Texas Bob did was make the mistake of defending himself against Judge Bass’ brother!’’

  ‘‘Amen!’’ another voice called out. ‘‘Now that the law’s gone to hell, it’s up to us to protect our own. The next time they come to lynch Bob, we’ll be armed and ready for them!’’

  ‘‘That’s enough of that kind of talk,’’ Sam called out, unable to take sides but a little glad to hear that not everybody wanted to see Bob Krey hang. ‘‘The law is not broken down in Sibley. As long as I’m here it’s not going to be.’’ He gave another glance toward the saloon doors, knowing that somebody in there was behind the drunken uprising.