Emmett smiled to himself. His big brother had made it to the statehouse. He was just as much a big fish as Ed Lattimer, even without the prestigious pedigree.
Almost as if she’d read his mind, Elizabeth Lattimer said, “Nan, you must be so proud of Eli.” Emmett didn’t know Mrs. Lattimer well. His impression was that her gracious manner was genuine.
Nan giggled and responded, but Emmett missed what she said. The conversation between Ed Lattimer and the waiter at his elbow had distracted him. They were going back and forth over the virtues of various labels and vintages of wine.
A few minutes later the waiter returned, opened a bottle, and began to pour for each person in their party. When he at last approached Emmett, he asked whether they were still waiting for one last guest to fill the table’s vacant sixth chair.
Emmett placed a hand on the chair back, looked off toward the restaurant’s front windows, and paused briefly. “No,” he said. “She won’t be joining us today. She’s been away for some time now.”
“Very well, sir,” he said. And with a slight bow of the head, he retired.
Conversation over the luncheon soon evolved into two separate dialogues—one between Nan and Elizabeth, the other between Eli and Ed. Emmett listened to bits and pieces of each, adding little to either.
Halfway through the meal’s main course—just as he had pierced another juicy slice of steak—Emmett sensed someone drawing near the table at a brisk pace from behind him. The person’s voice boomed so loudly and cantankerously that it prompted him first to twist to see who it was, then to rise to his feet in anticipation of trouble.
“Eli Strong,” the man roared, “you reckon you’re gonna be my state senator? Like hell you are!”
The restaurant grew silent. Men and women alike turned and stared. The intruder could’ve been anyone from the streets of Austin. Tall and thin. A few days’ whiskers. His range clothes were all of faded browns and tans. Topped with a well-worn Stetson and hooved with boots a little short of dry and cracked, the uninvited guest could’ve been a cattleman, a mule skinner, a stagecoach driver, or a sodbuster.
“You know what you are, Eli Strong?” the intruder continued. “You ain’t nothin’ more’n a murderer.” He pounded a vacant table, rattling the place settings.
“Here now, man,” Ed Lattimer said, rising. “Let’s be civil. Show some respect.”
Eyes bulged from the man’s beet-red face. His voice modulated up an octave. “I ain’t got no respect for the likes of Eli Strong.”
Emmett caught a whiff of whiskey off the man. He impulsively felt for the weight of his holstered Colt Peacemaker, then recalled he’d been walking around all morning unarmed. After all, Austin was a civilized town.
“What’s your name, sir?” he asked calmly.
The intruder kept his eyes fixed on Eli. “Only name that matters much right now is Thomas Blaylock. He was my brother. And you yourself as good as killed him when you and that cavalry you commanded didn’t do nothin’ about them damned Comanches up at Adobe Walls.”
“Adobe Walls?” Eli said. “That was seven years ago—”
Blaylock’s brother kicked the vacant chair next to Emmett and sent it tumbling. Emmett tensed for action. Even if he’d been carrying his Colt he wouldn’t have drawn on the man. But his fists were ready to let fly.
“Yeah, it was seven years ago,” the man hollered. “I didn’t have no pa. My brother Thomas was like a pa to me.”
Eli held up a hand. “Listen, I’m truly sorry about your brother—”
The man jabbed a finger at Eli. “You refused to listen to what everybody kept sayin’ was gonna happen. And you refusin’ is what got him killed.”
Again Eli tried to apologize, but Blaylock’s brother wouldn’t let up.
“Then to add insult to injury, instead of hangin’ that bastard Chief Quanah Parker, y’all went and give him a nice big ranch over across the Red River.”
About that time, the bouncer from the saloon next door came lumbering in along with the restaurant owner, a waiter, and a big black man whose hands were still dripping dish suds. Without a word, the bouncer grabbed Blaylock’s brother by the back of the collar and tiptoed him, struggling and protesting, all the way to the front door.
“I ain’t finished with you, Senator Strong,” the man bellowed. “You got my brother killed.”
The dishwasher opened the door, and the bouncer flung the nuisance into the street.
“Senators, ladies…” The restaurant owner, face flushed, looked from one to the other. “I don’t know how I can apologize enough for this embarrassing disruption.”
“Think nothing of it.” Eli patted the man on the shoulder. “The fellow just had a bit too much to drink. He’ll go home and sleep it off.”
“No, I insist. This establishment has a reputation to maintain—and not for that kind of behavior. Let me offer you this meal on the house.”
Ed Lattimer shook his head as he took his seat. “There’s no need for that. Besides, what will the rest of these fine folks think?” He swept his arm across the room where most of the other patrons were getting back to their meals. “Their luncheons were interrupted too. You’ve got a full house here. We shouldn’t get special treatment just because we’re senators. And I fear buying lunch for the entire crowd would put too big a strain on your profits today.”
Visibly relieved, the restaurateur said, “You’re too kind. Let me at least offer you a second bottle of wine.” He mopped his brow with a starched white napkin.
“That’ll be fine. Thank you.” Eli nodded and sat again as well.
Once a waiter had righted the fallen chair and the timidly smiling restaurateur had shepherded away his staff, Ed Lattimer said in a low voice, “Always have to watch what we accept in front of the voting public.” He half covered his mouth and leaned toward Eli. “At the same time, being a senator does come with some rather nice perks.” He then erupted in a less-than-dignified guffaw.
Eli smiled and took a sip of wine.
Emmett glanced around the dining room, took his seat, and turned to his brother. “Eli,” he asked, “did you recognize that fella?”
Eli pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not at all.”
“He’s never come calling on you before? Never shouted at you out of a crowd you might’ve been speaking to?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Well, do you recognize the name Thomas Blaylock? From the siege up at Adobe Walls?”
Again Eli shook his head. “Don’t let it bother you, Emmett. It was nothing. Really.”
He turned back to Nan and Elizabeth. “Now where was I? Ah, yes.” He resumed recounting an anecdote about a Texas Supreme Court justice and a one-legged widow from Galveston. The women were all smiles and giggles.
Emmett, meanwhile, stared at the door where the bouncer had unceremoniously tossed out Thomas Blaylock’s brother. He wondered how the fellow knew to find Eli here. Had to have read in the newspaper about the swearing in. Must’ve followed them over from the courthouse. It troubled Emmett. Elbow on the table, he rubbed his finger across his lips. Fella’s been nursing a grudge for a long time.
Luncheon went on for another hour. By the time pecan pie and coffee had been served, Emmett had grown weary of political talk and war stories about people he didn’t know. He was glad when somebody suggested they should all head back to their hotel rooms for naps.
When Emmett stood, he left his glass of wine half-full—the same glass the waiter had poured him before the meal. The others had imbibed quite a bit more.
They stepped out of the restaurant onto the walkway and then into bright afternoon sunlight.
“Oh my!” Nan said, shading her eyes. “The glare out here…”
The words had hardly left her lips when, from out of that glare, a voice bellowed, “I was waitin’ on you, you murderin�
�� politician.” It was Blaylock’s brother again, now mounted on a tall bay horse.
Emmett squinted into the sun. He sidestepped so it wouldn’t blaze from directly behind Blaylock’s face.
“The law won’t carry out justice for my brother,” Blaylock said. “Well, I will. Finally.”
At that, he reached over his horse, pointed a Schofield revolver at Eli, and fired.
The gunshot resounded off the closely set brick and wood buildings. For a frozen moment everyone stared in stunned silence.
Emmett then reacted, rushing Blaylock. But Blaylock twisted his reins, spurred his horse viciously, and tore off in a mad gallop. A few buildings over, he cut into an alley and disappeared from sight.
Only then did Emmett stop running. In the middle of College Avenue, forty yards from the Jeffersonian, he spun and looked for Eli. His brother was down. Ed Lattimer was holding him.
Emmett sprinted to Eli’s side. His brother’s eyes were rolled back. His breathing was labored. Where his white shirt showed between his vest and his trousers…Well, there was little white to be seen. Blaylock had gotten him right in the belly.
Nan, all color drained from her face, patted his cheek. “Eli,” she said, her voice throaty. “No, Eli.”
“Ed,” Emmett said, “my friend is waiting for me in the saloon right across the street. Let me get him to find us a doctor.”
Ed nodded. But before Emmett could even cross the avenue, his brother-in-law, Juanito, came running. A round-faced stranger with dark eyes and short-cropped hair trotted alongside him.
A crowd was gathering.
As Emmett stepped down into the street to meet Juanito, a bearded fellow with a satchel practically bowled him over.
“Make way,” the man said.
Emmett eyed the man’s bag. “You a doctor?”
“Yep. Office just a few doors down.”
Emmett followed him back to where Eli lay.
“Heard the gunshot and came out as fast as I could,” the doctor said. “Don’t get much of this type of thing in Austin anymore, thank goodness.”
He went to one knee and began blotting Eli’s stomach with a cloth, trying to get a good look at the wound.
“How bad is it, Doc?” Emmett asked.
“Not sure. We need to get him over to my office where I can work on him properly. Might make it.”
“Might make it” didn’t sound very promising. But the doctor was there. He and the good Lord were the only ones who could offer Eli any real help at this point. Meanwhile, Emmett didn’t want the madman who’d shot his brother to get away clean.
“Ed, can you stay with Eli and the doc?” he asked the senator. “I’m going to see if I can catch up with that shooter before he gets too far away.”
Nan looked up at Emmett, panic on her face. She clutched his sleeve. “Emmett, you can’t leave us.”
“Ed’ll take good care of you, Nan. And the doc’ll take good care of Eli. I can’t do anything for him myself. But if I don’t go now, that Blaylock fellow may get away for good.”
“We won’t leave you, Nan,” Ed said. “Let Emmett go.”
As Nan loosened her grip, she began to sob.
Emmett squatted and took his brother’s hand. He looked into his half-closed eyes. “Be strong, Eli. You hear? You hang in there. This doctor’s gonna take real good care of you.”
Eli managed a weak nod but said nothing.
A couple of men pulled up a buckboard wagon and began to spread a quilt in the back for Eli.
“Horses, Juanito?” Emmett asked.
His brother-in-law pointed back across the street. “Right over there.”
The round-faced fellow who had come from the saloon with Juanito said, “I don’t have anything better to do. Might I possibly be of help?”
The fellow caught Emmett by surprise—both with his offer and his unique accent.
“Granville Sikes,” the man said, offering his hand. “Recently of Her Majesty’s Twenty-Fourth of Foot in South Africa.”
Emmett looked the Brit in the eye, gave him a quick handshake, and said, “Thanks. That’d be kind of you.”
As the doctor and a few bystanders gingerly lifted Eli and carried him to the wagon bed, three badged lawmen trotted up.
“Who did the shooting?” the tall one in front asked.
“Don’t know his given name,” Emmett answered. “Family name is Blaylock.”
The bouncer who had earlier pitched Blaylock from the restaurant spoke from the boardwalk. “It was Charlie Blaylock, Sheriff.”
“Aw, hell!” The lawman took his hat off and slapped it across his thigh.
“I’m the victim’s brother. Name’s Emmett Strong. Sounds like you’ve dealt with Charlie Blaylock before.”
The sheriff nodded. “If he’s headed back up to his place, we’re probably in for a pitched battle. Won’t be any picnic tryin’ to roust him out of there.”
Emmett and Juanito showed the sheriff their Texas Ranger badges.
“I’m sure you boys have taken care of this kind of business before then,” the sheriff said.
“Home would be the last place I’d go if I’d just shot a state legislator,” Emmett said.
The sheriff motioned for his deputies to follow him. “He very well may’ve headed off elsewhere. But I figure the fastest way to find out precisely where is to start at the Blaylock homestead. There’s always somebody up there.”
Emmett glanced back at Eli, then set off alongside the sheriff. “Wherever he went—I assure you—we’ll flush him out. Whatever it takes.”
CHAPTER THREE
The sun was hanging just above the distant trees by the time Emmett and the others arrived at Charlie Blaylock’s place in the hill country just outside of Austin. Gathering horses and weapons had taken longer than Emmett had figured on. The sheriff had had to make an arrest up here once before. He’d expended a great deal of ammunition on that occasion.
The two-story raw-wood house sat on a rise. Very few trees round about for cover. A couple of oaks here and there.
“Reckon Charlie’s up there?” Juanito asked.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Emmett said.
He turned to the sheriff. “It’ll be nice if we can get this done before dark.” He wanted to get back to Eli as soon as possible.
“Don’t count on it,” the sheriff said. “Blaylock and his cousins stick together like cold grits.”
“I’m not interested in Blaylock’s cousins, neighbors, or pet goats. I only want the one that shot my brother.”
The sheriff thumbed a few more rounds into his Winchester. “You know the old saying, ‘over my dead body’? Blaylock clan motto.”
“I’d rather not…But I’ll oblige ’em if I have to.”
Emmett observed Sikes looking things over quite apart from the rest of the group. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Sikes?”
“This isn’t totally unlike the lay of the land at Isandlwana,” he said. “Actually a few more trees than we had there.”
“Isandl-what?” the sheriff asked.
“Isandlwana…in Africa. A place where we faced the Zulus two years ago.”
Emmett’s eyebrow went up. “I read about that in the papers. Didn’t think there were any British survivors.”
“The papers don’t always get things right. I was left for dead, along with one other chap. Took us quite some time, but we crawled out.”
Emmett and Juanito looked at one another.
“And if you’re wondering whether I’m a deserter, I didn’t desert the British Army. They deserted me.”
Emmett shrugged. “Another story for another day. The more pressing matter is getting Charlie Blaylock outta that house up there.”
The sheriff said, “Best to take it from two sides at once.”
�
��I don’t mean to boast,” Sikes said, “but I’m quite good with a rifle, even at long range.”
“How good?” Emmett asked.
“I’ve hit a whiskey bottle at two hundred yards.”
“On purpose?” Emmett cocked his head.
Sikes gave a half grin.
Emmett returned to his horse and drew a Sharps Model 1874—a “Little Fifty”—out of his rifle scabbard. “If you’re as good as you say you are, you may be able to hold down one side of the house all by your lonesome with this.” He shucked the cartridge belt from his shoulder and handed it to the Englishman. “Go ahead. Find yourself a spot and get comfortable.”
Sikes hefted the buffalo rifle. “If they surrender?”
“Taking ’em alive’d be good.”
He turned to his brother-in-law. “Why don’t you take your Winchester and go with Sikes till things start up. If he lives up to billing, maybe you can slip around and lay down some cross fire.”
Juanito nodded.
“Just don’t mistake me and the sheriff’s boys for Blaylocks,” Emmett said. He turned to Sikes. “Or Zulus.”
“You keep your head down,” Juanito said.
Emmett and the sheriff decided they’d go together as far as the barn to be sure the Blaylocks didn’t make a run for their horses. From there, they’d each take one of the deputies and split up. The sheriff would start the music, seeing that he’d been there before.
Armed with a twelve-gauge coach gun and his Colt revolver, Emmett walked in silence. He pondered as he’d done so many times since Gabriela’s death: five years now, and he’d never again pointed his Colt at anyone. A shotgun, yes—but never the Colt. Tonight he might have to use it, even if he wasn’t sure of himself. He didn’t plan on letting his brother’s would-be assassin vamoose.
A quarter hour later the sun had set. The four men had made it to within about seventy yards of the barn when a shot rang out. Then two more. Everyone hit the ground.
Strong Convictions: An Emmett Strong Western (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 1) Page 2
