The Stranger from Medina (West Texas Sunrise Book #3): A Novel

by Paul Bagdon

  He left Snorty where he was and walked down the sidewalk to the far end of Main Street. Drunken hilarity reached him when he was twenty yards away. At ten yards, the heavy, stomach-wrenching reek of cigar and cigarette smoke, whiskey, and the sweat of bodies long unwashed struck him like a slap in the face. He strode on.

  He stepped through the batwings and stood silently, shotgun angled across his chest, its stock resting in his left hand, his right hand at the breech. At first, none of the dozen or so men in the saloon noticed him—and then all of them did. Conversation, laughter, and general racket stopped. When Ben pushed the safety lever of the shotgun to the off position, the oiled click seemed as loud as the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

  “You can’t come bargin’ in here with a shotgun, Flood!” the bartender called out, reaching for the army Colt he kept under the bar. “We got a legal business here, an’ you got no right to—”

  “Where are they?” Ben shouted, his voice still heavy from the smoke. “An’ if you pull that gun you’re reachin’ for, it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  The bartender stepped back and placed both his hands on the bar in front of him. “Where’s who?” he asked, the beginning of a smirk on his face.

  Ben scanned the fifteen or so men at the bar and at the tables, cards clutched in their hands, bottles, glasses, paper money, and coins scattered in front of them. He didn’t see the men who’d burned Grange Hall, but he hadn’t really expected to. Like vermin fleeing a prairie fire, they’d fled from the flames and, no doubt, from Burnt Rock.

  “I’m lookin’ for the cowards who tried to burn to death a lot of innocent people tonight,” Ben said. “The arsonists are from the same litter you pigs are from. They were here guzzlin’ booze before the fire.”

  “Way I heard it,” the bartender said with a grin, “one of them lanterns jist up an’ busted into flames. Terrible accident. Them Bible-thumpers, they gotta learn not to overfill their lamps. Funny, though—you’d have thought that God, why, he’d come rushin’ on down and put out them flames.”

  Ben let the shotgun hang from his right hand, the barrels pointed downward. “Funny,” he said, matching the bartender’s grin, “that Satan ain’t gonna come up from hell and save all the poison you’ve got here.”

  Tipping the shotgun upward, he fired from the hip and squeezed the two triggers at the same time. The shelves of bottles at the near end of the bar erupted like a volcano, spewing whiskey and shards of glass. The men hit the floor. Ben broke the breech of his weapon, dumped the spent shells, and inserted two fresh ones in one quick, smooth, well-practiced motion. With the next blast, he took out the shelves of bottles at the far end of the bar. Again, while the thunder still lingered in the air, he reloaded and squeezed off two more shots at the six untapped wooden barrels of beer stacked against the wall in two tiers of three across the room. Streams of beer flowed like miniature waterfalls to mix with the whiskey, dirt, and glass on the floor. Ben shifted the shotgun to his left hand and drew his Colt with his right.

  A half-full amber bottle on a table became fragments, and its contents slopped over a cardsharp cowering on the floor. Two rounds sent a pair of spittoons clattering, their viscous contents leaving a thick trail. His final three shots riddled the face of a roulette wheel, splintering it and filling it with holes.

  Ben holstered his pistol, looked over his handiwork through the thick cloud of gun smoke, and backed out the batwings to the street.

  Early the next morning, smoke from Grange Hall permeated the air of Burnt Rock. The blaze had long since died, but here and there in the blackened pile of scrap lumber that smoldered where the building had once stood, wisps of smoke still rose.

  Doc pushed a thick crust of bread across his plate at the back table of the café, guiding the last couple of bites of scrambled eggs to his fork. Ben sat across from him, a mug of coffee in his hand.

  “Think you’ll get any legal trouble from the owners of the Drovers’?” Doc asked.

  Ben shrugged. “They know if they pull anything like that, I’d start patrollin’ that hole a half dozen times a day. Fact is, I’d kinda like to do it anyway.”

  “Like it or not, drunkenness and gambling are legal, Ben.”

  “Public drunkenness isn’t legal, and crooked gambling isn’t either.”

  “No,” Doc agreed. “It isn’t. I guess they’ll let it lie.” He sipped coffee and then asked, “Have you seen Lee? She was awful upset. Why she laid into you like she did, I don’t know, but I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said.”

  “Well, I’m not real sure about that. But I do need to talk to her. I’d like to ride out to the Thumb this afternoon.”

  “Good idea. I’d hate to see you two separate because of something like that.”

  “I would too. But there’s a bit more to it.”

  Doc sipped again, hesitated, and went on. “Reverend Warner?”

  Ben pushed back his chair and stood. “I got work to do, Doc. Thanks again for all the help last night. Without you and a couple of the others, the whole thing would’ve been a lot worse.”

  “Wish I could’ve done more when the shooting started,” Doc said. “You take care, my friend. Give my regards to Lee.”

  Doc’s eyes followed Ben to the door. After it had closed behind him, Bessie walked over to Doc’s table and sat down. “Is he all right?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Doc said. “I asked a stupid question I shouldn’t have.”

  Bessie was silent for a moment. “About Lee and the preacher?” “Yeah.”

  “Ben’s gonna lose her, Doc. Unless he does something, he’s gonna lose her.”

  Doc sighed. “I know.”

  A couple of dreary days later, the sun made one of its rare winter appearances as Ben saddled Snorty in the enclosure behind his office. The somber gray of the sky was chased away by the yellow disk and replaced with an azure expanse that assured the world that winter wouldn’t last forever.

  Snorty’s hooves raised spurts of slush and water as he loped toward the Busted Thumb. Bits of soil and patches of dead buffalo grass appeared as the snow receded under the sun’s power, and the air was redolent with the scent of decaying weeds and grass and the fresh smell of melted snow and thawing soil.

  Ben reined in and dismounted halfway to Lee’s house and checked the set of Snorty’s shoes. Prairie mud was referred to as “the blacksmith’s friend” because there was nothing better to suck shoe off of a hoof. Snorty’s hooves were fine, the shoes tight and the nails holding perfectly. Ben remounted and rode on.

  He had no idea how he’d be received. Lee hadn’t come to town since the night of the fire. Of course, that wasn’t unusual. Still, he was worried. “But you had to bull ahead and get up on that stage . . .” repeated like a litany in his mind. And it wasn’t just Lee’s words that he couldn’t forget, but also the fear and, perhaps, the disgust he’d seen in her eyes. He shuddered, although the sun was warm.

  When Ben arrived at the Busted Thumb, Carlos was in a training pen with a two-year-old dapple-gray mare, exercising her on a line, clucking at her when she slowed from the lope he wanted her to hold. He waved to Ben. “Good to see you, amigo!” he called.

  Ben rode up, ground tied Snorty, and climbed up the fence to sit on the top rail. “She moves right pretty,” he said. “Little stumpy in the pasterns, but she carries herself good.”

  “We can no breed her ’cause of the pasterns. Thees mare, though, she got more cow sense than most of our studs. Heart too. Ees a good horse.”

  “How’s little Juan? Got him in a saddle yet?”

  Carlos beamed. “Soon. He ees no but two month old. One day Juanito weel own much land an’ many fine horses. Thees I know to be true.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second. Miguel an’ Yvonne are good?” Ben asked.

  “My son, he choose a bride sweeter than clover honey. That ees why they make so grand a baby, no? They both good an’ asked after you.”

  “I�
��ll tell you what, Carlos—one day I’m gonna lock up the office an’ ride on down there an’ visit with them for a few days an’ eat till I fall over an’ not do a lick of work.”

  “You should do thees, Ben,” Carlos said seriously. “Miguel an’ Yvonne, they love to have you.” He whistled, and the mare backed down to a walk. He walked to her head and rubbed her muzzle. “You have trouble while I wass gone?”

  “Some. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”

  “The fire, it wass a terrible thing. Thanks be to Dios no one died.” He paused. “An’ you shoot up the saloon?” “Sure did. How’d you hear?”

  “Some of the men, they were at the fiesta. They tell me when I get back early thees morning. You could no wait till I could come with my rifle and pistolo? You hurt me, my friend.”

  “It needed to be done right then, Carlos. Next time I’ll come for you. All right?”

  “Ees good. Amigos, they should take their fun together, no?”

  Ben nodded, then paused before saying, “Lee around?” Carlos didn’t meet his eyes. “She out on Slick.” “Alone?”

  Carlos inspected the ground between his boots. “No. The preacher, he ees weeth her.”

  Ben eased down from the fence. “Tell her I stopped, Carlos.”

  “Ben—Maria will make coffee for us, no? We talk a bit?”

  “Another time. I’ve got work to do. Give Maria my regards, hear?”

  Carlos stood next to the mare, rubbing her flank absentmindedly as he watched his friend ride off. After a minute, he led her out of the pen and toward the barn.

  * * *

  10

  * * *

  Missy Joplin’s home was a reflection of the lady herself—warm, welcoming, comfortable, and without pretension. Although she was the wealthiest resident of Burnt Rock, very few in town or even in her church group knew of her funds.

  “More tea, Lee?” Missy asked.

  “No—no thanks. I’ve got to be getting back to the Thumb. I’m not even sure what I rode to town for. I don’t have any real business here today.” She sighed.

  “Trouble, honey?”

  “Yes. Duncan and Ben. Ben’s acting like a schoolboy with a crush, and Duncan’s . . . well . . . Duncan. He’s polite and sophisticated and treats me wonderfully. But there’s something about Ben that stays with me. You know what I mean?”

  “ ’Course I do. They’re both good men. I don’t think I’d like to be in your position, honey—havin’ to choose betwixt an’ between. Each of them has jist a ton of qualities. Now, Rev, he knows things that Ben don’t—about money and so forth. But Ben has that kindness about him that he seems to try to hide. Why—”

  “Money? What do you mean?”

  Missy sat a bit straighter and captured Lee’s eyes with her own. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, although the women were alone in Missy’s house. “Not a word ’bout this to nobody, now. You promise me?”

  “Sure. But what do you mean?”

  Missy grabbed Lee’s hand. She seemed as proud as a youngster with an important secret. “Rev is willin’ to let me in on a land operation that’ll triple my money in a matter of a few months. It ain’t that I need the money to live, but my plan is this: I’ll triple what I have an’ then give it to the church at the time of my passin’. Wouldn’t that be grand? Makin’ sure the church doesn’t have any financial problems for years an’ years?”

  “That’s a wonderful thought, Missy. But what kind of land deal are you talking about?”

  The widow’s eyes sparkled. “See, me an’ Rev Warner have gotten to be good friends. We talk a lot over coffee or tea. Rev knows lots of rich men from when he was in Dallas, an’ they offered to let him in on the whole thing. It’s right-of-way land that a new railroad company needs to buy. The plan is to buy it up now, real cheap, an’ sell it back to the railroad at a good profit.”

  “I didn’t know Duncan had a ministry in Dallas. He never mentioned it to me,” Lee said.

  “ ’Course he did! He had him a big church an’ all, but left ’cause of that poor, sorry sister of his in Chicago.”

  Lee thought for a moment. “Missy—how much are you thinking of investing in this thing?”

  “That plain ain’t your business, honey. It’s between me an’ Rev. I’m right grateful he brought me the opportunity.” She smiled proudly. “Don’t you go thinkin’ I’m too old to know a good chance when I see one.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything like that, Missy. It’s just that there’s a lot of money involved, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Missy shrugged away Lee’s concern. Her voice suddenly became hard. “Are you sayin’ you’re scared Rev Warner is tryin’ to trick me into somethin’ shady?”

  “Not at all! I’m sure Rev is giving you what he believes to be excellent advice. It’s just that . . . well, he’s a minister. Even though he knows some wealthy men, he’s still a man of God and not a financier. See what I mean?”

  “There’s times when we got to trust those we believe in, Lee.” Missy’s voice wasn’t exactly cold, but it lacked the warmth it usually conveyed.

  Lee squirmed in her chair. “Look, suppose I run the plan by the town attorney and ask his advice. I won’t mention any names—in fact, I’ll tell him it’s something I’m looking into. That won’t be a lie—I will be looking into it, right? Just give me the name of the railroad and the group buying up the—”

  Missy pushed back her chair and stood facing Lee. “You gave me your word on this. I’ll ’spect you to keep it. This deal is fragile, an’ if too many people start snoopin’ around, the whole thing will fall apart. That’s exactly what Rev Warner told me. An’ I believe him, whether or not you do!”

  “It’s not a matter of not believing Rev, Missy! I’m just trying—”

  “I’m sorry, I jist can’t talk about this anymore. I have things to do, honey. Thanks for stoppin’ by.” She led Lee to the front door. The customary hug they exchanged there was strained. When Lee pulled away, she could see the hurt in Missy’s eyes.

  Lee tightened the cinch and swung into Slick’s saddle. There was little traffic in town, and she jogged her horse to the point where Main Street ended and the open prairie began. The gray sky around her seemed to reflect the condition of her heart. She put Slick into a lope and pointed him toward her ranch.

  The usual exhilaration of riding her prime stallion was absent. The rush of the wind, the cadence of Slick’s hooves, the communion between horse and rider were chased from her mind by the words she’d exchanged with Missy Joplin.

  Lee reined in a few miles outside town, wanting some time to think. She climbed down from Slick’s back, leading him by a single rein as she walked. The ground was slightly soft, and the dead weeds, scrub, and buffalo grass were muted colors, sad remnants of the green that carpeted the prairie in the spring and summer.

  I promised not to discuss the deal with anyone. But what if there’s something wrong? What if Duncan misunderstood what his friends told him? What if he simply didn’t understand the facts? Another thought pushed those thoughts away. Why has he never mentioned being in Dallas to me?

  Lee stopped, her eyes closed. Lord, I need your counsel. In the past you’ve always pointed me in the right direction. Please come to me, Lord, and whisper into my heart what I should do.

  When she stepped into her stirrup, her decision was made. She believed that a promise is a sacred thing. But merely talking to Duncan wouldn’t be breaking the promise she’d made. After all, he was already privy to all the facts.

  When she arrived back at Burnt Rock, she could see Duncan through the front window of his home. His eyes and hands were focused downward, although she couldn’t see what he was doing. Her face eased into a smile. Looks like he’s reading—probably the Bible. This man I almost doubted is reading the Bible.

  She tied Slick to the rail in front of the preacher’s small porch and climbed the three steps to the door. She could hear him moving about inside, and she knocked on the doo
r, the smile remaining on her face. She wondered if she’d share her concerns about the land deal with him, and then quickly decided that doing so would be unnecessary.

  The preacher smiled broadly at her as he opened the door, words of welcome on his lips. “Lee, how good to see you! Please come in and chat for a bit.”

  She followed Duncan into the living room. His large, leather-covered Bible was open on the table where he’d been sitting.

  “Please, sit,” he said, pointing to an armchair. “I’ve got a pot of coffee on. Will you have a cup with me?”

  “I’d like that. Thank you.” Lee settled into the chair. “I’ll be just a moment. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat.”

  “Coffee will be fine. I had a big breakfast with Carlos and Maria this morning, and a bite with Missy not long ago.”

  When Duncan left for the kitchen, Lee looked around the tidy room. The wood of the table holding the preacher’s Bible gleamed warmly, as did the mantle over the fireplace and all the other wood in the room. A strange but familiar scent reached her nose. She sniffed in but couldn’t identify it. It was a bit like neat’s-foot oil, but that wasn’t quite it.

  Slick snorted outside, and Lee rose and walked to the window. A boy on the other side of the street was rolling a hoop with a stick, and his dog was running alongside the metal circle, challenging it to a fight. She watched for a moment until the boy, dog, and hoop turned up an alley and Slick settled down. As she moved away from the window, she noticed that the Bible was open to Psalms—and that it was upside down on the table.

  Lee returned to the armchair as Duncan carried in a small wooden tray with a pair of coffee cups on it. He offered the tray to Lee, and she took a cup and sipped at it. “Mmmm,” she said, “nothing like fresh coffee.”