by J. T. Edson
Hardly daring to breath, Robbins watched the rocket’s flight. For once it went true, with none of the uncertain, unnerving wavering some of its kind developed, due to fissuring of the case during packing causing an irregular burning of the propellant. He ignored the sight of the horses at the fence rearing in fright as the rocket passed its awesome way over their heads, but could hardly hold down a yell of triumph when he saw it strike home. While he would have been satisfied with a hit anywhere on the building, he never expected to make such a spectacularly lucky shot.
An early failing of the Hale rocket had been the uncertainty of its warhead’s operation. While the heat of the propellant eventually burned through to and ignited the ‘liquid damnation’, the process took time. At shorter ranges, if the casing failed to rupture on impact there was always a chance that the ignition would be delayed long enough to give the enemy a chance to douse the propellant with water. To prevent that, Robbins had fitted a percussion cap and small amount of black powder in the nose. On striking the target, the blow fired the cap, detonated the powder and the resulting explosion set off the fire-raising charge.
Watching the rocket reach its mark, Robbins saw his theories justified by results. Striking the window, it shattered the glass and burst into flames as it tumbled through.
‘It won’t be long before they come out!’ he breathed, watching the red glow in the house. ‘By God! If this drunken scum let him escape now, I’ll—’
He held down his comment on what he meant to do if his companions failed to shoot Wes Hardin and the other cowhand, watching the result of his work. Already in his mind he had started to compose a report of his success for presentation to the military commander of the area. Although willing to admit to himself that luck had taken the rocket into the window he did not intend to make that aspect public knowledge. Rather he would claim that he sighted with the intention of placing his missile in such an advantageous manner. Knowing the working of the senior military mind, he believed the claim would find a more ready acceptance if it came backed with the news that the rocket had made possible the killing of a wanted man.
‘We sure give ’em their dose of “liquid damnation”, boss,’ enthused Eli, staring at the rapidly growing flames. ‘Just look at that place burn!’
Not that Robbins needed any encouragement. An almost fanatical glare shone in his eyes as he watched the speed with which the fire built up inside the house. When all went well and the warhead’s contents did not ignite prematurely, or fail to take fire at all, an incendiary rocket could be relied upon to stir up a considerable blaze.
While such other members of the posse as could see the result of the rocket shot enjoyed its spectacular effect, there was one disadvantage. The flames rose so quickly that the glare of them prevented any chance of seeing what went on in the front of the room.
Higher licked the fire, spreading and eating at the front wall, but nobody came out through the front door. Standing with tightly clenched fists, Robbins strained his ears to catch the sound of shooting from either the sides or rear of the building. ‘Looks like he wasn’t i—’ Eli began.
Then the front door flew open and two men burst out, leaping across the porch. Disappointment hit at Robbins as he saw the first man to be middle-aged and dressed in a town suit. While the other most certainly was the second cowhand, the first man could not be Wes Hardin. Even as the thought struck Robbins, guns roared along the picket fence as every man who could do so opened fire on the pair.
Caught by bullets from a Winchester rifle and Sharps carbine, Doctor James buckled over and crashed to the ground. Unable to stop himself, Flip bounded a couple of strides past the stricken man.
‘Doc!’ he yelled, skidding to a halt and starting to turn.
A moment later lead ripped into the center of the youngster’s back and tumbled him across James’ body.
‘Hold that shooting!’ Robbins bellowed. ‘That wasn’t Hardin.’
‘Well, if he’s inside, Massa Rocket, he’ll soon be coming out,’ Eli commented. ‘That’s for certain sure.’
Once started the fire spread fast and ate its way through the Hardin house with ever-increasing fury. A crackle of exploding ammunition and the deeper boom of black powder igniting caused Robbins to tense and reach for his Colt. However, the front door still did not give up a third fleeing shape, so he concluded the fire must have set off bullets and a powder horn.
‘It looks like young Hardin’s not in there,’ he admitted reluctantly as the entire roof burst into flames.
‘It sure ’nough do,’ Eli agreed. Then a thought struck him and set his eyes to rolling nervously at the dark woods around the clearing. ‘Maybe he’s out there, watching us.’
‘We’ll know about that soon enough if he is,’ Robbins growled, drawing and cocking the Colt.
‘Wally says that Texas boy can sure shoot!’ Eli went on in a worried tone. ‘He says he never even saw that boy’s hand move, but it sure must have ’cause he done got his gun out and shot Massa Spargo through the head.’
‘Shut up and get the gear packed!’ Robbins spat out.
‘If you says so, sah!’ Eli answered.
‘Hey, Rocket!’ yelled Skench. ‘Hardin’s not in there.’
‘Looks that way!’ Robbins answered. ‘Get the boys here.’
Clearly not only Eli had thought that Hardin might be somewhere close at hand. That showed in the way the men from the sides and rear of the building threw darting glances towards the woods as they made their way towards their leader. A great horned owl, flitting through the trees in search of its prey, cut loose with its eerie, hooting call and caused men to swing around with guns pointing in the direction of the sound.
The sight of his companions’ behavior made Robbins feel nervous. While he doubted if Wes Hardin would chance attacking such a large party, he could not be certain of it. Born in a frontier land, trained through necessity to handle guns from an early age, still young enough to be reckless, Hardin might not count the odds in his anger. If so, the posse would offer easy targets framed by the light of the fire.
When no attack came, Robbins’ nervousness ebbed away. Growling an order for Skench to accompany him, he entered the gate and walked towards the bodies.
‘It’s Hardin’s pard and the town doctor,’ Skench said. ‘Hell’s fire, Rocket, I didn’t count on this.’
‘How do you mean?’ growled Robbins, although he knew the answer due to his own feelings.
‘Killing the doctor. How’ll we explain it away?’
Having already given rapid thought to that problem, Robbins could supply an answer. ‘Either that Hardin shot him as he ran from the house to warn us. Or say the doctor was consorting with a wanted criminal and was shot helping Hardin to escape.’
While he felt no personal animosity towards either Wes Hardin or the dead doctor, Robbins refused to let any incident cloud the way in which his rockets worked.
Five – Get Hardin, Preferably Dead
In Bonham a group of male citizens breaking up their regular Thursday night poker game saw the glow of flames in the sky. Immediately they put aside all thoughts of going to their respective homes and raised the alarm. While the small town could only boast a volunteer fire brigade, which possessed no formal equipment, its citizens did not lack public spirit. Grabbing up buckets from their homes, men mounted horses and set off at a gallop towards the fire. Other people hitched up buggies and buckboards, loading in shovels or such other implements as might be needed, then followed the first party at the best speed they could manage.
The firefighting parties passed the posse on the trail without becoming aware of its existence. Smarter than his companions, Robbins had foreseen bad trouble over the arson, and more particularly, the killing of Doctor James. Maybe the men of the State Police could cow the local townspeople under normal conditions; but that might easily change, given the right provocation. The doctor had been a popular figure in Bonham and Fannin County, and many of the people rushing to q
uell the blaze were his friends. Meeting the posse and seeing James’ body slung across the saddle of a horse, the citizens would draw the correct conclusions. In which case they might start shooting before Robbins could lay the blame on Hardin.
So, although the people from town saw the fire, they knew nothing of the full horror behind it. A check on the barn showed them that the house had no occupants, by its lack of horses. While unable to halt the fire in the main building, they concentrated on preventing it spreading to the rest of the property.
Hearing hooves, one of the women by the buggies turned to see a tall, gaunt, soberly dressed man approaching. Parson Joel Hardin brought his horse to a halt, the big black-and-tan hound sinking down at its side as he dismounted. Anger and concern showed on his leathery, bearded face as he looked at the blazing ruins of his home.
‘Thank the Lord you’re safe, Joel!’ the woman gasped.
‘It was a love of coon-hunting rather than divine providence that served me, Hortense,’ Hardin answered. ‘Where’s Doc James?’
‘I haven’t seen him. Is somebody hurt?’
‘He was waiting for me here, with young Flip Smith.’
‘They’re not out here,’ another woman stated, then she gasped and swung to look across the garden. ‘Oh Lord! They might be inside.’
‘If they are, may the good Lord give them rest in peace,’ Hardin growled and walked through the gate followed by his hound.
Nothing in the house could have survived the conflagration. Nor could any of the crowd say how it started. In common with many small Texas counties, the sheriff of Fannin also acted as Bonham’s town marshal. So the citizens lacked a peace officer to start investigating the cause of the blaze. At that moment most of them were too busy fighting to save the barn and other buildings to think much on the matter. Looking around, Hardin felt a growing anxiety and certainty that his guests had perished inside. The absence of their horses meant little. If they had left earlier, the sight of the flames would have brought them back. More likely the fire had spooked the animals, causing them to pull their reins free and then run.
‘Good thing you weren’t inside, Joel,’ said the leathery old Wells Fargo agent, a tough veteran of the Texas War of Independence. ‘What happened?’
‘I think the State Police did it,’ Hardin admitted. ‘Only don’t tell any of the others, Moses.’
‘Some of ’em were in town earlier, that’s for sure,’ Moses Adkin said, then he realized that Hardin probably knew nothing of the day’s events. ‘Young John Wes got hisself into trouble—’
‘I know, he met me on the trail and told me about it.’
‘No matter what the State Police say, none of it was his making. They were in town tonight, asking after him and giving it out that nobody’d best claim it wasn’t him who shot Bill Waggets.’
‘Moses!’ Hardin put in. ‘Doc James and young Flip were here.’
‘The hell you say!’ Adkin burst out. ‘Inside?’
‘That I don’t know,’ Hardin admitted. ‘But I think so—’
While speaking, the two men walked towards the front of the house. The fire fighting party had trampled down the truck garden, covering over signs which would have told that the State Police posse crossed it to gather before the house. Ranging ahead of his master, the hound came to a halt, thrusting his nose to the ground, snuffling at it and whining.
‘What’s up with Bucky?’ demanded Adkin.
Going to the dog’s side, the two men looked down. The fire still burned bright enough for them to see the dark, still slightly moist patch on the ground under Bucky’s nose. Easing the dog aside, Hardin bent and scooped up a little of the earth on his forefinger.
‘Blood!’ he breathed. ‘Two lots of it, I’d say.’
‘And me!’ the agent answered. ‘That means—!’
‘Yeah!’ interrupted Hardin. ‘Did you meet anybody on the way here?’
‘Nope.’
‘Hear any shooting earlier?’
‘Nope. Way the wind is, took with the trees all round, it’s not likely we would. You reckon them stinkin State Police—Hellfire, Joel! Just let me get some of the boys and we’ll—’
‘No, Moses,’ Hardin snapped. ‘That’s no answer.’
‘Dammit, Joel!’ Adkin replied, holding his voice down to the same level as his companion. ‘They killed Bill Waggets, and now Doc.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Then maybe we should sit back and do nothing?’
‘That’s all we can do right now,’ Hardin answered quietly. ‘You know what Ole Devil, Charlie Goodnight and others’re trying to do?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s something that needs doing bad. And there’s plenty, including Davis ’n’ Smethurst, who’re looking for a way to stop it. We mustn’t give them that way, not even to avenge Bill and Doc.’
Adkin might be a hot-tempered, irascible old cuss and a fighting man from soda to hock, but he knew the value of discretion. Like every Texan, he followed the campaign for the return of their rights with considerable interest and had no wish to jeopardize its chance of success.
‘How about Wes?’ he asked. ‘If the boy hears what’s happened, he’s likely to be back and looking for the men who did it.’
‘With any luck he won’t hear,’ Hardin answered. ‘I told him to go hide out until I’d had chance to come into town and find out just how bad the situation might be.’
Although interested, Adkin did not ask about Wes’ hiding place. Nor did Joel Hardin mention it. Not that he mistrusted Adkin, but because he did not wish to make his old friend a party to information the State Police might want. If Adkin had known, he could have warned that a couple of Caxton’s cowhands came along to help fight the fire. Not knowing, he said nothing and the cowhands rode off to their ranch without Hardin seeing them.
‘It’s bad,’ commented the agent. ‘I’m wanting to see how them stinking State Police get around killing Doc and young Flip.’
Next morning in Bonham, Adkin had his wish granted. Robbins called a number of the town’s leading citizens, including Hardin and the agent, to the sheriff’s office. Backed by three of the white State Police officers, he told of the attack on the cabin omitting all reference to the part his rockets played. Nor did he stick entirely to the facts in other aspects, for he claimed that Flip had followed the doctor from the cabin and had shot James while firing at the posse.
Watching the faces of his audience, he tried to decide how they took the story. Every man present had a sizeable stake in the community; his own business, in all but Adkin’s case. So they could be relied upon to think long and cautiously before acting in a hostile manner.
‘How’d the fire start?’ Adkin demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Robbins blandly. ‘Maybe that kid knocked the lamp over, or something like that.’ Then he turned his attention to Wes’ father. ‘I’m real sorry for what happened, Parson, but it was through no fault of mine. All we aimed to do was ask your son to come in for a hearing.’
Behind Robbins, Skench and the other two State Police officers tensed and rested their hands on the guns at their hips. Yet none of the townsmen showed the skepticism they must have felt at the words. A couple darted glances in Hardin’s direction as if seeking guidance, but he stood like a statue and his bearded face gave no hint of his thoughts.
‘You didn’t catch John Wes then?’ Adkin finally asked.
‘No,’ admitted Robbins. ‘Do you know where he is, Parson?’
‘Not for sure,’ Hardin replied, figuring an evasion excusable after such blatant lying.
‘Look, I know there’re a whole heap of lies going around about us State Police,’ Robbins said. ‘So I’ve been leaning over backwards to see justice’s done. I sent off a man to ask General Smethurst to appoint a new sheriff and to send a responsible official to hold an inquiry into what happened in the office here. Likely they’ll be in town tomorrow. Can you get your son here by then, Parson?’
&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know,’ Hardin answered. ‘It depends on whether I can find him.’
‘Try,’ Robbins ordered, but in the tone of a man making a helpful suggestion. ‘I’d send my men along, but that might start trouble. So I’ll leave it to you to fetch him in.’
Being a shrewd man, Robbins had played his hand in a way he hoped would not only avoid trouble but show the State Police in a good light. When the story broke in State, or even national newspapers, it would be said that the much-maligned force had made every effort to play fair in the matter. When young Hardin did not show up for the hearing, people who were ignorant of the facts would assume him to be guilty.
Equally shrewd, Hardin followed the other’s line of thought and wondered if he should chance his son’s life by sending word for Wes to come to town.
‘I’ll think on it and see what can be done,’ he promised.
‘Thanks, Parson,’ Robbins replied. ‘And I reckon we’d best have the saloons closed today. So there’ll be no danger of any incidents.’
‘We’ve dead to bury, mister,’ Hardin told him. ‘The saloons will be closed.’
Late that afternoon a crowd of Bonham’s citizens gathered in the graveyard, forming a half-circle around the two graves. Probably most of the people attended out of respect for Doctor James, Flip being an orphan and his ranch crew not in the area. Yet the youngster was to have one mourner.
