Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  The man cocked his head to the side. “You that Rebel outlaw?”

  “I was. Riding for the law now.”

  “How’s that work?” The man adjusted his rifle, but it remained pointed in Holt’s direction.

  Holt tried to smile. “Judge Pence awarded me full amnesty. In exchange for taking this job.” He nodded. “I took it.”

  The man walked toward Holt, still not lowering his rifle. “The last time the county lawman came visiting, he told me that I owed him a hundred dollars. For protection.”

  Holt leaned forward in his saddle. “That would’ve been Shields. He’s dead. The others are on the way to prison.”

  “Good for you.”

  Holt smiled. “Did you pay him?”

  “Nope. Didn’t have the money in the first place. Told him if he ever came around again, I’d put a hundred dollars’ worth of lead in his belly.”

  Holt returned the man’s just-used phrase. “Good for you.”

  It was the farmer’s turn to smile. “Sheriff, I’m Logan Wheeler. Bought this place five years back from the Bucknells.” He wiped his nose with his hand, letting the gun drop to his side. “My Lillian up an’ died on me last year. January, it was. The twenty-third.” He turned his head away for a moment. “Now it’s just me an’ my two kids.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard. Real hard. But we’ll make it. Just need a good crop or two, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Anything I can do for you?”

  Wheeler motioned toward the house. “Well, you could have coffee with me. Don’t get many visitors. And call me Logan.”

  “I’d like that, Logan,” the young lawman replied. “Please call me Holt.”

  “You got it... Holt.”

  The middle Corrigan swung down from his horse and tied both mounts to the hitch post next to the front porch. Tag discovered a mangy black dog with a white spot on its back and the two wandered off together.

  Inside the farmhouse, Holt saw and felt the lack of a woman’s touch to the simple surroundings. The bare floor was only partially swept and the stone fireplace was strewn with ashes and pieces of burnt wood. Only a tiny flame struggled to remain alive.

  From the bedroom, separated from the main room by a hung blanket, came two children dressed in handmade clothes. Wheeler introduced the fourteen-year-old boy as Lloyd, and the seven-year-old girl as Josie. Both were family names, he explained, on their late mother’s side.

  Lloyd stepped up to Holt and held out his hand. “Are you a lawman, mister?”

  Shaking the boy’s hand, Holt replied, “I am the county sheriff and I’m glad to meet you.”

  The boy’s shirt was too large for him and Holt made a mental note to see if Blue had any clothes his children had outgrown.

  Josie’s golden hair fell to her shoulders and flipped as she talked, which was constantly. She reminded Holt of a teacher he’d known as a child.

  “My father chased off the last sheriff that came here. You’d better watch your step.” She finished her statement by putting her hands on her hips.

  Grinning, Holt said, “I will. Thanks for the warning.”

  Without further encouragement, she told him that her full name was Josephine, then about their late mother and their farm in greater detail than anyone would want to know, including how many chickens they had and the names she had given them.

  “That’s enough, Josie.”

  “Well, I thought he should know.”

  Pushing his hat back from his forehead, Holt said, “I appreciated hearing about all of you.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Wheeler apologized for her verbosity and explained that she took after her mother. A weak smile trailed his words. The tall man with the weathered face and firm chin invited Holt to sit at the table in the center of the room. A long scar on its surface was only partially hidden by a vase with dead flowers.

  Lloyd held a small chalkboard, as did Josie. On both were scribblings in chalk that Holt couldn’t read from where he stood.

  “Lloyd, did you finish your words?” Wheeler asked as he returned from the kitchen with a coffeepot and two cups.

  The boy nodded, but made no attempt to hold up the board for his father’s inspection.

  “And Josie, how about you? Where are you with the alphabet?”

  Proudly holding up her chalkboard to show her writing, she declared, “I’ve written them all the way through ‘P’ . . . capitals and lower.”

  “Good,” Wheeler said and turned to Holt before Josie could continue. “Kinda worried about school. Miss Temple left town.”

  Smiling, Holt was glad to tell him that the town marshal’s wife was going to step in and teach until a new permanent teacher could be secured. Wheeler’s eyes brightened.

  “That’s great news, Holt. It really is.”

  “Yeah, I think she’s starting on Monday.”

  As they drank coffee, very hot and very bitter, Holt told him about the town’s happenings and the planned celebration. Both children were eager to hear about the scheduled fun, especially Josie. She told him about the Fourth of July celebration at the church last summer, pointing out that a woman had been nice to her father.

  Wheeler blushed slightly, but said nothing.

  Her eyes bright with sharing, Josie said the preacher that day had only one arm.

  “That was my brother Blue. He and Deed, my other brother, and I have a ranch north of here, the Rafter C.”

  Lloyd sat with his hands folded over his chalkboard. Finally he could keep quiet no longer.

  “Do you always carry two guns?”

  Holt sipped his coffee, then blew on it and sipped again. “Have for a long time.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone wear holsters like that.” Lloyd pointed at Holt’s rig under his opened coat.

  Bored with the subject, Josie left the table and disappeared behind the blanket separation.

  Holt tried his coffee again, uneasy about the conversation.

  “Those guns look mighty fancy.”

  “A friend gave them to me.” Holt was eager to change the subject and glanced at Wheeler.

  Licking his lower lip, Wheeler said, “Lloyd, better go check on the dogs. Who knows what they might’ve gotten into.”

  Reluctantly, the boy stood and walked outside.

  After watching him leave, the young sheriff said, “Thanks, Logan. Wasn’t sure how to handle that.”

  “None needed. He’s at that age where guns make quite an attraction.” Wheeler finished his coffee. “Actually he’s a pretty good shot. Got us a deer two days ago.”

  “What about us going outside,” Holt asked, “and let him shoot one of my Russians?”

  “He’ll think that’s as good as it gets.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  As they walked toward the door, Wheeler told him the previous sheriff had advised him to leave, that Bordner was taking over the entire region. Holt simply added that Bordner wasn’t as good as he thought.

  “Damn glad o’ that,” Wheeler pronounced. “Ya sure you got all o’ them?”

  “No. Not for sure. We’ll just have to keep working on it.”

  Outside, Lloyd was pouring a bucket of water into the trough for the two panting dogs.

  “Looks like they’re buddies for life.” Wheeler chuckled.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Lloyd asked as he returned the bucket to its position atop the side of the well.

  Holt walked over and patted both dogs. “Well, his full name’s Tag Along. I call him Tag most of the time.” He explained the reason for the moniker.

  “Tag. I like that.” Lloyd held his arms. “Our dog is named Blackie. ’Cause he’s black.”

  “Good-looking dog.”

  “He keeps the coyotes away from the chickens. Most of the time.”

  Holt glanced at Wheeler and asked Lloyd if he would like to shoot one of his revolvers. The boy’s eyes lit up and his whole bo
dy shook with excitement.

  “Really? Me?” Lloyd looked at his father, who smiled and nodded. “I sure would.”

  Together, the two men and the boy walked back toward the barn. Pecking their way through the dirt, chickens greeted them with squawks and flapping wings. Where the land crossed from dead grass to plowed ground, Holt pointed at a large dirt clod unearthed by Wheeler’s plow.

  “I want you to shoot that.” Holt drew his right-shoulder-holstered gun. “This is a Russian Smith & Wesson .44. Some think it’s the finest gun made.” He handed the weapon, butt first, to the boy and showed him how to hold it with both hands.

  “The best way to shoot a revolver is to think like you’re pointed your finger,” Holt said. “Keep the gun pointed at the ground for now. Always figure a gun is loaded, no matter who says different. Until you check it yourself.” He shook his head. “Lots of folks have been killed by guns that weren’t supposed to have any bullets. I keep five bullets in each gun, leaving the cylinder under the hammer empty. For safety.”

  “You sound like my pa.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Holt responded. “Now I’m going to cock it, then you point at that clod, take a deep breath, and hold it. Squeeze the trigger when you’re ready.” He looked at the boy’s serious face. “Remember, this trigger is like a butterfly. Touch it and the gun’ll shoot.”

  After Holt cocked the hammer, Lloyd lifted the weapon as he had been told. The roar of the gun was intense; the bullet spat into the dirt a foot from the clod. Lloyd was jolted backward a step.

  “That’s good for your first time.” Holt said. “Let’s try again.”

  In short order, Lloyd fired four more times, emptying the gun, and finally clipped the top edge of the dirt chunk. Holt reloaded the gun with cartridges from his coat pocket, spun it in his hand, and fired three times so fast they sounded like one roll of thunder. All three shots tore into the clod, splitting it into little pieces.

  “Wow, mister . . . Sheriff. That was something!”

  “Just practice, Lloyd. No different than learning to plow a straight line. Only plowing’ll make good things happen.”

  “Have you killed a lot of men?”

  Holt hesitated as he reloaded the gun. “Only those who were trying to kill me or my family.” He slipped the gun into its holster.

  Biting his lower lip, Lloyd asked, “What are those . . . on the handles? They look like mountain lions.”

  “Yeah. A friend called me ‘El Jaguar’ for some reason and had those handles made.”

  “El Jaguar. Wow!”

  From the house came Josie carrying a small doll in a dress that matched her own. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I wanted to show you Little Anne. My mother made it for me before . . .”

  Holt knelt and examined the doll. “Little Anne is beautiful. Just like you.”

  “Aw, it’s just a doll. Doesn’t really have a name,” Lloyd blurted.

  “Thank you for showing Little Anne to me,” Holt said softly and stroked the doll’s head.

  “That’s enough, Lloyd,” Wheeler admonished and turned to Holt. “Won’t you stay for supper? Got some good venison stew, thanks to Lloyd.”

  “Well, I’d like that, but I’m expected at the ranch,” Holt said. “Next time?”

  “We’d like that.” Wheeler grinned.

  Holt went to his mount, then moved to his packhorse and removed sacks of flour, beans, coffee, and sugar. Laying them on the porch, he said, “Thought you might have use for these.”

  “Do we look like we need a handout?” Wheeler pouted.

  “No, but I needed to say thank you for your friendship.” Holt strode over to the farmer and they shook hands.

  The threesome waved as the young sheriff rode away. Reaching the hillside, he turned and waved back. In minutes, the farm was out of sight. Tag was dropping behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Now that they were out of sight of the Wheelers, Holt Corrigan reined up, dismounted, and led his horses back to the resting dog. A cold wind had found its feet and was working its way across the land.

  “Wore yourself out, did you?” he grinned. “Yeah, I liked them, too.”

  Lifting the dog, he placed him onto the greatly depleted packhorse, then covered him with his saddle blanket and gave Tag a piece of jerky. Holt pulled on his own long coat, remounted, and rode on.

  The uneven land was scattered with mesquite and cactus. Off to his right was a small pond, more of a seep. Tracks around the water were a clear indication that prairie animals used it often. He passed two burned-out farms, their blackened timbers pointing toward the graying sky. Silent reminders of how close Comanche destruction waited. Instinctively, he drew his carbine from its saddle boot and laid the gun across his saddle.

  A path wandered away from the main road, heading for Tiorgs’s horse ranch. There was no reason to see the Scotsman again; Tiorgs knew who the sheriff was. Holt smiled and reined his horse to stay on the main trail. It led to the farm of Judd and Mary Johnson, Allison’s parents. Every bush seemed familiar, even though he hadn’t been along this path since before the war. Strangely, his mind didn’t seek old memories of his times with Allison.

  The trail had become lined with small cottonwoods, elms, and ash trees, some little more than whips. Ahead he saw that the Johnson farm looked like it had been freshly painted. Judd Johnson was a most successful farmer. During the war, he sold his crops to the Union army for gold. It wasn’t a popular move, but he didn’t care.

  As he rode, Holt tried to recall how many children the Johnsons had. A son and daughter older than Allison, for sure. There was a younger son who would be about eighteen now, he thought. He vaguely recalled a daughter who died when he was seeing Allison; the girl had been six.

  Ahead on the left side of the road, an old-shaped tree caught his attention. It was almost bent over into a half circle. He and Allison had chased each other around it before getting going on to other things. He nodded to himself and pulled his collar up around his ears.

  Mrs. Johnson was flipping a blanket off the side of the porch as Holt rode up. She was humming to herself, well into a daydream, and didn’t hear his advance.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Johnson . . . Holt Corrigan,” he said, “I’m the county sheriff, just making the rounds.”

  She jerked into today. Her eyes widened as the significance of his statement soaked in. Her blanket fell to the porch.

  “Hol . . . Holt? Oh my goodness, how wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you bring Allison with you?”

  The question wasn’t what he expected, or wanted to hear. His hand gripped the carbine. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a young man bringing in cows for milking.

  She hurried to Holt’s horse and looked up, hesitating to touch his leg. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, Holt. Allison has been telling us about the two of you getting reacquainted. Picnics and rides.” Her smile cut her face in two and that’s when he saw the redness on her right cheek was in the early stage of bruising. “We’re hoping for something special this time.” For an instant, he thought she appeared not right in the head.

  Holt studied for face for a moment. Time and unending work had been hard on her. Crow’s-feet lined her eyes and several stretched downward across her face. Gray had taken over much of her hair. Still, she was an attractive woman, full figured and sweet, but her eyes were troubled and wouldn’t meet his. There was something more here. Mrs. Johnson was an abused woman. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Probably because of his lust for her daughter.

  “Mrs. Johnson, I’m sorry to tell you this, but the first time I saw Allison since the war was this morning. I was packing supplies in front of the general store when she walked over.” He paused and swallowed. “We’re not seeing each other, ma’am . . . and don’t intend to. That was long ago. I’m sure she’ll find a good man.”

  The woman looked like she was going to vomit. She spun away from his horse as if she’d been told of a death and
yelled, “Judd! Judd! Come out. We have a visitor, someone you know.” She didn’t look at Holt again and walked back onto the porch, touched her reddening cheek, picked up her blanket, and began folding it.

  A large man dressed in dirty overalls appeared in the doorway, nearly filling it. His longish brown hair indicated he had been sleeping. Even from a distance, Holt knew Judd had been drinking. He had always been a mean man, used to having his own way with his wife and their children. Somewhere in his mind was the recollection of Mrs. Johnson having bruises on her face and arms, and saying that Judd had hit her, but that she deserved it. He wished he had just ridden on. His sweet memories were becoming a nightmare.

  Judd Johnson blinked as he stood in the doorway. He held a double-barreled shotgun in one huge hand. It looked like a toy.

  “Wha . . . ?” He growled.

  “It’s Holt Corrigan, honey. He’s the county sheriff, you know,” Mrs. Johnson cooed. “Just rode in to say hello. He’s making a tour of the county, meeting folks. Isn’t that nice?”

  Judd glanced at her, frowned, and bellowed, “Whar’s my daughter? From the sound of it, you two are gittin’ together all the time.”

  “That’s not so, Mr. Johnson. I saw her for the first time this morning, since the war. She came up to me while I was packing my horse.” Holt stared at the man. “We are definitely not together . . . and won’t be.”

  Straightening his back, Judd’s wild eyebrows nearly met in a fierce frown. “Not good ’nuff fer ya, huh.” His hands tightened around the shotgun.

  Mrs. Johnson shivered against the house.

  “Didn’t say that, Mr. Johnson. Allison and I were just kids back then.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? I married the missus when she were but thirteen.”

  Holt noticed the young man who had brought in the cows was sneaking along the side of the house toward them. In his hands was a Henry.

  “Didn’t mean to upset you folks. I just stopped by to say hello,” Holt said. “Sounds like you need to talk with your daughter. Maybe she’s afraid to tell you the truth.”