Ten Guns from Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Is that the best you can do?” Kelly asked his lawyer. “How about sayin’ somethin’ like Bloody Bill Anderson didn’t do any murderin’ or thievin’ on account of murderin’ ’n thievin’ when you’re at war don’t count.”

  “Your Honor, my client has a point. If we were to try everyone who participated in a war which saw hundreds of thousands killed, we would have to try half of the male population of the entire United States.”

  The prosecutor, Abel Hawkins, said, “Your Honor, I would like to point out that Bloody Bill Anderson held no commission recognized by the Confederate government. Even they thought that what killing he did was indeed murder. And by extension, anyone who rode with Bloody Bill Anderson is also a murderer.”

  “Your point is well taken, sir,” Judge Craig said, slapping his gavel on the bench. “If even the Confederate government didn’t recognize him, any killing he did is murder.”

  “But, Your Honor, if he did kill anyone, it was in Kansas or Missouri,” Gilmore said again. “As far as we know he never killed anyone in Texas. With all due respect, Your Honor, that means you have no jurisdiction over him or anyone who rode with him.”

  “Your Honor,” Hawkins replied quickly. “We know that Anderson was in Texas at least once, during the war.”

  “Come on, Abel, you know damn well Bloody Bill Anderson didn’t kill anyone down here,” Gilmore said. “Texas was part of the Confederacy.”

  “Kelly rode with Bloody Bill Anderson, which brings us right back to the initial charge,” Dempster said. “Your Honor, the very fact that Bloody Bill Anderson was once in Texas puts the case under your jurisdiction.”

  “Even if Bloody Bill Anderson was here, there is no proof that my client was with him at the time,” Gilmore said.

  “It doesn’t matter whether Kelly was with Anderson when he was here or not. Kelly is here now, and he rode with Bloody Bill Anderson, who was also here, at least once. That means I do have jurisdiction, and this case shall proceed.

  “Mr. Gilmore, how does your client plead?”

  “Your Honor, my client pleads not guilty.”

  “Did you, or did you not, confess before several assembled men in the Brown Dirt Saloon, that you rode with Bloody Bill Anderson?” Judge Craig asked Kelly.

  “That wasn’t a confession, Judge. I was just drinkin’ and talkin’ and tellin’ war stories with some of the other fellas. Hell, we was all tellin’ war stories, ’n more ’n likely half of what we was a-tellin’ was lies.”

  “Were you lying when you bragged about riding with Bloody Bill Anderson?” the judge asked.

  Kelly looked at his lawyer.

  “Your Honor, my client respectfully declines to answer that question,” Gilmore said.

  “It doesn’t matter whether he answers the question or not. Anyway, the charge is murder, not simply riding with Bloody Bill Anderson. Riding with Bloody Bill Anderson is merely a means to establish the charge. Mr. Prosecutor, are you prepared to make your case?”

  “I am, Your Honor,” Abel Hawkins said. “I call Merlin Harris to the stand.”

  Harris was a short, rather rotund man with a pockmarked face and thinning hair.

  “Oh damn,” Kelly said under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “Me ’n him got into a fight oncet. He don’t like me, ’n I don’t like him. I shoulda kilt him, instead of just knockin’ him down.”

  “Was he present when you were telling your”—Gilmore paused for a moment—“war stories?”

  “Yeah, he was there,” Kelly said.

  Harris walked up to the witness chair.

  “Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “Yeah,” Harris said.

  The clerk who administered the oath returned to his seat, and Dempster approached Morris. “Mr. Morris, do you know the defendant?”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “And were you present in the saloon when Mr. Kelly was discussing his war exploits?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was he talking about?”

  “He was talkin’ about how he rode with Bloody Bill Anderson, ’n how he kilt lots of people while he was with him.”

  “Cross, Mr. Gilmore?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Any more witnesses, Mr. Dempster?”

  “I don’t need any more, Your Honor. I’ve made my case,” Dempster said.

  “Mr. Gilmore, you may call your first witness,” Judge Craig said.

  “We will present no witnesses,” Gilmore replied.

  “Have you a case to present?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. Your Honor, I know that you are not native to the South, but I am. If you would just look out into the gallery, you’ll see men and women who were born and raised here. There are many in this courtroom who participated in that war, and even more who are old enough to remember it. They were all loyal to the South. Now you are about to ask them to pass judgment against a man simply because twenty-three years ago he fought for what he believed in, as did many who are here now. I don’t believe you are going to find much agreement in your zeal to prosecute.”

  The gallery broke into applause, and the judge angrily banged his gavel until they were quiet. “Is that your case?”

  “It is, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

  The judge looked to the jury. “You gentlemen of the jury. will you be able to set aside your normal loyalty to the South in order to serve the law?”

  The jurors looked at each other, then held a few quick conversations among themselves.

  “Your Honor, like the feller said, the war was over more ’n twenty years ago,” one of the jurors said. “And they’s at least seven of us that fought in that same war, ’n we fought for the South. It don’t seem to us like we’d be accomplishin’ anything by findin’ a man guilty of murder now, just because he fought for what he believed in durin’ that war.”

  “Very well, you are dismissed,” Judge Craig said.

  “Yeah, well, I would thank you, but the truth is, I don’t think you had no business tryin’ me in the first place,” Kelly said. “Now how ’bout gettin’ these chains offen my ankles?”

  “I have dismissed the jury, sir, not you!” the judge said. “I will decide the case.”

  “Your Honor, you have no legal authority to decide this case. My client is entitled to a jury of his peers,” Gilmore said.

  “This trial has already begun, and the jurors have been dismissed,” Judge Craig said. “In the interest of expediency, I will decide this case. As a matter of fact, I have already made the decision. Roy Kelley, I find you guilty as charged. Now, you stand there, while I administer the sentence.”

  “Do your damndest, you pig-faced, four-eyed—,” Kelly said angrily before Gilmore interrupted.

  “Kelly,” Gilmore hissed.

  Judge Craig cleared his throat.

  “Roy Kelly, you have been tried before me, and you have been found guilty of the crime of riding with the butcher Bloody Bill Anderson, and aiding and abetting in the atrocities of murder, arson, and robbery that he visited upon innocent people,” Judge Craig said. “Before this court passes sentence, have you anything to say?”

  Kelly started to speak again, and Gilmore pulled him aside. After a hasty consultation, Kelly spoke.

  “All I got to say is that I was a soldier doing my duty.”

  “Did that duty include the burning and sacking the town of Lawrence, Kansas?” Judge Craig asked.

  Kelly didn’t answer.

  “My father was murdered that day. And you, you miserable, damn Confederate soldier, whether you personally did it or not, were there when it happened.”

  “Your Honor, I beg that you decide this case on the law, and not on your personal feelings,” Gilmore said. “Remember, you have no direct evidence that Mr. Kelly actually killed anyone, that day or any other day during the war.”

  “Roy Kelly, it is the sentence of this court that you be
taken from this courthouse to the prison at Huntsville, there to serve a term of no less than twenty years,” Craig said.

  “No!” some in the court shouted. “You can’t put him in prison, you damn Yankee! He ain’t guilty of nothin’ but bein’ a soldier!”

  “Constable!” the judge said. “Arrest the man who just made that outburst and hold him in contempt of court!”

  The constable stood and looked out over the gallery. “Arrest which man, Judge?” the constable asked. “I didn’t see who it was.”

  To a man, every person in the courtroom at that moment was quiet.

  “Who was it?” the judge asked. “Who made that outburst?”

  There was no response to his inquiry.

  Craig glared at the gallery for a long moment, then brought his gavel down with a loud bang. “Court is adjourned.” He and the bailiff hurried out the back door, leaving the courtroom under the control of the county sheriff.

  “Damn, Tom, you ain’t actually goin’ to take this man off to prison, are you?” someone called.

  “The judge has made the decision. I don’t have any choice,” the sheriff replied.

  “Mr. Kelly, I will appeal,” Gilmore said.

  “What good will that do?” Kelly replied.

  “I will appeal,” Gilmore said again.

  “Come, Kelly. Don’t give me any trouble now,” the sheriff said.

  “You got my wrists and ankles cuffed. Just what the hell trouble can I give you?”

  Chapter Seven

  Austin, Texas

  Even as Roy Kelly was being transported to prison in Huntsville, Duff MacCallister was in Austin, the nearest railhead to Merrill Town and the Slash Bell Ranch. It had taken six days to make the trip from Chugwater, which was one day longer than the original estimate because of the full day they had been forced to lay over in Pierce, Colorado.

  They were shunted to a sidetrack so the cattle cars could be off-loaded. Duff arranged for a pen to hold the cattle until he was ready to move them out to Slash Bell Ranch.

  A young man wearing a weathered Stetson, a cotton shirt, and denim trousers stuck down into well-worn boots came up to Duff shortly after the cattle were transferred from the train to the holding pens. “Would one of you gents be Duff MacCallister?”

  “Aye, that would be me.”

  “I’m Tim O’Leary, Mr. MacCallister, ridin’ for the Slash Bell brand. Mr. Bellefontaine sent me into town to meet you ’n lead you on down to Merrill Town. It’s only about two miles from the ranch. We’ll keep the cattle there tonight, then take ’em on out to the ranch tomorrow.”

  “Wish you had caught me earlier. ’Twould have saved me the time and expense o’ renting the pens.”

  “The pens won’t cost you nothin’,” O’Leary said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Chambers. If there’s any charges, he’ll send the bill to Mr. Bellefontaine. He does business with Mr. Chambers all the time.”

  “Well then, I’ve nae complaint, do I?” Duff replied. “How far is it out to the ranch?”

  “It’s ten miles from here to Merrill Town, then two miles from there on to the ranch.”

  “You’ll be with us for the drive?” Duff asked.

  “Yes sir, I will be.”

  “Then the drive bein’ no longer than that, ’tis sure I am that the four of us can make the drive ourselves.”

  “Yes, sir. I told that self-same thing to Mr. Bellefontaine,” O’Leary replied.

  “O’Leary? So ’tis an Irishman you be?”

  “Just the name, Mr. MacCallister,” O’Leary answered quickly. “It was my grandparents who first came to America. I’ve never even seen Ireland. So I’ve nothing against the Scots.”

  “And I’ve nothing against an Irishman who wasn’t born there,” Duff replied with a broad smile. “But ’tis a pity you’ve never seen Ireland, for though the entire country be loaded with black-hearted heathen, ’tis a beautiful land.”

  “So my grandpa used to say,” O’Leary replied.

  “Ten miles to Merrill Town, is it? Tell me, ye heathen Irishman, is there a holding pen there . . . for the cattle?”

  O’Leary didn’t reply right away, and Duff laughed. “’Tis teasing you I am, lad. Sure ’n I mean nothing by it.”

  O’Leary laughed nervously, not sure yet how to take Duff. “Uh, yes, sir, there’s a holdin’ pen there. Mr. Bellefontaine has already made the arrangements.”

  “Then what do you say we get started, so we can get the cattle taken care of, then get some supper before it’s too late?”

  O’Leary smiled. “I’d say that’s a good idea.”

  Duff showed O’Leary a collar big enough to encircle a cow’s neck. A bell was attached to the collar. “We’ll be for putting this bell on Brother Ben. He will lead the cows, ’n it’ll be nae more than a nice ride for the rest of us.”

  “You don’t say? All right. Let’s bell the critter,” O’Leary replied.

  “Better let me do it,” Elmer suggested. “Brother Ben knows me.” He went into the pen, found the proper steer, hung the bell on him, then led him out.

  The cattle were so relieved to be out of the close confines of the cattle cars that they were a little skittish when the drive started. Nevertheless, Duff and the others soon had them gathered and moving in an orderly procession out of town. O’Leary rode point, as he knew the way. Brother Ben, the bell clanging with every step, was at the head of the herd, and the five hundred head of cattle, including fifty heifers and five bulls, followed dutifully behind.

  Duff and Elmer rode on either flank, and Wang Chow brought up the rear. With a very large herd, riding drag was the most uncomfortable and least desirable position as it was necessary to eat a lot of dust.

  But with only five hundred cows, riding drag wasn’t bad. Even so, Duff had offered to rotate the duty between the three of them, but Wang Chow told him that such an arrangement wouldn’t be necessary.

  Merrill Town

  They reached the town just a little after five, then once again put the cattle into a holding pen, which, as O’Leary had promised, was pre-arranged by Jason Bellefontaine.

  With that taken care of, the next move was to board their horses. O’Leary led them down to the Merrill Town Livery.

  “Heckemeyer,” O’Leary said. “These men brought some cattle in for Mr. Bellefontaine. Board their horses along with mine in Mr. Bellefontaine’s private section.”

  “All right, Tim,” the liveryman said.

  “We’ll be wanting them at first light on the morrow,” Duff said. “Will that be a problem?”

  “No problem at all,” Heckemeyer replied. “I have a man who spends the night here, keeping watch over the horses. He’ll be able to let you have your mounts no matter how early you may be.”

  “Thanks.” Duff turned to O’Leary. “You know this town, Mr. O’Leary. Would you be so kind as to lead us to an establishment where we might partake of drink and something to eat?”

  “Yes sir, I can do that. The best place in town would be a saloon called the CSS Alabama Saloon.”

  “Mr. O’Leary, as you have seen, one of my men is Chinese. I’ve nae wish to be wanting to enter a place where Mr. Wang would nae be welcome.”

  “Don’t worry. Ken Prescott is a good man,” O’Leary replied. “There’ll be no problem with your friend.”

  The false front of the saloon featured a painting of a brigantine-rigged sailing ship, with the name CSS Alabama painted just after her bow.

  “Look at that,” Elmer said, pointing to the painting. “That’s the finest warship ever to go to sea.”

  “You mean there really was a ship called the Alabama?” O’Leary asked.

  “Of course there was. What do you think that is?” Elmer said, pointing to the picture.

  “I just always thought it was somethin’ that Prescott was makin’ up,” O’Leary said.

  “With that name, I take it the Alabama was a ship for your South,” Duff said to Elmer. Duff had not arrived in America until after the Civil Wa
r had ended, but the war was often enough on the tongue of many of his friends that he was well aware of the conflict between the states. And his closest confidant, Elmer Gleason, had fought with the South.

  “Yes. ’N I’ll tell you the truth. Iffen I had know’d about the Alabama at the time, I most likely woulda gone to sea rather than riding with Raiders, Bushwhackers, or Ghost Riders.”

  Duff chuckled. “Did all the Southern units have such picturesque names?”

  “Ha! What do you have to talk about? Weren’t you with something called the Black Watch?”

  “Aye, the Royal Highlanders, and ’tis no finer a military regiment ever formed, as we were never defeated,” Duff said.

  “Yes, well, the Ghost Riders was never defeated, neither,” Elmer said. “The South may have been, but we wasn’t. As it turns out, I was a better sailor than I was a soldier anyhow,” Elmer said.

  Elmer’s allusion to being a good sailor was not without some justification. Before he came to work with Duff, he had sailed the Pacific on the great clipper ships.

  When the four men stepped into the saloon, they heard the sound of piano music coming from the back of the room. The piano player, Duff noticed, was a cut above the average piano player.

  O’Leary led them up to the bar, then called out to the bartender, who was standing at the opposite end of the bar talking with one of the customers. “Prescott, you’ve got four thirsty men here.”

  “O’Leary, what are you doing in town?” Prescott asked. “Don’t normally see you until the weekend. Did you quit working for Mr. Bellefontaine?”

  “No, I come in town to meet these men. They’ve brought some cattle down from Wyoming for the Slash Bell.”

  “Texas cows aren’t good enough for Bellefontaine?”

  “This is a special breed of cow,” O’Leary said. “You going to serve us or are you going to just stand around here and yap all day?” The question was asked in jest, the words ameliorated by O’Leary’s smile.

  Prescott returned the smile. “Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Seeing Wang, he got a surprised look on his face.

  Duff was glad to see, though, that it was one of surprise, rather than belligerence. “That depends on whether or not you can serve all of us. For if it be a problem for you to serve my Chinese friend as easily as you serve us, we’ll be on our way.”