Had it not been for a freakishly fierce spring blizzard, it could have worked out that way.
Instead, that planned sequence of events was dramatically changed when the Kid, bent on harassing Bell interests for as long as he could, barely managed to escape a fiery trap set for him at a remote line shack. In order to make good his getaway, he’d been forced to kill again—a total of four men from among the dozen gunmen who’d been lying in wait for him. His victims included Sam Ramsey, former chief deputy for Calderone County’s crooked sheriff, Tom Garwood. Only a few weeks prior, Ramsey had given up all pretense of not being in Cameron Bell’s pocket and had turned in his tainted star to assume leadership of Bell’s army of gun wolves. Seconding him in command was one Rance Brannigan. Thus it was that, when Ramsey went down, it was Brannigan who’d led the immediate pursuit of the Kid as he fled the scene of the failed trap.
On foot (his horse having been shot out from under him), with limited weaponry and supplies, far from the Devil’s River wilderness that had provided haven so many times before, the Kid found himself in a desperate situation. Only the intervention of a sudden, powerful, late-season blizzard saved him. At first, the storm in and of itself had presented a significant threat against his survival. Determination, a touch of luck, and wilderness lore he had honed since boyhood helped him win that contest, however, while at the same time the blizzard turned back his pursuers. The ferocity and duration of the storm, combined with the conditions under which the Kid had been driven into it and the fact no sign of him could be found after the weather broke, gave many cause to believe he must have gotten disoriented and perished somewhere in the blinding snow and knifing, freezing wind.
Although unaware of this belief, the Kid inadvertently gave it impetus by going to ground and remaining silent and inactive for nearly three weeks. Having made it through the blizzard and finally reaching the security of his familiar Devil’s River terrain, he had holed up in a small cave that he’d previously stocked with supplies for just such an emergency. Aware that the additional killing he had finally resorted to was sure to intensify efforts to apprehend him, he figured it best to lay very low for a while and let things cool down, even after spring-like weather had firmly set in.
Finally, on a heavily overcast night, he’d cautiously paid a visit to his father’s ranch. There, he learned of the widespread belief that he was dead. Further, he found out that his wife and son were among those who accepted this and had therefore gone ahead, accompanied by Consuela, with their planned departure to Chicago. After the initial disappointment over not finding them awaiting him, the Kid quickly saw the benefit in such a turn of events. If the belief in his death took root deep enough, then any monitoring of his wife and son to watch for possible contact by him would be minimal and short-lived. Meaning that when he was ready to rejoin them, the way ought to be that much clearer and easier for them to go on with relocating and starting their new lives under new identities.
To play it as safe as possible, Bob remained at his parents’ home for an additional three weeks. Never venturing out, careful to stay away from windows and open doors, once again laying very low. Inasmuch as they all understood that when Bob did take his leave it would be for good, meaning they’d likely never see one another again, it was a time of deep, special bonding with his parents that made his departure, when it came, somewhat easier to bear.
Twice during those three weeks, Rance Brannigan came around. He looked, asked questions, made a few thinly veiled threats, and let it be generally known that he wasn’t among those who bought that the Devil’s River Kid—well known to be the Hammonds’ son—was dead. But, at the same time, he also revealed that he stood virtually alone in his refusal to accept that fact. Even Cameron Bell had come around to believing it.
When the time finally felt right, Bob Hammond put the ghost of the Devil’s River Kid behind him, said his farewells to his parents, and struck out for Chicago. He made it without incident and there reunited with Priscilla, Bucky, and Consuela. Things went smoothly yet Bob nevertheless kept looking over his shoulder, expecting/half-fearing someone to show up and try to nab him. But no one did. Even through the ongoing struggle with Priscilla’s poor health that eventually claimed her, they forged on with the implementation of the rest of their plans—assuming the new family identity of Hatfield as opposed to Hammond, and relocating eventually to Wyoming Territory in a place called Rattlesnake Wells . . .
* * *
All those early times when Bob would look fretfully over his shoulder, fearing to see someone closing in on him, the face of the “someone” invariably envisioned by his anxieties had been that of Rance Brannigan. And now, after all the intervening months and years, irony of bitter ironies—it looked like he would be coming face-to-face with Brannigan once again after all.
CHAPTER 11
Knowing he was in for a restless night anyway, Bob had once again taken the late turn around town. Even apart from his worries about Rance Brannigan, he also had concerns about the hornet’s nest he had stirred up with Ed Wardell and the rest of the Rocking W men. In case any of them decided to make a special trip to town that night with a chip on their shoulders, Bob wanted to be sure he was the one on hand to deal with it.
No such trouble occurred, however. In fact, the night was basically without incident. Never one to foolishly look for trouble, at least not at this stage of his life, Bob was left feeling somewhat empty, almost disappointed. In the edgy state he was in, he realized, a part of him had actually been hoping for a little excitement.
He didn’t like admitting that about himself and vowed not to let it become a habit. Still, he couldn’t deny it might have helped take the edge off the way he was feeling . . .
In the morning, despite the near-sleepless night he’d fully expected, Bob maintained his habit of rising with the sun. Consuela, who no doubt had gotten little sleep, either, lying next to his restless tossing and turning, rose to prepare his customary breakfast of two boiled eggs, a tortilla-wrapped scoop of spicy sausage, and coffee. Consuela did not eat with him; she would have her breakfast a little later with Bucky, after she got him up for school. She and Bob spoke little while he ate, and not at all about Rance Brannigan.
When the meal was finished, Consuela prepared him a second mug of coffee, this time doctored with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk. His morning treat, they called it. The only time in the many cups of coffee he consumed during the course of most days when he did not take it black. Maintaining another habit that he followed on most days when the weather was nice, Bob took this second cup of coffee out onto the front porch and leisurely sipped it out there. Sometimes, since they’d been wed, Consuela came out and sat with him. This morning, sensing that he would rather be alone with his brooding, she did not.
During this time, Bob generally looked down on the town, perhaps planning his day if there was some particular event scheduled or expectation in the air, but almost always with a sense of satisfaction for the way things had turned out here. This morning he again felt that sense of satisfaction but he was also keenly aware of the threat now looming over it. By the time he’d finished his coffee, he had resolved that—whatever it took—he was damned if he would let that threat ruin everything he and those he cared most about had worked so hard to establish in this place.
* * *
As usual, Bob got to the office first that morning.
Fred was only a few minutes behind him, however, and came bearing good news. Bob’s other two deputies, Peter and Vern Macy, had returned from the visit to their uncle and younger brother up in the Prophecies. Fred had come by their place on the way in and they’d called out that they would be showing up not very far behind him. Bob digested the news with a nod of approval; it would be good to have Peter and Vern back, especially if the expected trouble with the Rocking W flared up.
“Also, I thought you’d like to know,” Fred reported, “I was able to get those two fellas you saved from hanging some short
-term work at Peterson’s Livery. Joe Peterson is holding a couple dozen horses for some Army buyers who ain’t due for another week, maybe ten days, so he’s in need of some extra help. He offered the two of ’em a place to sleep, a noon meal, and a few dollars a day to care for those horses and whatever other odd jobs come along. How they divvy up the work—Streeter figured he’d handle the heavier stuff, on account of Hicks’s busted ribs, while Hicks did the grooming and lighter duties—is up to them, as long as it gets done. It ain’t much and it won’t last forever, but it’s a stopgap to tide ’em over for a little while and at least give ’em some time to heal up a bit.”
“I figured you could scare up something to help them out,” Bob said. “And if I know you, there’s a good chance you’ll have something more lined up by the time they need it.”
Fred shrugged. “If I can help out, I will. They got one big break from you, and they seemed genuinely grateful. Fellas like that I don’t mind lending a hand—Lord knows that in our line of work we run into enough ungrateful lowlifes, it’s good to be reminded there are other kinds out there, too.”
“As long as you don’t let your guard down too low and always keep in mind there still are plenty of skunks in the mix as well,” said Bob, his mood not up for an excessive amount of optimism and good fellowship. “I worry sometimes that your amiability might do you in one of these days, Fred. Be careful it don’t.”
“That’s a heck of a sour outlook,” said Fred, frowning. Then, remembering how his boss’s mood had shifted the previous afternoon, his frown deepened. “What’s gotten into you lately, anyway?”
Before Bob had any chance to answer, they received a visitor. The front door opened and a small, bespectacled, middle-aged man came in. Bob recognized him as Myron Poppe, a somewhat timid and always exceedingly polite teller at the Starbuck Territorial Bank. He was dressed for work, white shirt and bow tie, but the bank wasn’t scheduled to open for another forty-five minutes or so.
“I hope this isn’t too early or that I’m not interfering with more important business,” Myron said. “But, if not, I was hoping I could have a few minutes of your time, Marshal.”
“Of course, Myron,” Bob told him. “Have a seat, why don’t you? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, no, thank you.” The answer came so swift and firm that at first Bob suspected the man had heard the horror stories about the coffee served here. But then Myron clarified his response a bit further. “I’ve quite had my morning quota of coffee—or tea, I should say, in my case. Once we tellers take our positions at our windows, you see, Mr. Starbuck is very strict about us not leaving our stations for any reason. Even to, er, evacuate any excess morning beverage. I therefore have learned how much intake I can tolerate in order to make it to my scheduled lunch break, and I am very careful not to exceed that.”
“Okay,” Bob said measuredly, thinking he’d rather have been left with his assumption about Myron’s fear of the jail coffee instead of getting quite so much personal information. It gave him pause to ask the next question, but he went ahead with it anyway. “So what is it that brings you here, Myron?”
Myron hitched forward on the wooden chair where he’d seated himself. “Are you familiar with the name John Larkin?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He was in the paper yesterday.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He was part of our community up until a few years ago. That was before your time.”
Bob nodded. “I know. But Deputy Fred here has brought me up to date on Larkin and the circumstances surrounding his, er, leaving.”
“Good. That’s good.” Myron bobbed his head in Fred’s direction, acknowledging him. Then, turning back to the marshal, he said, “Did he tell you that I was on the jury that sent Larkin away?”
“No, I don’t believe we touched on that particular detail.”
“Well, I was.”
Bob waited for him to expound on that. When it appeared he was going to need some prodding, the marshal cleared his throat and said, “I trust, then, that the community was sufficiently grateful for your time and the performance of your civic duty.”
“I suppose so,” Myron allowed. “But I’m not looking for gratitude. What I want to know is what do you intend to do about John Larkin returning?”
“I guess I don’t quite understand your question,” Bob said. “My understanding is that Larkin has been paroled following good behavior for time served. If that’s the case and he reports same on his arrival here, then there’s not a lot I can do. Providing he keeps his nose clean and doesn’t get in any new trouble, that is.”
Myron looked anxious. “Then you don’t know about his threat?”
“Threat to who?”
“Why, to me . . . Well, to be exact, to each and every one of us who were on the jury that sent him away. After he was sentenced, he swore he’d come back and get even with us.”
“Now wait a minute, Myron,” Fred spoke up. “I wasn’t on the jury that day, but I was in the courtroom and heard what Larkin said. It wasn’t quite like that.”
The little man in the bow tie suddenly looked very defiant. “He said he’d come back and show us the error of our ways. If that’s not a threat, what is?”
Bob cleared his throat again. “With all due respect, Myron—er, Mr. Poppe—I think I have to agree with my deputy. Larkin saying he was going to come back and show everybody they’d made a mistake about him doesn’t really amount to a threat. I suppose it could be taken like that, if you look at it in a certain way. But it could also simply be the statement of a man bent on proving he’s innocent of the charges made against him.”
“You think Larkin was an innocent man?”
“I’m in no position to comment on that. I believe that judges and juries usually reach the right conclusions, even though there sometimes are mistakes made. All I’m really saying is that, to my ear, Larkin’s words don’t sound exactly like a hard threat.”
“It was the way he said it.”
Bob wanted to hear the man out and have sympathy for his concerns, but he was growing weary of this. He said, “Look, no matter how he said it or what he truly meant, my position is this: Larkin served his time and was properly released. If he comes here and follows the procedure he’s supposed to, like I told you before, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. It’s not like I can turn him away at the city limits just because he makes certain people nervous.”
“That’s too bad,” Myron said somberly.
“My deputies and I will naturally keep a close eye on Larkin for however long he sticks around. Sorry I can’t promise you any more than that.”
“Very well. I guess that will have to suffice.” Myron stood up. “You and your men do a very good job of protecting our town, Marshal. I appreciate that and I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time. Before leaving, let me say one more thing, though . . . I don’t profess to put words in other people’s mouths. But since the news started to spread about Larkin’s return, I can assure you that I am not the only one with the concerns I have just expressed to you.”
Behind his desk, Bob stood up, too. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Mr. Poppe. And like I already told you, me and my deputies will also be sure to keep a close eye on Larkin if and when he shows up.”
Myron gave a faint nod, turned, and walked out as quietly as he’d entered.
CHAPTER 12
The door had scarcely closed behind Myron Poppe before it opened again to the entrance of Peter and Vern Macy. Greetings and a round of updates, sprinkled with a bit of good-natured ribbing, quickly followed. The easy camaraderie among the four lawmen was enough to lift Bob’s mood, at least for a time, and even made cups of the notorious jail coffee tolerable.
For their part, Peter and Vern didn’t have a lot new to report. Their uncle and younger brother were doing well and remained optimistic, even though they hadn’t struck the big vein yet. They were nevertheless finding enough color to have built up
a nice nest egg and had plenty to offer payment (even though the gesture was declined) for the supplies brought in as part of the visit. Tales of his older brothers’ badge-wearing adventures (no doubt embellished a bit during the telling) were exciting for young Lee to hear, though he remained committed to the prospecting life and it was clear Uncle Curtis was grateful to have him.
On the receiving end, the brothers had already caught wind of the shoot-out involving Bob and Buford Morrison against the Silases and the prisoners they’d freed to aid them. Regardless, they were still hungry for some firsthand details. After that, they were also filled in on the situation with the Rocking W brand—the alleged rustling, the attempted hanging, the anticipated trouble next time any of Wardell’s riders came to town, and the rumors of a hired gun (or guns) being brought aboard. No mention was made of the specific name Rance Brannigan. Finally, Bob left it to Fred to tell them about the returning ex-con, John Larkin, as far as his history and the concerns of certain citizens based on his statement after being sentenced.
When all of that had been laid out, Peter emitted a low whistle and said with mock exaggeration, “Whew! Good thing we got back when we did. Sounds like the town’s about ready to blow wide open.” He was a compact, muscular young man, not yet twenty-two, with thinning blond hair, a ready smile, and a devilish glint in his eyes that signaled an equally devilish sense of humor.
“Let’s hope it don’t quite come to that,” said Bob. Then he grinned. “But it is good to have you back.”
“I’ll second that,” agreed Fred.
“I won’t say we missed the times we’ve had lead flying in our direction, but otherwise I reckon we’re glad to be back, too,” said Vern, a close image of his brother, though a year younger, a couple inches taller, and generally more serious in nature. “I think it’s safe to say, for both of us,” he went on, “that the rock-choppin’ life up on that cold mountain ain’t something that holds a lot of appeal.”
Right between the Eyes Page 7
