by R. B. Conroy
“Well... uh... yes, I believe--”
Jon grabbed the attorney by the tie and yanked him up to eye level. Brown was shaking all over. “Now you listen to me, Mr. Brown. Tell Alex that he better be here Tuesday morning at ten. If he’s not here, I’ll come out to his mansion with both barrels blazing. If he tries to leave before then, I’ll hunt him down and bring him in. Do you understand?”
“Yes... uh... I will tell him.”
“Ahhh!” A loud cry came from the cell area.
“What the...” Jon shouted, he pushed Brown back in his seat and hurried to the cell area.
Ed arrived first. “Oh no!” the deputy exclaimed loudly. “Slim hung himself!” Ed unlocked the door and rushed in. The body hung motionless in the center of the cell.
Jon came in the cell; he and Ed untied the leather belt Slim used to hang himself and laid the man gently on the bunk.
“He’s gone,” Jon said solemnly.
Jon pushed the huge cell door aside and rushed through the small gate.
Attorney Brown stood shaking by his chair as Jon charged over. “Get the hell outa here, Brown,” Jon barked. He shoved the terrified man toward the front door.
Brown, rubbing his sore neck, staggered through the door to his buggy.
“Damn, we just lost the best witness a man could have!” Jon said dejectedly.
* * *
Just over an hour later, the traumatized lawyer Brown rode up to Faraday’s mansion. He hurried over to the front door and banged the knocker several times; Clive Cook answered directly.
“My God, what happened to you?” Clive exclaimed. “You’re white as a sheet!” Cook gestured toward the back porch. The two men hurried through the living room to the porch where Alex was relaxing with a book.
A surprised Faraday looked up from his book. “Back already, Pat? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What on earth happened?”
Attorney Brown sat carefully on the arm of a wooden chair. Cook arrived with a snifter of brandy. The anxious attorney took a sip to try and calm his nerves.
“Out with it, man. What did our fine sheriff have to say?” Faraday prodded.
“He said he had information that you were involved in the killing of Jed Orton and the disappearance of Little Bear. I told him you didn’t see it that way and you felt there was a vendetta against you because of the success of your saloon.”
“Yes, that’s bloody right! What did he say?”
“The sheriff became very angry. I thought he was going to knock my head off. He can be a frightening man.”
“Why, that’s a perfectly legitimate defense,” Alex replied, apparently oblivious to Brown’s personal trauma. “He’s trying to intimidate us into not using it against him. But it won’t work. It’s our strategy and we’re staying with it.”
“That may be, Mr. Faraday. But rest assured, he won’t like it one bit.”
“Consider me forewarned,” Alex replied. “Did you buy us time until Tuesday?”
“Yes, you have until ten Tuesday morning. He said if you don’t show up, he will come after you.”
“Good, good. That buys Web the time he needs to talk to Judge Walker in Mesa. Everything seems on track,” Alex replied. He stuffed tobacco tight in the pipe bowl, a match exploded. The coals burned red-orange as he lit up.
“Oh yes Alex, there’s was one more bit of news.”
“Oh yes... well, what is it?”
“While I was there, Slim Wilson hung himself.” Pat managed a slight smile. “And he did a good job; he’s very dead right now.”
“You’re kidding; how convenient!” an elated Alex proclaimed. “Things are looking good, very good indeed!”
“Indeed, Alex! A man did die, you know!” Cook scolded his over excited boss.
“Why yes, I meant no disrespect. Very sorry to hear about poor Slim,” Alex said clumsily.
Brown continued. “I’m sure they have written testimony, so we’ll still need Judge Walker on the bench. But having Slim out of the way will help immensely. But may I caution you against underestimating the sheriff? He’s a very determined man!”
“Yes... he’s a powerful adversary indeed, but the poor sap’s too honest for his own good. We’ll win this case and then he’ll do whatever Judge Walker tells him to. Then we’ll be free to go!”
Brown sighed. “I hope so!”
* * *
The silent flight of the turkey vultures filled the bright, blue sky above. The lifeless body of Web Norton lay motionless on the stone pathway below. Gradually more birds joined the ancient dance of death; their routes sank lower, closer to the man. A few of the ugly red-headed birds landed on the rock above, their long necks craning toward the fallen messenger.
Suddenly Web’s crusty left eye lid moved open, then his right. Dazed, but still alive, he felt something warm and dry slide over his face. His body froze in sheer panic as a rattler slithered over the terrified man and moved quickly between the rocks. Web blinked several times; his hands moved along his warm body checking for more snakes. Feeling none, he rolled to one side and pushed up to a sitting position. The hiss of a nearby vulture caught his attention. Angered, he struggled to his feet and waved his black hat at the huge birds. “Get outa here! Get outa here!” he screamed. The disappointed scavengers hastily took flight and soared away.
Sunday afternoon! he thought. His swollen hand pushed against the rock wall as he righted himself. He whistled, but his horse didn’t come. He looked around; the silence was deafening. Shoulders slumped, he gazed at the trail ahead. Over a day’s walk, one water hole, he thought as he contemplated the dangerous journey back to Faraday’s. He took a couple of steps and picked up his dirty hat. He placed the hat gently on his sore head. “I better get goin’,” he whispered to himself.
The setting sun gave way to the cool evening breezes. They felt good as they blew across Web’s hot, dry face. The sandy gravel crunched under his stiff leather boots as he struggled along. His legs ached; blisters were beginning to form on the soles of his feet. His lips were dry and parched.
“Where the hell’s that water?” he moaned. Finally, the large round boulders that surrounded the water hole appeared. Still a couple of miles away, they seemed closer. Exhausted, his pace quickened. The desert sun was almost gone as he finally reached the elusive hole. He fell to his knees on the sandy bank; his hat flew to the side. He ripped open the snaps on his blue denim shirt, cupped his hands and threw water over his head and chest. The cool water felt wonderful as it splashed against his hot, sweaty body. He drank until saturated and then laid on his side. The sun was down and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Weary, he lay still for a couple of minutes and then rolled up on all fours. His swollen eyes scanned the surrounding terrain. He was becoming very cold; he needed cover for the night. He saw some fallen branches from a nearby tree. He crawled around picking up the scraggily, leaf covered branches and drug them to a dugout in the corner of the rocks, away from the chilling breeze. He piled the thin, makeshift protection over himself, giving him some cover from the cold desert night. A strip of jerky slid out of his pocket, and he chewed it away. His eyes dropped shut as sleep overcame him.
* * *
The reddish-yellow sun rose above the dark sandy landscape. Web’s tired arms carefully pushed away his leafy cocoon. Morning was upon him; the back of his head still ached from the awful fall on the stone passageway. His body hurt all over as he crawled to the water hole, his dry, parched lips sucked the water in. The Indians taught him that a good saturation in the morning can last up to a full day in the desert sun. One jerky left and a full day’s walk ahead, his feet were already blistered. It was a daunting task indeed, but deep inside he dreaded Faraday’s anger even more. His failure to secure Judge Walker for the hearing on Tuesday would infuriate Alex and by the time he got back it would be too late to do anything about it. He ripped two strips of denim off the bottom of his shirt, dampened them and carefully wrapped them around the blisters on his sore, swollen
feet. He slipped on his boots and stood up, his eyes squinting into the hot morning sun. He limped forward, starting the last agonizing leg of his tortuous journey.
Twelve hours later, Web heard voices off in the distance. Totally exhausted, he struggled mightily to keep from falling. His feet were bloody stubs, his face horribly swollen and cracked. His eyes were oozing slits. His boot slid forward and caught on a protruding rock. The dust flew as his aching body fell hard on the rocky trail.
A rider approached rapidly, slid off his racing steed, grabbed the canteen and dropped to one knee next to the fallen man. He slid his hand gently under Web’s neck and lifted his head. Web’s parched, puffy lips opened slightly; the canteen tipped, the water flowed in.
“My God Web, what the hell happened?” the man asked as he moved his body to protect Web from the evening sun. Water gurgled from Web’s mouth as he tried to speak.” “Rattler,” he said almost inaudibly.
Another man arrived with a pack. They gently lifted Web up and sat him on the horse. He slumped over, his head bounced from side to side as they walked him to the compound.
The front door of the mansion pushed open. Clive Cook, hearing the commotion, had come out to see what was going on. He approached the sentries.
“Oh my! He looks awful!” Cook exclaimed as he stopped next to Web. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Semi-conscious, Web didn’t reply.
“Did he say anything?” Cook asked.
The sentry shrugged. “All he said was rattler.”
“A rattler must have spooked the horse and thrown him off,” Cook surmised. “Take him to the bunk house, clean him up and let him rest. I’ll hold Alex off. He’s in no condition to talk right now.”
Cook hurried back to the house to tell Alex. He rushed into the living room and approached Faraday. “Web’s back!”
“Web’s what?” Alex shouted.
“He’s lying in the bunk house unconscious,” Cook replied. “His horse must have thrown him off. Looks like he’s been walking in the desert for a couple of days. He’s very weak, can’t speak.”
“That means he never got to Mesa and Judge Walker and it’s Monday evening,” Alex mumbled to himself. He paced nervously in front of his living room sofa. “Send Cliff Nestleroad into town to await the judge. Soon as he knows which judge is here, have him ride back out.” Faraday scowled as he cracked his horse whip on the oak coffee table. “Damn!” he shouted.
Chapter 24
Libby sighed, “Hey Big Boy, you don’t look too happy,” she said as she joined Jon at their corner table.
Jon looked up at the lovely Miss Thompson. “Oh, I’m okay, I guess.” He patted her tiny wrist.
Libby slid a shot of whiskey in front of him as she took a sip of her wine.
“Thanks,” Jon said. “Attorney Brown came to the office today.”
“What did he want?” Libby asked.
“Faraday’s lawyerin’ up. He’s saying I’m just picking on him cause his saloon’s doing so well.”
“Why that’s ridiculous Jon, you would never do that.” Libby frowned.
Jon downed the shot and sat the empty glass on the table. “I know, but he’s got somethin’ up his sleeve.” Jon grimaced.
“Is the judge in town yet?” Libby asked.
“Not yet,” Jon replied.
“Who’s coming?” the pretty saloon owner asked.
“Dunno,” Jon replied. A thought came to him, and he smiled. “That’s it,” he said excitedly. “That’s it!” He jumped up and began pacing near the table.
“Are you going to let me in on the secret, Jon, or am I going to have to sit here in the dark?” Libby chided him.
“That’s it! The judge,” Jon replied. He pounded his fist in the palm of his hand. “If Faraday and Brown can get Judge Walker here, they can use that bogus defense and possibly get off. I hear Walker owes Faraday big time.”
“What if Oliver shows up?”
“Judge Oliver’s an honest man. Alex would be in deep trouble.” Jon shook his head. “That snake.”
“I’ll bet he tried to contact Walker to be sure he showed up,” Libby said.
“I’ll bet he did,” Jon replied. “But something tells me Judge Oliver’s on his way. He’ll smell a rat and he’ll be here.”
“I hope you’re right,” Libby smiled. Sam rushed over and poured them both another drink.
* * *
Out at the mansion, Faraday nervously tossed his fork on the large oak dinner table. “What’s taking Cliff so long?” he said, becoming exasperated by the wait.
His servant approached tentatively. “Dessert?” he asked.
“No, Jonathon, no!” Alex shouted. “Just leave Clive and me alone.” The servant nodded and hurried out.
“I think I hear something,” Cook said. “Sounds like a horse is approaching.”
They tossed down their cloth napkins and hurried out to the front. Nestleroad rode up to the door. The smallish foreman dismounted and hurried over to them.
“Well man, for God’s sake what’s going on?” Alex shouted, his face pushed forward, anxiously awaiting the reply.
“He ain’t here, yet!” Cliff replied.
“Why on earth not?” an enraged Faraday asked.
“The sheriff just got a telegraph a little while ago. The stage broke an axle near Cactus Bend. It won’t be in ’til mornin’.”
“It won’t be in until morning? That’s disastrous!” Alex exclaimed.
“Did he say which judge was coming?” Cook asked expectantly.
“Nope, I asked ’em which judge was comin’ and he said he didn’t know,” Cliff said sheepishly.
“Oh my, everything is falling apart! We are all going to hang!” Alex screamed.
“Now calm down, Alex,” Cook said. “I’ve got a plan!”
“What is it?” Alex barked. “It better be a good one!”
Cook’s eyes rolled toward the door.
“Oh... uh, that will be all. Cliff, tell the boys to get ready. We will be riding into town tomorrow.”
“Okay, Mr. Cook.” the loyal foreman hurried away.
“Now, go ahead Clive,” Alex said, annoyed by the delay.
“Where was I?”
“You said you had a plan,” Alex grumbled.
“Oh yes... yes, When that stage gets in tomorrow, it’s going to take the judge, whoever it might be, and hour or so to get around after he arrives.” Cook paced confidently on the front porch.
“Yes, yes man! Go ahead!” Alex waved the back of his fingers at Cook.
“Well, we’ll ride in early and wait over at the saloon...”
“Yes... and!”
“And if Walker shows up, well, then we’re okay.”
“Why of course my dear man, we all know that!” Alex exclaimed. “What if it’s Oliver?”
“If it’s Oliver, then we still have an hour to get out of town. It will take him that long to clean up and get ready for court.” He smiled smugly. “I’ll have one of the boys station four fast horses out back of the saloon for a quick, quiet get away. No one will suspect a thing. We can come back out here, load up and move on down the road. If worse comes to worse, we’ll go to Mexico and hop a freighter back to merry ole England. Anything’s better than hanging.”
“Oh yes, hanging’s not good,” Alex mumbled. “And you’re right, the sheriff might be expecting us to leave town if Oliver arrives. He will probably be watching the street. So you and I, Web and Cliff can slip out the back unnoticed. Hmmm... then we’ll go to Mexico, England, or whatever... huh!” Alex replied, thinking out loud. “But how do we get word of our predicament to Judge Walker if he does in fact show up?”
Cook smiled. “I’ve thought of that, too. The owner and day clerk at the Westwood, Les Pemberton, is a friend of mine. I’ll write a letter to Walker explaining the situation. Les has a little spread between here and town. I’ll ride out to Les’s place tonight and deliver it in person. If Judge Walker arrives tomorrow, I’ll ask Les to
take the letter to his room. The judge will have plenty of time to read it before court goes into session. To be certain Pemberton goes along with us, I will promise him exclusive rights to any new hotels in town after we take over. That will be irresistible to him.” Cook’s eyebrows rose as he smiled confidently at his boss.
Alex digested it all for a minute and then spoke up. “Hmmm... good plan my dear man, good plan!” Alex smiled broadly. “Shall we retire to the veranda for a brandy?”
Cook nodded as the two Englishmen strolled confidently toward the back of the mansion.
Chapter 25
The first light of day beamed through the small milky pane on the jailhouse window. A narrow white line fell across the corner of Jon Stoudenmire’s oak desk. It was eerily quiet at the jail. Slim Wilson’s suicide hung over the room like a bad dream. Jack and Ed were down at Auggie’s. Camp was at the stables. Jon was alone with his thoughts and he knew what was coming. The telegram the night before had mentioned Judge Oliver as a passenger on the stage. Of course, he didn’t tell Neslteroad, but he now knew that Oliver was coming. He looked out at the tranquil street, not sure how many would die this day, but knew that blood would flow. When Faraday found out it was Judge Oliver, he and his men would try to leave town; Jon would have to stop them; several could die. He prayed silently for the well being of his brave friends, Ed, Camp, and Jack. All of whom would be with him ’til the very end, he knew that. He tried hard, but couldn’t think of Libby; the emotions were too strong.
He thought of how Alex Faraday and Clive Cook had fooled the fine people of Logan’s Crossing. He thought of the murders of Jed Orton and Little Bear and the attempts on Jack Malone’s life, and he grew angry. His goal today would be to stop Alex Faraday and Clive Cook from hurting anyone else, while protecting his friends from harm. The darkness was coming over him. Soon, the power of his tortured soul would be unleashed again with great fury - a fury driven by the memory of a brutal father. Often in the heat of battle, his father’s face would appear to him - the same cruel, heartless face that terrorized him throughout his childhood. How long? Jon thought. How long will this rage live inside of me?
