“They were bad, weren’t they?”
“They took a toll and this will, too, if we don’t stop it.”
“Reg says we’ll have to kill all of them to ever stop it.”
“I sure hope not.”
“Why won’t they quit?”
“They can’t. They lost a son in the horse-rustling deal. Now the law’s after Kenny for Marla Porter’s death and they blame that all on us.”
Heck wrinkled the corner of his nose. “It’s hard for me to figure.”
“Heck, I’m three times older than you are and it don’t make sense to me.”
The shooter blasted the wall of another nearby adobe jacal. The shot reverberated off in a long echo.
“What would you do if I wasn’t here, Uncle Chet?”
“Oh, something foolish like creep out of here and try to get around behind him or get a shot at him.”
“Why can’t we do that?”
“’Cause I’m responsible for you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Chet shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
“I can tell that it’s eating you up with us being pinned down.”
Chet leaned into his sore back. “That’s beside the point.”
Another bullet struck the adobe wall.
“He ain’t shooting at us, he’s shooting so we stay put,” Chet said out loud. “I’d say he’s sent for more help.”
“Can I go get some?” The eagerness was written on his face as he waited for the answer.
Chet rose and looked things over. They could lead a horse out the backside and not lose the cover of the front wall. Then drop off the hill into the creek, which would be below the shooter’s view.
“All right. You lead Dobie out of here down to the creek. Mount him down there and keep to this side of the creek until you get to the ford, then ride like hell for the ranch.”
“I can do that.”
“Good, keep your head down and they shoot Dobie out from under you, scramble for cover. Tell your dad where the shooter is at so they can circle him.”
“I can. I will.”
Chet clapped him on the shoulder. The bone and socket felt too small for Chet to be sending him on such a mission. Nothing would do but to get it done.
With a pounding heart, he watched the boy drop off the hill leading the big horse, and soon heard the hooves on the gravel along the creek. If he made the shallow ford, he should be safe. Some crows cawed over the wind, and he recalled some close scrapes of his own with Comanche. Not much older than Heck when he had tangled with them either, but that was him, not his brother’s ten-year-old son. Damn.
He drew out his .44/40 from the scabbard and checked the receiver. It was loaded to the hilt. Staying low, he moved back and dropped under the brink of the hill. Then using a bushy cedar for cover, he came back on his hands and knees under it, trying to see the shooter’s location on the hillside. The wind was picking up and the whoosh through the boughs sent needles falling on him. With a strong smell of pitch in his nose, he worked the rifle in place until he had himself braced, and then set the sight for the height he’d need to ever reach the slope where he felt the shooter was nested.
A shot came from the hillside, and he saw a flash of a red shirt and then the round ball of black smoke. It took forever for the shot’s ring to sound out. Dust exploded on a jacal wall.
He replied, rapid-firing the Winchester at the source, knowing the range was great and the wind wouldn’t help. But a horse screamed and broke loose. Good. He knew he’d gotten close enough to put some fear in the shooter or his mount anyway. From the corner of his eye while reloading, he caught a fleeting sight of someone on the move in the brush after the horse. Raising the rifle, he had three shots to put in that direction. He laid them down and then retreated backward, expecting the next return bullets from the Sharps to be made at his location.
“I’m hit,” someone wailed. He could barely hear the cry over the wind. “Somebody help me.”
He’d help him all right—help him go to hell. More desperate calls, and no one moved in that area. It had to be a trap trying to decoy him out in the open for the shooter. He went back and found his horse, rode down on the creek, and circled around until he was behind the hill. Then he hitched him to a snag and scrambled up the steep bluff, making testing steps of exposure, then moving in that direction again. Nothing but crows and an occasional distant cow bawling for a calf.
Making Indian-like moves so he didn’t stumble on the wounded man or into his trap, at last he spotted the horse. It stood hipshot downhill, and all he could see through the cedars were its legs.
Where was the shooter? Easing his steps, he worked his way closer, six-gun in his fist. Then he heard a moan and slipped around the skirts of a cedar. He found him lying on his back, hardly more than a boy. Scotty Campbell wasn’t much older than sixteen.
“Don’t reach for a gun,” Chet warned him.
“Huh?” Scotty blinked in disbelief and moved around some to see him.
“Where you shot?”
“My leg.”
“Who went for help?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you who went for help?”
“Kenny.”
“Left you here to pin us down, huh?”
“Yeah. My leg hurts a lot.”
“Aw, Doc can saw it off. It won’t hurt much when he throws it away.”
“Aw, don’t tell me that.” He looked paler at the notion.
“Where did he go for help?”
“I don’t know. He said we had you pinned down and for me to keep you there by shooting every once in a while so you’d be there when he got back with help.”
“Where’s the Sharps?”
“I dropped it.”
“Never mind.” He’d get it later. “How did this all start out?”
“Kenny come by and got me early this morning. He said we’d go see what you all were doing and mess it up.”
“Where’s he been staying?”
“I don’t know, mister. I swear I don’t.”
“You know he’s wanted for murder?”
“He said he never done it. It was all lies that you people swore to.”
“You see her naked body all hacked up?”
“No.” The boy wouldn’t look at him.
“It would have made you sick. Now as for Kenny, you tell him if the law don’t get him, I will. He comes messing with me, I’ll show him pain—the same kind he gave poor Marla.”
“He said you were sweet on her.”
“What else did he say?”
“Not much. He’s real mad about you lynching his brother.”
“I’m mad about him killing Marla. So we’re almost even.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah, when he’s dead, we’ll be even.”
“Mister, my leg’s bad.” He made a pained look and squeezed his upper thigh.
“I know, but if it was me in your place, you’d laugh at me.”
“I swear I wouldn’t—I swear I—”
Chet squatted down on his haunches. “You go with him when he raped her?”
The boy’s eyes bulged and his face looked ashen. “No.”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“No—”
“Who else was there?”
“Mister, I had no part of nothing.”
“I guess I could let you bleed to death, or you could tell me the whole thing and then I could get you some help.”
“All right, all right, Kenny said she was your girlfriend, or anyway you and her were having an affair. Said he’d caught sight of you going there twice when her old man was gone. We was only going over there to scare her a little, Kenny said.”
“Scare her how?”
“Kenny said we’d tell her we knew all about you and her and would tell her old man.”
“What happened next?”
“Then she got mad, her and Kenny fought. I didn’t want to watch. He
made me stay. Mister, my damn leg hurts bad.”
“You rape her, too.”
“No, I couldn’t—I was too afraid.”
“Who else was there?” There was something in the boy’s hesitation that told him the boy wasn’t telling it all.
“Just me and him.”
“No, there were others.”
“Mitch—” he admitted.
“He rape her, too?”
No answer. “Did he?”
“Ah-huh.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“I said so.”
“Felton there?”
“No, he had a bad toothache.”
“Three, four of you?”
“Three of us. Where’re you going?”
“Take the bridle off your horse and send him home, so they can come back and find you.”
“You—you ain’t—”
“Listen, you’re damn lucky to even be alive.” Chet jerked the bridle off Scotty’s horse and talked through his teeth. “I don’t know why I ain’t already shot the hell out you for being there when they killed her. It’s been tempting to me. But you can tell all of them, the Reynoldses and the Campbells, you’re the last one I’m ever leaving alive that bothers me or my people.”
“They may not find me—”
“Ain’t my problem. Built a big fire.” He slapped the horse on the butt hard enough that he went charging off the hillside and hit the bottom running.
Then Chet walked back to look for the Sharps rifle. Finding it and the boy’s handgun, he jammed the handgun in his belt, carried the long gun, and went for his horse. Ignoring Scotty, who was calling out that he’d die, Chet caught up his own horse and headed for the house.
A few miles north, he met his own “family posse” coming toward him. He reined up and waved them down.
“What happened?” Dale Allen asked, joined by Reg, J.D., and Heck.
“Scotty Campell’s shot in the leg back there. Just a boy.” He shook his head grimly. “I sent his horse home for help.”
“What else?”
“There was Kenny, Mitch, and Scotty Campbell at Marla’s house the day they killed her.”
“Aw, gawdamn them. Heck said there was a rider got away?”
“Kenny. He went for help, too.” Chet shrugged. “I don’t want any more shooting today. The law can handle Kenny. They come back and find Scotty shot, they may back off. I could have killed him. He knows that. He’s in as much trouble as his cousin is when the word gets out.”
“What’re you going to do with that Sharps?” Dale Allen indicated the rifle across his lap.
“Shoot back at them with it if they don’t quit.”
Dale Allen nodded and they rode for home. No one asked any more questions. Chet was grateful. He’d had all the warring for one day he wanted, and yet he knew it was not over. Not settled, and everyone in his posse knew it, too. They were a solemn bunch riding into the ranch.
Chapter 12
Chet planned to drive into Mayfield and pick up some salt. Susie wanted to go along to look for some more material. He hitched up the buckboard before breakfast. Told the boys to stay close, split wood, and fix saddles. He even asked Louise if she needed anything for her trip, which she’d postponed to see how things turned out.
Of course she declined his offer to get her anything, but at least she was wearing the poncho on the cool mornings over to the house for her appearances there. He wasn’t sure she knew that the cape was his idea and not Susie’s. If she did, maybe she wouldn’t have worn it. His .44/40 Winchester was packed in the buckboard as well, just in case. He and Susie set out about eight. There was still silver frost in the low places on the wiry dry grass, and he huddled under a flannel-lined canvas jacket. She dressed warm and wrapped herself in a gray blanket. They crossed Yellow Hammer Creek at the ford and headed into the small village. Smoke from stovepipes streaked the sky when they drove into view of the cluster of buildings.
Inside Grosman’s Store, Chet pulled off his kidskin gloves and held his hands out to the radiating stove while nodding to the loafers sitting around on crates. Then he undid his jacket and let the heat seek his body while making small talk to the men.
“Sheriff Trent spent the evening here last night. Said he wanted to see you,” Wylie Cook said, and then he spit in the ash pan.
“Where did he stay?” Chet looked around. Susie and Mrs. Grosman were busy talking at the counter.
“I ain’t sure, but he should be showing up.”
“Bad deal on Mrs. Porter,” another added.
Chet nodded. They had no idea how bad it really was for him.
“Sheriff’s been looking for that Reynolds boy. I think he’s ran plumb off.”
“If he was smart, he did.” The conversation went on and Chet was barely part of it.
“One of them Campbell boys got hisself shot yesterday.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I ain’t heard.” The snowy-headed man leaned forward. “Anyone hear how he’s doing?”
“He’s over at Doc’s. They said he was alive last night.”
“You know anything about that, Chet?”
He nodded. “I shot him, and I will again if he ain’t learned. He shot about six times at me and my ten-year-old nephew with a Sharps yesterday on my place.”
“Was he b’ar hunting?” An older man got all choked up laughing about his joke.
“He’ll think he’s b’ar hunting. Next time I’m bringing them in feet first. Being shot at on your own land isn’t funny. But I can fight fire with fire.”
“Henry was just kidding.”
“I know, but when they shoot at a ten-year-old boy with me, it ain’t funny or a joke.”
Solemn faces around the stove nodded.
“They’ll get over it.”
“No, Chuck, they won’t. That’s what worries me. Earl blamed me for his boy stealing my horses. Then he blamed me in court for Kenny murdering Marla Porter.”
“I agree they ain’t very smart.”
Chet looked them over with a hard glare. “They’ll get smarter or deader.”
He left the stove and went over to tell Susie he was going looking for Sheriff Trent. His sister and Mrs Grosman were inspecting some checkered material off a bolt, and she looked up with smile at his words. “Be careful.”
The cool air struck his face when he stepped out on the porch; instead of buttoning his coat, he started across the street for the café. With a glare of the low winter sun in his eyes, he could hardly see the man who challenged him with, “Byrnes, you no-good sumbitch.”
The man was standing in the wagon in front of the spring seat and reached for a rifle. He even levered a cartridge in the chamber while raising it up. But despite his obvious thinking that he was fast, he wasn’t fast enough. The Colt in Chet’s hand barked twice and acid black smoke burned his eyes.
The man was struck hard. The rifle fell out of his hands, clattered off the iron rim, and he pitched headfirst in a dive that ended on his back in the street.
Chet’s heart beat so hard when he swung around that it threatened to come up his throat as he searched the empty street for more of them. Cold chills ran up the sides of his face. Shaken, he poked twice, trying to find the holster under the coat to put away his revolver.
“Hold your fire!” It was the sheriff coming out of the café. His hands high, he looked all around. “Everyone put their firearms up.”
Chet went over and squatted by the wounded man—Sycamore Campbell. He’d never had a cross word with the man before that moment.
“Gaw—damn—you—” the words came as the older man struggled to live. He had a heavy gray-streaked beard and hate-filled dark eyes. He coughed deep in his chest, and fresh blood came out on his plaid coat as he lay dying in the street.
“Someone get the doc.” Sheriff Trent looked around for him.
“Why did you try to shoot me?” Chet asked.
“Ya hung the poor boy and then ya blamed innocen
t Kenny fur her murder,” Sycamore managed.
Chet dropped on his knees and grabbed him by the coat. “Listen to me. You’re going to hell knowing who killed Marla Porter. Kenny and Scotty and Mitch raped and killed her. Scotty admitted it yesterday. They did that to her!”
Sheriff Trent’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Ain’t no use. He’s dead.”
Slowly, Chet’s hand unfolded to released his grasp on the wool coat and let the man fall back on the ground. His fingers were wet with the man’s blood. They began to dry and grow stiff. He rose to his feet and nodded. “I hope the sumbitch heard me.”
“You have proof of your accusations?”
“Go talk to Scotty Campbell. He tried to bushwhack me and Dale Allen’s boy Heck yesterday on my land.”
“He said a gun accident did that.”
“He lied to you. I shot him. He told me yesterday that him and Mitch Reynolds were there with Kenny when they raped and murdered Marla Porter.”
The lawman dropped his face in anger and defeat. “I was coming to look for you today. I of course haven’t done any good with my truce. Looking at him over there, I’d say that it’s escalated even some more.”
“He challenged me and went for that rifle. I was looking for you.”
“I heard it all in the café. Pretty damn foolish of him, I’d say.”
Chet gave a loud exhale. “And I almost buttoned up my coat. This is my sister Susie, Sheriff Trent.”
“You all right?” she asked Chet, then turned to Trent. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”
He removed his hat and smiled big for her. “Under any other circumstances, Miss Byrnes, I would certainly enjoy this moment meeting you.”
“Yes, it is a shame when you can’t come to town to shop and not be threatened.”
“Exactly.”
“Drop by our ranch sometime. We’ll treat you much more civil.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I’m going back shopping. Don’t get in any more scrapes, please.” She left them.
“Ain’t much we can do about him,” Doc said, putting up his stethoscope and rising from beside the dead man.
“Doc, do an autopsy on him. We need to have a justice of the peace hold a hearing, I guess in the morning. Chet, you’ll need to be there.”
“No problem.”
Texas Blood Feud Page 10
