Texas Blood Feud

by Dusty Richards

  “I need two punchers that have some backbone. Any around here like that out of work?”

  “I think we can find some for you.” Trent rose and put on his hat. “Let’s try the livery first.”

  A gravel-voiced man named McComb ran the stables and he knew “two good’uns,” Rip Smears and Toby Hardin. “Them boys been trying to get on with an outfit for months.”

  “Where are they now?” Chet asked.

  “Rip’s doing day work and you can talk to Hardin down at Goldman’s store. He’s clerking. Rip’ll be back this evening sometime. Good hand with a rope or horse.”

  “They tough enough if push comes to shove?” Chet asked.

  McComb nodded. “They damn sure ain’t no Momma’s boys.”

  “I’ll see Hardin. You tell Smears to load his things and come on down to the bar-C. It’s west of Mayfield.”

  “Everyone knows where you live.”

  Chet nodded. That was no lie.

  Hardin was hardly out of teens. When Chet talked to him in the store, he thought the young man was going to jump over the counter and go with him then and there. But Chet told him later in the week was fine and to give notice.

  After lunch with Trent at a German restaurant, he headed for the ranch. Close to supper time, Heck met him at the corral. “Dad said I was going to watch Mrs. Hines’ place while she was in Mason.”

  “You up to it?” Chet asked, stripping out the latigos and then hefting his saddle off the snip-faced sorrel.

  “You bet. What all will I have to do?”

  “Feed the chickens. Gather the eggs and milk the cow and be sure everything’s all right.”

  “Oh.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “More like ride the boundaries and send her strays home.”

  “Maybe the next time.”

  “I’ll do her a good job anyway.”

  “You’ll be the man in charge. Cook your own meals and all.”

  “I can handle that if she’s got eggs and beans.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  Heck nodded. “Reckon she needs a hand to work full-time?”

  “Not now anyway.”

  “When am I going over there?”

  “Saturday.”

  “I reckon this outfit can do without me that long.”

  “I bet they have a hard time,” Chet said, and looked up. A tall lean rider in a worn-out shirt and a frayed wool vest rode up. In the last of the sundown, he looked like he’d had seen some hard days. His pony was a stout mustang, powerful built, and his black mane flowing down on both sides of his ewe neck.

  “Rip Smears, sir. McComb said you needed some help.” Rip pulled off his glove and when they shook hands, Chet knew by his calloused palm this man would work.

  “Chet Byrnes. I do if you understand we’re involved in a feud. To make it short, you might be in the middle of a war.”

  Smears tucked his gloves in his gun belt and nodded. “As long as you don’t want me to herd sheep, I’ll be fine with what comes.”

  “No sheep. Let’s go eat and meet the rest. We can put your horse up later.”

  “I guess that means I have the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t like how I’m doing, tell me ’cause I’m a big boy. I’d rather cowboy than eat almost. Last man I worked full-time for got up one morning and fired me ’cause I was making too much noise reshoeing his horses and woke him up.”

  “That ain’t likely here.”

  “Good.”

  Hardin came Friday on a thin two-year-old colt that about fell over when he dismounted him. On first appraisal, Chet guessed the youth lacked many of the skills he got hiring Smears, but the eager boy acted enthused.

  At supper, Matt offered more news. “I know it’s sure going bother everyone here, but I learned in Mayfield today that Earl Reynolds had a bad horse wreck this past week. He shattered his right arm so bad that Doc says he’ll never use it again. I guess we all ought to all cry about that.”

  The .50-caliber blasted again in Chet’s brain. The acrid smoke burned his eyes and the glimpse of horse and rider going end over end replayed in his mind. He’d got him.

  Chapter 31

  Dale Allen and crew left for Mexico the next morning. Chet could hear the squeal of the oxcarts coming. They were delivering wood to stack on Susie’s large pile. Out in front of the parade came Pepe, hiking under a dusty straw sombrero, wearing a long serape, and using a staff.

  He used his stick to point to the carts stacked high with wood. “We have the señorita’s wood.”

  “You have done well.”

  “I left two men to make more cedar stakes for your fencing.”

  “You think of many things,” Chet said to praise the man.

  “Next week, two of the men will start plowing. The rest will make stakes if this is enough firewood.”

  “No one has bothered you?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Good. I have new mules. The mule man is gone to Mexico for two weeks, but I am sure your men will know which ones to harness.”

  “Pedro knows mules.”

  “Good. I have to go to Mason and I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  “No problema.”

  “Thanks, I know I can count on you. Give my sister the order for food you will need. She’ll see you get it.”

  “Gracias, patrón.”

  He and Heck left for Kathren’s at mid-morning. Heck had a bedroll tied on behind his saddle. Ray and Ty were on the pony to accompany them to the creek. Then they were to ride right back. Susie waved from the porch as they left out. The next generation of the Byrnes clan rode with Chet. He’d sure need to expand the ranch to ever make it work for all of them.

  At the ford, he send the younger ones home and he and Heck went on to Kathren’s outfit.

  “This is Heck,” he said when she came out on the porch. “Matt had to go to Mexico and cook for the crew. Heck’ll be watching things. Brought his bedroll and all.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I think you’ve met my daughter Cady.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She’s with her grandparents, but I am certain she’d be pleased you were going to look after our stock. She helps do that.”

  “Oh, I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She winked, pleased, at Chet. “Come in. Dinner is ready when you two wash up.”

  After dinner, Chet and Heck busted stove wood for her. She stacked it for them. The afternoon passed congenially. Supper over, Heck took his bedroll to the hay shed to sleep after saying good night to them. Left alone, Kathren took a place atop Chet’s lap on a kitchen chair and they talked quietly.

  “I see some of a boy I once knew in him. He has broad shoulders for a boy. I don’t mean like physically, but I mean to take charge.”

  “He’s the firstborn. You could expect that.”

  She pushed the hair back from Chet’s forehead and looked hard at him. “How will this trial go?”

  “I hope it resolves the matter.”

  “I’m not digging, but you had an interest in her?”

  He nodded. “She was leaving him. I found the letter—bloodstained and walked on that night.”

  “Oh, Chet, I’m sorry.”

  After a deep breath, he nodded. “I never showed it to anyone but my sister. I didn’t want to harm her reputation. But the hearing kind of took that away from me.”

  She hugged him and put her face on his shoulder. “I hope this trial solves some of that.”

  “I’ve tried to put it all behind me.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, but I see it did. I wanted to tell you I’ll set that wedding day soon. I hope I didn’t sound like I was backing out when you offered to marry me in Mason.”

  “No, I want Cady strewing flowers down the aisle on that day.”

  “I’m sure she could do that. Let’s go to bed. I want you to hold me tight all night. I feel like I need it.
”

  So do I.

  They took her buckboard to Mason on Sunday and tied his horse on back. The weather warmed up, and the bright sun danced atop the water in the creeks and tanks. On the seat beside him, she hugged his arm from time to time, making a connection that warmed his heart.

  They ate dinner at the same German restaurant he’d eaten at earlier in the week with Trent. Then he delivered her to her aunt’s place.

  “I can walk to the courthouse tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be here in the morning to accompany you over there.”

  She shook her head as if awed by him, and threw her arm around him. “You never cease to amaze me, Chet Byrnes.”

  “Is that you out there, Kathren dear?” a short gray-haired woman asked from the porch.

  “Yes, and I want you to meet my man.” She turned back him. “Come meet Martha. She’ll love you.”

  He called for Kathren in the morning, and they strode the three blocks to the courthouse. In the hallway, Trent tipped his hat at Kathren and then introduced them to Sam Kringle, the state’s prosecutor.

  “You know they hired Bryan Moore to defend them.”

  “I don’t know him,” Chet said.

  “He’s high-priced and down here from Fort Worth.”

  “With all these confessions?” Chet looked at both men for an answer.

  “It’s like starting over. He’s going to try to discredit all that. I wanted to warn you before you get on the stand.”

  “And Chet,” Trent said. “He’ll try to get you mad so the jury will see that and it will make them think you did it.”

  “I understand.”

  “He’s clever. Good day, ma’am.” Kringle left them and moved off with Trent. They were talking to each other as they disappeared through the tall, hand-carved courtroom doors.

  She gripped his arm. “Give them hell.”

  He nodded. “I will.”

  “I know you will.”

  The courtroom was crowded. A deputy showed them the row reserved for them that he was overseeing. Both defendants appeared hollow-eyed when they were brought in under heavy guard. Neither of them looked at the crowd. They sat at the long table like no one else was there

  Everyone rose as the stern faced Judge Burton came in, rapped his gavel, and court began. The jurors to be seated were mostly German farmers. Twelve were selected by mid-morning. Moore’s complaints and frequent, long-winded objections were short-lived—Burton told him that they were unnecessary. But the obvious intention of the lawyer in the tailored suit with the plastered-down light brown hair was to show off his legal knowledge to try and impress the jury. His clients, Scotty Campbell and Mitch Reynolds, pleaded not guilty. In the opening statement, Kringle called Marla’s murder a heinous crime.

  Moore objected.

  Judge Burton asked what his objection was.

  “There are many proper ladies in the audience that do not need to hear such allegation.”

  “Overruled.” If Burton’s eyes could have burned Moore down, they’d’ve done it then. “Anyone, man or woman in this courtroom that wishes to leave since the details of this case will be very graphic, please do so now.”

  No one left a seat. “Very well, Mr. Moore, be seated.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I just wanted to be certain—”

  “Very well. Proceed, Mr. Kringle.”

  Then came Moore’s rebuttal. “I will introduce witnesses that will swear that neither Scotty nor Mitch were near this unfortunate woman’s place on the date of the crime he is talking about…” By Moore’s words, they simply had arrested the wrong men. Chet had to agree to himself that the man was smooth, and he acted with an authority about him that would make a person wonder why the defendants were even on trial.

  Doc Henry took the stand first, describing the murder scene, Marla’s body, and the knife wounds.

  “In your observation, would you say that Marla Porter had been raped before her murder?”

  “Yes, numerous times.”

  “I object, Your Honor. How could Dr. Henry know for a fact that she had been assaulted like that if he wasn’t there?”

  “Dr. Henry,” the judge asked, “what evidence do you have to that?”

  “The bedsheet that she wrote Kenny Reynolds’ name on with her own blood had numerous amounts of dry semen on it. I also found and noted that she had large amounts inside of her.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Moore sat down.

  The bloody sheet was brought in and the doctor testified that it was found under her body. That she wrote the letters of Kenny’s name with her index finger in her own blood before she died.

  The writing was shown to the jury.

  When his time came to question the witness, Moore asked the doctor many questions, but Doc held up, and at last, before he let him go, Moore’s final question was, “Doc, you’ve treated lots of these folks in the jury box. Have you ever treated either of these two boys seated over there?”

  “I probably have.”

  “Have you ever known them to lie?”

  “No.” Doc shrugged as if waiting for the next question.

  “That’s all, Your Honor.”

  Chet was next and after being sworn in, he told how he discovered the front door left open and went inside to find her bloody body on the bed. Pained in his heart all over again, he finished answering Kringle’s questions.

  When it was Moore’s turn, the lawyer strode over and stood so he was between Chet and the jury. “Tell me, Mr. Byrnes. Were you and Mrs Porter having an affair?”

  He hoped that Kringle would object, but he didn’t. “Yes.”

  “Were you frequenting her place when her husband was not there?”

  “I object.” Kringle rose.

  “Mr. Moore, what is the purpose of your line of questioning of the witness?”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Byrnes is a confessed adulterer by his own admission. He also shot the defendant Scotty Campbell in the leg for no more reason than he was peacefully riding across his ranch to go see a sick friend. And then left him for dead. Then he snuck up on poor Mitch Reynolds when he was asleep and for no reason at all beat him up with malice.”

  “Mr. Byrnes, did you shoot at Mr. Campbell for crossing your ranch?”

  “Your Honor, this man shot at my ten-year-old nephew Heck Byrnes and me from ambush with a Sharps rifle. Yes, I shot him, and would have killed him for endangering my nephew’s life.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Moore, but I warn you be more direct.”

  “I will, Your Honor.”

  When Moore asked him if he had killed her because she wanted to break up with him cold chills ran up his jaw. The man’s intent was to put the blame on anyone but his clients.

  “No, I did not kill Marla Porter, but those two over there did, with Mitch’s brother Kenny helping them do it.”

  “You have no proof of that.”

  “None but their own confessions to me. Both of them said that they brutally raped and killed her.”

  “Your Honor, I object to the witness’s remarks. I wish them stricken from the record.”

  “Mr. Moore, I think you brought that on yourself. Continue.”

  “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  “We shall adjourn for lunch.”

  Outside in the sunlight, he realized Kathren was holding his arm. “I thought you were going to explode on that stand.”

  “Yes, I got too mad.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  He glanced over at her. Then he shook his head. “She’s a memory is all. I gave her up the day they buried her. Somewhere it says life is for the living and we should go on.”

  “I wondered.”

  “Don’t wonder anymore. I am over Marla and very much with you.”

  “Good,” she said as he took her hand.

  The trial ended by four o’clock, and the jury debated for forty-five minutes to return a verdict. Then foreman announced, “We the jury find the defendant
s Mitch Reynolds and Scotty Campbell guilty of the rape and murder of Marla Porter.”

  The silence was so deep, a creaking floorboard sounded like thunder.

  “You can’t kill my son!” An older woman with her hair in a tight bun ran up to the fence and a bailiff stopped her. “He didn’t do it! I swear he didn’t.”

  She collapsed in the man’s arms, babbling about it was wrong.

  Order restored, the judge pronounced the sentence for them: on February fifteenth to be hung by the neck until dead. Court was dismissed.

  The woman’s shrieking wails grew louder as she tried to reach out past the man restraining her from the defendants being led off by armed deputies.

  Trent stopped Chet and Kathren in the hallway. “I’m sorry for what Moore tried to do to you on the stand, Chet, but justice has been served.”

  “No problem. But only two thirds of it was served today,” Chet said.

  “We’ll get him too. Good day, Mrs. Hines.” Trent tipped his hat. “Tell Susie hi for me.”

  Chet agreed.

  “I guess we go home in the morning?” she asked.

  “Yes, we do, and get on with our own lives.”

  A buggy pulled beside them, and with his head all bandaged and his right arm in a sling, Earl Reynolds stood up. His left hand was pointing and he was shaking his finger at Chet.

  “Gawdamn you, Chet Byrnes, I’m going to get you and all your fucking clan before I’m done if those two boys of mine hang!”

  “Get out of here, Reynolds, before I send you to hell.”

  “No, you listen, you son of a bitch—”

  “Chet! Chet!” Kathren stood in his face, holding his arms. “He’s not worth it. Hear me?”

  Hear me?

  Chapter 32

  The crew returned from Mexico with the steers. They all looked tuckered out. Two of the cavy were limping when J.D. drove them in.

  “What’s wrong with them two?’ Chet asked.

  “Turned up limping is all I know.”

  “Have any trouble?” Chet asked Dale Allen when he dismounted.

  Dale Allen turned to J.D. “Better cut those two horses out. Let Chet look at them. No, we only had two scrapes with outlaws and they rode off.”