“Shelley . . .” Julie said, then shook her head. “All right, you can play down by the creek. Just don’t get all wet and muddy. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She was out the door in a blur of calico.
“That dress will be filthy when she comes back,” Julie said, then smiled. “Oh, well. It needs washing anyway.”
“What time do you want to go over to see the ranchers?”
“We’d best leave early. I’ll fix us a fried-chicken lunch.”
“With biscuits?” Frank asked, smiling.
She playfully reached out and ruffled his hair. “With biscuits, Frank.”
Frank had another cup of coffee and then puttered around the house for a time, fixing this and that. He had just finished repairing a harness when the faint sound of a shot reached him. He stepped out of the barn and listened, but no more shots came.
“What the hell was that?” Frank muttered, heading for Horse and swinging into the saddle.
Julie had stepped out of the house and called to him. “Was that a shot, Frank?”
“Yes. But I don’t know where it came from. I’ll check it out.”
“You wait a minute. Saddle me a horse. I’m coming with you.”
“In a dress?”
“Saddle the damn horse, Frank!”
Frank tossed a saddle on a little gentle mare, and Julie hiked up her skirt and swung into the saddle. “Let’s go,” she said, and took off for the creek.
Frank spotted the still form of Shelley, lying beside the creek bank, before Julie did, and reached out and grabbed the bridle of her horse. “You wait here, Julie. I mean it. Let me check this out. Wait right here!”
Frank jumped from the saddle and ran to Shelley’s side, but he knew she was dead. The bullet had slammed into her chest and blown out the back. She was dead before she had hit the ground and there was little blood. He knelt down and touched her face, closing her sightless eyes. The little girl was gone.
“Goddamnit!” Frank said.
“Frank?” Julie called from the hill. “Did you find her, Frank?”
Frank stood up and walked to where she could see him. “Yes, Julie. I found her. Don’t come down here.”
“Why? Why shouldn’t I come down? I’m coming down there, Frank.”
“Julie!”
It was too late. Julie came down the hill at a gallop and jumped out of the saddle, almost tripping on the hem of her dress. She ran to her daughter’s side and stood for a moment, looking first at Shelley, then at Frank.
Then she collapsed.
TWELVE
Frank wrapped Shelley’s body in a blanket, and then wet his bandanna and bathed Julie’s face until she came out of her faint.
“It was a dream, wasn’t it?” Julie asked, her eyes unfocused and still glazed over from shock.
“No,” Frank said gently. “It was real.”
“Shelley’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Julie put her hands to her face and began weeping.
Frank didn’t have a lot of experience with grief-stricken mothers. All he could do was stand helplessly by and listen to Julie sob over the loss of her child. When there didn’t appear to be any letup in Julie’s weeping, Frank walked away and got their horses.
“Come on, Julie,” he urged. “We’ve got to take Shelley into town. You mount up and I’ll carry the girl. We’ll go back to the house and hitch up the buckboard.”
When there was no immediate response, Frank pulled the woman to her feet. “Julie!” he said as gently as he could. “All this won’t bring the girl back.”
Julie pulled away and stood glaring at him, tears streaming down her face. “Did you look for any signs of who might have done this?”
“No, not yet.”
“But you will?”
“You want me to do that now?”
“Yes. I want to be alone with my child for a moment.”
“All right. Julie, don’t take the blanket off her. Don’t look at her again.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a dreadful wound, that’s why. You don’t want to keep that picture in your mind.”
“She has to be dressed before we take her into town.”
“No, she doesn’t. You can pick out a dress when we get back to the house.”
“I’ve got to comb her hair.”
Frank grabbed her arms. “Julie, damnit! Listen to me.”
She struggled away from him. “Leave me alone with my Shelley! Go look for . . . go look for something! Leave me alone.”
“All right, Julie. All right. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.”
“I’m going to look at my child, Frank.”
“I won’t try to stop you.” Frank walked away, stepping across the small creek. He walked about a hundred yards up a gently sloping rise toward a stand of timber and began casting about for a sign. It didn’t take him long to find it.
It was the same hoofprint he’d seen at the Jefferson place after the fire, the same print he’d seen when the fields of Harry Clay had been set afire. The horse had an odd way of stepping that any experienced tracker would pick up on immediately. Frank found some boot prints in the stand of timber where the shooter had knelt to fire. Whoever it was was no small fellow. The bootprints were deep in the ground. He was a good-sized man.
Frank followed the boot tracks and found where the man had mounted up, riding off toward the north. He searched for, but could not find any shell casings that would help identify the type of rifle used.
Frank walked back to the other side of the creek. Julie was sitting beside the blanket-wrapped body of Shelley. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Let’s get back to the house, Julie,” he said. “I’ll carry Shelley. I’ll hitch up the buckboard; then we’ll go into town.”
She nodded her head and rose to her feet without speaking. She walked to her horse and climbed into the saddle. Frank picked Shelley up and as gently and gracefully as possible got into the saddle. They headed for the house.
The twins had not yet returned home, and that infuriated Julie. She stormed around for a couple of minutes, then calmed down enough to go into the house to change clothes and get clean clothing for Shelley while Frank hitched up the team.
Frank had a hunch Julie was not going to leave her daughter’s side until the service was over and the girl was buried, so after he placed Shelley in the buckboard and pulled around to the front of the house, he tied the reins of his horse to the back of the buckboard.
Julie left a brief note for the twins, placed a traveling bag in the buckboard, and climbed onto the seat beside Frank.
“You ready?” Frank asked.
She nodded her head.
Frank picked up the reins, clucked at the team, and they headed for town. It was going to be a silent trip.
* * *
The news of Shelley’s death spread like an unchecked prairie fire. When the townspeople began gathering at the undertaker’s, Frank slipped out and headed for the saloon.
Chubby was behind the bar and he set a bottle and glass in front of Frank. Frank poured himself a couple of fingers of rye and took a sip.
“Sorrowful time, Frank,” Chubby said.
“It is that.”
“This is liable to light the fuse to this powder keg.”
“I ’spect it will, Chubby. Tell me, what good do you think it would do to notify the county sheriff?”
“None a-tall. Sheriff Wilcox is solidly behind the ranchers. Oh, he’d send one of his deputies over here, a report would be taken, and that would be the end of it. Wilcox is a sorry-assed sheriff, for sure. When’s the funeral goin’ to be?”
“Tomorrow, I reckon.”
“Whole town’ll be showin’ up for sure.”
“ ’Magine so.” Frank took a sip of his drink, thinking: And every farm family in the valley will be there. What a great opportunity for some hired guns to strike and do some house and barn burning.
Frank shoved his
drink away. “I’ll see you, Chubby.”
“All right. Take care.”
Frank walked over to the undertaker’s and pushed his way through the crowd gathered outside. He found Julie sitting alone with Shelley’s body. She had been crying. She looked up as Frank walked in.
“Frank? Will you ride back to the house and check on Phil and Katie?”
“Yes, of course. You want me to send them into town?”
“If you don’t mind. I’m sure we can spend the night with someone here in town.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll rent you rooms at the hotel. That sound all right with you?”
“That would be nice, Frank.”
“When are the services?”
“Tomorrow, at one o’clock, at the church.”
“I’ll pay my respects now, Julie, if you don’t mind. I think I’d better do some scouting up near the crossroads in case some of the hired guns go on the prowl with everyone in town, away from their farms.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right, of course. I’ll pass the word to some of the other farmers as I see them and tell them what you’re doing. Some of them may want to stay home too.”
“It might be a good thing if they did. Do that, Julie.”
Frank walked over to the hotel and reserved two rooms, explaining to the clerk what he was doing.
“They’ll be no charge for the rooms, Mr. Morgan. It’s my way of saying how sorry I am that this happened.”
Frank thanked him and stepped outside just as several riders on horses wearing the Lightning brand were reining up in front of the saloon. Frank stood in front of the hotel, under the awning, for a moment, then stepped out into the street and paused as the riders came hurriedly out of the saloon. They stopped when they spotted Frank.
“Now you wait just a minute, Morgan,” one said. “We just now heard what happened to the girl. We’re regular hands, not hired guns. We didn’t have nothin’ to do with no killin’ of a child. Don’t none of us hold with that sort of thing.”
“Your boss does,” Frank said coldly.
“Maybe he does,” another Lightning hand said. “But we don’t.”
“Was I you boys,” Frank said, “I’d get on those horses and get the hell out of this town. The mood the townfolk are in, you might be in for a lot of trouble if you stay around.”
“We was just leavin’, Morgan.”
“Good. Do that.”
Frank watched them mount up and ride out. He believed they had told the truth. They were only cowhands, not hired guns, but whether or not they had taken part in any of the night riding against the farmers was still unclear.
He looked back at the undertaker’s place: the crowd was getting larger, the women weepy-looking and the men sullen. Frank stepped into the saddle and rode out. He passed the town’s cemetery; grave-diggers were already digging the small hole for Shelley’s coffin. It was a lonesome ride back to his place.
* * *
Frank awakened long before dawn, as was his custom, fed Dog, and made certain there was plenty of fresh water available for him. He fixed a couple of sandwiches, filled up his canteen, then saddled up a big Appaloosa he’d bought recently at the livery. He had cleaned his rifle, a .44-40, before going to bed, and he slipped it into the saddle boot. He put a couple of boxes of ammunition for both rifle and pistol into his saddlebags.
“You stay here,” he told Dog. “You hear me?”
Dog looked up at him and wagged his tail.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Frank said, squatting down and petting the dog for a moment. “You be good and stay out of trouble.”
Frank rode out, heading for a range of high hills that would give him a commanding view of a good portion of both sides of the long series of valleys. It had been dry in this area for several weeks, and any group of riders would kick up enough dust to be seen a long ways off. The Ap was a stepper and loved to travel. Frank reached his vantage point about an hour after daylight flooded the landscape, and got his field glasses out of the saddlebags.
Frank figured the farmers in this part of the south end of the valley would be leaving about midmorning for the journey into town. He checked his rifle, making sure the tube was full of cartridges, then settled down under the shade of a tree.
He didn’t have a long wait before he saw the dust rising from under the hooves of many horses. They were coming straight through the pass, heading right at Frank. As they drew closer, Frank picked up his field glasses and studied the riders. He immediately picked out four men he personally knew were hired guns, not cowboys.
“Okay, boys,” Frank muttered. “You rolled the dice.”
He picked up his rifle.
THIRTEEN
Taking a last look through his field glasses, Frank spotted what appeared to be heavy containers dangling from several saddle horns. They sure weren’t canteens, and Frank didn’t think they were jugs of lemonade the hired guns were taking to a picnic.
“Kerosene, most likely,” he muttered, casing his field glasses.
When the riders were in good range, Frank put several slugs into the ground well ahead of the hired guns, then stood up on the ridge. He stood silently, letting the gunhands get a good look at him.
The hired guns sat their saddles for a moment, talking among themselves. Then they spread out, forming a single line, twenty or thirty feet between them. Frank smiled, shoving fresh loads into his .44-40. “Gonna charge me, are you? Figured you boys would do something like that,” he muttered. “Real stupid of you.”
The line of riders pulled their rifles from saddle boots and charged the hill, coming at a full gallop. “Dumb,” Frank said. “Just plain dumb.” He lifted his rifle and waited for the riders to open fire.
Lead began zinging and howling around Frank, none of the bullets coming anywhere close to him.
Frank took aim, compensating for the fact he was shooting downhill, and gently squeezed the trigger. One hired gun fell from his saddle and bounced on the ground. Frank got another shot off and missed his target, before the line of gunhands broke apart and scattered, half a dozen going one way, half a dozen heading off to Frank’s right.
Frank ran for his horse and headed off toward the east, keeping the crossroads, a few miles away, to his left. The hired guns, once they figured out where he was going and regrouped, followed en masse.
Frank galloped into a small stand of timber, jumped off his horse, and knelt down, pulling his .44-40 to his shoulder and taking careful aim. The shot knocked a rider from his horse. The hired gun hit the ground and rolled. He got to his feet and staggered off, one hand holding his wounded side.
The older and more experienced of the hired guns stopped their advance and turned around, quickly getting out of range of Frank’s rifle. One rider charged on, shouting and waving his rifle as he rode.
Frank shook his head at the rider’s stupidity and levered another round into the chamber. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the gunhand in the chest and slammed him out of the saddle. He rolled on the ground and did not move. His horse galloped on for a few seconds, then stopped and began grazing.
That did it for the hired guns. They headed back north, riding hard for the road, leaving their dead behind them. The wounded man got to his horse and struggled into the saddle, riding off behind the main group.
Frank waited for a couple of minutes, tracking the paid gunhands with his field glasses until he was sure they were leaving for good . . . at least for this day. He booted his rifle and stepped into the saddle, riding down to the nearest fallen rider. He checked the man, confirming his death, then rounded up the man’s horse and tied the gunhand across the saddle. He rode back to the first man of the bunch to hit the ground and checked him. He was dead too. Frank muscled him across his saddle, tied him down, and leading the horse, which had a jug of kerosene tied to the saddle horn, headed for town.
A couple of miles later, he ran into a small group of farmers who had elected to st
ay behind on this funeral day and protect their farms. They were carrying rifles and shotguns.
“We heard shots,” a farmer called Job said.
Frank gestured toward the dead men and the jug of kerosene. “The guns were planning to do some burning this day.”
“Just these two?” another asked.
“There were about a dozen of them. I wounded at least one other before the group decided they’d had enough.”
“What do you think we should do now?” Job asked. “Go on back home?”
“No. I’d continue patrolling, just to be on the safe side.”
“You takin’ those bodies into town, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes. And just so you’ll know . . .” He pointed to the brands on the horses carrying the dead men. “Snake brand.”
The men stared at the brands for a moment. Job said, “A little girl is shot to death and the very next day the ranchers try to burn some of us out. That takes a sorry son of a bitch!”
There was nothing left to say after that. Frank lifted the reins and rode on toward town.
He stowed the bodies in the livery, and walked down the boardwalk of the seemingly deserted town. Only a few businesses were open: the saloon, the hotel, the general store with one clerk on duty. Everyone was gathering early at the church for Shelley’s funeral.
Frank stepped into the saloon and Chubby greeted him. “Seen you ride in with them bodies, Mr. Morgan. Whiskey or beer?”
“Beer.”
Chubby pulled a mug and slid it down to Frank. “Where’d you nail them boys?”
“Just this side of the road. Coming through the pass.” Frank took a swig of beer. It was cool and refreshing.
“Sorry bunch of bastards,” Chubby muttered. “On the very day the little girl they killed is bein’ buried.”
Frank sipped his beer and said nothing.
“It’s gettin’ on toward lunchtime, Mr. Morgan. Can I fix you something to eat? We got cold meat and cheese and pickles and hard-boiled eggs. The bread is fresh too.”
Frank looked at the wall clock behind the bar. Eleven-thirty. “Not yet, Chub. But thanks.”
Frank stood alone at the bar and finished his mug of beer. He declined Chubby’s offer of another. “Chub, I thought the funeral was scheduled to be held at one o’clock?”
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