Rebel Yell

by William W. Johnstone

  Devon closed the door, bolted it, and went back into the dining room. “Y’all wouldn’t be so quick to shovel in that slop you call a meal, if you got a look at that kitchen. It’s a pigsty!”

  Nobody in the dining room was eating. Mounds of food sat cooling on their plates unattended. Being held under the gun tended to quash even the heartiest appetites.

  “Anything happening out there?” Devon asked Cort, indicating the street.

  “All quiet so far as I can tell. Mostly I’ve been keeping my eyes on the folks here.”

  Devon crossed to the unoccupied table bracketing the kitchen doors, pulled out a chair, and sat down facing front, his back to the wall. His hands rested on top of the table, a gun in each fist covering diners on both sides of the center aisle. “Take a look now, Cort.”

  “Right.” Cort turned toward the window. He paused to give Luke a hard look, one that said, Stay put and don’t try anything funny.

  At least that’s how Luke read it. He sure didn’t want to be recognized. That could only change the situation for the worse by delivering a prime hostage into the hands of the foe.

  Trust Johnny to make some damned fool self-sacrificing play to save Luke’s neck. If it should come to that—No, Luke wouldn’t let it come to that. He’d make a play that would force the Randles to shoot him and upset their whole applecart.

  If they did for him—well, what of it? He was already half a man and it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice for him to go the whole route. No great loss to the world . . . or him, either.

  So went the wild bubbling froth seething in Luke’s brain. He had no worries for himself and that was an asset. The plain truth of it was, he just plain didn’t give a good damn whether he lived or died.

  It was important to win, to foil the enemy. Take the initiative and turn the tables on them. About that, he was unyielding, filled with the old die-hard Rebel spirit.

  No sign, no hint of the inner turmoil showed on Luke’s face. He kept a poker face, not making eye contact with Cort because that’s the way a cowed citizen would react.

  To show defiance would be a mistake. If Cort or Devon Randle thought he had fight in him, they’d watch him more closely, ready to call him out if he made trouble. It would lessen his chances when he finally did make his play.

  That he would was a foregone conclusion. Of that, there could be no doubt.

  The question was, When?

  Pretty damned soon from the look of things. Time was running out.

  Most of the diners were armed, the men anyhow. It might not be too far-fetched to suggest that more than one woman was packing a little low-caliber ladies’ pistol in a purse or handbag. But the Randles hadn’t bothered to disarm the patrons of the café. Too big a job, too burdensome, too many guns to handle at once. The brothers counted on keeping the crowd buffaloed.

  From their point of view, it was better, easier and more practical to cover the diners en masse and ventilate any who reached for a weapon—or looked like they were reaching. The brothers were counting on the universal truth that sensible folks were not minded to risk their own necks to intervene in somebody else’s private quarrel. Not when it was a killing matter.

  Cort stood beside a window, holding his leveled rifle below the sill—an extra precaution against being seen by outsiders. Although the curtains screened him from the view of passersby, he avoided showing himself as much as possible. His rifle was pointed at Luke in a seemingly offhanded manner but that was deceptive. Those restless eyes of his didn’t miss much.

  He looked out the window, scanning the scene. Along Trail Street coursed a small but steady stream of traffic—horseback riders, singly or in groups, carts, and wagons. People on foot crossed to and fro, none giving the café a second glance—and why should they? From all outward appearances, nothing was unusual, nothing untoward going on there. More important were their own errands and private business.

  Three men stood loitering in the street at the southeast corner of the Cattleman Hotel, “best in town,” farther west on the north side of Trail Street. It was the place where the big buyers and wealthy ranchers stayed. Its private dining rooms served as meeting places for the gentry from near and far while its expansive bar served as their exclusive watering hole. On the veranda, rocking chairs and wicker couches were set out for the use of hotel clientele.

  Three idlers were tough-looking hombres—very tough. They didn’t look out of place. Hangtree was a town where hard men were the rule rather than the exception. The trio was well-armed with a formidable array of six-guns. They were intently looking east along the street, eyeing the café as if waiting for someone or something.

  “Terry and the others are in place,” Cort said, noting the threesome.

  “Give them the high sign,” said Devon.

  Cort went to the front door, opening it partway and leaning outside. He held the rifle so it was hidden behind the door. He waved the trio on the corner in front of the hotel. One of them waved back. Cort ducked back inside, closing the door and bolting it shut. “They’re ready to go.”

  “Now all we need is Johnny Cross,” Devon said.

  “He’ll show when Moran calls him out.”

  “That’ll be any minute now.”

  “You boys fixing to go up agin’ Johnny Cross?” The speaker was Pete Conklin, a gray-bearded oldster who’d fought in the Texas War for Independence against Mexico’s Santa Anna, the U.S War against Mexico in 1846.

  More recently, he’d served in the Lone Star Home Guard militia during the War Between the States. He hadn’t served in the regular Confederate army because the recruiting officers had said he was too old. They wouldn’t budge on their decision, so for Conklin, the militia it was, where he rode as long and hard as men half his age.

  A salty old character, Conklin sat at one of the round tables with a handful of likeminded old cronies. They’d been having lunch before the Brothers Randle came storming in. He knew Luke Pettigrew well, and Johnny Cross, too. He’d been a Hangtree resident for as long as Luke could remember.

  As a crotchety middle-aged man he’d loosed more than one shotgun barrelful of rock salt at the fleeing backsides of Luke, Johnny, and some of their buddies when they’d made nighttime raids to steal fresh fruit from the apple trees in his orchard. Now he was a crotchety old man still full of piss and vinegar.

  Luke listened carefully. He surely hoped that mouth of Conklin’s wouldn’t give away who he was.

  “We’re not going against Cross. Our pard is,” Cort smiled.

  “And who might that be?” Conklin challenged.

  “Terry Moran—Terrible Terry Moran! I reckon you’ve heard of him.”

  “Nope,” Conklin said flatly. Maybe it was true or maybe he didn’t want to give the brothers the satisfaction.

  “You’re not fooling anybody, old-timer,” Devon said, rising to the bait, irked. “You’re not so far off from Weatherford and Parker County that you haven’t heard of Terrible Terry and his gang. Nobody could be that ignorant.”

  “We got enough real fire-eaters out this way without having to keep track of a lot of Weatherford trash.”

  “You got a nasty mouth on you, old man.”

  “Truth hurts, huh?” Conklin said, emphasizing his words by elbowing one of his cronies in the ribs.

  “Haw! That’s a good one, Conk,” cried one of his cronies at the table.

  Devon rose from his chair. “That’s enough out of you, you old fool—”

  “Easy, brother. He’s just trying to get your goat,” Cort said, playing peacemaker.

  Devon sat back down. “Sure, you’re right, Cort. What else can you expect from a passel of backwards hayseeds?”

  Cort shrugged. “Let them talk. They don’t mean nothing by it. Even if they did, what could they do?”

  “Fixin’ to shoot Johnny Cross in the back, are ye?” Conklin asked.

  “We’re not fixing to shoot him at all,” Cort said. “Terry Moran doesn’t need us to do any back shooting. Not
Terrible Terry, Fastest Gun in All Texas—”

  “Think so, do ye? Heh, heh, heh!” Conklin gave him the horse laugh. “Maybe you got another think comin’! That Johnny Cross is a ring-tailed whizzer with the plow-handles and no mistake—”

  “Not fast enough to beat Moran on the draw.”

  “Don’t bull me, mister. I know a bushwhacking when I see one.”

  “I believe it! Bushwhacking and back shooting are what put Hangtown on the map,” Cort said. “We’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen to Terry when he downs your boy.”

  “Hangtree don’t work like that, mister. You must’ve got us confused with Weatherford.”

  “This is Cross’s town, see? He’s got lots of friends here,” Cort went on. “We’re here to make sure none of them interfere or side him at the showdown. It’s going to be a fair draw between Terrible Terry and Cross, savvy?”

  “Johnny Cross don’t need nobody to fight his battles. He does for hisself,” Conklin said, careful not to look in Luke’s direction.

  The old buzzard still has his wits about him! thought Luke.

  Cort said, “We’re also backing Moran’s play against interfering lawmen.”

  “Huh! No worry about that with what passes for the law in this town!” Conklin cracked.

  “Pretty soon, Terry’s going to call Cross out and then we’ll see who’s who and what’s what.”

  “We sure will!”

  “Now hesh up and eat your soup,” Devon snapped.

  “It’s gone cold,” Conklin complained.

  “Eat it anyway.”

  “Hold it! Something’s happening outside,” Cort said, a note of urgency in his voice.

  Devon rose, guns in hand.

  “This is it,” Cort said.

  Terry Moran strode east down the middle of Trail Street, flanked by his two sidemen Slug Haycox and Justin Kern. They halted facing the front entrance of the Golden Spur Saloon, which lay on the north side of Trail Street fronting south.

  Terry Moran cupped a hand to his mouth to amplify his bellowing. “Cross! Johnny Cross! Come on out!”

  SIX

  A newly arrived coach stood in front of the Cattleman Hotel, offloading passengers. A onetime stagecoach—battered but serviceable—it had been converted to private use. It was drawn by a six-horse team yoked in tandem. The wheels’ iron rims were hammered thin and fraying from traveling over endless miles of hard road. A thin coat of reddish brown paint covered the vehicle but could not disguise the peeling wooden panels beneath.

  It showed the signs of a recent road trip. The coach was powdered with dust. Mixed with sweat, it formed a kind of paste on the hard-breathing horses. They seemed grateful for the rest; weary, they were slumping in the traces.

  Two rough-and-ready-looking characters rode topside in the front box seat. A mature adult, the driver was narrow-eyed, grim-faced, and square-bodied. He climbed down from the box seat, something martial in his bearing. He seemed not a man to show fatigue no matter how long or far he had traveled. The shotgun messenger was an oversized hulking youngster—big, rawboned, and long-limbed. He wore a floppy hat with a high crown and wide brim worn cavalry style with the brim pinned up to the front of the crown.

  He stowed the shotgun away in the scabbard in the coach boot and looked around. Wide-eyed, he marveled at what he saw, giving the impression he was a backwoods boy who hadn’t seen too much in the way of big towns.

  The coach’s arrival attracted interest among the locals, active folk and idlers alike. Newcomers were always of interest on the edge of frontier civilization, especially those who could afford to travel by private coach.

  Facing east in front of the Cattleman hotel, the side door opened and a well-dressed man wearing a gun belt got out. He seemed athletic and energetic, with a spring in his step. He had neatly trimmed black hair and a Vandyke mustache and goatee combination. He wore a wide-brimmed straw planter’s hat, brown jacket with dark brown satin trim edging his lapels, and a ruffled white shirt. He looked something of a dandy but capable with a six-gun holstered low on his right hip.

  He reached into the coach, pulled out a sturdy wooden footstool, and set it on the ground below the bottom of the open door, making sure it was securely settled. With an air of eager expectancy and showy cavalier courtesy, he extended a helping hand to an unseen passenger.

  A decidedly feminine hand, slim, white, and elegant, reached out, taking hold of his proffered arm.

  “This way if you please, Miss Ashley,” he murmured.

  “Thank you, Kale,” a lilting honeyed female voice replied.

  A rustling of skirts and petticoats sounded as an exquisite slender leg stepped out and down from inside the coach. Town gawkers, loafers, and the curious were rewarded with an alluring glimpse of a slender well-turned ankle and small booted foot.

  An attractive young lady stepped down from the coach onto the footstool and then the street. No overstatement was involved to say she was beautiful—a tall, slim, high-breasted, leggy, fair-skinned blonde.

  Those of her admiring viewers who’d drunk champagne had a standard by which to describe her hair color. She showed fine sculpted features, blue eyes, and a generous pink-lipped mouth. Her coloring was natural, without a trace of rouge or cosmetic powder. In that time and place, only loose women wore makeup.

  Her hair was sensibly pinned up at the back of her head for convenience and comfort while traveling. A light fawn-colored dress hugged her enticing youthful curves in a nice ladylike way.

  Her appearance created a stir among the gawkers, brightening eyes and drawing smiles and appreciative murmurs. Among the younger men, elbows nudged ribs.

  One high-spirited youngster had licked his lips and was puckering them up to whistle when a long shadow fell across him. It belonged to the shotgun rider standing at his elbow and looming over him, a head taller and with cold unfriendly eyes.

  The youth glanced up, pinned by the other’s eyes glaring down at him. The youngster’s mouth and throat went dry, the appreciative whistle he’d been about to make dying unsounded. Paling, he backed off and made himself scarce.

  The rest of the porch-side good old boys got the message that here was a lady and one to be treated as such.

  As if to underscore the lesson, the man named Kale let his hand significantly drop to his side to brush his coat flap away from his sidearm, resting his hand on the gun butt. “Be polite—gentlemen,” he said, pleasant-seeming but with clenched teeth.

  “Get the Squire’s chair, Piney,” the coach driver said.

  “Okay, Top,” replied the oversized backwoods helper. He clambered across the stagecoach’s roof to the rear of the vehicle, where a tailgate flap secured various items of baggage, several steamer trunks, and a number of suitcases and traveling bags. They were all covered with a canvas tarp lashed into place by rope. He opened a jackknife, lovingly unfolding a long, sharp, gleaming blade, sunlight glinting on it. Stretched out flat on his belly across the roof, he cut the cords securing the tarp.

  Piney climbed down to help Top unfurl the canvas tarp covering the baggage. Neatly stowed on top of the trunks and suitcases was what looked like a long piece of furniture or equipment. It was wrapped in blankets to cushion it from the rigors of the road.

  “Set it down on the hotel porch, Piney.”

  “Right, Top.”

  Piney wrestled the bulky object across a broad shoulder, his stork-like legs bending at the knees under the weight.

  “Need a hand?”

  “I got it, Top.” Piney carried the mysterious object up the wooden front stairs to the veranda, onlookers moving aside to make room for him. He set it down and began unwrapping it. The curious idlers leaned in to see what lay within the coverings.

  The wrappings came off, revealing a wheelchair. It was a handsome specimen, high backed and hand tooled, well cushioned.

  Piney went back to the open coach door. He and Top assisted another passenger, a pink-faced older man with white hair and a bushy whi
te beard, carrying him outside. He wore a pair of spectacles with small dark green circular lenses, a big man in a baggy brown suit. There was something wrong with his legs. He couldn’t stand up on them.

  Piney scooped him up in both hands, and holding him like a child, carried the invalid up the front steps. Top hovered around them, fussing, while Kale and the young woman stood to one side watching.

  Piney gently deposited the white-bearded man upright in the wheelchair. “There you are, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Thank you, Piney.”

  Top unfolded a blanket, covering Mallory from the waist down. Mallory thanked him. Top started adjusting the blanket around the other’s legs, but the young woman interceded.

  “I’ll take care of that, Top.”

  “Very good, Miss Ashley.” Top relinquished his place to her.

  “Allow me, Father,” Ashley said, arranging the blanket folds around Mallory’s lower body, tucking them in neatly, taking great pains with them.

  “Thank you my dear. You’re so good to me,” Mallory said, beaming benevolently.

  Terrible Terry Moran started raising hell down the street outside the Golden Spur, calling out Johnny Cross. He cupped his hands and bellowed, “Cross! Johnny Cross! Come on out. I know you’re in there!” Twenty-six, Moran had a long, oval, sheep-like face, his short fair curly hair curled like lamb’s fleece. There was nothing sheep-like about his demeanor, though. He was hot-tempered, short-fused, and as vain as a matinee idol of the live stage theater.

  Small, round, red eyes and a snaky-veined forehead dominated a fiery red face. His gangling long-limbed form quivered with indignation. A black hat with a stiff, flat, perfectly circular brim was worn tilted way back on his head like a black halo. Twin guns were worn holstered way down on his hips. The guns were worn butt-first in tied-down holsters.