Good Man - Bad Enemy

by Gary Church

  They met the two deputies, sent to arrest Bear, just before they arrived at the scene of the shooting. Both men knew Johnny and greeted him in a professional manner.

  “Mr. Black,” said the one in charge, as the other one nodded his greeting. “I reckon you know we’re here to take your man back to town.”

  Johnny went with them to the sheriff’s office. “Johnny,” said the sheriff. “I have to arrest your man, at least until this is sorted out.”

  Bear went with the deputy, and Johnny, speaking to the sheriff, said, “It was self-defense.”

  “Have a seat,” said the sheriff. “What did your man tell you?”

  Johnny lit a cigarillo and told the sheriff what Bear had told him.

  “I don’t doubt it,” said the sheriff, opening his drawer and extracting a bag of tobacco, putting a big wad of it in his jaw. “There were five boys, no doubt of that, and I know every one of them. Two of them are brothers. They’ve all been in trouble since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. The problem is, they’re all sons of powerful men.” He paused. “Add to that, they’re white; your friend is black. I don’t have to tell you who the district attorney and a jury, if it comes to that, is going to believe.”

  Johnny sat, drew on his cigarillo, and studied the sheriff, looking for any sign of a way out.

  “Two of the boys are dead, Johnny. One right there in the road, and another fell off his horse and bled to death on the way back in. The other three went home—the two brothers and a third youngster. Two of those had shotgun pellets in ’em. Anyways, they came in with their daddies.”

  Johnny didn’t speak. The sheriff continued. “The boys say they were out hunting and stopped to ask your man if he had seen any deer. According to them, he pulled a shotgun and opened fire. They figured they must have spooked him, being black and all. It’s a clear case of murder, put it like that. Not planned, but still.”

  “Sheriff,” Johnny said, “I understand. I would appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on him. He’s a good man.”

  The sheriff nodded. Johnny rose and walked out. He appeared calm and collected, but his mind was racing. He mounted Loco and sat for a minute, thinking. Then he rode to the telegraph office. The clerk was hanging a sign, about to close to go to his supper, but Johnny motioned to him, and he reopened the door.

  The message was short. It was addressed to the law offices of William Palmer, Austin, Texas.

  Need your assistance soonest. Bring Clyde. Spare no expense. Map to my place at the desk, Menger Hotel, San Antonio. Johnny Black.

  The clerk asked for sixty-five cents, and Johnny paid him seventy-five—a little extra for opening up for him.

  Johnny was hungry and tired, but Loco hadn’t eaten either, and Rosalinda would be worried, so he headed home, stopping at the Menger to draw a map and leave it with the desk clerk. He knew Rosalinda would be up, the coffee on, and his plate waiting for his return.

  After taking care of Loco and feeding the other animals, Johnny washed up, entered the kitchen, and removed his hat. He stuck his head through the bedroom door and saw Rosalinda, sitting in the new rocker, reading by lamplight. She turned and smiled. His heart fluttered.

  After he ate, he and Rosalinda sat on the porch, and he told her the situation with Bear. He also told her he had sent for the attorney who had saved him when he had been falsely accused of murder himself.

  SIXTY-ONE

  For the next three days, Johnny went about taking care of the animals and tending the garden, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was worried about his friend, Henry Bear. On the evening of the third day, the dogs raised the alarm as a buggy rode into the yard in a rush. Johnny walked to the door and smiled when he recognized William and his investigator, Clyde. Johnny spoke to the dogs as he walked out to greet the visitors.

  A few minutes later, introductions had been made, and everyone was seated at the kitchen table. William, whose expression had revealed his appreciation for Rosalinda’s beauty, pulled out some paper and a pen from his bag. Clyde, a small, thin, older man, wearing his customary gray suit with a bow tie, sat with his hands folded on the table. Rosalinda poured coffee for everyone, and then she joined them at the table.

  Johnny looked at the group and speaking to Rosalinda, said, “Clyde doesn’t take notes, he just remembers everything. William, here, he’s a graduate of Columbia and its law school. It’s a university in New York, but don’t hold that against him. He’s not half bad, for a lawyer.”

  Rosalinda smiled, and William blushed.

  “Well, thanks for coming, and so quick,” said Johnny.

  “We made it in two days,” responded William, “but we took the time to find out what we could while we were in town. It wasn’t difficult. We stopped by the sheriff’s office, told him we were there at your request, and he gave us a chance to talk to your hand, Mr. Bear. I also talked to the district attorney.”

  The mood at the table had turned somber. “Good,” said Johnny. “How was he holding up?”

  William hesitated, then, “He’s… I think, well, he’s accepted his fate. That is, he feels that there is no hope, and he’s accepted that.”

  “Did he tell you what happened?” asked Johnny.

  “He did. I have to say, the man is well-spoken and articulated the events very clearly.”

  Johnny sipped his coffee. Rosalinda got up and refilled the cups. No one spoke.

  Finally, William said, “Johnny, it doesn’t look good. I mean, it wouldn’t look good for a white man, but for a black man—just the killing. That alone would be difficult to overcome with three witnesses against one. Add to that the fact that the dead men are sons of who, I have come to discover, are very powerful, wealthy men in San Antonio. The district attorney himself, I could tell, was beholden to them.”

  No one spoke for a minute, then Johnny said, “I understand, but the fathers won’t be on the jury.”

  William looked at him. “It won’t matter, Johnny. You know how the world works. Everybody in town, and certainly everybody on the jury, will know who the boys are and who their fathers are. I’ll ask to move the trial, but it won’t happen.”

  “What can we do?” asked Johnny.

  “Clyde will ride the area, stop at all the farmhouses, see if, by some miracle, there was another witness—someone who wasn’t involved. Also, he’ll look into the background of each man, especially the shooter.” He hesitated. “Johnny, I can try to work out something with the district attorney, maybe a manslaughter charge, save the county the cost of a trial.”

  Johnny asked, “Do you think the district attorney might agree to that?”

  “He might. It really, I think, depends on the boys’ fathers. The sheriff said he knew the boys involved. Was that professionally, do you know?”

  “Yes, the sheriff said they’d all been in trouble—rich boys.”

  “That helps us,” said William. “Maybe the fathers would go along with a manslaughter charge.”

  “What does that mean—manslaughter?” asked Rosalinda.

  William smiled, happy for the chance to address Rosalinda and show off his legal knowledge. “An excellent question, Mrs. Black. It means, essentially, that someone has purposely caused the death of another person, but they did so in a state of passion. The law states that if, due to events, the mind was incapable of cool reflection, a homicide might be called manslaughter rather than murder. Now, terror is one of the things mentioned. I can explain to the district attorney that Mr. Bear was suffering from terror, afraid for his life, because of what has happened to other blacks. It’s a perfectly logical conclusion, but the district attorney would have to agree to it. The maximum punishment is five years in the prison in Huntsville.” He smiled at Rosalinda, and she returned his smile.

  “Five years in a prison for defending your life is not right,” said Rosalinda, catching William completely off-guard.

  Johnny invited the men to spend the night, but William said, “Thank you, but since you are paying our expenses, as
well as my considerable fee, we’ve taken rooms at the Menger.”

  “Lawyers,” said Johnny. “I’ll come to town in, say, three days? Meet you for lunch? We can meet in the hotel lobby.”

  Johnny watered the horses. The men shook hands, and William and Clyde climbed into their buggy and were away.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Barlow and Smith, positioned in the trees, studied the Blacks’ house for well over an hour. It was a fine-looking house, and the horses in the corral looked to be high quality. They weren’t planning to steal any horses. Barlow had sold the one he had stolen and bought one with some of the money he and Smith had been able to steal. Horses were too easy to identify, but money wasn’t. However, the fine horses were a sign that this place might have a lot of money hidden somewhere about.

  ***

  Johnny had left at daybreak and was entering the jail when the sheriff himself came walking in. They nodded to each other, and Johnny was allowed back to check on Bear. He found him in a sad, but reflective, accepting mood.

  “Whatever happens, they hang me, or send me to prison, I already been a slave. I’m just grateful for the time I had working for you and Mrs. Black,” he said. “But I can’t say I shot the man first. He done shot my ear off afore I grabbed the shotgun. Them boys is lying.”

  Johnny didn’t respond.

  “I know it don’t matter, but I intend to go to my Maker with my head high.”

  After asking if Bear needed anything, Johnny rose, nodded, and left the jail. It was still early morning, but he didn’t like leaving Rosalinda alone. He mounted Loco and rode for home.

  ***

  “Okay,” said Barlow, “let’s use the same story.”

  “Which same story?” asked Smith. “The one we’re looking for work, or the one we’re lost?”

  “Let’s say we’re looking for work. That way, if there is a man about, they’ll say we got to talk to him. That is, if a man don’t answer the door in the first place.”

  The two rode up and dismounted, looking everywhere for a man to appear, although they hadn’t seen one. The two were wearing gun rigs; they had strapped them on as soon as they left the city.

  “There’s a lot of outlaws in Texas. We better be ready,” Smith had said, pulling his rig from his saddlebag and causing Barlow to break into loud laughter.

  As Barlow and Smith approached Johnny Black’s house, a pack of dogs came tearing toward them, barking and snarling. Smith turned and pulled his pistol, and seeing him, Barlow pulled his. Smith was afraid of dogs, and his fear caused him to panic.

  The two men ran toward the house, looking backwards at the rapidly approaching dogs. Rosalinda, alarmed by the dogs, looked out the window. She saw two horses she didn’t recognize, and two men, carrying pistols, running toward the house. Flop, Princesa, and Perro barked and charged toward the strangers.

  She stepped out onto the porch and called to the dogs in Spanish. They came to a halt, some twenty feet from the men, but all three stood, growling low in their throats, their fur bristling.

  “Can I help you?” she asked the two men who were now standing at the foot of the porch.

  They stood, uneasily, trying to keep an eye on the dogs and Rosalinda at the same time.

  “You can put the guns away,” said Rosalinda, firmly.

  Hesitantly, the two slid them into their holsters. Smith took off his hat, using his left hand, a fact that Rosalinda noticed.

  “Morning, ma’am. We’re looking for work. Wonder if you could use a couple of hands?” He grinned, thinking it helped, but it came across as more evil than pleasant.

  Rosalinda’s instincts were sending off alarms. Men came by, from time to time, looking for work or a handout, but these men seemed wrong somehow.

  “We might,” she said. “We’ve only the one man right now.” She looked out at the barn to give the impression someone was there, but Smith grinned to himself. He and Barlow had been watching since early. They hadn’t seen any movement at or around the barn.

  She caught them by surprise, though, when she said, “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch my husband,” and without giving them time to react, she turned and stepped back through the door.

  Smith and Barlow looked at each other. The dogs hadn’t moved, but they were still growling. What should they do? This wasn’t going as they had expected.

  Rosalinda bolted the door, walked quickly to the cabinet, and removed her Smith and Wesson Model 3. She checked the load and then went to the window and peeked out. The men weren’t there. Neither were the dogs.

  Hearing a noise, she knew instantly they had circled and come in the back door. At least one of them—no, both—were afraid of the dogs. It took them a few seconds. They were checking the rooms, and by the time they got to the front, Rosalinda had stepped out the door onto the front porch.

  She moved away from the door, to the right, but against the house. Smith came out first, holding his gun. He was hurrying and stumbled a bit as he looked left, and when he turned right, Rosalinda fired.

  One day when they were shooting at coffee tins, helping her get comfortable with the new revolver, Johnny had explained to her that hitting someone with a pistol wasn’t as easy as hitting a tin.

  “They’re a bigger target, for sure, but they tend to move about, and your arm will have a will of its own, because of nerves and such. It goes against nature, and all we’ve been taught, to shoot a person.” He had looked away, then added quietly, “It changes you inside—killing someone, even when they need killing.”

  Unwittingly, Smith had, in effect, made himself a smaller target, because when he looked to the right, he didn’t move his feet, so he presented a sideways profile.

  ***

  Johnny and Loco were less than a mile away when Johnny heard the shot. In a second, Loco was at a dead run, Johnny leaning forward, low on his neck, even before he had time to assess the possibilities. Whatever had happened, he couldn’t think of anything good.

  ***

  The bullet hit Smith in his left hip, shattering it. He fired at Rosalinda, but he was falling, and the shot went wild. Barlow wasn’t far behind Smith, and when he heard the shot and saw Smith fall, he hesitated at the door. He stepped to the window and didn’t see the woman or anyone else.

  Rosalinda was terrified. She knew the second man would find her and kill her. She worked her way around the house, planning to go to the barn. She would have a clear shot from there if he came for her. Had she not been so pregnant, it would have been easy for her, but in her condition, moving quickly across the yard wasn’t an option. She hesitated at the back of the house. The dogs had followed her there. Where was the second man? Maybe, just maybe he was helping his partner. If so, now was the time.

  ***

  Johnny came within sight of his house in less than a minute. Loco was eating up the ground with his long stride, his huge lungs pounding. The scene was surreal. Two strange horses were in the yard, grazing on the grass, their reins dragging. There was a man lying on the front porch, his body holding the door open.

  As Johnny and Loco got within fifty yards of the house, Johnny saw a figure—Rosalinda! She was walking backwards toward the barn, holding her pistol out in front of her. A man came into view. He must have come from the back of the house. The man stopped, raised a pistol.

  “No!” screamed Johnny into the wind.

  As the man pulled the trigger, he was launched forward, causing his shot to hit the ground in front of him. They came so fast, so hard, and so close together, they seemed to be one. Flop, Princesa, and Perro had come from behind the man and hit him so hard, he was thrown forward several feet from the impact. His gun discharged as the dogs hit him, but he held on to it. Barlow began screaming. The dogs were biting and tearing at his body. He fired again, the bullet whizzing off into the distance.

  Just as Johnny and Loco got close, Barlow was able to gain his feet, his face pouring blood, as he clubbed at the dogs with his gun before firing into them. Flop screamed
and collapsed. Barlow began to run toward the house. As Barlow reached the front of the house, Johnny and Loco tore into the yard, heading straight for Rosalinda, who was now holding Flop in her arms and weeping.

  Johnny ran Loco straight to Rosalinda, and he dismounted before Loco had stopped, stumbling and falling as he lurched toward his wife and dog. He glanced back and saw the man helping his partner onto his horse.

  Once again, Johnny’s experience took over. He confirmed that neither Rosalinda nor the baby had suffered any injuries. Flop was awake and breathing. Johnny found the gunshot wound, and tearing his shirt from his body, he pulled his knife from his boot and cut up the shirt. In seconds, he had a bandage plugging the gunshot wound, staunching the bleeding. He tied it in place and carried Flop into the house. Rosalinda put a blanket on the floor, and Johnny laid Flop on it as he spoke softly to him. He sat on the floor, stroking his dog and carefully examining him.

  He was surprised when he looked up to see Rosalinda holding a cup of coffee and a shirt for him.

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “Well, I think the most important thing is to keep him from losing any more blood. The bullet went through his shoulder.” He pointed to the bloody bandage. “I think it went through, but I’m not sure.”

  He stood, quickly put on the clean shirt, took the coffee, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

  Johnny stood there for a moment looking at his pregnant wife. She, like him, was covered with blood from Flop’s wound. The other dogs were there. Johnny noticed them for the first time, and he squatted down, petted, and praised them.

  “You shot one of them,” he said. A statement, not a question.

  “Sí,” she responded, and seeing him look down at her belly, said, “The baby is okay.”