“Did his father say my rider did that?”
Beal nodded. “He was bad off. He was all broke up. You got to understand, Mister Albright, young Pat was Charley’s only child. He figured the sun rose and set on that lad. He was sort of crazy...sort of out of his head...when he rushed into my office yesterday. He said a lot of things, but mainly he said it was you Texans who were responsible. I got to admit, Mister Albright, it seemed reasonable to me at the time.” Beal stopped and shrugged. He looked at the tough-set faces of Case Hyle and Bass Templeton, before continuing. “That’s why I didn’t lock him up. I wanted to investigate a little before I went after anyone.” He returned his glance to Ben. “I didn’t have anything to go on. You understand?”
Ben did not answer. He stared at Marshal Beal with a coldness that never flagged, never diminished. He stepped around him, then halted stiffly to stare over at the corralled horses. He didn’t turn around, but said: “I reckon you want me to sit back and take all this.”
“I ask you to let me get Connelly my own way,” said the lawman.
“What do you want from a man?” Ben yelled wrathfully, turning on the balls of his feet. “I had a good man killed for no reason. Another is missing. I was damned near killed myself, along with my niece and the balance of my crew, Marshal Beal. I’ve lost possibly a hundred cattle. And you have the guts to ask me to let you handle this your way.” Ben raised an arm toward the wagon. “A hundredweight of flour and a ferry trip would have prevented this. Your Charles Connelly’s not going to be let off by any damned sodbuster law for this, just because we’re Texans and you’re Yankees. I give you my word for that, Beal.” Ben swung his head. “Case, you and Bass get saddled. Rig out a horse for me, too.”
Marshal Beal stood there, dark and unstirring, watching lanky Ben Albright. His discomfort atrophied and was replaced by a rugged cast to his countenance.
“Don’t go near Lansing’s Ferry,” he warned as he saw a freshening shine to Albright’s anger as the Texan glared at him. “The folks are all worked up. They believe your man killed Pat. Charles told them that...him and his friends. It’ll be suicide if you ride down there, Mister Albright. They’ll kill you on sight.”
That,” said Bass Templeton, as he moved past toward the rope corral, “is a boot that fits both feet...that killing business.” He paused to glower back at the five posse men, waiting for one of them to take this up.
None did. They looked from the big Texan to Marshal Beal, shifted their feet as one. The man on the far left raised a shirt sleeve to wipe away the sweat running down his face.
Ruben scuttled around the wagon, peeked at Ben’s face, and scuttled back from sight again. Case saw him do this and ignored it. He was watching Marshal Beal. Clearly, the lawman was trying to come up with some way to prevent the Texans from riding into Lansing’s Ferry. Counting himself, there were six settlers. Counting Ruben there were four Texans.
Marshal Beal evidently gave up his notion of fighting it out though, for he said to Ben: “Do you know what you’re fixin’ to do, Mister Albright? There have been two boys killed. At least one of them died by mistake. You go down there now after Connelly...and ten, maybe twenty more men are goin’ to die. You and your men will be among them. For what? Because a crazed father shot first and didn’t reason at all. But you won’t be no better if you go to Lansing’s Ferry, Mister Albright. So, I’m askin’ you...please don’t go down to Lansing’s Ferry. Let me go back and arrest Mayor Connelly. Let me send for a judge advocate from over at Fort Alert. Let’s not start the damned war all over again.”
“Begging,” Bass Templeton said bitterly, “from a damned Yankee.” He spat upon the ground, turned, and went stiffly out to get the horses.
Case did not move. He was not yet certain violence would not erupt here.
Ben relaxed a little, some of the high color draining out of his cheeks. In a nearly normal tone he said to Beal: “I sent a man for soldiers from Fort Alert after my rider was killed, Marshal. I reckon they’ll be along any time today. I also expect that when you go back to your settlement and say what really happened, your murdering mayor and his three back-shooting friends will light out. I don’t aim to let that happen. We’re going to look for our man, Ferd, and then we’re going to Lansing’s Ferry, and if you have those murderers in your jailhouse...fine. But if you don’t have them there, we’ll find that out, too, and I swear to you we’ll take care of them for shooting young Will from behind, the way our folks have always taken care of back-shooters.”
Ben turned his back and walked away. He was almost at the rope corral when he stopped, turned back, and ran his hot stare down the off-side of Ruben’s wagon to where Atlanta sat. He stood briefly, turning something over in his mind. In the end, though, he did not go to his niece. He called for Ruben to come over to the corral.
Ruben came, moving swiftly, his face working and his eyes unsteady. “Yes, Mister Ben? You want me to...?”
“I want you to stay here with Miss Atlanta.”
“Yes sir. Be proud to, Mister Ben.”
“Ruben?”
“Sir?”
“I can’t talk to her right now. You explain to her...this is man’s work. It’s got to be done this way. You know what I mean....”
“Yes, sir, I know. I’ll explain how it is to her. Don’t you fret none about that, Mister Ben,” he assured his boss. “I’ll explain.”
“One more thing,” said Ben. “When Owen gets back with the soldiers, send him along to Lansing’s Ferry. Tell the officer with him what we’re doing. Tell them both about the stampede. And, if Ferd comes in while we’re gone, make sure they know to tell us.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell the officer that you’ve gone after Will’s murderer.”
Ben nodded. He looked over Ruben’s shoulder to where Atlanta sat in shimmering shade, saw how the girl was looking straight out over the dancing land, and frowned, his expression turning uneasy about this. “Make her comfortable,” he mumbled to Ruben, then went along to where Bass had their horses saddled and rigged out with booted carbines. Here, he was joined by Case Hyle. The three of them stepped up and sat a moment, regarding those motionless posse men and their leader, then Ben led out.
As they rode past the upturned wagon, Ben halted to look at Beal. He said: “Marshal, if you really want to prevent trouble, leave three of your men here at my camp. My niece is here.”
Beal pushed up off the wagon and nodded glumly. “I’ll do that, sure, and then we’ll ride south with you. We can cover more ground in looking for your man if we spread out.”
Ben did not reply to this. He sat quietly, watching Beal relegate three of his settlers to guarding the Texan camp.
Ben finally responded: “No thanks, Marshal. We’ll ride our own way.”
He flagged at Case Hyle and Bass Templeton, leading out southward in a swift lope. Case turned after a little while to look back. Marshal Beal and his companions were slowly walking their mounts, making no effort to overtake the Texans. They seemed spiritless back there, the way they ground along, all loose and slumped in their saddles.
It was now midday with that evil yellow orb hanging directly overhead and onto the plain. One could see the riding men writhing from its hot lashings. As they moved southward, Ben’s Texans continued to encounter Albright steers among the creek-side growth, drinking or standing in weak shade. But no sign of Ferd. They saw the last of these animals where they forded the Trinchera themselves, eastbound over the yonder prairie until the land firmed up again, then southbound toward Lansing’s Ferry.
Bass said to Albright: “We don’t know where Connelly’s place is.”
“We’ll find it,” ground out Ben. “We’ll find it, don’t worry none about that. And we’ll find that bushwhacking Connelly, too.”
Case, who had been silent a long time, now interjected: “I think the wise approach would be from over east of town...they wo
uldn’t expect us to come from that direction. Otherwise, I’m betting they’ve got roiled-up homesteaders keeping an eye out and riding all over the place by now.”
Ben considered this, threw a look at Case, and nodded. “I think you’ve done this kind of thing before,” he said. “Would that be during the war?”
Case rode stonily along without speaking.
Chapter Thirteen
They did not approach Lansing’s Ferry until late in the day. Sunset was not far off and the land ran red from that lowering, summer-hazed disc hanging a few feet above the earth’s far curving. They walked along, three abreast, watching the land change from prairie to plowed plots and shacks. The village itself was still farther along, visible in the shimmering distance as an ugly low blot upon the horizon.
Where a homesteader’s sod house appeared half above and half below the ground, for all the world like a huge prairie dog mound, Ben said: “We’ll ask at that place ahead where Connelly lives.”
Soon they came down into the yard, spied a bent man in soiled clothing working in the shade of a mud barn over some worn-out chain harness, and reined up under his squinted and uneasy gaze.
“We’re looking for Charles Connelly’s homestead,” Ben said, making a statement of this question, then waiting for his answer.
The settler studied each Texan in turn. He put aside the old harness and responded: “Mister, if I was you, I wouldn’t go see Connelly right now. His son’s dead and he’s all broke up with his grief.”
Ben folded both gloved hands across his saddle horn. “Just tell us where he lives,” he said. “We’ll take our chances, otherwise.”
“You don’t understand,” protested the settler. “You fellows are Texans and Charley says it was Texans who killed his boy.”
Ben said nothing to this, but he continued to hold the settler’s attention with his steady pale stare as he waited.
Gradually the settler’s expression changed. It seemed to crumple as a stirring notion came to him. He licked his lips, lifted one arm, and pointed off to the west. It was very clear now that this man thought Ben and his riders were mixed up some way in the killing of young Patrick Connelly.
“He lives about three miles west o’ here. If you cross the north-south stage road into town, then edge a little south, you’ll come to his place. It’s got a green picket fence around the yard. That’s the only painted fence in and around Lansing’s Ferry.” The settler’s arm dropped, his uncertain eyes remaining on Ben. After a brief pause in which he studied Ben’s face, he added: “I wouldn’t go there, though, if I was you fellows.”
Ben turned his horse without a word and led out in a sweeping lope westerly. Case, riding thoughtfully, turned once, far out, and looked back toward that mud barn. The settler was no longer sitting there.
“Gone to get his horse,” Ben said aloud, musingly. “No doubt to alert the neighbors we’re in the country.”
“Let him,” swore Bass Templeton. “Let ’em come. Damned if they don’t go back a sight faster than they ride out.”
Ben said nothing. He was making a straight course for the north-south roadway. After a mile, he slowed to a walk as the road was well in sight.
“Riders,” he grunted, and pointed to the south.
Case looked. It appeared to be at least fifteen mounted men. He watched for the reflection of red sunlight off weapons, and saw it. “Armed to the teeth, Ben,” he commented. “Just to keep clear we’d best ride north a few miles.”
“Run from settlers?” demanded Bass Templeton.
“Call it that if you like,” Case shot back. “If they come onto us, we’ll never get to Connelly, I can tell you that.”
“Case is right,” Ben stated, and led them northward in a paralleling way to the distant horsemen.
The yonder riders appeared to be disinterested in three other travelers. Distance made it impossible for them to determine that these were Texans.
Both parties went along for a long hour, then the settlers split off on a westerly course and Ben halted when he observed this.
“Maybe they’re bound for our camp,” said Bass. “What do you think, Ben?”
“Not likely. But if they are, they won’t find anything there but some of their sod-busting friends.” Ben swung his horse. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”
There was a series of serrated low land swells west of the Lansing’s Ferry roadway. From the eminence of one of these, Lansing’s Ferry seemed many miles to the south.
“Didn’t have any idea we’d come this far north,” commented Bass Templeton. He spat in disgust and squinted onward toward the Trinchera in the direction those other riders had gone. “Hell, they sure made us a heap of extra work.”
They passed over several of these up-and-down swales when Case Hyle yanked back and sat still, peering far to his left.
Noticing Case’s sudden halt, Ben turned and called: “What is it? What do you see?”
“I’m not sure,” Case replied, and reined easterly, riding very slowly and leaning from his saddle. He stopped several hundred yards out, sat for a time in stiff silence, then dismounted and went gingerly forward to halt again, staring down.
“Dammit!” called Ben Albright. “What is it, Case?”
“See for yourself,” came back the quick, flat answer. “Ride over here, Ben, and take a look-see.”
Case was standing above a dead horse from which the saddle, blanket, and bridle had only recently been removed, leaving tell-tale sweat marks. The earth for yards around had been deeply cut and scarred by dozens of tracks, both man and animal tracks. There were even unmistakable knee imprints in the dust, and the smooth, convex dents made by rifle butts.
Ben and Bass jogged over, stepped down, and stopped dead still to stare, both thinking the same wrenched thought.
Case said quietly: “It’s the same horse, Ben. I recognize it. It’s the same animal young Connelly was riding when he crashed into Will before the fight.”
Bass Templeton leaned a little, pointing. “There’s a bullet hole in its head.”
Ben went up close and looked hard. Muscles rippled along the edge of his jaw. “It looks like Marshal Beal was telling the truth about this,” he said.
Case went closer, also. He knelt on the dead animal’s left side and gazed for a long time at the visible bullet hole in the horse’s head. After a while he got up and walked carefully around the scene, studying the ground, the area where that tragedy had taken place. Having seen enough, he returned to his horse, mounted, and sat there, still frowning.
Eventually the three of them rode away, southbound as the curdling dark light strengthened as sunset passed over into early summertime dusk around them.
They breasted the last hill and saw in the middle distance a homestead with its solid log house and log barn.
“This will be Connelly’s place,” Ben declared, breaking the deep silence that had held all three of them since sighting that head-shot horse.
“And,” muttered Templeton, “he won’t be there.”
“We’ll find him,” stated Ben. Such was the iron-like timber of his voice when he said this, that Case believed unequivocally that they would find Charles Connelly. Still, he felt instinctively warned as they approached that yard in the gloomy evening.
“Better let me scout ahead,” he said to Ben. “That yard is too quiet.”
Bass Templeton agreed with this. “By now that settler who directed us here has had more than sufficient time to raise his neighbors. I smell an ambush here, Ben.”
Albright drew down to a stop. He moved only his eyes. After scanning the area all around, he said: “All right, Case, go ahead. We’ll stay here with your horse.”
Case Hyle dismounted, unbuckled his spurs, looped them around the saddle horn, before moving ahead cautiously. The first five hundred feet were covered without incident. The next fiv
e hundred put him within close view of the dark buildings and that deathly quiet yard. After that he went along with extreme caution, the warning stronger in his heart.
When he was within a stone’s throw of the buildings, advancing inward from the circling east, he dropped flat to skyline the surrounding territory. That was when he caught a brief glimpse of faint light reflected off metal. That one glimpse was enough. He remained quiet and still for a long time. Faint star shine glistened wetly making eerie patterns in the yard. Then, along the barn’s rear, he saw an identical faint glitter, and he rose to a stooping stance and began moving back as rapidly as he safely could, until it was safe to get upright.
He went back out to Ben and Bass Templeton, took his reins from Ben, and swung up. “There are armed men in the barn and on both sides of the house. It’s an ambush all right.”
Templeton swore grittily.
Ben Albright nodded. By this time, it was too dark to see his expression, but his voice was tightly wound and bleak. “All right. Marshal Beal must have got back ahead of us and spread word of our coming. But that won’t save Connelly. Now, let’s go into town and ask Marshal Beal where Connelly is.”
Bass Templeton reared up in his saddle. “That’s crazy!” he exploded. “If they got men out here waiting to drygulch us, they’ll have three times that many in Lansing’s Ferry.”
Ben looked round. “You want to go back to camp?” he asked. “That’s the only alternative, Bass. We can’t sit still. You saw those riders after we left the other homestead. Sooner or later one of those riding bands is going to see us. What do you want to do?”
Templeton was silent. Case, with Ben between them, could sense Templeton’s feelings — his indecision and perplexity. Finally, Case said: “All I know is that these here people are too worked up tonight for us to risk riding into their damned village.”
Ben lifted his reins. “We won’t ride into their village. We’ll enter it on foot and from behind Beal’s office. Come on.”
Reckoning at Lansing's Ferry Page 10
