So it was that the call went out to men who were strong-willed and strong-bodied, better than most with horse or gun, both able to act under their own initiative and under orders. Men who, as far as the word could mean anything in that territory in the eighteen-seventies, were men of honor. There were four of them in the deputy sheriffs office in Comanche late this particular afternoon, gathered there to listen to Charlie Webb and Marvin Peake tell their version of events that had taken place the preceding year.
The most outstanding of these four Texas Rangers, as far as appearance went, was Lefty O’Neal. In most company, O’Neal’s height might have been enough to mark him out since he stood seven inches above six feet, a couple of inches more than the renowned Shanghai Pierce. The majority of folk would have noticed him for his moustache which changed color several shades along its length, ranging from dark brown through a gingery red to almost white, and which drooped several inches on either side of his mouth. Yet it was for neither of those features that Lefty was most known – the feature those who saw him remembered best and talked about was his head. High-domed, bald save for a sprinkling of brown hair above the ears, its crown was decorated by a spreading blue tattoo which incorporated a wide-branching tree, several varieties of flower, some intertwined snakes and the word Martha.
Very few men ever plucked up the courage to give their curiosity full rein and ask Lefty the origins of his strange dome. He wasn’t the kind of man whose manner encouraged conversation to flow fast and loose. Indeed, the only ones who ever mentioned the tattoo at all were very drunk when they did so and usually very unconscious almost immediately afterwards. So far no one, drunk or sober, had asked him who Martha might be or have been. It was information that he never volunteered.
Nor was it clear why he had been given his nickname, since it didn’t apply to any of his prominent features. He wasn’t even left-handed, rather he was ambidextrous and one of the few men for whom wearing twin pistols was more than show.
Lefty was sitting in one of the deputy’s straight-backed chairs, his length somehow wound about it and making the chair look woefully inadequate. Lamar stood close at Lefty’s back, leaning against the side wall. He was a heavily-bearded man with broad shoulders and a thick neck that was marked indelibly at the left side and over the Adam’s apple with rope burns that shone scarlet when his anger was aroused.
Keogh would have been reckoned tall in other company than Lefty O’Neal’s. He was slender in build, his fingers toyed with an unlit cigarette as he straddled a chair that was set close to the center of the room. His face was round and far younger than his years, made strange by the oriental cast of his eyes, green-hued and set at a definite slant.
In contrast to Keogh’s automatically nervous actions, the fourth Ranger was the stillest of the group. Wes Hart was wiry with the impression of a man whose considerable strength was very much under control. The check bones of his lean face were prominent and high, pushing the tanned skin taut beneath eyes of faded blue that seemed to see everything without ever moving. His brown hair hung loose to the crumpled collar of his dark blue shirt. A faint moustache grew from the stubble about his mouth and over his angled jaw that stubble was almost a beard. Hart wore a plain leather waistcoat over his shirt, loose woolen pants with buckskin sewn over the seat and along the inner thighs.
Like Lamar and Keogh, Hart wore one pistol strapped to his hip. In his case the holster held a Colt Peacemaker .45 with a mother-of-pearl grip on which was carved a Mexican emblem showing an eagle with a snake gripped between its claws and in its beak.
So that the holster would angle correctly in a sitting position, Hart had loosened the tie-string which normally fastened inside his thigh. The safety thong was still in place over the curved hammer.
Out of sight and inside his right boot, he had a well-honed double-bladed Apache knife.
Charlie Webb leaned back against his desk and ostentatiously lit a long cigar. He drew and puffed, puffed and drew and finally tossed the spent match into the corner of the room, where it joined a number of others, a mound of dust and a couple of dead spiders. The Texas Rangers had been in Webb’s office for the best part of half an hour and all they had heard so far was the deputy’s boasting about what he was going to do with Mannen Clements and John Wesley Hardin when he got them in his gun sights.
Marvin Peake, who rode with Webb and also with the late Jack Helm, leaned his weight against the back wall and smirked while Webb performed.
If he was amused and entertained, the Rangers were not. Lefty O’Neal less than the rest. He sat there, looking less than comfortable even before Webb had begun, sucking his moustache down into his mouth and kicking his heels into the floorboards at the same time as he cracked his knuckles and grimaced openly.
Eventually, Webb could ignore Lefty no longer.
‘Somethin’ crawlin’ up your skin?’ asked Webb, the cigar wobbling up and down at the corner of his mouth.
Lefty unwound his legs and stretched them out in front of him; they stretched an awful long way. He nodded slowly and looked into Webb’s face. ‘Yeah’, he said just as slowly. ‘Yeah, it is.’
‘Then maybe you’d best spit it off your chest and say what it is.’
Lefty hung back his head, hawked up some phlegm noisily, swirled it around inside his mouth and jerked his head forward. A flob of yellow spittle landed on the floor no more than a foot in front of Charlie Webb and splashed against his boots.
Webb chomped down on his cigar; his eyes bulged and his hand started to move towards his gun.
Lefty didn’t bat an eyelid; he didn’t need to. Three hands covered the butts of three guns and three thumbs began to lever three hammers back. Charlie Webb’s fingers had still to touch the polished wooden grip of his .44.
Peake stared on, his mouth dropping open slowly. Surely they weren’t going to gun the sheriff down in his own office?
Seconds ticked by.
They were not.
Charlie Webb glanced nervously around the room, for those moments shaken from the arrogant self-assurance which usually shielded him from anything and everyone. Then it passed. He nodded his head generously, moved his hand ostentatiously away from his holster and towards the cigar in his mouth, withdrew the cigar and chuckled.
‘Damn thing’s gone out on me.’
He pulled a match from his vest pocket and struck it against the corner of the desk.
‘About this Hardin business,’ said Lefty easily, yet staring hard at Webb all the same, ‘maybe we’d best hear what happened down in Albuquerque.’
Webb drew on his cigar, threw the match into the corner and grinned. ‘Marv here, he was in Albuquerque at the time. He can tell it best.’
Marvin Peake scratched the side of his hatchet face nervously as the eyes of the Rangers turned to scrutinize him. His tongue flicked, lizard-like, over the dry skin of his chapped lips and his hooded eyes blinked furiously.
Charlie Webb pulled a medicine bottle of brandy from one of the drawers of his desk and tossed it over to Peake, who juggled it against his chest before bringing it under control. Take a pull on that first.’
Marvin gulped a couple of swallows down and would have taken a third, had Webb’s hand not been already stretched out towards him. Before he could begin his tale, the bottle was back out of sight.
‘I was in Albuquerque along of Jack Helm and four or five others. Things were pretty hot down there an’ we was all jumpy as hell. Just a couple of days before two of the boys had ridden into a bunch of Taylor’s men out on the plain. They hightailed it out of there fast as they could an’ they was lucky to get away from ’em without stopping a bullet.’
Webb leaned forward from where he was now sitting on the desk top. ‘Few months before this happened, there’d been a shootin’ over in Cuero and that sure upped the temperature some. Hardin and a few others were in town settin’ up a cattle sale and they had a few drinks to help ’em on their way. Seems one of Jack’s deputies had been helping himself
to a few whiskies too many and he took it into his head to give Hardin a piece of his mind.’
Charlie Webb grinned at the Rangers and gave his cigar a deep draw before continuing.
‘This deputy, Morgan his name was, he weren’t satisfied leavin’ it at words. He swaggers out into the street after Hardin and the other Taylor boys and tells Hardin he’s puttin’ him under arrest.’ Webb laughed brokenly. ‘Goes for his gun. Way I heard the rest of it, young Hardin he lets Morgan get the damn thing all but clear an’ then he pulls his own pistol and whops two slugs into Morgan’s chest. Morgan went down like he’d been back-kicked by a brace of mules, not quite dead an’ hollerin’ for help. Hardin goes over to him, calm as you please, sets the pistol barrel close to Morgan’s head and gives him all the help he needs.’
Webb waited a few moments, enjoying the attention. His broad face broke into a smile and he gestured with his cigar, pantomiming Hardin’s actions.
‘Yes, sir, blasted ole J.B. Morgan’s head across the boardwalk and half-way up the wall of the general store.’ He pointed a finger towards the center of the room. ‘Dumb bastard!’ he said.
Lefty O’Neal pulled at one side of his moustache and suggested it would be a good idea to get back to what happened in Albuquerque. Marvin Peake glanced at Webb for permission to continue, wet his dry lips and carried on.
‘Like I said, like Charlie just explained, we was all jumpy as cats on heat, knowin’ that there could be a bloody battle any moment, any place. Even there in town. Well, we was headin’ down past the livery stable when someone, I can’t recall who it was exactly, but he says, ain’t they a couple of Taylor’s horse out front of the smithy? Jack, he quietens us down and steps over and takes a look and sure enough, it’s the right brand.
‘I don’t mind tellin’ you, I reckoned we stood with pretty good odds, bein’ six-handed an’ all and there only bein’ two of them. Course ...’ Peake rubbed at the side of his nose and wriggled his head a little, ‘ …we wasn’t to know which two. Not right off anyway. Jack, he sends one of the boys over to take a closer look and when he comes back we can see from the expression on his face it’s one of the big ones, Clements maybe, or Hardin, even Taylor hisself.
‘Course, it turned out to be Jim Taylor and Wes Hardin.’
Peake rubbed his nose again as if it was irritating him something dreadful. ‘That kind of changed the odds somethin’, accordin’ to my lights, but Jack Helm, he must’ve still reckoned we had ’em cold. He ordered one of us to untie the two mounts and lead ’em quietly up the street, Hardin an’ Taylor they’re inside talkin’ with the smithy and such. Maybe one of their horses is goin’ to need a shoe and sure enough when they pulled away, one of ’em’s got a limp at the front. They hear what’s goin’ on from inside and hurry out, the blacksmith close behind ’em. Soon as they hit the boards they’re smack into us. Half a dozen of us and all armed up like we was meanin’ business.
‘Hardin and Taylor they exchange glances and see their mounts’ve been moved up the street. Right then I thought we’d got ’em. Neither of those boys looked like they was about to make a fight of it. Jack, he must’ve thought so, too. He steps up towards ’em and his pistols already out of his holster and coverin’ the two of ’em.
‘“John Wesley Hardin,” he says, clear as day, “I’m arrestin’ you for the murder of Deputy J. B. Morgan in Cuero, April last.” Nobody moves for a minute, then Hardin he turns his head to Taylor an’ says, “Looks like the game is up, Jim. He’s got me to rights.” Taylor made some remark, I don’t know what. Jack motions with his gun for Hardin to step off the boardwalk so’s he could put the cuffs on him. He don’t move awful fast so Jack told Hamie Miller to get in there and shift him down. Hamie’s got a sawn-off tucked into his side and he looks like he’d use it if n he had to. Hardin seems to reckon this, too, on account of he widens his eyes when Hamie closes on him and nods and says okay an’ steps down towards him.’
Peake’s voice snagged in his throat and he coughed and snaked his tongue over his mouth.
‘Next thing I see, Jim Taylor makes some move towards the smith an’ Jack’s pistol swings round to cover him. Right about then, Hardin must’ve jumped Hamie. Anyways, Hamie’s staggerin’ back with blood comin’ from a busted nose an’ Hardin’s got the shotgun. Jack screams at him and tries to get a shot in but all Hardin does is pump both barrels into him from about fifteen feet.
‘Jack, he hits the ground like a sack of grain ’cept that he’s losing blood all over. Everyone’s shoutin’ and yellin’ but there’s no one doin’ much. Taylor he jerks a pistol from his belt an’ next thing I see he’s firin’ it into Jack Helm’s head.’
Peake paused to wipe a fine spray of spittle away from his chin; every eye in the room was on him.
‘I see him layin’ there an’ twitchin’, his hand an’ arm leapin’ clear off the ground, fingers curlin’ an’ all.’ Peake glanced quickly at Webb. ‘His head was half blown away. That didn’t seem to stop his hand
Peake faltered to a halt and Webb sighed and produced the bottle of brandy. Fortified, the man continued in a lower voice.
‘Hardin, he throwed the shotgun down and pulled his own pistol, him an’ Taylor they told us to back off while Hardin he ordered the blacksmith to fetch his mount and get on with changin’ his busted shoe.’
‘Five of you,’ Lefty O’Neal interrupted.
‘Huh?’
‘I said, there was five of you left alive.’
‘Yeah, I guess, yeah, that’s right, five.’
‘Two of them.’
‘Yeah, only—’
‘Only what?’
‘We’d seen what they’d done to Jack. Shot him in cold blood like that. They weren’t goin’ to bother none about droppin’ any one of us. Not after they’d killed a peace officer right there in the street.’
‘And the rest of the town?’ asked Lefty.
‘Hell, they’d locked up their doors and shuttered their windows and that was all they wanted to know.
Lefty shook his head, unwound his long legs and stretched them out before him. Peake waited to make sure the Ranger wasn’t about to ask any more questions.
‘Get on with it,’ said Webb impatiently. ‘Or have you finished this particular tale of glory?’
Marv Peake shrugged self-consciously. They kept us there at gunpoint while that shoe was fixed. Jack bleedin’ into the street all the time. Flies buzzin’ round him an’ such. One of the fellers, he asks Hardin if he can drag the body off but Hardin he just laughed and said he didn’t care if Jack Helm stayed there till he rot.’ Peake glanced at Webb once more. ‘Soon as the horse was shod, they rode out.’
‘An’ you got up a posse and chased after ’em?’ asked Lefty bitterly.
Peake didn’t answer. Not in words. The hangdog expression and the refusal to meet the Ranger’s eyes were answer enough.
There was silence in the room for some moments. Charlie Webb trying to think of something to say but words, for once, failing him. It was left to O’Neal to push his long frame up from the chair and look at the deputy sheriff and say: ‘You got some fine lawmen in these parts, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Meaning what?’ asked Webb, anger burring his voice. He knew only too well what the Ranger meant.
‘Meaning one man who’s foolhardy enough to go up against a couple of gunslingers without givin’ it a second’s thought, and five others who ain’t got the balls of a one-year-old bullock.’
He looked quickly at Peake to see if the man would react, but Peake was as unlikely to take on Lefty as he had been John Wesley Hardin.
Charlie Webb took a pace towards O’Neal, determined to show that he was unafraid. ‘What Jack Helm did was a brave act. Jack was a brave man and he deserved better than getting killed the way he did. Hardin and Taylor proved what sort of cowardly killers they are and I’ll tell you this, Mister Texas Ranger, I’ll tell all of you men, the next time either of those murderers show their face round me, they’ll
be the ones who get flattened in the street and don’t get back up till someone picks ’em up and throws ’em to the dogs.’ He jabbed a finger at the tall man’s chest. ‘You remember Charlie Webb said that. And what Charlie Webb says ain’t nobody goin’ to make a lie out of.’
Lefty O’Neal held Webb’s gaze for just long enough to let the man know that he thought he was talking through his ass. Then, without a word, he turned and led the other Rangers out of the lawman’s office.
‘All piss an’ vinegar, ain’t he?’ said Lamar as soon as they were outside.
Keogh chuckled good-humoredly. ‘Yeah, an’ always thought you had everyone else beat when it come to braggin’ ’bout what you done and what you’re goin’ to do.’
Lamar whipped off his Stetson and flapped it hard towards Keogh’s face, the Ranger shielding himself with his arm and still laughing.
‘Cut it out, you two,’ said O’Neal, gripping the pommel of his saddle and hauling himself up. ‘You’ll likely get all the fightin’ you can handle where you’re headin’.’
Both men stopped, stared at him. ‘Where’s that?’ Keogh asked.
‘Albuquerque.’
‘What in God’s name for?’ asked Lamar.
O’Neal shrugged and half-grinned. ‘Look around. Careful, though. More than half the folk down there think Hardin’s some kind of hero for gettin’ rid of Helm the way he did. You watch you don’t get backshot, that’s all.’
‘How ’bout you an’ Wes?’ asked Keogh.
‘Hardin’s got a place of his own. Young wife. We’ll drop down that way and pay a social call.’
‘Make good apple pie, does she?’ grinned Lamar.
Lefty O’Neal laughed. ‘Maybe we’ll find out.’
Hart the Regulator 8 Page 5
