“I have Micah’s place across the street now,” the gambler said.
He moved out. Colter turned to watch, but made no other move. Keeping Betsy McDonnell as his shield in front of him, O’Rourke carefully stepped over the dead man at the entranceway, and pushed through the batwing doors.
Almost immediately the man was screaming, and Betsy was falling to the boardwalk. Colter rushed outside, seeing Paddy O’Rourke dancing some macabre waltz, off the boardwalk, onto the middle of Union Street. Colter came out, the LeMat in his hand, seeing everything in front of him, and Betsy rolling herself up into a ball, her back against The Blarney Stone’s wall. Three other men lay dead in the street; and standing at the northwest corner, Hawken rifle in his arms, was Jed Reno. On the southwest side, Mix Range, his head no longer bleeding, stood with a Spencer repeater. Colter spotted another dead man, hanging halfway over the balcony of Slade’s Saloon. So Reno and Range had taken care of the other assassins, Slade and O’Rourke men.
Now, in the middle of Union Street, Paddy O’Rourke danced, spinning, screaming. The pistol belched once. The Irishman wore his green coat, and the locusts had attacked it without mercy. The coat appeared alive as the insects ate the green-dyed thread, devouring it.
Violence had indeed turned into some Old Testament Hell.
The gambler finally stopped spinning, and brought the pistol up. That’s when Mrs. Sien Slootmaekers shot him in the head with a Mississippi Rifle. The large-caliber ball tore through Paddy O’Rourke’s skull, and blew out what remained of his brains. The man fell, instantly dead, and the locusts flocked back onto the green coat.
CHAPTER 39
Some towns, Tim Colter believed, had to be worth saving.
Violence was not one of them.
The locusts moved on, carried by the wind, and by grass and shrubs and anything green that they could eat. Betsy McDonnell had been wearing a green-striped dress that day. By the time she sat in Tim Colter’s office, the dress hung in threads, the white remaining, the green gone.
Like most of the hills and all the land surrounding the town of Violence. Until the wind had blown on toward the south, thousands, perhaps millions, of locusts had devoured the grass, leaving the country for greener pastures—as the saying went—and reducing this part of the territory into nothing but dirt and the remnants, the leafless branches of scrub and brush. When the wind blew—and the wind always blew—dust peppered the sky.
A week after, as Harper’s Weekly eventually would call it, “The Last Fight Of Violence,” trains no longer stopped in Violet, Idaho Territory, formerly Dakota Territory, soon-to-be Wyoming Territory. The U.P. supplies had been rerouted to either Cheyenne or Laramie City. Most of the businessmen—those that had not been on the same side of Union Street and on the same block as The Blarney Stone (for the south side of that block was now ashes)—had packed up their valuables and moved on.
By the middle of August, the only buildings left standing—for scrap lumber usually proved hard to find in this country—were Aloysius Murden’s land office, the marshal’s office (it came in handy to have a solid deputy who knew his way around hammer and nail), and what had been the schoolhouse and before that Jed Reno’s trading post, or what remained of that.
On this hot, dry day, a few Union Pacific railroaders had returned to the town of Violence, loading up the remaining supplies at the abandoned depot to deliver them to the points west, where the end of track lay . . . for the time being . . . for the U.P.’s side of the glorious transcontinental railroad.
Mayor Jasper Monroe was gone. Some people said he ran away on an eastbound train. Others claimed to have seen him riding a mule southeast, toward Denver City down in the Colorado country. A few said he had been killed by Indians. Or had fled west. Or had been carried away by millions of locusts.
Jed Reno kept asking Tim Colter why he stayed here. He should be taking his bride-to-be back to Oregon, or at least to Boise City—the territorial capital—but Colter said he knew what he was doing. He was waiting. He had one final job to do in Violence.
And on August 30, 1868, that came to pass.
Clint Warren rode down empty Union Street and stopped in front of the marshal’s office. Grinning widely, he swung down from the saddle and walked to what remained of the boardwalk. Deputy United States Marshal Tim Colter sat outside, leaning back in his chair, whittling.
“Afternoon, Colter,” the rancher said.
“Howdy.” Colter focused on trimming that little piece of pine into a toothpick.
“Town sure has changed, hasn’t it?” the rancher said.
“It’s quiet now,” Colter said. “Peaceful.”
“Where’s your posse, boy?”
Colter folded the knife blade and stuck the Barlow knife into his vest pocket. He examined his toothpick, seemed satisfied, and stuck it in his mouth, moving it from the left side to the right.
“Reno took Betsy to Clear Creek,” Colter answered.
“And that man-killer you pinned a badge on?”
Colter studied the rancher. “Oh, you mean Mix Range? Well, I heard Texas had sent a peace officer up here looking for him. So I sent Mix to the territorial capital.”
The big rancher leaned against the column. “I won, boy. This’ll be the biggest shipping yard in Idaho Territory, come next year. I’ll make that Abilene town look like nothin’. Cattle will be shippin’ east with my brand. An’ I’ll be richer than God.”
Dust blew, turning the blue sky into an ugly beige.
“Last I heard, Clint,” Colter said, “even Texas longhorns need to eat.” He pointed at the barren land.
But Clint Warren only laughed. “I had my three boys drive the herd south. North of Denver City. Grass’ll return next spring, Colter, and you know that. Maybe even richer than it is now. And when it’s back, all this land—all of it—will be mine.”
“What about the farmers?” Colter asked.
The big rancher turned around to spit in the dirt. After wiping his mouth, he stepped off the boardwalk, went to his horse, and opened one of the saddlebags. He pulled out a handful of papers and stepped back onto the boardwalk. He held out his booty toward Colter, who again shifted the toothpick, and plucked out one paper.
“See for yerself, Marshal,” the rancher said.
Oh, Tim Colter knew what he held. He had been waiting for days for Warren to ride in. Aloysius Murden had met with all of those poor Flemish farmers, and had settled their affairs. Beaten by the land—or a plague of grasshoppers and locusts and the brutality of nature in this wild country—the farmers had loaded their wagons with what remained of their fortunes. Some had boarded eastbound trains, before the trains stopped their regular stops in Violence. Most had driven off to the east, to Nebraska or Kansas. A few had pushed south toward the Purgatoire River in the Colorado country. Many had decided to try Oregon, maybe Washington, or maybe California to the west. And several had said they would go back to Boston, Massachusetts, and then maybe see about finding a way back home.
Even Mrs. Sien Slootmaekers was gone, with her husband and her late son’s baby sister, back east. Exactly where, Tim Colter did not know. But he wished the family peace, and the best of luck.
“You can read, boy,” Clint Warren said. “All this land is mine now. All of it. I bought out them dumb-oaf foreigners, the idiot plow-pushers. I told you I’d win. And I won.”
Colter looked at the big man’s hands. He wore no gloves on this day, and scars covered those hands, the misshapen knuckles, the bent joints, and stiff fingers.
Colter looked at the document he held, and then, with a wry grin, he returned the piece of paper to Clint Warren.
“You and Aloysius Murden make a fine pair,” Colter said. After a short whistle, he rocked again on his chair. “I thought Jasper Monroe was your main man, till he ran out of here. So it was that fat man from Boston all this time.” Colter’s head shook. “Never really considered him for that.”
“For what?” Warren demanded.
&nbs
p; “For being that smart.”
Actually, Tim Colter had pegged Murden for the rancher’s primary partner after Mr. Yost fled town after the locust disaster and started a boardinghouse in Laramie City. Murden was the only one left, and Colter had arrested him two days ago.
Warren lurched forward, and his hands clenched into massive fists. “What you talkin’ ’bout, boy. I’m the smart one. I got all them claims. All that land . . . it’s mine . . . now.”
Now was the time. Tim Colter stopped rocking. He let the legs of the chair rest on the wooden planks, and his head tilted up at the big brute of a rancher.
“Clint,” he said easily, “I’m going to give you a lesson. About the Homestead Act of 1862.”
Now the rancher looked like the imbecile he was.
“Any citizen of the United States of America,” Colter said, “or even an intended citizen can get for his own one hundred and sixty acres.”
“That’s right.” The big man’s head bobbed. “And there was a passel of them foreign-tongued sodbusters.”
Tim Colter gave the rancher that much with an agreeable nod. “All the man has to do is live on the land, make a few improvements—like building a twelve-by-fourteen home . . . and grow some crops.” Colter waited. Warren just grinned. “There seems to be some oversight in that department, by the way.”
Now Warren’s eyes narrowed, as did that smile.
“Twelve by fourteen, I mean,” Colter said. “Is that feet? Inches? Yards? Miles wouldn’t make sense. Anyway.” Colter waved his left hand in a dismissive gesture. “That part doesn’t really matter.”
Warren wet his lips.
“The big part is this,” Colter said. “Then in five years, the homesteader can file for his patent—basically, that’s what you’d call a deed, or a deed of title—show his proof of residency, the improvements that are required by President Abraham Lincoln’s law to the local land office. That would be Mr. Murden’s land office.”
“Yeah,” Warren said.
“All the claimant has to do is,” Colter said, “once the land agent . . . or the investigator for the General Land Office . . . has signed off on everything . . . is pay a small fee to record everything. Or he could do that after . . . hmmmm . . . I think only six months, but he’d have to pay a dollar and twenty-five cents per acre. That’s two hundred bucks. Pretty good chunk of money for most farmers. After that, the land’s all his. Free for him to keep farming. Or sell. Pretty good deal. Wasn’t anything like that when my folks left Danville, Pennsylvania.”
Clint Warren laughed. “And that’s what I’m doin’, Marshal. I’m takin’ over them dumb-arse foreigners’ claims. So all this land . . . well . . . it’s mine. I told you I’d win, Colter. And I’ve won. I told you this wasn’t farm country. It’s cattle country. And next spring, that’s all you’re gonna see around here. Cattle. Longhorn cattle. Wearin’ my brand.”
Colter pushed himself out of the chair.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Clint.” Now it was Tim Colter’s turn to smile. “You overlooked two critical items about the late president’s Act of 1862. First, the farmers have to stay on this land for five years. You’re probably four, maybe four and a half, short. After all, those ‘sodbusters,’ as you call them, weren’t even here for six months.”
Clint Warren ground his teeth.
“And there’s one other thing. You’re from Texas, right?”
“Damn right I am,” Warren snapped.
“Bet you fought for the Union during the Rebellion?”
“You are damned right. I was—but then I switched to the gray, bucko.”
“Well, there’s one other thing about the Homestead Act, Clint,” Colter said, staying calm. “It stipulates that it’s open to anyone who has never raised arms against the U.S. government. That’s why you see freedmen and foreigners—those who intend to become citizens of the United States of America—applying for homesteads. And not a bunch of Rebels like you.”
Colter waited until the big man’s weak brain could comprehend what he had just been told.
Shaking his head with a wry laugh, Colter brought his hands to his hips. “I swear, Clint, this caught me by surprise, too. I never figured . . . of all people, you . . . you would be played for a fool—hook, line, and sinker—the way that fat Yankee, Aloysius Murden, just played you.”
Colter pointed at the papers still clutched in Warren’s massive hands.
“How much did you pay Murden for those papers, Clint? Papers that are utterly worthless to you?”
The big man roared with rage, and stormed onto what had once been Union Street. He moved quickly for such a big man, making a beeline for the land agent’s office. Tim Colter wore no gun that day, but now he darted inside his office, found the gun rig, and buckled it across his waist. He came out of his office, stepped onto Union Street, and walked toward the land office.
In front of the office, in the center of the deserted street, stood Clint Warren. One hand rested on the grip of the Army Colt in the holster on his hip. The other hand pointed at the door, with one crooked, massive finger extended.
“Murden, you miserable damned Yankee. Come out here, you gutless wonder, and I’ll give you the same thing I gave to your stupid partner. Come out here, boy, and I’ll stomp you into oblivion . . . just like I done to Gates.”
“And Eugene Harker?” Colter called out behind him.
The rancher’s rage was so intense, the damned fool answered.
“Just like that uppity Negro.”
The door opened, but the man who stepped outside was not fat, foolish Aloysius Murden. In fact, two men stepped out. One was Jed Reno. The other was Mix Range.
The rancher stepped back, turning in surprise toward a smiling Tim Colter.
“Witnesses for your confession, Clint,” Tim Colter said. “Not that we needed it. Murden already confessed. We were just waiting for you to come to town. So that you could talk yourself onto the gallows.”
Clint Warren took two steps back. He looked at Colter, then back at Reno and Range. Then he ran.
CHAPTER 40
For such a big, brutal man, the man who ran the town of Violence moved like the wind. Maybe it was fear that drove him, but Clint Warren had a healthy head start. He bolted across the street, and angled toward the depot. Tim Colter, leaving his LeMat holstered, went after him, and did not look back toward Reno or Range.
Warren drew his revolver, barking out orders. Most of the railroaders merely raised their hands. Two leaped off a handcar, and Warren showed some amazing prowess when he leaped onto the cart. Rolling over, he snapped off one shot at Tim Colter, but the bullet spanged harmlessly off a pile of ruined rails.
The big rancher came up, fired again—this bullet sailed well over Colter’s head—and then the man reached for the pump, pushing the handle down, then letting it rise upward, to push it again. The cart moved, westward, toward Laramie City. Clint Warren was a big man, and soon he had the cart moving at a pretty good clip. By then, Tim Colter stood on the rails, watching the fast-moving cart move away, far away, from the long arm of the law.
Cursing, Colter looked behind him as Jed Reno and Mix Range ran toward him. Then an Irish voice sang out, “Here, Marshal . . . with our compliments.”
The railroaders pushed another cart down the rails, the hand-pump moving up and down at a fast rate, and Colter moved alongside the track, picking up his pace, shoving the LeMat into its holster. He had barely enough time to glance back at Reno and Range. The distance was too far, Colter thought. They would never catch up with him in time, so he had to leave them behind. He ran closer to the rails, reached up, and leaped, grabbing hold of an iron tie-down, and pulled himself onto the cart.
Turning back toward his deputies, he shouted, “Get your horses! Get your horses!” Seconds later, he was at the pump, working the heavy iron bar, up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Violence was soon behind him.
A wild killer who needed to hang was in front of him.
They sped across the locust-devoured landscape. Moving west. Moving fast. Moving far past what once had been a town.
Ahead of him, Clint Warren turned, letting the pump move up and down. The big man drew his pistol, eared back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet did not come close.
Tim Colter drew the LeMat, but he knew better than to waste lead. Jed Reno had taught him better than that, so he shoved the big revolver back inside the leather, and kept working the lever.
Down and up.
Down and up.
Down and up.
He wondered about the odds. A lawman, pursuing a felon, on a railroad handcar—for the second time in weeks. How often could that happen? Had it ever happened? He might make the National Police Gazette.
Wind . . . that omnipresent wind . . . whipped his face. He kept moving, working the lever, looking ahead of him. Warren snapped another shot. This time, Colter heard the bullet whine off a boulder to his left. That’s when Clint Warren understood that the lawman was gaining on him. He shoved the pistol inside his waistband, and returned to work the iron contraption that made the handcar roll.
They crossed the first trestle, a small one.
Colter felt the rough iron bar bite into his palms, his fingers, putting calluses atop his calluses. He looked back toward the town that had once been Violence. He couldn’t see either Jed Reno or Mix Range, and he wondered how long it would take them to saddle their mounts. Then he focused on the man running from him. He worked the iron bars, up and down, down and up. His muscles ached. He strained, gritting his teeth, pushing the heavy bar.
The cart picked up speed. But so did the one Clint Warren drove.
Colter remembered. The last time he had chased an outlaw with a handcar, he had lucked out because Indians had destroyed a bridge. But they had crossed the one trestle, and Colter knew the U.P. crews had quickly repaired that burned bridge. Yet, now he noticed something off to the north and south. White puffs of smoke. Indian signs. But what could that mean? Again, he took a brief moment to look behind him, searching for dust that meant horses galloping after him, horses that would be ridden by Jed Reno and Mix Range.
The Edge of Violence Page 25
