As suddenly as it had started, the fighting stopped. Tim and Jed were each propped up on one knee, back to back in the middle of the street beneath a lingering halo of burnt powder and dust. “My gawd!” shouted one of the three remaining railroaders, “They’ve kilt Martin Barr!”
Tim punched out his spent cartridges and shoved new ones into their place, saying over his shoulder, “Jed, are you all right?”
“I’m shot, but not that bad,” Jed replied, his voice straining against the pain along his bloody forearm. “What about you?”
“Same here,” Tim said. “Let’s back away to some cover while they figure out what went wrong.”
Chapter 2
Tim and Jed Strange slowly moved away from the center of the street. Tim was limping from the bullet in his thigh. Jed helped him as much as possible, although the bullet that had torn up his own left forearm left him weak and nauseous. With the burnt gunpowder smoke adrift around them, the twins retreated like wounded wolf pups, bloodied but still game. The two frightened bays had backed off twenty yards and milled about in the street. Onlookers had come forward cautiously, making the horses more nervous, until Jed whistled to them. At the familiar sound, the bays ventured over to them at a trot, snorting and nickering under their breath.
“Easy, horse,” Jed whispered, helping to support Tim and at the same keeping an eye on the stunned railroad workers, making sure they hadn’t yet gotten over their shock and begun to retaliate. On the boardwalk across the street, more men had come running to see the aftermath of the gunfight now that the firing had stopped. One of the three railroaders lifted his head up enough to look from the bodies on the ground over to Tim and Jed, huddled against their horses.
“There they are!” the stunned railroader shouted. “They’re getting away!”
Jed struggled, trying to shove his wounded brother up into the saddle. “Help me, Tim, pull up!” he pleaded. But Tim couldn’t swing his bleeding leg over the saddle, and together, spent, they both crumbled to the ground. “If they come at us now, we’re done for,” Jed said in a trembling voice.
But as the railroaders drew together for courage and stalked forward, the sound of a fast-moving horse resounded from north of town. Two pistol shots suddenly sounded. Jed almost turned Tim loose to return fire. But then as the men came closer, Jed and Tim saw them stop abruptly and raise their hands up chest-high. Sheriff Connally slid his big brown paint horse down onto its haunches and slipped from his saddle before the animal righted itself. His pistol covered the men in the street as he spoke.
“I’ll shoot the next man that takes a step!” the sheriff bellowed. He gave a sidelong glance to the twins. “Tim? Jed? Are you boys all right?” Neither of them answered, but seeing them both still alive was enough for Connally. He shifted his gaze back to the men in front of him. “You drunken bunch of bastards,” he raged, looking into the bloodshot eyes. “For two cents I’d haul back and let them kill the lot of yas!”
“We’re deputies!” one railroader offered, pointing at Martin Barr’s body in the street. “He deputized us! They kilt him! So don’t jump on us! What about them? They’re murderers, he said.”
“He ain’t saying nothing now, though, is he, you gandy-dancing, bo-shanked bunch of peckerwoods!” The railroaders backed off, but not before Connally forced himself through the throng toward the one doing the talking, and swiped a hard blow across his forehead with his pistol barrel. The railroader went down, a thick hand clutched to his forehead. “Get him up and out of my sight!” Sheriff Connally commanded.
The other men reached down, grabbed their dazed friend by his shoulders, and pulled him back. “What about them two, Sheriff?” one man ventured. “They did kill Martin Barr.”
“As stupid as he was, somebody had to kill him,” Connally shouted. “I just wish it was his mother on the day he was born! Now git, all of yas, before I cut loose.”
The men moved farther away, one of them grumbling aloud, “You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“What?” Connally shouted. “Jurisdiction, you say?” A shot from his pistol kicked up dirt at their boots. They scurried back like frightened rats until the lot of them stood behind the protection of an abandoned buckboard wagon.
Sheriff Connally hurried over to the twins. “Take it easy, boys,” he said, seeing the cocked Colt still in Tim’s hand. “This is all a mistake.” He moved in and looped Tim’s arm over his shoulder, pistol and all. “Let’s get him off the street. He’s bleeding like a stuck hog.”
Willard Chapin hurried in as Jed and Sheriff Connally helped Tim along the dirt street, the two bays following behind them. One of the horses raised its head toward Chapin’s buckboard wagon and let out a threatening nicker. “I’m not with them,” Willard Chapin said, seeing the cold fury in Sheriff Connally’s steel gray eyes. “How can I help?”
“Is there a doctor in this mud-sucking hole?” Connally hissed. “This boy don’t know it but he’s about to bleed out on us.”
“Follow me,” said Willard Chapin, ignoring Sheriff Connally’s insult. “We’ll take him to Doc Eisenhower’s, if Doc ain’t already headed out to help those wounded men back there.”
“To hell with their wounds! Let ’em pour whiskey on them. These boys have been unjustly bush-whacked, far as I’m concerned.”
Propped up between Sheriff Connally and Jed Strange, Tim’s head started to droop from loss of blood. Yet he still tried to ask Connally, “What was . . . they talking about . . . murder?”
“Shut up, Tim,” Sheriff Connally said, still coiled tight in his rage and unable to shed it. “I’m here to straighten things out.”
In an upstairs office above a rickety saddle shop, the white-haired doctor stood up from dressing Tim’s wound and sighed, shaking his head. Tim faded in and out of consciousness from loss of blood and the short dose of laudanum he’d taken. “You boys are down to feathers and bones, the both of you,” the doctor said, turning his tired eyes to Jed Strange. “I’m afraid to give him any more for pain, least it kill him.”
“It . . . don’t hurt none . . . Doctor,” Tim managed to say in a weak voice.
“Hell, it never does,” Doc Eisenhower said in a gruff, wizened tone. “That’s why everybody enjoys getting shot, I reckon.” He turned back to Jed Strange, asking, “What have you boys been eating lately? His blood’s thinner than mountain air.”
“We’ve been doing all right,” Jed responded, his face flushing red with stung pride.
“Yes, I can see that.” Doc Eisenhower looked at Willard Chapin and said in a blunt tone, “Willard, step yourself over to Gertie’s, and tell her I said to cook up a mess of calf liver about half raw. This boy needs something pumping in his veins real quick.” He jerked a nod at the bandage he’d placed on Jed’s arm while waiting for Tim’s wound to congeal, adding, “Tell her to fix double helpings. This one’s wounded too, and paler than Cull’s mustache.”
“I ain’t hungry,” Jed lied grudgingly as Willard Chapin headed for Gertie’s boardinghouse.
“Of course you’re not, but indulge me,” the white-haired doctor said to Jed Strange. The room was hot, and thick with the metallic stench of drying blood. Doc Eisenhower wiped his hands on a blood-soaked towel, then pitched it on a pile in a corner. “Now then, Sheriff, if you’ll permit me, I’ll go attend those railroaders, if they ain’t gotten drunk and forgot all about it.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Sheriff Connally said, rising from his spot against the wall.
“Don’t thank me, just pay me,” Doc Eisenhower quipped with a faint grin. Rolling down his shirtsleeves and picking up his black bag from his desk, he left the office and walked down the squeaking stairs. On the surgery table, Tim raised his head with much effort and looked down the length of his torn trousers, and at the bandage wrapped around his thigh. “My only . . . pair of jeans, gone,” he offered.
“Don’t worry, they still make trousers,” Sheriff Connally said. “The main thing is you’re both alive. I knew full well that you boys had noth
ing to do with Elvin Bray’s murder.”
While the doctor had attended the wounded twins, Sheriff Connally had filled them in on what had happened in St. Joseph. Tim shook his exhausted head and let himself slump back down on the table. “I swear . . . we must’ve been talking to Bray . . . shortly before he died. It don’t seem right, a good man like him . . . stabbed to death.”
“Don’t talk right now, Tim,” the sheriff said, resting a hand on Tim Strange’s shoulder. “Let your brother tell me.” He turned to Jed Strange. “Was there anybody else around when you left the office?”
“No, Sheriff, not that we noticed anyway.” His mind went to the two men they’d encountered later that night. “We had some unwelcome company on the river trail. They might have been coming from the same direction. They were definitely the types who might do that sort of thing. They sure tried to kill us. I think they might have been following us.”
Connally knew Jed was telling the truth, for he had seen the tracks of two other riders on his way to Tracy Sidings. “All right, tell me all about them,” Sheriff Connally said. “But start back, to where you two first rode into St. Joe. Tell me everything—where you were headed, and why. Don’t leave anything out. I know you’re both innocent, but it’s important that I hear everything, in case somebody else tries accusing you.”
Sheriff Connally listened as Jed told him everything, from the time after their mother’s funeral right up to when they’d ridden into Martin Barr’s ill-fated trap. Connally looked at both of them as Jed spoke, and couldn’t help but feel sorrow for them. They were too young to have had so much go wrong for them, yet they carried it well, he thought. They were just two kids who should still be in school, but were instead sitting here hungry, whip-handle thin, and nursing wounds that were cast upon them for no good reason.
Sheriff Connally sat silent for a long moment after Jed had finished talking. Finally when he spoke, he did so with a wince and a sigh, his eyes cast down at the wooden floor. “Boys,” he said, unable to face either of them, “it seems like you two have been handed a raw deal ever since your pa’s death.”
“His murder, you mean,” Jed cut in.
“Well, yes, his murder,” said the sheriff. “I know it’s been rough on both of you, what with your sister gone and your ma turning sick and dying. I know you’ve been living on a lick and a promise—”
“We . . . ain’t complaining,” Tim offered in a weak voice.
“I know you ain’t,” Connally said, “but I reckon I am on your behalf. Now, I know you ain’t going to like hearing this, but I need for you to stay here for a day or two, just till I get this thing ironed out for you. Most likely a circuit judge will want to hear what you’ve got to say. After that I promise you’ll be free to go.”
“Free to go?” asked Jed. “You mean you’ll be holding us in custody? Why? You know we didn’t kill Elvin Bray.”
“Because that’s just the way the law works, Jed,” Connally said. “I don’t like the thought of detaining you any more than you do, although to be honest, you’d be better off never stepping foot into the Territory. But the fact is, you can both use some food and rest, and so could your horses. I saw how poorly they look. Holding you here is the best thing that could happen to you, if you’ll look at it in the right light.”
“Sheriff Connally,” Tim said, raising his head slightly, “you have always been . . . a man we trust. But . . . we’ve got to find our sister . . . and the men who killed Pa. You’d do the same . . . if it was you.”
“I know, boys. You needn’t convince me. If it weren’t for my responsibilities in St. Joe, I’d be seriously considering riding with you. But back to right here and now. Look, boys, I’m trying to ask you as a favor . . . to stay here, help me get this thing settled. You want to help see Elvin’s killers brought to justice, don’t you?”
“You know we do,” said Jed Strange.
“All right, then. Will you do this for me?” Sheriff Connally looked back and forth between them.
A silence passed as the twins looked at one another. Then Tim said from his surgery table, “All right, Sheriff Connally, we’ll do what you say . . . but then we’re headed to Indian Territory.” Tim relaxed back down, then asked, “Sheriff . . . how did you feel the first time you . . . killed a man?”
“I felt terrible, Tim, the same as you’re feeling right now. But like you, it was forced on me.” Something passed over Connally’s eyes for a second. “To tell the truth, if I could go back and change it, I’d as soon it be me that laid dead in the street that day.” He took a long breath, then let it out with resolve. “But that’s what was dealt me, and that’s what I done with it. Try not to think about it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I—I didn’t kill anybody out there, did I?” Jed asked.
“No, but you shot the hell out of a couple, according to Willard. The only one dead is Martin Barr. That’s no big loss. The stupid bastard would’ve walked off a cliff sooner or later, I reckon. Don’t worry about the charges, though. Willard Chapin saw it all. Said Barr started the whole thing. The railroaders fired first. If they had a real sheriff here, he’d be charging them with assault. Don’t worry about it. The ground is full of fools and want-to-be’s. Martin Barr was just shining his play badge on the wrong corner.”
“Did you know him well?” Jed asked.
“As well as I cared to,” said Connally. “He spent the first half of life on the wrong side of the law. The second half I reckon he wanted to spend upholding it. They say he rode with Coleman Younger and his brothers for a while after the war.”
“The Younger gang? The James boys?” Jed appeared stunned by the revelation.
“Yep, so rumor has it.” He turned his gaze to Tim. “I reckon if there’s any truth to it, you can rightly say you dusted down one of the original Boys.”1
“I don’t want to . . . say nothing about it. Period,” said Tim, his voice a bit stronger now. “To tell you the truth, I feel sick thinking about it.”
“That’s a good sign, young man,” Connally said. “I’d be worried for your immortal soul if I thought you felt otherwise.”
Willard Chapin returned with a large platterful of well-done steak and red, rare calf beef liver, covered by a grease and bloodstained white cloth. “Gertie said she holds no responsibility for the rare liver. I told her it was Doc’s orders to serve it that way.”
“What’s the word on the street?” Sheriff Connally asked, ignoring Willard’s remarks.
“Just what you’d expect,” said Willard. “The railroaders are gathering at Copley’s Tavern, cussing, talking about hanging. Saying, how the hell do these boys get steak served to ’em, right after shooting the blazes out of Martin Barr and the night crew.”
Connally nodded, thinking things over. “Have they built a jail here yet?”
“Yep. Halfway up the block, a brand-new three-cell beauty, as Barr called it. Why? You can’t arrest those men. You’ve got no jurisdiction . . .” His words trailed, remembering how Connally had reacted to that same statement earlier.
“I’m not planning on arresting anybody,” replied Connally. “I need a safe place for these two to hole up and heal till they’re well enough to ride.”
“Well, it’s probably the safest place in this town for them, and you too,” Willard said. “Barr had the key in his pocket. I’ll go by the barbershop and get it for you—the barber here being our undertaker as well. The night workers will soon go off to their shacks. But it’s the ones coming in tonight you’ll need to worry about. There’s a lot more of them.”
“I figured as much,” said Sheriff Connally. He looked at the faces of Jed and Tim Strange, and saw the concern in their eyes. “Don’t worry, boys, we’ll be all right here.”
Ordinarily, Duncan Grago would have ridden wide of any nearby town after what he and Sep Howard had done in St. Joseph, but this was different. They’d come upon the hoofprints of Tim and Jed Strange’s bay horses near the river where the twins had given the
m the slip, and had been trailing them ever since. When the two outlaws had heard shooting, they pulled off the trail and took cover in a dry creek bed. From there, they’d seen Sheriff Connally ride toward Tracy Sidings like a bat out of hell as the sound of gunfire continued unabated. After an hour of silence had passed and no more shots were heard, Duncan Grago spoke with a grin.
“I can’t resist seeing what happened to those two pumpkin busters, can you?”
Sep Howard was hesitant. He said, “Dunc, your brother Newt is awfully anxious for us to get back down to the Territory. We’re supposed to meet Julius Byler on the way. He’s waiting on us outside of Fort Smith.”
“We’ve got time,” said Duncan. With no more word on it, he jabbed his horse up from the creek bed and urged it on toward Tracy Sidings. Coming into town along an alley that passed by the town dump, the two outlaws rode toward the sound of angry cursing coming from a run-down tavern off the main street. Out front of Copley’s Tavern, they reined their horses loosely for a quick getaway if needed, then slipped inside among the gathered railroad workers. As they ordered two beers and a bottle of rye whiskey, a railroader with a pistol barrel welt on his forehead noticed them and fanned three of his fellow railroaders aside.
“What have we got here?” he asked, scowling at Duncan Grago and Sep Howard. “More strangers riding in on us?”
As the others turned to the two outlaws, Duncan Grago lowered his beer mug toward the drunken workers. “Whoa, boys. We heard the shooting from a mile off and just came to investigate.” He jerked his thumb toward Sep Howard. “This here is Al Townsend, I’m Earl Jones. We’ve been tracking a bunch of cattle rustlers all the way from the other side of St. Joseph. Two of them split off from the others and headed this way over three weeks ago. The two we’re after are look-alikes, riding a couple of underfed bays.”
“Tarnation, that’s them!” one of the railroaders exclaimed. The drunken men all looked at one another, then the one with the blue welt on his forehead stepped forward.
The Shadow of a Noose Page 4
