by Monty McCord
“They already know,” Joe stated in a matter-of-fact tone. The two men turned and faced him.
“How?” Carter said.
“Their Negro cook lit out of town in a buckboard right after the fight.”
The two looked at each other. They glanced at Joe and, for the first time, noticed that blood covered his coat tail and left thigh. They turned and walked out of the marshal’s office.
Elizabeth Ranswood was a handsome woman of forty-three years. She sat erect on a velvet-upholstered armless chair and waited for Lyman to speak. Her red hair was piled and pinned on top of her head, her blue taffeta dress immaculate. Dalmar stood near the divan that Lyman was seated on. The frightened Negro looked at the floor and kneaded the hat in his hands. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he appeared ready to run away.
“May I get you something, Mister Lyman?” Mrs. Ranswood asked. The maid stood nearby awaiting orders.
“Uh, no, ma’am. Thank you.” He sat nervously, momentarily awestruck by the rich woodwork and fancy furniture that filled the parlor of Hobe Ranswood’s home.
“Well, Mister Lyman, what is it that’s so important?” She eyed Dalmar, then held her gaze on Lyman.
“Uh, Missus Ranswood, uh, well, Dalmar here, well you see, Dalmar went with Hobe, I mean Mister Ranswood, Bill, and Arliss to town.”
“I’m aware of that, Mister Lyman. I asked him to pick up some things for me,” she said, glancing at Dalmar again.
“Yeah, uh, it’s just that . . . Well, what I mean to say is, Dalmar just got back and brought along with him some bad news. Some fearful bad news.” Lyman swallowed hard. He could hear a clock ticking that he hadn’t noticed before. “They was celebratin’ in town there, and uh, Arliss got this new pistol, and he was shooting it off, and the marshal showed up, and . . . well . . . there was a shooting . . .”
“Oh my God! I told him not to buy Arliss that gun, I told him! Is Arliss all right? Well, is he, Frank?” Missus Ranswood’s calm demeanor had elevated to a raging storm.
“Well, no, but that’s not all.”
“Tell me, damn it, is he hurt?”
“The truth is, ma’am, they’re all dead.” Lyman was shocked at his bluntness, but she’d pushed him so, he had to get it out. “Arliss may have tried shooting Deputy Mundy, and he shot him . . . along with Hobe and Bill.”
She sat statue silent. Her eyes stared deeply into Lyman’s, looking for some reasonable explanation. “Why would you say something like that . . . to me?” she said, her frosty voice holding back emotion.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s the truth. Dalmar here saw it with his own two eyes. Ain’t that right, Dalmar?”
The cook nodded furiously, tears streaming down his face.
“Speak up, Dalmar, tell Missus Ranswood it’s so,” Lyman said. Dalmar looked at Lyman, and then toward Mrs. Ranswood’s feet.
“Dat’s right, missus, just as Mister Lemon said, they all dead, all three.”
“I’m right sorry, Missus Ranswood, I am. I sent Chip into town to find out what happened. I told him to git right back as soon as he could. You just tell me what you want done about it . . . when you feel like it, that is.” Lyman could see that she had stopped listening.
CHAPTER TWO
Joe noticed the stranger behind him as he rode along the Neosho River between Yates Center and Council Grove. He’d stayed well back, too far to identify. Joe had changed his course a little, and the rider followed it. He stopped the bay and extended his spyglass. The rider wore chaps and a light-toned hat, with the brim front turned upward, and rode a buckskin with black points. A meeting would be necessary soon to prevent an ambush if that was the stranger’s intent.
As the bay plodded along, Joe’s thoughts drifted back to his last days in Baxter Springs. The inquest was an uneasy affair. The two witnesses appeared, but one of them seemed confused. The proper chain of events was eventually brought to light as if some ancient mystery had been solved. Sitting in the witness chair and facing Elizabeth Ranswood was unpleasant. Her eyes were red, but she didn’t cry during the proceedings. Next to her was Frank Lyman and, in the back row, sat another familiar face from the Rocking R. Lute Kinney seemed dead behind the cold dark eyes. He sat motionless during the inquest, and when it ended and the spectators filed out, he was still seated. He made a point to meet Joe’s stare before he stood, put on his hat, and walked out. He had worn his pistols into the courtroom in spite of Judge Drake’s orders.
Later, when Marshal Oster left Mayor White’s office, he summoned Joe. The mayor had decided that it was best for the town to thank Joe for his service and wish him well. The mayor felt this action would possibly preclude an attack on the town by the Rocking R cowboys, and most particularly, Lute Kinney. Marshal Oster thought Kinney was wanted somewhere but could find no posters on him.
“Gawdamn, Joe. I hate this. That idiot White, why, he don’t know shit from sugar. It ain’t just anybody can do this job. And I need the help of somebody who can do the job. That’s you. When these herds come in, and them damned cowboys start raisin’ hell, well, you know the tussles we have. What’s that peckerhead ’spect me to do? Well, Joe, he ordered me to cut you loose. Gawdamn, Joe, I’m sorry.”
Joe liked Oster and regretted seeing him in such a thorny position. Joe set his badge on Oster’s desk and, before leaving the office, pulled Hobe’s pistol out of its holster and looked it over. It was the same gun as his, a Colt single-action .45, but with the longer seven-and-a-half-inch barrel and, of course, the “U.S.” stamped on the frame. He wondered how Hobe happened onto it, being’s it was government property. The gun, in the owner’s hand, had almost killed Joe. He slipped it into his pants on the left side, cross-draw style, and nodded at Charlie. The big marshal seemed to find it difficult to shake Joe’s hand and meet his eyes.
Joe smiled at that. The marshal of Baxter Springs had a soft spot few people ever witnessed. His respect for Joe was evident and his disgust with Mayor White obvious. He told Joe that a friend up in Nebraska had said that the town of Willow Springs was looking for a new marshal. Since Joe’s schedule was open now, he decided to return to his home state and check out the town of Willow Springs. Joe Mundy, City Marshal. He liked the way that sounded. About time he had his own town.
Doc Whelan had fixed up the painful wound in his hip after the gunfight. When Joe stopped by to have it checked before riding out, he was surprised that the doctor was sorry to see him go as well.
Joe spent a night at Yates Center and then at Council Grove. During the last stay, the town doctor had redressed Joe’s hip wound, which had started to bleed again. He pulled out before sunrise and spent a long day in the saddle. The bay was spent when he rode into Mahaska as the sun dropped out of sight. The temperature had dropped as well. A ways back he’d stopped and pulled on the black overcoat, using the stop as a chance to take a good look behind him. The rider was still following, but at a closer distance. Time to meet this fella.
The town of Mahaska was barely noticeable, with only a few buildings and houses. It was located about a mile south of the Nebraska line. Light from oil lamps flowed out of the only saloon into the street, so Joe tied the bay to a rail in front. The door rattled as he opened it and as he closed it. Besides the bartender, there were two men, probably farmers, sitting at a table next to a heating stove. The familiar odor of stale beer and tobacco was not unpleasant to him.
“Evenin’,” Joe said.
The bartender eyed him and did not respond to Joe’s greeting. He was a chubby character with naturally narrow eyes. When Joe pulled off the overcoat, the bartender eyed the holstered pistol on his right hip but didn’t see the cavalry Colt on his left.
His jowls bounced when he spoke. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey, and a meal if there’s one to be had,” Joe said.
The bartender pulled a cork from a brown bottle and poured a shot. “I can round up a plate of beans and ham steak.”
“Sounds good.”
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sp; “That’ll be six bits altogether,” the bartender said, no smile in sight. An almost undetectable quiver escaped from his lower lip.
“I’d like it at that table in the front corner,” Joe said and dropped the coins on the bar.
Joe laid his coat over a chair and sat down with his back to the wall. From there he had a clear view through a front window and could see anyone coming into the saloon. The lamp light didn’t quite fill the corner where he sat, which was fine with him. The pain of his hip wound had worsened with the constant movement in the saddle. It was most painful when mounting the bay and when sitting down in a chair, but once he was seated the pain eased up a bit.
The first sip of whiskey burned pleasantly as it ran down his throat. The other two customers ceased staring at Joe as soon as he looked their way. A few minutes later, the bartender reappeared and brought his dinner on a tin plate, then resumed his original position behind the bar and continued to polish glasses, occasionally glancing at Joe. The only sound was the muffled crackling of the stove and a low conversation from the other two men.
Joe was sawing away at his third bite of ham when he noticed a rider atop a buckskin through the window. The rider stopped behind the bay and then continued to the other rail, dismounted, and tied up. Joe switched the fork to his left hand, slowly pulled his Colt, and held it under the table edge. He scraped up a fork full of beans as he pulled the hammer back. The four clicks echoed through the room, and the two farmers glanced over. Several moments went by before one of the front doors opened and the mystery rider walked in.
Jingle-bobs tinkled against the man’s spurs, which added a little more sound to the quiet saloon. Joe had suspected that he might be one of the Rocking R cowboys, and he was right. The lamp inside the door lit up Russ Pickard, a hard-working cowhand and a close friend to Bill Meyerhoffer. The wide tan hat with its brim turned up gently in front and the dirty tan chaps were the same ones Joe had been watching behind him since leaving Yates Center.
Joe didn’t dislike Pickard and remembered that he rarely got drunk and caused trouble. Pickard was a top-notch working cowhand and roper; Joe believed Pickard could ride a cyclone until it petered out. Pickard was tall and lean, maybe an inch taller than Joe. His dark hair was closely cropped and had an unmistakable red tint in the sun. The mustache was neatly trimmed and was the only facial hair, other than the stubble from a couple days without a shave. There could be little doubt as to why he had been following Joe, however.
Pickard glanced around the saloon and almost missed Joe while his eyes adjusted.
“Russ,” Joe said. Pickard hesitated and squinted. When he recognized Joe, he pushed back his slicker and overcoat, exposing his pistol.
“Wouldn’t be a good idea,” Joe said. The cowhand looked Joe over, assessing the situation. Joe rested his left hand on the table next to his plate and watched Pickard’s hand.
“Come on over and sit down, I’m buying.”
Pickard didn’t move. He didn’t blink his eyes, and Joe knew he was thinking about his chances of taking him in his sitting position. Thoughts raced through Pickard’s mind, and Joe could read them on his face. Pickard forced his lips into a thin straight line. Long seconds ticked away.
“I won’t ask you again.” A long half minute passed before Russ moved. He slowly raised his hands together in front of him and pulled at each finger of his leather gloves. He casually walked over to the table, spurs reporting each step. Joe motioned to the chair across the table from him. Several more seconds went by before Pickard sat down.
“Bartender,” Joe said, giving the man a wave with his left hand.
Nothing more was said as they waited for the drink. Pickard stared while Joe loaded his fork with beans. A bottle and another glass were left by the bartender, who then returned to his refuge behind the bar. The furtive glance under the bar, probably at a shotgun, stopped Joe in midbite. When the bartender saw him looking his way, he was quick to pick up another glass to wipe.
Joe waited for Pickard to down his whiskey before he brought the Colt out from under the table, then uncocked and holstered it.
Pickard’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t a’ gave me a damned chance.”
“This ain’t checkers,” Joe said. “Why you followin’ me, Russ?”
“Why do you think?”
“Conversing would be a whole lot easier if we left out the guessin’ games,” Joe said, and continued eating.
“You murdered my best friend.”
“You seem to be misdirected in your information, Russ. Plenty of time for shootin’, might as well enjoy a drink and some dinner first,” Joe said. Pickard’s face got red. For a moment, Joe thought he might pull his gun after all.
“What were you told about it?”
Pickard seemed to be pushed off balance by Joe’s continued talking. That wouldn’t have bothered a gun hand.
“Mister Ranswood, Bill, and the kid were in town celebratin’ the kid’s birthday. You know that,” Pickard said in a restrained tone.
“I do.”
“Way I heard it, you asked for their guns on account of Arliss shootin’ off his new iron, and before they could think about it, you killed ’em.”
“Close, but the story you heard is lackin’ some important parts,” Joe said. He finished his meal and pushed the plate away, then refilled their glasses.
“Everybody in town says you could’ve took ’em to jail instead of shootin’ ’em.”
Joe sipped from his glass. “Did you talk to any of the people who saw it? Or to Charlie Oster, or to the two folks who offered themselves up as witnesses?”
“Why the hell should I? Everybody’s saying the same thing,” Pickard said.
“Well,” Joe said, wiping the whiskey from each side of his mustache with his fingers. “Way I see it, a man tracks another man down, intent on killin’ him, he ought to have the straight story first, before he dies tryin’ it.” Joe spoke slowly toward the end of his statement so Russ wouldn’t miss the emphasis.
“Fact is, I did ask for their guns, more than once. They all three had plenty to drink. Course it was hittin’ Arliss harder than Bill and Hobe.”
“Mister Ranswood,” Pickard corrected. Joe ignored him.
“Arliss pulled on me, just like you were fixin’ to a little bit ago, so I killed him. The other two pulled to defend Arliss, I s’pose, Bill first, then Hobe. No time for talking then, like we do now. Not much else to it.”
“Just as simple as that?” Pickard said.
“Like I said, not much else to it.”
Pickard picked up his glass again, downed the whiskey, and poured another.
The other two customers had looked increasingly uncomfortable as they listened to the conversation between Joe and Pickard. Now they got up and walked out of the saloon, careful to look at nothing.
“Go on back to the Rocking R, Russ. You’re no killer. You’re a cowhand and a damned fine one at that.”
“Can’t,” Pickard said.
“Why not?”
“I told Lyman I wasn’t waiting for Missus Ranswood to decide what she wanted done about you. Lyman said if I left, I was fired. And not to come back,” Pickard said.
“How’d you know what direction I was headed?” Joe asked.
“Chip heard Mayor White tell someone in the saloon that the marshal tipped you to a job in Willow Springs, up in Nebraska. I figured you’d follow the river up to Council Grove, so I caught up with you on the way.”
“Why don’t you ride on up there with me? Bound to be some ranches could use your experience,” Joe said.
Pickard studied Joe for a moment. “I ain’t gonna kill you, but I can’t ride with you, neither.”
“Sorry to hear that, Russ.”
“Think I’ll head up to Ogallala. Lots goin’ on there, I hear,” Pickard said. He stood and looked down at Joe. He pulled a coin from a vest pocket and dropped it on the table. “Can’t have you payin’ for my drinks, neither.”
Joe gave a n
od, and Pickard left. Joe felt he could trust his word. The man was a cowboy, not a gunman. He watched through the window as Pickard mounted the buckskin and trotted west down the deserted street.
CHAPTER THREE
The blowing snow stung, forcing his eyes closed. The recollections of that last sunny afternoon in Baxter Springs evaporated from his mind and were replaced by the numbing cold of a winter storm. Joe had caught a few hours sleep in Hastings but got up late in the little hotel in Loup City. Trying to make Willow Springs before nightfall was possible but, as it turned out, not the best decision he ever made. A Nebraska blizzard roared to life quicker than he expected. Joe’s horse was a trooper, but his steps slowed in the rising drifts. No longer sure which direction they were traveling, Joe had to find shelter soon. He pulled his hat down tighter. The bandana, tied around his face bandit-style, and another, tied around his head to cover his ears, kept the cold out for the first few hours, but later, not so much. As time went on, he didn’t feel the cold anymore and knew that was not a good sign. All he could do was trust the bay to find shelter.
An hour and a half later, the horse stopped. Joe struggled to clear his eyes of ice so he could open them. Peering through one eye, he made out a faint light flickering in what he thought was a window. Muscles were slow to respond as he raised his leg over the high cantle and slid down out of the saddle. He held onto it for several minutes before attempting to walk, making it only three short steps before he tripped and fell against a door. He felt hands on him and knew he was being dragged inside.
“No! My horse, get my horse!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get ’im in da shed,” a voice assured him. It sounded like a friendly voice, but Joe couldn’t do much about it if it wasn’t.
Joe wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when the door opened and snow blew in. “Holy God, it is nasty storm we got into dis time,” the man said. He knelt down on the floor next to Joe
“How you feelin’, stranger?” The wondrous heat from the nearby stove was gradually thawing Joe. He could open both eyes and looked around the room. It was a small dirt house, the walls made of blocks of sod cut from the countryside. More sod covered the skinny logs across the top to form the roof. The floor Joe lay on was hard-packed smooth. The little house had a white frame window next to the door. It was comfortably warm inside, and Joe was thankful to be out of the storm.
