Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  Hank Lowery couldn’t see Drugo Odell, but figured he was inside the waiting room out of the sun and the growing heat of the day. There was no future in opening the waiting room door, stepping from bright sunlight into shade, and expecting Odell to wait politely before drawing down on him while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  Lowery stayed where he was. He’d wait until Odell came out onto the platform and then call him out. The black man was minding his own business, still moodily staring at the rails, and wouldn’t interfere. Besides, around these parts a black man didn’t count for much.

  Dressed in a broad-brimmed hat, boots, canvas pants, worn gray shirt, and red bandana, to the casual observer Lowery looked like any other puncher up from Texas with the herds, even if he was older than most. The Colt stuck into his waistband might give pause, but armed men were not rare in Dodge.

  Long minutes passed. Fat blue flies from the stockyards buzzed in the corners of every windowpane and the black man, staring straight ahead, constantly brushed them away from his face. From the distance came the three-note whistle of an approaching train. The hands of the railroad clock in the ticket office were joined at noon.

  The door of the waiting room opened and Drugo Odell, carrying a carpetbag in his left hand, stepped onto the platform. His eyes went to the black man who’d stood up, dismissed him, and settled on Lowery. Odell grinned and dropped the carpetbag, knowing why Hank Lowery was there. “Payback time, huh?” His hand blurred as it went for his gun.

  Lowery drew. Even as his fingers closed on the Colt’s handle he realized he was a full second too slow. Odell’s gun came up, the man still grinning, but then the morning exploded. Odell’s back arched like a drawn bow as two barrels of buckshot slammed into him. Hit hard, he turned, his face shocked.

  The black man held a smoking Greener in his hands. “That’s for my sister. It’s for Alva.”

  The Colt dropped from Odell’s hand. He staggered a few steps, stunned and horrified at the time and manner of his death, and then crashed onto his back. His bowler hat fell from his head and rolled away on its rim before it stopped, spun a few times on its crown, and then lay still.

  The locomotive, hissing steam, its bell ringing, drew to a clanking halt and the guard stepped onto the platform. The man peered at Drugo Odell, at the black blood pooling around his body, and then to Lowery.

  “Wasn’t me. I didn’t shoot the bastard.”

  The guard had seen enough and he yelled, “All aboard!”

  The black man, his shotgun again covered by his coat, stared at Lowery.

  Lowery shoved the Colt back into his pants. “You’ll miss your train.”

  The black man nodded. “Name’s Eustace. Eustace Cranley.”

  “Good luck, Eustace.”

  “You, too, cowboy. Good luck.” Cranley stepped into the train’s only passenger car. The guard, in a hurry after one last glance at Odell’s body, waved his flag and the locomotive lurched into motion.

  Lowery watched the train until it was out of sight, only its column of dirty gray smoke still visible. Only then did he answer the horrified station agent’s question. “I don’t know who shot him.”

  “Somebody cut loose with a scattergun,” the agent said.

  Lowery nodded. “Seems like.”

  “I’d better go get the sheriff.”

  “As far as I know, he’s gone fishing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Drugo Odell is dead.” Hank Lowery toyed with the pork chop on his plate and didn’t look up. “As dead as two barrels of double-aught buck can make him.”

  Kate was surprised. “Who shot him?”

  “Black man by the name of Eustace Cranley.” Lowery lifted his eyes to Kate’s. “Alva Cranley’s brother. I have a feeling he lived in this town, but he’s gone now.”

  “Where did this happen, Hank?”

  “The railroad depot. Odell came out of the waiting room to catch the noon train and Cranley cut him in half. Bang! Both barrels.”

  “Did you see the killing?” Frank said.

  “Sure did. I was there to kill Odell, but the black man beat me to it.”

  Kate’s face took on a horrified expression. “Hank, Odell could have killed you.”

  “He almost did. He was a sight faster on the draw than me.” Lowery smiled. “Then Eustace cut loose and evened the odds.”

  “Where is Eustace now?” Kate asked.

  “He left on the noon train . . . northbound.”

  “And Sheriff Hinkle?”

  “George went fishing. He knew I intended to brace Drugo and he said he was going to fish in a bucket out on the grass. When he comes back he’ll know I didn’t kill Odell . . . that somebody else did.”

  Trace said, “Hank, will you tell him about the black man?”

  “Nope. I didn’t see a thing. The morning sun was in my eyes and the station was deserted. Somebody cut loose with a scattergun and blew out Odell’s backbone. That’s all I can tell him.”

  “Well, God forgive me for saying this, but I’m glad Odell is dead. And I’m glad you’re alive, Hank.” She let a frown gather between her eyebrows. “You will return to Texas with us, won’t you?”

  Lowery smiled. “Of course. I want to see your new house.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. But I tell you this. If Delaney has messed it up again I’ll hang him myself.”

  Frank’s eyes were hard, his mouth a tight line. “Lowery, you’re not going back to Texas with us until you tell me what happened in Longdale.”

  “What is there to explain?”

  “You can start by telling me how Levi Fry died.”

  Kate said, “Frank, we’re leaving for home in an hour. Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it can’t. I liked the old man and I want to know why Lowery killed him.”

  “Because he asked me to kill him.” Lowery glanced at the faces of those sitting with him at the lunch table.

  Kate looked puzzled and Frank appeared openly hostile. Trace, leaning forward in his seat, seemed greatly interested.

  “I was twenty years old when I walked into the hotel to avenge my brother’s death. It was high time for a reckoning,” Lowery said. “When I opened fire the shooting quickly became general. When it was over and men were dead or dying on the ground, Levi Fry was on his hands and knees, coughing up black blood. He’d been gut-shot, by me or one of his own men I don’t know.” Lowery looked Frank in the eye. “You ever see a gut-shot man die? No, that’s not the question. This is. You ever hear a gut-shot man die in a place where there’s no doctor and no morphine?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it,” Frank said, his face stiff, remembering.

  “Levi Fry hadn’t started to scream,” Lowery said. “Not yet he hadn’t, but it was only a matter of time. He asked me to kill him, end it. Both my guns were empty and I wore no cartridge belt. The old man didn’t want to wait while I took a gun from one of the dead men. He reached into his pants pocket, handed me the .32, and said, ‘Do it now. Back of the head. Quick.’ ” The shock had worn off and he was beginning to suffer.”

  “And you shot him,” Frank said.

  “Not right away. It didn’t seem right to kill a man like that. Then he called down a terrible God’s curse on me and screamed at me to shoot him. I was young and I got scared. The curse scared me. I panicked, put the muzzle of the Smith and Wesson to the back of his head, and pulled the trigger.” Lowery dropped his fork onto his plate and it made a loud clang that startled Kate. “Levi Fry’s curse has followed me to this day . . . and it will until the day I die a violent death.”

  “Our merciful God does not curse people, Hank,” Kate said. “I will say a novena for divine mercy that your poor tormented soul may find peace.”

  Lowery smiled. “I think Frank would rather shoot me.”

  Frank was silent for a while and then spoke. “For a spell I’ll study on what you said. Right now I can’t figure the right or the wrong of it.”

  “Plenty of time for all that s
tudying when we get back to Texas,” Kate said. “It’s time to shake off the dust of Kansas and head for home . . . and that includes you, Hank Lowery.”

  BOOK TWO

  Gunfight at Eagle Pass

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Kate Kerrigan returned home to trouble.

  Her son Quinn said, “A rancher by the name of Hood Crane—”

  “I believe he has a spread about sixty miles to the east of us,” Kate said.

  Quinn nodded. “Yes, he does, and it’s a fair piece away, thank God.”

  “What was in the message he sent?” Frank said.

  Quinn swallowed hard, his young face troubled. “There are cholera wagons headed our way. People are dying ...” The sixteen-year-old took a paper from his shirt pocket. “Here, Ma, read the note for yourself.”

  Kate unfolded the paper and read.

  CHOLERA WAGON TRAIN COMIN YOUR WAY.

  FOURTEEN WAGONS. FOLKS DYING EVERY

  DAY. SICKNESS AT THE ROCKING C. THREE

  HANDS DEAD. MY WIFE DYING. ME MIGHTY

  SICK. SAVE YOURSELFS AND GOD HELP YOU.

  It was signed H. Crane, Esq.

  Kate read it again and when she looked up her beautiful face was pale. “We have to stop them. Where is the rider who brought the note? Is he sick?”

  “I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “At least not yet he isn’t. He’s up there on the rise.”

  “At the cemetery?” Kate said.

  “It was the only place I could put him until I was sure he’s not sick. He doesn’t want to go back to the Rocking C. He says everybody there is already dead by this time.”

  “How long has he been up on the rise?” Kate said.

  “Only since yesterday. I laid coffee and grub up there this morning and told him to come get it.”

  “I’ll go talk with him. What’s his name?”

  “Verne Bohlen. He’s a young feller, no more than eighteen at a guess.”

  “Feller? Quinn, do you mean fellow?”

  “Yes, Ma. I meant to say fellow.”

  “I sincerely hope you did. Frank, you come with me. Trace, you and Hank Lowery saddle up and scout for that wagon train, but keep your distance. Take some supplies, because you’ll probably need to sleep out tonight. And don’t forget your mackinaws. There’s a fall chill in the air after sundown.”

  “Ma, should I go with Trace and Hank?” Quinn asked.

  “No. I want you and Moses out on the range. Make sure that the men you hired are cutting and stacking hay and not loafing.” Kate drained her coffee cup. “Frank, are you ready?”

  He nodded and laid his napkin on the table. “That young feller . . . fellow . . . gets too close I’ll shoot him.”

  “Is cholera so easily spread, Frank?”

  “I don’t know, Kate, but I sure as hell don’t aim to find out.”

  “If the wagons keep coming this way we could be in serious trouble, couldn’t we?” She addressed the question to Frank, but Moses, his mahogany face lined and serious, answered.

  “Miz Kerrigan, if them wagons pass across your land, we could all get sick and most of us will die. I seen the cholera afore, back in the time when I was a slave, and I saw a fine plantation, slaves, overseers, Massa, Mistress, and their seven children, wiped out. The Massa bought a dozen new slaves that already had the cholera and that’s all it took. Miz Kerrigan, the answer to your question is, yeah, we’re in serious trouble. It’s a time for prayin’ and maybe for runnin’.”

  “I will not run,” Kate said. “Be assured of that. I’ll wait for Trace’s report before I decide what to do.”

  Moses’s dark face split into a lopsided grin. “Miz Kerrigan, with all respect, what this ain’t is a time for waiting.”

  Kate said nothing, but his words deeply troubled her. Just how much time did they have? She was sure Trace would answer that question very soon. He had to.

  * * *

  When Kate and Frank Cobb stepped out of the cabin, Black Barrie Delaney approached them, swept off his hat, and made an elaborate bow. “I didn’t hear you ride in last night, Kate me darlin’. It must have been uncommon late.”

  “Barrie Delaney, you didn’t hear because you and your pirate rogues were probably sleeping off a drunk,” Kate said.

  “Ah, but isn’t that the truth of it. It was Fighting Tom Flanagan’s fortieth birthday yesterday, and we made a day of it.” Delaney’s face was crafty as he waved a hand toward the partly constructed house. “Do you wish to inspect your prairie mansion now, Kate? See, the siding is up and the roof is shingled and when this fine dwelling is finished, why, you’ll be so proud you wouldn’t call a king your cousin.”

  Kate’s eyes wandered over the two-story structure without noticeable enthusiasm. “I’ll inspect it an hour, Captain Delaney. I’ll have more time to hang you then.”

  Delaney grinned. “A hanging is it? And me with a beautiful surprise that will make your young heart sing.”

  “And what might that be? I thought you were done with piracy.”

  In his blue coat with its brass buttons, a cutlass and two revolvers thrust into a red sash, Delaney did look more sea wolf than builder. “No, not emeralds grabbed from the throat of a Spanish contessa, though surely such gems could only enhance your beauty, Kate. No, I’m talking bricks and plaster, aye, and the man who’ll shape them into a pair of columns to grace the front of your plantation house.”

  “Ranch house,” Kate said.

  “Whatever it may be,” Delaney said.

  “Where is this man and who is he?”

  “As to where”—Delaney waved—“he sits under yonder oak. As to who, his name Hargate Webbe, and a fine craftsman he is.”

  “He’s tied to the tree,” Kate said. “What villainy is this, Barrie Delaney?”

  “And so he is tied to a tree,” Delaney said. “Isn’t it said in the old country that the Kerrigans have the eyes of hawks?”

  “You kidnapped him,” Kate said.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Then you will release him.” She hesitated a moment and then fluttered her eyelashes at Delaney. “After he builds the columns, of course.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Verne Bohlen was a short, stocky young man with a round, pleasant face and deep-set hazel eyes. He wore dusty range clothes and had a Colt belted around his middle. He proved right from the git-go that he was no blushing violet.

  “What the hell am I doing up here?” he said, his face red with anger. “I don’t have the goddamned cholera.”

  “Mr. Bohlen, I presume,” Kate said, smiling.

  “Damn right. Texas born and bred and proud of it.”

  “I’m glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Bohlen. Doesn’t he look well, Frank?”

  Frank Cobb had already dismissed the youngster as just another eighteen-year-old trying to prove he was tough. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

  “I ain’t spending another night in this boneyard, I can tell you that.” With the typical cowboy’s dread of haunted places, Bohlen added, “Too many dead folk buried here. I’ve heard tell a man’s hair can turn white overnight if he’s around ha’nts an’ boogeymen an’ sich.”

  Frank glanced at Bohlen’s carroty mop. “Not much chance of that happening to you.”

  “Well, as I said, you look healthy enough to me, Mr. Bohlen,” Kate said. “Now tell me what happened at the Rocking-C.”

  “And then you’ll give me back my hoss?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Bohlen’s young face settled into a frown as he collected his thoughts, then he said, “The cholera wagons were already on Rocking-C range when a man rode up to the ranch house just after breakfast and said his wife and children were almighty sick and needed help. Mr. Crane and his wife, her name is Ellie, are good Christian folks, and they rode out with three of the hands to see what they could do to help. I reckon they’re both dead by now. See, the cholera was already on the ground.”

  “Where were
you?” Frank said.

  “I was out on the range stacking hay. When I got back to the Rocking-C Mr. and Mrs. Crane had been among the wagons for two days. None of us had ever seen the cholera before, didn’t know what it was, and that’s how come Charlie York, Dave Brown, and Sam Nolan sickened and died.” The young cowboy was distracted by a hawk in flight, his eyes on the sky for a few moments. “Mr. Crane brought his wife home. He stood off a ways, fired his rifle into the air, and when that got our attention, he yelled at everybody to clear out, that he was bringing death with him. Then he helped Mrs. Crane onto the ground and he wrote out a note on a page torn from his tally book, wrapped it around a rock, and chucked it in my direction. Mr. Crane told me to deliver it to the next ranch west of the Rocking-C. I was afraid to pick up the paper because it might have the sickness on it, but old man Crane and his wife had been good to me, so after a while I scooped up the note and brung it here.”

  Kate asked if he had any idea where the wagons were headed. “West I know, but going where?”

  Bohlen said he didn’t know, but then he said, “Mr. Crane drug a piece of board behind him, about the size of a door. He let it go before him and his wife went into the house. I rode past that board at a gallop and there was a word painted on it that I’d never seen before. It said nirvana. Any idea what that means?”

  “Some woman’s name, maybe?” Frank said.

  Bohlen shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Kate said, “I don’t know, either, but I’ll ask Barrie Delaney. He’s a scoundrel and a robber, but he’s sailed all seven seas several times, and it’s remarkable what he’s learned.”

  “I can imagine.” Frank nodded to Bohlen. “You can come get your horse and then ride.”

  “Damn right I’ll ride,” the young puncher said. “I want a heap of git between me and them plague wagons.”

  “When will they reach my range?” Kate said.

  “Ma’am, I can’t tell you that because I don’t know,” Bohlen said. “But I reckon it will be a lot sooner than you think or want.”