Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “You don’t say?”

  “Sure. You ever hear of Lou Hope up Potter County way? No? Well, he had a rep as a fast gun, told folks he’d killed fifteen men. Then he drew down on me and his career ended right there and then. One shot right through the bowels and he died three days later screaming like a woman.”

  “You’re fast, huh?” Dobbs said, enjoying this.

  “Maybe the fastest there is,” Hornage said.

  “Well, that’s fast. How did you know about me, Clip?”

  The use of his first name by a known gunman and outlaw flattered Hornage and his face glowed. “Everybody’s heard of you, Mr. Dobbs. There’s talk that you robbed an army payroll and you’re on the scout from the Rangers. You need a man like me at your side.”

  “A fast gun?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Dobbs.”

  “Well, you seem eager enough, young feller.” Dobbs moved his whiskey bottle to one side and leaned across the table. “Look around the saloon and tell me what you see.”

  Hornage’s pale blue eyes moved around the room. His smile was disdainful. “Nothing much. Looks like a bunch of sodbusters and drummers in here.”

  “What about the man in the corner nursing a beer?”

  Hornage’s contemptuous gaze skimmed over Frank. “Cowboy. I never met a puncher who could shoot worth a damn.”

  “Brace him,” Dobbs said.

  “Him? Why?”

  “You said you’re fast, Clip. Show me how fast you are. Gun the cowboy.”

  “And when I do?”

  Dobbs smiled. “Well then, welcome to my gang.”

  Hornage rose to his feet. “This is gonna be too easy,” he said, grinning. “It ain’t much of a test.” He adjusted the hang of his flashy Smith & Wesson and stepped toward Frank’s table, his spurs ringing.

  Frank knew trouble when he saw it . . . and he was seeing it.

  The young man striding toward him affected the frockcoat and string-tie garb of a frontier gambler and his blond, shoulder-length hair pegged him as a wannabe Hickok. But unlike, Wild Bill he wore his revolver in a low-slung holster. His beard and mustache—meticulously trimmed in the imperial style of the top-rated shootist—was the finishing touch, and Frank wanted no part of him.

  The man stopped at Frank’s table and said louder than was necessary, “On your feet!”

  “Go away,” Frank said. “I’m drinking a beer.”

  The puncher didn’t seemed scared and that rattled Hornage a little. He’d killed a cowboy or two before and they didn’t show the relaxed self-confidence of this one.

  Again loud, he said, “Mister, you’ve been pretty free with your talk about me around town, saying that I was too much of a coward to meet you. Well, here I am.”

  The cowboy’s eyes were cold as frosted steel. He didn’t scare worth a damn and Hornage didn’t like it—but he was in too deep to back out now.

  “Go away,” Frank said again.

  Hornage couldn’t see the man’s gun hand. A glance in the mirror behind the bar revealed a smiling Dobbs. A few other men were grinning, enjoying the show.

  The wannabe gunman tried once more. “I said get on your feet.”

  “Can I buy you a beer?” Frank said.

  “I’m a whiskey man. I don’t want your damn beer.”

  “Too bad. It’s even pretty cold.”

  “I told you to get on your feet,” Hornage said. “I don’t draw on a sitting man, but for you I’m willing to make an exception.”

  Frank shook his head. “Feller, I never saw you before in my life, but you’re determined to kill a man for breakfast. Isn’t that a natural fact?”

  Somebody laughed and Hornage knew he was beginning to lose it and look bad. “Stand and front me like a man.” To save face, he added, “And admit that you’re a damn liar and a yellow belly.”

  Frank sighed deeply, then rose to his feet. “All right, youngster, let’s have it over with. Shuck the iron and get your work in.”

  Hornage felt that he was back in command of the situation. He had confidence in his draw and put it on display for all to see. His hand flashed for his gun.

  A gun roared, but it was a Colt, not a Smith.

  It took Hornage a few moments to realize what had happened to him. And then the pain of his shattered right wrist hit him like a pile driver. In that instant, as his revolver dropped from his numb hand, the young man knew he was done, that his gun fighting days were over. His wrist was a bloody mass of torn tissue and splintered bone and would heal twisted, stiff, and deformed. He looked at Frank, standing tall and straight, his smoking Colt in his hand.

  Then he heard the man say, “I could have killed you just as easily. But there’s good news. Now no one else will kill you. You’re not fast, boy, not even close to fast.”

  By nature Frank loved women, little children, and animals, but he was not noted for his compassion toward a defeated enemy, the result of many harsh lessons. He stepped around the table, grabbed the groaning Hornage by the scruff of his neck, and marched him to Jesse Dobbs’s table. The young man left a trail of red splotches on the pine floor behind him.

  Frank threw Hornage into a chair and said to Dobbs, “You could have stopped this.”

  The man shrugged. “Young feller wants to test himself, it’s no concern of mine.”

  “There’s a doctor in town. Make that your concern.”

  “The hell I will.” Dobbs reached for the bottle on the table but never made it. Frank grabbed it and threw it against a wall, where it shattered, spraying shards of glass and a shower of amber whiskey.

  Dobbs, his face like stone, ignored Frank and called out, “Bartender, another bottle here.”

  Clip Hornage, sobbing in an agony of shame, chose that moment to make a desperation play. He rose from his chair and staggered across the floor. He bent over and, with a triumphant shriek, grabbed for his dropped gun with his left hand.

  In one smooth fast motion, Frank drew and fired. He fired again and sent the big Schofield .45 skittering across the saloon’s floor, under a table, and thudded against a wall.

  Hornage straightened and saw Frank, Colt in hand, eyeing him. He threw himself out of the saloon door and staggered into the street, holding the forearm of his ruined gun hand. The young man’s screams announced to everyone within earshot that his days as a feared draw fighter were gone forever.

  Frank punched out the empties from his Colt and reloaded from his cartridge belt. Jesse Dobbs, a sure-thing killer, made no move to challenge him.

  Frank holstered his Colt and said, “I’m going to take a guess and say that your name is Jesse Dobbs.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Maybe it’s Dobbs. Maybe it isn’t.”

  “Either way, you’re coming with me,” Frank said. “There’s a lady called Kate Kerrigan wants to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “About how your boys kidnapped her and planned to sell her in Mexico. Where we come from, that’s a hanging offense.”

  “I didn’t kidnap her,” Dobbs said. “I’ve never even met the lady.”

  “Explain that to Kate.” Frank’s hand dropped to his gun, but a voice from his left stopped him.

  “I wouldn’t, mister.” The bartender held a scattergun and when he eared back the hammers it sounded like the wrath of God. “You’ve shot up my saloon and one of my customers pretty good and that’s where it ends. I’m a fair hand with this here Greener and it’s no friend of draw fighters.”

  “And neither are we.” This came from one of two men who’d walked into the saloon. The man, big and bearded, said, “We’ll back your play, bartender.”

  “There will be no gunplay if the gentlemen will go to another saloon,” the bartender said. “The Oriental serves a real nice free lunch. Tell them Miles Dolan sent you.”

  Dobbs smiled, staring at Frank. “Mister, I got no quarrel with you. Those two hardcases are my boys, and right now they’re a couple fing
ers looking for triggers. If I was you, I’d ease on out of here.”

  “I’m up against a stacked deck, Dobbs, and I knew when to fold,” Frank said. “But this isn’t over.”

  “As far as I’m concerned it is.” Dobbs turned to Corcoran and Lucas. “Come have a drink, boys.”

  The moment had passed and Frank knew it. And so did the bartender. He lowered the scattergun’s hammers, laid the Greener behind the bar, and greeted a customer who’d just entered.

  Frank walked across the saloon to the door. Behind him someone laughed but he ignored it. He stepped through the door . . . into a bullet.

  The .44-40 slug fired from a Winchester hit Frank Cobb on his left side, an inch above the cartridge belt. Clip Hornage stood in the middle of the street, the rifle cradled in his damaged right arm and he worked the lever with his left . . . slowly . . . awkwardly. Missing his first shot was a death sentence and he knew it.

  People stopped in the street to watch as Frank drew and fired. There would be no wounding this time. He shot to kill. His bullet slammed into the Winchester’s side plate, caromed upward and hit Hornage under the chin. The man dropped the rifle and staggered back, shocked, wearing his blood like a scarlet bib. Frank fired again, a hit center chest. Hornage went to his knees and then pitched forward into the dirt.

  Years later, when the legends were written, people swore that after Frank Cobb watched Hornage fall, he said, “I’ve had enough of you for one day.”

  And that was probably the truth.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “You’re very lucky, Mr. Cobb,” Dr. Ada Jordan said. “A couple inches to the right and I’m afraid you would not live.”

  “Well that’s cheerful news, Doc,” Frank said. “What’s the damage? It hurts like hell.”

  “The bullet passed clean through, and the wounds look worse than they are. I’ve cleaned them and used alcohol to prevent infection. You’re young and strong, and you’ll heal quickly.”

  Frank looked at the bandage tight around his middle. “Clip Hornage is dead, huh?”

  The doctor’s face was stiff. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

  “And Ranger Brewster?”

  “He’ll recover, but I don’t think he’ll ever gain full mobility of his left shoulder.”

  “He shoots off his right shoulder, so that’s good,” Frank said.

  “Yes, good news for him, I suppose.” Dr. Jordan’s pretty face revealed nothing.

  The surgery door opened and Kate stepped inside. Her hair hung over her shoulders in damp ringlets and a few tumbled over her forehead. She wore a calico dress that fitted her well and she smelled of lavender water. “How are my patients, Doctor?”

  “The Ranger is sleeping off the effects of the ether, and Mr. Cobb will live to fight another day.”

  Kate ignored the irony in the physician’s tone. “How did it happen, Frank?”

  Frank’s immediate answer was, “Kate, Jesse Dobbs was in the Last Chance Saloon. I’m sure it was him. Two of his boys came in later.”

  “That would be Ben Lucas and Bob Corcoran,” Kate said.

  Frank winced as he put on his shirt. “How do we play this? I mean what are your intentions, Kate?”

  Dr. Jordan said, “I guess I should leave and let you two talk.”

  “No, stay,” Kate said. “My intentions are no secret. I plan to see Lucas and Corcoran stand trial for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder. Then I’ll hang them.”

  “What about Jesse Dobbs?” Frank said.

  “He’ll hang with them.”

  Dr. Jordan said, “Mrs. Kerrigan—”

  “Please call me Kate.” She smiled. “I’m wearing your clothes and that makes us almost kin.”

  “Kate, there are Pinkertons in town. Why not let them deal with the outlaws?”

  “Pinkertons. Are you sure?”

  “Three of them. I treated one for a spider bite. I remember he was annoyed because he said his trigger finger was swollen up like a sausage.”

  Kate, aware that Brewster was out of commission, possibly for weeks, and Frank was wounded, seized on an opportunity to recruit allies. “They’ll be at the hotel. Do you know their names?”

  “The one I treated was called Bernard Rigby. He mentioned the given names of the two with him as Byron and Arch. They’re all young men and seemed very capable.”

  “Then I’ll go talk with them. I can use their help.”

  Frank said, “Kate, why would there be Pinkertons in Eagle Pass?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “They’re here because Jesse Dobbs is in town. You can bet the farm that the army hired them to recover the stolen payroll.”

  “Well, that’s all to the good, Frank. Isn’t it?”

  “All the Pinkertons want is the money back. I don’t think they’ll have any interest in helping you arrest Dobbs or anybody else.”

  “We’ll discuss that when I meet them,” Kate said. “I will insist they give me the help I need or their superiors will hear about it. In short, I will not take no for an answer. That is out of the question. Ada . . . may I call you Ada? Can Ranger Brewster remain here until we return?”

  The doctor smiled. “Of course. He’s a model patient . . . when he’s unconscious.”

  * * *

  Kate reserved a couple rooms at the hotel, one for herself and the other for her wounded warriors to share. She then asked the desk clerk if Mr. Bernard Rigby was in residence.

  “I’m afraid you just missed him, Mrs. Kerrigan.” The clerk was young and eager to please the beautiful lady, and the light of adoration radiated from him. Frank, hurting and in a foul mood, disliked him on sight.

  “Where has he gone?” Kate said.

  “He and the other Pinkertons, Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Poole, rode out an hour ago on urgent business. They carried rifles, so something is afoot.”

  “How did you know they were Pinkertons?” Frank said, his face sour.

  The clerk smiled. “The whole town knows. What we don’t know is why they’re here.” The young man leaned closer and whispered, “There’s talk that they’re after a fortune in gold bars stolen from a bank in Austin.” He straightened and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Did the Pinkertons say where they were headed?” Kate said.

  “They didn’t say, but old Mr. McKinney in room twenty-three said he saw three riders headed north and they looked like the Pinkertons.”

  “Frank, do you feel like riding?”Kate said.

  “No.”

  “But I need your scouting ability should I lose their tracks.”

  “Kate, if the Pinkertons are after Jesse Dobbs and the payroll, let them shoot it out. Later, we can pick up the bodies.”

  “And be cheated of my justice, Frank? No. I want Lucas and Corcoran alive. And Jesse Dobbs.” She sighed with considerable drama. “Oh, very well then, I’ll go by myself.”

  “I can ride,” Frank said. His shoulders slumped.

  Kate smiled. “I knew you would say that, Frank. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

  No, I’m not, Kate. My armor is rusted from my blood. Frank thought that, but he didn’t say it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Two words recently carved into a scrap of wood taken from the bed of a long-abandoned wagon had attracted the attention of the Pinkertons.

  DEAD MAN

  Frank read the tracks. Three men wearing shoes, not boots, had stood around the grave and one of them had toed a shallow depression in the sand and rock to see what lay underneath. A scrap of homespun cloth, probably from a shirtsleeve, poked above the surface, and the stench of death hung in the air like a poisonous fog.

  “Like it says, there’s a dead man here,” Frank said. “The Pinkertons stayed for a while and then rode on.”

  Kate stood in the stirrups and shaded her eyes, studying the sun-blasted rock and cactus wilderness around her. “There’s dust to the northwest
, Frank.”

  “Probably Jesse Dobbs and his boys. And the Pinkertons, but for the time being they’re holding back.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” she said.

  Frank climbed stiffly into the saddle. “My guess is the Pinks hope Dobbs will lead them to the stolen payroll and then they’ll force his hand . . . the money in exchange for letting him live.”

  “But Dobbs won’t lead them to the money,” Kate said. “He can see the Pinkertons are right behind him.”

  “Kate, I don’t know who those three big-city boys are, but they seem mighty confident. Look at the dust. They’re not following Dobbs, they’re catching up. They stopped at the dead man’s grave and let Dobbs and his men get ahead of them. They’ll surprise the hell out of him with a sudden attack, drop a couple men in the first volley, and force the survivors to lead them to the payroll.”

  “Frank, that’s thin. I don’t think—” A sudden rattle of gunfire stilled Kate’s tongue.

  Frank said, “Well, it’s started. Now we light a shuck.”

  “Have they seen us?”

  “I don’t know. But right now they’ve got other things on their mind.”

  The gunfire was constant as mounted men exchanged shots in a cloud of dust.

  “Kate, as I told you, we’ll pick up the pieces. Right now I’m in no shape for a gunfight.”

  “I hope Lucas and Corcoran survive,” Kate said. “My business with those two is not yet done.”

  Frank swung his horse around. “Time will tell, Kate. Time will tell.”

  * * *

  Even with a gray tinge under his tanned skin and his shoulder under a fat bandage obviously paining him, JC Brewster was still a Texas Ranger. Enduring bullet wounds without complaining came with the job. He sat up in the hotel bed while Kate spooned him beef broth, blithely ignoring Frank’s muttered comments about his own wound and how much it hurt.

  She dabbed Brewster’s mustache with a napkin. “There, that will help you regain your strength.”

  Frank built a cigarette, lit it, and stepped over to the bed. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he said as he stuck the smoke between Brewster’s lips.