“It’s damn important for us to get back into the newspaper,” Tom said. “And we got to be able to fight from there to hold it. That means getting them bales of hay in there.”
Doctor Cranston was puzzled. “How do you propose to accomplish that? You can’t even sneak in the back way at daylight.”
“By being open about it,” Tom said. “I figger if we load up a wagonful, we can drive it down the main street in the middle of the day right in front o’ Riley’s eyes. Hell, with a little help, we can have it off that wagon and into the newspaper building before he can react.”
Cranston wasn’t convinced. “He might start shooting at you from that Silk Garter saloon of his. It’s right across the street.”
“If he does,” Tom said coldly, “and hits any innocent bystanders, he’ll face more’n me and Martin. There’ll be a lynch mob that’ll storm that barroom of his and drag him out into the street for a necktie party.”
“I wish we could mobilize the citizenry to that action now,” Martin said.
“Son,” Tom said patiently. “You won’t face up to one important fact. The folks around here ain’t really mad at Riley. He ain’t doing nothing that’s hurting them personal.”
“Of course he is!” Martin shouted. He instantly regretted the action as his ribs flared up. When he caught his breath, he continued. “This is only the start of criminal activity that will eventually drag everyone in Lighthorse Creek into it. Why don’t they realize it?”
“Folks can’t see too far past their well-being,” Tom said. “That’s something for you to consider.”
“I been trying to tell him that,” J. T. said. “And you’d better believe that Riley knows it too,” Tom said. “From what I’ve heard, he’s far from being a stupid man.”
“Well,” Doctor Cranston said. “Since I can move around easier than anyone here, I’ll drop in on Gus Brunswick in the morning and make arrangements for the purchase of some hay.”
“He’ll have plenty,” J. T. said. “That steam baler of his was roaring away most o’ yesterday.”
“I know,” Cranston said. “The noise has been driving me crazy.” He walked toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pester Abbie for a cup of coffee.”
“Have her fetch some for all of us,” J. T. said. “As you wish,” Cranston said. He walked from the living room and through the house to the kitchen. He found Abbie finishing up the supper dishes. “What’s a fellow have to do to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Abbie looked up from her chore. “I’ve already got a fresh pot going. I know the others will want some too.”
“You’ve read our minds, Abbie,” Cranston said. He sat down in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table. “Have you and Martin decided your wedding date?”
“I thought we’d do it in two months,” Abbie said. “Not any sooner than that?”
“I’m afraid the traveling preacher won’t be through before then,” Abbie said. “There’s not much we can do about it. The Tobey’s daughter has to wait too.”
“There’s a preacher in town now,” Cranston said. “As a matter of fact, I met him this afternoon.” Abbie stopped working. “A preacher? Here in Lighthorse Creek?”
“He certainly is,” Cranston said, smiling. “The gentleman told me that he is on his way to a parish in Texas. He’s staying at Mrs. Vilma’s boardinghouse until his wife catches up to him. I think she’s supposed to be visiting relatives in Arkansas.”
“Can you fetch him, Doctor Cranston? Do you think he will oblige us? It’s awfully short notice, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure he will be happy to perform the ceremony, Abbie. I shall go get him immediately, if that is your wish.”
“Oh, it is,” she said taking off the apron. “And please tell Martin to come in here. We can be ready in an hour or so.”
Cranston stood up. “I’ll forget the coffee and I’ll hurry. I promise.” He went back to the living room. “Martin, Abbie wants to speak to you.”
“Where’s the coffee?” J. T. asked.
“First things first,” Cranston said. “I have been dispatched on an important errand—a mission of the heart. I shall return quickly.”
J. T. Buchanan, puzzled, watched his friend depart. He was becoming wearied by the unsettled circumstances taking place in Lighthorse Creek. The decision on buying hay from Gus Brunswick had been made, and after all the worrisome talk, he still didn’t get the cup of coffee he craved. Now all he wanted was his evening cigar and whiskey on the front porch.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
Martin reappeared in the room. “J. T., will you come in here and speak with Abbie and me, please.” He gave Tom an apologetic look. “Excuse us, Tom.”
“Sure.”
J. T. slowly followed the excited Martin out to the kitchen. He didn’t have time to take a deep breath before Abbie rushed forward and embraced him.
“Papa! Papa!” she cried out. “Martin and I are getting married this evening —now!”
“What the hell are you talking about, girl?” J. T. demanded.
“Doctor Cranston said there is a preacher staying at Mrs. Vilma’s,” Abbie explained. “The gentleman will perform the ceremony for us.”
“But, Abbie!” J. T. protested. “This ain’t no proper way to do it. Where’s the flower girls and the maid o’ honor? And what about a best man?”
“Doctor Cranston will be my best man,” Martin said. “It really isn’t necessary to have anyone else except the bride’s father to give her away.”
“Goddamn it!” J. T. fumed a couple of minutes, then calmed down. He looked straight into Abbie’s eyes. “Is this the way you want it did?”
“Yes, Papa!”
“All right, then. By God, we’ll do her. You two tend to what you must. I’ll go tell Tom.”
When he went back to tell the sheriff about the marriage, Tom showed a socially awkward side to himself. “This is a family thing, J. T. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a walk or something.”
“Aw, hell, Tom! You’re a friend o’ the family. Now, you stay,” J. T. demanded in a friendly tone.
But Tom was adamant. He got his hat and went to the door. “I’d be the onliest guest. I reckon not. Thanks just the same, and give my best wishes to the happy couple.”
“Tom, they’re gonna be real disappointed and hurt,” J. T. said.
Tom hesitated. He knew J. T. was right. There was no call to be rude to young folks. He sighed aloud. “Oh, hell, all right. I don’t want Martin and Abbie mad at me. But first, I need to shave and slick down my hair. And it wouldn’t hurt me to wash up a little, and put on a clean shirt,” Tom said.
“You can fetch your stuff outta Martin’s room,” J. T. said. “I’ll bring you up some hot water out to the back porch.”
Ten minutes later, with Martin and Abbie tending their respective preparations, Tom, shirtless, was stroking a day’s growth of beard from his face by lantern light on the back porch. He worked quickly, deftly sliding the straight razor through the stubborn growth of whiskers on his face. When that job was finished, he set about giving himself a good washing with the sweet store soap that J. T. furnished him.
“I swear I’m gonna smell like a Dallas whore,” Tom grumbled to himself as he scrubbed away the natural sweaty odor built up from the day’s activities. He could hear the sound of talking inside and he knew Doctor Cranston and the preacher man had arrived. Tom quickly pulled on the fresh shirt and arranged himself. As he walked back into the kitchen, he hung his gunbelt on a kitchen chair. He put the backup Remington on the counter where the freshly washed dishes were stacked in readiness to be put away in their places on the shelves.
Tom hated social occasions. He knew there would be a lot of awkward displays of manners and the obligatory congratulations of the newlyweds. He walked through the dining room and stopped. The lawman almost changed his mind at the curtain in the door leading to the parlor. He seriously considered turning around and leaving out the back, but thought be
tter of the idea. It would be nothing less than a display of very bad manners. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the living room.
“You son of a bitch!” Tom snarled.
A man, dressed in the usual black, somber attire of a reverend, stared at him for an instant before reacting with lightning quickness. The preacher reached inside his coat and brought out a long-barreled revolver. He fired without hesitation as Tom turned and retreated through the curtain, tearing it from the doorway.
“Goddamn you, Deacon!” the reverend yelled, chasing after him.
The others in the room stood stock-still and dumbfounded as the gunfight developed before their eyes.
Tom could hear the man stumbling after him as he raced for the kitchen. Drawing the Colt from its holster would be too time-consuming. Instead, he went directly to the Remington and grabbed it, turning around at the same moment that the preacher charged into the room.
Several shots from two pistols exploded simultaneously. One stray bullet smashed into the stacked dishes, sending pieces flying out in a miniature explosion. A couple more tore open cupboard doors.
But one hit the preacher in the upper shoulder, the force of the impact driving the man into the woodstove behind him. The stove tipped over and separated from the pipe leading up to the ceiling. Clouds of soot cascaded outward and bellowed over the entire kitchen.
When the others arrived they found the mess. Tom knelt over the body of the dead preacher, making sure the man was not breathing.
“Goddamn! If this don’t beat all!” J. T. shouted. “What the hell is going on, Tom Deacon?”
“This here preacher man you got is a no-good, rotten bastard—pardon me, Miss Abbie—by the name of Zeb Black,” Tom said. He got to his feet. “Tarnation! I keep getting closer and closer to getting myself plugged. I wonder if the Good Lord is trying to tell me something.”
Martin walked over and looked down at the body. “What in the world did you two start shooting at each other for?”
“I’d like to remind you that he shot first,” Tom said.
“Which makes me more curious,” Martin remarked. “Why would a man of the cloth want to shoot you, Tom?”
“He ain’t really no preacher man,” Tom said. “At least not no more. He got defrocked down in Texas over a young gal in his congregation. He turned gun-and whiskey seller to Injuns. I had a coupla run-ins with him myself.”
“A whiskey runner?” Martin said as the journalist in him came to the surface. He turned to Cranston. “How did you meet him?”
Cranston, white and shaken, ignored the soot on a nearby chair and sat down. “He was resting on the public bench in front of my office. I couldn’t help but notice he was—er, that he appeared to be a clergyman. I struck up a conversation and we became acquainted. I never thought ...” He could say no more.
Martin looked back at the dead man and mused. “I wonder if he was one of Culhane Riley’s men. That blackguard would know of my impending nuptials from reading the Sentinel”
“There might be a lot of truth in that guess,” Tom Deacon said.
“Mmm,” Martin said. “Very interesting.”
“Interesting?” Abbie wailed from the doorway. “Martin! Our wedding has been ruined!”
“This kitchen won’t take no prizes neither,” J. T. said, surveying the mess.
Twenty-Three
The shadowy figures of the men moved through the night without a sound. Using the bright light of the full moon, the interlopers took quick looks around the hay yard to make sure there were no witnesses. Satisfied they were unobserved, they crossed the rail fence bordering the property.
Jake Bonner signaled to the others that the time was right.
Four match flames broke into the darkness and were set to as many kerosene-soaked torches.
“Toss ’em!” Jake shouted.
The burning hunks of wood whirred through the night air, landing at various points among both the neatly stacked bales and the stacks of loose hay that had yet to be run through the steam baler.
The flames leaped out and crackled loudly as they grew in intensity. Within a few short minutes it was obvious that the fire had gotten an excellent start.
“There ain’t nobody gonna put that out, boys,” Jake said, grinning. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
At that same moment, across town, staring up at the ceiling of the room he shared with Tom Deacon, Martin Blazer was wide-awake. If things would have worked out right, he’d have been down the hall snuggled cozily under the covers with Abbie. Instead he was alone in the bed listening to the deep, rhythmic cadence of Tom’s breathing as the lawman slept.
The bright moon cast shadows of the pecan tree outside the house across the far wall. Martin turned his head slightly to stare at it. The silhouette of the limbs danced lightly as a southern breeze brushed at them. He watched sleepily, beginning to drift into slumber.
Then his eyes popped open.
The shadows had suddenly grown deeper, and the moonlight seemed to brighten perceptibly with each passing moment. Alarmed, Martin leaped from the bed and went to the window.
“Fire!” he yelled out. “Wake up, Tom!”
Tom Deacon was on his feet with the Colt in his hand even before he was fully awake. “What?”
“There’s a fire to the south,” Martin said. He sniffed. “I can smell the smoke now.”
They both turned, startled, when J. T. burst through the door. “There’s a fire out to the south side o’ town!”
“We know,” Martin said. “Get into some clothes, J. T. We have to get down there.”
Fire in a town like Lighthouse Creek was a potential danger so horrendous that it evoked nightmares in people with nervous dispositions. In this world so isolated from civilization where men had to rely on their own wits and muscle to survive, entire communities had been known to be reduced to blackened, smoldering ruins in a matter of only an hour when flames had gotten out of control.
Five minutes later, with Abbie watching from her bedroom window, the three men ran down the street toward the disturbance. Other people were in the street also. Everyone had but one thing in mind: smother the blaze.
“It’s Gus’s hay yard,” someone yelled.
Loose contingency plans had been worked out some time before. Each household kept at least one bucket and a shovel on hand to fight fires. This idea would have worked perfectly in or near the center of town where there were several sources of water. But the flames out on Gus’s property were two hundred yards from the nearest pump.
Despite the physical difficulties, the people of the town didn’t hesitate to try to at least make a strong, determined effort to bring the disaster under control.
While some men shoveled dirt at the blaze, an incredibly slow fire line was started in which the participants passed buckets of water from one to the other at distances of five-yard intervals. The effort meant that three men were throwing water on the conflagration in an effort that could only be described as puny and futile.
But everyone worked hard at it, until J. T. Buchanan suddenly had a thought as he remembered something. “I got burlap bags in the store, boys!” he yelled out. “Some o’ you come with me and we’ll wet ’em down and beat the fire out.”
A large group broke off the nearly useless activity of the bucket brigade and followed the storeowner down to his place of business. It took a quarter of an hour to gather up enough of the bags, but once it was done everyone was quickly equipped with one of the sacks, which had been soaked until sopping wet at the nearest town pump.
Now they waded into the yard, the smacking of the bags on the. ground beating out a staccato as the men moved slowly forward into the inferno. At times they would gain ground only to be driven back when the flames exploded outwardly when new fuel was ignited.
“Press on, boys!” they shouted to each other.
“Knock it down!”
“Bring up more wet bags! For the love of God! Hurry!”
Gu
s Brunswick, his property being consumed by the fire, stayed up in the front line. His face was blackened by soot and smoke except where streaks of sweat and tears coursed through the grime. He worked like a madman, swearing and weeping at the same time as his muscular arms worked at the task of slamming the heavy, sopping burlap bag against the flames at his feet.
Time meant nothing to the fire fighters. Their women showed up with coffee, but only a few at a time refreshed themselves with the hot brew. It was too imperative, too consequential, and too dangerous to stay away from the demanding task of ending the threat to their homes. The potential of the fire spreading from the hay to the prairie grass would result in a deadly wall of flame that would travel unchecked into the town itself.
Finally, at midmorning, the battle had been won.
Exhausted but victorious, the fire fighters congratulated each other and, one by one, left the scene to drift back to their homes and a late breakfast. Gus Brunswick stood staring at his burned-up hay baler. It was a scorched pile of metal, its leather drive belts consumed in the blaze. Martin, Tom, and J. T. gathered around him.
“Hell of a note,” Gus said softly. “That goddamned baler was the best idea I’ve had in a hell of a long time.” He looked at J. T. “Abbie come by and took Hattie over to your place. I’m obliged.”
Tom Deacon walked away from the others. He wandered around until he noticed something on the ground. He knelt down and examined it. “Martin,” he called out.
Martin walked over. “Yeah?”
Tom stood up and held out a foot-long charred piece of wood. “Take a look at this.”
Martin, not minding because his hands were already dirty, took the burned object. “What about it?”
“Take a sniff,” Tom told him.
Martin complied. “I smell a faint odor of kerosene.”
“Right,” Tom said softly. “This fire was deliberate set.”
“Who in the world would do such a thing?” Martin asked, puzzled. “Even Culhane Riley would have nothing to gain by burning up Gus’s hay.”
“It spoiled our plans to set up bales in the newspaper office, didn’t it?” Tom asked.
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