The Avenging Angels

by Michael Dukes

  As to the Negro hanging around outside, Kings knew him for a killer—a heartless, stone-cold killer, made that way, no doubt, by a more brutal life than the others had lived.

  “What sorta misdeeds have y’all been occupyin’ yourselves with?” Wingate inquired, handing the bottle back. Although he usually limited himself to one drink, Kings poured himself another.

  “Well, we struck the U.P. this side of the last rainfall, both runs.” He decided to conserve his whiskey this time around, content with only one sip for the moment, before adding offhandedly, “Had to shoot me a fella up to Refuge.”

  “Ya don’t say,” Wingate said, straightening with interest. “What fer?”

  Kings shrugged. “Threw down on us with a scattergun on our way outta town.”

  “Just wanted a piece of that five-thousand-dollar bounty, more’n likely.”

  “Could be.”

  Carver leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You kill him?”

  Kings was looking at Wingate when he answered. “Put two slugs in him, wing and thigh. I reckon he’ll remember me the rest of his born days.” He paused for another sip. “Other’n that, it’s been an uneventful summer.”

  An hour later, as the visitors were saddling up outside, Kings went over to Wingate and asked, “Where you boys headed?”

  Wingate looked at him, then finished tightening the latigo. “Who’s to say, mi amigo? We’s conversed a little on catchin’ a train to San Antone. Been a dog’s age since we was last in them parts. Jack heard tell there was a troupe in town, and seein’ as none of us is wanted there, we thought we’d catch us a show and kick our boots up fer a time. Either way, I don’t expect we’ll be back thisaway anytime soon.”

  Wingate swung aboard but waited until Lightfoot, Carver, and Coleman rode past before reining away. Kings bristled at the notion that the man would go without as much as a parting word and took several steps beyond the corral gate after closing it. “Be seein’ you, Frank,” he called after the departing horsemen.

  Wingate did not look back but tossed a casual wave over his shoulder. “Adios, Kings,” he had to shout. “Muchisimas gracias fer the whiskey.”

  Kings watched them go until they were nothing but specks on the land. After a while he sensed Woods at his side.

  “A gentle riddance,” Woods remarked. Wingate had hardly acknowledged him, but that was just fine. “You ever met any of those others?”

  “Heard of Dan Carver . . . nothin’ good. Lightfoot’s supposed to be the best tracker come down the pike. But that colored fella . . . can’t say as I ever seen or heard of him before.”

  “Wingate mention why they came through here?”

  Kings had wondered that himself. “Just passin’.”

  “Well, I’m glad their stay wasn’t a long one,” Woods said. He paused to offer Kings a cigarillo, then lit one of his own. “Say, what day is this?”

  “September fifteenth,” Kings replied, then snorted in amusement.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You realize what’s just around the corner?”

  Woods looked at him curiously. “Should I?”

  “September twenty-fifth, eighteen hundred and sixty-six,” Kings said, sounding as though he were reciting from memory, “I put a bullet in the man who sold my father’s farm, and, come October sixth, it’ll be a dozen years to the day since the Scarboro job.”

  “Been that long, huh?”

  They smoked in silence for a minute or two before Kings, spitting shreds of wet tobacco, turned back toward the cabin. He emerged some moments later, a clanking burlap sack in his left hand, and started off through the grass to the northeast. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said in parting.

  To which Woods replied, “Watch yourself, brother.”

  Brownwell and Yeager came loping back to the compound a little past noontime, each with game dangling to one side of their saddle bows—Brownwell with a brace of rabbits, Yeager with a wild tom turkey. Osborn came out with his shotgun slung over his left shoulder and took their horses. Contrary to what Kings thought, he hadn’t been asleep after all but, along with Woods, had been keeping an eye on Coleman from the window of the second cabin.

  Woods was waiting inside, reading from Seward’s weathered copy of The Last of the Mohicans. He told Brownwell and Yeager of the four visitors he and Kings had received and asked whether either of the two knew Frank Wingate.

  Yeager didn’t, but Brownwell said, “I met him once before on the Hoot-Owl, but I recollect me and him crossin’ paths back in St. Lou, ’fore the war. He was all fire-and-brimstone, gettin’ loud and pointin’ his finger when the barroom talk would get political. Most of us thought he was full of it, till he up and shot a man on Independence Day. All for sayin’, ‘God bless the Union.’

  “Now, I was still a kid, more or less, and I hadn’t yet run afoul of the federal government. When Wingate popped that poor fella in the windpipe, it was the first kill I’d seen. It was only a year after that when I took a knife to that piece of trash we rented from. And that sheriff, not long after. Believe he was a second cousin of mine.

  “ ’Course, Missoura bein’ comprised mostly of future Secesh, what Frank Wingate done to that Union-lover was looked at as an act of simple patriotism. Hell, they made a hero out of him, at least for a night. Might’ve made me a hero, too, if it hadn’t been for that damn second cousin.”

  Kings extended his right arm and aimed at the line of cans and whiskey bottles set up in a row along the horizontal trunk of a rotted cottonwood. Turned sideways in a duelist’s stance and balancing the Peacemaker lightly in his fist, he centered his sights and squeezed the trigger.

  The first can launched into the air, and, before it landed, Kings notched his gun barrel a tick over. He centered on a large peach can and blasted it off the trunk, too. He did the same to the remaining three targets, and from the first shot to the last, only five seconds had gone by.

  He ejected the empties and reloaded five chambers, leaving the one under the hammer empty. He lowered the hammer and holstered, then shifted his feet around, left shoulder forward. On the twist-draw, Kings brought his second Colt into action, firing rapidly, and the last five bottles shattered. He drilled for another forty minutes until finally, after thirty targets and zero misses, Kings left his guns holstered. Good enough, he told himself.

  On the walk back, he had a lot of time to think. Generally, his mind was clouded with thoughts concerning the next job. There were occasions when he needed to dunk his head in a pail of water to relieve the headaches that came with the meticulous planning. He used up boxes of matches some nights to keep the candles lit, and he’d awakened with many a stiff neck after falling asleep with his face on the table.

  Earlier, Kings had been ruminating on a bank a few days’ ride to the east, but at the moment, his thoughts were nowhere near the town of Agave Seco and the bank he expected to find there, fat with cattlemen’s cash. No, his thoughts were out on the Frio River, where she awaited him.

  Nine years had passed, but things hadn’t changed much. Belle Jackson was still independent, still strong-willed, and, to his eyes, even prettier. He was just as lost a cause as that terrible war had been, and he still pined for her.

  He’d sworn himself to stay true to Belle and had never strayed from his pledge. Their romance was a forbidden thing—as much by her parents as by the way things were—and so they had to tread carefully. They had spent precious few nights together, and, fortunately, their passions hadn’t yet produced a son or daughter to shame them both and end the alliance he held with her father.

  He would have given back all he’d stolen if he could walk away tomorrow—yield control to Brownwell or one of the others, and marry Belle. He had kept the woman waiting long enough. How much more time would she be willing to spend on him, if she hadn’t given up already?

  He couldn’t even recall how long it had been since he’d last laid eyes on her . . . a year, was it, or more? He had yet to receive a response
from that letter he’d sent. Of course, he told himself, if she ever did decide she’d had enough of waiting and worrying, she would be justified in whatever course of action she chose.

  Did she still stare out over the prairie, hoping to see him crest that last rise, or had she turned her attentions toward a dashing Yankee cavalryman, or some good-looking Texas horse trader in business with her father?

  And even if the day did dawn when Gabriel Kings hung up his guns and adopted one final alias, to what sort of existence would that consign the woman he loved? He’d hoarded away just about enough money to settle into a comfortable and civilized existence elsewhere, and, when it came to making more, he could always pass himself off as a cattle buyer or horse breeder. He had the inclination; Belle had the eye for four-footed flesh. As to keeping up outward appearances, no doubt the local preacher would welcome any collection plate contribution Kings chose to make.

  But, putting aside all these outward changes, what would be different? No matter how far he and Belle ran, and no matter how many children they matriculated through Sunday school, Kings could never stop looking over his shoulder—never stop seeing Pinkertons on every street corner or mounted lawmen on every horizon.

  Bogged down and floundering, his thoughts turned quickly back to Agave Seco.

  CHAPTER 8

  Stirrup-to-stirrup, they rode down Congress Avenue toward the imposing bulk of the capitol building. The two riders were nearly identical, mounted on matching bay horses, and although they were not in uniform, they had a distinctly military air about them. If a passerby had thought to look, he might have noticed the star-in-a-circle badge each man wore on his chest, identifying them clearly as Texas Rangers.

  Under the eyes of two neatly dressed men idling on a bench, the rangers swung down and, in the absence of a proper hitch rail, tied their horses, one to a side, to the black wrought-iron rails that led up the capitol steps. The larger, gray-haired ranger paused a moment, then bent backward at the waist and groaned as he heard something crack like a handful of twigs. Caleb, he thought to himself, you’re getting to be too damn ancient for this.

  Caleb Stringer was a captain in one of the state’s six frontier battalions. Though he was a Tennessee man by birth, the siren call of Texas lured him away from home over thirty years ago, and he’d been a Texan ever since. He served under Captain Jack Hays in the twilight of the ’40s during the Mexican-American War, but, unlike so many others who flocked to the Stars-and-Bars years later, he chose to stay behind and defend against opportunistic Indians and bandits. He had spent most of his life in the saddle and, more than once, nearly perished in it. However brittle he might have felt on this overcast October day, he could still outride and outshoot many a man half his age.

  The other fellow, Paul Leduc, was Stringer’s sergeant. An eight-year man, he was a foreigner to Texas as well, a fourth-generation Louisianan—not a Cajun, as were most of his neighbors growing up, but the descendant of a French Huguenot who crossed over in the last century. A stalwart six-footer, habitually clean-shaven, he was younger than the captain by twenty years. Unlike his superior, he had indeed felt the call to go off and serve his country, but, because of Louisiana’s treasonous leanings, he traveled to Kentucky to enlist in a Union-allied regiment. After the war, a short stint as a shotgun guard for Wells Fargo polished his marksmanship. By the time he handed in his resignation, whatever misgivings he’d had of being shot at were gone. When his wanderings brought him to Texas, Leduc found a ranger force in desperate need of fighting men, and himself in need of funds.

  The rangers ascended the steps, passing under American and Lone Star flags hanging forlornly in the still, late evening air. One of the two on the bench looked up from his paper as they passed and raised his eyebrows at the sight of their dusty boots and jangling spurs.

  Once inside, the rangers had only to identify themselves and were promptly directed to the governor’s office. Neither had a clue as to what Richard B. Hubbard wanted, or how long their audience with him would last, but each man burned with a private curiosity.

  The double doors opened after a quick knock, and the governor received them with the warm handshake and winning smile of a true politician. He was tall and heavyset, his bushy brown beard streaked with gray, and clad in a black Prince Albert coat tailored to suit his girth. Leduc thought Hubbard projected a sense of dignity appropriate for a man in his position.

  “Hel-lo, gentlemen, and welcome,” Hubbard boomed. “I hope y’all had a pleasant ride in.”

  “Pleasant enough,” Stringer replied.

  “Can I offer you boys a cigar?”

  Stringer accepted one from the proffered box but did not light it, planning, instead, to smoke it on the journey back to headquarters. He was a man who believed that matters at hand came first, leisure second.

  When the governor extended the cigar box to Leduc, the younger man shook his head, saying, “Believe I’ll pass, but thank you, sir. I can’t abide the devil-weed.”

  Hubbard shrugged, selected one for himself and struck a match against the edge of his mahogany desk. After a few puffs, the stuffy air filling the large room was permeated by the rich scent of Virginia tobacco. “If this is what’s considered devil-weed, gentlemen,” said the governor, waving out the match, “I’d love to see what angel-weed is like.”

  Hubbard had been a commander of the 22nd Texas Infantry during the war and afterwards practiced law. He was elected lieutenant governor in ’73 and again three years later, just before assuming the office he held now. Over the course of his term, Hubbard had done a decent job of continuing the previous governor, Richard Coke’s, task of reconstructing postwar Texas, reducing the public debt, promoting educational reform, and stabilizing the state prison system.

  Now, in what would be his last few months as governor, Hubbard had apparently decided he owed the state of Texas one last duty.

  He motioned for the two lawmen to have a seat opposite his desk, across which were scattered various leather-bound books, sheaves of paper, a walnut metronome, and—perhaps to make an impression—a well-kept but somewhat out of place Colt Dragoon in a flap holster.

  As they seated themselves, the governor gave them a good once-over. Both men were dressed in simple garb—homespun shirts and worn leather vests under heavy coats, woolen trousers tucked into the tops of tall boots that had seen better days. Curiously, Leduc had a black silk neckerchief knotted loosely about his throat, the ends tucked down into the collar of his vest for protection. Each carried a knife and a pistol on their belts, the pistols chambered so they could use .44-caliber rifle shells interchangeably. Both men had been deeply tanned by the sun, their skin toughened by harsh llano winds, and they possessed builds that testified of strength and endurance, though Leduc was slightly shorter and leaner than Stringer.

  Hubbard cleared his throat. “Well, as you know, gentlemen,” he said, “our fine state suffered greatly in the wake of that ruinous damn war, and, like my predecessor, I’ve had only the very best interests in mind movin’ forward. Governor Coke helped get us up off our hands and knees, and I daresay I’ve helped get us to where we can walk without Yankee hands to guide us.

  “We’re doin’ fairly well, for the most part,” he continued, “and the only way left to go is up. You men down on the border have near about got the Indians and the Mexicans whipped back, as I understand it.”

  After a short pause, Stringer, sensing that Hubbard was awaiting some sort of reply, said, “Yessir, but we’ve lost many a good man in the doin’. Taken an arrow in the hip and right arm, myself. Sergeant nearly lost his scalp to a Comanche buck one time.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was what Hubbard wanted to hear.

  Leduc shifted in his seat, wishing the governor would get to the point. Like Stringer, he was ever mindful of his duty, but he appreciated a more direct approach.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you both alive and well,” the governor was saying. “And, gents, as good as it is to know the tide’s tu
rning our way, it’s been my continued experience that as soon as one obstacle is taken care of, another springs up in its place.”

  He leaned forward, folding his large hands as they came to rest on the desktop. “That’s why I’ve called you men in here.”

  They started down the steps nearly an hour later, but not a word was said until they’d seated themselves at a corner table in the local chili joint.

  With his back to the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, Sergeant Leduc held a cup of black coffee to his face with both hands, letting the steam warm his cheeks, then smiled as he sipped. There was no color or smile to be found on the captain’s face, though, not even as he carved into his beefsteak. His mind was devoted solely to the commission they had just received—to exterminate the last remnant of Jeb Stuart’s cavalry; to run to ground Gabriel Kings and his Avenging Angels, who had been a plague on this state and others for far too long. That was no small thing to ask, even of lawmen with their accumulated background and experience, but the governor had promised them something well worth the risk. In addition to the government footing the bill for any expenses they required, the state reward of $5,000 would be theirs to split—his and Paul’s—and it didn’t matter if they brought Kings in dead or alive. Texas Rangers made little more than forty dollars a month in state scrip, so the sum was as good as a million to them.

  Kings’s most recent heist had yielded a payoff of $20,000. Apparently, that was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. And so, after a steamier and more financially strenuous summer than usual, the governor had finally been given permission by President Hayes to organize a force fit enough to bring the outlaw gang to justice.