“Over there! He’s trying to get away! Shoot him! Shoot him!” Alexander yelled at the top of his voice.
All three men began to shoot in the direction of the sound of the crashing vase, the flame patterns of the muzzles illuminating the room in periodic flashes like streaks of lightning.
The flashes of light enabled Duff to come up behind them.
“Here I am, boys,” he said.
The three men turned toward him, but with a mighty swing of the great claymore sword, Duff decapitated the two Somerled brothers.
* * *
Malcolm got away from him that night, but Duff encountered him again, in the streets of Chugwater, bested him in a gunfight, and his revenge was complete. Now, as Duff lay in the darkness, recalling the blood-boiling anger he had felt that night in partially avenging the murder of Skye, he could understand what was driving Ina Claire.
“We’ll find them, lass, and we’ll avenge the murder of your parents.” Like Ina Claire, Duff spoke the words aloud, but unlike Ina Claire’s words, his were not heard.
Duff lay on his bedroll long after the other two had gone to sleep. Sleeping out under the stars had become second nature for Duff, especially since arriving in America. To the west he could see Laramie Mountains, their snow-capped peaks gleaming under the bright moonlight. Much higher than the mountains in his homeland, these mountains seemed majestic and imposing. One of the things that had most impressed him about this country was its vastness. And it was the wild beauty of his adopted country that he loved most.
He heard the hoot of an owl from somewhere close by while overhead, bats, their wings gray against the dark sky, darted about in search of insects. A night breeze came up, and while it was brisk enough to rustle through branches of a nearby poplar tree, Duff smelled no rain on its breath.
* * *
At breakfast the next morning, Ina Claire seemed just a little nervous and she kept looking around. At first, Duff thought that she might be frightened that someone was close by. But as he read the expression in her face he realized that it might be one of discomfort, more than worry, and he realized what her problem was.
“Meagan, while I’m cleaning up the camp, why don’t you and Ina Claire take a little walk to explore the foliage. ’Tis thinkin’ I am that you might find some relief in that little exercise.”
Meagan caught on immediately, and she smiled. “I was just about to make that suggestion myself,” she said. “Come along, Ina Claire.”
“You want to explore the foliage?”
Meagan laughed. “Look, child, if the three of us are going to be traveling so close together over the next few weeks or so, there are going to be times when one of us will have to step away to find a moment of privacy, don’t you think?”
“What?” Then, with an embarrassed smile, Ina Claire realized exactly what Meagan was talking about.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think you are right.”
“So in the future, don’t be too embarrassed to say so. It’s going to happen to all of us.”
“You’re right. I won’t be embarrassed anymore, and, uh, I’m relieved to know that anytime I want to uh, be relieved, all I have to do is ask.”
The two ladies walked away from the encampment together, laughing and talking until they disappeared behind a little copse of trees. Duff smiled and whistled a little tune as he cleaned up the camp, then saddled the three horses so they could ride out as soon as Meagan and Ina Claire returned.
Chapter Twenty-one
Whitworth General Store
The store sat on the bank of the Little Laramie River, exactly halfway between the towns of Farrel and Howell. It did a very good business because of, rather than despite, its isolation. And because it had no immediate competition, Art Whitworth could, and did, charge a premium price for all his goods.
The store had started in a one-room building, but it had grown with success, adding at a rate of one new room per year for the last four years. Now the store spread out with the add-on rooms, their position in the chronology apparent by the different degree of weathering in the unpainted one-by-six planks that made up its walls.
WHITWORTH GENERAL STORE
~Goods for all Mankind~
Eats & Cots
Groceries, Guns, Ammunition, Whiskey
Callahan and the others with him were on top of a ridge, looking down onto the store. From here, they not only had a good view of the store itself but also the road approaching the store. For more than a mile in either direction, the road was empty. That meant they could conduct their business without fear of being interrupted. And the business they had in mind was robbery.
“How much money you reckon he’s got in that place?” Cooper asked.
“More’n that damn stagecoach had, that’s for sure,” Morris replied.
“All right, boys, what do you say we do a little early-morning business?” Callahan suggested as he sloped his horse down the ridge toward the store.
* * *
Art Whitworth saw the seven riders approaching his store, and his first thought was that they were here to conduct business. If he could count on five dollars of business from each of them, that would be thirty-five dollars earned in no longer than the time they would spend here.
But as he stepped toward the door to watch their approach, something about them disturbed him. They weren’t coming by way of the road as most customers did. They were coming down from the Medicine Bow Mountains. Whitworth knew for a fact that there were no settlements for many miles in that direction, even though he sometimes got customers from mountain men, trappers, or hunters, or just a hermit. But to see seven men coming from such a direction was a little unsettling.
“Mary Lou, I want you to go back into the storeroom and lock yourself in. Don’t come back out until I tell you.”
“What is it, Whitworth? What’s wrong?” Mary Lou asked. “You’re frightening me.”
“Just do what I say. There’s no time to argue. Please, just go now before they get in here!” he said with a sense of urgency.
This time Mary Lou reacted without further questioning, pulling the door to the storeroom shut but a moment before the front door opened.
Mary Lou wished there was a crack so she could look out to see what was going on, but there was no such crack available. She could hear, though, and she put her ear to the door to listen to the conversation.
* * *
“Yes, sir, gentlemen, what can I do for you today?” Whitworth asked, forcing a smile.
“Your sign out front says you have goods for all mankind,” one of the men said. He was a large man, clearly the largest of the entire group. His nose was pressed flat against his face, and one of his ears was deformed. “Is that true? Do you really have goods for all mankind?”
“Yes, sir, that certainly is true,” Whitworth said. “You setting up a house, and you need furniture, lanterns, wood-burning stoves, I’ve got ’em. You want to farm? I’ve got plows, harrows, potato diggers. For ranchers I’ve got saddles, tack, and . . .”
The big man waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I believe you,” he said.
“Ah, but you men didn’t come here to set up a house, or farm, or ranch, did you?”
The big man chuckled and looked at one of the others. “Well, what do you think about that, Cooper? Mr. Whitworth here is just real smart to figure that out.”
“I tell you what, Callahan. I’ll just bet he ain’t smart enough to figure out what we’re really here for, though,” Pardeen said with a little laugh that sent shivers of fright up Whitworth’s spine.
Whitworth cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, well, you gentlemen just look around the store. If you see something you’d like, I’ll be glad to get it for you.”
“Yeah, we’ll just do that,” Callahan said.
As Whitworth stood behind the counter, watching the seven men move through the store, he began to be somewhat less nervous. They were, after all, just shopping. And how they were shopping . . . by Whitwo
rth’s most conservative estimate, they had gathered at least three hundred dollars’ worth, from guns and ammunition, to knives, blankets, bacon, and cans of peaches.
“I see that you have only the seven horses you rode in on,” Whitworth said. “You might have already bought more than you can carry away, but I have a suggestion.”
“Yeah? What suggestion is that?” Callahan asked.
“I could sell you a pack mule,” Whitworth said.
“That’s a good idea. Yeah, we’ll take the mule.”
* * *
Several minutes later, with all their purchases piled up on the counter, Whitworth, no longer nervous now, was adding everything up. He was about to call Mary Lou out of the storeroom so she could help him but decided against it. She had been in there this long; she could stay a little longer.
“You gentlemen didn’t separate your purchases as you brought them to the counter, so I’m going to charge just one price for all of it, and you can settle it up among yourselves later.”
“Oh, we’ve already settled it up among ourselves,” Callahan said again with a broad smile. Perhaps it was Callahan’s smiles that were making Whitworth nervous. As far as Whitworth could tell, there was no humor in any of them.
“Have you?” Whitworth asked.
“Yes, it was very easy.” Callahan made a little waving motion of his hand over the pile of merchandise. “You see, the thing is, there ain’t none of us goin’ to be payin’ nothing at all for any of this.”
“Whatever do you mean? Are you saying that after gathering all this together, that now you won’t be taking it?”
“Oh, we’ll be takin’ it all right,” Callahan said. “We just won’t be payin’ for it.”
“I don’t understand,” Whitworth said.
Callahan pulled his pistol and pointed it at Whitworth. “Oh, I think you understand all right. And we’ll also be a-takin’ any money that you’ve got in your cash box there. I expect it’s a right smart amount of money, too . . . seein’ as you sell goods for all mankind,” he added with a chuckle. Now, all seven men had their guns out, and all of them were pointing at the storeowner.
“Sure, I’ve got the cash box right under here,” Whitworth said. He reached under the counter, but instead of coming up with the cash box, he had a double-barrel shotgun in his hand.
As soon as he lifted the shotgun, all seven men fired at him. Whitworth pulled the trigger on the shotgun as well, but it was a reflexive action and the shotgun did no more than tear out a huge chunk of the counter.
“Pardeen, you, Bates, ’n Donner get this stuff loaded on the pack mule. Manning, you ’n Morris grab us some whiskey, one bottle, no, make it two bottles apiece. Cooper, you help me load the cash box.”
* * *
Inside the storeroom, Mary Lou was biting down hard on some washcloths to keep from crying out loud. As soon as she heard the gunfire, she knew what had happened. Somehow, her husband had known beforehand. How could he have possibly known? And why didn’t he use that knowledge to save his own life?
Mary Lou wanted to run outside to check on Art, but from the number of gunshots, she was positive he would be dead. Killed by these men . . . she stopped in mid-thought. She had heard the names as one of them had called out to the others. She tried to recall them, but, for now, only three of the names had stuck with her. She could recall the name Manning, because a family by the name of Manning had a farm next to her parents’ farm back in Mississippi. She could remember the names Cooper and Callahan, too. The other name that stuck with her was Pardeen and it only because she thought it was a rather peculiar name.
“All right, Mr. Manning, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Callahan, and Mr. Pardeen,” she whispered. “I’ll remember your names, and if they find you, I don’t expect they’ll have that much trouble finding the others.”
Howell, Wyoming Territory
It was nearly noon when the wagon, with the gold-outlined red letters reading WHITWORTH GENERAL STORE, rolled into town. Most of the people of the town paid little attention to its arrival. It was a pretty routine occurrence; Whitworth brought the wagon into town at least twice a month to pick up railroad shipments that were being held for him at the Howell depot.
The only thing that did draw everyone’s attention was the driver. Generally when Whitworth came to town he was the driver and his wife was on the seat beside him. More than just business trips, they became social occasions, as Mary Lou Whitworth would take the opportunity to visit with her friends. Because of that, she was always very animated when she rode into town, smiling and waving at everyone.
That was not the case today. Mary Lou sat very stiffly on the driver’s seat, looking neither left nor right as she drove down Railroad Street.
“That’s odd,” Jo Ellen Rice said. Jo Ellen was standing at the front window of her ladies’ goods store.
“What is odd?” Kate Mullins asked. Kate was the blacksmith’s wife, and she had come to the store to buy a new hat.
“Mary Lou just came into town and she didn’t return my wave.”
“Maybe she didn’t see it,” Kate suggested.
“How could she not have seen it? I was standing right here. She’s always seen me before. I wonder where Art is?”
“You mean he’s not with her?”
“I didn’t see him. Mary Lou is driving by herself.”
“Well, that’s probably why Mary Lou didn’t see you. If she’s all by herself, more than likely she is having to concentrate on her driving.”
Jo Ellen chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right. Now do you plan to buy that hat or just hold it until it goes out of style?” she teased.
* * *
Mary Lou stopped the wagon in front of the sheriff’s office, set the brake, and climbed down. It was called the sheriff’s office even though its occupant was a deputy sheriff.
Deputy Sheriff Thurman Burns was no stranger to Mary Lou. They had grown up as neighbors, and their parents had even entertained the idea that one day they might be married. Such a relationship never developed between them, though they had remained friends. Thurman was playing a game of solitaire, and he looked up and smiled when Mary Lou stepped in through the door.
“Mary Lou,” he said. “You and Art in town to pick up a shipment, are you? Will we be able to have lunch together?”
Mary Lou broke down crying, the first time she had allowed herself to do so.
“Mary Lou, what is it?” Thurman asked, getting up and moving to her quickly.
“He’s dead,” Mary Lou said.
“Who is dead? Good Lord, you don’t mean Art, do you?”
“He’s in the wagon,” Mary Lou said. “Some men came, they robbed the store, and they killed Art.”
“Oh, my God, that’s awful!” Thurman said, putting his arms around Mary Lou to comfort her.
“Deputy, have you seen what’s in this wagon?” one of the townspeople said, stepping into the office then. He saw a weeping Mary Lou in Thurman’s arms.
“Oh, I . . . I’m sorry,” the intruder said.
“It’s all right, Hal,” Thurman replied. “Mary Lou just told me.”
With Mary Lou somewhat able to regain control, Thurman stepped out front. By now at least thirty people had gathered around the wagon to gawk at Whitworth’s bullet-ridden body.
“Cecil, would you drive Mrs. Whitworth’s wagon down to Prufrock’s?” Thurman asked. Andrew Prufrock was the town mortician.
“Sure thing, Deputy,” Cecil, one of the men who had gathered to gawk at the body, replied.
“Then have the wagon cleaned of his blood. You can send the bill to my office.”
* * *
“Damn,” Thurman said after Mary Lou told him everything she knew, including repeating the names she had heard. “I know exactly who it was that did this.”
Thurman pulled some wanted posters from his pile and looked through them. “Yeah,” he said, thumping his finger against them. “Callahan and Manning were broke out of jail by Cooper and Morris. Then,
a few days ago, Pardeen, Bates, and Donner was also broke out of jail. From the names you can remember, it looks as if they’ve all joined up together. I’ll get a telegram off to Sheriff Sharpies right away. Don’t you worry none at all, Mary Lou. We’re goin’ to get the men who killed Art, you can take my word on that.”
“I’m glad, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It won’t bring Art back.”
Deputy Burns nodded, then, in a comforting way, put his arms around her again.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “It won’t bring Art back. But to those of us who considered Art to be a good friend, it will at least give us some sense of satisfaction that justice will be served.
Chapter Twenty-two
Cheyenne
When Duff, Meagan, and Ina Claire stepped into the governor’s office that morning, they were greeted by a clerk.
“What can I do for you gents?” he asked.
“We’re not all gents,” Meagan replied with a smile.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am. But the way you are dressed, I didn’t, uh, that is . . .” the deputy let his sentence run down without completing it.
“That’s all right. The reason my sister and I are dressed like this is because it makes riding easier.”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon it does. Now, what is it I can do for you folks?”
“We would like to speak with the governor,” Duff said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“We dinnae have an appointment, but we would like to speak to him.”
“Governor Hoyt is a very busy man, too busy to speak to just anyone who gets it in mind to come in off the street for a visit.” The clerk was a very thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as he talked.
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll be needing an appointment,” Meagan said with a broad smile. “Just tell Uncle John that Meagan Parker would like to visit with him.”
Day of Reckoning Page 16
