As Breckenridge and Pate slowly rode through the town, such as it was, they saw no church or school, and no evidence of a jail or any law-enforcement presence.
“Looks like it’s wide-open and every man for himself,” Clay said.
“And this is where you believe your brother was living?”
“Just a guess, but I think it best if we get ourselves the lay of the land before we begin asking any questions.”
There was no evidence of a café, but they found that the saloon served a limited menu. “Seems as good a place as any to get ourselves better known,” Jonesy said.
As they entered, they scanned the room filled with boisterous cowboys and a few buffalo hunters badly in need of shaves and baths. There was no room at the bar, and most of the tables were occupied. The place smelled of stale beer, boiled cabbage, and cigar smoke.
Jonesy leaned toward Clay and whispered, “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess there’s been a jailbreak and everybody’s chose to hide out here.”
From behind the bar, a female voice welcomed them. Her auburn hair was pulled back, held in place by a red ribbon. She was tall, slim, and tanned, maybe thirty years old. “You boys just find yourselves a chair, and I’ll tend your needs shortly.”
When two men left a small corner table to join a poker game across the room, Clay and Jonesy took a seat and continued to survey their surroundings.
“Howdy, strangers,” the woman said as she appeared at their table. “If you’re hungry, we’ve got steak and beans and corn bread. If drinking’s your pleasure, we got whiskey and beer, both homemade.”
“We’ll eat and wash it down with your beer,” Clay said.
The woman nodded and smiled. “Name’s Madge,” she said. “This is my place. You’re welcome so long as you don’t start no fighting, spit tobacco on my floor, or cheat at cards.”
Jonesy laughed. “Fair enough, I’d say.” After she’d left, he glanced across at Clay. “What do you think chances are that all three of those rules get broken on a regular basis?”
One fight, in fact, broke out at the bar even before their meal arrived. They watched as Madge raised a shotgun, pointed it at the cowboys, and demanded they leave or get shot. As the two drunks staggered toward the door, Jonesy said, “You have to admit, we’ve got no entertainment like this back home in Aberdene.”
When she arrived from the kitchen with their orders, Clay asked, “Would you really have shot those fellas?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. They’re good customers.”
They ordered more beer, enjoying being out of the saddle. A brief argument broke out at one of the nearby poker tables but was short-lived and no cause for Madge to threaten bodily harm. None of the customers said so much as a “howdy” to the travelers.
“So I’d admire to know your thinking on what our plan is now that we’re here. You think some of these rowdy folks might have been associates of Cal?”
“If so, they would have known him as Will Darby, since that’s the name he took on after his leave-taking from the army. Until we get a better idea of who these folks are, I think it best we keep our purpose to ourselves.”
“I think you done already spoke with one person who knows everybody in town and what their business is,” Jonesy said, looking toward the bar, where Madge was busy refilling whiskey glasses.
* * *
* * *
THE LIVERY OWNER told them that since there was no cattle drive in town or expected in the next few days, there were plenty of tents available to rent. “And there’s a water pump out back of the stables that you’re welcome to use. Rest assured your horses will be fed and well cared for,” he said. “How long you boys stayin’?”
“Not sure,” Clay said. “Couple of days, maybe longer. We’re just passing through.”
They hadn’t been settled in their tent long before Pate was snoring gently. Breckenridge, however, lay awake, his mind racing with questions. Was this godforsaken place where his brother had escaped to? What had drawn him here to associate with people unlike any they had known growing up? Had he become an outlaw, doing harm to others? What had he done to make a murderous enemy? What had he done to be called a coward?
And how far would Clay actually go to make things right if he found answers to his questions? Since the war ended, he’d had a recurring nightmare of that day on faraway Palmito Ranch when he killed the Union soldier. He’d vowed it would be the last act of violence he would ever commit.
Yet now he felt deep and burning anger that was fueling this journey. And it made him uncomfortable. He’d felt no remorse when he’d cracked the skull of the rustlers’ sentry or shot another. And now, God help him, he wanted to kill again.
It was almost daylight when he finally gave way to restless sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELI RAYBURN, OWNER of the Tascosa livery, was standing outside the tent when Breckenridge and Pate emerged. “I got coffee up in the barn,” he said. “It’s a service I provide all paying customers. Clean washed cups are available. Both of you look as if you could use some.”
He then pointed in the direction of the rising sun. “See that little shack down there near the creek? That’s where the Prices—husband and wife—offer laundry service if you’re so inclined. And the old man will heat up bathwater, given a little notice. He also does barbering. You’ll find their prices fair.”
As they walked toward the livery, Rayburn kept up his banter. “Don’t see no limping or bruises, so it appears you boys made it through your first night in town unharmed.”
“We did watch a woman threaten to blow the heads off a couple of drunks down at the saloon,” Jonesy said.
“Ms. Madge,” Rayburn said. “She’s got herself a bark way bigger than her bite.”
Clay eyed the man with interest. His graying beard, slumped shoulders, and bowlegged walk made it easy to guess his age. Somewhere in his seventies, probably. In all likelihood, he’d been in Tascosa long enough to know everybody in town.
By midday the visitors had taken advantage of the laundry and bath services and were in the saloon, finishing up a lunch of beef stew. “Don’t know about you,” Jonesy said, “but I’m feeling about half pretty after getting all cleaned up.”
“You’ve still got a ways to go, I’d say,” Clay replied.
They moved outdoors and sat on a bench, discussing how best to go about asking if anyone had known Clay’s brother. They agreed it would be best to proceed with caution until they had a better idea of what he might have been involved in and with whom. “We’re going to need to do something in the near future,” Breckenridge said, “or folks will start to wonder why a couple of strangers are just hanging about with no obvious purpose.”
As they talked, a commotion began taking place on the southern edge of town. When it got closer they could see a rider leading a buckboard. Trailing it were a dozen or so additional horsemen. When the party neared the saloon, a wooden casket in the back of the wagon came into view.
Along the way, several men removed their hats as the procession made its way through town. Madge emerged from the saloon and stood next to Clay and Jonesy.
“Going to be a funeral,” she said before they could ask. “That’s Ben Baggett riding up front. His employees are behind. It’s Ben’s boy, Dell, they’ll be laying to rest up on Boot Hill.”
Clay removed his hat as the casket went by. “How is it he came to pass?”
“Most likely got himself shot,” Madge said, “but I got no details.”
As the wagon turned onto the caliche road leading to the cemetery, the townspeople who had stood silently hurried back into buildings, closing doors and windows. In a matter of minutes, Tascosa took on the look of a ghost town.
“I get the impression people don’t take too kindly to your Mr. Baggett and his lot,” Clay said.
“That’s a fair a
ssessment,” said Madge. “A word of advice to you and your friend: Once the burying is done, they’ll all be coming here to drink themselves crazy as rabid skunks. They’ll not take kindly to outsiders intruding on their gathering, so I’d suggest you stay away.” With no further explanation, she turned and reentered the saloon.
Jonesy was quiet until they reached their tent. “See anybody familiar-looking among that bunch?” he finally said.
“Wasn’t paying that much attention.”
“The man driving the wagon. Wearing that big floppy hat. A sombrero. He had his leg bandaged and in a splint. Like maybe somebody shot him recently.”
Clay was silent for a time, then said, “Seeing as how we’re not welcome at Madge’s place of business, maybe it’s time we had a conversation with Eli up at the livery. It’s a good bet he knows something useful that he could share about these Baggett folks.”
* * *
* * *
RAYBURN WAS MUCKING out a stall when they arrived. “You boys appear a bit troubled by something,” he said.
“Just been watching the funeral parade,” Jonesy said. “Didn’t notice you among the crowd. I take it you and this fella Ben Baggett must not be the best of friends.”
Eli stopped his raking. “If he’s got a horse in need of new shoes or doctoring, I do it. If he needs hay or oats, I load his wagon. That’s where our relationship ends.” He spoke in a humorless voice. “Suits me fine if he remains at his place down in the canyon and leaves the folks here in Tascosa to tend their own business.”
“The canyon?”
“Him and his men got a place south of here, somewhere down in the Palo Duro Canyon. Never actually been there myself. I’ve heard him refer to it as a ranch, but I think if truth be known it ain’t nothing more than a hideout.”
“You saying Baggett ain’t law-abiding?”
“I’d have to say that’s an accurate statement.” Rayburn returned to his work, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
Clay continued to press. “You on a name-knowing basis with those who ride for him?”
“I’ve spoke to a few of them down at the saloon from time to time.”
“Is the name Will Darby familiar to you?”
Rayburn shoveled soiled hay into a cart and made no reply.
“He’s about my size, with red hair. Shoulders are broader than mine. A few years younger than me and likes talking and carrying on.”
“Can’t recall ever meeting one of the Baggett boys I’d call fun-loving. Sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell. This Darby, he a friend of yours?”
“He was,” Clay replied.
* * *
* * *
IN THE EVENING, Clay and Jonesy sat cross-legged in front of their tent, a small fire warming coffee and two cans of beans they’d found in a saddlebag. The day’s wind had calmed and boisterous sounds of arguing and occasional drunken laughter could be heard from the saloon.
“Ol’ Eli doesn’t seem like one to be easily spooked,” Jonesy said, “but I sensed a genuine fear of this Baggett and his gang.”
Clay munched on a dry biscuit and nodded. “Too much gossiping might get him killed or his livery burned down. My guess is everybody in town dreads seeing these men coming. That being said, I’ve got a strong feeling we’re getting close to what we come looking for.”
“You thinking your brother might have hooked up with them and met his end on account of it?”
“That’s now my fear.”
“So we got us a plan?”
Clay stood and stretched, looking in the direction of the noisy saloon. “I’ll need to do some sleeping on it,” he said.
* * *
* * *
IN THE SALOON, it was nearing midnight. Madge stood behind the bar, silently observing the mayhem and assessing the damage. Several chairs had already been broken, and the floor was littered with broken glass. The smell of spilled beer and tobacco juice that hadn’t made its way to a spittoon filled the room. Several patrons had already passed out, heads down on tables, uttering occasional groans. The poker games underway had dissolved into constant accusations of cheating and rowdy fistfights.
Ben Baggett sat alone at a corner table, drinking whiskey. He said nothing, his cold blue eyes focused on the near-empty bottle in front of him.
Come sunup, the saloon would be closed for the day as Madge cleaned and did repairs.
* * *
* * *
CLAY WAITED UNTIL midday before visiting Madge. When he entered the empty saloon, she was on her knees, a scrub brush on hand and a bucket of soapy water beside her. “We’re closed,” she said, not bothering to look up.
“I realize you’re busy, but I was wondering if we might have a private conversation,” Breckenridge said as he reached for the mop leaning against the bar. “Be glad to help out while we’re talking.”
She looked up from her kneeling position, pushing hair from her face. “You going to truthfully tell me why you and your friend are visiting this miserable town? You the law?”
“Trying to learn about someone who might have once lived here. Could be he was affiliated with that bunch that was tearing up your place last night.”
Madge shook her head as she put down the brush and got to her feet. “Any questions you’ve got about that bunch can’t do anything but cause you grief. And any questions I might choose to answer won’t likely help me neither.”
“That’s why I suggested us keeping this conversation private.”
“Who is it you’re hoping to learn about?”
“You ever acquainted with a man called Will Darby?”
The name clearly took her by surprise. “I’ve heard the name,” she said, “but we have no friendship. Can’t recall when I last saw him.”
“’Cause he’s dead,” Breckenridge said.
Madge put her hands to her mouth. “I feared as much,” she finally said. “There’s somebody needs to hear your information.”
“Who might that be?”
“Her name’s Jennie Broder. She’s a friend of mine. Lives with her pa on a little goat farm between here and the canyon. She’s a sweet and fragile little thing whose mama died giving birth to her.”
“And what was her relation to Darby?”
“They were talking of getting married.”
Breckenridge felt a lump in his throat. The idea of his brother settling down, marrying with plans for a domestic future, had never occurred to him. It wasn’t the young man he’d known. “I’ll be needing to speak with her,” he finally said.
She saw the pain on his face and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I’d be glad to accompany you and show you the way. Won’t hurt for this place to remain closed for another day. I got a buggy out back we can take. When is it you’ll be wanting to go?”
“Now,” Clay said. “Right now.”
* * *
* * *
THE ROAD LEADING to the Broder farm was rutted and difficult to travel. When they finally arrived at a clearing and could see the cabin and barn, they heard the bleating of curious goats anticipating their arrival. A dog barked.
Cyrus Broder, wearing overalls and a straw hat, waved a corncob pipe in the air when he recognized Madge’s buggy. “Wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, “but it’s good to see you. Hope it ain’t goat-meat jerky you’ve come for because it’s not yet smoked properly. Proud you didn’t bust an axle on my road.”
Before stepping from the buggy, Madge leaned toward Clay and whispered, “I’m of a mind to speak to Jennie first.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Clay responded.
Madge introduced the men. “We’ve come to talk with Jennie,” she said.
“She’s out in the barn,” her father said, “bottle-feeding a couple of newborns. Twins. Their mama can’t properly feed the
m both.”
Madge excused herself and found Jennie seated on a mound of hay, a kid goat in her lap. Her eyes lit up when she saw her friend.
In the yard, the men stood in the shade of a mesquite tree. “Mr. Broder,” Clay said, “I’m afraid I’ve come with some bad news for your daughter. As we speak, her friend is telling her that Will Darby has been killed. Reason I know is I’m his brother, and it was me who buried him.”
Broder shook his head in disbelief. “This’ll put a mighty ache in my daughter’s heart,” he said. “She thought highly of him, more than she let on to me. But, you know, a daddy can tell. And I liked the young man. He showed good manners when he visited. Told me he grew up on a farm and showed an interest in raising goats himself one day. To be honest, I never cottoned to his being associated with that Baggett outfit, but he told me he was planning to take his leave of that life. How was it he was killed?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out,” Clay said.
As they spoke, the women approached from the barn. Jennie Broder, a baby goat still cradled in her arms, was crying. She was a petite young woman with long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Even in her buckskin britches, flannel shirt, and scuffed boots, she was pretty. His brother had chosen well, Clay thought.
Broder lovingly hugged his daughter before she turned to Clay and extended her hand. “He spoke of you often and with ever so much affection,” she said. “He promised I would meet you once he and I returned to join you on the farm.”
Breckenridge hoped she didn’t notice the moisture forming in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he said.
The Breckenridge Boys Page 5
