The Breckenridge Boys

by Carlton Stowers

  After he’d left, Baggett placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward his new employees. “Not to worry. You’ll get paid well,” he said, “but I got some rules you’ll need to abide by. First, there’ll be no drinking until the job’s completed. Second thing, don’t do the boy no harm.

  “Third, I don’t want you bringin’ Dunning back with you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  MISS COCHRAN HAD spent most of the day teaching arithmetic, the subject that least interested Lonnie. He was glad when she dismissed the students for the day and was looking forward to stopping by the Breckenridge farm on the way home to spend a few minutes playing with Sarge.

  Jonesy, seeing how much he enjoyed Clay’s dog, had already promised he’d soon have a pup of his own, so long as it didn’t interfere with his chores and studies.

  At the hitching rail he pulled an apple from his lunch bucket and fed it to Maizy, then led her to the watering trough before leaving the schoolyard. Since she waited for him all day, Lonnie chose not to burden her with the discomfort of a saddle and rode bareback to and from town. As he left, he turned and waved goodbye to Ginger.

  They were just a few hundred yards from the school when two riders suddenly emerged from a stand of trees and were quickly on each side of Maizy. One of the men grabbed the reins while the other pointed a pistol. A third man appeared and grabbed the lunch bucket from Lonnie, stuffed a piece of paper inside it, and tossed it to the ground.

  “Climb down and get on back,” the gunman said, pointing to his partner’s horse. “We’ll not be taking yours.”

  “Where are we going?” Lonnie said. There was the treble of fear in his voice.

  “Just shut up and climb on,” one of the men said. “That fellow pointing the gun will be riding right behind you, in case you get thoughts of doing something foolish.”

  In less than two minutes, it was done. Doozy was laughing as they galloped away. “That,” he said, “was easy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  PATRICIA PATE WAS uneasy when Lonnie was late arriving home. She had baked gingerbread and had it cooling for him. Her concern grew to full-blown horror when Jonesy burst into the kitchen, his face ashen. “Maizy just showed up at the barn,” he said, “and Lonnie’s not with her.”

  She slumped to a chair and buried her face in her hands as her husband hurried away to saddle his own horse.

  He was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached Clay’s place and told him of the situation. In a matter of minutes both were riding toward town.

  It was Jonesy who first saw the lunch bucket in the middle of the dusty road. He quickly reined his horse to a stop and dismounted.

  “I think it’s Lonnie’s,” he said.

  “See if there’s anything inside.”

  Jonesy unfolded the piece of paper and read the note written on it aloud.

  I got your boy. And you got my money.

  Let’s make us a trade.

  Though he rarely did, Clay yelled out a curse. “Ben Baggett ain’t dead,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A FEW OF the town children were still in the schoolyard, playing games. None, when asked, had seen anything but Lonnie riding toward home, as he usually did. Inside, Miss Cochran was gathering up books and dusting her blackboard. She was horrified by the news but knew nothing.

  Clay had never seen his friend so frantic. “I’m having difficulty thinking what we should do next,” Jonesy said.

  “Let’s go see the marshal.”

  “We’ll get a search party together,” Dodge Rankin said as he bolted from his chair. “Got any thoughts on who might have taken him? You sure his horse didn’t just pitch him, and he’s lying hurt somewhere?”

  Pate raised his voice and waved the note. “He’s been kidnapped, Marshal, plain and simple. And we have to find whoever it is who took him.”

  “Lord, Lord,” Rankin said. “I can’t recollect us having a kidnapping since way back when the Comanches was stealing women and children. I’ll get some of the boys together, and we’ll get to looking.” He then added a warning. “Ain’t likely to be easy since nobody seems to have seen which way they went. Plus, there’s not that much daylight left.”

  While the marshal summoned a search party, Pate and Breckenridge headed for the ranch. Madge was already there, attempting to calm Patricia. The four sat at the kitchen table as Jonesy told of finding the note.

  “You sure Ben Baggett’s involved?” said Madge. “Everybody thought he was killed in that Indian raid along with everybody else.”

  “It’s Baggett,” Clay said. “I got no doubt. He somehow survived.”

  “What’s this about money?” Patricia asked.

  “It’s a long story,” said Jonesy. Then he told it.

  “So you stole money from somebody who stole it from him?” his wife said. “I never heard of such a thing. And hiding it in a graveyard . . .”

  “We weren’t planning on keeping it for ourselves,” Jonesy said. “What I don’t understand is how he knows it was us and Eli who wound up with it.”

  “I suspect he’s just guessing,” Clay said, “which isn’t that important at the moment. What we gotta do is find Lonnie before any harm comes to him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  AFTER COVERING SEVERAL miles and feeling confident that they hadn’t been followed, Doozy suggested they give their horses a rest. Alvin bound Lonnie’s wrists and ankles and had him sit against a tree trunk.

  The brothers were elated by their success. “Think Mr. Baggett’s gonna ask for ransom?” Alvin said. “Maybe thousands of dollars?”

  “Hope so,” Doozy said. “I’m wondering how much of it we’ll be getting.”

  Dunning sat nearby, silently staring at the young boy who was shivering despite the heat. He was wishing he’d never mentioned that Jonesy Pate had brought him home.

  After a short rest, Doozy said it was time to mount up. “We can keep riding until dark, then camp for the night. Be in Fort Worth by this time tomorrow.”

  The moon was just coming over the horizon when the kidnappers arrived on the bank of a swift-running creek. A nearby grove of trees looked like a good place to camp. Doozy, feeling emboldened by their success, had appointed himself leader. “There’s to be no campfire,” he said, “and we’ll take shifts standing watch. We don’t want nothing going wrong now that we’ve come this far.” He looked at his brother. “Get the boy a drink. Then see to it he’s tied up good and tight.”

  Then he smiled. “Our work’s already half done.” Alvin knew to what he was referring.

  The night passed slowly as Lonnie slept fitfully, often whimpering when in the middle of a bad dream. Doozy and Alvin snored in harmony when they weren’t standing watch. Sleep completely evaded Dunning, who was glad to finally see the first rays of daylight.

  While the brothers stretched and cursed their stiffness, Calvin walked to the bank of the creek to splash water on his face. He was on his knees, bent forward, when he felt the barrel of Alvin’s pistol pressed against his back.

  “The boss said to tell you that your services won’t be needed any longer,” Alvin said just before pulling the trigger.

  Dunning’s body quivered, then slowly toppled forward into the water.

  Nearby, Lonnie screamed and frantically tried without success to free himself. “Why did you kill him?”

  “Not to worry, little man,” Doozy said. “Our instructions was to kill only him and see to it you got good care. Think on it this way: Now you got a horse of your own to ride the rest of the way.”

  * * *

  * * *

  SOON AFTER IT was discovered that Lonnie was missing, a dozen men joined Marshal Rankin and his two deputies to begin a search. Since there was little daylight remaining, they looked in secluded areas near town. “Check
every barn and shed you come across. Come morning, we’ll split up in groups and head out in every direction,” Rankin said. He called out the names of the searchers who would make up each party.

  By dark they had found no trace of the boy or his abductors.

  When daylight came the next day, they broadened the search. “This seems to be well planned out, so I’m guessing they’ll head toward where they can find water for their horses. Grayson Creek’s to the east of here,” Rankin said. The marshal asked Pate and Breckenridge to be part of his group, which would head in that direction.

  It was late in the afternoon when they reached Grayson Creek. They rode along the bank for almost a mile before finding Calvin Dunning’s body. He was on his side, and the crimson wound in his back was plain to see. He looked dead as they dragged him away from the water.

  Only a faint groan convinced them otherwise.

  Clay was leaning forward, his face almost touching Dunning’s chest, when he saw the other man’s eyes flicker and open slightly. In a slurred whisper, Dunning said, “Tell Madge . . . sorry . . . all I done.” Then there was a loud gasp and his eyes closed. His last words sounded like “Fort Worth . . .” and “Bagg . . .”

  Breckenridge slowly got to his feet. “Baggett’s got Lonnie somewhere in Fort Worth,” he said.

  “I know the marshal there,” Rankin said, “but truth is, he’s one of the biggest outlaws the town’s got. Don’t know how much help he can be to us, unless you’ve got money to pay him.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jonesy said. “We can take care of what needs doing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MY, AIN’T YOU a fine-looking young fellow,” Ben Baggett said as Lonnie was brought into the room. As instructed, Doozy and Alvin had waited until long past dark before coming to town. “I’m sorry, but it’ll be necessary to keep you tied up and gagged so you can’t speak out. Don’t want to be disturbing nobody.”

  He turned toward the brothers. “You boys did good,” he said. “I’m assuming nobody saw you or followed you back.”

  “No, sir.”

  “The boy been fed?”

  “I rode in and got us some meat loaf and corn bread while waiting for it to get dark,” Alvin said. “We’ve treated him kindly, just like you said to.”

  Baggett was pleased. “You can now get rested up. Then we’ll discuss the next part of the plan.”

  “Next part?”

  They hadn’t been told that the note left in Lonnie’s lunch bucket had made no mention of how his captor could be contacted and the stolen money returned.

  Baggett was smiling when the brothers left. It was obvious he was enjoying the game he’d set in motion.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE WIVES WERE on the front porch, taking turns pacing, when Clay and Jonesy returned. The women’s faces showed disappointment when they saw that Lonnie wasn’t with them.

  “We ain’t found him,” Jonesy said, “but we’ve now got a fair idea where to start looking. Like we expected, this is all about the money, so it’s not likely he’ll be harmed if we give Baggett what he wants.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Patricia said. “Get him his money and get me my boy back home.”

  “It’s gonna take some patience,” Clay said. “We’ve gotta consider what Baggett’s plan is before we go off half-cocked.” He looked over at his wife and signaled for her to follow him into the yard.

  “The reason we know Lonnie’s likely being held in Fort Worth is from what we was told by one of the men who took him. He was near dead when we found him and passed shortly after providing us the information. He did us a big favor.”

  Madge listened with only mild interest, her thoughts focused on the safe return of Lonnie.

  “Reason I’m telling you this is I need you to know who the fellow was.”

  A puzzled look crossed Madge’s face.

  “It was Calvin Dunning. Somehow, he survived the attack in the canyon, just like Baggett.”

  “You mean . . . You’re saying I was still married when we . . . Oh, my God.”

  “That don’t matter. But before he died, he asked that I give you a message. He said to tell you he was sorry for all he’d done. I thought you should know that.”

  Without a response, Madge turned and walked back to the house. As she did, Marshal Rankin was stepping onto the porch. “Morning, Mrs. Breckenridge,” he said, tipping his hat. She hurried past him and into the kitchen without responding.

  The marshal was there to discuss what to do next.

  “My vote is we head out for Fort Worth and get on with finding him,” Jonesy said. “Right now.”

  “It’s a big place, you know. My guess would be that they’re hiding out somewhere in the Hell’s Half Acre part of town, but it’ll still be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Rankin said.

  “If we ask enough people,” Jonesy said, “we’ll get some answers. It’ll be better than sitting around here. Me and Clay, we’ve done this before.”

  “You know this Baggett fellow you’ve mentioned ain’t going to willingly give up the boy unless he gets his money,” the marshal said.

  “There ain’t time to travel out to Tascosa and dig it up,” Jonesy said. “Best we can do on short notice is give him the location and let him go get it himself.”

  “Or,” said Breckenridge, “we can find him and shoot him dead. Then we can bring Lonnie back safe with no worries about what Baggett’s going to think of pulling at some future date. Only way this will end right is for him to be dead.”

  “You know I can’t agree to that kind of thinking,” the marshal said.

  “Not asking you to. We’re heading out first thing in the morning.”

  Clay followed Rankin to where his horse was tethered. “Just so you know,” the marshal said, “Doc Franklin’s tending to the dead man we brought back. He’ll see to it he’s buried properly.”

  “Less said on that matter, the better.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THE YOUNG MORNING sky was still burnt orange as Clay and Jonesy were preparing to leave. Madge had remained at the ranch and was helping Patricia prepare breakfast. Ruben was again on the way to watch over the Breckenridge farm and keep Sarge company.

  As the women busied themselves in the kitchen, they heard Marshal Rankin arrive. He didn’t even bother getting off his horse before handing a piece of paper to Jonesy. “Miss Cochran arrived early at the schoolhouse and found this on her door. She brought it to me straightaway.”

  Pate looked at it, then handed it to Clay. Two days from now, it read, they were to bring Baggett’s money to the Longhorn Saloon in Fort Worth at exactly three o’clock in the afternoon. If they did so, and there was no fighting or shooting, they would be told where they could find the boy. This time the note was signed: Your Friend, Benjamin J. Baggett.

  “At least now we won’t have to look for that needle in a haystack,” Jonesy said.

  As he made the observation, his wife appeared at the kitchen door. “Everybody come on in while it’s still hot,” Patricia said. Seeing Rankin, she said, “You’re more than welcome to join us, Marshal.”

  As they finished their scrambled eggs and biscuits, it was Patricia who noticed that Rankin wasn’t wearing his badge. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without it,” she said.

  “Not gonna be needing it for a couple of days,” he said. “I informed my deputies I’ll be taking a short vacation from marshaling.” He drained his coffee cup and looked across the table at Clay and Jonesy. “I’ve invited myself to go along with you,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  IN THE REAR of a dimly lit bar on the far edge of the Half Acre, Doozy and his brother were well on their way to getting drunk. “I didn’t hire on to be no Pony Express rider,” Doozy said. “I might near killed a goo
d horse getting back over there in the middle of the night to leave that letter at the schoolhouse.”

  “And we ain’t yet been paid a cent,” Alvin said, sloshing some of his drink onto the table. “Seems to me if you do a man a good job on a kidnapping and a killing, it ain’t asking too much to be fairly paid.”

  Doozy nodded in agreement. “Not to mention delivering mail.”

  “You don’t think he’s gonna try and cheat us, do you?”

  “Be sorry if he does.”

  “Hey, I got an idea. Maybe we should think about kidnapping the boy ourselves and make the old man pay us for his safe return.”

  They staggered out the doorway, arm in arm, into a still-crowded backstreet, pondering the fuzzy outline of a new idea. Alvin took a deep breath of the warm air. “Before we call it a day,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind to find me somebody to have a real good fistfight with.”

  Later, he did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SATURDAYS IN FORT Worth were day-and-night carnivals. For cattle drivers and stockyard workers, it was payday. Buyers and sellers came to town to hammer out high-dollar deals at the same time petty thieves and two-bit cardsharps practiced their shady crafts. In the saloons and gambling houses, it was standing room only around the clock. And in the streets, fights and gunplay were commonplace. It was difficult to know whether it was greed or alcohol that lit the fuse to such bawdy behavior. Probably both.

  It was because of the throngs that arrived and mingled in Hell’s Half Acre on the weekend that Ben Baggett had picked it for the meeting with the men who had his money. On Saturday, he had learned, most people become faceless, self-absorbed, or just too drunk to pay attention. A meeting to arrange an exchange of money for a kidnapped young boy was no more likely to be noticed than some poker player cursing another for hiding an ace up his sleeve.