The Badlands Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  A guard who sounded like Whit Melville called out to them when they’d closed to thirty yards. “Who goes there?”

  “Sullivan and Bishop,” Deke responded. “With the sawbones.”

  “Come ahead, then.”

  Half the drive’s remaining cowboys had them covered from all sides as they rode in. Bishop supposed the rest were out minding the steers and watching out for snipers.

  Mr. D and Pickering came out to meet them, Bishop introducing Dr. Pratt. Their wrangler, Abel Floyd, relieved Pratt of his borrowed horse’s reins while Pratt dismounted and removed the doctor’s bag he’d slung over the saddle horn. They walked him to the spot where Isaac Thorne lay underneath a wool blanket with bloodstains showing through it.

  Bishop didn’t care to watch while Pratt knelt on the grass, removed the blanket, and examined Thorne. At his direction, Leland Gorch stood over them, holding a lantern close to help him see.

  Bishop found Curly Odom standing near the chuck wagon’s tailgate, sipping a cup of coffee, with his free hand clinging to his Colt revolving carbine.

  “What’s been going on?” asked Bishop. “Any more shooting?”

  “They quit after the first one,” Odom said. “Seems like it satisfied them. Killed their fire and rode off to the west. After the first shot, we laid low, trying to keep from giving ’em a target.”

  “Any word on what the boss is planning?”

  “Not a peep,” Odom replied. “But he can’t let this go, right? If the law won’t lift a finger, don’t we have to handle it ourselves?”

  “Can’t speak for anybody else,” said Toby.

  But he felt like there’d be more blood coming at them, down the road.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DESPITE THE DOCTOR’S best efforts, Isaac Thorne died on the shady side of dawn. Dr. Pratt explained the damage, standing over his late patient. Thorne had suffered major damage to his liver, colon, one kidney, and stomach, all of them together bleeding out while spilling fluids on the inside of his abdomen that led to fatal sepsis.

  “Considering the time elapsed,” Pratt told them, summing up, “there’s nothing more I could have done for him beyond easing his pain with laudanum. In fact, I doubt a well-equipped hospital would have saved him.”

  Bishop watched as Mr. Dixon, stone-faced, told the doctor, “You did what you could. As far as payment—”

  “No, sir. I won’t hear of it,” Pratt cut him off midsentence. “I’m just sorry that your friend was put through this. If it’s a consolation to you, I suspect he was unconscious, or the next thing to it, almost from the moment he was shot.”

  “Can’t say that puts my mind at ease,” Dixon replied.

  “No, I guess not. It’s what we call a ‘bedside manner,’ mostly blowing smoke.”

  “But in your case, I’m guessing it’s heartfelt.”

  “Sometimes,” Pratt said. “Though I can think of some who don’t inspire much charity of spirit.”

  “Like your Mr. Stark?”

  “He’s not mine, sir. If anything, I and the other townsfolk of Cold Comfort would belong to him.”

  “And everyone puts up with that?” Bill Pickering inquired.

  “Some of us feel embarrassed by it, even shamed. In fact, he holds an economic stranglehold over the town and the surrounding part of Christian County. When I hear that name spoken, I’m torn between laughter and tears.”

  “But never thought of leaving?” Dixon asked him.

  Bishop saw bright color rising in the doctor’s cheeks that couldn’t be accounted for by early morning sun. “Despite Stark’s influence, most of the citizens in town are decent people. They fall ill like anybody else and need my help. As far as packing up and leaving, I might manage it, though cash for starting over elsewhere would be sparse. For shopkeepers, farmers, and such, the cost would simply be too great—always assuming Stark would let them go.”

  “You saying he holds people hostage?” Pickering asked Pratt.

  “Not with a gun against their heads per se, but he holds title to most of the town and land for miles around. The businessmen owe mortgages and other loans that bind them to him. One, a barber, tried to get away last year. Moved to the county seat, but our esteemed mayor filed a claim on Stark’s behalf, as his attorney. Left the poor man with his wife and children destitute.”

  “Mayor Rogers,” Dixon said, as if the name tasted of bitter gall. “I met him, and that poor excuse for law you’ve got in town.”

  “If they were gone, with Stark and his hired bully-boys, it might be tolerable in Cold Comfort. Even pleasant, I suppose.”

  “But no one’s tried to root him out?” asked Dixon.

  “None who lived. The rest of us prefer to live, if only in his shadow.”

  “I don’t like judging strangers till they’ve done me wrong,” said Dixon. “How you lived’s your business, none of mine.” He glanced at Isaac, shrouded by the bloodstained blanket now. “But this is murder, Dr. Pratt. I won’t ignore it and move on, even if Stark agreed to let me go without paying his toll.”

  “That’s new, from what I understand. Seems like each time we turn around, he has another plan for taking more. More money, more land, more of our self-respect.”

  Bishop was ready, waiting, when the boss replied, “It’s high time someone put a stop to that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  BISHOP AND SULLIVAN rode into town with Mr. Dixon when he went to drop the doctor off at home. Except for Pratt, they hadn’t slept since roughly this time yesterday, while breaking camp, but Bishop wasn’t saddled with fatigue yet.

  It would catch up with him, he supposed, but for the moment rage was keeping him alert.

  They dropped Pratt off behind his home and office before circling back to Cold Comfort’s main thoroughfare and stopping at the marshal’s office. Dixon led the way inside and Toby followed, leaving Deke to watch their horses at the hitching rail and water trough. No sign of Tilton’s deputy this time, but the lawman was tacking “Wanted” flyers on the office corkboard when they took him by surprise.

  “We meet again,” said Tilton, trying for a smile that came off looking like a sneer instead. “What now?”

  “One of my men was murdered last night, at our camp,” Dixon replied.

  “When you say ‘murdered’ . . . ”

  “I mean shot from ambush by some goddamn coward hiding in the dark.”

  “Shooting isn’t necessarily the same as murder, Mr.—what’s your name, again?”

  Instead of answering that question, Dixon asked one of his own. “When would a sniping after sundown not be murder, Tilton? Are you gonna claim it was a hunting accident?”

  “Nobody mentioned hunting, and it’s Marshal Tilton.”

  “Maybe. When you act like one.”

  The portly lawman lumbered to his feet, red-faced. Bishop couldn’t have said if liquor helped with that, or if the odor coming off Tilton had simply lingered from the night before.

  “Fact is, some people in these parts take a dim view of trespassing on private property. You ever think of that?”

  “What kind of private property goes unfenced and unposted? Stark claims he owns everything, far as the eye can see, and we were in the middle of negotiating passage.”

  “Passage isn’t camping out and killing time,” Tilton replied. “Some people tire of waiting, if you get my drift.”

  Half turned to Bishop, Dixon said, “You heard him, Toby. He’s accusing Stark of having Isaac shot. In fact, I’d say he’s talking like a damned accomplice.”

  “Hold on, now!”

  “You think we ought to make a citizen’s arrest?” asked Bishop.

  “You sons of bitches can’t buffalo me!”

  Tilton was reaching for his pistol, but he never made it, finding two guns leveled at his face before his
own cleared leather.

  “All right, now.” His voice had lowered to a whine. “Just take it easy, will you? We can talk this out.”

  “How ’bout we drop in on the mayor,” Dixon said. “He had a lot to say before. Being a lawyer, maybe he can tell me how a murder in this county might be legal.”

  “We can try ’im, but I doubt he’s in his office yet,” Tilton replied.

  “No problem,” Dixon said. “We’ll wake him up if need be. This won’t keep.”

  * * *

  * * *

  CREED ROGERS LIVED only a half block from the marshal’s office, in a four-room house, the privy out in back. Despite its proximity, Tilton only made the walk on rare occasions, mostly dealing with the mayor at his office, which held shelves of lawbooks and a landscape on the wall that looked like something painted by a child.

  The trail boss and his drover put their guns away before they left the marshal’s office, but the memory of facing them still rankled Tilton, left an itch between his shoulder blades where one of them could put a bullet anytime he felt like it. To ward that off, Tilton was careful not to let his right hand linger near his Colt.

  Along the way, they passed Harry and Deirdre Keane, heading in the direction of their general store. They managed matching smiles that stopped short of their eyes while wishing Tilton a good morning, Harry reaching up to tip his bowler hat at Tilton’s silent followers. Neither Harry nor Deirdre showed anything resembling suspicion as they passed along the sidewalk, likely taking Dixon and his friend for employees of Hebron Stark.

  Arriving at the mayor’s house, they mounted the porch—almost an ostentatious touch, considering the other houses on his street. Dixon stopped Tilton then and asked, “He live alone?”

  “Long as I’ve known him. Used to have a wife, he claims, but I’ve seen nary hide nor hair of her.”

  “No problem, then.”

  Toby reached past Tilton, knocked briskly, and stepped back, waiting so that he and Dixon had the marshal in a sandwich. Either one of them could draw and pistol-whip him where he stood, or cover Rogers if he showed up in the doorway armed.

  Instead, the mayor answered in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, with a kitchen spatula in hand, surrounded by the smells of breakfast cooking. Rogers blinked one time for each of them, frowning, and then addressed himself to Tilton.

  “Harley, this is a surprise.”

  “To me as well,” Tilton replied.

  “You brought the cowpokes with you.”

  “They brought me,” Tilton corrected him.

  “On what business?”

  “That’s best discussed inside,” Dixon said to Rogers. “Lest you want your neighbors eavesdropping.”

  “Alrighty, then. I’m making breakfast and I didn’t plan on four.”

  “We ain’t hungry,” Dixon advised, and prodded Tilton through the open door ahead of him and his companion.

  “It’s unorthodox,” said Rogers as he moved back to the stove, flipping an egg and strips of bacon in a cast-iron skillet with his spatula, “but you can pay your toll to me, if that’s your preference. I’ll give you a receipt and pass the money on to—”

  “We ain’t here for that,” said Dixon, interrupting him.

  “Oh, no?” Still with his back to them, Rogers inquired, “What, then?”

  “One of my men was shot last night. Murdered at long range by a sniper in the dark. Your friend here reckons you can quote a law that makes it all legitimate.”

  “I have no knowledge of the shooting you refer to, or whoever may have done it—if, in fact, it was done.”

  “You can take a ride out to our camp and see the body,” Dixon said. “Or you can talk to Dr. Pratt. If that’s not good enough, we can come back and drop it on your doorstep, Mr. Mayor.”

  Turning from the stove as something in his frying pan began to smoke, Rogers put on a face approximating outrage. “If you think that I had anything to do with—”

  “Save it!” Dixon snapped. “We know you’re just the organ grinder’s dancing monkey.”

  Tilton stiffened, thought about his pistol, then dismissed the notion. Rogers faced them, colored blotches flaming on his cheeks. “Damn you! I won’t be spoken to as if—”

  “You wanna shut up of your own accord or shall I help you?” Dixon challenged him.

  “If you think—”

  Without further argument, Dixon stepped forward, hit Rogers with a right cross, and knocked him back against the stove. The mayor yelped at contact with hot metal, flinched away, and in the process of retreating spilled his breakfast on the kitchen floor.

  “That’s assault!” he blustered, lisping as his lower lip began to swell. “Marshal, you witnessed—”

  “Dammit, Creed!” Tilton cut through his whining. “Can’t you ever just shut up?”

  “We didn’t come to hear your nonsense,” Dixon cautioned. “Tell us where to find your boss, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Rogers spat blood onto the ruined remnants of his meal. “My boss? Who—”

  “And you still don’t get it.” Dixon sounded almost mournful, stepping forward with his fist raised for another blow.

  “Stark! Yes, all right!” Rogers blurted out, hands raised to shield his bloodied face. “I’ll take you there, just—”

  “Telling is enough.” Dixon cut through his blubbering. “Directions to his place, and I won’t ask you twice.”

  “Three miles southwest of town, A big ranch house and barn, with other buildings. You can’t miss it.”

  “See? Was that so hard to manage?”

  “Mr. D, you want to leave ’em here like this?” Bishop inquired.

  Dixon considered it, then said, “I don’t believe I do.”

  “Jail ought to hold them for a bit, if we can find that deputy.”

  Tilton felt traitorous, but thought, Screw it. “Luke should be in the office by the time we get back there,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right,” Dixon replied. To Rogers then, “Damp down the stove, and let’s go see if Marshal Tilton gets to keep his teeth.”

  * * *

  * * *

  BISHOP WAS FEELING twitchy as they started back toward camp, trailing the horse that Dr. Pratt had used to visit, on his failed attempt to save Thorne’s life. Toby was half expecting to be ambushed on their ride back to the herd from Cold Comfort and was surprised when they got there without so much as glimpsing any more of Hebron Stark’s gunmen.

  Tilton and Rogers were confined with Deputy Luke Hazlet at the town’s jail, crowded into one of two barred backroom cells. The lawmen had been stripped of gun belts, all three forced to turn their pockets out before Bishop had locked the cell’s door after them and stashed the key ring in a drawer of Tilton’s desk. Leaving them there, Dixon advised, “I’d wait awhile before raising a ruckus, I was you. Could be we left someone outside and listening.”

  When they were at the door, the deputy called after them, “Bullshit!”

  He backed off from the bars, into a corner of the six-by-eight enclosure, when Bishop took one step closer to him, offering, “Or I could shut you up for good.”

  Outside, Dixon asked Toby, “How long do you think that’s gonna hold ’em?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky, boss.”

  “A head start, then. Let’s move.”

  Arriving back at camp, they found all hands alert and watchful. Some among them had pitched in to dig a grave for Isaac Thorne but left the blanket-shrouded corpse until Mr. Dixon returned. The funeral that followed was a simple ceremony, short on ritual, ending with Dixon garbling the first part of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3.

  “To everything there is a season,” he declaimed, “a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep, a time to rend, a time to mourn, a time to kill.”

  Bishop knew he
’d left out most of it and scrambled up the rest—a time to heal, to plant, to love—but Toby didn’t plan to take the place of Graham Lott and turn to preaching. For the moment, Dixon’s words would serve the drovers as they went to war.

  Some of them, anyway.

  “You know we can’t afford to leave the herd unguarded,” Dixon said, once Whit Melville and Curly Odom finished filling in Thorne’s grave and tamped the loose dirt down. “There’s eleven of us left, and I’ll be leading half to Stark’s place, now we’ve got directions. Mr. Pickering will stay here with the rest—I’m sorry, Bill, but that’s an order. I’ll count on every one of you to fight like hell if someone comes around trying to lead the steers away or run them off. As for the split, we’ll draw straws, fair and square.”

  Bishop was selected for the hunting party, riding out with Dixon, Esperanza, Gorch, and Sullivan. Those left behind with Pickering included Floyd, Melville, and Odom, plus Mel Varney and young Rudy Knapp.

  Three miles southwest of town meant close to eight miles total, riding overland and bypassing Cold Comfort. They had no idea how many men Stark had on hand, or when Tilton and Hazlet would be freed to join the home team, with whichever townsmen cared to tag along or feared not to.

  It was a gamble, and the stakes were life or death.

  * * *

  * * *

  HURRY, FOR GOD’S sake, will you?” Creed Rogers demanded of his two shamefaced companions.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can,” Harley Tilton replied. “Keep your shirt on!”

  Luke Hazlet just glared at the mayor of Cold Comfort, taking a Winchester down from the office gun rack, stuffing his pockets with spare ammunition.

  It was the undertaker, Silas Umbrage, who’d heard them shouting from their crowded jail cell, stuck his head in, smiling at first—a crime that Rogers was unlikely to forgive—then circling around the marshal’s desk to fetch a key and turn them loose. Before he came, the trio had discussed their options and decided there was only one, assuming they were able to escape before all holy hell broke loose.