"I am."
"What are you doing on my pa's land?" the stranger asked harshly, and Joshua realized he must be Billy Day. Studying the young features in the moonlight, Joshua recognized him.
"I've been to see your father," he said.
Billy laughed scornfully. "Never knew Pa to be much for preaching."
"I asked him to stop the violence that's plaguing the community," Joshua said tightly. "Those masked night riders badly injured another man tonight. Thank God he wasn't killed like Guy Yarbrough."
"You're mighty concerned about those sodbusters, Markham. What the hell have you got to do with them?"
"I don't like to see anyone hurt. It doesn't matter to me what they do for a living."
"Real compassionate, aren't you?" Billy's tone grew uglier. "Seems to me you're showing more compassion for outsiders than for the folks who've lived here for years. They're nothing but a bunch of damned squatters!"
"They're not hurting anyone," Joshua insisted. "They're working that land with Copeland's permission."
"And what happens next? More farmers show up and ruin this land for cattle, that's what happens." Billy spat contemptuously.
"There's no point to this conversation," Joshua snapped. "I'll pray for you, Billy, pray that you'll learn to understand your fellow man." Rigid with anger, the minister spurred his horse and rode past the young man.
Billy's mocking laughter followed him. "You go right ahead and pray, Markham. But sooner or later you'll figure out that prayer doesn't mean a thing unless it's backed by lead."
The harsh words stung Joshua. He had always hated violence. Violence had taken his father, and his brother's job as a deputy frequently put him in danger. But deep down, a part of Joshua feared that Billy Day was right. Maybe bullets did accomplish more than prayer...
Joshua shook his head. His faith was too strong to be shaken by a few insults from an arrogant young cowboy who had probably spent the evening in town guzzling cheap whiskey.
Suddenly, Joshua frowned. He stopped his horse and peered over his shoulder. Billy was gone, no doubt heading back to the ranch house. He had said that he was returning from Abilene, and yet he hadn’t been on the usual trail. He had come instead from an area to the southeast, which was unfamiliar to Joshua.
Puzzled, Joshua turned and walked his horse to the place where he had confronted Billy. He dismounted and led the animal to the top of the rise where Billy had first appeared. By squinting in the moonlight, he saw a narrow, twisting trail.
After a moment's thought, Joshua climbed into the saddle, compelled by the curious impulse to know where Billy Day had been. Riding slowly and bending so he wouldn’t lose sight of the path, he urged the horse down the moonlit trail. Ten minutes later, he spotted a campfire through the trees.
Joshua breathed a short prayer. He had told Rose that he might have to pay a visit to G. W. Ramsey, but he hadn’t really expected it to happen. Now, he realized, it had. He rode boldly into the camp, ignoring the men who sprang from their bedrolls and pointed pistols at him.
"I want to see G. W. Ramsey," he announced in a loud voice as he stopped his horse near the campfire. The words boomed loudly around the clearing, just as they did when he preached his sermons in church.
A buck-toothed man thrust the barrel of a gun at him and demanded, "Who the hell are you, mister?"
Joshua glanced down at himself. He wasn’t wearing a coat or tie or hat, and he was sure he didn’t look like a preacher. Probably the only reason none of these hard-faced men had fired at him was that he appeared harmless. With his slender build and wire-rimmed spectacles, he knew he didn’t look like much of a threat to anybody.
"My name is Joshua Markham. I'm the pastor of the Calvary Methodist Church in Abilene. I'd like to speak to G. W. Ramsey, please."
"Well, I don't know if G. W. wants to talk to some preacher—" the buck-toothed man began.
A big, bearded man thrust back the entrance flap of the largest tent. "That's enough, Xavier," he growled. "I'll be glad to talk to the preacher. What can I do for you, Reverend Markham?"
Joshua took a deep breath. "I've come to ask you to stop terrorizing the settlers on Doug Copeland's land. I saw what you did to Max Fontenot tonight, and it was the work of monsters!"
"Riding in here and calling folks bad names isn't a very Christian attitude, Reverend. I don't know this Fontenot you're talking about." Ramsey smiled.
"And I'm sure you didn't know Guy Yarbrough either," Joshua replied coldly. "But that didn't stop you from gunning him down."
"We ride where we please." Ramsey's voice hardened. "And if anybody tries to stop us, we're not to blame if something happens. This was meant to be open range, Preacher. We intend to keep it that way."
"Because that's what you're being paid to do," Joshua said.
Ramsey smiled again. "The laborer is worthy of his hire. Isn't that what it says in the Bible, Preacher?"
Joshua swung from the saddle and stepped toward Ramsey. The red glare from the campfire shone on his spectacles as he said angrily, "I won't have you perverting the word of God to justify your evil. I insist that you leave this area!"
Ramsey jabbed a blunt finger into Joshua's chest. "And what if we don't? Are you going to pray down a plague of locusts or some other Old Testament vengeance on us? I've read the Good Book, too, Markham. God helps those who help themselves, remember? What can you do?"
Weeks of pent-up anger and frustration suddenly boiled over. Without thinking, Joshua balled his fist and swung at Ramsey's smirking face.
The big man moved lazily to the side, letting the wild punch go past his grinning face. Then he stepped closer and slammed a left into Joshua's middle.
Pain exploded in Joshua's belly. He staggered backward, clutching at himself. Bile burned in the back of his throat, but before he could react, Ramsey swung a roundhouse right to the minister's jaw.
Crashing onto his back, Joshua felt all the air rush out of his lungs. As he lay on the ground, gasping for breath, he heard Ramsey laugh. "He's all yours, boys," the leader shouted. "Enjoy yourselves, but don't kill him."
The men moved in around Joshua and yanked him to his feet. His wobbly legs were like putty, but the outlaws took turns holding him up while they beat him. After the first few punches, he hardly felt the blows. By the time they let him slump to the ground and began stomping him with their boots, he was floating in a sea of numb shock. The kicks were mere jolts, nothing more.
Finally, a distant voice snarled, "That's enough. I've heard this preacher is a friend of that sodbuster Powell. Take him there and leave him. Maybe this will teach Powell a lesson."
Rough hands reached for him through the hazy shadows that surrounded him. The shadow hands gripped him, pulling him toward the enfolding darkness. He went willingly...
In the dimly-lit earthen cabin, Tom and Violet slept deeply, Tom on his cot in one corner, Violet on hers in another, which she had curtained off with an old blanket. A single candle flickered beside Ira, who sat at the plank table fitfully trying to read. Benjamin Franklin's autobiography, the only book Ira owned other than the Bible, lay open in front of him. He had read the same passage repeatedly, but the words had no meaning.
It had been another long day of backbreaking work, one more in an endless line of such days. But Ira had chosen this life for himself and his family, and he wouldn’t trade it for any other. But, Lord, it made a man tired.
Ira's eyes were drooping closed when the sound of hoofbeats outside startled him. Guns blasted, and men whooped. Tom leaped off the cot, looking around wildly and grappling for the rifle that lay on the floor beside his bed.
"Here's a present for you, sodbuster!" a man's voice snarled.
There was a thump near the doorway, then the sounds of retreating hoofbeats, shooting, and yelling. Ira glanced warily at Tom. Poking her tousled head from behind the hanging blanket, Violet, eyes wide with fear, exclaimed, "Tom! What is it?"
"Don't know, Violet," Tom replied in a hoa
rse whisper. "But I want you to get back in that corner and stay down."
"Please do as he says, child," Ira said firmly. He reached for his shotgun, which rested on pegs hammered into the wall, and took it down. He then blew out the candle, plunging the soddy into darkness. Tom slipped beside him, and together they slowly approached the door. With the barrel of his rifle, Tom thrust the canvas flap aside. In the silvery moonlight, they saw a huddled dark form, lying on the ground a few feet from the soddy doorway. "My God!" Ira cried. Heedless of any possible ambush, he rushed to the groaning body and bent over the injured man.
Tom hurried after him and scanned the moonlit prairie for any intruders. There was no sign of anyone.
Ira knelt beside the body and gently turned it over. He gasped when he recognized Joshua Markham's bloody face bathed in moonlight.
"It's Joshua, and he's hurt bad, son. Help me get him inside."
Laying their weapons on the ground, the two men lifted Joshua and carried him gingerly into the soddy. As they moved inside, Ira told Violet to relight the candle. The guttering flame caught a moment later, casting a feeble glow in the room. Violet groaned when she saw Joshua.
They eased him gently onto Tom's cot. "We'll need some hot water," Ira said to Violet, and she hurried to the stove to stoke the fire. Tom went outside to retrieve the rifle and shotgun, while Ira stood over the cot, peering thoughtfully at the unconscious minister. As the young man returned, Ira gripped his arm.
"I want you to ride to Abilene," he said. "Find Lucas and Cully and tell them what's happened to Joshua. You'd best bring Dr. Keller back with you, too."
Tom nodded. "You think those varmints who did this will be back?"
"Not tonight. They've already done what they came to do. Get going, son. I don't know how badly hurt Joshua is, but I think he needs medical attention."
"I'll be back as quick as I can," Tom promised. Grasping the rifle, he left the soddy to saddle his horse. A few moments later, as Violet carried a basin of hot water to the cot to clean Joshua's wounds, the thunder of hoofbeats rang clearly in the cabin.
Ira, a terrible fury glittering in his eyes, turned from the cot and picked up the shotgun from the table where Tom had placed it. "Do what you can for him, girl," he said to Violet.
She glanced over her shoulder in alarm. "Where are you going, Ira?"
"The moon is so bright I can follow the tracks of those men," he said grimly. "I'm going to go see the man who did this horrible thing."
"Ira—no...!" Violet's plea rang in the cabin, but Ira had already gone. She couldn’t run to stop him. Joshua Markham needed all her attention; he was in terrible shape.
On the rise behind the soddy, a man sat on horseback, watching Ira Powell ride away. He was still and quiet until the old man had disappeared into the night.
Then the rider nudged his horse.
13
Lucas Flint, after completing his nightly rounds, was opening the door to the marshal's office when he heard thundering hoofbeats cross the bridge over Mud Creek at the western edge of Abilene. A galloping horse wasn’t uncommon, but at this time of night the urgent sound made Flint turn in the doorway and peer down Texas Street.
"What is it, Marshal?" Cully asked. The deputy was sitting behind the desk with his feet propped up.
Flint shook his head. "Don't know. But whoever that is, he's in a big hurry."
Swinging his feet off the desk, Cully stood up and moved toward the door.
As the galloping horse and its rider flashed through a patch of light from one of the saloons, Flint exclaimed, "It's Tom Powell!" He hurried to the edge of the boardwalk.
"Then there's trouble," Cully said as he strode onto the boardwalk and stood next to Flint.
Tom hauled his horse to a staggering stop in front of the marshal's office. The animal's sides were heaving, and foam flecked its mouth. Tom dropped from the saddle.
"You—you've got to come, Marshal," he gasped as he rushed to the boardwalk. "We need the doctor, too."
Flint gripped Tom's arm. "Take it easy, son," he said. "We'll get the doctor. Just tell us what happened."
Tom looked at Cully for a moment, then said, "It's your brother, Deputy. He's been hurt bad."
"Joshua?" Cully caught his breath. "What happened to him? Who did it?"
Flint glanced sharply at Cully, then turned back to Tom. Still breathless and panting, the young man said, "It was those night riders. They came ridin' up to the soddy, shootin' and howlin', and dumped poor Joshua's body on our doorstep. He's been beat up awful bad."
"But he's alive?" Flint asked.
Tom nodded. "He was when I left. And I made good time gettin' here."
An angry curse exploded from Cully. His horse was tied to the hitchrack in front of the office, and before either Flint or Tom knew what he was doing, he had vaulted the rail and grabbed the saddle horn.
"Wait a minute, Cully!" Flint shouted as the impulsive young deputy swung into the saddle.
"Wait, hell!" Cully was hatless, but he was wearing his gun. He dug in his spurs and raced down Texas Street.
Flint bit off a curse. Turning to Tom, he asked, "You don't actually know what happened to Joshua, do you?"
"No, Marshal, we don't. But I know who brought him to our cabin, and that's enough for me."
"For Cully, too," Flint muttered as he stepped off the boardwalk and hurried to his horse. Cully had already disappeared. If he got much more of a lead, Flint knew he wouldn’t catch him.
He had told Cully where G. W. Ramsey's camp was located. Unless the gang had changed campsites—which was unlikely since they had protection on Houston Day's land—Cully would be able to find them. Given Cully's rage, Flint was certain there would be gunplay, but as good as Cully was, he would be no match for a camp full of hired gun-wolves.
Flint jerked his mount's reins loose and hurtled into the saddle. As he wheeled the horse around, he said to Tom, "Go on down to Dr. Keller's office and bring her to your place. Tell her what you told us about Joshua."
Tom nodded. "Where are you goin', Marshal?"
"To try to keep Cully from getting himself killed," Flint answered.
Violet knelt beside the cot and dabbed a wet cloth on Joshua's forehead. Tiredness gripped her, but she felt as if she would never sleep again. She was too frightened, too worried about all of them—Joshua, Ira...and Tom.
In the time since Ira had left, she had cleaned the scratches on Joshua's face and stanched the flow of blood. His features were bruised and swollen, and as she bathed his face, he softly moaned. He hadn’t yet opened his eyes. Violet couldn’t tell if he even knew where he was.
The minister's chest rose and fell rhythmically. Violet had examined him as best she could, and as far as she could tell, he had no broken bones. He would probably be all right once he had had some time to rest.
A footstep crunched heavily in the doorway, and the canvas flap covering the entrance swished as it was pushed back. Violet gasped in surprise and started to turn around. She hadn’t heard a horse come up to the soddy, but she supposed that Ira or Tom had returned for some reason.
Instead, Billy Day lounged in the doorway, an arrogant grin on his face. "Evening, girl," he said as Violet lifted a clenched fist to her mouth. "Looks like the menfolk left you all alone to play nursemaid to that preacher."
Drawing a deep breath, Violet forced herself to lower her hand. She might be afraid, but she refused to let this young man know it.
"Ira and Tom will be back soon," she said, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her panic. "They've just gone to fetch the doctor for poor Reverend Markham."
Billy stepped into the cabin and moved toward the cot. There was curiosity on his face but absolutely no concern as he studied Joshua's battered features. "Doesn't look to me like he's going to be waking up anytime soon. That means we've got some time to ourselves, doesn't it, Violet? That's your name, isn't it, gal? Violet?"
She nodded jerkily. "Th-that's my name. You'd better leave now, Mr.
Day. You don't want to go disturbing the reverend."
Billy laughed. With a smirk on his lean face, he said, "Oh, no, we sure don't want to disturb the reverend."
Violet knew enough not to relax, but still she was startled by his next move. He lunged, and as he grabbed her, his fingers dug cruelly into her arms. Pulling her close to him, he whispered savagely, "Since we don't want to bother anybody, you'd best not yell too much, gal. But you can fight some if you've a mind to. I'd like that."
Violet struggled to jerk away, but he was too strong. As fear flooded through her, her self-control deserted her, and she screamed in terror. Her cry was stifled abruptly when Billy Day roughly pressed his mouth over hers.
As he kissed her, she pounded her fists futilely against his back. When she finally thought to knee him in the groin, he was already prepared for the move. Turning away sharply, he took the blow on his thigh, nevertheless grunting in pain.
Billy tore his mouth from hers. As Violet gasped for breath, he viciously slapped her face. Before she could react, he hit her again with a backhand. With a nasty grin, he sneered, "Of course, I never promised I wouldn't fight back."
Stunned by the slaps, Violet swayed numbly. With his left hand, Billy gripped her tightly, and hooking the fingers of his right hand in the collar of her nightdress, he savagely yanked at the thin cotton. The fabric ripped with a shredding sound, and buttons popped to the floor. Violet screamed while he tore the dress again. He had bared one of her breasts, and tightening his embrace, he cupped the soft flesh. Sobs wracked Violet's body; she knew all too well what the next few minutes would bring. Locked together by Billy's lust, the two of them staggered toward the soddy wall.
The back of her thighs hit the edge of the table. Billy, lost in his own desires, continued to rip at her nightdress, unaware that she had steadied herself. Desperately, as Violet's hand flailed behind her, her fingers fell on something that her numbed brain recognized as the handle of a frying pan.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 74