by Gene Shelton
The LS rider blinked twice and shook his head. He seemed to be in a daze. Jim took him by the shoulder and shook him none too gently. “Listen, dammit, I’ve got four men dead here—”
“Better make it five, Jim,” Pierce said as he strode into the cluster of men. “That was the Catfish Kid on the run. I got a slug in him. He’s probably dying.”
Jim mouthed a silent curse. He turned to the growing crowd. “Nobody touches anything,” he called. “I want these bodies left alone.” He picked out one pale face in the front of the crowd. “You there. Get the justice of the peace and the doctor.” He waited until the man left at a trot, then turned to his deputy. “L.C., keep an eye on this crowd. If anybody gets out of line, take care of it. Lang and I are going to have a little private talk.”
The deputy nodded, his face grim.
Jim borrowed a lantern from a bystander, ushered John Lang into the deserted saloon and pulled two chairs away from a table. “All right, John,” he said, “tell me about it. Just the quick story—how it all started and who shot who.”
Lang cleared his throat nervously. “It was after—the dance at Romero’s. Ed and me, we was riding down Main Street when Ed’s girl Sally walked up. Ed got down and handed me the reins. I was leading his horse off when I heard a voice from the front of the saloon.”
Lang reached into his pocket for his tobacco sack. His hands and fingers trembled so hard he couldn’t roll the smoke. Jim took the tobacco, twisted up a quirly, lit it and handed the cigarette to Lang.
“What was said and who said it?” Jim prompted.
Lang dragged at the smoke. “Didn’t hear what. It was Lem Woodruff’s voice. Next thing I know I hear a shot. Ed spins around and falls down. Sally takes off. Woodruff runs out of the shadows, puts his rifle on Ed’s throat and pulls the trigger. I rode back to the Equity and hollered to Frank and Fred that they’d shot Ed. We grabbed our guns and come back on the run.”
Lang shook his head wearily. “They were waiting for us. Woodruff, Luis Bausman, Charley and Tom Emory, maybe a couple others I didn’t see. Woodruff got hit in the gut the first time we traded shots. He ran into the saloon here. I think Charley Emory got hit, too. I was busy trying to stay alive, find me some cover, but I saw Frank chase Woodruff into the saloon. Heard Frank shoot his pistol four, five times, then heard one rifle shot. Frank didn’t come out.”
Lang took a final puff of the cigarette and dropped the butt on the floor. “Fred and me ducked behind those plaster boards. The cafe man stepped out the door. Fred shot him before I knew what was happening. Then they opened up on us for sure. Slugs were tearing those plaster boards to pieces. Fred got hit twice in the chest. He handed me his pistol and I ran. They shot at me all the way down Main.” Lang held up his coat sleeve and poked a quivering finger through a hole torn in the cloth. “Nearly got me, too. That’s about all I can tell you. After the shooting stopped I came back to see if—see who all was dead.” Jim studied Lang’s face as the cowboy spoke. He seemed to be telling the truth. “Sheriff, those nester boys bushwacked us cold from out of the dark. I know some of them were friends of yours. What you going to do about it?”
Jim eased his chair back and stood. “First, Lang, I’m going to lock you up, as much for your own good as anything. I wasn’t the only friend Lem Woodruff and the Emory brothers had. Then I’m going after them.”
Jim escorted the shaken Lang outside. The surprise and shock of the gunfight had begun to fade from the crowd. The tone of muted conversations had changed from curiosity to growing anger. Jim knew he had to take control quickly, before another gunbattle started. There were members of both factions in the group. He picked out two men, one an LIT cowboy who was a solid association backer, another a townsman who stood firm on the side of the small ranchers.
“Strouthers, I’m deputizing you and Dougan there. I want you to keep a close watch on these bodies. Don’t let anybody near them.” He raised his voice so that all could easily hear. “I don’t want any more trouble to come out of this. If anybody gets out of line, they’ll answer to me.”
Strouthers and Dougan nodded. They didn’t look too happy about it, but Jim knew they would do their best to keep the crowd under control.
Jim waved his deputy alongside. “Let’s go, L.C. We’ve got some suspects to find. We’re looking for Lem Woodruff, Tom and Charley Emory, and Luis Bausman. You know their hangouts as well as I do. I’ll go after Luis and Tom Emory. See if you can locate Lem and Charley Emory. They’re both hurt and probably didn’t go too far. Don’t shoot anybody unless you have to.”
L. C. Pierce nodded and strode away. Jim set off toward Luis Bausman’s nondescript adobe a few blocks away.
Jim pulled his Colt and opened Luis’s door. Bausman lay on the sagging cot, the covers pulled up to his chin. The flame of an oil lamp flickered on a table nearby.
“Hello, Jim. What you barge in like that for? What’s all the shootin’ about?”
Jim reached for Bausman’s Winchester leaning against the inside wall near the door. The barrel was almost too hot to touch. He motioned with the muzzle of his handgun. “You’re under arrest, Luis. Suspicion of murder. Come along quiet.”
Bausman grinned sheepishly and tossed the covers back. He was fully clothed, his boots and pant legs dusty. “Hell, Jim, I should have known I couldn’t fool you.” He got to his feet. “Them damn LS barroom gladiators started it, Jim. All we did was finish it.”
“You’ll get a chance to tell your side in court, Luis.”
Twenty minutes later Luis Bausman and Charley Emory sat in the Oldham County jail. Charley was in bad shape. A slug had ripped through the heavy muscle of his thigh. He was bleeding heavily and moaning in pain.
“Found Charley in the doorway of the blacksmith shop,” L. C. Pierce said. “I sent for the doctor. Looks like the new man in town’s going to have all the patients he can handle—alive and dead.”
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t get worse,” Jim said. “We’ve got two of the men we want. Two more to go.”
Pierce spat a sharp oath. “Make it three. I went to see if the Catfish Kid was dead yet. He wasn’t there. No blood trail. Dammit Jim, I couldn’t have missed at that range.”
Jim shrugged. “He won’t be that much trouble. We’ll put the word out for Catfish to come in and give himself up to save us the trouble of shooting him to pieces. He’ll come.” Jim strode back to the office, picked up his rifle and racked a round into the chamber. “I’m going after Tom Emory, L.C. I’ve got a good idea where he might be.”
Dawn was a faint smear on the eastern horizon when Jim pulled his horse to a stop in front of the small rock house all but hidden in a stand of trees and wild plum thickets at the headwaters of Tascosa Creek. A rifle barrel protruded from a window at the front of the abandoned wolfer’s shack.
“Come on out, Tom!” Jim yelled. “I’ve got to take you in! I’d rather you be in the saddle than across it!”
Moments later the rifle muzzle disappeared. Tom Emory stepped through the door, the Winchester held muzzle down at his side. He strode up to Jim’s stirrup. Moisture glistened at the corners of his eyes. “Jim, I’ll let a lynch mob hang me before I’ll shoot it out with an old friend.”
“There’ll be no lynchings from my jail, Tom.”
Tom handed over the Winchester. “How’s Lem and Charley? Looked like they were hit mighty hard.”
Jim sheathed his own rifle and nestled Tom’s weapon in the crook of an elbow. “Charley’s in jail. If he doesn’t bleed to death he’ll make it. We haven’t found Lem yet. You bring a horse?”
Tom shook his head. “Walked out here. Run most of the way. How’d you know where to look?”
“I remembered this place from the times we went hunting up here, Tom. Not too many people know where it is. Hard to find unless you know where to look. I just played a hunch you’d come back here.” Jim kicked a boot free of the stirrup. “Climb aboard. This horse’ll ride double. No sense in making you walk back to town.�
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FOURTEEN
Tascosa
March 1886
The sun was barely an hour above the eastern horizon as Jim East stood near a blood-soaked patch of sand on Main Street and watched as the justice of the peace and the doctor bent over Ed King’s body.
The physician thrust a probe into the hole in King’s face, worked the instrument a couple of times and grunted in satisfaction as he pulled out a deformed small-caliber bullet. The doctor held the slug out for Jim’s examination.
“I make it a thirty-two,” the physician said. He shook his head in wonder. “Little soft lead slugs cause a hell of a lot more damage than a man would think. This fellow never knew what hit him.”
Jim frowned at the news. Lem Woodruff carried a thirty-two-forty Winchester, an uncommon caliber in the Panhandle. The slug wasn’t positive proof but it was a pretty fair indication of who had fired the fatal shot.
The dead men still lay where they fell, uncovered and open to the view of the crowd that milled about in front of the Jenkins and Dunn Saloon. Small boys slipped away from distracted fathers and darted in for awed peeks at the bloodstained bodies.
At the edge of the crowd Jim saw three LS riders mount and ride toward their home range. In a matter of hours, Jim knew, every cowboy riding for an association brand would be in town. They wouldn’t be alone. Members of the nester faction already were gathering in the street, faces grim, pistols strapped on hips and rifles in saddle boots. We’re about three steps away from a war , Jim thought.
He glanced up as L. C. Pierce strode up. “No sign of Woodruff yet, Jim. Blood trail played out behind the stores across the street. As much blood as he’s lost, I doubt Lem’s alive anyway.”
“We’ll find him, L.C., sooner or later. What I can’t figure is how Jesse Sheets fits into this. It looks like he’d just rolled out of bed. He wasn’t carrying a gun.”
“Innocent bystander,” the deputy said. “He told me yesterday he thought the cook was helping himself to supplies and the cash box after hours. Jesse said he planned to spend the night in the cafe and see if he could catch him at it. Jesse probably just stepped out to see what was going on and walked into a slug. Damn shame. He was a decent man.”
Jim sighed. “In their own ways, L.C., I suppose they all were.” He reached for the makings and rolled a cigarette as the doctor and justice of the peace finished examining the bodies. A few minutes later the four dead men were laid out on the saloon’s narrow porch, the bodies draped in blood-soaked sheets. Blowflies buzzed over the gory bundles.
“What now, Jim?”
Jim took a slow, thoughtful drag on the cigarette. “What we do now is try our damnedest to make sure we don’t have a full-scale war on our hands.” He glanced around the crowd. “This thing’s opened a powder keg. Some fool may decide to strike a match.” He motioned to the two men he had appointed as deputies earlier. The two strode forward.
“Dougan, I want you to ride out to the small ranches and the cowboy camps. Spread the word I’ll tolerate no trouble because of this. Strouthers, you go to the LIT and LX outfits. Tell them the same thing. L.C., I’d like for you to call on Jess Jenkins. Tom Harris too, if he’s in town. They’ve got the most influence on the Tascosa cowboys and the town faction lined up against the association. Tell them I expect their help in keeping a lid on this thing.”
“What are you going to do, Jim?” L.C. asked.
Jim dropped his cigarette stub and ground it beneath a heel. “I’m riding out to the LS and have a little heart-to-heart talk with W. M. D. Lee,” Jim said. “It was his boys who were killed here. He’s the boss bull in the association herd. That makes him the key to heading off any stampede.”
LS Headquarters
Jim East stood before W. M. D. Lee’s desk and studied the narrow face of the slightly built majority owner of the LS outfit. The brand registries said the LS belonged to both Lee and Lucien Scott, but everyone knew Lee was the man who had the final say.
Lee shoved back his chair and stood. The expression in his eyes was sharp and angry; the banty rooster had its neck feathers ruffled and was looking for a fight. “Let me get this straight,” Lee said. “You expect me to tell LS riders they can’t hit back when three of their own have been gunned down?”
“That’s about the size of it, Mister Lee,” Jim said. “I’m asking the other big ranchers—and the nesters and little men too—to keep the peace. If this gets out of hand we’ll have a range war that’ll make Lincoln County look like a lover’s spat. I’m asking both sides to let the courts, not gunsmoke, settle this.”
“I don’t see where you’ve got the right to tell me what to do, East. Hell, you’ve been on the side of the nesters from the start.”
Jim felt the warmth of anger glow in his gut. “Mister Lee, I rode out here to ask your cooperation. Now I’m going to put it in a little stronger language. Whether you like it or not I’m the sheriff of Oldham County. I won’t stand still for any shooting war. If it happens I’ll throw you in the lockup first and think of a charge later.”
Lee stared for a long moment at Jim, the muscles in his face twitching. Finally, he exhaled a long sigh. “By God, East, I think you’re serious about that.”
“There isn’t a circuit preacher in Texas more serious than I am right now, Mister Lee.”
“I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I can,” Jim said. “I’ve already made you one.”
Lee picked up a pencil nub and tapped it against the edge of his desk. “Sheriff,” he said after a moment, “I’ll grant you one thing. You’ve got nerve.” He tossed the pencil down in disgust. “All right. I’ll talk to them. It may not do any good, but I’ll try.”
Jim nodded and snugged his hat down. “That’s what I was hoping to hear, Mister Lee. Will I see you at the funerals tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
Jim touched his fingertips to his hat brim and strode from the office. Outside, he paused for a moment and let his gaze drift over the half dozen LS riders who lounged on the porch or sat horseback. The men were surly and scowling. Jim nodded a silent greeting to a couple of the men he knew, then mounted and reined his horse toward home.
Tascosa
Jim was about to dismount in front of the courthouse when a tall, slender man on horseback trotted up to his side.
“Sheriff, Lem’s at my place,” the man said. “He’s hurt bad, real bad. He may not make it. He asked to see you.”
Jim settled back into the saddle. “Lead the way.”
A half hour later Jim stepped inside a small two-room house in a hay meadow two miles from Tascosa. Lem Woodruff lay on his side beneath a thin blanket, knees drawn up toward his chest. Sweat dribbled from his forehead down his stubbled face. His eyes were glazed and feverish when he looked up.
“Jim, I—” Lem moaned as a fresh wave of pain ripped through his body. “I reckon I’ve stepped in it—for sure this time.”
“I reckon you have, Lem,” Jim said. “Let me take a look.” He peeled back the blanket. He almost shook his head in dismay before he realized Lem was watching. There was no sense in letting Lem Woodruff know he was all but dead. One slug had taken Lem low in the belly. A second had slashed into the hip near his groin. It was the belly wound that worried Jim the most. Few men lived through a slug in the guts.
“Bad, ain’t it?” Lem gasped.
“Bad enough, Lem. We’ve got to get you into town to the doctor.” Jim turned to the hay farmer. “You have a flatbed wagon?” At the man’s nod, Jim issued instructions to hitch up the wagon, pad the bed with hay and toss a mattress atop the padding.
When the rig was ready Jim slipped his arms under Woodruff’s armpits. “Easy now,” he told the farmer. “Take his feet. Try not to jostle him.”
Woodruff fainted from the pain before the two men had him settled in the wagon for the trip to Tascosa. Jim mounted his sorrel and nodded to the farmer on the wagon seat. “Take it slow,” he said. “We don’t want to kill
him on the way in.”
Back in Tascosa, the two men placed Lem Woodruff on the cot in Luis Bausman’s house. Luis wouldn’t be needing it for a while and there were no rooms to be had in any of Tascosa’s hotels or boarding houses. Jim sent the hay farmer for the doctor and stayed at Lem’s side.
Woodruff’s eyes fluttered open a moment later. “Jim?” His voice was weak, distant.
“I’m here, Lem.”
“We—we rode a lot of miles together,” Lem said. Jim had to lean close to make out the words. “If I—don’t make it, I want you—to have my saddle—and guns.” He moaned through clenched teeth. “Sell my horse and—buy a marker.”
“Hush that nonsense,” Jim said. He reached for a bucket of water on a table by the bed, held a dipper to Lem’s lips and let the wounded man have two small sips. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dribbled water over it and wiped the damp rag over Woodruff’s forehead and cheeks. “You’re going to make it, Lem,” Jim said. “Cowboys like us are too stubborn and too tough to die.”
Jim turned the nursing chores over to the doctor a few minutes later, then mounted and reined his horse toward home.
Hattie met him at the door, frown lines etched deeper in her face, her brown eyes red-rimmed from tears. She came into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder.
“Oh, Jim, it’s been awful. Those men, all dead …”
Jim stroked her hair. “It’s going to be all right, girl.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
“I’ve been over to Missus Sheets’s house,” Hattie said. “That poor family. All they had to their names was Jesse and the few dollars he made from the restaurant. I don’t know what’s going to happen to them now.” Hattie released Jim and led him into the house. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron. “Missus Sheets is just shattered by grief,” she said. “She told me she didn’t want her husband buried beside those—those gunmen, she called them. I told L.C. He said he’d make sure it was taken care of, that Jesse would be put in a corner of Boot Hill far away from them. Did I do the right thing?”