by Gene Shelton
Jim squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. “Yes, Hattie. You did the right thing.”
She turned away to dish up his meal. Jim told her about Lem Woodruff’s surrender and that Lem was badly hurt. “I’ll get over there and see if I can help as soon as you’ve eaten,” she said. “He’ll need a nurse.
A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Jim swung the portal open. A sheepish J. B. Gough stood in the doorway, hat in hand. “Hello, Catfish,” Jim said. “You come to turn yourself in?”
The Catfish Kid nodded. “Heard it would be a sight less trouble than havin’ you come after me.” He twisted the brim of his hat in nervous fingers. “Jim, I didn’t kill nobody.”
Jim glanced over his shoulder at Hattie. “Keep my supper warm, girl,” he said. “I’ll be back in a while.” He motioned toward the courthouse. “After you, Catfish.”
The two men strode side by side down the dusty street. Jim became aware of the murderous looks thrown their way by cowboys and townspeople. The Catfish Kid had never been one of Tascosa’s more popular figures. It wasn’t difficult to understand the hard feelings toward a man who seemed to have no means of support beyond the card table. Jim loosened the Colt in his holster. He made sure the observers in general, and the LS cowboys in particular, saw the gesture.
“Catfish, you’re supposed to be dead,” Jim said. “L.C. thought he got a slug in you after the fight.”
The Catfish Kid smiled wryly. “Quite a piece of luck I had there, Jim,” he said. “I slipped in the mud where somebody had been making adobe bricks. Fell just as L.C. shot. The slug went over my head. I acted like I was hit, moanin’ and rollin’ my eyes and all, until L.C. went away. Then I got the hell out of there.”
Jim ushered Catfish toward the cell in back. “You know, running away like that isn’t going to make it look good for you. You packing a hideout gun on me?”
“I wouldn’t try to slicker you, Jim. I’m clean. And as far as runnin’, at the time it seemed a lot better than gettin’ shot.”
Jim swung the cell door open, let the Catfish Kid inside, and nodded a greeting to the other prisoners.
“Jim,” Tom Emory said, “what’s going on out there?”
Jim shrugged. “So far, not much. A lot of hard looks going back and forth across Main, but everybody’s kept their tempers under control.”
“Reckon it’ll be that way tomorrow?”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Jim said. He closed and locked the door. “I’ll get somebody to rustle some grub for you boys. Charley, how’s the leg?”
Charley Emory propped himself on an elbow on the bunk. “Hurts like old billy blazes. But it ain’t bled any more.”
“If it starts giving you more trouble we’ll fetch the doctor. I’ll have L.C. come over in case you boys need anything.”
Tom Emory grinned. “Most hospitable jail I’ve ever been in.” The smile faded. “I’d sure hate to see it tore up by a bunch of guys with ropes.”
“Relax, Tom. There won’t be any lynch mob. If there’s any more trouble it’ll come after the funeral, I expect.”
***
Jim East stood at the edge of Boot Hill, the ten-bore shotgun draped in the crook of an arm and the tiedown thong slipped off the hammer of his holstered handgun. A few feet away L. C. Pierce held a Winchester. He also had a Colt forty-four-forty in his holster and another tucked into his waistband.
Special deputies Strouthers, Dougan and Dobbs flanked the three freshly dug graves, rifles in hand. Jim wasn’t sure he could count on Strouthers and Dougan if trouble started. But Dobbs was dependable. He would back Jim even if it meant throwing down on his friends.
Jim knew the mere presence of the three special officers should be enough to make anybody inclined toward trouble think twice. He also knew any confrontation wasn’t likely to break out during the funerals. It wasn’t the nature of the people of the Texas Panhandle to disrupt anything so solemn. Odds were that if there was trouble it would come later, when the bodies were buried and the saloons opened again.
It was one of those rare Panhandle days with no wind. The March sun seemed to have its seasons mixed up and thought it was August. Sweat trickled down Jim’s back. Heat waves shimmered over the funeral entourage approaching the hill. A wagon carried the coffins of King, Valley and Chilton in dirge-step toward Boot Hill. A long line of LS, LIT and LX cowboys rode at one side of the wagon. On the other side a smaller but still impressive force of the opposition faction walked or rode. Behind the wagon strode a contingent of Tascosa residents who had remained neutral in the struggle between the big outfits and the little men. That group was the smallest of the lot.
As usual, Tascosa had shut down for the funerals. Women and older children were in the procession along with their men. Jim paid scant attention to the family groups. He concentrated on the two groups of armed men on either side of the wagon. The men wore pistols at their hips and carried rifles in saddle scabbards.
It was what he didn’t see that bothered Jim East the most. W. M. D. Lee was not among the mourners.
The ceremonies began with the unloading of three pine coffins beside the open graves. The caskets were opened for a final viewing of the remains, which was good luck for Ed King—if a dead man could be said to have luck—because King’s coffin faced the wrong direction. He would have been buried with his head to the west instead of the east if not for the viewing tradition.
The county judge removed his hat and opened his tattered Episcopal prayer book, the signal that final interment was about to begin. Jim removed his own hat. Seconds later all heads were bared to the blazing sun.
The judge recited the old-style Twenty- third Psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort …”
The prayer was brief. The ceremony ended with the women of Tascosa leading two hymns. The closing notes of the final song had barely sounded when the second procession of the day wound up the narrow road to the hilltop cemetery. Jesse Sheets was about to be laid to his eternal rest.
As his widow had requested, Jesse’s grave waited at a far corner of the cemetery, well removed from the other victims of the shootout. The crowd drifted in silence to his gravesite to pay respects to the innocent victim. For a second time that day both factions stood side by side as the burial ceremony was repeated for Sheets.
Then the men donned hats, re-formed ranks, and the crowd made its way down the hill. Jim mounted and rode the right flank, L. C. Pierce the left. The special deputies spaced themselves at either side of the wagons as the columns of armed men walked or rode back into town. Few of them spoke. Those who did talked in hushed tones. Occasionally one of the LS cowboys and a member of the opposing faction would exchange cold glares, but nothing worse developed. The next few hours will decide whether it’s war or peace , Jim thought.
***
Sheriff Jim East stood beneath the wind-gnarled branches of an ancient cottonwood beside the road to Mobeetie at the southeast edge of Hogtown, and studied the cowboys crowded into the small clearing.
He estimated there were more than fifty riders in the group, all but a handful from the LS. And they were in a surly mood.
“I tell you, boys, it’s time we grabbed this ox by the tail and cleaned out that bunch of nesters,” a loud voice called from the center of the group. “There’s a bunch of ‘em over at the Emporium right now, drinkin’ and laughin’ about how they bushwhacked three of our boys. And them that done the killin’s in the jail. Wouldn’t be no trouble to bust ‘em out and lynch ‘em.”
An angry murmur rippled through the crowd. “Damn right,” another man called. “We ought to hang every one of ‘em and then tear this town down to the ground. Teach ‘em all a lesson, by God!”
This thing’s about to bust loose , Jim thought . Maybe I can’t stop it , but I can slow it down. He glanced at the road leading from Tascosa to LS headquarters . Dammit , where’s Lee? I sent Strout
hers after him three hours ago. He should be here by now.
Jim stepped away from the bole of the cottonwood, the forestock of his shotgun cradled in his left elbow. The mutterings faded as the cowboys became aware of his presence. “Hold on a minute, boys!” Jim raised his voice so that all could hear. “Think this over before you do something we’ll all regret!”
“You gonna stop us, Sheriff?” A lanky young cowboy stood at the edge of the crowd, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Jim glared at the speaker. “Maybe I can’t, but I’ve got to try.”
“Fifty of us and one of you?”
Jim shrugged. “You’ve got the odds about right. You boys could take me. It might get expensive.” He tapped a forefinger against the trigger guard of the smoothbore. It was a small gesture but one that spoke a lot of words. “Those of you who might get past me might want to think on this for a minute—the Texas Rangers don’t take kindly to lynch mobs. Especially when a duly elected sheriff gets killed.”
The young cowboy sniffed in disdain. “You hidin’ behind that badge, Sheriff?”
“No,” Jim said, his tone calm, “I’m standing behind a ten-bore shotgun. The badge goes with the scattergun.” Jim kept his gaze steady on the young rider. The brash expression faded from the man’s sun-browned face. His hand fell away from the pistol. He might be young , Jim thought, but he’s smart enough to know he’d be the first one to go down. He dismissed the rider as no immediate threat and shifted his gaze, searching out the older and wiser faces.
“Boys,” Jim said, “I’ve ridden with some of you in the past. You’re not hired guns, you’re cowboys. There’s no sense in anybody else getting dead for a cowboy’s pay. I’m not questioning your guts, just asking you to use your common sense. We’ve already had one innocent bystander killed. I don’t want to see any others hurt, and a bullet doesn’t care who or what it hits. Think about it for a minute—do you want to be the one who pulls the trigger and accidentally kills a woman, or a young kid who’s done you no harm?”
Jim paused for a moment to let that idea take root. He knew cowboys. They weren’t by nature violent men, and they had an ingrained respect for women, a genuine fondness for kids, and a soft spot for any helpless creature. They were hurt and angry and wanted to hit back at something, but they weren’t cold and unreasonable men. It just took them a while to study things through sometimes.
“Enough of this yammering,” one of the men called. “Let’s go clean out that bunch of nesters!”
The solemn quiet broke into a low mutter. Jim could feel the anger build back in the crowd. The tension became almost a thing a man could touch. He cocked the shotgun hammers. You’ve lost them , East, he told himself, this herd’s about to stampede and one man isn’t going to turn them.
“Hold it!” The yell from the back of the crowd was like the roar of a mad grizzly. Jim glanced at the bear-voiced man, a rider nicknamed Goose who had defied the cowboy strike and stayed with the LS. Goose shoved his way through the mob to Jim’s side, an ancient and scarred Henry rifle in his hand. “You hotheaded young whippersnappers just wait a minute!” Goose jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “The boss is comin’ down the road yonder. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Jim chanced a glance over his shoulder and silently sighed in relief. W. M. D. Lee’s buggy moved toward the gathering at a stiff trot, Strouthers riding alongside. A sudden thought choked off Jim’s sigh and sent a jolt through him—if Lee were of a mind to do so he could whip this crowd into a killing frenzy that no man could stop. Lee and the big men had a lot to gain if the little ranchers and nesters were wiped out. The thought chilled Jim. He had put his own fate in another man’s hands. One wrong word from Lee and Jim East would be so full of lead it would take nine stout mules to drag the coffin.
Lee’s buggy creaked to a halt. Dust eddied toward the crowd from the carriage wheels and filtered down in the long silence as the LS owner sat and stared at the gang of cowboys. Then Lee climbed from the buggy and strode to Jim’s side.
“Boys,” Lee said, “I’ve talked to everyone in Tascosa who knows anything about the fight. Nobody is madder about three of our men getting killed than I am. But there’s a badger here we can’t put back in its hole, and that’s the possibility that our boys weren’t lily-pure themselves in this whole thing.”
Lee tapped the buggy whip against his boots and waited for the mutter of the crowd to settle. Jim finally felt the tension begin to drain from his muscles. “Some of you probably heard it was an ambush,” Lee said. “I can’t buy that idea. I’m satisfied that it was nothing more than a drunken shootout that started over woman trouble. That’s not a good enough reason to start a war. Sheriff East and his deputies have the killers in jail. They’ll stand trial. Let’s leave it at that.”
Lee abruptly turned away, climbed into the buggy seat and picked up the reins. “Boys,” he called, “the LS is paying you to punch cows, and right now you’re wasting company money. Saddle up and let’s get back to work. We’ve got a ranch to run.”
It seemed to Jim that a collective sigh of relief swept over the crowd, as if they were glad the boss had made the decision for them.
Now nobody could say they hadn’t stood up for the brand or their saddle mates. Singly and in groups the men moved toward their horses picketed at the side of the Mobeetie road.
Jim stepped alongside, the buggy. “Mister Lee, I want you to know I appreciate what you’ve done. We were headed for a bloodbath for sure.”
Lee nodded, but anger still smoldered in his eyes. “I didn’t do it for you, East. I did it for my riders, my brand and my associates. Dead cowboys can’t work cows and the Cattleman’s Association would be blamed for any war. It would be bad economics and bad politics.”
Lee glared hard at Jim. “I’d like nothing more than to see that nester bunch run out of the Panhandle once and for all. I passed up a good chance to do that here today. The big ranchers built this country, and the three-cow outfits and nesters can’t run us out, war or no war.” His tone turned even colder. “Sheriff, I want you to understand one thing: I didn’t do it because I’m afraid of you or that badge.”
“That particular thought never entered my mind,” Jim said.
Lee lifted the buggy whip, then lowered it. “East, we both know that gunfight wasn’t really over a woman. It went a lot deeper than that and it started a long time ago. I doubt it will be over in our lifetimes. As long as there is land, people will fight over it.”
Lee flicked the whip against the buggy horse’s rump, sawed the reins about and headed back to the road to the LS. Jim watched the ranch owner go. Small rooster tails of dust kicked from the buggy wheels. The cowboys rode two by two behind the rig.
Jim stood alone in the clearing for several minutes. Then he shouldered the shotgun. “No, Mister Lee,” he half whispered toward the retreating column of riders, “it won’t be over in our lifetimes. But for now, I’ll settle for what we have.”
Jim found L. C. Pierce riding shotgun on an unusually subdued crowd at the Emporium in Hogtown. “Looks quiet in here, L.C. Any troubles?”
The deputy shook his head. “Got a little touchy at one point, but Jess Jenkins and Tom Harris talked the boys down. Tom left town an hour or so back. He took some of the more gun-happy boys with him. I saw the LS punchers ride out behind Lee’s buggy. Guess it’s all over.”
“It’s over, L.C. There won’t be a shooting war now.”
Jim spotted Jess Jenkins seated alone at a table, a bottle of rye before him. Jim strode to the saloon owner’s table, toed out a chair and sat. “Thanks, Jess,” Jim said. “You and Tom helped save a lot of killing here today.”
Jenkins grunted. “Sure was tempted to turn ‘em loose,” the saloon owner grumbled, “but it’s bad business to get your customers killed. Drink, Sheriff?”
Jim nodded. His nerves were still a bit raw. Maybe a shot would help. It wasn’t likely to make things worse. Jenkins gestured to the bartender, who brought another
shot glass to the table. Jenkins filled the glass from his own bottle.
Jim raised the shot glass in a silent toast to Jess Jenkins, then tossed back the liquor and winced. The stuff burned the throat like lye unless a man drank enough to get calluses on his gullet. He waved away the offered refill. He realized that his belly hurt and his eyes felt like half the Canadian River sand was trapped under his lids. He hadn’t eaten since dawn and had slept less than four hours in the last two days. Must be getting old, he thought. The hours come a lot longer than they used to.
He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thanks again for your help, Jess.” Jim walked to his deputy’s side. “L.C.,” he said, “I’m dog-tired, I’m hungry and I’ve still got a case of the yips. What say we call it a night? Kid Dobbs is still deputized. I stopped by the jail on the way over. Dobbs agreed to watch the prisoners until sunup.”
L. C. Pierce flashed a wan and weary smile. “I think that’s the best idea anybody’s had today, Sheriff.”
Jim strode from the saloon, L.C. a step behind, and paused to take a deep breath. The late afternoon air held a slight scent of dust, but to Jim East it was sweet as molasses and cornbread. Any man who doesn’t appreciate life has never come within an ace of losing it , he thought.
He waved a casual good-night to L.C. as they parted at Main and McMasters, each headed for the comfort of his own home. Fifteen minutes later he was in Hattie’s arms, the smell of fresh sourdough biscuits and fried chicken blending with her scent of rose water and woman.
“Oh, Jim, I was so scared,” Hattie said as she snuggled against his chest.
“It was time to be scared, Hattie,” he said, “but it’s over now.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am. But some of that chicken I smell and a little nap—eight or ten hours, maybe—will take care of that.”