by Tony Masero
‘Ah, bless you sir, she’s come quite a few times,’ sniggered Devlin, his Irish brogue strong.
‘They’ll have a trap or wagon here somewhere,’ said Wayland. ‘Find it and get her loaded. I want you and Corinth to take her to my cousin. A breath of sea air will no doubt clear her mind and my kin will appreciate a skivvy about the place.’
Devlin looked cynically at the sagging woman hanging from his arm, ‘Lord, how these fine creatures behave,’ he said. ‘You’d think she was the Queen of England the way she carried on.’
‘Well, I guess you put her right on that score,’ observed Wayland.
‘That we did, Captain,’ agreed Devlin, lifting Ladybell’s pummeled jaw between finger and thumb. ‘Know the way of it now, don’t you, my honeybun? Spread your legs and shut your mouth, that would be best, wouldn’t it?’
The sturdy sergeant though had his doubts and his heavy eyebrows knitted together over a frowning disposition. ‘You sure about this, sir?’ he asked. ‘It might be simpler just to lose her in a ditch along the way.’
‘No, Sergeant Dane. We’ll do as Sweet Dean Pye bids us do. It’s not our problem, just get her in one piece to where I said and leave it at that. And cover her up with something, turns my stomach to see a woman showing her private parts like that.’
‘Aye, sir, as you say,’ frowned Dane, giving a perfunctory salute to hide his misgivings.
When she was sure they had gone, Ruby moved out into the misty pathway and searched amongst her fallen companions and shook her head sadly at finding them all shot through and dead. She ran quickly into the house and noted the few smashed items of furniture that the frustrated Little Wait had broken in his search for something of value. The writing desk hung open, the drawers pulled out and scattered but the inkpot was still intact. Taking pen and a sheet of paper, Ruby used the moonlight to scrawl a quick note.
It was a simple missive, fast written in a bold childlike hand and read: ‘Come quick, Mistress Ladybell ill used and taken prisoner. I fear for her life. A friend.’
She ferreted amongst the saved letters bound in ribbon and left discarded by Little Wait in the back of one of the drawers. Quickly she undid the ribbon and read off the address she wanted, then in quick well rounded letters she copied down the latest return address onto the back of the folded sheet: The Marshal’s Office, Roosterville, Nebraska Territory.
Chapter Two
‘What you got there, Lomas? That bad news you received?’ asked Carl Quintain, as he noticed the change come over the Marshal’s face.
Lomas looked up at him but his eyes were blank and unfocused and did not see the young deputy standing in front of his desk.
‘We got to move,’ pressed Carl. ‘There’s no time for you reading your mail now.’
Lomas looked around the office as if seeing it for the first time, his mind racing as the few stark words in the letter ran through his brain. It must have taken a while to reach him he realized. This was old news and his heart shrank at the thought.
‘Lomas!’ Carl persisted. ‘You ready? They’ll be waiting on us.’
Lomas Bell was a man in his fiftieth year and at the end of the war, then at the age of forty-nine, he had left the Secret Services of the Union army and taken up his old job as town marshal. He was a tall man, who favored cream-colored thigh length jackets and wide-brimmed Plantation hats. A thick white-haired mustache hung down each side of his lips and his tanned features were weathered and seamed with lines from both the sun and some marks of sadness. The sadness written there was a milestone marker of loss. He still mourned the wasteful departure of his good and longtime friend and fellow agent Kirby Langstrom, brought down by friendly fire outside of Richmond some years before and the memory was something he recalled every day. It had been the thing that had eventually driven him out of service with the Pinkerton Agency. He had done his duty and seen the war years through, then quit to return to the simpler status of Marshal away from all the complexities of subterfuge and political manipulation in Washington.
Right now though, he was more concerned with the page he held in his hand. A childish note, he observed, written as a child might with large rounded letters. And the word ‘Mistress’ stuck in his mind; it implied a status of servant or employee, although, he surmised, it could just as well be an overly polite turn of phrase by a minister or older person.
‘Marshal!’
‘What?’ Lomas snapped angrily. ‘Keep your hair on, Carl. The damned Fecklin brothers will wait. They ain’t in no rush and neither am I.’
‘They’re out there, Marshal. Up at the end of Main Street. Come look, you can see them from the window.’
Lomas knew the boy was excited and tense with nervous anticipation. He was new to the job and although a fair hand with a gun he had yet to experience the necessary wait before action and was often too keen to get on with the task when a moments consideration was called for.
Lomas sighed and considered the impatient boy for a moment; slowly he got up from his seat. He pulled the watch and chain from his vest pocket and checked the time. Ten after ten. It didn’t matter a damn to him the hour, it was just a way of calming the kid.
Carl Quintain came of good stock, his father had been an acquaintance of Lomas’ from way back and he had taken the twenty year old under his wing in memory of the friendship. His daddy had saved Lomas’ neck one time and the Marshal reckoned he owed it to the boy’s father to bring him along some in the ways of the law.
Lomas crossed over to the window and stared through the dirty dust-coated panes of glass as Carl guided his direction.
‘See there, look,’ he said, jabbing a finger and pressing his face up close alongside Lomas as they peered out.
‘Get off of me, boy,’ said Lomas irritably, pushing the intrusive young man aside.
He noted the three men lounging at the end of the street, two of them resting against a hitching rail and smoking hand-rolls whilst the third the youngest of the brothers, fretted in the middle of the street in the same impatient way as Carl. He was kicking dust and patrolling edgily up and down.
A tiresome trio, he noted. They had been a thorn in his side since he had taken up office, with all their hell-raising and carrying on they were a troublesome brood. The elder Fecklin’s, Jonah and Josh, had come back from the war full of bitterness and restlessness and led the younger one, Jed, down the same path of drunkenness and mayhem that still coursed through their wired blood.
The thing had come to a head when they had taken out their spite on a family of sodbusters just arrived from back east. Cursing them out and dragging their tents down, then setting fire to the wagon and driving off the team. It was a step too far and Lomas had sent Carl to call them in to answer the charges the settlers had called.
Carl had come back with word that if Lomas wanted to see them they would be waiting at town’s end at ten o’clock of the day and he was welcome to come visit with them then.
‘We going?’ pressed Carl. ‘The whole town will think we’re chickenshit we don’t make a move soon.’
‘Never mind what the town thinks,’ warned Lomas. ‘Never mind what anybody thinks. You play it calmly or you end up with some lead between your ears instead of brains. Now steady yourself, Carl. You need to be cool and chilly as frost right this minute. I don’t want some wildfire crackerjack going off behind me, you’re my backup and I want you there for me and not worrying about the town or any other son-of-a-bitch. You understand?’
Carl drew a deep breath. ‘I got you, Marshal,’ he promised.
Lomas doubted that he did in reality and reckoned that Carl probably saw him as an overcautious old man too feared of getting shot at to make a rapid play.
‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ said Lomas. ‘You go out there. You walk slow and easy, taking your time. You see young Jed standing there? He’s all fired up and antsy, just like you. We want him even more on the boil, so take your time. Wind them up some, get them nervy and their gun hands unsteady
, you got me?’
Carl nodded fiercely, ‘Got you.’
‘So you go on up there and then you say to them that I ain’t out of my bed yet, I’m a little poorly or some such.’
Carl’s face fell, ‘What you mean? You’re not coming with me?’
‘No, boy. You do this walk on your own.’
‘But, Lomas. I ain’t up to this. You know that.’
‘I know what I know,’ said Lomas. ‘Now do like I say and stroll, real slow and easy, you understand?’
Carl frowned, his face twisting uncertainly, ‘There’s three of them, Lomas. They’ll cut me down sure as eggs. You can’t ask this of me.’
‘You want to be a lawman, son? This is what it comes down to. It ain’t ever easy and often as not the odds are uneven. You got to look them in the eye and show that you ain’t got no fear of dying, they’re the ones who are set to die. They see that look and it troubles them some. Maybe enough to settle it peaceable, if not then you kill them stone dead.’ As he spoke, Lomas took down a shotgun from the rack behind his desk and cracked the barrels, then set about loading it with double-ought. ‘Now don’t get clever,’ Lomas went on. ‘You go for a body shot, none of that fancy stuff. Cut them down, you’re here to kill, boy, so make sure you do. Or, sure as hell, they will do it to you.’
A slow smile of realization was spreading across Carl’s face as he watched Lomas. ‘You ain’t going to stay here, are you? You ain’t leaving me out there on my own.’
Lomas snapped the shotgun shut and stood a moment looking at him.
‘Now why would I do such a thing as that?’ he asked with a tight little smile that twitched his mustache.
Ten minutes later, Carl started his long walk.
It was five hundred yards of wide empty road that stretched before him up to the end of Main Street. On either side the stores and tumbledown shacks that marked the perimeter of Roosterville appeared quiet and empty but Carl knew his passage was overseen. He could almost feel the eyes on him as the townsfolk watched nervously from behind curtains and around cracked open doors.
Perversely it filled him with a sense of courage. A man alone out there in the middle of the street, facing down three gun hands. It looked good, he knew that and he relished the moment. Folks would not forget this image, it would go down in the history of the town and they would all look up to him after this. Maybe even that pretty little girl in the hardware store would start taking to him more kindly. She sure was a picture and Carl had set his cap for her a long time since but so far he had struck out, but maybe now she would see him in a different light. Carl’s chest swelled in pride at the thought.
His determination waned somewhat as he drew closer to the three brothers and got a clear picture of the mean faces of the elder brothers. The two tossed aside their cigarettes and pushed themselves away from the hitching rail to come out and stand alongside young Jed in the center of the street. They were a sour looking pair, Josh and Jonah, dressed in their old army slouch hats with scraggy beards and pale faces, gaunt and low browed, their piggy little eyes staring coldly at Carl.
‘You all on your lonesome, deputy?’ called young Jed, a barely disguised grin on his face.
‘I am,’ said Carl
‘Where’s your boss?’ asked the oldest, Josh.
‘He’s still taking his rest. Didn’t reckon it called for any concern, so he sent me out instead.’
‘That so?’ butted in Jonah. ‘You think you can take us? All three of us?’
‘I know I can,’ answered Carl, not believing it for a minute but remembering Lomas’ words.
Josh uttered a raucous laugh, ‘Best go back indoors, boy. We’ll ream your ass good, you stay out here.’
‘Yeah then we’ll come turn that old man Marshal out on his ear,’ added Jed, his eyes wild and alive with excitement.
‘Best hand over your weapons and you come along with me now,’ advised Carl, pulling to a halt fifteen feet from them.
‘Go fuck yourself, you little runt,’ spat Josh.
‘I mean it,’ said Carl, hoping they didn’t notice the shake in his voice. ‘You Fecklin’s stepped out of line this time and you need to make reparation to those folks you burned out.’
‘I had enough of this,’ squeaked Jed, his voice breaking in anticipation. ‘Let’s gun him down.’
Carl turned to face him, surprised at how the moment of clarity washed over him. He focused on Jed, noting the boy’s quivering fingers, the tips toying with the pistol butt stuck in the pants top at his waist. He was tense, almost shaking with expectation and Carl could see how his body vibrated with it.
‘Don’t do it, Jed,’ Carl warned, his voice suddenly low and steady. ‘I’ll kill you dead you go for that iron.’
‘Listen here,’ chuckled Jonah. ‘The boy’s got some balls after all.’
‘Yeah and he’ll be eating them in a minute,’ growled Josh.
‘Not before you, you pissant.’
They all spun around at the low even sound of Lomas’s voice and saw the Marshal coming at them from behind. He had circled out from the back way of the Marshal’s office and made it up along the margins of Main Street to take them from the rear.
Lomas was in no mood for discussion he had places to be.
The shotgun roared and the hail of shot ripped into both of Josh’s legs, raising a cloud of dust and lifting the man as if a high wind or the drag of a tightly drawn lariat had swept his feet away. With a bellow, Josh slammed face down on the ground, his lower legs torn to shreds by the blast.
Carl had his pistol out and he fired at the half-turned Jed, his bullet winging into the boy’s hat and tearing it from his head to swirl it away in a discus curve. Jed tugged his pistol out and was spinning halfway around to face Carl, when Carl’s second shot hit him high in the left shoulder. Jed emitted a piercing shriek as his shoulder exploded into a puff of shirt and flesh. He managed a wild shot at Carl as he fell and the bullet missed and passed by ten feet away from the young deputy. Carl coldly aimed and fired at the fallen youngster, hitting him under his exposed jaw and his shot passing clean through the skull and causing the top of the boy’s head to fly off and smear across the dust in a long ribbon of blood and brains.
Jonah had dived sideways at the first pistol fired and was heading for the boardwalk, he ducked under the hitching rail and Lomas’s shot from his drawn pistol chewed a long splinter from the top pole. Jonah snaked around under the rail and returned fire. He was crouched there loosing off shot after shot in Lomas’s direction when Carl turned, aimed and fired. The front of Jonah’s face was blown away by the flying lead, his head spinning sideways as if struck by a hammer.
Lomas took his time, aimed center body and delivered a killing blow. His bullet entering under the still raised right arm with the pistol held high and coursed through the chest cavity to blast the heart pump to mush before exiting upwards between shoulder blade and clavicle. Jonah flopped down lifeless half way across the sidewalk.
The remaining brother, Josh was lying on his side and clutching his bloody legs as he wailed loudly and rotated painful curves in the dust. The two lawmen went across and stood over him.
‘What you want to do with him?’ asked Carl.
‘I’d like to nail his ass for good,’ answered Lomas, suddenly noticing from the corner of his eye the gathering townspeople who were coming out onto the street as the shooting was over. ‘However we is the law and can’t be seen to be doing things like that, now can we? Go fetch the doc.’
Chapter Three
In that summer of 1866 the town of Columbine was still recovering from the dire effects of war. The old billboard where long lists of the dead and lost had been pinned still stood alongside the chapel steps and the few fraying pages left there fluttered disconsolately in the breeze and slowly faded and turned brown in the weather. Many young men had been lost to the surrounding countryside and the town was occupied now mostly by older residents and young widows.
Roads were des
troyed, bridges and levees broken and channels blocked. Across the South, horses, mules, carriages, wagons and carts had been appropriated by either side during the struggle leaving little means of transport for the people. The railroads were unmaintained with water tanks gone and buildings burnt out, the crossties lay rotten and tracks overgrown. No new tools for farmers were available and as a result the whole structure of farming and food supply was damaged. The Union’s effective naval blockade of the Southern coastline had killed the vital cotton trade with Europe and as a result banks and insurance companies went bust.
A third of the entire South’s younger men, some two-hundred and fifty-thousand who represented the next generation were lost and never returned to their homes.
In all it was a sorry world of ashes that the occupants of Columbine stumbled through.
The occupying forces of Union cavalry often passed through the town in columns on their way to their camp at Fort Beaumont and sight of their blue uniforms was a constant reminder to the population of the losses they had suffered. They swallowed the intrusion but none liked the invasive presence. What made it worse was that they had finally come to see that Sweet Dean Pye was not the friendly Northern helper they had first thought he would be. He took what he wanted when he wanted it and had set himself up in the Rolfe House and lived there with all the grasping majesty of a feudal lord.
Wayland too and his band of men were enjoying all the luxuries that their overlord allowed them and with the superfluity of women available they were enjoying a debauched life full of strutting arrogance. Their greatest pleasure was to shame and bring even lower an already defeated people.
When Lomas rode in, he kept his Marshal’s badge from sight and maintained a low profile, setting out to find a room at the local tavern. A place nicely named, ‘The Columbine Comfort’. The ground floor was an old-fashioned barroom more reminiscent of earlier times, with a low hanging ceiling that barely cleared the tall Lomas’s head and heavy wooden furniture that would not have been out of place in a Pilgrim Father’s home. The couple that ran the place were in their seventies and looked a tired and worn out pair. The owner greeted Lomas with a show of welcome intimating that at one time he had been a jolly and friendly enough fellow but the trials of war had brought him down and he had little charity left to display.