Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  Well, he thought resignedly, Carolyn was going to keep asking questions and she was going to demand answers, so he might just as well give it to her straight rather than wait until she drove him to distraction.

  “Did your ma tell you how I came to be involved in all that happened to her?” asked Griff.

  “She said you rescued her from hanging, and she hid out with you until the law came and found you out, and y’all had to run away. I guess Sam was sort of involved in all that, too, but I’m not real clear about that.”

  “I reckon it’s clear enough. Sit down a minute, Lynnie.” He motioned her to the chair beside the bed. As she sat, he carefully shifted his position in the bed, wincing a little. “Your ma probably didn’t want to bore you with all the details and maybe she figured to spare some of us from losing face before you. Anyway, I figure you’re near a grown woman and can make your own fair judgments without any help from us. Leastways, that’s what you’re gonna have to do now. But I got confidence in you.”

  “It’s about time someone started treating me like an adult!”

  “Well, don’t let it go to your head, Lynnie. You still got some growing to do.”

  “Okay, but what is it you’re gonna tell me?”

  Griff sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m gonna stick to the facts I know personally, ‘cause I don’t ever want it to be known that I bad-mouthed a man unfairly. You know that in the old days I used to do some things that wasn’t exactly law-abiding.” Carolyn nodded, and Griff continued. “Me and a half dozen men rode together, robbed a bank or payroll, or did some rustling. What we did was wrong, and we all deserved to be punished for it. And I don’t doubt that in some places we’d have hung for what we done. Where there wasn’t no organized law, some folks just took the law into their own hands; not that that ain’t understandable in this frontier. Still and all, a feller deserves a fair hearing, even if it’s right out on the range, and I’d say most folks gave a man that much, at least. There was one exception—a man who would act first and never ask a single question; a man who strung up suspects so regular that most rustlers just left his herd alone out of sheer fear. That man’s name is Caleb Stoner, your grandfather.

  “I know this is true, ‘cause Stoner caught a couple of my boys crossing his range and accused them of rustling his cattle. Without turning ’em in to the law or even giving them a chance to defend themselves, he took ’em to the nearest tree and hung ’em. It ain’t as if Stoner’s place is out on the frontier where there ain’t no law; he’s got his own town within a few miles and at least some form of law. Regardless, I know for a fact that my boys was innocent, ‘cause they was with me and never touched no Stoner cattle.”

  Carolyn listened attentively, thoughtfully, but her verbal response caught Griff by surprise. “Griff, like you said, that’s pretty common in this country. You know the saying that the noose is the only law around sometimes.”

  It almost sounded as if she were defending Caleb Stoner. Such an idea was unthinkable to Griff. He forgot for a moment who the Stoners were to Carolyn.

  “Girl!” he exclaimed, the exertion bringing on a brief coughing attack. When he recovered he continued without missing a beat. “That’s just one story I’m telling you—there’s more. Them Stoners had a reputation for being the most ruthless cusses around. You tell me what kind of man it is that his own wife is forced to kill him? And then her father-in-law bribes and threatens an entire town to do that poor woman in? I’m being generous in describing them as wild lions.”

  “Griff, my ma said she didn’t kill my father,” Carolyn said.

  “Well, what I meant is that it’s a crime that a woman would even be accused of doing such a thing.” Even as Griff spoke, he knew Carolyn wouldn’t accept his hasty correction.

  “When she told me, it didn’t sound completely true—I mean, not that she was lying, but more like she wasn’t even sure herself.”

  For a brief moment such vulnerability flickered across her countenance that Griff’s heart constricted with sympathy for her. He reached for her hand and held it tightly in his—a gesture that normally would have been awkward for both of them, but now was right and necessary.

  She lifted plaintive eyes toward him. “Did she kill him, Griff?”

  The touching look in her eyes, followed by such a beseeching question, pulled at his heart, but at the same time it also exasperated him. While he wanted to hug her tight and protect her, he also gave a brief thought to throwing her over his knee and spanking her for her infuriating persistence. But, whatever he did, he knew he had to tell her the truth.

  “That’s what I always thought,” he said. “I guess she never came right out and said so, one way or another. But that ain’t the point, Lynnie. If she did, she was completely within her rights, or so I believe.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “What in tarnation are you talking about?”

  “Well, if it could be proven, then she would have been freed.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to say; Caleb bought the court. Innocent, or guilty by reason of self-defense, your ma never got proper justice.”

  “Then someone had better prove that,” she said with an unbending finality.

  Griff was glad they had somewhat moved away from the subject of the characters of Caleb and Leonard Stoner. As much as he despised them, he was reluctant to denounce them before Carolyn. She was, after all, related to the Stoners, had their blood flowing in her veins.

  “I think that’s exactly what Sam is going to try to do,” Griff replied.

  “Do you think he will be able to, Griff?”

  “If anyone can, he can. He knows the law, and he’s almost as stubborn as you are.”

  Part 4

  Sam’s Quest

  12

  Deborah had always been afraid of stirring up trouble, but now that trouble had found them without any help, Sam was not going to hold back. He intended to hit Stoner’s Crossing like a Texas tornado if he had to.

  Unfortunately, that human tornado met with more resistance than he could have dreamed possible. When he tried to talk with those citizens who had been around twenty years ago, he encountered not only reluctance, but, in some cases, outright belligerence. He butted against these attitudes for two days, against folks with suddenly failing memories, or people who plainly told him he’d be sorry if he tried to mess in what was none of his business.

  It finally became clear that the only person from whom he might hope to get straight answers was Caleb Stoner. Since Deborah’s arrival, Caleb had maintained his distance. He didn’t even come by the jail once to gloat. But if Caleb wasn’t planning a confrontation with his former daughter-in-law, Sam determined that he’d just have to confront Stoner.

  Sam rode boldly up to the gates of the Stoner ranch and was stopped immediately under the coarse wooden archway that announced “Stoner Bar S Ranch.” He must have been expected, because Sam didn’t know of ranchers who routinely kept a guard at their gates. He could see the house in the distance, but he was blocked from getting any closer by three heavily armed cowboys.

  “What’s your business here?” The man was a big, tough-looking fellow with a six-gun on each hip and a buffalo gun slipped loosely in his saddle, but his accent was strangely musical, like British mixed with a Texas drawl.

  “Name’s Sam Killion. I’m here to see Caleb Stoner.”

  “He’s expecting you, is he?”

  “I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.” Sam held the man’s hard gaze steadily. This was certainly not the most dangerous man he had ever confronted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You just tell him he’s gonna have to face me sooner or later, so why put it off? I just want to talk.”

  “Well, he doesn’t want to talk to you. Mr. Stoner says he’ll do his talking in court if he has to—or maybe at the hanging of that murdering woman.”

  Sam rankled, and it took all his self-control not to jump down the
man’s throat. “And who are you that I gotta listen to you?”

  “I’m the foreman, Toliver, and what I say goes.”

  “One way or another, I’m gonna see him.” Sam’s flat statement was uttered through clenched teeth.

  “Not today, you’re not.”

  Sam momentarily debated his next move. He knew he’d get nowhere trying to rush this brick wall of men. So, reluctantly, he reined his mount around and rode away.

  Sam’s uncle always used to tell him that the squeaky wheel got oiled. Sam thought that sage philosophy might work with Stoner, so he rode out to the ranch every day for the next three days. Deborah tried to stop him, tried to impress upon him what a ruthless, violent man Stoner was. But Sam had to do something; it just wasn’t in him to sit idly by while someone he loved was in danger.

  Each day the same trio of armed cowboys stopped him. Caleb was not going to be cajoled or convinced. On the fourth day, however, the wheel finally did get some attention—but Sam didn’t think it was quite what his uncle’d had in mind.

  When Sam reached the gate that fourth day, the three guards were nowhere in sight. Sam thought he’d finally made it. However, as soon as he spurred his horse to cross the threshold, he was met by a barrage of gunfire. None of the shots were aimed directly at him, so he held his ground at the gate, though it took some doing to keep his skittish horse under control.

  “Stoner!” Sam yelled when there was a lull in the shooting. He knew Caleb would not be nearby, but someone was close enough to hear and carry back a message. “You won’t help your case by killing me. All I want to do is talk. Maybe if we help each other, we can figure out who really did kill your son. It wasn’t Deborah, and that’s a fact; so the real killer is just walking around free.”

  The only response he received was another flurry of gunfire. Sam had no choice but to turn around and leave before some stray bullet did manage to find him.

  Discouraged, he returned to town. But he was not ready to give up. If he couldn’t make a frontal assault, he’d have to be a bit more subtle. That’s when he conceived of the idea of sneaking up on the house. If he could just get close to Caleb, he’d be able to make the man talk to him. He didn’t much like having to resort to breaking and entering, but he was certainly not above such extremes to save Deborah.

  When he questioned Deborah about the layout of the Stoner ranch and other possible approaches that might be secluded, she reluctantly told him of a trail she had discovered while she lived at the ranch. It had been ideal for her purposes—she could get to it from behind the stable, and it took her some distance from the ranch without anyone seeing her from the house. It was a long trail, and though she had only followed it for a mile or two, she had always wondered if it might eventually curve around and lead back to town. It could well have been a means of escape for her, but before she had the chance to find out, she had been made a virtual prisoner in the house.

  With this information as a guide, Sam went in search of the trail the next morning, leaving town at dawn. It was not an easy undertaking because he would have to find the trail from the opposite end, where it might possibly come out near town. He spent most of the morning following dead ends, but the skills he had learned during his days as a Ranger finally paid off when he struck upon a little-used path some distance north of town that did not end abruptly in a pile of rocks. It seemed to be heading in the right direction, so he followed it, praying it wasn’t another wild-goose chase. Before long he realized it was just an old dried-up ravine; but that was no reason why it couldn’t be a bona-fide trail. There hadn’t been water in that ravine for a hundred years, so it seemed likely he wasn’t the first man to ride this way. Even after he estimated he was on Stoner land, he was still fairly obscured by the steep, rocky walls of the old riverbed.

  The ravine took him several miles, and the sun had reached its zenith and was already arching toward the west when the ravine walls became low and the rocky riverbed gave way to a smoother, pebbly area that finally opened up into grassland. The trail was extremely circuitous, taking several more hours to get to the ranch from town than the regular road would have done. He estimated he was still miles from the Stoner house. His suspicions were confirmed when he discovered an old dead tree that Deborah had described as a landmark. That had been as far as her own explorations of the trail had taken her.

  He was more exposed now and kept a sharp lookout. But at this distance from the house he didn’t expect anyone to be watching for him, if they were watching at all. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to be accidentally discovered by some cowhand. He rode for another half hour, encountering no signs of human life and no resistance. Maybe he would finally get in to see Caleb Stoner today.

  According to Deborah’s description, the house could not be far. It was likely over the next rise, Sam decided. He dismounted, wanting to approach with utmost caution. His feet had no sooner touched the ground when riders topped the crest of the rise, guns blazing.

  Sam was an excellent horseman and in no time had swung back up on his mount. Keeping his head low, he raced back down the hill in the direction from which he had come. These gunmen were not aiming over his head. One bullet sliced past him less than an inch from his scalp, whipping his hat off. Had he been sitting upright, it would have pierced his heart.

  His pursuers dogged him for a quarter of a mile, firing at frequent intervals. He managed to keep out of range most of the way. His six-gun was in his saddlebag, a weapon he carried as protection against snakes and wild animals on the trail, but he was not yet desperate enough to use it against human enemies. These men were his enemies, and they knew full well who he was—and were determined to stop him at any cost. More than likely, they figured they could do away with him on this back trail and Caleb would never be suspected.

  As Sam approached Deborah’s dead tree, one of the bullets at last hit its mark, penetrating the back of Sam’s shoulder like a fiery poker. He had been wounded before and knew how to keep his head in such circumstances, if only the pain and bleeding didn’t make him pass out. In any case, he didn’t know how long he could keep riding at this breakneck pace.

  When Sam passed the dead tree, his pursuers backed off. Perhaps that was the boundary of the Stoner range and they knew better than to risk killing him anywhere else. In these parts, trespassing was a valid cause for shooting a fellow.

  Sam responded to the easing of the pursuit by slowing to a brisk trot until he reached the ravine and knew he’d be safe enough for the time being. There he paused, wadded up his neckerchief, and pressed it into his wound before heading back to Stoner’s Crossing.

  13

  It was dark by the time Sam reached town. He rode past the jail because he didn’t want Deborah to see him like this. She’d be worrying about him, he knew, but he best get himself patched up first.

  During his earlier excursions about town, Sam had noticed a sign over a second-story window for a “Doctor R. Barrows, M.D., D.D.S., Undertaker and Minister of the Gospel.” Interested in meeting the local cleric, Sam had stopped by the upstairs office, but the doctor had been out. Now Sam prayed fervently the man would be there. A light from the window gave him hope. He also prayed that the “M.D.” was legitimate, because at the moment he needed medical, not spiritual, attention.

  By now, his weakened condition made it difficult to climb the long, rickety flight of stairs on the outside of the building. Finally reaching the top, he leaned against the wall and knocked on the door, then waited.

  When the door was flung open, Sam said, “I need a doctor.”

  “That’s a fact,” the man said, giving him a quick survey. Doctor Barrows was of average height and build. He did not have the kind of countenance that inspired confidence in a wounded man. His face had not seen a razor in two days, and his teeth were yellow and rotting—a poor advertisement for a man bearing the letters “D.D.S.” by his name. His eyes were red and rheumy as if he had spent too many hours staring into a whiskey glass. And though he a
ppeared to be no older than fifty, there was a slight tremor in his hands.

  “Looks like you stopped an unfriendly bullet,” he went on. “Well, you came to the right place.” His voice was strong in comparison to the rest of his broken-down appearance. Whatever his medical expertise, he was a man with fine verbal skills, and, in fact, Doc Barrows preferred preaching to practicing medicine. However, he was not a man to turn away a paying customer. “Come in and I’ll see if I can fix you up—that is to say, if I can’t fix you up, then there isn’t much hope anyone can.”

  At least Sam could not fault the man with false modesty. He walked in and sat on the examination table. When Sam stripped off his shirt, Barrows poked and prodded around the wound.

  “It isn’t a mortal wound,” he said at last. The doctor seemed almost disappointed, but he was, after all, also the town undertaker. “Where’d you pick up this hunk of lead?”

  “I guess I got to admit I was trespassing,” Sam answered, “but I hoped I would have received a better reception than this.”

  “Around here folks like their privacy—” The doctor stopped short, distracted by another thought. “What is your name, anyway?”

  “Sam Killion.”

  “Ah, I see now. You are the Stoner woman’s man, are you not?”

  “That’s right.” Sam refrained from quibbling about his wife’s proper name.

  “And you were nosing around the Stoner place?”

  “Trying to find some answers, the truth about what happened to Leonard Stoner. Were you around then?”

  “Yes,” Barrows answered curtly, then went on before Sam could respond. “I’ve got to get that bullet out. I want you to lie on your stomach on the table, but before you do, you better have some of this.”

  Barrows held out a bottle of whiskey.

  “That the only anesthetic you have?” asked Sam.