by S. F. Wood
“Mr. Bryson?”
Bryson resumed the telling. “MacDonald said that both McConnell an’ Miles opened fire and cut Thomas down. Seems he got a ball in the chest. But the Marshal, being the man he is... was...well he fired back an’ wounded McConnell. Anyways...”
Bryson paused and looked deep into his mug. Taking a swig of the by now cold coffee, he stopped rocking and set his chair back four-square on the floor. Leaning forward to put his mug on the table had the added effect of bringing him close up to Jackson, seated on the other side of the desk. He continued: “MacDonald says Miles also had an axe. Dunno where that came from, but seems he attacked Thomas with it when he was helpless on the ground.”
“Go on.”
“Then Miles cut off Marshal Smith’s head.”
Clearly this brutal act was something that had shocked Bryson. Still shocked him. Shook Jackson too. Even the Preacher’s blood ran just that little bit colder.
Jackson wrote though. Continued to write. It happened, so it had to be recorded. Can’t not write it down just because of the horror of it.
“So where was MacDonald when this happened? Was he hurt?”
Bryson shook his head, while Patmore uttered a pretty foul oath. Made even the Preacher raise his eyebrows, and he’d heard enough cussing during the war.
“Cut an’ ran, that’s what he did.” Patmore again, facing Jackson now. “Says he had an issue with his firearm. Says he was too far away to stop Miles doing... doing what he done. Says he thought it best to hightail out of there an’ get help.” He turned his back on the room and gazed down the street.
“To be fair to Jim,” this was Bryson, “he was not an official deputy. Just temporary. Tom Smith had asked him to accompany him. Don’t know why. Guess he didn’t expect trouble else he’d have taken us ‘stead.”
Patmore wasn’t convinced. “It’s on MacDonald’s conscience now.”
“What next? Where are Miles and McConnell?” As far as Jackson was concerned this was a good story. What to make it a great one?
“We’re going after ‘em. Got a posse forming and we’re heading out early in the morning. You gentlemen are just in time. If you’d got here a day later you’da missed it.” With this, Bryson stood and strode purposefully across the office to a rack of rifles and shotguns on the wall. He removed two rifles, proffering one to Patmore. “Gotta make sure these are clean and oiled.” Then the door opened and in stepped another deputy.
“The men will meet at sun-up Bryson,” said the new man. “Got eight. Is that coffee I smell?”
“Not much left. But there’s always time to make a fresh pot,” said Bryson. “For you to make it that is.”
Jackson didn’t want the conversation to change. “You don’t think they’ve fled the county?”
The newly arrived deputy, who was introduced as Davis, was now standing beside the fire, emptying the old coffee dregs on it. He took up the story. “One of ‘em is injured. Holed up they are. Word is they want to turn themselves in. Can’t be sure. But we’re going to get ‘em, that is fer sure.”
The Preacher looked over at Jackson. He knew what was coming next.
“Do you gentlemen mind if we ride with you tomorrow?”
“What my friend here means when he says ‘We’...” interrupted the Preacher, who then left the rest of the sentence hanging. Actions speak louder they say, and he deliberately pulled up a stool and sat down, the better to distance himself from Jackson’s enthusiasm.
“It would make you famous back east when the readers of the Herald learn of your heroic exploits in bringing these killers to justice!” Jackson’s passion quickly spread to the three deputies. So in the spirit of Justice being seen to be done and, at a penny a time, being read about being seen to be done, the deputies fully embraced the idea of Jackson riding along with them.
The Preacher though was more than happy to decline the invitation to witness a piece of ‘Wild West history’ as Jackson was describing it. “Reckon I will take the time to catch up with my affairs. I will leave the adventure to you and the posse,” he explained as they made their way to the Drover’s Hotel.
So it was that, the following morning, with breakfast having been enjoyed, a posse of about a dozen temporary deputies, led by Bryson, left Abilene and headed south to the Smoky Hill River, from where they would bear west. They had some spare horses, the better to ensure they got there and back the same day. “We should be where McConnell and Miles are holed up sometime ‘round noon,” said Bryson. The deputy was sticking close to Jackson, the better to ensure the newspaper correspondent was sufficiently versed in the more important aspects of the situation. “It’s spelt with a ‘y’ you know, not an ‘i’.”
“What is?”
“My name. Bryson. B-R-Y-S-O-N.”
“Thanks. Important to get these things right,” said Jackson, realizing it was important to keep flattering Bryson.
It felt good to be riding a horse again. Jackson hadn’t appreciated until that moment, but this was the first time he had been on horseback since he’d arrived in Kansas. He had travelled by stage, train, riverboat, wagon and on foot. But not on horseback. The air was cold, but still, and Jackson was benefitting from the heat being generated by the horses riding in close formation.
“What do you intend to do when you get there? Surround them? Tell ‘em to come out with their hands held high? Rush the building?”
Bryson took the posse over a small col separating two very low hills, then down towards the river. Their information was that by following the Smoky River they would come to a shack with the two men inside. “My intention is to spare any blood being spilled. Justice is done best in the courthouse, not in the courtyard. We will surround ‘em; give ‘em a chance to come out.”
The posse arrived at the shack around noon, following a couple of breaks to rest the horses and brew some much needed hot coffee. The men dismounted and three or four of them took the horses over to a brook for watering. Bryson got to ordering: “Someone light a fire!” and “Get the pot brewing.”
“Do you think they will fight or flee, Bryson?” asked Jackson, dismounted now and stomping his feet on the ground trying to get some warm blood flowing down to his toes.
“If McConnell is wounded then I expect him at least to be in custody very shortly. Miles though, well he killed a constable, which won’t go down well with a judge. He might have made a run for it.”
One of the deputies broke out two coffee pots and placed them on a newly lit fire. Soon, mugs of Arbuckle’s were warming the hands of the deputies. The horses were hobbled safely away from any possible gunfight. Bryson stepped forward from the shelter of the trees and looked across the clearing at the shack. “They surely know we’re here,” he said to Jackson. Then to a couple of deputies: “Circle ‘round to the other side. If you see them tryin’ to bolt for it, fire your guns in the air and we’ll come a-running.”
Then he shouted, his voice booming: “Moses! We knows you’re in there. I am the United States Deputy Marshal. Name’s Bryson.” Here he paused to look over at Jackson, who duly scribbled something in his notebook. He turned back to face the shack. “We’re from Abilene. We’ve come to take you in.” Jackson noted how Bryson used Miles’s first name.
“You trying to keep things friendly Bryson? Win their confidence?”
“Tryin’ to see who’s actually in that place. Someone sure is. Smoke’s coming out of the chimney.”
Bryson called out again: “There’s thirty of us Moses. You hear?”
Jackson continued scribbling down everything he heard and everything he saw. The shack was in a clearing, with a broken picket fence attached. Not that there was anything in the yard. Single storied. Probably just the one room. The posse was taking advantage of the shrubbery around the place. The river to one side would be enough of a barrier to prevent escape that way.
“How’s Andrew?” Bryson yelled again.
“Is that...?”
Bryson nodded in resp
onse to Jackson’s question. “McConnell.”
“He’ll live.” It was the first response from the shack. Bryson had taken them to the right place.
Now that dialogue had been opened, Bryson pushed home. “He need to see a doctor? We have one. Can fix that wound.”
“Didn’t know that,” said Jackson, making a quick entry into his notebook.
“Yeah, but Bryson didn’t say we had the Doc with us, now did he,” said a tall deputy, sporting handlebar moustaches and carrying a shotgun over his arm. “We do have one. In Abilene.” Jackson made a hasty deletion.
“I don’t think there’s much fight in ‘em,” said yet another deputy, who duly spat on the ground. The deputies were, without exception, seasoned campaigners. In fact, Jackson was acutely aware that he was by far the youngest person in the posse. Not that he was actually in the posse of course. This must be what it was like being a war correspondent during the rebellion. Jackson was half hoping that Miles and McConnell would not meekly surrender, but go down fighting. He began to think of some headlines, all more lurid than anything an editor would remotely tolerate.
The Preacher was having lunch at Alice Tucker’s Kitchen. Alice had acknowledged him when he entered, remembering him from the summer. The place was quiet and he had time to think. Maybe at his stage of life he should start chasing down old dames, not old demons.
“Penny for your thoughts, parson?”
Alice Tucker placed a bowl of stew and dumplings down on the Preacher’s table. Piping hot too if the steam surrounding the plate was anything to go by. Fine looking woman was Alice Tucker. Sense of humor too, for she was grinning at her ‘parson’ jibe. Nice smile. “My thoughts gen’rally cost more ‘n’ a penny ma’am,” he replied, but not in such a manner as to ward off further conversation; his thoughts would be free of charge to the right party. “Your lad not working today?”
“Got him doing chores. Life has to go on.”
The Preacher gestured that the chair opposite was empty. Alice Tucker sat down, straightening her apron as she did so.
“You knew the marshal well I take it. Tom?”
“Well enough. Allers pays to know the constabulary when you run a business in a town like Abilene. We need a marshal. Don’t know how long it’ll take, but we’ll get a new one.” The tone of her voice was reflected by the look in her eyes. A strong woman was Alice, strong in spirit that is. Fair of face, clear eyed. Wasn’t a-feared to look at him straight when she spoke. The Preacher liked that in a woman. Didn’t go for false modesty and faux blushing. Her hair was still blond. Hands were beginning to show the years, though. All that dish washing.
“How long you been in Abilene Mrs. Tucker?”
“Alice. Four years. Seems longer. But that ain’t meant to sound negative.” Alice broke off to acknowledge a customer leaving, noting he’d left the cash on the table. Obviously someone she could trust enough to leave the right amount. “Was on a wagon train to Oregon when my husband took sick. We broke off and headed for the nearest town, the better to get him to a physician.”
“And Abilene was the nearest town.”
“Yup. But not the nearest physician. Sam died. Appendix. He suffered so.” Alice was matter of fact in this statement. Again, the Preacher was impressed. Straight dealin’, trusting where appropriate. Good head for business and yes, an attractive head too. Now add to these, stoicism. “So me an’ Nehemiah, well after we’d buried Sam we couldn’t go on by ourselves. Meaning it was either go back to Independence and wait for another wagon train, or stay put and make do.”
“You stayed put.”
“And we made do very well, mister. Make no mistake, Abilene is home now. Business has been good these past three years what with the drovers. Some trouble for sure, but not as bad as the saloons get.”
They continued in polite conversation until the Preacher had finished his meal. “So now the marshal... Tom?”
Alice Tucker stood and took the empty plate. “Like I said, the sooner we get a new marshal the better. That is all there is to it. Would you like some apple pie? 10 cents, on account of you already having had a dinner.” Alice Tucker was a businesswoman for sure.
Later the Preacher sat in the Alamo, the cause of much trouble for the good citizens of Abilene. He sat with a glass of sarsaparilla and smoked his pipe. With Jackson thinking about going back east for the winter, maybe he should be learning from his young companion. How long had it been since he had known a good woman? A man is unfinished business without a woman by his side. Don’t need to be literally by his side of course. When he was with Lee during those four years, mainly bad four years, he always had Louisa at home waiting for him. That was when he had a home to go to. And a woman to go home to. It helped sustain him at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, The Wilderness, Spottsylvania...
But he hadn’t been by Louisa’s side when she had needed him the most.
Jackson made sure his notebook was safely inside his greatcoat and the posse made its final preparations to storm the shack. Bryson was speaking. No need to write down his words verbatim thought Jackson. This would be no King Henry at, where was it? Somewhere in France. He would fill in Bryson’s words later, give him a good speech.
“We want them alive, remember. I want ‘em alive. Give them their time in court and let justice be seen to be done.”
“What if they fire back?” asked a deputy.
“Let’s run across a-hollerin’ and a-firing an’ yellin’ HELL! That’ll make sure they keep their heads down. They won’t have any stomach for a fight. All they want to do is to save their stinking hides and hope for a non-hanging judge.”
The posse fanned out, still hidden from view by the few trees scattered around the clearing. “Fire up in the air gentlemen!” called out Bryson. “Don’t want to catch ourselves in our own cross-fire.” And with that, Bryson sprang forward, leading the shootin’ and the shoutin’, followed by nine other deputies and Jackson, who delighted in firing a few shots from his new Colt up into the clouds.
Someone inside fired a shot. Speculative it was. Hit a tree that was doing no one no harm, as is the way with trees. “Keep firing men!” yelled Bryson.
Another shot was fired. The posse knew this was just a half-hearted resistance, designed so Miles and McConnell could avoid the ignominy of surrendering without firing a gun. This one went straight up in the sky, up, up, until it lost its struggle with whatever science it is that tells us what goes up, surely must come down. And down it duly came, down, down, until it fell, like one of the sower’s seeds, on stony ground.
It was Bryson who reached the door first, kicking it in and jumping through to find the pair huddled together beneath a window. Most of the other deputies followed Bryson, though two clambered through windows at the rear of the shack. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” was all the pathetic pair could offer. Miles it was, or was it McConnell, who fired a third and final shot out of the window before throwing his pistol down to show they were no longer a threat. Dirty, hungry and without much hope, at least they were alive to face the Circuit Judge.
Unfortunately, that final shot killed Jackson Beauregard.
Chapter 18
‘... and Jackson was a fine fellow. A tribute to both your newspaper and his parents. As I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, if I could entrust you with the onerous task of conveying this…’ he paused, ‘tragic news to...’ The Preacher took hold of the notepaper, looked at it for a few seconds, then screwed it up into a ball and threw it to the floor where it joined four or five other attempts to write to the editor of The Herald. The Preacher reckoned he’d be the man who would best know how to contact Jackson’s parents. Would know the manner of conveying the news too. If only he could write the damn letter!
The Preacher poured himself some water from the pitcher on the table. Water. This was no time for liquor. Lord knows how much he wanted to drown out the images forming in his head. But then again, if the Good Lord knew that, really knew that, then surely he would kn
ow how bad Jackson’s parents were going to feel when they got the news.
You could have stopped it Lord. Just like you could’ve stopped what happened to Louisa. The Good Lord. Assuming He was good; assuming it was good. Jackson had once said maybe God was really the Devil. “If there is such a thing as Satan, then how would you know if you were worshipping not your God, but the devil pretending to be God? How would you know? Think of all the evil in this world, all the suffering. Ain’t that just what Satan would make happen, if he could?”
The Preacher knew he could have stopped it. Could have stopped Jackson running and whooping with the posse. Would have kept him back, told him to be an observer. You’re not a deputy. Could have, but didn’t. Wasn’t there. Just like he wasn’t there for Louisa. Could’ve stopped that too. Would have. Then he wouldn’t have had cause to be in Abilene. Meaning Jackson would never have met him. Meaning Jackson would still be alive. Meaning what? That God moves in a mysterious way?
Jackson. Strange how the Preacher now thought of him by his first name. His Christian name. Given name. He started again. “Dear Mr. Editor.” What was that man’s damn name? “I regret to have to inform you...”
The Preacher had been sitting in the Marshal’s Office late the previous day, waiting for the posse to return. He knew Jackson would be full of excitement at being in on a ‘good story.’
And the Preacher was hungry. So he was happy to stand Jackson a hot dinner while he listened to the tale.
Sitting in the office, he and Patmore, the one deputy who had remained behind, heard the posse coming up the street. It was dusk, but there was sufficient light left for them to realize, going out onto the sidewalk, that something was wrong. The posse seemed somewhat reluctant in its approach. No shouting, no hollering, no calling out for someone to take the prisoners to the cells, or to set up the beers. When the posse reached the Marshal’s Office it turned as one to face the doorway in silence.