“What did you do with all those chickens?” the judge asked.
“I had Mr. McAllister deliver them about town. I figured they shouldn’t go to waste.”
“No…certainly not.”
“I’ll make posters tonight for a town meeting and hang them in the morning.” Ragan glanced at Johnny. “You can help, Mr. McAllister.”
Johnny spooned a bite of cobbler in his mouth. Of course. He would have bet on it.
“If only there were enough able-bodied men in town…” The judge gazed contemplatively at the sunset. “But most are older. They don’t have the health or the gumption to get involved, even when their family’s safety is in jeopardy.”
Early the next morning, Ragan and Johnny tacked up posters about the town meeting that night. Curious crowds gathered around trees and storefronts to read the circulars.
“Count on the Southerns being there,” Frankie called to Ragan. His wife, Kensil, nodded.
“See you tonight,” Timothy Seeden promised as he left the bank.
“We’ll be there with bells on,” Minnie Rayles said. “I’m sick to death of all this violence!”
“Shooting chickens, the very notion!”
“I’ll shore nuff be there,” Rudolf Miller called, laying aside his hammer and anvil and waving.
Handing Johnny the last notice, Ragan stepped back to watch him post it. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“Thrilling.” He missed the nail and walloped his thumb instead. A bad word followed.
“No profanity, Mr. McAllister.” She picked up her skirt and moved on.
The Oasis Saloon, the largest establishment in town, served as a border watering hole and town meeting hall. The proprietors, Florence and Hubie Banks, took orders for lemonade and coffee as people made their way into the establishment a little after five. By five thirty all the seats were filled, with people lining the walls. Judge McMann left the group he was chatting with and rolled to the front of the room. He raised his hand for attention and gradually a hush fell over the crowd.
“Folks, I’m glad to see you here. Appreciate your concern. Now, we’ve called this meeting to make some decisions. This raid problem is out of hand and we can’t ignore it any longer. But first, Reverend Pillton has something to say.” He waved toward the black-frocked minister sitting near the back of the room. “Reverend.”
Samuel Pillton stood and a hush fell over the crowd. “I don’t know what to do about the violence, but it’s time we repair our place of worship. I don’t think it makes a lot of difference to God where we say our prayers, but we need to take a stand and show these hooligans what’s important in our lives. Why, Kitty was wounded in this last raid, and the next thing we know it’ll be one of us. It’s time we put our full faith in God and take a stand.” His voice was soft, but as with his sermons, everyone understood his message.
There was silence, and then a mounting buzz. It wasn’t long before it was decided to begin restoring the church come Saturday. Work assignments were handed out.
“Now, let’s address the best way to deal with the main problem at hand,” the judge said above the noisy clatter.
“The chicken killers!” Rudolph shouted. “Any man who’d shoot our chickens is just plain mean. We got to do somethin’!”
“What are you goin’ to do about ’em, Judge?” someone called.
“That’s what we’re here to decide. What are we going to do about them?”
Johnny looked at Ragan, who was sitting in the second row. Three younger girls sat with her. They were undoubtedly the sisters she talked about; the girls bore a marked resemblance to each other. His eyes effortlessly slid over Ragan’s slender frame, noticing the way her nose tilted slightly, just enough to be interesting.
“We gotta do something, Procky! There’s not going to be anything left of the town if we don’t!”
The judge lifted his hand again for quiet. “It seems to me we’re going to have to take action or face the risk of getting burned out.”
“I think we should move the entire town,” Maggie Anglo volunteered. “Get farther from the border. These hoodlums ride through, go into Mexico and get liquored up, and then here they come, riding back through shooting up again. Barren Flats is straight in their path.”
A man in the back stood up. “Maggie’s right. If we move the town ten miles farther north, we wouldn’t be in their way.”
The old sheriff held his hand to his ear. “You going to pack that big two-story house of yours onto the back of a horse and move it?”
“Yeah, and how about the bank, the sheriff’s office, the stores, and all the other buildings? You going to give ’em all to the gangs?” Rudolph Miller called out. “We can’t run away from our trouble. We have to face it, and face it now!”
Alvin Lutz got to his feet. “As sheriff of this town, I’m doin’ the best I can. There are at least a dozen different gangs that I’ve counted riding through here. Some have as many as fifteen riders.”
Jewell Scott twisted a lace handkerchief and seemed on the verge of tears. “Oh, my. Alvin’s right. I’ve counted at least that many. It’s very disturbing. I’m thinking about moving clean out of the county. I don’t feel safe in my own home anymore.”
Several women, some openly crying, spoke fervently of their fear for their children and their frustration with having to clean up after every raid.
“Plaster sifts down from the ceiling when they ride through. There are so many bullet holes, Clifford can’t get them repaired.” Sylvia Kincaid shot her husband a frustrated glance. “The mister was taking a nap in the parlor yesterday when they passed through. When he woke up, he had so much plaster on his face he looked like a ghost.” When her neighbors laughed, she blushed. “Well, he did!”
A man rose to his feet near the back. “I say we build a new road around the town. Make ’em change their course!”
Heads turned at the suggestion.
“Frank, a new road wouldn’t stop ’em, and that could be bad for business.” Shorty Lynch frowned. “Real bad. I get a lot of drifters coming through here for groceries, and there’s always a few with horses that need reshoeing.”
“Shorty, neither you nor Rudy do business with the gangs. What business would you lose?”
“Well, there could be some lost with a new road.”
“Be a lot of trouble to build a new road, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes , it would. We’d have to put it a mile or so to the west—”
Austin Plummer jumped to his feet. “Now, hold on there. That’d cut up my land. I just got my fence back up from a raid a week or two back.” The farmer’s face flushed and his fists balled. “We’d have to make that new road to the east of town.”
A second man stood and appeared ready to fight anyone who agreed with Austin. “Wait just a minute! I can’t split up my homestead, and I don’t want those bandits riding through my property. Don’t be planning any road through my land!”
Fans waved in front of faces and handkerchiefs mopped foreheads.
The judge shook his head. “Listen to yourselves. Can’t anyone agree on anything? We got to do something, people. And now!”
Johnny sat quietly, listening to the exclamations and declarations break out around him. It was amazing how far grown men would go to avoid trouble.
Minnie Rayles shot to her feet. “I say we hire a shootist!”
A hush fell over the room. The citizens of Barren Flats looked at one another and then murmured back and forth. A shootist? What shootist?
“What are you talking about, Minnie?” The banker’s wife turned around in her seat to stare at her.
“A shootist.” Minnie sat back down in her chair and straightened her hat.
“Good grief, Minnie.” Her husband, Carl, filled the stunned silence. “Where are we gonna get a shootist?”
“Right here, that’s where.” Minnie fished in her reticule and came up with an article from a journal. “Says here that Sulphur Springs was having the same trouble
as us. They hired them a shootist, Lars Mercer. He cleaned that town up slick as a whistle. He could do the same thing here. The paper says he’s still up there.”
Johnny sat up straighter. Lars Mercer? The legendary gunslinger?
Carl took the piece of paper from his wife, his eyes scanning the article.
“A shootist?” Alvin Lutz got slowly to his feet, his hand cupped to his ear. “How much would something like that cost?”
Minnie frowned. “Don’t rightly know, but we could wire Mercer and ask.”
Everett lifted his hand. “I could send the wire off first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Now, hold on,” the pastor objected. “We can’t hire to have someone killed! We’re God-fearing folk!”
“Kill or be killed,” Carl said. “We don’t have a choice.”
A buzz went up as the crowd warmed to the idea. Johnny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were willing to hire a shootist to do their dirty work?
Judge McMann cleared his throat. “It seems to me that we should be able to confront this problem without outside interference.” He eyed the audience. “We have plenty of men right here in Barren Flats.”
“Who can’t do a thing to stop these gangs,” Lillian Hubbard said. She looked at her daughters. “When will our children be safe again? I say hire this shootist! Pay him anything he wants! We want our town back!”
An outcry went up. “Get the shootist!”
“Get our town back!”
“Pass the hat. I’ll put in five dollars,” one man said.
“Five dollars—now hold on here,” his wife cautioned.
“Money isn’t the issue. Getting our town back is, and you can’t put a price on freedom! It’s worth whatever the cost,” someone else shouted.
Ragan’s eyes met Johnny’s as the uproar continued. It wasn’t hard to read her silent plea. Did he have a suggestion ? He calmly looked away.
Judge McMann rapped the bar for order. “All right! We’ll take a vote. Those in favor of sending for a shootist, raise your hand.”
Twenty hands shot up.
“Those opposed?”
Johnny counted sixteen.
“The yeas have it.” The judge banged his gavel. “Everett, send a wire inviting Mercer to come in and clean up the town.”
As everyone got up to leave, Johnny shook his head. These people had spit for brains. Mercer wouldn’t hang around forever, and then the gangs would return. But stupid plan or not, Johnny supposed they all went home thinking they would have fresh eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning.
Chapter Eleven
Stick the needle through the hole, and pull the thread tight.”
Tongue wedged between his teeth, Johnny concentrated on spearing the eyes of the button.
“That’s it, nice and easy. You’re quite good at sewing buttons.”
“I’d rather shoe a horse.”
“Judge McMann believes sewing builds character.” That wasn’t exactly true. Actually, Procky said the busier a man was, the more likely he was to stay out of trouble, and Ragan was running out of things to keep Mr. McAllister busy. He’d beaten rugs, hoed the garden, whitewashed the fence, and helped Mrs. Curbow with her garden. The afternoon loomed ahead when Ragan spotted the basket of sewing.
Johnny swore as the tip of the needle pricked him for the third time.
“Mr. McAllister…” Ragan reminded.
“Shoot!”
“Let your nays be nays and yeas be yeas,” Ragan reminded.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t curse.” She glanced at his work. “You sew as if you’re branding cattle Think: lightly, carefully.” She selected a button and effortlessly attached it to a shirt. Johnny eyed the exhibition with cool detachment, but his jaw tightened and she heard his teeth grind.
Demoralizing him wasn’t her intention. Indeed, she was starting to be amused by his fumbling attempts to serve his sentence. Though he didn’t talk a lot, she did glimpse an occasional smile, tempting her to think that he was warming, if not to his sentence, then at least to his surroundings.
Lately, her thoughts were plain worrisome. Like noticing how nice his hair looked after a bath, all soft and touchable in long, brown waves. Or when he nicked himself on the chin while shaving. She found herself wanting to wet a cloth and wipe the tiny flecks of dried blood away. She glanced at him and then back at her handwork. He is a criminal, Ragan. But she had been taught to love one another. Papa had drummed the Lord’s commandment into his family’s heads day after day when he’d been younger.
But after three weeks Johnny had finished most of the house repairs along with other sundry chores, and now she simply did not have the resources to keep him busy other than the daily session with the judge. It had been easy enough to send Max Rutherford outside to play stick ball when his work was finished. He’d spent many idle hours honing his batting skill. She even played catch with the boy a few times.
She held the repaired shirt up for inspection. “See? Good as new.”
Johnny glanced at her and then the shirt. “Sewing’s woman’s work.”
Ragan set a pile of mending in front of him. No matter how the Lord softened her heart toward this man, it would be nice if he would cooperate with a more willing spirit because, for now, they were stuck with each another.
“By the time you’ve worked your way through that pile of mending, you’ll be able to sew on buttons as well as or better than any woman.” She smiled sweetly. “In case you ever wish to take up tailoring.”
He grunted something, and yanked thread through a button-hole.
Untying her apron, she slipped it over her head. Sewing wasn’t her favorite chore either. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
The needle drew blood again. “Sweet Hilda!” he muttered under his breath. He gave her a look black enough to sour milk.
“Lightly, carefully,” she repeated over her shoulder. Closing the door behind her, she released a sigh.
Soon she was bent over the woodpile, chopping kindling. The sharp ax bit into the fine wood, causing chips to fly. The sun was warm, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed outdoor chores far more than indoor ones. She picked out a few pieces for her father and laid them aside. He was prone to leave the house to search for wood when his basket was empty.
Absorbed in her work, she didn’t hear approaching footsteps. A shadow fell over the woodpile as she raised the ax above her head to swing. A hand shot out to clasp her wrist. Startled, she stared into John McAllister’s unsmiling face. Her heart flew to her throat, and her hand automatically tightened around the ax handle.
His eyes darkened to a black hue at her response. “Afraid of me, Miss Ramsey?”
If she were, he would never know it. Her gaze met his steadily. “Are you through with the mending?” He couldn’t be. There were enough missing buttons to keep him busy all afternoon.
His eyes shifted back to the woodpile. “I’ll swap chores with you.”
Shaking off his hand, she raised the ax and swung it. Kindling flew. “No, thank you. I’d just as soon chop wood.” She’d just as soon do about anything other than mend.
He took a step back to avoid being hit. “Women sew. Men chop wood.”
She took another mighty swing, splitting a log in half. “Not in Barren Flats.” He stared at the two pieces and then at her.
They’d had the same argument this morning when he wanted to paint the eaves instead of beat rugs. She refused to humor him. He would never learn discipline if she caved in every time he disagreed with her instructions.
Reaching for another log, she jerked back when a green garter snake slithered from under the pile. Dropping the ax, she hopped aside. Try as she would, she couldn’t overcome her snake jitters. The little reptile darted her way, and she whirled, colliding with a wall of solid chest muscle. Her eyes locked with McAllister’s, and a ridge of goose bumps broke out on her arms. She’d never been this close to a man.
Swallowing hard, she tried to keep her voice even. “Would you please pick it up and carry it to the garden?”
Johnny cocked his head and frowned. “It? You mean the kindling?” He bent to pick up the wood she had just split.
She gritted her teeth. “No, Mr. McAllister. The snake.”
A slow grin started at the corners of his mouth and spread across his face. Her cheeks grew hot and her heart sank. This was his moment of triumph. That snake could dart straight up her skirt and he wouldn’t lift a hand to prevent it.
“Oh, it. The snake.” His innocent eyes held hers. “Sorry. I have buttons to sew on.” He turned and sauntered back to the house.
She glared at his retreating back. Where was a good-size rock when you needed one? Well, all right! The battle lines were drawn. By cracker, she was through being pleasant to this man!
Keeping one eye on the snake and the other on McAllister’s retreating back, Ragan picked up the ax and prodded the slithering creature toward the garden with the handle. Just let McAllister ask her for help with the dishes—or mending—or rug beating—or anything else!
The screen door slammed shut.
She fanned her face.
Rogue.
When she returned to the kitchen a short while later, the judge was up from his nap. The two men sat at the table, sorting buttons. Kitty was perched in the middle of the activity, batting at strays. Dumping an armload of wood into the kindling box, Ragan gave Johnny a sinister look as she reached for a match. “Up from your nap so early, Procky?”
The judge frowned, placing a blue button on a pile. “I couldn’t sleep. Came to the kitchen for a glass of buttermilk, and John looked like he could use my help.”
Ragan closed her eyes. Procky was too softhearted to deal with prisoners. If only he would realize that his sympathy with his subjects made her job that much harder.
Her gaze touched briefly on Johnny’s hands. They looked like raw meat where he’d pricked himself with the needle. A pile of mending was still in front of him. Her heart turned over.
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