Death Rattle

by Sean Lynch

  That was before Pritchard unlimbered the Sharps from his saddle, Franchard his Henry, and both men cut loose. The two riders who fled moments later, with their tails between their legs, left eight of their friends lying dead in the Texas dust behind them.

  Five days later, Pritchard, Franchard, and Wade Boone arrived in Waco. On the sixth day, the good citizens of that town held a brief trial. On the morning of the seventh day, Wade Boone had his neck stretched in the town square. That was also the day Samuel Pritchard, otherwise known as Joe Atherton, was sworn in as a Texas Ranger.

  In the ensuing five years, Pritchard fought Indians, battled renegades, hunted outlaws, faced off with bandits, and traveled from New Mexico to the Oklahoma Territory in the service of the Republic of Texas. Though one of the youngest Rangers to ever pin on a cinco-peso star, he soon became a legend within the ranks of lawmen and outlaws alike as “Smokin’ Joe” Atherton. He earned the moniker, it was said, because if you were foolish enough to cross him you’d end up smoking in hell.

  No one knew the true number of men Ranger Smokin’ Joe Atherton had sent to boot hill, but anyone who’d ever seen the huge Ranger shoot didn’t doubt the figure, however exaggerated it might have been.

  During that same period, Tom Franchard had been promoted twice; from ranger, to sergeant, to captain. He now commanded his own Ranger detachment. He always made certain, wherever he went, and with each new promotion or assignment, to take young Ranger Joe Atherton along with him.

  “How many, Joe?” Franchard asked, his voice a whisper.

  “About thirty, I reckon,” Pritchard said, handing the spyglass to the senior Ranger. “Maybe thirty-five. See for yourself.”

  Franchard scooched down next to Pritchard and squinted through the lens. “I count at least thirty, all right,” he said. “The women look to be unhurt.”

  “For now,” Pritchard said. “Those Comancheros have been ridin’ ’em too hard to get in much rapin’. I’m guessing that’s about to change.”

  “It’s likely why they took the women down into that wash,” Franchard said.

  The night before, a band of Comancheros who had been terrorizing the territory raided the fledgling town of San Angelo, in the Concho Valley. They killed several men and made off with eleven females. The oldest was in her forties, and the youngest not yet ten years old. By chance, Captain Franchard’s contingent of Texas Rangers was passing through the valley on the way back from Fort Stockton after action against the Comanche, and took up the hunt.

  “What do you think?” Franchard asked Pritchard.

  “I think it’s going to be messy,” Pritchard said, “but we’ve got no choice. If we split our forces and try to head them off at the other end, they’ll spot us for sure. Even if they don’t, we’ll lose the rest of the day. But if we let them get out of that wash, they’ll scatter, and we’ll never get those hostages back alive.”

  “I agree. How do you want to play it?”

  “Only one way to play it,” Pritchard said. “Straight at ’em, hell-bent for leather.”

  Chapter 25

  Dovie walked down the sidewalk with her head high, exuding a confidence she didn’t feel. She felt the many scornful eyes on her, but ignored them, as she always did when out in public in Atherton.

  It was spring, and more than five years had passed since she took Burnell Shipley’s name during a Valentine’s Day ceremony performed in the lobby of the Atherton Arms Hotel. It was a day she loathed to remember.

  Since the wedding, Atherton had become a boomtown. Dovie’s new husband, as he’d once boasted, had indeed become the wealthiest and most powerful man in not only Jackson County, but the entire region.

  After the surrender, Burnell convinced the railroad companies it would be in their mutual financial interests to build a special rail line from Atherton to Kansas City. This gave the once-small town direct access to all the many benefits of the postwar expansion.

  By then, America’s great westward migration was in full swing. While the country’s never-ending demand for beef and lumber fueled the massive tide of humanity west toward the promise of California, Atherton, Missouri, under Burnell Shipley’s greedy stewardship, became one of the midcontinental hubs to provide both.

  Burnell built up Atherton as the migrants and carpetbaggers flocked in. He erected another hotel, and two more saloons, in addition to expanding the stockyards and lumber enterprise. He traveled once a month to Jefferson City to meet with a sympathetic, and easily bribed, senator, and spent at least two weeks each month in Kansas City, allegedly conducting business.

  Dovie suspected her husband did indeed conduct some business in Kansas City, but knew that most of his transactions were conducted at the city’s saloons, poker tables, and bordellos.

  She didn’t care what her husband did, and in truth, was grateful for the times he was away. Succumbing to his occasional marital demands when he was in Atherton was beyond revolting. Dovie consoled herself, while suffering in the midst of Burnell’s grunting throes, with the knowledge that her daughter was growing up safe and healthy, and her son, wherever he was, was still alive. She’d kept her word, and honored her end of the bargain. In that small thing, and the safety of her children it wrought, she took her only comfort.

  Dovie walked through the bustling streets, aware that men who didn’t know her still stopped and stared. She was an uncommonly beautiful woman, and despite the burden of shame she’d borne since Thomas’s death, maintained her youthful and healthy appearance.

  Dovie reached the Nettleses’ modest home, next to the schoolhouse. Before she could knock, the door was flung open, and Idelle rushed out to greet her. Her first vision of her daughter was always like a tonic, and she hugged her child every day as if seeing her for the first time in years.

  Idelle was now fifteen, and like her mother before her, had blossomed into a breathtakingly beautiful young woman. Her long blond hair flowed over her shoulders, and her crystal blue eyes, a family trait, sparkled along with her smile.

  “Hello, Mama. Are you ready to go?”

  “As always.” She held up the basket. “I brought your favorite. Fried chicken and peach pie.”

  It was Dovie and Idelle’s custom each Saturday, when the weather permitted, to have a picnic lunch on the schoolhouse lawn. It was close enough to town to be an easy walk for Dovie, and private enough, since not a school day, for them to enjoy each other’s company without interruption in the seclusion of the schoolyard.

  Idelle grabbed a blanket, took her mother’s hand, and they retreated to the rear of the schoolhouse. In another moment they had the blanket spread and the food laid out.

  As always before dining, they joined hands in prayer. Dovie led the invocation.

  “We thank thee, Lord,” she began, “for thy bounty. Bless the memory of Thomas, who is at your side, and keep watch over Samuel, wherever he may be. In your grace, amen.”

  “Amen,” Idelle repeated.

  They began to eat, chatting and reveling in the delicious food, unseasonably warm spring day, and the joy of each other’s companionship. Both Dovie and Idelle looked forward all week to their Saturdays together.

  Since her father’s death Idelle resided, at Dovie’s insistence, at the Nettleses’ home. Dovie held Burnell to his promise of a generous stipend, one hundred dollars per month, for Idelle’s board and care. She also strictly forbade her daughter from ever going into town without her, or entering the Atherton Arms Hotel.

  As she grew, Idelle began assisting Alice Nettles in her teaching duties. As Atherton’s population grew, so did her responsibilities. By the time she was fourteen, Idelle was handling the kinder classes all by herself and receiving university-level instruction from Alice’s husband, Rodney.

  Dovie was so proud of Idelle, and the confident young woman she’d become. Every minute she spent with her daughter made enduring the torment of being Burnell Shipley’s wife bearable. If only she could see Samuel, and be reassured he was happy and well, she wo
uld be satisfied.

  But Dovie knew seeing her son again was not in the cards. His life had only been spared by her sacrifice and his promise never to return. Should Samuel come back to Atherton, as much as she longed to see him, it would be his end. The end of her and Idelle in all likelihood, too.

  So Dovie was forced to console herself with imagining that Samuel was safe somewhere, far from Atherton, perhaps living near the ocean in California. In her dreams she always envisioned him with a beautiful young wife and children, happy in the loving embrace of a new family to replace the one he’d lost.

  Dovie’s reverie was shattered by the clop of hooves. Two riders approached from around the schoolhouse. Dovie looked up to find Eli Gaines and another deputy named Bernard Moss, a slovenly man with a long beard, pull their mounts to a stop at the edge of their picnic blanket.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Gaines drawled in his high-pitched voice. He had a wad of tobacco in his distended jaw. Neither he nor Deputy Moss made any effort to conceal their leers as they ogled the two women.

  “What do you want?” Dovie demanded.

  “Just stopped by to check in on you,” Gaines said. “As a lawman, I’m responsible for your safety. I’d expect you’d be a little more appreciative of my concern for your well-being.”

  “We’re fine,” Dovie said. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “You know,” Gaines went on, ignoring Dovie’s plea for him to depart, “I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Idelle. You’re gettin’ to be quite a growed-up woman.” He turned his head and spat without taking his eyes off Idelle. “Ain’t gonna be too long before you’ll be of age to get hitched.”

  Dovie stood. “Hold your tongue,” she said. “I’ll not sit idly by and have the likes of you slobber over my daughter.”

  “Not good enough for her, am I?”

  “As a matter of fact, you’re not. You’re swine.”

  “Hear that, Eli?” Moss laughed. “She called you a pig.”

  “Not very neighborly of her, is it?” Gaines said.

  “You two animals aren’t fit to breathe the same air as Idelle, much less talk to her. Get out of here and leave us be, before I—”

  “Before you what, Mrs. Shipley?” Gaines interrupted her. “Tell your husband?” He spat again and laughed. “Your husband is in Kansas City, puttin’ chips on the table and whores on their backs. And my boss, the honorable Sheriff Horace Foster, is there gettin’ his wick dipped right along with him. Which leaves me, as chief deputy, the man currently in charge of Jackson County. So, if I want to talk to your daughter, I’ll damn well do it. What do you think of that?”

  “Forgive me, Deputy,” Dovie said, casting her eyes downward. “I apologize for being so disrespectful.”

  “Mama!” Idelle protested. “You don’t have to take that from him!”

  “Quiet, Idelle,” Dovie commanded. “We’re being impolite. Would you gentlemen care for some peach pie?” Dovie asked, reaching into the basket.

  “Why, sure,” Gaines said, pleased to have submitted Dovie. “That’s more like it. I expect in the future, you’ll remember your place and show me a little more respect.” He began to dismount.

  “Of course, Deputy Gaines,” Dovie said demurely.

  Dovie came out of the basket not with pie, but with a sterling silver fork from the Atherton Arms Hotel. She struck out and jabbed Gaines’s horse in the flank. The horse reared and began to buck violently, tossing the skeletal deputy from the stirrups. He landed in the grass with a thud, as his hat flew off and his horse ran away.

  Idelle couldn’t keep from laughing, but Dovie’s face remained hard and flat. She held the fork like a weapon as Gaines slowly got up. He was furious. His face was crimson, and his anemic body trembled with rage. He started to draw one of his pistols.

  “Take it easy, Eli,” Moss said, afraid of what the enraged deputy was about to do. He was fully aware of Gaines’s well-deserved homicidal reputation. “There’s folks watching.”

  “Shut up,” Gaines told him. He took a step toward Dovie, who shielded Idelle behind her.

  “Go ahead,” Dovie said. “Shoot me. Gun down an unarmed woman, like the coward you are.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first Pritchard I’ve shot,” Gaines said.

  “Eli,” Deputy Moss said, nervously glancing around. “Think about what you’re doing.”

  “What did you say?” Dovie asked.

  Gaines’s rage suddenly dissipated. He grinned and holstered his revolver. “Nothin’ worth repeating,” he said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Moss said. “I’ll fetch your horse.”

  “You do that,” Gaines said as the deputy rode off. He picked up his hat and began to dust himself off.

  “That was a pretty good trick,” he said, “offerin’ me pie and then spookin’ my horse. Hope you both got a good laugh out of it.”

  “I surely did,” Idelle blurted.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” he said. “Because pretty soon, Mrs. Shipley, what Ole Burnell is doin’ to you, I’m gonna be doin’ to your precious Idelle. We’ll see how loud you laugh about that.”

  “Over my dead body,” Dovie said.

  “Funny you mention that,” Gaines said. “Especially in light of what befell the previous Mrs. Shipley. I was in town the night she had her ‘accident.’ I remember it was a rather peculiar affair. Almost looked like she fell down those stairs twice.”

  Deputy Moss rode back with Gaines’s horse in tow. Gaines put on his hat and mounted.

  “You ladies have a fine afternoon,” he said as they rode off. “I’ll be seeing you around, Idelle. You can be sure of that.”

  “Hope you enjoyed the pie,” Idelle called out after him.

  Chapter 26

  “All right, boys,” Captain Franchard addressed his Rangers. “I ain’t gonna lie to you. There’s more’n thirty Comancheros down in that gulch. Could be as many as forty. Them ain’t favorable odds.”

  “When have we ever faced a square deck?” a Ranger chuckled.

  “They’re holding eleven women and girls,” Franchard continued. “After they’ve had their way with those poor gals, they’re gonna sell what’s left of ’em to the Comanche. That don’t sit well with me. I’m fixin’ to ride down there and kill every one of them sons of bitches. Any of you Texans want to join me?”

  Seventeen Rangers grinned as one. “What are we waitin’ for?” Pritchard asked.

  “That’s what I thought,” Franchard said. “Mount up, boys. You care to lead us, Atherton?”

  “Might as well,” another Ranger chuckled, playfully punching Pritchard in the shoulder. “Smokin’ Joe is the biggest target we’ve got. He might draw some of the lead offen the rest of us.” The others laughed.

  “Be glad to, Captain,” Pritchard said with a smile, tipping his hat to his compadres.

  “Aim careful,” Franchard cautioned as the Rangers climbed into their saddles. “I don’t want none of them womenfolk hit.”

  Pritchard guided Rusty to the head of the column and drew his Henry carbine from its scabbard.

  “Follow me, boys!” he yelled, and spurred the big Morgan.

  Eighteen experienced, battle-hardened, Texas Rangers bore down into the wash at full gallop. The Comancheros were dismounted and bunched up, their attention focused on something on the ground the Rangers couldn’t see. The captive women were bound and seated in a group, twenty feet away from them.

  When the Comancheros saw and heard the column of horsemen bearing down on them, they broke and went for their rifles and pistols.

  The Rangers closed in, with Pritchard at the head of the pack. The Comancheros panicked. Typically the raiders, they weren’t accustomed to being raided themselves. They fired wildly at the mounted gunmen descending upon them with little effect.

  The Rangers were savvy-enough guerrilla fighters to know that accuracy from horseback, whether from a rifle or pistol, was nearly impossible unless at point-blank range. Despite the bullets flying in their direc
tion, they held their fire to a man until Pritchard led them right into the Comancheros’ makeshift camp.

  Steering Rusty with his knees, the reins in his teeth, Pritchard fired his Henry rifle again and again, levering the action as fast as he could. He shot a Mexican in the face, a half-breed through the lungs, and a white pistolero with a Spencer rifle in the neck. All around him, his fellow Rangers did the same, engaging targets as they rode over them.

  The hostages huddled together, shrieking in terror, as the Rangers stormed the camp. Several Comancheros who didn’t fall, overwhelmed by the sheer firepower of the Texans’ furious charge, chose to abandon the fight. They dropped their weapons and tried to flee.

  A small group of Rangers, Pritchard among them, dismounted and ran to the women, taking positions to defend them. Other Rangers rode after the fleeing Comancheros.

  After emptying his carbine, Pritchard tossed it aside and continued to fight at close quarters with his pistols against those Comancheros hardy enough to continue the combat. He put two more down before the fighting ended.

  It was over in minutes.

  The silence that ensued when the gunfire ceased was deafening. All you could hear were the sound of women sobbing, and hoofbeats as Rangers rode down the Comancheros fleeing on foot.

  Pritchard holstered his pistols and drew his knife. He began cutting the leather bonds restraining the women. They were filthy, and their bare feet were bloody and raw from being dragged along behind their captors.

  “Report!” Captain Franchard called out.

  “One Ranger wounded, not badly,” a voice called out. “Two horses shot. All the hostages appear to be safe.”

  “Reload,” Franchard ordered, “and stand ready.”

  It was standard Ranger practice to immediately reload and prepare for counterattack in the wake of any skirmish. It was this sort of discipline that distinguished the Texas Rangers from many other frontier guerrilla outfits. Most, if not all, of the men in Franchard’s command had fought for the Confederacy, and many were experienced Indian fighters as well. They knew firsthand how quickly a seeming victory could be turned against them into a lethal rout.