Death Rattle

by Sean Lynch

  No one was sure who drew first. Whether a Mexican army officer or a Triple B rustler, as soon as one went for his gun, they all did. Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz cut loose with their Henry rifles. Pritchard drew both pistols and fired. Seven men fell to the ground without firing a shot.

  Most of the downed men died instantly, but a few still twitched and writhed in the dust. Eventually even they ceased moving, and lay still as their death rattles echoed across the Mexican desert. The only one left alive was Winston Boone, loudly grieving his son. It occurred to Ditch that every time he’d heard the now-familiar sound, he’d been in Pritchard’s company.

  Pritchard ejected the empty .44 cases from his Remingtons, as Winston Boone angrily wailed and sobbed. The others automatically reloaded their Henry rifles. Pritchard inserted fresh cartridges into his revolver’s cylinders, holstered the guns, and turned to face the old rustler.

  “Get up,” Pritchard said. Winston Boone shakily complied.

  “You done killed both my boys,” Boone said to Pritchard. “Finish me.”

  “Not a chance,” Pritchard said. He drew and fired.

  He fired four times. The first shot went into Winston Boone’s left elbow, the second into his right, and the next two shots ripped through both knees. Boone shrieked in pain and flopped to the dirt on his back.

  “You’re going to take a while,” Pritchard said, “to meet your end. I’ll remind you of what you once said, Winston. ‘Leave him be, to contemplate,’ you told your son at the coach house, when he wanted to end me quick. I’ll be showin’ you the same mercy you showed me.”

  “Kill me,” Boone begged.

  “So long, Winston Boone. Enjoy your slow ride to hell. I hope the coyote and scorpions enjoy you, because I sure ain’t puttin’ you into the ground.”

  Ditch looked on as Pritchard again reloaded and then holstered his pistol. Then he turned and walked away from the crippled, dying, old man, silhouetted against the burning ranch house.

  As he handed Pritchard back his Henry carbine, Ditch saw the death-shadow, as he had so many times before, fade once more from his friend’s visage.

  “What did we just do?” Ditch asked, examining the carnage surrounding him.

  “What had to be done,” Pritchard answered.

  “Hell of a vacation,” Franchard said.

  Chapter 36

  It took two days for Pritchard, Ditch, Ruiz, and Franchard to get across the Rio Grande and back into the United States. That’s because instead of riding alone, as they had been when they entered Mexico, they were riding herd over more than fifty horses.

  They decided, since all the horses belonging to the Triple B were stolen, that they had as much right to the animals as anyone. Especially since there was no one left alive from the BB&B outfit to dispute their claim.

  Before they left the rustlers’ ranch, they searched the barn. Among a large stack of stolen saddles, tack, and other pirated goods stashed there, they found Pritchard’s saddle and bridle. This was a particularly fortuitous find, because his ten thousand dollars and the wedding ring he’d purchased for his bride were still secreted within the saddle’s lining.

  Pritchard stared at the ring a moment before wiping his eyes and pocketing it. The others left him alone and busied themselves rounding up the horses.

  The trio bridled the animals, most of which were top-quality mounts, and strung them together. They then lugged the dead bodies into the barn and set it aflame. The agonized moaning of Winston Boone could still be heard as they all rode off.

  The quartet pushed hard for the border, stopping only a couple of times to rest and water the horses. They knew the dead Mexican troops, unlike Old Man Boone and his Triple B hands, would soon be missed. When a relief detachment came looking for the delinquent soldiers, the trail left by Pritchard, Ditch, Ruiz, Franchard, and the fifty horses they were leading, would be an easy one to follow.

  Two grueling days later, they were back in America. The minute they crossed the Rio Grande, Franchard immediately pinned his cinco-peso Texas Ranger star back on his shirt. After that, he wordlessly reached into his pocket and produced another. He tossed it to Pritchard.

  Pritchard stared at the star a moment, as he had the wedding ring. He nodded to Franchard, then pinned the star onto his own shirt.

  In Del Rio, they found sixteen Rangers from Franchard’s detachment waiting for them.

  “I thought I ordered you boys back to Fort Worth,” Franchard said.

  “I don’t believe I recall that order,” the Ranger sergeant, a stocky Irishman named Finley, said.

  “I’m a bit hard of hearing, Cap’n,” said a Ranger.

  “I’ve got a powerful lot of wax in my ears,” said another.

  Franchard grinned. “How long were you boys going to wait before violating international law and charging into Mexico after us?”

  “We thought we’d give you a full week,” Sergeant Finley said in his thick Irish brogue, “just to be courteous.”

  “It’s just as well you stuck around,” Franchard said. “If any of you boys are ever asked—”

  “You were here with us in Del Rio the whole time,” Finley cut his commanding officer off. “Getting drunk. So was Joe and your two pals, there. Never left our sight.” The other Rangers nodded their assent.

  “I appreciate it,” Franchard said.

  “Did you find those murdering rustlers?” Finley asked. “I don’t see any prisoners.”

  Franchard looked at Pritchard before answering. “We found every damned one of ’em,” he said, “and we didn’t take any prisoners. By the way, Sergeant, thanks for the dynamite. Came in right handy.”

  “What dynamite?” Finley asked innocently.

  “Would you fellas mind takin’ all these horses down to the livery and getting them corralled and fed?” he asked his Rangers. “We ain’t hardly ate, nor slept, in days.”

  “Sure thing, Cap’n. Wouldn’t hurt if you boys cleaned up a bit,” Finley suggested. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you just got back from—”

  “—vacation,” it was Franchard’s turn to interrupt. “Good idea.”

  Pritchard switched his saddle from Biscuit to Rusty and let the Rangers lead the palomino off with the rest of the herd. Then he, Ditch, Ruiz, and Franchard went to the hotel. Each got a bath, a shave, and a change of clothes before meeting down in the restaurant. Franchard already had a table, a bottle, and four glasses by the time Pritchard, Ditch, and Ruiz arrived.

  “I appreciate what you boys did,” Pritchard said, once their steaks were ordered and the drinks were poured. “I won’t forget it. I know Caroline’s grateful, too, wherever she is.”

  “Nothing can bring your woman back,” Ruiz said in his heavy accent, “but she has been avenged. This is not a small thing, Señor Joe. Her soul can be at peace now. You must take comfort in that.”

  “To the memory of Caroline Biggs,” Ditch said, raising his glass. “No finer woman ever graced the Republic of Texas.”

  “Damn straight,” Captain Franchard said. The others raised their glasses and drank.

  “What are you going to do now?” Ditch asked Pritchard.

  “With Caroline gone . . . I don’t rightly know. I guess I’ll stick with rangerin’. What else can I do?”

  “There’re plenty of other things to do,” Ditch said. “Maybe it’s time for you to look into a line of work that don’t involve killing? Heaven knows, you’ve seen your share of death. No disrespect, Captain Franchard, but there’s more to life than hunting down murderers and outlaws. Why don’t you come back to the ranch with me and Alejandro?”

  “You and Alejandro?” Pritchard said.

  “Señor Ditch has offered me a job on his ranch,” Ruiz explained. “I have accepted.”

  “We’ve got more work than me and Paul can handle by ourselves,” Ditch said. “Folks need horses and beef more than ever. We’re raking in money faster than you can imagine. Now that the Triple B is no more, I’m thinking of
taking over that spread, too. If I can raise the money, I’m positive I can purchase Old Man Boone’s ranch from the county, especially since I have it on good authority it’ll soon be unclaimed land.”

  “I heard that rumor, too,” Franchard said.

  “Think about it,” Ditch continued, “We can double the size of the SD&P. We’ll become cattle, horse, and land barons. What do you say, Samuel?”

  Ditch winced, realizing he’d just called Pritchard by his true name instead of Joe.

  “Your friend’s proposition might be worth considering,” Franchard said. “You’ve always got a home in the Texas Rangers. But maybe there is something else out there, Samuel, just waitin’ for you to find it?”

  “You knew?” Pritchard asked.

  “Don’t worry,” the Ranger captain said. “Whatever your name is, your secret’s safe with me. Hell, half the Rangers I ever rode with used aliases and were runnin’ from one thing or another. It’s almost a requirement of the job. Most Rangers got things in their past they ain’t proud of.”

  “You are the best man with a gun I have ever seen,” Ruiz spoke up, “and I have known many pistoleros. This I also know; a man does not become as skilled with a revolver as you are by living a life free from trouble. Death follows you, Señor Joe. It stalks you like a puma. You cannot elude it. You must learn to make death your friend, or die. There is no other way.”

  “Don’t listen to that crazy Mexican witch doctor,” Ditch said, “and his superstitious mumbo jumbo. Come back to the ranch with us? All you have to do is go back to being who you used to be.”

  Even as he spoke, Ditch doubted his own words. He was reminded of the death-shadow that hung over his friend; something he himself had witnessed on numerous occasions. He couldn’t help believing Ruiz must have sensed it, too.

  “I don’t know who that is anymore,” Pritchard said. “With Caroline, I thought I knew. But I was wrong. That fella was dead and buried a long time ago.”

  “You’re talkin’ foolish,” Ditch said. “You can be whoever you want.”

  “No, Ditch,” Pritchard said, “Alejandro is right. For me, it’s either death or the way of the gun. There just ain’t no other path. It’s like a brand. I was a fool to think otherwise. My mistake cost Caroline her life.”

  “You’re wrong,” Ditch said, not entirely believing Pritchard was. “What happened to her wasn’t your fault.”

  “Sure it was,” Pritchard said, not harshly. “I saved her once. But she came back and found me. When she did, my troubles found her. It’s just like Alejandro said.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Saving what was left of my family is why I turned my back on them. You should know that better than anybody, Ditch. Do you think I want what happened to my fiancée to happen to Ma and Idelle?”

  “Of course not,” Ditch said.

  “Then you know why I can’t go with you. And why I have to remain Joe Atherton.”

  Ditch only nodded.

  “I’m sure you have your reasons for keeping your past hidden,” Franchard said. “If they’re good enough for you, they’re good enough for me and the Texas Rangers.”

  “Thanks, Cap’n,” Pritchard said. “And thanks for the offer, Ditch,” he said to his friend. “Maybe someday I’ll take you up on it. For now, I’ll be stickin’ with the Rangers.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ditch said. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

  Pritchard looked from Ditch, to Franchard, to Ruiz, and then into his empty glass.

  “I know who I am,” he said.

  “Who’s that?” Ditch asked.

  “Smokin’ Joe Atherton,” Pritchard said.

  PART THREE

  GUNFIGHTER

  Chapter 37

  Atherton, Missouri, August 1872

  Dovie sat in the parlor and sipped her tea, smiling, as her husband’s tortured screams echoed throughout their apartment. She knew Burnell’s howls could be heard outside their opulent penthouse, in the hotel rooms below, and probably even down in the lobby, restaurant, and bar.

  Burnell had been receiving treatment for several years for what the town’s physician, Dr. Mauldin, referred to as “an affliction of the blood,” but which Dovie knew was really the “sporting pox,” as it was more commonly called. Burnell had no doubt contracted it from one of the “hospitality hostesses” he employed, or during one of his frequent trips to Kansas City where his consorting with prostitutes was common knowledge.

  Burnell Shipley’s stomach had always bothered him, but over the past couple of years his skin had turned gray, his gums began to bleed, his eyesight had gradually begun failing, and he’d developed a tremor in his hands. He often spent as much as thirty minutes in the lavatory at a time, and usually moaned in anguish while relieving himself.

  Dr. Mauldin visited weekly and treated his patient with doses of calomel. Shipley usually drank the mercury chloride solution while Mauldin rubbed an ointment made of the compound on the sores that had begun to spread over his obese body. But for the last several months, at least once every few weeks, the doctor was forced to come to their home at the hotel to inject the calomel, with a specially heated, red-hot syringe, directly into Burnell’s penis.

  It was no mystery to anyone within earshot of the Atherton Arms Hotel which of Dr. Mauldin’s visits was merely to administer the calomel syrup orally, and which of his visits was to give Burnell the “blacksmith’s rod,” as the staff at the hotel mockingly called it behind his back.

  Dovie took no comfort in her husband’s illness or suffering. In fact, she was burdened by the knowledge that she herself had likely become infected, during the early days of their marriage, when forced to submit to Burnell’s humiliating marital desires.

  Burnell had been unable to pursue her sexually for the last several years, due to the steadily worsening condition of his health and his contaminated reproductive organs. While this provided Dovie endless relief, she couldn’t help but suspect, with increasing dread, the disease was the reason she had avoided becoming pregnant.

  Burnell Shipley made no secret of his wish for Dovie to provide him a son. He desired an heir to inherit his sprawling empire. But as the years went by, no pregnancy resulted. Despite Burnell’s frequent rages at what he deemed were Dovie’s failings as a wife, she was pleased to have failed to fulfill her husband’s most fervent demand.

  Her apparent inability to conceive, coupled with her own growing symptoms, which included heavy female bleeding, the occasional and random onset of weakness, extremely painful abdominal cramps, and unexplained fevers that beset her without warning, led Dovie to suspect she had indeed become infected.

  She was afraid to visit the doctor, for fear he would verify she was barren and inform Burnell. Dovie suffered no delusions about what her husband would do if he became convinced she couldn’t bear him a child.

  Dovie was aware that Burnell’s mind was failing as rapidly as his body. She knew madness was one of the other signs of advanced “sporting pox.” One of the many ways his diminishing sanity was manifesting itself, other than his mood swings, fits of rage, and general distemper, was his outlandish belief that Dr. Mauldin was somehow going to eventually “cure” him.

  Burnell often spoke, irrationally, of how he was going to impregnate Dovie as soon as he was “healed.” Were he to be faced with the truth of either reality—that he would never be cured of the venereal ailment not only afflicting him but slowly killing him, and that Dovie would never bear him a son—there was no telling how he would react.

  Or what he would do. The only thing she was certain about was that Burnell Shipley would take the unpleasant realization of their mutual infection and her inability to conceive out on her.

  Or on Idelle.

  Burnell’s screams grew louder, reached a crescendo, and then faded to a wailing sob. There followed a sound of breaking glass and angry shouting. A moment later, Dr. Mauldin quickly emerged from Burnell’s room.

  The white-haired physi
cian’s face was red and covered with a sheen of sweat. He had his coat over one arm and his bag in the other. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “I wouldn’t go in there, if I were you,” Mauldin said to Dovie.

  “I hadn’t planned to,” she replied.

  “He’s in a lot of pain,” he went on. “Might be better for both of you if you let him drink a bit. It may calm him down.”

  “My husband drinks all day whether I allow it or not,” she said. “His drinking is rarely better for anyone.”

  “I’d best be going,” the doctor said. He started for the door.

  “He’s dying, isn’t he?” Dove asked.

  Dr. Mauldin slowly turned around. “He believes he’s getting better.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  The doctor’s shoulders slumped. “What he’s afflicted with doesn’t get better,” he said. “It only gets worse. He should know that, but he doesn’t want to. Once it starts to affect the eyes and brain, the end is coming. But there’s no telling how soon it’ll take him. Could be a few months, or it could be a few years.”

  Dovie lifted her chin. “And the likelihood I’ve contracted it?”

  “It’s a disease that hides, Mrs. Shipley,” he said. “Sometimes, you don’t even know you have it for many years once you’ve contracted it. After that, it comes and goes. Your husband likely had it most of his life. If you’ve had marital relations, no matter how long ago, I’d say it’s a fair bet you’ve got it hiding inside of you, too. I’m sorry.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “I’ll be going now. Call on me when he needs another dose, and I’ll be back.”

  Dovie put on her shawl and went downstairs to the lobby. As she exited the hotel, she encountered Sheriff Horace Foster and his chief deputy, Eli Gaines, entering.

  Gaines tipped his hat and grinned at her through his rancid jack-o’-lantern, smile. Though only in his early thirties, a lifetime of poor hygiene and heavy alcohol and tobacco use had decimated the skeletal deputy’s teeth and gums.