But, beneath the laughter and the noise, the dark currents of old enmities still simmered, and the “weak link” in the Holloway chain found himself in a corner with Troy Ridge and two of his men, drinking far too much of Ridge’s bourbon and paying far too much attention to the saloonkeeper’s talk until he agreed to annoy the high-and-mighty Claiborne by claiming a dance with his daughter ...
Emma was dancing with Chad Madison when the drunken, red-faced Billy emerged from his corner, tugged down the lapels of his rough jacket and forced his way through the dancers on unsteady feet. Then his heavy hand dropped on the sheriff’s shoulder.
“I’m cuttin’ in, lawman.”
Emma clutched Madison’s arm tightly, staring in alarm at Holloway’s whisky-flushed face. Madison frowned and shook his head.
“Sorry, Holloway, but Miss Claiborne is booked for this turn around.”
“Is that a fact?” Holloway said thickly. Then, shouldering the lawman aside, he seized the girl in his crushing grip.
As Emma cried out in pain and fear, her brother seemed to come out of nowhere. Eyes blazing, Lonnie seized Holloway by the shoulder, spun him and punched him flush in the face.
“You keep your dirty hands off my sister, you bastard!” Lonnie snarled, and he punched again.
Benedict and Brazos were converging on the trouble spot from the moment the girl’s cry rang out, but they weren’t quick enough to stop what happened next. Blood pouring from nose and mouth, his pallid blue eyes showing almost all white, Billy Holloway spat a vicious curse and dropped a hand to his gun butt. Whether he meant to draw was never established, for suddenly Lonnie Claiborne pulled a small Ranker’s Special from the pocket of his coat.
Panic gripped the crowd at the sight of the gun. As they surged away from the two men, they blocked Benedict and Brazos who were trying to get through. Brazos grabbed a man and hurled him violently aside, and Benedict shouted above the clamor, “Lonnie, no!”
Lonnie didn’t hear. There was a sound like a giant drum beating in his head. This man had hurt his sister; he had frightened Emma.
“Get out!” Lonnie raged, brandishing the gun. “Get the hell out of this hall and out of town or I’ll kill you!”
Benedict and Brazos were still some twenty feet from Lonnie as Holloway swung away as if heading for the door. Then, as Lonnie lowered the gun and turned to his sister, Holloway whirled and drew his six-gun.
Benedict’s right-side Peacemaker was in his hand before he saw the crazed expression in Billy Holloway’s face. In that split-second Lonnie Claiborne stood a breath away from death, and in that same hanging moment, before a soul could cry out, before the eyes of the onlookers could properly absorb what they were seeing, Duke Benedict’s Peacemaker sent a bullet through young Billy Holloway’s fast-beating heart.
The reverberating roar of the single shot swallowed the thud of a falling body and engulfed a mother’s choked-off scream.
The echoes of the shot seemed to go on forever ...
Chapter Seven – Bury Him Deep
Morning light came slowly to the quiet place beside the Chad River. Fish made breath rings on the gray surface of the water, and farther downstream a fat jackrabbit stopped at the sound of voices, his long gray ears folded against his head.
Lonnie lay on his back in the yellow sand, his head on his sister’s lap, staring up through the twining magnolia limbs at the slowly brightening sky. Emma’s fingers moved gently through Lonnie’s thick, silky hair as she watched the water and told him again about that great day in the past ...
“... Then the Jacksons came in their fine white carriage drawn by four white Arab horses, and General Peach arrived last with four servants to carry our presents. And later, when all the guests were assembled in the entrance room, you and I came down the stairs and everybody sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and Uncle Samuel threatened to drink fifteen whiskies, one for each year of our lives. Everybody went quiet when Mama appeared at the top of the stairs. Her hair was piled high and she was wearing the green dress with the—”
“Blue. It was blue, Emma.”
“Are you sure, Lonnie?”
“Yes, it was blue with big sleeves and ...” Lonnie Claiborne’s voice faded and his slim body shook as he returned to the present. “It was the same color as Holloway’s shirt, Emma ... and then there was blood on her dress when they killed her ... like there was blood on his shirt when he rolled over on the—”
“Please, Lonnie, don’t think about it. It wasn’t your fault.”
The boy sat up violently, turning to face her. “He hurt you like they were hurting Mama. I know he always blamed me for not saving Mama, so why does he blame me now for protecting you? Why? I just didn’t want him to hurt you the way Mama was—”
“Lonnie, don’t get upset again.”
“He hates me,” the boy said bitterly. “No matter what I do, he says it’s wrong. He should have been proud for what I tried to do in there, but instead he calls me a fool. He thinks I’m just a kid and will never be anything else. But I’m a man, Mama, and I’ll prove to him that I’m a man one day ... won’t I, Mama?”
Pain touched the girl’s face as the look in his eyes told her that in his mind a golden summer of years ago had become indistinguishable from a tragic night in Missouri. With gentle pressure on his shoulders, she made him settle back again and then she stroked his hair.
“My head aches, Emma,” he said. “It’s aching real bad.”
Her fingers gently traced the old scar in her brother’s scalp where the Union trooper’s rifle had struck. “Is that where it hurts, Lonnie?”
“Yeah, that’s it ... but it feels better now ... lots better …” He smiled, looking up at the sky. “It’s a fine day for our birthday, Emma, see?”
The girl looked up. The sky over Shiloh was changing colors, red in the east, still night blue in the west. The moon was fading. Across the river, an old bull bellowed. Bobwhites whistled in the trees and a pair of scissortails chased an indignant crow across the rosy sky above the tree.
“A fine day for our birthday, Lonnie,” she said, her eyes bright with the tears she was holding back.
“Mama looked lovely in that dress ... tell me about the dress again, Emma, and about the party.”
Emma told him about the dress and the party. It was his favorite story.
The door whispered shut on the servant’s back, leaving the unspoken invitation of the whisky bottle and three glasses standing on the silver tray on Claiborne’s desk.
The colonel stirred in his deep chair, the thick ash from his cigar spilling onto the fine Brussels carpet as he leaned forward.
“A whisky, Benedict?”
“No, thanks.”
“I think you need it.”
“I’m all right.”
Claiborne poured himself two fingers, frowned at the tumbler and added more. Then he reached across the desk to turn out the lamp. Light was filtering into the room now, lifting the night’s shadows from the walls. The tall man leaned back in his chair and tasted the drink. Claiborne was in shirtsleeves, his collar open at the throat. His normally immaculate silver hair was disheveled. He sat sipping moodily, staring at the man standing by the great windows.
Benedict looked across the dew-wet lawns, watching the sun come up. Like Claiborne, he had removed his coat and vest, but the four-in-hand tie was neat and there wasn’t a hair out of place in his dark head. Only his eyes, shadowed and deep gray, offered a hint of his reaction to what had happened the night before, reflecting his regret that he’d had to kill again.
But there had been no other way. He’d told himself that last night in Resurrection, and he’d tried to explain it to the angry crowd. It had been crystal clear to him that Lonnie had had no intention of using his gun. But Holloway had meant to kill. Benedict had known that one young man had to die, and he’d decided which one it would be.
His lips moved in a grimace.
It was like playing God.
Movement caught hi
s eye and he saw Brazos coming up the carriageway from the bunkhouses. With Bullpup trotting beside him, shirt unbuttoned halfway to the waist and thumbs hooked in his shell belt, the Texan, as always, walked like a man immune to fatigue, trouble or regret. Brazos’ battered hat was perched at the back of his thick thatch and cigarette smoke drifted back over his broad shoulder. When the Texan reached the gallery, he halted, frowning back in the direction of the bunkhouses. Following the line of his gaze, Benedict saw two ranch hands riding from the stables towards the town trail. Each man’s horse was heavily laden with bedroll, saddlebags and sacks.
“Brazos?” Claiborne asked when he heard the heavy tread across the gallery. Benedict nodded and Claiborne added, “Has he got Lonnie with him?”
“No.”
The rancher cursed softly, then the door swung open and Brazos entered the room.
The Texan’s gaze immediately went to Benedict. In town they would be calling Benedict a ruthless killer, but Brazos knew that killing never came easy to his trail partner, even though violence seemed to dog his steps.
“How you feelin’, Yank?”
“Fine.” Benedict inclined his head towards the bunkhouses. “Who was that I saw riding out?”
“Bettner and Simpson.” Brazos turned to the man in the chair. “They’ve quit, Colonel. Got me a feelin’ a few more will be packin’ their traps afore the day’s out.”
“Quitting?” Claiborne snapped, astonished. “What the devil for?”
Brazos sighed, crossed to the desk and picked up the whisky bottle. “You were there last night, Colonel. You heard what the towners was sayin’ about hired killers and such. That town never held you high at the best of times, and it seems to me that Holloway gettin’ killed might’ve been the last straw for a lot of ’em. Of course, with the Holloways and that Ridge jaybird stirrin’ ’em up and runnin’ off at the mouth like they was, they took it a lot worse than they might’ve otherwise. But that don’t alter the fact that there could be plenty of trouble brewin’ for you from now on, and I guess some of your boys just don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Damned cowards!” the rancher snorted, rising and striding to the window. “What sort of man is it who won’t fight for the brand he rides for?”
“I believe it goes deeper than that, Colonel,” Benedict said quietly. “They were calling you ‘Johnny Reb’ as we left town last night. Whether right or wrong, this has become a North-South problem, and my guess is that your men just don’t have the stomach to see the war played out again here. And I can’t say I blame them.”
Claiborne looked at him narrowly. “Am I to take it that you share their point of view, sir?”
“That’s right.”
Claiborne drew in a deep breath. “And does that mean you intend leaving?”
“Back off, Colonel,” Brazos cut in. “We mightn’t have much stomach for what’s goin’ on here, but we ain’t the kind to back out of a game once we’ve bought cards. And I reckon you know that.”
“I know nothing other than that I am a victim of unfair prejudice and hatred,” Claiborne retorted. Then, looking from one to the other, his hard look began to soften. “But perhaps I’m being a little unfair. If ... if you choose to remain a little longer, until things simmer down, then I shall appreciate it.”
“I have my doubts about things improving, Colonel,” Benedict said. “Those people in town are wrong-headed, true, but you’ve done nothing to ease the tensions and I doubt if you intend to do so. I suspect that, in a way, you too are still fighting the war.”
“Damn your impertinence, sir! I reject your charges! But if those are your sentiments, why are you electing to stay on?”
Brazos propped a boot up on a chair and swirled whisky around in his glass. “Reckon you ought to know why, Colonel.”
“Well, forgive me for being dense, sir, but I do not.”
“Your son and daughter, Colonel,” Benedict answered. “The town might hold Lonnie and Emma responsible for what happened last night, and if so, your children could be in danger. We’re staying on until we’re certain the danger is past—for them.”
Benedict’s words shook Claiborne. “I can’t believe anybody would want to harm …” He paused, then he turned to Brazos. “Where are my children? Weren’t you able to locate them?”
“I didn’t try too hard. After the way you took to the boy when we got home, seems to me Lonnie’s better off away for a spell.”
The colonel made a helpless gesture as he moved across the room. “Why did he do such a crazy thing? Why?”
“Most likely for his sister,” Brazos said. “But it could have been for you, too. Mebbe he was just tryin’ to show you he was a man, Colonel. I know he craves to do that, even if he’d rather die than own up to it.”
“Impress me by wearing a gun against my orders, then drawing on a man ... and forcing Benedict to kill Holloway? That is ridiculous, sir.”
“To you perhaps, Colonel,” Benedict said. “But perhaps not to your son.”
“I ... I …” Claiborne lifted his hands, then let them drop to his sides. “I just don’t understand any of it, and at the moment I’m too weary to try. You will excuse me, gentlemen?”
They watched him leave the room. Then Brazos went to the desk, poured a big whisky and carried it across to Benedict. “Here, get this into you, Yank.”
“You think it will help?”
“It mostly does.”
Benedict took the glass, tasted it and sighed. “It was so unnecessary, Johnny Reb. Another man is dead—and what does it prove? That I’m better with a gun than a fumble-handed hillbilly?”
“What’s done is done. I’d have cut him down myself if I’d been fast enough. But will they let it lay there, or will they try to square accounts?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. All we can do is wait and see.”
Brazos sighed and went to the desk to pour another drink. The waiting was always the hardest part.
The two gravediggers leaned on their shovels under a gnarled cottonwood while Pecos Doyle, one of the Buckaroo’s barkeepers, recited the service from memory in a holy-roller’s voice that was broken into snatches by the hot wind.
Holloway’s coffin rested on stony ground beside the open grave in Resurrection’s Boothill; a fine maple casket, donated to the grieving family by Troy Ridge. It was windy among the mounded graves. Men stood hatless, with their hair tossing and their trousers flapping against their legs. There were knots of towners and a handful of cowmen. Women wore bonnets to protect their skin from the sun. The drone of flies mingled with the barman’s voice. The Holloways stood by the coffin, dry-eyed and tight-lipped, staring down at Billy’s fine maple box.
Doyle finished the service and the coffin was lowered into the grave on new yellow ropes. Then the gravediggers came out from under their tree and started shoveling dirt and rocks onto the coffin, showing scant respect for the solemnity of the occasion. The pair had been assigned a month’s duty at any task the council deemed fit by Circuit Judge Murphy for fighting in a public place. When the grave was filled and mounded, they went back to their tree to listen to Troy Ridge’s obituary.
“Friends,” he began soberly, his gaze wandering over the crowd, “we’re burying here today a boy of twenty-one years of age, a stranger among us, yet a boy who many of us here in just the short space of a few days had come to know and like. A boy with a fine family, a rich life ahead of him ... now lying in the ground at our feet. And why, my friends? Why? What terrible sin did young Billy Holloway commit to warrant this bloody fate?”
He paused for effect. Troy Ridge was a natural actor with a talent for words that had made him one of the most successful confidence tricksters in Mississippi before he made his stake and came West for power and respectability. He had deliberately stage-managed last night’s bloody clash at the Foundation Day ball, and now was the time to capitalize. The death of Billy Holloway at the hands of Duke Benedict had stirred the embers of hatred in these rough-garb
ed townspeople, and it was Ridge’s task to fan the embers into hot flame.
He went on, “I can give you that answer in one word, my friends. Hatred. Hatred killed Billy Holloway last night—the blind, unreasoning hatred of a man not content with the agony he had already caused this fine family of new settlers. No—his hatred demanded even more. Another life, another blow at the North in Stanton Claiborne’s private war!”
Mutterings of anger coursed through the crowd and big Race Holloway clenched his fists at his sides. The saloonkeeper waited for silence and then went on, lashing out at Claiborne in full force now, highlighting the man’s wealth and arrogance, bringing to mind every grudge, real and imagined, that the people of Resurrection harbored against the rancher. Ridge’s voice grew in power and emotion and the faces of his audience became tighter with anger. But then Ridge mentioned the word “revenge” and the sheriff was moved to intervene.
Madison’s face showed the strain he was feeling as he pushed his way through the crowd to the graveside. A slim young man with a clean-cut, open face, the sheriff of Resurrection was new to his job but was handling it well in the opinion of the town, though he had yet to be tested in a dangerous situation. There was no doubt in the lawman’s mind, as he halted before Troy Ridge, that this was potentially the most dangerous situation he had faced in his three months behind the badge.
“I think you’ve said enough, Troy,” Madison said quietly. “Folks are upset and there’s no sense in making things worse.”
“Butt out, Madison!” a towner shouted.
“A man is dead, Sheriff,” Ridge snapped. “You can’t deny him an obituary, even if you might elect to deny him justice.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Madison grated out.
Ridge looked at the crowd, inviting them to support him. “Why, Sheriff, we all know where your sympathies lie. We could hardly expect a man who’s been keeping company with Claiborne’s daughter to be impartial in a matter such as this. And you showed all too clearly last night where you stood. Did you make any attempt to apprehend Lonnie Claiborne for drawing a gun on Holloway? Did you even suggest that the killer Benedict should be arrested for shooting a man down in cold blood?”
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