Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “No matter how many rifles cut loose, you think one of us can’t get you before we go down?” said Quirt through clenched teeth.

  Delaney kept his eyes on Bob as he answered, “But will it be worth it? Will it especially be worth taking the women down with you?”

  “I don’t know what his game is, but I think this fancy-hatted bastard is bluffing,” said Quirt.

  “I agree,” added Vern. “He may have one shooter up there. He may even have two or three. But I don’t believe he’s got no dozen.”

  It was at that moment that Eugene Boyd, who up until then had shown himself to be nothing but a solid posse member, made the move to reveal his true colors. From where he’d been standing to one side and slightly in back of Consuela, Boyd suddenly stepped over, wrapped a fist in her long hair, and yanked her back against him while at the same time pressing the muzzle of his revolver against her temple. “You can worry about the rifles up on that hill all you want,” he said through clenched teeth, loud enough to draw everybody’s attention. “But, just in case you’d like to know, you got another little problem right here in the midst of y’all.”

  Heads snapped around and growls of anger and frustration escaped from the throats of the other posse members.

  Delaney chuckled. Then he said, “Allow me, Marshal, to provide a formal introduction—a more thorough one, I expect, than you were previously given. Mr. Boyd happens to be a longtime associate of mine. We go back many years. Encouraging him to be part of your noble posse was a hunch that I thought might prove beneficial, although I wasn’t exactly sure how. Lo and behold, it is now paying off in a timely and critical way.”

  “He harms the girl,” Bob grated, “that hunch will turn out to be your ticket to Hell.”

  Delaney heaved a dramatic sigh. “Empty words, Marshal. Empty words. I understand why you feel compelled to say them, but we both know you aren’t in any position to back them up in the least.” He cut his eyes to Quirt and gave a faint thrust of his chin. “You, Mr. Dangerous Gunslinger with disparaging things to say about my hat, go fetch me that gun case. Step to it, boy!”

  With hate burning in his eyes like molten steel, Quirt turned slowly and walked back to where the case rested on the ground. Just as slowly and purposefully, with the hate never leaving his eyes, he brought it back and held it up to Delaney. After taking the case, Delaney motioned Quirt back to where he’d been.

  Hefting the case for a moment, Delaney then raised it for all to see. A wide, smug smile spread across his face. “All you pathetic fools . . . So many who’ve gone through so much . . . Here, back in town, elsewhere . . . Not one of you has an inkling of the true value this contains. Not the mere pittance represented by a splash of gold and a few jewels. No. So much more . . . So much more than your feeble imaginations could ever begin to understand.”

  He paused, continuing to smile, letting his words—words whose exact meaning brought puzzled yet transfixed looks to the faces of those listening—just hang in the air.

  And then that moment of quiet was abruptly ripped apart by an agonized, bloodcurdling scream that made everyone freeze in a stunned, startled way far deeper than anything mere words could cause.

  The horrible sound came from Eugene Boyd. It came as the result of action taken by Consuela—action taken out of rage and desperation. Rage at once again being manhandled and victimized, treated like little more than a piece of wild animal bait. Desperation at seeing how the situation seemed to have reached a hopeless point. Unless . . .

  Remembering the lid lifter she’d slipped into her apron pocket back inside the cabin, thinking it might serve as a weapon but never having gotten that chance, she decided now was perhaps the time to still try and get some use out of it. It was still there in the pocket, forgotten in the interim until now. Everyone was concentrating on Delaney, her hands hadn’t been retied, and her captor seemed so confident he had full control over her that the gun by her head was no longer even touching her temple . . .

  Consuela slowly slipped her right hand into the apron pocket, tightly gripping the curved handle of the lid lifter. Then, bracing herself, she pulled the tool free and swung her arm up and back in a hard, fast arc. Reaching over her shoulder, she plunged the blunted tip of the lifter into the soft flesh of Boyd’s throat, under his jawline and just off-center of his Adam’s apple. Feeling it sink deep, she then jerked and pulled as hard as she could—not to extract it, but rather to slash and tear, do as much damage as she could.

  Hot blood pumped down over Consuela’s hand and wrist and Boyd’s scream of agony filled her ears. He twisted violently away, releasing his hold on her hair and dropping his gun so that he could reach with both hands to try and close the terrible gash in his throat. Consuela lost her grip on the lid lifter and stumbled, almost falling. Boyd dropped to his knees. His screams turned to wretched, bubbling gasps as his life fluids gushed down over his chest and stomach.

  Bob was the first to react to this bloody diversion, seeing in it a chance to try and break Delaney’s hold on the situation. “Crash the lanterns! Take to cover!” he hollered. In the same instant, his hand was skinning the .44 from its holster and, before all the words were out of his mouth, he was fanning a trio of rapid-fire shots square into Clayton Delaney. The gang leader took all three slugs to the chest, grouped tightly over his heart, and was slammed into a backward somersault out of the saddle.

  Delaney’s body hadn’t hit the ground yet when Bob wheeled and broke into a run back toward Consuela. On all sides of him, the rest of the posse members were also scrambling, diving for cover wherever they could find it.

  Bullets began screaming down from the slope, sizzling through the air, kicking up geysers of dust as they whapped into the ground.

  Vern ran forward, drilling a pair of shots into the head of Delaney’s pinto. When the unfortunate beast sprawled dead, he dropped down behind it. The carcass provided cover and it also yielded Delaney’s Winchester ’73 from the saddle scabbard—far superior to a handgun for returning fire to the shooters on the slope.

  Quirt and Pecos Ryan flung themselves in behind a couple of the tree stumps poking up out of the ground.

  Big George immediately wrapped his arms protectively around Alora Dane and pulled her into a shallow depression where he continued to brace his body over hers, shielding her from the incoming rifle fire.

  Earl Wells and Heck Hembrow managed to make it inside the cabin, kicking out lanterns as they went and also snatching up a couple long guns from the pile of confiscated weapons they ran past.

  Bob reached Consuela in long, running strides. He grabbed her, whirled her, pulled her to the ground, and then rolled, the two of them wrapped together, in behind a gnarled old tree stump. Bullets immediately smashed and chewed into the stump as they ducked low.

  CHAPTER 47

  For the next handful of minutes, there was an intense exchange of gunfire. The shooters up on the slope poured a hellstorm of lead down on the posse men. The latter, once they’d scattered to cover, poured it right back. The most effective return fire came from Vern and the two deputized ranch hands who’d managed to grab rifles. Although the range was barely within reach for those with only handguns at their disposal, it did little to keep them from joining in regardless.

  But it was Vern and his keen marksmanship, targeting on the muzzle flashes of the slope shooters, who played the biggest part in swaying the tide of the brief battle. Twice in very short order his bullets scored fatal hits.

  With Delaney and Boyd taken out right at the get-go and now two more of their force cut down, the remaining members of the Delaney gang quickly lost heart for keeping up the fight. Iron Tom tried to convince them otherwise, but the argument against him was hard to overcome.

  “Without Delaney’s contacts for something bigger,” insisted Largo, speaking for the rest, “those lousy guns by themselves ain’t worth it. A few scrapings of gold and some jewels to split between us? And killing lawmen to get even that much? It’s too thin, Tom�
��even if we could come out of this on top. Ain’t nothing for it but to cut our losses and ride the hell out of here!”

  With nothing more to be said, that’s what they did. Throwing a few random shots as they retreated to the top of the slope, to where they’d left their horses tied, they mounted up and spurred off into what was left of the night.

  Even after the shooting stopped and they’d heard the sound of hoofbeats fading away, Bob cautioned everybody to stay down and keep to cover in case of a trick. Only when enough time had passed for some of the men to start getting antsy and for him to be satisfied that the shooters had departed for sure, did the marshal signal an all clear.

  Those who could, emerged from their cover and rose to their feet. But it was quickly clear that the riflemen on the high ground had taken a toll before they called it quits. Bob, Consuela, Vern, Earl Wells, and Alora Dane were all okay except for scrapes and bruises. Big George O’Farrow, shielding Alora, had given his life to the effort—one of three rounds to his broad back having penetrated through to his heart, killing him instantly. Heck Hembrow had taken a hit to the thigh just before he made it inside the cabin. Pecos Ryan had suffered a shattering hip wound.

  And then there was Quirt.

  He was only able to push himself to a sitting position and then fall back again, tipped against the stump he’d managed to scramble behind when the shooting broke out. But he hadn’t made it before taking rounds to his side and stomach.

  By the time Bob got to him, he didn’t have much left. Beads of sweat stood out on his dark face and the trembling hand he was pressing tight to his middle was painted bright crimson.

  He looked up as Bob knelt beside him. “Those dirty so-and-sos got me, Marshal . . . Got me good.”

  “You just try to take it easy,” Bob told him. “We’re gonna wrap those wounds and get that bleeding stopped. Then we’ll get you back to town and Doc Tibbs will be able to fix you right up.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. That’s a lie and we both know it . . . Reckon I must’ve forgot to not smile.”

  Bob licked his lips, tried to find words.

  “But there’s something I want to make sure you don’t forget,” said Quirt, his voice weakening.

  “What is it?”

  “That gal of yours . . . she’s really something, ain’t she? . . . I want you not to forget what you said about not dragging your feet when it comes to tellin’ her how you feel about her . . . P-promise me that, you hear?”

  And then he was gone. Before Bob could agree to the promise . . . at least out loud.

  Bob remained kneeling there for a minute, his breath suddenly coming double time, as if he were trying to breathe for both of them. He reached to thumb Quirt’s eyes closed. Finally, he rose to his feet again.

  Vern was standing close by. “There’s an old wagon in one of those sheds over there,” the young deputy said. “Me and Wells figure we should get a team hitched to it for hauling the women and wounded back to town. Consuela’s patching up Ryan and Heck as best she can. But they need to get to a doctor as quick as possible. Especially Ryan, his hip is tore up pretty bad.”

  Bob nodded. “Sounds like good thinking. Go ahead, set it in motion. While you and Ryan are getting the wagon ready, I’ll start saddling some horses.”

  Vern hesitated. Holding out his two hands, palms up, he said, “There’s something more. There’s this.”

  In his right palm was one of the prize pistols. In his left there was a small, cuplike item and a tightly folded piece of paper. After studying this display for a moment, Bob saw that the cuplike item was actually an ornate cap that was meant to fit over the end of the pistol’s handle. With the cap off, there was a hollow area visible inside the handle. The paper, Bob reasoned, apparently came out of that hollow area.

  “When you shot Delaney,” Vern explained, “he naturally dropped the gun case. It broke open when it hit the ground and the pistols spilled out. The end cap, as you can see, came loose from this one and that paper was in the cavity.”

  Bob carefully unfolded the paper as he carried it over closer to the still-burning campfire where he had better light to see by. It was a sheet of top-quality stationery filled with flowery script done in a woman’s hand. Bob read it through, a frown forming on his face as he did so.

  “What is it?” Vern wanted to know.

  “It’s a suicide note,” was Bob’s short answer. “But, more than that, it’s also testimony to a serious crime—a murder and a cover-up. It’s signed by a woman named Hester Lorsby, dated almost two years ago. Her husband—Edgar, she calls him—is the one she accuses of being a murderer and driving her to take her own life out of shame. And, if I’m reading it right, she also indicates he’s a senator.”

  “Let me see that,” said Vern, reaching to take the paper back. He scanned it quickly, intently. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember this. It happened just across the river, in Illinois, only a little while before my brothers and me left Iowa to settle out here. The suicide of the wife of a big shot senator, yeah, that had a lot of people talking . . . but I never heard nothing about the senator being accused of murder.”

  “Because it got covered up,” Bob said. “Just like she’s telling it there. And then, I’m guessing, the reason behind her suicide also got buried.”

  “So how did Delaney know about it? I mean, that had to be the reason he was so driven to get his hands on the guns—to get to the note. Right?”

  “Seems like,” Bob allowed. Then he shook his head. “But how he knew about the note, I have no idea. Can’t even take a stab at a guess. What it would have gained him, though—blackmail leverage over a sitting U.S. senator—makes it easy enough to see why he wanted it so bad.”

  Vern scowled. “It also fits with that gibberish he was spouting about the guns having so much more value than the gold and jewels. More value than the rest of us poor fools could ever imagine, he said.”

  “I ain’t sure I got my head wrapped around all of it, even now,” Bob said. “But there’s time to sort out the rest later . . . What’s more important right now is for us to get these wounded men back to town where they can be properly taken care of. C’mon, we’d better get to it.”

  CHAPTER 48

  It was well after daybreak the next morning by the time they made it back to town. When they got within a couple miles, Vern rode ahead to spread word they were coming in.

  Upon their arrival, a whole contingent of folks was waiting. Prominent among them were Bob’s other two deputies, Fred and Peter, along with Mike Bullock, Angus McTeague, the Tuttles, Doc Tibbs—and Bucky. The boy came running to meet the wagon, driven by Bob, and clambered up onto the rig while it was still moving. He alternated between throwing his arms exuberantly around his father’s neck and warmly embracing Consuela.

  Bob reined up in front of the doctor’s office, where the crowd was gathered. From there, a handful of townsmen assisted in getting the two wounded men inside. That left the canvas-covered bodies of Quirt and George O’Farrow still in the wagon bed. Alora Dane had ridden all the way from the ranch sitting beside the shrouded form of Big George, sobbing softly every foot of the way. Only at the urging of the other members of her entertainment troupe did she finally leave it and allow them to help her down from the wagon.

  When Titus O’Malley, the undertaker, stepped forward to take charge of the bodies, Bob said to him somewhat huskily, “There are two of the finest men you’re likely ever to lay to rest. Treat ’em that way, you hear?” When O’Malley nodded somberly, Bob added, “Out at the Shaw ranch, there are four more bodies. Me personally, I wouldn’t care if they got left for buzzard feed. But this badge won’t let me make that call. So, later on, take some men out, plant ’em right there. Absolutely not anything special for them. They can join the Shaws in the same ground they went in earlier . . . and join ’em in Hell, too.”

  With the wounded and the dead being taken care of and the crowd starting to thin a bit, Bob looked around and realized somebody was missing—
somebody who should have been certain to be on hand.

  “Hey,” he said, still looking around. “Where’s August Gafford?”

  “Might be best,” answered Fred, “if we went on over to the jail and talked about that.”

  * * *

  Some minutes later, a select group was reassembled around Bob’s desk in the marshal’s office. Present were Bob, his deputies, Mike Bullock, and Angus McTeague. Bucky and Consuela had gone with the Tuttles to wait for Bob at the Bluebird Café.

  Fred was doing the talking, teetering slightly on his crutch at one end of the desk. He’d just finished relating to Bob and Vern how Ben Eames had tried to kill Delaney in his hotel room and ended up blasted to death on the stairway landing instead.

  “That was the start of it, you might say. The start of the suspicions Peter and me both began to have about some things that just felt wrong,” Fred related. “Eames’s attempt to get rid of Delaney so he’d be next in line for those guns seemed to fit in one way, but at the same time it also sounded awful bizarre. And those two ‘business associates’ of Delaney showing up in time to help gun down Eames—anybody could tell, just by the look of ’em, the only kind of business those two owlhoots were likely to be involved in had to be something on the shady side. And then when Delaney disappeared and was reported to be seen riding out of town with them, that made it smell even fishier.”

  “So what does any of that have to do with Gafford?” Bob wanted to know.

  “I’m getting to it,” Fred assured him. “Gafford didn’t figure in until some of this stuff started turning up.”

  The “stuff” Fred indicated was a display of items spread out on the desktop before them. A skeleton key, a fringed war bag not too different from the one Bob carried when he went out on the trail, and some loose pieces of paper.

  “I remembered how, on the day he signed up for the shooting match,” spoke up McTeague, “Eames told us he didn’t like being too close around people so was camping a ways out of town. When Fred and Peter expressed to me their suspicions about what other motive the man might have had for going after Delaney, I suggested they might go looking for his camp and see if they’d find something there to possibly help with some answers.”