Dead Man's Revenge

by Colby Jackson

  DEAD MAN’S REVENGE

  a Rancho Diablo story

  by

  Colby Jackson

  (Bill Crider)

  Copyright 2011 by Bill Crider

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All Rights Reserved.

  1

  The man woke in darkness. When he opened his eyes he could see nothing. The darkness wrapped him like a blanket.

  He moved slightly, and groaned. Every part of him hurt.

  The pain brought him to a realization. The darkness wasn't just outside of him. It was inside him. Darkness filled his head. He didn't know where he was. He didn't even know who he was. He tried to remember, to recall where he'd come from and how he'd gotten to wherever he was. He couldn't. His head was jumbled with images, but nothing made sense.

  He opened his mouth to speak, to ask where he was, who he was. Only a croak emerged. He lifted his head but let it fall back.

  “It’s all right,” someone said. “You’ll be all right.”

  The man knew that was a lie. He tried to say so, but he didn’t have the strength to try to speak again. He closed his eyes and his mind went back to wherever it had been before he opened them.

  2

  Randy Post could tell that the three young men coming down the boardwalk were bad news as soon as he saw them. It was plain in the arrogant way they walked, the way they wore their pistols low and tied down, the way they expected everybody to step aside for them.

  Randy sat in a wooden chair with the back tilted against the wall of Avery George’s mercantile store, just out of the morning sunshine that bathed the town of Shooter's Cross. Randy didn’t want any trouble with the three men, but he knew he might not be able to avoid it. He knew what the men were like all too well.

  Randy had been a little like them at one time, maybe even worse. He’d sunk so low at one point that he’d let Jacob Dockett talk him into helping Dockett bushwhack Sam Blaylock. Blaylock had come out of that better than Dockett had thought he would, and he’d also done Randy the favor of not killing him. Now Randy was working for Blaylock out at Rancho Diablo, his life was on a different trail.

  The men were close now. They laughed loudly at something one of them said and elbowed a man out of their way. He took the wall and gave them a look, but he didn’t say anything.

  Randy pulled his hat down over his eyes and pretended to be asleep, hoping the men would ignore him and walk on by.

  They ignored him, all right, but they didn’t walk by. They turned and went into the mercantile store.

  Randy leaned forward and the front legs of the chair thudded against the boardwalk. Jenny Blaylock and her daughter, Miriam, were in the store. Randy and Gabby Darbins had come along with them in the wagon to help out with the day's shopping.

  Jenny hadn’t liked the idea.

  “We can take care of ourselves very well, thank you,” was the way she’d put it.

  “Dadgum it, it ain’t like we asked to go into town,” Gabby said. “We got plenty-a work to do around here at the ranch. But Sam said go, and we're goin'. Ain't that right, Randy.”

  Randy had nodded and added that he and Gabby wouldn't be a bother. “We'll mind our own business, and you can go on about yours. Besides, if we don't go to town, we'll have to do that work Gabby mentioned. You wouldn't want us to strain ourselves, would you?”

  Jenny had smiled at that. “Oh, very well. You can come along.” She glanced at her daughter. Miriam might be glad of the company.”

  Miriam, a slim, pretty girl of fifteen blushed at that, her face going almost as red as her hair. “I don't need any company, and I don't need anybody to look out for me.”

  That wasn't exactly true, Randy knew, but Miriam wasn't afraid of the devil himself, and she was as rowdy as either of her brothers.

  “They won't be looking after us,” Jenny said. “And we might need someone to load the wagon.”

  Miriam sniffed, unimpressed, but she didn't say any more. Jenny, who wore a proper dress, allowed Randy to hand her up to the wagon seat, but Miriam, who wore faded jeans, climbed up on her own.

  The trip to town had been uneventful, not that Randy had any reason to expect anything different. He and Gabby rode along beside the wagon, and Gabby told stories all the way, wild tales that usually involved him in mortal combat with a deadly enemy twice his size, human or animal, it didn't matter, in which he always came out victorious. The stories often ended with some variation of the phrase, “And I got the skin to prove it.” Nobody asked him where the skins, or scalps, or whatever, were located, and he didn't offer that information.

  When they'd arrived in town, Gabby had gone off to the barbershop, where he could catch up on the latest gossip. The women had gone into the mercantile store, and Randy had settled into the chair for a comfortable wait.

  He was comfortable no longer. He stood up. He was tall and tow-headed, with broad shoulders and big hands. It was quiet in the store, so maybe there wouldn't be any trouble, but he had a bad feeling about things. He looked through the window.

  Sure enough, the three men were standing near Miriam, pretending to look at the merchandise but giving covert glances in Miriam's direction.

  Nothing wrong with that, Randy thought. He'd be inclined to glance at her too if he hadn't been working for her father, but he thought he’d better go into the store, just in case.

  One of the men, the tallest of the three, wasn't bad looking except for a scar that ran down his right cheek. He picked up a bolt of green cloth and looked it over.

  “Mighty nice,” he said as Randy walked inside. “Could make a right pretty dress out of this if I could sew.” He cut his eyes at Miriam. “Sure would look good on a girl with red hair.”

  The two men beside him laughed. One of them was short and stocky, with bowed legs and arms that were a little too long for his body. The other had long hair that hung out from under his hat and curled a little at the ends. He had a hard face and empty eyes. His tongue flicked out of his mouth every so often like a snake's.

  Miriam turned away from the jar of stick candy she’d been looking at. Jenny looked over from the counter where she was going over her bill with Mr. George, a small, tidy man who wore a white apron over dark pants and a white shirt with rolled sleeves.

  “You know of any redheads around these parts, Earl?” the tall man asked without seeming to look at Miriam or her mother.

  “Sure don’t, Frank,” the bowlegged man said. “Maybe Jones here does.”

  “Not me,” Jones said. He flicked his tongue. “If I did, you know I’d tell you, Frank, us bein’ good friends like we are.”

  Randy stood where he was. The store smelled of coffee and meal, and the bolts of cloth, the hardware, and the cracker barrel all made the place feel comfortable and homey. At any ordinary time, Randy would have liked being there, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t an ordinary time.

  Frank put down the roll of cloth and pretended to notice Miriam for the first time.

  “Well, lookee here, boys,” he said, giving Earl a nudge with his elbow, “looks like there’s a sweet little redhead right in front of our eyes. We must be getting short-sighted in our old age.”

  Not a one of the men was over twenty-five, Randy thought. He supposed Frank was trying to be funny.

  Miriam’s face flushed. Jenny moved toward her. So did Randy.

  F
rank noticed Randy for the first time. He nudged Earl again.

  “What we got here?” he said. “Reckon little redhead’s got herself a sweetie?”

  “Could be,” Earl said. “Guess we better watch ourselves ‘fore he whips our tails.”

  Jones giggled. It didn’t sound normal to Randy. It was a high-pitched sound, almost like a noise an animal might make, not a man.

  Frank picked up the bolt of cloth again. “No need for any tail-whipping. We’re just looking around here.”

  “You’re insulting my daughter,” Jenny said, standing beside Miriam. “I think you’d better stop.”

  “So do I,” Miriam said. Her voice was firm. “I don’t like being talked about by varmints.”

  “Varmints, is it,” Frank said. “Now, that’s a hard word. I can’t speak for Earl and Jones, but my feelings are plumb hurt.”

  “’least she didn’t call you a vermin, Frank,” Earl said. “Woman I know called me a vermin once. It’s real bad to be called a vermin.”

  “That’s enough,” Randy said.

  “Enough of what, waddy?” Frank said. “What have you got to say about it.”

  “I work for Sam Blaylock and you’re insulting his wife and daughter. That’s my say.”

  “And I guess if we don’t mind our p’s and q’s, you’re gonna teach us some manners.”

  Randy shook his head. “Don’t know as you’re teachable. Varmints don’t much go in for learning.” He paused and looked at Earl. “Vermin, either, far as I know.”

  Frank laughed. The sound was more human but no more pleasant than Jones’s giggle.

  “Varmints again. Vermin, too. I’m getting the impression that folks around here don’t like us much.”

  “You’re right about that,” Miriam said. “Why don’t you leave?”

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to, won’t we?” Frank said. “Seeing as how nobody likes us, it wouldn’t be smart for us to stick around, would it, Jones?”

  “Not smart a-tall,” Jones said.

  “Right. So let’s mosey on off.”

  As he spoke Frank tossed the bolt of cloth to Jones. Jones caught it easily, started to lay it back on the counter where it had been, then spun quickly and threw it at Randy’s head.

  Randy had been expecting something like that, so he dodged to the side. The unfurling cloth caught up with him, covering his face for an instant.

  That instant was all Earl needed to reach him and begin pounding him with his fists. Earl wasn’t a scientific fighter. He just started to hit and kept right on swinging those long arms and hitting where he could. Stomach, chest, shoulder, hip, it didn’t seem to matter, and the unrelenting punches forced Randy backward as he fought to get the cloth off his face and off his upper body.

  Just about the time he got himself free of it, Jones got behind him and tripped him. Randy heard a girlish giggle as he fell.

  He rolled to his right just as someone’s boot struck him in the side, and then he heard Earl yell, “What the hell! Get her off me! Get her off!”

  Randy rolled over one more time before he sprang to his feet to see Frank and Jones trying to pull a wildly struggling Miriam off Earl’s back. She had her left arm thrown around his neck, and her legs wrapped around his waist. She struck at Frank and Jones with her right hand as they batted at her fist. Earl pulled at Miriam’s arm, but he couldn’t break her grip.

  Randy grabbed Frank’s shirt collar and jerked him backward, throwing him to the floor. He landed against a sack of flour, and a little white cloud puffed around him.

  Jenny joined the fight and hit Jones in the side of the head with a small frying pan. The pan made a satisfying clong as it hit, and Jones staggered away, his legs wobbly.

  Earl changed his tactics. He whirled to face Randy, reached behind himself to take hold of Miriam’s shirt, and threw her over his head. She lost her hold on Earl’s neck and flew into Randy. They both crashed to the floor in a tangle.

  Earl turned to grab Jenny’s wrist and tried to wrest the frying pan from her. She hit him in the temple with her other hand, and he grabbed that wrist, too.

  Randy pushed Miriam aside and stood to find Frank facing him. Frank hooked his right fist into Randy’s ribs. It was a good punch, but Randy took it and struck back. His knuckles opened a cut under Frank’s right eye.

  The cut didn’t bother Frank, but the scream did. Randy saw Earl lying in the floor clutching himself between the legs where Jenny had kicked him. She stood above him, glaring down as she pushed her hair out of her eyes with one hand.

  Jones was on his feet, looking a bit wobbly. Jenny swung to face him. She had a firm grip on the frying pan. Miriam stood up and went to her mother.

  “Hit him again,” she said.

  “No,” Frank said, holding up a hand to Randy. “That’s enough. Come on, Jones. Help me get Earl up on his feet.”

  Jones was hardly any better off than Earl, but he and Frank bent down and took Earl’s shoulders. Earl moaned as they raised him up. They walked him toward the door, and Randy stepped aside to let them pass.

  They left the store and turned to the right. Randy looked over at Miriam and Jenny. Miriam was grinning as if she’d enjoyed the whole thing.

  “Where’s Mr. George?” Randy said.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before the storekeeper came in, followed by Gabby.

  “Where are they?” Gabby said. He waved a shotgun that he’d taken out of the wagon. “Let me at ‘em. Ain’t nobody can rough up my friends and get away with it.”

  Randy laughed. “They’re gone, Gabby. You can put that Greener back where you got it.”

  Gabby looked around the store. When he was sure that Randy wasn’t misleading him, he said, “Why didn’t you shoot ‘em?”

  “It didn’t call for gunplay,” Randy said, not mentioning that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. There’d been a time when it would’ve been the first thing that came to his mind. He’d changed more than he’d thought since going to work for Blaylock.

  “I hope you don’t think I ran out on you,” Mr. George said. “I went for the marshal, but I couldn’t find him. I saw Mr. Darbins outside the barbershop and asked him to come.”

  Gabby shook his head. “If I hadn’t stopped for the shotgun, I’d been here in time to give them fellas a good whippin’. Lucky for them they turned tail.”

  “They must have heard you were on the way,” Jenny said. She put the skillet on the counter. “But we were able to take care of things.”

  “Who were those men?” Miriam said. “What are they doing here in Shooter’s Cross?”

  “I never saw them before,” Mr. George said. He wiped his hands on the top of his shopkeeper’s apron. “I hope I never see them again.”

  “That’d be all right with me, too,” Randy said.

  “I’ll report them to the marshal as soon as I see him,” Mr. George said. “I can promise you that.”

  “That would be a good idea,” Jenny told him. “Right now, I’d like to finish my shopping and get on home.”

  “Sam ain’t gonna like this,” Gabby said. “He ain’t gonna like this a-tall.”

  “Sam’s not here,” Jenny said.

  “That don’t mean he’s gonna like it.”

  “You’re right about that,” Randy said.

  3

  Sam Blaylock didn’t like what he heard one little bit, but he had other things to worry about. Trying to establish a ranch, run a sawmill, and gather a cattle herd put a load on a man’s mind.

  That didn’t mean Sam was going to forget about what had happened in town, though. He’d mention it to the marshal, Everett Tolliver, the next time he was in Shooter’s Cross. He’d planned to go in and see Tolliver in a couple of days, anyway, thanks to yet another thing that was gnawing at him.

  Or another person. Mitchell McCarthy, the editor of the Shooter’s Cross Sentinel, a self-serving rag if Blaylock had ever read one, had been writing a series of editorials that had stirred up some of
the townspeople, many of whom were suspicious of Sam to begin with and didn’t need much encouragement to suspect him even more.

  He couldn’t claim to have gotten off to a good start in town. He was new, and he’d had some problems with the other residents, some of whom had wound up humiliated or, in some cases, dead. It was the last part that bothered folks, including the marshal.

  It bothered McCarthy, too, but that wasn’t the only thing that bothered the editor. He and a political friend had their own plans for the land Blaylock had bought, and McCarthy hadn’t appreciated it when Blaylock interfered with those plans. Now he was running a subtle campaign to make things even more difficult for Sam, and Sam planned to do something about it, one way or another. He’d try the marshal first, and if that didn’t work, well, he’d try something else. Something a little less gentle, but possibly more effective.

  Blaylock’s first stop on the way to see Tolliver was the ferry across the Brazos River. Eustace Kendall, the owner of the ferry, welcomed Blaylock, then spit tobacco juice in the river and watched the muddy water swirl it under and away.

  “Somebody might want to drink that water,” Blaylock said as he led his horse onto the ferry.

  “Little ‘baccy juice won’t hurt ‘em none,” Kendall said. “Might be good for ‘em. Like if they got stomach worms. ‘Baccy juice’ll cure that up right quick. Kill ever’ worm in there.”

  Kendall wasn’t in any danger of having worms, Blaylock thought. His white handlebar moustache and his beard were permanently stained with the juice, and there were spots of it on the front of his old bib overalls.

  “You goin’ into town to see ‘bout them three fellas that messed with your wife and daughter?”

  “That’s right.” Blaylock stood holding his horses reins, waiting for Kendall to push off and start hauling the ferry across the river. “How did you know about that?”

  Kendall shook his head and made his wild white hair fly around his head. “How d’you think? They had to get home thisaway, and that Gabby Darbins told me all about it.”