Dead Man's Revenge

by Colby Jackson

  “I don’t doubt it,” Blaylock said. Gabby didn’t get his name because he was reticent.

  “’Course I didn’t believe the half of it,” Kendall said.

  “Which part do you not believe?”

  Kendall spit into the river and dragged his arm across his mouth to wipe it. “You know that part about how Gabby took on all three of them rowdies by hisself?”

  Blaylock nodded. Though he hadn’t heard that version, he didn’t doubt that Gabby had told it to Kendall that way.

  “Well, that’s the part,” Kendall said. “He sure made it sound good, I gotta admit that, but I don’t believe the half of it.”

  “Do you believe a tenth of it?”

  “No, sirree, I sure don’t. Not even that much.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Blaylock said.

  #

  By the time they reached the other side of the river, four return passengers had gathered at the little dock at the bottom of the sloping riverbank. Kendall was happy to see them and welcomed them onto the ferry as Blaylock led his horse off. All four of them avoided Blaylock’s eyes as he passed them.

  That didn’t bother Blaylock. He didn’t have to be liked. As long as people left him and his family alone to take care of their ranch and their business, he was satisfied.

  At the top of the riverbank, he climbed on his horse and rode the short distance to the jail, a squat stone building that sat next to Eldred Jenkins’ feed store. Jenkins was sitting on a barrel outside the door of his store, but he didn’t give any sign of greeting as Blaylock tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the jail.

  Everett Tolliver was behind his desk, thumbing through a small stack of wanted flyers when Blaylock walked in. As always Tolliver looked spruce. He was freshly shaved, and his hair had been trimmed within the last week. He wore a clean dark suit and a white shirt with a black tie. His black hat hung on a peg inside the door.

  “Looking for me in there?” Blaylock said.

  “Should I be?” Tolliver asked?

  Blaylock liked Tolliver, and he thought Tolliver liked him, too, but both men were still a bit wary of one another. All those dead bodies Blaylock kept bringing into town hadn’t helped build up any trust between the two men.

  “If you’re looking, you won’t find me,” Blaylock said. Without asking, he took a seat in the room’s only chair other than the one behind the desk. “Mitchell McCarthy would sure like it if you did, though.”

  “Maybe,” Tolliver said. He set the wanted flyers aside and tapped them with his finger. “Truth is, I was looking for something that concerned you. I was looking for those three men that hoo-rawed your wife and daughter the other day.”

  “I was going to ask you about them. Did you hear about them from Mr. George?”

  “Sure enough. He came by and told me the whole story. Gave me a good description of the men. Names, too. Frank. Jones. Earl. The thing of it is, just one of those seems to be a last name, and it’s about as common as they come.”

  Blaylock nodded. “I guess you didn’t find them in those flyers, then.”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t wanted somewhere.”

  “You seen them around town?”

  “No, and that’s a funny thing. You’d think troublemakers like those would’ve been into another fracas by now if they’d stuck around. Maybe they left town after that little run-in with your folks. Getting whipped by a woman, a girl, and a youngster couldn’t have made ‘em feel too good about themselves. A growing town like Shooter’s Cross attracts all kinds of people.” Tolliver gave Blaylock a straight look. “Not all of ‘em stay.”

  “I’m one of the kind that the town attracts, all right,” Blaylock said. “And I’m here to stay. I’m not like those three rowdies. I don’t go around hoo-rawing the citizens or doing anything else that would get my picture on one of those flyers of yours.”

  Tolliver didn’t say anything.

  “And it doesn’t mean I ever did anything that would get my picture there,” Blaylock said.

  Tolliver looked skeptical. “For such an innocent man, you sure do have a lot of dead bodies to your credit since you got to Shooter’s Cross.”

  Blaylock shrugged. “It’s not my fault that people keep trying to kill me.”

  “So you say. McCarthy tells a different story.”

  “Not exactly,” Blaylock said. “You know as well as I do that he never comes right out and says anything directly. He just hints and implies.”

  “He came right out and told me you threatened to kill him.”

  “I don’t doubt it. The thing is, that I’m here to tell you that’s an outright lie. I never made any such threat.”

  Blaylock smiled when he said it because the truth was a little more complicated. He wondered if Mitchell had showed the marshal the hole in window of the newspaper office. Maybe. But Blaylock hadn’t fired the shot that made it. One of Blaylock’s ranch hands had. Mike Tucker. As fast and accurate with a pistol as anybody Blaylock had ever known, and just as good with a rifle. He’d fired the shot from York’s Peak on Blaylock’s property, and the threat was obvious. Blaylock and his men could sit up there and shoot anybody they pleased and not risk any return fire.

  “I know the whole story,” Tolliver said.

  “Good. Then you know I didn’t threaten McCarthy, even if I had every right to. You know as well as I do that he’s the one who set Dick Dockett and his men on me when they tried to steal my winnings in that poker game. So I was just giving him a little demonstration.”

  Tolliver nodded. “Sure you were. Funny thing, though.”

  “What’s that?” Blaylock said.

  “I found some bodies out there where you claim you were ambushed, but Dockett’s wasn’t among ‘em. Neither was his son’s. Some people might find it hard to believe Dockett was ever there, much less the leader of that bunch.”

  “I told you what happened to Dockett. He drowned in the river. Probably had his bones picked clean by Brazos River catfish by now.”

  “And his son?”

  Blaylock couldn’t explain that one. He was sure he’d killed Jacob Dockett, but he hadn’t stayed around to make sure.

  “Could be an animal found the carcass and hauled it off into the timber,” he said.

  “Could be,” Tolliver said after thinking it over for a couple of seconds. “Didn’t see any signs of that, though.”

  “It’s not like either one of ‘em was a saint,” Blaylock said. “Not like Mitchell McCarthy’s making it sound.”

  Tolliver grinned. “You got that right. From those editorials he’s running in his paper, you’d think Dockett and that boy of his had built Shooter’s Cross up from the first foundation that was laid to the town out there now. Solid citizens, loved by all, now gone, taken untimely from the world by Sam Blaylock, the cowardly scourge of the Brazos River bottoms. Maybe not in so many words, but that’s the general idea.”

  Blaylock snorted. “You’re as eloquent as McCarthy. One reason I came to town was to have a little talk with him. He’s trying to turn the whole town against me.”

  “Doing a pretty good job of it, too, I’d say. People don’t like somebody coming into their town and killing one of the leading citizens.”

  “Leading citizens? Dockett was a thief and a killer.”

  “Mitchell wouldn’t agree. But even if it’s true, the people here think of him as their thief and killer, not some Johnny-come-lately.”

  “Better the devil you know, . . . ” Blaylock said.

  “That’s the way it is,” Tolliver said with a nod. “But there’s more to it than that. You have a good operation going out there at Rancho Diablo, what with the sawmill and the cattle. You came in and did something that nobody around here had the imagination and gumption to do. They’re a little bit jealous, I expect.”

  “Mitchell’s more than a little bit jealous. I messed up his plans for the place, and to get even he told Dockett I’d be heading off with a pocketful of money. You
should arrest him for that.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Hell, no,” Blaylock said.

  “Then there’s no use talking about it,” Tolliver told him. “You got any more business with me?”

  Blaylock stood up. “Nope. I just wanted you to know I was going to pay Mitchell a visit. In case anything happened to me.”

  “To McCarthy, more likely,” Tolliver said.

  Blaylock gave him a savage grin. “Could be,” he said.

  4

  The next time he came awake he remembered more. He remembered the beating and the water. He remembered the darkness as the water closed over him. He remembered his son . . . .

  “Jacob!” he called. “Jacob!”

  “Easy, Daddy. I’m right here.”

  He opened his eyes. It was no longer dark where he was. Light came through a small window, through cracks in the walls and ceiling.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Some old cabin. I don’t know whose.”

  “I mean, where are we?”

  “In a canebrake on the Brazos.”

  “I thought you were shot dead.”

  “Came close. Just grazed me. I came to after a bit. Saw that everybody else was dead and got out of there. Found you washed up on the river bank about a quarter mile south of town.”

  The man stirred and raised up. For the first time he looked at the young man standing nearby. “Dick Dockett,” he said. “That’s my name. Dick Dockett.”

  “Were you in any doubt of that?”

  “Couldn’t remember at first. I’m fine now. We got to get out of here. We can’t let this go. We got to kill . . . dammit. What’s his name?”

  “Sam Blaylock.”

  “Him. Sam Blaylock. His whole family, too.”

  “Might not be easy. Look what he did to us, just one man against the whole lot. He has help at that ranch of his.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Don’t tell me we won’t find a way.”

  “If you say so, Daddy.”

  “I damn well say so. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “Okay, okay. Might be a while before you’re able to get up and around, though.”

  Dockett became aware for the first time of where he lay, on a thin pallet on a dirt floor. The room held no furniture, and he smelled the foul odor of fish and dried river mud. He didn’t want to wait, but he knew he had to.

  “I can wait,” he said. “I can wait. But not long.”

  5

  The newspaper office smelled of printer’s ink, a not unpleasant odor, Sam Blaylock thought. However, it was about the only pleasant thing in the office to Blaylock’s way of thinking. Mitchell McCarthy sat at his desk, and he looked up with a scowl on his bearded face when Blaylock entered.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  He stood up, and braced his short, stocky legs as if he expected Blaylock to attack him. He pulled his suit coat open to show that he wasn’t armed.

  “Just paying a social call,” Blaylock said.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  McCarthy hesitated. “No. No, I’m not calling you anything.”

  “That’s good. Man calls somebody a liar could get himself in big trouble.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Blaylock.”

  Blaylock took two quick steps forward. McCarthy nearly tripped over his chair as he jumped up and started backing away. He didn’t stop until he bumped into the wall.

  “Turley!” he called. “Get in here, Turley!”

  A door opened from a room behind the office, and a man came through. Blaylock could see the foot-treadle printing press through the doorway.

  The man was, if anything, shorter and stockier than McCarthy. He was entirely bald, though he had bushy black eyebrows. He wore a blue shirt under a white apron covered with ink stains. The shirtsleeves were pushed up to reveal thick forearms, also with ink stains on them.

  “You need me, Mr. McCarthy?” Turley asked.

  “I want you to be a witness to anything that happens in this room,” the editor told him. “If I’m attacked, you’re to go for the marshal at once.”

  Turley looked at Blaylock. “You here to attack Mr. McCarthy?”

  Blaylock held up both hands, palms out. “Not me. Just making a social call. Your boss has nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t you believe him, Turley. You stay right where you are.”

  “What makes you think I’d attack you if you haven’t been doing anything that would get me riled at you?”

  “Nothing,” McCarthy said. “Nothing at all. Turley can vouch for that, can’t you Turley?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. McCarthy.”

  Blaylock got the impression that Turley wasn’t overly fond of McCarthy, but McCarthy didn’t seem to notice.

  “You see?” the editor said. “I’ve done nothing. But you’re a crazy man. A killer. The whole town knows that.”

  “If they do, it’s just because you’ve told ‘em.”

  “It’s nothing I’ve said. It’s because you’ve killed half a dozen men since you came to Shooter’s Cross. Maybe more.”

  “Only if they tried to kill me first. When that happens, I shoot back. You could ask your good friend Dick Dockett about it.”

  “We have only your word for that. Dockett’s not here to speak for himself. Not since he disappeared.”

  “He’s dead,” Blaylock said, certain that he was right. It wasn’t possible that Dockett could have survived the fight in the river. His body hadn’t surfaced, and he hadn’t been seen since.

  “Forget about Dockett,” Blaylock said. “Let’s get back to those things you’ve been saying in your paper.”

  “What things?”

  Turley interrupted. “You two going to be at this long?”

  “That depends,” Blaylock said.

  “You going to kill Mr. McCarthy?”

  “I wasn’t planning to?”

  “You going to hurt him?”

  “Not unless he tries to hurt me first.”

  “Okay,” Turley said. “I’m going back and work on getting this week’s paper ready.” He looked at McCarthy. “If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

  “Go ahead,” McCarthy said, waving a hand in dismissal. “But leave the door open. If you hear anything out here, you come running.”

  Turley nodded and went back into the pressroom. McCarthy moved to his desk and sat down. He didn’t ask Blaylock to have a seat, which was fine with Sam. He was happy to stand.

  “You were going to tell me what things in my paper were bothering you,” McCarthy said.

  Blaylock went to the doorway into the newspaper office and leaned against the jamb. “All right. You write the editorials yourself, and you sign your name to ‘em. You admit that?”

  “Of course.” McCarthy sat up straight, his back rigid. “I always acknowledge what I write.”

  “Stands to reason you know well enough what you’ve said, then. But just in case you don’t, let me remind you. You said that Dick Dockett had disappeared and that I admitted killing him. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right. You just told me the same thing. You don’t mean to change your mind and deny it, do you?”

  “I said it. I meant it. That’s not all you said, though.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” McCarthy ran his hand across his bearded face. “You’ll have to speak more plainly.”

  “I’ll be glad to. You said that if Dockett was dead, then I was a back-shooting murderer.”

  McCarthy jumped up again. “That’s a lie! I never said such a thing.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t,” Blaylock said. “You didn’t have to. What you did was say just enough to make people believe it.”

  McCarthy relaxed, took a breath, and sat ba
ck down. “Then you have no case against me. I don’t have any control over what people believe.”

  Blaylock felt his temper starting to kindle, and he tamped it down with an effort. “You have control over what you write. I’m asking you to stop writing things about me.”

  “You might want to read my editorials again, Blaylock. I don’t believe I mentioned you by name in any of them.”

  “People know who you’re writing about.”

  “As I said, I have no control over what people believe. Now if that’s all you have to say to me, I have work to do. Maybe I’ll write another editorial. This one might be about a man who tries to intimidate an unarmed newspaper editor and interfere with the freedom of the press. And don’t bother to have anybody shoot out another window. It won’t work, as you should know by now.”

  As McCarthy became calmer, Blaylock got angrier.

  “I ought to jerk you out from behind that desk and teach you a lesson,” he said.

  McCarthy laughed. “Try it. Turley will be out the back door and down to the marshal’s office before you can do much damage. You’ll be spending the night in a jail cell while I’m eating steak and apple pie.”

  Blaylock took a look into the pressroom. There was no sign of Turley. Maybe he’d already gone for the marshal. McCarthy could have signaled him somehow, or Turley could have gone on his own. No wonder McCarthy was calming down.

  There was no use getting the marshal involved, Blaylock thought. “All right, then,” he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort, “write what you please. I can make a go of it without having you or anybody else on my side. I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of, and sooner or later people will figure that out.”

  McCarthy grinned. “You don’t know people very well, do you, Blaylock.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yes, indeed. We’ll see.” McCarthy looked down at a piece of paper on his desk and studied it or pretended to. After a couple of seconds he looked up. “You still here, Blaylock?”

  “No,” Blaylock said. “I’m gone.”

  As he walked out the front door, he heard McCarthy’s soft laugh behind him.

  #

  Blaylock made his way down the boardwalk without really being aware of the people around him, the wagons in the street, the customers in the stores. He didn’t hear the barks of the dogs or the occasional whinny of a horse.