Killing Texas Bob

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘You both better think it over,’’ Sam called out, making one last attempt at sending Rojo on his way and taking Dade Sealey in alive. ‘‘With luck you could be back out in a few years, Sealey. Maybe get yourself rehabilitated, not have to spend your life with a price on your head.’’

  ‘‘Rehabilitated, ha!’’ Sealey called with a dark, scornful chuckle. ‘‘I’ve had some kind of bounty on me my whole life. I’m worth five hundred in Kansas, two hundred and fifty in Arkansas, and close to a thousand in Texas! That’s what my life is worth. Now you tell me, Ranger, how much is your own lousy life wor—’’

  Sealey’s words stopped short beneath the harsh explosion of a single gunshot. Sam instinctively braced himself, his Colt coming up at a drift of gun smoke in the doorway of the saloon. ‘‘Sealey?’’ He stepped forward, prepared for anything. But the saloon lay in silence beneath the whirring wind.

  ‘‘He’s dead, Ranger! I killed him!’’ Tommy Rojo shouted.

  ‘‘You killed him? I thought he’s your pard,’’ the ranger said.

  ‘‘Not anymore! I’m claiming that reward money! You’re my witness! Yeee-hiiii!’’

  ‘‘All right, Rojo, if that’s the case,’’ Sam called out as realization came to him. ‘‘But nothing’s changed. Step out with your hands high.’’

  ‘‘What about the reward money?’’ Rojo asked firmly. ‘‘You said yourself, I’m not wanted. If I turn his body in, I will get the money, right?’’

  Sam had heard no shot whiz past him, had seen no bullet raise a clump of dirt in the street or thump into the face of a building. Yet he kept his senses alert in case this was a trick, and said, ‘‘If he’s dead, you killed him, so yes, I suppose you will.’’ He looked all around as he carefully walked forward. ‘‘Now come out with your hands up. No tricks.’’

  Stepping into the middle of the dirt street, Sam held his Colt aimed at the saloon doorway and watched Rojo back out onto the boardwalk, dragging Dade Sealey by his forearms. ‘‘I’ll do better than that,’’ Rojo said. ‘‘Here he is, dead and delivered. Yeee-hiiii!’’ He dropped Sealey’s limp arms to the ground and raised his own arms high, wearing a smile of satisfaction. ‘‘As far as I’m concerned, you and I have no argument between us. Right, Ranger?’’ He had to restrain himself from dancing a little jig.

  This was a new and unexpected twist, the ranger thought, looking at the dead outlaw’s body. A bloody hole gaped in Sealey’s forehead where the bullet had exited. ‘‘No arguments,’’ Sam said. He studied Rojo up and down, seeing no gun in his holster.

  Noting the ranger checking out the empty holster, Rojo shrugged. ‘‘I left my Remington inside, so’s you would know I wasn’t trying anything. I thought it might be a good idea. Can I lower my hands now?’’

  ‘‘Yes, lower them,’’ said Sam. Playing a hunch, he added, ‘‘And while they’re lowered, reach down and pull that pig-sticker out of your boot.’’

  Rojo sighed. He reached down, raised a wicked-looking Green River trade knife from his boot well and pitched it to the dirt. ‘‘I wasn’t planning on trying anything with it.’’

  Sam stared at him, poker-faced. ‘‘Now raise your hideout pistol and toss it away,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’ve got no other weapons, Ranger,’’ said Rojo. He added reflectively, ‘‘Funny how it come upon me in a flash, standing there. All of a sudden I thought, Man! That’s a lot of money ole Dade’s bragging about. I would be a fool to not claim it, I told myself.’’ He paused, then continued, ‘‘I’d be more of a fool to make a move against you and lose my hard-earned reward.’’

  ‘‘I suppose you would,’’ said the ranger, making a gesture with his gun barrel for Rojo to turn around.

  ‘‘But you won’t mind if I search you all the same, seeing as how you shot Sealey from behind.’’

  ‘‘I always say a man shot on a Sunday morning is no less dead than a man shot on a Wednesday afternoon,’’ said Rojo, turning his back to the ranger, his hands going up again. ‘‘Do you get my meaning?’’ he asked as Sam patted him down. When the ranger made no reply, Rojo said, ‘‘Besides, you ought to be glad to see a man turn to the right side of the law the way I just did.’’ He looked down at Sealey’s body and shook his head. ‘‘Ole Dade shoulda had better sense, talking ’bout how much he’s worth, me standing behind him with a cocked pistol.’’

  ‘‘I agree with that,’’ said Sam, glancing down at the hole in Sealey’s forehead. Finding no more weapons on Rojo, he stepped back and lowered his Colt. With his free hand he pulled out his wrinkled list of names and consulted it for a moment. ‘‘Where’s Trigger Leonard Heebs and Mitchell Smith?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Rojo. ‘‘They hadn’t showed up yet. Is there money on them too?’’

  Sam stared at him without answering. Then he said, ‘‘We’re going to rest these horses before we head back across the badlands. Keep yourself in front of me at all times if you intend to make it back and collect any money.’’

  Texas Bob awakened in a jail cell with Mary Alice’s blanket covering him. He looked all around at the bars and out through them at the deputy sheriff, Claude Price, who sat leaning back in a chair, his dirt-crusted boots resting atop a battered oak desk. His holstered pistol lay with his gun belt coiled around it on the desk. Seeing Texas Bob look his way, Price held a slice of an apple between his thumb and his pocketknife blade and said with restraint, ‘‘Well now, look who’s waking up. I reckon you didn’t spill all your blood after all.’’

  Bob pieced together what had happened in his foggy memory as he looked down at the bandage that wrapped around his shoulder and covered much of his chest. ‘‘How—how long have I been asleep, Deputy?’’

  Price took his time, sticking the slice of apple into his mouth and chewing it before answering. ‘‘Oh . . . about a day and a half,’’ he said. ‘‘Doc Winslow said you’re lucky you made it at all, as much blood as you lost.’’

  Bob pushed himself up onto the side of his cot and took a second of reflection, then said, ‘‘I can get around on my own now.’’ He stood up and looked for his boots and clothes. Spotting his shirt and gun belt hanging from a wall peg outside the cell, he walked over to the barred door. ‘‘I barely even remember getting shot,’’ he said, looking down at his bandage. ‘‘Just a few buckshot nicks as I recall.’’

  ‘‘A few nicks?’’ said Price with a nasty grin. ‘‘Doc said two of them went deep enough he could feel your heart beating against his bullet extractor.’’ He carved another slice of apple and stuck it in his mouth.

  The gruesome remembrance of the gunfight came back to Bob. He saw the flames, and the dead lying strewn at his feet. ‘‘How are Lady Lucky and the miner?’’ he asked, knowing nobody else had made it out alive.

  ‘‘The miner headed back over to Cleopatra Hill, to his diggings. Lady Lucky Claudene is in worse shape than you,’’ Price said, hoping to make Texas Bob feel bad. ‘‘Doc said it’s still long odds on her ever coming to.’’ He grinned slightly, glad to see that it worked.

  ‘‘That’s too bad,’’ Bob said under his breath. He pictured the smile on Lady Lucky’s face when she’d last spoken to him over the deck of cards. ‘‘Doc’s a good man. Maybe he’ll pull her through.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, maybe, but I doubt it,’’ Price said with little concern in his voice. ‘‘One little slip on you, Doc Winslow could’ve done us all a favor and put you down like a mad dog.’’ Chewing, he glared at Texas Bob. ‘‘As it is, I expect you’ll hang at the town’s expense.’’

  Bob stopped and stood at the cell door, his hands on the bars. ‘‘What are you talking about, Deputy? I shot that Bass fellow in self-defense.’’ He shook the bars and added, as if Price were only taunting him, ‘‘Come on, open up.’’ Then, seeing the serious look on Price’s face, he asked, ‘‘Where’s Thorn, anyway?’’

  ‘‘Sheriff Thorn is over in Jerome. He’ll be gone a week or more.’’ Price laid the apple and knife o
n the desk and stood up, hooking his thumb into his belt. He stepped over close to the cell door and glared into Texas Bob’s face. ‘‘Until he returns, I’m the bull of this walk.’’

  Bob stood firm, not backing away an inch from the bars. Returning Price’s menacing glare, he said, ‘‘Careful where that walk takes you. You’re wearing a badge today. But you’ll be Claude the blacksmith when Thorn gets back.’’

  ‘‘You could be dead before then.’’ Price’s voice dropped low as if to keep the rest of the world from hearing. ‘‘There’s bad blood between us, Bob. I’ve just been waiting for my chance to get a boot down on your neck.’’

  ‘‘Don’t issue threats you can’t make good on, blacksmith,’’ said Bob, standing his ground.

  ‘‘No threats,’’ said Price. ‘‘Just stating possibilities.’’ He nodded at the bandage on Texas Bob’s chest. ‘‘If you don’t get the proper attention, you could swell up and rot.’’

  ‘‘Doc Winslow would never stand for that,’’ said Texas Bob. He gripped the bars tightly.

  ‘‘Maybe not,’’ said Price. The nasty grin returned to his face. ‘‘But hey, I’m just saying anything can happen here.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Including a rifle going off while I’m cleaning it. In a small space like that,’’ he nodded at the cell, ‘‘one little slip and bang! Oops, sorry, Texas Bob Krey! Is that your brains running down the wall?’’

  ‘‘Why, you . . .’’ Bob gripped the bars tighter, as if he might very well rip them apart.

  Price gave a dark chuckle, but he took a step back, seeing by the look on Bob’s face that at any second this wounded man’s good hand might reach through the bars and grab him by the throat. ‘‘Back off, Texas Bob. Let’s see if Mary Alice thinks you’re such a tall stack of chips when you’re splattered on the wall.’’

  ‘‘Is that what the bad blood is about?’’ Bob asked.

  ‘‘All this, because Mary Alice won’t give a flea-bitten jackass like you the time of day? You’re blaming me, Claude? You never brought it up when there were no bars between us.’’

  ‘‘It was coming,’’ said Price. ‘‘The bars being around you just made it easier.’’ He took down a rifle from a wall rack as he spoke and made sure Bob saw him slip a cartridge into its chamber. ‘‘And, yeah, you’re right, it is about Mary Alice—and Cheryl, and Lady Lucky and all the rest of the doves. They hardly pay me any mind even when I’m paying them, but a big bold plainsman like Texas Bob Krey they fawn over like some kind of royalty!’’

  ‘‘You’ll never get away with this, Claude,’’ said Texas Bob, seeing the intent in the deputy’s eyes.

  ‘‘Who’s going to tell?’’ Price grinned smugly. ‘‘Not me, and you’ll be dead. It’s an accident about to happen.’’

  ‘‘No judge is going to believe it was an accident,’’ said Texas Bob.

  ‘‘I know one who will.’’ Price grinned again and cocked the rifle hammer. ‘‘Territorial judge Henry Edgar Bass will believe it.’’

  ‘‘Bass . . .’’ Texas Bob let the words sink in with a look of contemplation.

  ‘‘You don’t know who it was you killed, do you, Texas Bob?’’ the deputy said sarcastically. He raised the rifle. ‘‘None other than Judge Bass’s beloved brother, Davin Bass.’’

  ‘‘Oh . . .’’ Texas Bob stood stunned for a moment, his hands easing around the bars.

  Claude gave a devious chuckle. ‘‘Oh, indeed.’’ He nestled the rifle stock to his shoulder and took close aim from only fifteen feet away. ‘‘See why you’re so easy to kill? I could wind up becoming sheriff, maybe the judge’s fishing pal.’’ He squinted his left eye shut. ‘‘So long, Bob.’’

  Before he could squeeze the trigger, the loosely closed front door opened suddenly and Mary Alice gasped at the sight of Price pointing a rifle at the tall Texan standing helplessly in the cell. ‘‘Claude! What on earth are you doing?’’ she shouted immediately, stepping inside. With a raised foot she kicked the door shut loudly behind herself. A bowl of stew sat on a service tray in her hands. Beside the steaming bowl lay a spoon and a folded checkered cloth napkin.

  Caught by surprise, the deputy stammered, not knowing what to say. But finally, lowering the rifle, he said, stalling, ‘‘Oh, this?’’ He turned the rifle back and forth in his hands, looking at it as if it were a child’s toy. ‘‘It’s not loaded. I was just showing Texas Bob how a man ought to—’’

  ‘‘Like hell you were,’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘You were getting ready to kill him!’’ She stepped over and set the tray on the desk.

  ‘‘Take it easy, Mary,’’ Price said with a pleading voice. ‘‘Look, I’m putting it away, see?’’ He hurriedly stuck the rifle back into the rack. ‘‘Like I said, it’s not loaded anyway!’’

  ‘‘It is loaded. Don’t believe him, Mary,’’ Texas Bob said, speaking fast. ‘‘You’re right. He was going to kill me and call it an accident. You walked in and stopped him. When you leave he’ll do it anyway.’’

  ‘‘Stop it, both of you,’’ Mary Alice said coolly.

  Turning her back to them, she picked up the checkered napkin and shook it out. ‘‘Sheriff Thorn will decide who’s lying when he gets back,’’ she said, tinkering with a spoon and the cloth napkin. ‘‘I’m only here to see the prisoner is fed.’’

  ‘‘Sounds fair enough to me, Mary Alice,’’ said Price as he gave Texas Bob a harsh glare.

  Mary Alice picked up the tray and walked to the cell, her back to Price, who stood staring at Texas Bob. The deputy didn’t notice that his pistol had been lifted from its holster on the desk and now lay on the food tray, covered by the cloth napkin. ‘‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough,’’ Texas Bob said, reaching through the bars and snatching the gun up at about the same time Price finally glanced at the desk and saw the empty holster.

  ‘‘Oh no!’’ said Price as Mary Alice stepped aside.

  ‘‘What about this one, Claude?’’ said Texas Bob from behind the raised, cocked six-shooter. ‘‘I bet it’s loaded.’’

  ‘‘No, Mary Alice,’’ Price said sorrowfully. ‘‘Why’d you do that? You broke the law!’’

  ‘‘I did it because Tex is no criminal,’’ the young prostitute said. She rushed over and grabbed the cell key from the side of the desk, then hurried to the cell door to unlock it. ‘‘He wasn’t your prisoner,’’ she said, turning the key in the lock. ‘‘He was here to convalesce. You tried to kill him!’’

  ‘‘You can’t get away with this!’’ Price said, wide-eyed at the sight of his own pistol pointed at him, ready to shoot him down.

  ‘‘Oh?’’ Texas Bob stepped out of the cell with a grim, determined look. Repeating the deputy’s words from moments earlier, he said solemnly, ‘‘Who’s going to tell? Not us, and you’ll be dead.’’

  ‘‘Tex!’’ cried Mary Alice. ‘‘You don’t mean . . . ?’’ She let her words trail off.

  ‘‘Go get my horse and a horse for yourself from the livery barn,’’ Bob said, not taking his eyes or his aim off of Price. He didn’t want Price to think he wouldn’t kill him.

  ‘‘Are you taking me away with you, Tex?’’ Mary Alice said hopefully.

  ‘‘Yes. At least until Sheriff Thorn gets back and can straighten this out.’’ He gestured the deputy into the cell. ‘‘Now hurry, Mary Alice,’’ he said, ‘‘before somebody shows up.’’

  Chapter 2

  Leaving Sibley, Texas Bob and Mary Alice rode south for the rest of the day, toward a stretch of hills and grasslands near Black Canyon. Atop a wind-whipped ridge, looking back along their trail, Mary Alice asked from inside her upturned coat collar, ‘‘You didn’t hit him too hard, did you, Texas Bob? I mean . . . he’s not dead or nothing, is he?’’

  Bob smiled at her patiently beneath his wide dark mustache. ‘‘No, Mary Alice,’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t kill the buzzard, and if you ask me again in another twenty minutes, I still didn’t kill him.’’

  The young woman returned his smile
, looking embarrassed. ‘‘I’m sorry, Tex. I don’t know why I keep asking. Just nervous, I guess.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ said Bob, sidling his horse over to hers. Steam wafted from the breath of horses and riders alike. ‘‘You’ve lost your hat,’’ Bob said quietly, noting the cold wind sweeping her hair across her face.

  ‘‘It wasn’t nothing. I’m hardly cold at all.’’ She pushed her hair from her cheek.

  Bob took off his hat, reached over and shoved it down onto her head and drew the rawhide string up snug beneath her cold chin. ‘‘There, that’s better,’’ he said.

  ‘‘But what about you, Tex?’’ She could already feel the warmth of the hat making a difference.

  ‘‘I’m good,’’ said Bob, adjusting his tall duster collar. To the west the sun lay low, sinking behind a green and copper line of hills. ‘‘We’ll be riding out of this wind in a few minutes. I’ll find a camp and make a nice warm fire for the night.’’ He nodded toward a trail leading into a long stretch of cliffs and plateaus covered with towering pines. ‘‘I have a cabin out there in a valley nobody knows about. You’ll be safe there until things get straightened out.’’

  Mary Alice didn’t reply. Bob turned his horse back to the thin trail, and she nudged hers along behind him, following silently for the next hour until they stopped for the night in the shelter of a deep cliff overhang.

  ‘‘I feel like I’m inside a fancy cathedral,’’ Mary Alice commented, stepping down from her saddle with Bob assisting her. They both gazed up at the dome of rock reaching a hundred feet above them.

  ‘‘By the time the smoke rolls up the underside of this overhang, it spreads out and can’t be seen, especially under a wind,’’ Bob said.

  They made a fire out of nearby dried deadfall pine and mesquite brush. After attending to the horses they shared a meal of jerked beef and coffee from Bob’s saddlebags and then settled in under blankets on opposite sides of the fire. For almost an hour they lay in an awkward silence, listening to the crackle of dried pine in the low licking flames. Finally Mary Alice said softly, ‘‘Tex, is there something wrong? Don’t you want to sleep up against me?’’