Killing Texas Bob

by Ralph Cotton

  Bob waited for a moment, then said, ‘‘I thought I might be taking advantage, knowing you make your living the way you do.’’

  ‘‘I’m not making my living tonight,’’ Mary Alice said in the same soft warm voice. ‘‘Tonight I’m doing what a woman wants to do—if she’s with the right man, that is.’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Bob said quietly, needing no more of an invitation. He stood up and carried his blanket around the fire to where she looked up and smiled dreamily, pulling back her blanket, making room for him.

  Moments later they fell asleep, warmed by one another beneath the whir of wind above the rock overhang.

  When Mary Alice awakened in the gray hour of dawn, Bob had stirred the fire back to life and reheated the strong coffee left over from the night before. They sipped the hot brew and ate a breakfast of stiff warmed biscuits that he took from a canvas sack inside his saddlebags. ‘‘How did you sleep?’’ Bob asked quietly, the low flames flickering in his eyes.

  Mary Alice took a deep breath and sighed, giving him a knowing look. ‘‘The best ever,’’ she said.

  Bob nodded. ‘‘Me too.’’

  No sooner had they eaten than they were back on the move, going slowly until daylight burned away any traces of silvery mist looming on the steep trail.

  In the early afternoon when they’d rested their horses and ridden on again, Mary Alice followed close as Bob veered away from the trail and rode deeper into the thickening forest. Finally, looking all around, realizing that she had no idea where they were, she said anxiously, ‘‘Tex, I’m glad you know your way through here. I’ve been lost ever since we broke camp this morning.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Bob said reassuringly. He eased his horse back until they rode side by side. ‘‘If it was easy to find, I couldn’t call it my hideout.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Hideout’ sounds like a place where an outlaw can run to, Tex,’’ she said, giving him a look.

  ‘‘I’m no outlaw, Mary Alice,’’ Bob said. ‘‘But there are times I feel like the whole world is dogging my back trail. All I can do to regain myself is get away, lay low out here where the only hand that can touch me is the big hand of God.’’

  ‘‘You go from talking like an outlaw to sounding like a preacher.’’ Mary Alice smiled as their horses walked along at their own pace.

  Bob smiled easily, staring straight ahead. ‘‘My father was a man of the cloth, a steadfast Texas Methodist. Both he and my mother died of the fever when I was young, but I expect some of their ways stuck to me—his especially.’’

  ‘‘Oh, a minister’s son,’’ Mary Alice said softly, hoping to keep this conversation going, wanting to hear more about him. ‘‘That explains some things we’ve always wondered about you.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Bob looked at her. ‘‘Like what?’’

  ‘‘Oh, just things,’’ Mary Alice said coyly. ‘‘Your manners, the respectful way you treat people—us girls in particular.’’

  Bob knew what she meant. He’d witnessed the rough, crude treatment the working girls received in the saloons and brothels across the western frontier. ‘‘You girls deserve no less respect than anybody else, far as I can see,’’ Bob replied. ‘‘Circumstance plays reckless with all of us.’’ He gazed out through the pines as if in remembrance. ‘‘Nowhere in the Good Book does it give me the right to judge another—only myself, and even then not too harshly. Our lives are small and short. We ought to be working on how to live our own lives instead of judging how somebody else lives theirs.’’

  The Good Book? Mary Alice sensed that not many people knew the Texas Bob Krey he had just revealed to her—certainly none of the doves in Sibley and the surrounding mining towns. She didn’t offer any comment and her silence prompted him to continue.

  ‘‘Besides, everybody takes a different view of the other person. Look at Deputy Price. He pegged me for a killer.’’

  ‘‘I know that what you did was self-defense,’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘So does everybody else in Sibley, except Claude. I wouldn’t have given you that gun otherwise.’’

  ‘‘I know you believe me, Mary Alice,’’ said Texas Bob, ‘‘and I’m obliged. But without seeing the fight firsthand, you’re judging it the way you want it to be. So is the deputy. He’s eaten up inside because you and the girls don’t pay him the same attention you do me.’’

  ‘‘It’s because he treats us like field animals,’’ Mary Alice offered. ‘‘He’s just envious of you, Tex.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ said Bob, the two following the thin trail up a rise. ‘‘But instead of him trying to better himself and his ways, he’d rather see me die.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘That’s the way some folks are. That’s why I live out here as much of the time as I can.’’ He nodded toward the widening trail ahead. ‘‘I can only take being among folks for so long, and then I’ve got to get away from them. The longer I stay, the more apt I am to run into trouble. This time I overstayed myself.’’

  Mary Alice started to reply, but before she could they topped the rise and her attention was drawn to the sight of a cabin in a small clearing. ‘‘Oh my,’’ she said, seeing a doe and her fawn straighten up from the ground, look at them curiously, then lope away into the woods. ‘‘Tex, this is beautiful.’’ She raised her fingertips to her lips in awe.

  Noting a glistening tear forming in her eye, Bob nudged his horse forward. ‘‘Thanks, Mary Alice. I’m glad you like it. You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here. It’s home for me and ole Plug.’’

  Following close behind him, Mary Alice asked, ‘‘Who’s ole Plug?’’

  ‘‘Plug is a wild hound who showed up one morning a couple of years back. He settled in with me and has been here ever since.’’

  Looking around, Mary Alice said, ‘‘Where is he? Why isn’t he raising a ruckus?’’

  ‘‘If he was here those deer wouldn’t have been bedded down in the yard,’’ said Bob. ‘‘I expect he’s out hunting down a meal of brush rabbit for himself.’’

  They rode down and stopped at a hitch rail in front of the cabin. Bob stepped down and reached up to help Mary Alice from her saddle. ‘‘Well, here’s home, for the time being anyway,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Oh, Tex,’’ Mary Alice said, throwing her arms up around his neck and hugging him as soon as her feet touched the ground. ‘‘I’m so happy you brought me here. I—I feel like it was meant to be, us having to leave Sibley! This feels like coming home.’’ He felt a warm tear against the side of his throat.

  ‘‘Whoa now,’’ said Bob, taking her arms from around his neck gently. ‘‘Better wait until you’ve seen the inside. I might have left it in a mess.’’

  Mary Alice collected herself and turned, hooking her arm around his waist and pulling him toward a path of stepping-stones leading to the cabin door. ‘‘Oh, I don’t care,’’ she said, turning more jovial. ‘‘I can clean up a mess. It just feels good to get away from Sibley for a while.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad you feel that way,’’ said Bob, ‘‘because it might take a few days for me to find Sheriff Thorn and make him understand how things happened. Meanwhile I want you to stay here out of sight. I don’t want to risk any trouble coming to you for helping me.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I understand,’’ said Mary Alice in a more serious tone. ‘‘But you’ll wait a couple of days before looking for Thorn, won’t you?’’ She turned her face to his with an inviting look in her eyes.

  Texas Bob smiled. ‘‘Well, I expect it wouldn’t hurt to let these wounds heal a day or two before I leave.’’ They walked on to the cabin door.

  In Sibley, Raul Lepov pushed up the wide brim of his black flat-crowned hat and said to Deputy Price, ‘‘You some damn figure of a fool, you are.’’ He rested a dirty knee-high French Cavalry boot on the chair beside the battered desk where Price sat holding a wet rag to the back of his swollen head.

  ‘‘Listen to me, Mr. Lepov,’’ Price said crossly. ‘‘My head is busting
and I’m not in any mood for hearing anybody’s guff. So walk easy around me.’’

  ‘‘Walk easy around you? Why?’’ The French gunman chuckled. Wearing black leather gloves with the fingers cut off, he reached his hand out and palmed the deputy on the side of his head, not hard, but hard enough to make Price wince. ‘‘You let a wounded cawboy and a stupid putain bust your head and walk out of your jail.’’ He grinned tauntingly beneath his long black mustache. ‘‘You are un imbecile!’’

  Price said angrily, ‘‘I’m in no mood for joking or sharp remarks, mister!’’

  But Lepov only chuckled. ‘‘Imbecile,’’ he repeated, and acted as if he would palm the deputy again.

  Price flinched and ducked his head, scooting his desk chair farther away. ‘‘I’m warning you, Lepov!’’ he growled.

  ‘‘All right, you warned me,’’ said Raul in his strange accent. ‘‘Now, why did you tell me your sad story, imbecile?’’ He grinned again.

  Price overlooked being called a fool and said, ‘‘I want you to hunt him down and kill him. Bring his head back to me. The whore’s too if she’s still with him.’’

  ‘‘Ah!’’ he said, feigning surprise. ‘‘You want him dead, this Cawboy Bob and his putain.’’

  Price stared at him coldly for a moment. ‘‘I don’t have to take this.’’ He dropped the wet rag on the desk and started to stand.

  But the tall rawboned Frenchman shoved him back down and said in a more serious tone, ‘‘Ah, but where are your sense of humor, mon ami? Of course I will kill them for you.’’ He tossed a hand. ‘‘They are dead already, if I am on their trail.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’ Price calmed down, stared at him levelly and asked, ‘‘How much?’’

  ‘‘Well. Let me see,’’ said Raul, using his fingertips as if adding up the cost. ‘‘Kill the cawboy, cut his head off. Kill the putain, cut her head off. Both heads . . . bring them back to you . . .’’ He let his words trail off, gazing upward, making tally. ‘‘Three hundred dollars.’’

  ‘‘Three hundred dollars?’’ Price almost came up from his chair. This time Raul stopped him, poking a long dirty fingernail into his chest.

  ‘‘Oui,’’ Lepov said shamelessly. ‘‘Three hundred is not so bad, if it keeps an imbecile from looking like an imbecile, eh? Also if it keeps an imbecile from getting himself killed, which is what you would do.’’ He returned Price’s stare. ‘‘See, I know this Cawboy Bob.

  I have seen him many times. He is a man to be respected.’’

  ‘‘His name is Texas Bob,’’ Price said, correcting him.

  ‘‘Texas . . . Cawboy . . . all is the same.’’ Raul shrugged under his black wool cape. ‘‘I kill them both, cut off their heads, bring them back, the story ends. You can tell your sheriff you did all this.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know if I’d tell Thorn I cut off their heads,’’ said Price, considering things.

  Raul shrugged again. ‘‘Tell him they cut off each other’s heads, for all I care. Are you man enough to carry this through? Do you have the three hundred dollars with which to pay for my services?’’

  ‘‘I’ve been . . .’’ Price paused, then said, ‘‘Well, I‘ve been saving money for a long time, hoping to someday ask one of the doves to marry me.’’ He wasn’t about to mention that Mary Alice was the dove he had in mind.

  ‘‘Oh, that is so sweet,’’ said Lepov, grinning darkly. He reached out and pinched Price’s cheek roughly. Price swiped at his hand but missed. He didn’t know what to think of Raul Lepov. He’d never met the strange-acting French hunter. But knowing Lepov was in town, he’d gone to the Bottoms Up Saloon and found him as soon as young Jimmy Elder came by the office and found him staggering to his feet inside the locked cell. He hadn’t told Jimmy what had really happened, and he’d sworn the boy to secrecy about finding him locked up in his own jail.

  ‘‘Nobody is going to hear about this, are they, Mr. Lepov?’’ he asked. ‘‘You see, this man was not really a prisoner. He was just a man who needed a place to sleep off some work the doc did on him and I let him use an empty cell.’’

  ‘‘Nobody hears a word of it from me,’’ said Lepov. Rubbing his fingers and thumb together, he added, ‘‘Now, about the money?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Price sighed. ‘‘I’ll go by the bank and get it. Are you ready to ride?’’ He stood up.

  ‘‘Of course I am ready to ride, imbecile.’’ Raul grinned, shooing him toward the door.

  Price stopped and stood firm, pointing a finger at the Frenchman. ‘‘Stop calling me names. I’m not an imbecile. You understand?’’

  But Raul shrugged it off with another grin. ‘‘But it is a name I give to you, as a sign of our newfound friendship. I give pet names like this to all my friends. It is how I am. You must get used to it!’’ He shooed him on toward the door. ‘‘Now go, you imbecile you, and get my money for me!’’

  Chapter 3

  When Price returned from the bank he counted out three hundred dollars into Lepov’s hand. He watched the Frenchman walk out the front door, mount his black horse and ride away. But moments later as Price stepped onto the boardwalk, confident that Lepov had gotten onto Texas Bob’s trail, he saw the black horse standing back at the hitch rail out front of the saloon where he’d found him.

  Damn it! Price clenched his fists at his side and headed for the saloon, realizing he should never have given Lepov the full three hundred in advance. But on his way to the Bottoms Up Saloon and Brothel, Price saw territorial judge Henry Edgar Bass’s private four-horse Studebaker coach turn onto the wide dirt street and thunder toward him, the powerful horses pounding forward at a trot.

  Knowing the judge would be coming straight to the sheriff’s office, Price stopped and watched the driver lean back on the reins and the long brake handle until the horses came to a halt beside him. Without so much as a greeting or a touch of his hat brim, the judge glared at Price from inside the plush coach and flipped the door open. ‘‘Get in, Deputy,’’ he said in a tightly controlled voice.

  Price hurriedly stepped inside and sat down across from the judge. ‘‘Your Honor, I can’t tell you how sorry I was to have to send that telegram to you over in Hazelton, but I knew you would want to hear the news right away, no matter how painful—’’

  ‘‘Where’s my poor brother’s body?’’ the judge asked flatly, cutting him off.

  ‘‘He’s—he’s in the cooling house behind the Bottoms Up, Your Honor.’’

  The judge shook his large hairless head and looked over at the charred remains of the Sky High Saloon. ‘‘I knew someday poor Davin would meet his end at just such a place as the Sky High Saloon. Not that I’m opposed to a man taking his pleasure,’’ he added quickly, looking along the boardwalk at a string of saloons, brothels and gaming establishments. He shook his head again. He pulled up and down on a thin chain that ran up through the roof of the coach and connected to a small brass bell mounted beside the driver’s seat.

  ‘‘Yes, Your Honor?’’ said the driver, leaning down and looking inside at the judge and Deputy Price.

  Pointing toward the saloon, the judge said, ‘‘Take us behind the Bottoms Up, Wilson. I want to see my poor brother’s body.’’

  The driver slapped the reins and sent the horses forward, having to go to the far end of the wide street and circle back onto a wider main alleyway behind the row of saloons. On their way, the judge tugged his vest down over his belly and said grudgingly, ‘‘I am obliged to you, Deputy, for sending that telegram as soon as it happened. Fortunately I hadn’t yet left Hazelton.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome, Your Honor,’’ said Price, easing down in the soft seat, liking the idea of being seen riding in the judge’s big elaborate road rig. ‘‘I knew this was your week to preside there. I figured it best if I could catch you there, only thirty miles away.’’

  ‘‘Now then,’’ said the judge, not appearing to hear what Price had to say, ‘‘as horrendous as this is, tell me exactly what
happened to poor Davin.’’

  The deputy ran through the particulars of the shooting as the coach made its way to the rear of the Bottoms Up. When he’d finished, the judge said, ‘‘I’ve heard of Texas Bob Krey. I’ve never known of him being a ruffian, or a bully.’’ He seemed to contemplate things. ‘‘And Lady Lucky, how is she coming along?’’

  ‘‘She’s going to live is the last thing I heard when I went by and checked. Doc Winslow said she told him it was a fair fight,’’ said Price. ‘‘But I’ve got to tell you, Your Honor, Lady Lucky is a friend of Texas Bob’s.’’ He added in disgust, ‘‘All the women in this town are friends of his, as far as that goes.’’

  ‘‘How can it be a fair fight,’’ said the judge, ‘‘when my poor brother is lying dead?’’

  Price didn’t know how to answer. He shrugged slightly.

  ‘‘And you let him get away?’’ the judge added in a prickly tone.

  ‘‘Like I said, Your Honor,’’ Price replied, ‘‘he was never under arrest. He was in the cell getting treated by the doctor. When it was all done and he was awake and feeling better, how could I keep him from leaving?’’

  ‘‘How indeed.’’ The judge stared at him through thick wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘‘You could have held him on suspicion until you found out if it was a fair fight.’’

  Price scratched his head. ‘‘Well, he said it was, Your Honor.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ said the judge. ‘‘He said it was.’’ He turned away and stared out through the window at the back side of the saloons and brothels, where women lounged with cigars, cigarettes and pipes curling smoke from their lips. Returning the women’s waves, the judge said in a lowered tone, ‘‘I want Texas Bob to answer for this.’’