“You are the new deputy, ain’t you?” the prisoner asked.
“I am.”
“I could use a cup of coffee. You’ll find my cup in the bottom right-hand drawer of the sheriff’s desk. I take it black.”
“You have your own cup here? You must be a regular.”
“I expect to be issued a deputy’s badge any day now,” the prisoner answered sarcastically.
Prichard went to the sheriff’s desk, opened the drawer, and found the prisoner’s cup. Painted on the side of the cup was CE BLANTON ATTY.
“So, you are a lawyer,” Prichard said as he handed Blanton the cup.
“When I’m sober,” Blanton replied.
“As a lawyer and an educated man, Mr. Blanton, I’m sure you realize that whiskey is the devil’s brew. It defies reason, creates misery, dethrones men from the pinnacles of righteousness, and casts them into the bottomless pit of degradation, shame, and despair.”
“So say you, sir. But I see it as the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes.”
Prichard heard laughter behind him and, turning, saw that Sheriff Nelson had just come in.
“Both of you are so full of it, you’re a perfect match for each other,” Sheriff Nelson said.
Van Horn
The next morning, Dusty Reasoner, the driver, and Jim Richards, the shotgun guard, were standing alongside the coach as four passengers for Shady Rest came out of the stage depot to board. Dusty, in his late sixties, was the older of the two men. His hair and beard were gray, and he still walked with a limp from a wound he had sustained at Shiloh. Jim was in his early forties and bald, though as he was seldom seen without a hat, only those who knew him well were aware of the fact. He had just rolled himself a cigarette and was smoking as the passengers approached the stagecoach.
Annabelle was the first one out, and Dusty touched his hand to his hat.
“Good mornin’, Miss O’Callahan. Going back with us, I see. I hope you had a good visit to Van Horn.”
“Good morning, Mr. Reasoner. Yes, my visit was quite productive,” she replied as she climbed into the coach.
The second passenger was Gerald Hawkins, the owner of the Texas Star in Shady Rest. Hawkins was five feet seven inches tall and weighed just over a hundred and fifty pounds, which was about average for the cavalryman he had once been. His black hair was slicked down and parted in the middle. He had a closely trimmed moustache, and he wore a jacket, a vest, and a string tie.
“Dusty, you old horse thief, see if you can avoid hitting every pothole between here and Shady Rest,” Hawkins said.
“Ha. I plan to find new potholes that ain’t never been hit yet, just for you,” Dusty replied. It was a standard bit of repartee between the two men, and it was exchanged without rancor.
The third passenger was Elwood Crocker. Crocker owned a small ranch just outside of town, and he dressed the part in denim trousers and a white shirt.
“Miss O’Callahan, you’re going back to Shady Rest? Heck, I was hoping you were plannin’ on moving to Van Horn,” Crocker said. “If you was to do so, why, that sure would save me a lot of money.”
Crocker’s wife, Julia, was one of Annabelle’s customers, and he made a joke about spending enough money in her shop to pay for Annabelle’s ticket.
“Now, Mr. Crocker, are you going to tell me that you don’t think Julia is just beautiful in the gowns I make for her?”
Crocker smiled self-consciously. “No, ma’am, I can’t say that, so I reckon you’ve got me there,” he said. “I always did think Julia was a pretty thing, but I have to admit that some of those dresses you make for her make her that much prettier.”
“Just some of them?” Annabelle teased.
Crocker laughed. “All of ’em.”
The fourth passenger was Percy McCall, a notions drummer who called frequently upon Annabelle. Like Hawkins, McCall wore a suit, in keeping with his profession, and like Hawkins, McCall was a relatively small man, though he didn’t have the wiry strength and toughness of Hawkins.
“Why, Mr. McCall, you could show me your wares while we are in the coach, and you wouldn’t even have to call on me at my store,” Annabelle said.
“No, ma’am, I want to call on you at your store. If we’re there, you are likely to think of something you need that you will forget if we do business in the coach.”
“Ha!” Hawkins said. “There you go, Miss O’Callahan. You aren’t the only one with a sales pitch, are you?”
“You folks all settled in down there?” Dusty called back to his passengers.
“We’re all ready, Dusty,” Hawkins called back. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Heeyah!” Dusty’s shout out to his team could be heard all up and down Austin Street.
They left Van Horn at eight o’clock in the morning for what would be a six-hour journey, and soon, Annabelle began passing the time by making sketches of the dresses she intended to make.
“I don’t know how you can draw like that with all the bouncing around we’re doing,” McCall said.
“It’s easy enough,” Annabelle said. “I just draw when we’re not bouncing.”
“Please tell me you aren’t drawing up more dresses to sell to my wife,” Crocker teased.
“Not at all,” Annabelle replied with friendly smile. “These are designs for Mrs. Trout.”
“Ha!” Hawkins said. “Good for you! The more money that pompous ass of a mayor spends, the better I like it.”
“I like it too. I especially like it when he spends the money with me,” Annabelle said, and the others in the coach laughed.
“What were you doing in Van Horn, Mr. Crocker?” Hawkins asked.
“I’ve ordered me a seed Hereford bull from Fort Worth,” Crocker said. “I was just makin’ arrangements with the railroad to have him shipped here.”
“He must be some kind of bull for you to go to all that trouble.”
“Yes, sir, he is. He’s in a direct line from Anxiety Four,” Crocker said proudly.
“Anxiety Four?” Annabelle said with little chuckle. “That seems an odd name for a bull.”
“Yes, ma’am, that might be, but he’s the most famous Hereford bull there ever was.”
The coach hit a hole hard enough to jar everyone inside.
“You folks all right down there?” Dusty shouted.
Hawkins stuck his head out the window and called up. “I see you found one for us.”
Dusty laughed. “I do what I can,” he said. “Heeaaah!” he shouted, snapping the whip over the head of the team to keep them in a trot.
It had been two weeks now since Matt Jensen had left Sherwood, the last town he had visited, and he was tired. It wasn’t just a tiredness from several weeks of being on the road. It was a tired-to-the-bone weariness from a life lived always on the move, and even though it was a life that he chose, there were times, like this, when he could almost envy Smoke Jensen, with his ranch, wife, house, and bed to sleep in at night.
Right now he especially envied him the bed.
Matt stood in the stirrups just to give his butt a break. Then, seeing a clear, swiftly running stream, he headed toward it, and stopped to let his horse, Spirit, have a drink, while he filled his canteen. The water tasted good, but a beer would have been better.
Texas was not only a big state; it was a state with a lot of nothing in it, with vast distances between the towns, especially in the wide open spaces of West Texas. If he would, somehow, come across a town in this godforsaken wilderness, the first thing he would do, even before replenishing his possibles, would be to have a beer.
“Yeah, Spirit, what do you think of that?” he asked. “I say a cool beer, a hot meal, a hot bath, and a real bed. And don’t you even think of waking me up ’til my birthday. But don’t worry, I’ll be taking care of you as well. I’m going to get you your own
stall, some oats, and I wouldn’t doubt but there might be a young filly there to turn your eye. But don’t be taken in by her sweet talk, you have to be very careful of that,” he added with a chuckle.
Matt was alone so much that he often talked to his horse just to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. And he figured that talking to Spirit was better than talking to himself. Refreshed, Matt remounted, then continued his ride.
Not more than a mile from Matt at that very moment, the Shady Rest Stagecoach was continuing its run from Van Horn to Shady Rest.
The three Barlow brothers, Ben, Burt, and Brax, were waiting in a little thicket of trees alongside the road where the coach would pass.
“How much longer?” Burt asked.
“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “Fifteen minutes, half an hour maybe.”
“I wish it would come on. This just waitin’ aroun’ for it is makin’ me nervous,” Burt said.
“There ain’t no call for you to be gettin’ nervous. I tol’ you, there ain’t nothin’ to it. When the coach gets close, we’ll just jump out in front of it and stop ’em.”
“What if they don’t stop?” Brax asked.
“Then we’ll shoot ’em,” Ben answered easily.
“I gotta take a piss,” Brax said.
“Well, if you’re goin’ to do it, do it now and do it fast, ’cause I can see the stagecoach comin’,” Ben said.
“Where?” Burt asked.
“Look down that way.”
Looking south, Burt saw a cloud of dust far down the road. Then, less than a minute later, emerging from the dust, he could see the coach itself. And now they could hear it as well, the hoofbeats of the horses, the rumble of the rolling wheels, and the squeaking sound of the coach rocking back and forth on the through-braces.
“Brax, Burt, you boys ready?”
“Yeah,” Brax said as he buttoned his trousers. “I’m ready.”
“When it gets close enough, we’ll jump out in front of it,” Ben instructed. He pulled a hood down over his head and positioned it so the two holes lined up with his eyes. Brax and Burt did the same thing.
Chapter Eleven
Dusty Reasoner and Jim Richards were upon the box seat of the stage. Dusty was handling the ribbons, but Jim was just sitting there, his shot gun propped up against the corner of the curved foot rest in front of them.
Jim carved off a piece of chewing tobacco and offered some to Dusty. Dusty accepted it, and Jim carved off another piece for himself.
“You know, I can’t quite get a handle on Miss O’Callahan,” Jim said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, how come she ain’t married? She’s old enough, and she’s sure pretty enough.”
Dusty chuckled. “Thinkin’ of askin’ her, are you, Jim?”
“Who me? Heck no. That little ol’ filly is way too smart for me. I mean, the way she runs that business and all.”
“Well, you just answered your own question,” Dusty said. “The reason she ain’t married is ’cause, most likely, she’s smarter’n just about any man in town. And most men don’t like bein’ married to a woman that’s smarter’n they are.”
Jim spit out a wad before he replied. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “I once know’d a woman, a lot smarter’n me.”
Dusty waited for him to finish the comment, but he added nothing to it.
“A woman smarter than you?”
“Yeah.”
Dusty laughed. “I don’t even have to ask who it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“You figure it out.”
“What the hell, Dusty, lookie there!” Jim shouted.
Just ahead of the coach, three mounted and masked men suddenly rode out into the road in front of them. All three were holding pistols, and the pistols were aimed at the coach. One of the mounted men held out his free hand.
“Stop the coach!” he shouted.
“Whoa!” Dusty called to his team, hauling back on the reins and putting his foot on the wheel brake.
“Damn!” Jim yelled, raising his shotgun. Before he could come back on the two hammers, one of the men fired, and Jim felt a hammer blow to his shoulder. The impact of the bullet caused him to drop his shotgun.
“I’m sorry, Dusty,” he said, his voice strained.
“Just take it easy,” Dusty replied, reaching over to touch his friend. “We don’t want to give ’em any more reason to shoot.”
“Don’t try anything like that again,” one of the masked road agents said.
“What do you want?” Dusty asked.
“What do you think I want? I want you to throw your money box down,” the road agent said. So far, he was the only one of the three men who had spoken.
“Are you crazy, mister?” Dusty called down to him. “I don’t know what you think we’re carryin’, but we ain’t got no money box. This here is the Van Horn and Shady Rest Stage. We don’t hardly ever carry no money. The onliest thing we’re carryin’ now is a pouch of letters.”
“All right, throw the pouch down,” one of the other men said, speaking for the first time.
“l’ll throw the pouch down if you say so, but do you really want to do that? You start messin’ with the mail, and it becomes a federal offense,” Dusty said. “And like as not there ain’t goin’ to be nothin’ in there but just personal letters anyhow.”
Inside the coach Percy McCall looked at the other three, his face reflecting his fear.
“Oh my, what is happening?” he asked.
“Sounds like the coach is bein’ held up,” Crocker said.
Hawkins leaned over to look through the window.
“Yes, there are three of them.”
Crocker pulled his pistol, but Hawkins reached over to put his hand on the gun.
“Better not do it, Mr. Crocker. Like I said, there’s three of them. You’ll only wind up getting yourself shot,” Hawkins said.
“Mr. Hawkins is right,” Annabelle said.
“I don’t like sittin’ here, doing nothin’.”
“Mr. Crocker, a man named Shakespeare once said that discretion is the better part of valor,” Annabelle said.
“What does that mean?” Crocker asked.
“That means put the damn gun away,” Hawkins said.
“Please do,” McCall said. “I think our best bet would be to do nothing that might make them angry.”
“All right,” Crocker said as he slipped his pistol back into its holster. “But I tell you the truth, I don’t like sittin’ here like some frog just waitin’ to be gigged.”
Ben sighed. This wasn’t going the way he had planned. He had hoped, he had thought, there would be a money shipment, at least one of a few hundred dollars.
“All right, don’t throw the mail pouch down,” Ben said. “We’ll just take whatever money your passengers have on ’em.”
Ben dismounted and approached the coach, holding his pistol at the ready.
“You folks inside there, come on out now. Climb down!”
When nobody emerged from the coach, Ben fired twice into the air. “I said, climb down out of there!” he shouted. “And I ain’t askin’ again. You better do what I told you, or else the next time I shoot, I’ll start shootin’ right into the coach.”
The door opened and Hawkins was the first one out. He turned back toward the door.
“What are you doin’, tryin’ to go back inside?” Ben asked.
“One of the passengers is a lady,” Hawkins said. “I’m helping her down.”
“Yeah? Well, be quick about it. I don’t plan to stand out here all day.”
After Annabelle stepped down, she was joined by the two remaining passengers.
From the moment Matt heard the gunshots, he urged Spirit into a gallop, racing to the sound. Cresting a rise, he saw a stagecoach stopped on the road. It didn’t take but one quick observation to determine what was going on.
The passengers were outside the coach, three men and a woman,
and all of them were holding their hands in the air. The driver and shotgun guard were still upon the box, but the shotgun guard was holding his hand over a shoulder wound, grimacing in pain. There were three masked men; two of them were mounted, while the third was dismounted and facing the passengers. All three of the men were holding guns.
Matt snaked his rifle from the saddle sheath, dismounted, and aimed at the one who was on the ground.
“You men, throw down your guns!” Matt shouted.
“What the hell?” one of the three men shouted, his words muffled by the mask.
Two of the armed men turned their guns toward Matt and fired. One of the bullets took Matt’s hat off.
Matt returned fire, and the robber on the ground went down.
One of the two mounted robbers, the one who had fired at him the first time, fired again, but already Matt was on the move, and the shot missed. Matt fired a second time, and he didn’t miss. The robber fell from his saddle. The third would-be robber, who had not fired at all, put spurs to his horse and galloped off. The two other horses, their saddles now empty, galloped off with him.
Matt put his rifle away, remounted, then urged Spirit into a brisk trot to close the distance between the top of the hill and the coach.
“Mister,” the driver said. “I don’t know who you are, but am I glad to see you. You just saved our bacon.”
Looking up toward the box, Matt saw the shotgun guard holding his hand over the wound in his shoulder. He could see that the man’s shirtsleeve was soaked with blood.
“How badly hurt are you?” Matt asked the shotgun guard.
“If you want to know how bad it hurts, it hurts like hell,” the guard said. “But the bullet hit me in the shoulder, so I don’t reckon it hit any of my vitals.”
“You folks climb back in, and we’ll get started into town,” the driver said to the passengers.
“Before you get started we’d better see to the guard’s wound,” Matt suggested. “No sense in letting him bleed to death. We need to put a bandage on that.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 8