Harcourt didn’t seem to feel it. He said again, “H-hand . . . hand of God . . . said he was . . . hand of God . . . on earth.” Suddenly his back arched off the examining table, and Brennan grunted as the cowboy’s hand squeezed his with bone-crushing force. “Lucy! Lucy! He said . . . we was s-sinners . . . said he was gonna punish us . . . for God . . . hand of God . . . hand of—”
Harcourt fell back on the table. The breath that gusted from his mouth carried with it the stench of carrion.
“I told you,” Musgrave said. “His heart gave out under the strain. I told you he couldn’t survive such a stimulant.”
“He was going to die anyway,” Jackson said. “You told us that too. And now we know who he was and who killed him.”
Brennan swung to face him. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? We know who he was, but we still don’t know who did that to him.”
“Sure we do. It was a ball of light calling itself the Hand of God.” Jackson shrugged and smiled faintly. “Find that and you’ve got your killer.”
Chapter 13
The farmer who had found Matt Harcourt and brought him into town was named Carl Gafford. He was on his way to El Paso, he explained, hoping to make a fresh start there after his farm in Comanche County had failed.
He sat in Sheriff Brennan’s office a short time after Harcourt’s death and twisted his hat in his hands. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Sheriff,” he said. “I found that poor fella out there, about ten miles northwest of town, just like you seen him. I thought he was dead at first and was fixin’ to bury him, but then he moaned and I knowed he was alive. I got him here just as fast as I could, but I didn’t figure it’d do any good. Not the way he looked.” Gafford gazed around at Brennan, Jackson, and Everett. “What in God’s name could do a thing like that to a man?”
Brennan grunted. “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to find out.” He sat behind his old, scarred desk with his shoulders slumped and a frown on his weather-beaten face. “It don’t make sense, none of it. I’m givin’ some serious thought to callin’ in the Texas Rangers.”
“Before you do that,” Jackson said, “tell me what you know about Matt Harcourt.”
Brennan glared at him. “Why in blazes should I do that? You ain’t a lawman, Jackson. You’re just a fiddle-footed gun-thrower!” The sheriff pointed at Everett. “And you can just keep your mouth shut, youngster. I’ve heard enough about the press.”
Everett held up his hands, palms out. “I’m only here as an observer, Sheriff.”
“And I’ve had some experience tracking down killers,” Jackson said.
“You mean you’ve done some bounty huntin’,” Brennan snapped.
Jackson shrugged and didn’t say anything.
“Oh, hell.” Brennan got up and went over to the black cast-iron stove in the corner, where a coffeepot simmered. He poured himself a cup, but didn’t offer any to the other men. As he turned to face them again, he went on. “Harcourt rode for the Winged T, like I said. I don’t know much about him other than that. He was just another cowpoke. Never got into any trouble around here except for when he got likkered up a time or two and went on a snort. He slept it off back there in one of the cells, paid his fine the next mornin’, and went back to the ranch, hangover and all. And he hasn’t even done that in the past six months or so. Seems to have settled down a mite.”
“Sheriff?” Gafford spoke up. “Can I go now? You don’t need me for anything else, do you?”
Brennan shook his head. “No, I reckon not.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar gold piece, and slapped it in Gafford’s hand. The farmer looked surprised, but took the coin. “Buy some supplies before you pull out for El Paso,” the lawman went on in a gruff voice. “Your wife and those young’uns looked a mite hungry.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff, I’ll sure do that,” Gafford said as he got to his feet and clapped the battered hat on his head. “And I thank you kindly.”
After the farmer was gone, Brennan took a noisy slurp of his coffee and then said to Jackson and Everett, “Ain’t no reason the two of you should say anything about that. Damned if I want the county commissioners to hear that I was feelin’ charitable toward that sodbuster. They’re liable to decide that they’re payin’ me too much and cut my salary.”
“About Harcourt,” Jackson prodded.
“Oh, yeah. I reckon I’ll take a ride out to the Winged T this afternoon and ask Mr. Tillman and Ned Dawson about him. One of them might know where he was and what he was doin’ last night.”
“Dawson might,” Jackson said, “but Tillman won’t. I’m not sure he really knows much of anything about what goes on out there.”
“I suppose you two are gonna invite yourselves to go along with me.”
“We’re just trying to help, Sheriff,” Everett said.
“Tryin’ to get a story to write up for your newspaper is more like it.” Brennan reached for his hat. “Well, come on if you’re goin’ with me.”
However, as they stepped out of the sheriff’s office onto the boardwalk, they saw that they weren’t going to have to go very far. A buggy was rolling down the street toward them, with Benjamin Tillman at the reins. Ned Dawson rode alongside the buggy on horseback.
Brennan lifted a hand to hail them, but that wasn’t necessary. Tillman and Dawson were already heading straight for the lawman’s office. Tillman pulled back on the reins and brought the pair of buggy horses to a halt. Dawson stopped beside him.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” Tillman said. He glanced curiously at Jackson and Everett, who stood to one side of Brennan, and then went on. “I need your help. One of my men is missing.”
“Let me guess,” Brennan said. “You’re talkin’ about Matt Harcourt.”
Both of the visitors from the Winged T looked surprised. “How in blazes did you know that?” Ned Dawson asked as his bushy eyebrows rose.
Brennan jerked a thumb along the street. “Because his body is down at Greenwood’s undertaking parlor right now.”
“He’s dead?” Tillman said. “Good Lord!”
Dawson chewed at his mustache for a couple of seconds, then asked, “What happened to him? He get in a gunfight here in town or somethin’ like that?”
The sheriff shook his head and said, “He didn’t die here in Death Head Crossing. A family of pilgrims passin’ through these parts found his body outside of town this mornin’ and brought it in.”
“You know that for a fact?” snapped Dawson. “Maybe the folks who brought him in just pretended to find him. Maybe they ambushed Matt, killed him, and robbed him.”
“You didn’t see that sodbuster and his wife and kids,” Brennan said. “They wouldn’t hurt nobody.”
“How do you know he died violently?” Jackson asked, his voice quiet but penetrating. “Maybe Harcourt dropped dead of natural causes.”
Dawson glared at him. “What the hell are you gettin’ at? I just figured somebody must’ve killed him. Matt was a young fella, hale and hearty. It don’t make sense he would’ve dropped dead.”
“He didn’t,” Brennan said. “The same thing happened to him that happened to Luther Berryhill.”
“My God!” Tillman cried in a ragged voice. “Will these horrors never end?”
“Only two men have died,” Jackson pointed out.
“Only?” Tillman repeated. “Only? Isn’t that a rather callous attitude to take, Mr. Jackson? And they were my men, men who rode for my brand.”
Brennan jerked his head toward the office door. “Come on inside,” he ordered. “We got to talk about this.”
Tillman complied, stepping down from the buggy and handing the reins to Dawson so that the foreman could deal with them. Brennan added, “You too, Ned.”
“Be there in a second,” Dawson said as he swung down from the saddle. He began tying his horse and the buggy team to the hitch rack.
A moment later, the five men were inside Brennan’s office. Tillman sat down gingerly on the old sofa
with its busted springs. Dawson stood beside him. Brennan went behind the desk but kept his hat on as he said, “Tell me about Harcourt disappearin’ from the ranch.”
“He rode off last night after supper,” Dawson said. “He didn’t say where he was goin’, and I don’t reckon anybody asked him.”
“I’ll bet you have a pretty good idea, though,” Jackson put in.
Brennan glared at him. “I’m askin’ the questions here.”
“Then ask them who Lucy is,” Jackson said.
Although Tillman just looked blank at the mention of the woman’s name, Jackson could tell from the reaction on the face of Dawson that the Winged T foreman recognized it. So did Brennan, for that matter. “Damn it,” the lawman ground out. “Don’t tell me Harcourt was sneakin’ over to the Vance place and sniffin’ around that woman.”
Dawson grimaced and then shrugged in resignation. “Reckon he was. Me and some o’ the boys knew about it, but we figured it was none of our business.”
“What’s this?” Tillman demanded. “Was Matt involved in some sort of... illicit affair with a married woman?”
“He was seein’ Lucy Vance, all right,” Dawson said with a sigh. “I would’ve had a talk with him sooner or later, told him he ought to think twice about doin’ such a thing. Hell, if Fowler Vance had ever caught ’em together, he likely would’ve shot ’em both. . . .”
Dawson’s voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying.
“Harcourt wasn’t shot,” Brennan reminded them. “And I don’t reckon Vance would’ve had any reason to kill Luther Berryhill either. I don’t think we can blame him for these killin’s, but I’m sure gonna find out where he was last night anyway.”
“This is terrible, just terrible,” Tillman muttered. “One of my men engaging in adultery.”
Jackson’s mouth tightened. He didn’t understand how anybody could think that fooling around with a married woman was worse than having your face blown off by some mysterious means, but he remembered that Tillman had been a seminary student back East. Obviously, Tillman took such things very seriously.
Jackson had something else on his mind too. “Maybe somebody ought to ride out and check on this Mrs. Vance,” he suggested.
“You’re right,” Brennan said. “If Harcourt went over to the Vance place last night and wound up like he did, something might’ve happened to the woman too.” He started toward the door.
Tillman shot up off the sofa. “We’re going with you.”
Brennan looked like he wanted to argue, but then he just shrugged. “Suit yourself. I got to warn you, though, what we find out there may not be pretty.”
“I want to know the truth, whether it’s pretty or not,” Tillman said.
For just about the first time, Jackson agreed with the rancher about something. He wanted to know the truth too.
As they followed Brennan, Tillman, and Dawson out of the sheriff’s office, Jackson glanced over at his young companion and asked, “You ready to do some more riding, Everett?”
“I don’t seem to have any choice in the matter,” Everett replied. “If something happened to Mrs. Vance, I want to know about it.” He sighed. “Oh, well. At least the swelling has gone down a little from before.”
Chapter 14
They got the same horse Everett had used before from the livery stable and started out of town after Brennan, Tillman, and Dawson, who had set out a few minutes before them. As they rode past the church, Everett said, “What do you think that Hand of God business was about?”
“Just what it sounds like,” Jackson replied. “Somebody who thinks he’s doing the Lord’s work is going around killing folks he considers sinners. Look at who’s wound up dead so far. Berryhill guzzled who-hit-John, played cards, and went upstairs with the calico cats at the Big Bend. That fella Harcourt was messing around with a married woman.”
“Luther Berryhill was hardly the only person around here doing the things you mentioned,” Everett pointed out. “If behaving like that was a death sentence, there wouldn’t be very many men left in Texas, I’d wager!”
Jackson chuckled. “You might be right about that. But maybe this Hand of God hombre is just getting started on his chores.”
Everett took off his derby and sleeved sweat from his forehead. “That’s an unsettling thought. Who could be so deranged as to think that committing cold-blooded murder is doing the Lord’s work?”
Jackson used a thumb to point over his shoulder at the whitewashed building they had just passed. “Reverend Driscoll back there seems to take a pretty dim view of folks who break the Commandments.”
“But he’s a preacher,” Everett protested. “He’s supposed to disapprove of sinners.”
Jackson saw the buggy a couple of hundred yards ahead of them, flanked by two riders he knew to be Sheriff Brennan and Ned Dawson. “Then you’ve got Tillman,” he mused. “He said he used to a seminary student. Maybe he left school because he was too pious even for the seminary.”
Everett looked like he wanted to argue, but then he frowned in thought for a moment and finally said, “He did seem more bothered by Harcourt’s romance with Mrs. Vance than he was by the fact that the man was dead.”
Jackson nodded. “Somebody who’s bound and determined that he’s doing what El Señor Dios wants him to can talk himself into just about anything, I expect.”
“But Mr. Tillman seemed completely surprised when the sheriff said that Harcourt was dead. And he acted like he didn’t know anything about what was going on between Harcourt and Mrs. Vance.”
“Yeah. He acted like it.”
Everett rode along in silence for several seconds, then shook his head. “I don’t believe it, about either Reverend Driscoll or Mr. Tillman. They just don’t seem like killers to me. Besides, there are things that still haven’t been explained. What are those balls of light Harcourt mentioned, and what caused those horrible injuries?”
“I’m still chewing on that,” Jackson admitted.
They pushed their horses to a slightly faster pace in order to catch up to the other three men. They did so shortly, and the five of them were all together when they reached the ranch owned by Fowler Vance. Brennan and Dawson had led the way, since they knew where the spread was. Jackson studied the terrain and estimated that Vance’s place was several miles east of the Winged T. The two ranges probably bordered on each other.
As they drew closer to the house, Brennan suddenly reined in and motioned for the others to stop too. As they did so, the sheriff exclaimed, “What the hell is that?”
Jackson had already heard it too. Now all of them could plainly hear the high-pitched wailing that came from inside the ranch house.
A couple of men came hurrying around the house from the direction of the barn. Their swarthy faces and broad-brimmed sombreros marked them as Mexicans, probably vaqueros who rode for Fowler Vance. The fact that Brennan seemed to know them confirmed that guess on Jackson’s part.
“Señor Brennan!” one of the men said over the wailing. “It is terrible, terrible!”
“Muy malo,” the other vaquero agreed.
“What’s happened here?” Brennan asked. Jackson suspected that they all knew the answer to that already.
“Señor Vance, he was on the porch with Señora Vance when we rode up.” The man made the sign of the cross. “He was crying like an animal in a trap. You can hear him.”
“She’s dead?” a grim-faced Brennan asked.
Both of the Mexicans looked down at the ground as if ashamed and nodded.
“Where was Vance last night? Where were the two of you?”
“Señor Vance rode up to Fort Stockton yesterday, to talk to the commandant at the fort about buying some beef cattle for the soldiers. Paco and I . . . we rode to the cantina in Death Head Crossing. There are señoritas there, muy bonita. . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Brennan said. “You were gone all night?”
Both men bobbed their heads. “Sí, we just returned a shor
t time ago and found . . . and found Señor Vance and the señora . . . like that.”
“She had no clothes on,” the other man added in a hushed voice. “And her face . . . Aiee, Dios mio!”
“What are they doing inside?” Brennan asked.
“Señor Vance, he took his jacket off and placed it over her. Then he picked her up and carried her into the house. He has not stopped mourning since then.”
Jackson said, “Do you know what time Vance was supposed to get back today?”
The vaqueros looked at him, then looked at Brennan. The sheriff nodded for them to answer the question.
“He was not supposed to leave Fort Stockton until this morning. He could not possibly have reached here long before we did.”
“We planned to be back here on the rancho before he arrived,” the other man added. “But the beds in the back rooms of the cantina were so comfortable and the señoritas were so soft ...”
Brennan made a curt gesture. “Never mind about that.” With a creak of saddle leather, he swung down from his mount and handed the reins to one of the vaqueros. “Better get this over with,” he muttered.
Jackson, Everett, and Dawson dismounted too. Dawson looked at Tillman and asked, “You comin’, Boss?”
Tillman’s face was pale. He swallowed and said, “No, I . . . I’ll wait here in the buggy.”
“Suit yourself,” Dawson said. He stepped up onto the porch with the other three men.
Brennan stopped in the open doorway and said, “You fellas wait here. We got to show a little respect for Vance and not go crowdin’ in on him all at once.”
Jackson would have preferred to go into the house with the sheriff, but he didn’t think it was important enough to press Brennan about it. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and leaned a shoulder against one of the posts that held up the porch roof. Everett and Dawson stood nearby, shifting their feet awkwardly.
“Fowler?” they heard the sheriff say as he crossed the front room and paused in another doorway. “Fowler, it’s Ward Brennan. I’m mighty sorry about what—Damn it, put down that gun!”
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