Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  Annie looked down at Kane. “I’ll be back,” she promised. “I’ll see to it that you’re treated right, Chris.”

  He managed to smile his gratitude up at her, even though he was thinking that she didn’t have any power to back up a promise like that. She was just a saloon girl, a whore. She didn’t have any real control over her own life, let alone what happened to anybody else.

  But still he felt a certain sense of loss as she stood up and moved out of the cell. Whether she could do anything about it or not, at least she cared, and that was more than he could say for anybody else.

  Annie and the deputy left, but Skeet Harlan lingered. He didn’t work here, but as a fellow lawman he probably could come and go as he liked in the county jail. He stood there grinning through the bars at the wounded man, and in a low voice he said, “I never expected you to live, Kane. It don’t really matter, though. You know what’s going to happen to you now, don’t you?”

  Kane didn’t say anything.

  “You go ahead and recover from those holes I put in you,” Harlan went on. “As soon as you’re able, you’re going to stand trial for fence-cutting and for attempting to kill an officer of the law, namely me. You’re already a jailbird, Kane, and you’ll go right back to prison as soon as the jury finds you guilty. And they will find you guilty. You know that, don’t you?”

  Kane didn’t have any doubt of it. Any jury impaneled in Brown County was going to be on the side of Duggan and the other big ranchers.

  “Yeah, right back to prison,” Harlan gloated. “If you live that long. Some folks in these parts don’t like the way you fence-cutters defy the law. They might just decide to make an example of you.” Harlan grasped the bars and put his ugly, grinning face against them. “You might just get strung up, Kane. What do you think of that? Dancin’ your life out at the end of a rope . . . It’s a mighty pretty picture, ain’t it?”

  26

  No one on the Slash D had forgotten about the trouble with the smaller ranchers. Earl Duggan had ordered his foreman, Ed MacDonald, to set up regular patrols on all the ranch’s fences. Slash D punchers rode the fence lines at least twice a day, looking for any signs that the barbed wire had been tampered with.

  Frank Morgan took his turn on these patrols. He had said that he signed on with Duggan in order to be a regular hand, so he couldn’t refuse to do his part in the work. With the fall roundup rapidly approaching, he was sure he would do his share of hazing cattle from the brush and the draws. He might even have to do some branding, although it had been a powerful number of years since he’d held a branding iron in his hand.

  In a way, he was actually looking forward to it. There was nothing like doing a good day’s work to make a man feel like he had a rightful place in the world.

  Since the night of violence that had claimed Will Bramlett’s life and left Chris Kane shot up, Frank had met twice with Tyler Beaumont at the old Indian cave on Blanket Creek. Neither of them had had anything to report. Things were quiet. But neither Frank nor Beaumont expected them to stay that way for much longer.

  Dave Osgood was still recuperating from his wound, but Pitch Carey had recovered enough so that he was back at work. It was Carey who rode in hard and fast from Brownwood one afternoon with news.

  “Chris Kane woke up yesterday,” he reported to Duggan, Frank, MacDonald, and the other men who had gathered around him when he came galloping into the yard between the house and the barns. The drumming hoofbeats had caught their attention. Carey went on. “Doc Yantis says he’s going to live. No doubt about it now.”

  Frank didn’t know Kane, but he was aware that Beaumont liked the man, so he was glad that Kane was expected to recover. He felt an instinctive dislike for Skeet Harlan, too, so it pleased him that Harlan wouldn’t have another notch to carve on his gun. Harlan struck Frank as just the type to do that.

  “From the talk I heard in Higginbotham’s Hardware, the grand jury’s going to indict Kane,” Carey continued, “and the district attorney plans to put him on trial as soon as he’s well enough.”

  “On what charges?” Frank asked.

  “Fence-cutting for one, I hope,” Duggan said.

  “Well, Boss,” MacDonald put in, “I don’t know if you remember or not, but Kane never got around to actually cutting the fence that night. . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Duggan insisted. “He had wire-cutters on him, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “That’s a crime, right there. And I’m sure Kane cut other fences when he didn’t get caught at it.”

  That was a pretty big assumption to make, Frank thought, but he didn’t say anything. He knew he would be wasting his breath if he tried to change Duggan’s mind.

  “And Kane drew on Skeet Harlan,” the cattleman went on. “That’s a crime, too, as well as being a damned stupid thing to do.”

  Frank couldn’t argue with either of those statements.

  “Kane’s going back to prison where he belongs,” Duggan concluded. “Good riddance.”

  “He made a pretty good hand when he worked here,” MacDonald said slowly.

  Duggan snorted. “Then he should have stayed here, instead of gettin’ too big for his britches and going off with Bramlett to start his own ranch.”

  Frank said, “A man’s got a right to have some ambition, doesn’t he?”

  “Not when his ambition is to crowd onto my range,” Duggan snapped.

  Frank could have pointed out that the spread started by Kane and Bramlett had been purchased by them legally. But again, it would have been a waste of breath.

  “Let’s get back to work,” Duggan said with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got a lot to do yet before the roundup’s over, and when it is, we’ll have cows to push over to Zephyr.”

  The group dispersed as men went back to their work. A few more days would see the completion of the roundup, and then the cattle that Duggan planned to ship out and sell would have to be driven over to the cattle pens in the little town of Zephyr. A railroad line was being built from Temple to Brownwood, but it hadn’t gotten there yet. The railhead was at Zephyr, and construction hadn’t started on the last leg of the line to Brownwood. Still, Frank thought, Zephyr was a lot closer than Fort Worth, and that was where the nearest railroad had been until the tracks were laid from Temple.

  As Frank rode toward the spot where smoke rose into the autumn sky from branding fires, he wondered if Beaumont knew yet that his friend Chris Kane had regained consciousness.

  * * *

  Beaumont had returned to the ranch on Blanket Creek established by Kane and Will Bramlett. He had talked to Al Rawlings and the other small ranchers, and they had been in agreement with his offer to keep the place going until they saw whether Kane was going to live or die. Beaumont would try to look after the stock by himself, but if he wound up needing any help, Rawlings and the others would be glad to provide it. They had to stick together, Rawlings said.

  Beaumont was riding the range when the bawling of a cow drew him over to the creek. He saw right away that a calf had gotten bogged down in some mud. The old mama cow stood off to the side, letting out the mournful, miserable sounds that had drawn Beaumont’s attention. As he shook out a loop in his rope, the young Ranger grinned and called to the mama cow, “Don’t worry, bossy, I’ll get your baby out of the mud.”

  He edged his horse farther out on the creek bank and swung the loop over his head. His first throw dropped neatly over the calf’s head. He took a dally around the horn and backed his horse away from the stream, taking up the slack in the rope. He couldn’t pull the calf out by the neck, but by giving the calf something to brace itself against, he thought the critter would now be able to extricate itself from the mud. If it couldn’t, he would just have to wade out there and move the loop so that it was around the calf’s body. That would be muddy work, though.

  It felt good to be doing things like this, Beaumont reflected as he kept the rope taut and watched the calf struggle for purchase. Just
because he hadn’t done much cowboying in his life didn’t mean that he was no good at it. He could make a hand. It wouldn’t be a bad way to live, if he hadn’t been a lawman.

  Being a Ranger was always going to come first and foremost in his life, though. Well, first after Victoria . . . The thought of his wife made a pang of longing go through Beaumont. Lord, but he missed her!

  Between concentrating on freeing the calf from the mud and thinking about Victoria, Beaumont didn’t even hear the man riding up behind him until the gent was right there on the creek bank beside him.

  “Howdy,” the man said. He was lean and dark, with a black leather vest over a wool shirt. A black Stetson sat on thick, glossy dark hair. He wore a Colt in a tied-down holster, but he had a friendly smile on his face and didn’t appear to be looking for trouble.

  Beaumont returned the stranger’s nod. “Afternoon,” he said.

  “Looks like you’ve got a calf bogged down,” the man said, stating the obvious.

  “Yeah, but he’ll get loose here in a minute.”

  As if to prove Beaumont right, the calf finally reached solid enough ground so that it was able to stumble up out of the mud. The mama cow rushed over and started trying to lick its offspring clean.

  Beaumont rode close enough to loosen the rope around the calf’s neck and then flip it free. As he began coiling the rope, he walked his horse back over to the stranger and asked, “Something I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Al Rawlings’ spread.”

  “It’s about four miles from here,” Beaumont explained. “Follow the creek for a ways and then cut west. You’ll probably run into some fences, though. I’d advise you to go around them. It’ll be out of your way but safer.”

  The stranger smiled again, but this time the expression wasn’t so friendly. “Fences, eh? Never cared for them, myself.”

  “Maybe not, but the ranchers who put them up don’t take kindly to having them cut.”

  The man took out the makin’s and began to roll a quirly. “I never worry overmuch about what a man will think of me, especially some fat, pompous cattle baron.” He lipped the cigarette and said around it, “My name’s Coburn.”

  “Call me Tye,” Beaumont said.

  Coburn grinned as he struck a lucifer. “What you’re sayin’ is that Tye ain’t your real name?”

  “That’s pretty much my business,” Beaumont said stiffly.

  “It sure is. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Beaumont allowed. “Why are you looking for Rawlings?”

  “That’s pretty much my business.”

  Beaumont shrugged. He glanced at the gun on Coburn’s hip. “Al and his sister are friends of mine,” he said. “I don’t want to see any trouble come calling on them.”

  The thought had crossed his mind that Coburn might be a hired gun. He had that look about him.

  “Don’t worry,” Coburn said. “I heard that Rawlings and the rest of the little ranchers around here have been having problems. The big ranchers are trying to stampede them.”

  “You could say that,” Beaumont agreed cautiously.

  Coburn puffed on the quirly and said, “I thought I’d offer to give them a hand. I hate to see a bunch of damn rich men trying to lord it over the little fellas.”

  “You mean to volunteer your services . . . or sell them?” Beaumont asked bluntly.

  Coburn chuckled. “Nobody’s ever called me charitable. I don’t mind givin’ folks a break, though, when I think they’re in the right. And it’s sure as hell not right what the big cattlemen have been doing around here.”

  “You’ve heard all about it, have you?”

  “Word gets around,” Coburn said, “especially in my line of work.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Coburn,” Beaumont said. “You can make a lot more money by hiring out to Earl Duggan and his friends.” He had a reason for pointing Coburn in that direction. It was Beaumont’s hope that if the gunfighter went to work for Duggan, Frank Morgan could keep an eye on him. If Coburn wound up on the side of Rawlings and the other small ranchers, the fact that they had a fast gun working for them might make them bold enough to stir up more trouble. That was what Beaumont wanted to avoid. He still held out a faint hope that the conflict might die a natural death.

  “Like I said, I like to choose the side I work for in any range war,” Coburn replied, his voice a little cool now. “Maybe I should start wondering which side you’re on, my young friend.”

  “I’m with Rawlings and the others,” Beaumont said without hesitation. He realized a little too late that his comments to Coburn might bring him under suspicion if the gun-thrower passed them on to Rawlings. He went on. “In fact, just to prove it, I’ll take you to the Rawlings ranch right now.”

  “Well, that’s mighty kind of you. I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  Beaumont heeled his horse into motion and rode toward the cabin. Coburn fell in alongside him. As they came in sight of the cabin a few minutes later, Beaumont saw a pair of riders drawing to a halt there. More visitors, he thought, wondering who they were.

  As he and Coburn came closer, he recognized Al Rawlings and Callie Stratton. “Looks like I won’t have to take you to see Rawlings after all,” he said to Coburn. “That’s him right there, along with his sister.”

  Coburn grinned. “I’ve heard that she’s a real hellion.”

  “Miss Callie’s got red hair and the temper to go with it,” Beaumont admitted. “But she’s a good woman.”

  Rawlings and Callie had dismounted and were waiting there, holding their horses’ reins, when Beaumont and Coburn rode up. Rawlings looked warily at the stranger and said, “Afternoon, Tye. Who’s this?”

  “Says his name’s Coburn. He was looking for you, Al.”

  “Is that so?” Rawlings looked directly at the gunman. “I’m Al Rawlings. What can I do for you?”

  Coburn leaned on his saddle horn and grinned. His gaze darted to Callie, lingered for an appreciative second. Then he said to Rawlings, “I’m hoping I can do something for you, friend. I’ve heard that you’re having trouble with the big ranchers hereabouts. I’d like to throw in with you, if you’ll have me.”

  Callie said, “You don’t look much like a rancher.”

  Coburn’s grin widened. “No, ma’am, I’m not. But I’m sort of a specialist in handling trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  Rawlings rubbed his jaw. “You’re a hired gun,” he said flatly.

  “That’s right. I never believed in sugarcoating things.”

  “Why do you want to throw in with us? You can make a lot more money by hiring out to Duggan.”

  Coburn glanced over at Beaumont. “That’s what our young friend here told me. I told him I preferred to pick my own side in any fight.”

  “You told him that?” Rawlings snapped at Beaumont.

  The young Ranger shrugged. “So did you,” he pointed out. “It’s pretty darned obvious, ain’t it?”

  Callie laughed at that. “He’s got you there, Al,” she said.

  Rawlings ignored her and turned his attention back to Coburn. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Coburn. Flint Coburn.”

  “I reckon I’ve heard of you. You were mixed up in some bad ruckuses up in Wyoming and Montana.”

  “It says something for me that I’m still alive, then, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” Rawlings frowned in thought and then nodded. “I’d like to talk to you about this some more, Coburn, as well as bringing in some friends of mine. It might be we could get together and make it worth your while to stay around Brown County for a while.”

  “Al, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Callie began.

  Again her brother ignored her. He went on. “Right now, though, I’ve got to talk to Beaumont here. There’s news from town.”

  Beaumont’s interest quickened. “News? About Chris?”

  “That’s right,” Rawlings said. “He woke up yester
day, but we just heard about it today.”

  Beaumont couldn’t help but grin. “That’s good news, then. He must be going to recover.”

  “It looks like it, but I don’t know how good the news is,” Rawlings said.

  “But . . . if he’s going to be all right . . .”

  “The law plans to put him on trial,” Rawlings said, “if it gets that far. But there’s already talk around town that it may not.”

  “May not come to trial, you mean?”

  “Yeah . . . because some folks are talking about lynching him instead.”

  27

  Skeet Harlan was at the bar in the Double O when Marshal Keever found him. Keever jerked his head peremptorily and said, “Come on back to the office, Skeet. Trouble’s brewing.”

  Harlan didn’t like being talked to that way, but he was willing to put up with it for a while longer, at least until he saw whether or not McKelvey’s plan was going to come together and result in the big payoff that the saloon keeper insisted it would.

  “What’s up, Marshal?” Harlan asked as the two lawmen left the saloon and turned down Fisk Avenue toward their office.

  Keever scowled and said, “I’m hearing rumors that some of the cattlemen plan to bust Chris Kane out of the county jail and string him up.”

  “That’s Wilmott’s lookout, ain’t it?”

  “He’s liable to call on us for help. We need to be ready.”

  Keever was a damned fool, Harlan thought. He was content to settle for petty graft and corruption instead of keeping his eye on bigger things. Harlan had known that when he first drifted into town and went to work for the man, but he figured he would be able to find someone else in Brownwood who was more ambitious. It hadn’t taken long for him and Ace McKelvey to recognize in each other kindred larcenous spirits. There was already trouble brewing between the big ranchers like Duggan and the greasy-sack owners like Rawlings. McKelvey’s plan was to fan those flames until they blew up into a real blaze. Then, when the conflagration threatened to consume the whole town, the gunmen McKelvey had hired would sweep in and loot the place, emptying out the banks and all the businesses. It was a daring, audacious plan that would net them a fortune.