Bloody Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  “‘The face that launched a thousand ships’,” he murmured, “‘and burnt the topless towers of Ilium.’”

  “Huh?” Ernie said with a frown.

  Luke shook his head and waved away the question. He said, “Never mind. I’ll see you, Ernie. I’m not leaving the ranch, just moving across to the house.”

  “All right, Mr. Jensen.”

  Luke wouldn’t have been completely surprised if he’d found Glory waiting for him in his room when he got back to the house, but it was empty in the light of the single candle burning on the table. That was probably a good thing, he thought. He hung his saddlebags over the back of a chair, then moved the other chair close to the bed. He took off his gun belt and coiled it, placing it on the chair so that the butts of the Remingtons were handy if he needed them in a hurry during the night.

  Once he’d taken off his boots, blown out the candle, and stretched out on the bed, it was a while before he went to sleep.

  His brain was too full of questions, and answers were in short supply.

  “How did you sleep last night?” Glory asked him at breakfast the next morning.

  “Fine,” Luke said, which was stretching the truth by a considerable amount. Not only had he had trouble dozing off, but once he did, his sore muscles had stiffened up, so that every time he shifted on the mattress, twinges of pain disturbed his slumber. He thought he was lucky Whitey Singletary hadn’t battered him even more during their fracas.

  Glory looked fresh and lovely in a denim riding skirt and white blouse with a brown rawhide vest over it. When Pendleton came in to ask her if she wanted the wagon team hitched up, she said, “No, just have Ernie or Vince saddle my horse instead. I’ll ride to town with you and Luke.”

  Pendleton had his hat in his hands. He turned it over, fidgeting with it as he said, “It’s a good long ride to Painted Post.”

  “I know, but we have plenty of time to get there before the inquest. We won’t push ourselves or the horses.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am,” Pendleton responded with a nod. He left the house.

  Glory looked at Luke over her coffee cup and said, “I still think you’re wrong about him, you know.”

  Luke just shrugged. If Glory couldn’t see how Pendleton felt, maybe she was being willfully blind.

  When they came out of the house, Glory’s big white horse was saddled and ready to go. Luke’s dun was waiting, too. As he checked the saddle, Pendleton and three of the MC hands rode up.

  “Are those other men coming along?” Glory asked her foreman. “The three of us are the only ones who have to testify.”

  “Verne Finn and some of those other gunhawks would love to catch the three of us out alone between here and town,” Pendleton said. “If anybody jumps us, I want to be able to put up a fight.”

  “Do you think Elston’s men would try to ambush us?”

  “Ma’am, after everything they’ve done, I wouldn’t put anything past that bunch.”

  “I don’t think I would, either,” Glory said. She smiled at the three cowboys. “I hate to take you men away from your work, but honestly, I’ll be glad for your company.”

  “It’s our pleasure, ma’am,” one of them replied.

  The six riders left the ranch headquarters and followed the road southeastward through Sabado Valley. It was a pretty day, with some high, thin white clouds in the bright blue sky. Good weather was no guarantee there wouldn’t be any trouble, though. Pendleton and the other men seemed to understand that. They spread out so they surrounded Glory, and their eyes never stopped moving as they scanned the countryside for any warning signs.

  “From what Sam told me about the old days, it was like this before most of the Apaches moved across the border into Mexico,” Glory said. “Any group that set out to go anywhere was well-armed and on the alert. You never knew what you might run into when you rode away from home.”

  “It’ll always be that way,” Pendleton said. “If it’s not Apaches, it’ll be outlaws, and if it’s not outlaws, it’ll be hired guns. There’ll always be something out there that’s dangerous.”

  “You don’t think things will ever settle down and be peaceful?” Glory asked.

  Pendleton spat and said, “Peace is just another word for your enemies trying to lull you to sleep. What do you think, Jensen?”

  “‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,’” Luke quoted.

  “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a man to quote scripture.”

  “What’s that?” Luke said as he nodded his head toward a long ridge on their left. A faint haze of dust hung in the air over there.

  “Riders,” Pendleton said. “Can’t see ’em, but they’re there.”

  “Maybe some bronco Apaches?”

  Pendleton rubbed his jaw.

  “Could be,” he admitted. “Or it might be Elston’s men. Either way, we could be riding right into trouble.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Despite the obvious nervousness gripping Pendleton and the other ranch hands, the dust along the ridge never veered from its path. After a while, it even moved ahead of Luke and his companions, indicating that the other party was moving faster.

  Pendleton noticed that, too, and muttered, “Wonder what they’re in such an all-fired hurry about?”

  “Maybe trying to get ahead of us so they can set up an ambush?” Luke suggested.

  Pendleton started to curse, then caught himself with a glance at Glory.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Gabe,” she told him. “With everything that’s going on these days, I sometimes feel like letting out a few choice words myself.”

  By the time they came in sight of Painted Post, everybody’s nerves were stretched taut, but nothing had happened. That was almost worse than if it had, Luke reflected. Like a day when the air was heavy and ominous with an impending storm, the continuing threat of trouble could make a man wish that all hell would go ahead and break loose, just to get it over with.

  The sun was directly overhead, so it was still a couple of hours until the inquest. Glory reined to a halt in front of the Elite Café and said to the others, “We have plenty of time to get some lunch.”

  One of the cowboys said, “If it’s all right with you, ma’am, they’ve got a free lunch down to the Buckhorn Saloon. We thought we might head that direction. . . .”

  “And cut some of the trail dust at the same time?” Glory laughed. “What do you think, Gabe?”

  “Don’t get drunk,” Pendleton told his men. “And stay out of trouble. If any Lazy EO hands happen to come in, steer clear of them. If you start a brawl, you’ll land behind bars. You know Sheriff Whittaker will seize any excuse to throw you in the hoosegow.”

  “We’ll behave ourselves, Gabe,” another man promised with a grin.

  “See that you do.”

  The three cowboys turned their horses and rode slowly along the street toward the saloon.

  “You’re not going with them, Gabe?” Glory asked.

  “I’ll stick with you and Jensen,” Pendleton said. “I’ve spent enough of my life in smoky, boozy saloons.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll be glad for your company. Won’t we, Luke?”

  “Sure,” Luke said. He actually didn’t mind. Better to have Pendleton where he could keep an eye on him, rather than the foreman being off somewhere drinking and stewing and nursing a jealous grudge.

  They went into the Elite and this time got the last empty table. The special today was beef stew, and it was very good, Luke thought. People in this settlement sure couldn’t complain about the eats.

  “How long have you worked for the MC, Pendleton?” Luke asked as they lingered over coffee.

  “What business is it of yours?” Pendleton replied with a suspicious frown.

  Glory said, “I think Luke is just trying to make friendly conversation, Gabe.”

  “That’s right,” Luke said. “I was talking to Teresa yesterday evening, and she told me that her
late husband was Sam MacCrae’s foreman when he started the ranch.”

  “That’s right,” Pendleton said with grudging civility. “I remember old Enrique Salazar. He’s the one who hired me when I was nothing but a green kid. He was the ramrod, and Kaintuck was his segundo, back in the days before the old pelican got too stove up to make a riding hand. Reckon you could say I learned everything I know about being a cowboy from those two, although Salazar called us vaqueros.”

  With a wistful smile, Glory said, “From everything I’ve heard, they were quite a trio, Sam and Enrique Salazar and Kaintuck. They carved the MC out of wilderness and made it a real ranch. They had to fight the Apaches every step of the way, too.”

  “Sometimes I miss the old days,” Pendleton said, “but I wouldn’t go back to all that Indian fighting. It’s bad enough having to deal with the varmints we have around these days.”

  Luke asked, “How did MacCrae get along with the other ranchers who moved into Sabado Valley?”

  “There weren’t any other ranchers at first. When they started showing up, they looked to Mr. MacCrae for leadership, since he’d been in these parts longer than anybody else. He was a well-respected man. Didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  “Until Harry Elston came along,” Glory said. “Elston bought out one of the other ranchers, a friend of Sam’s who was in poor health, and once he looked around he set his sights on the MC. He’s one of those men who can’t stand for anybody to have something better than he does. He’ll take it away, no matter what he has to do to get it.”

  “So Elston’s the only real enemy your husband had,” Luke said.

  “That’s right. That’s why there’s never been any doubt in my mind that the man who killed him was somebody who works for Elston.”

  That made sense . . . on the surface. But sometimes a man’s enemies were too close for him to see, Luke thought. Like a young, beautiful new wife, or a supposedly loyal foreman, or . . .

  Was there any chance that they were in it together?

  The thought made Luke look at them in a new light. He was convinced that Pendleton had feelings for Glory, but so far she had shown no signs of returning those feelings. She seemed to regard him as a valued employee, but that was all.

  Maybe she was just better at hiding what she really felt than Pendleton was, Luke mused. He couldn’t dismiss the possibility that they’d been sleeping together . . . and plotting together as well.

  Or maybe he was seeing conspiracies where none existed. Regardless of what Glory had or hadn’t done back in Baltimore, the situation here in Sabado Valley might be exactly what it appeared to be.

  Glory slipped a gold turnip watch from a pocket in her riding skirt and opened it to check the time. It was a bigger, heavier watch than women usually carried, a man’s watch, and Luke wondered if it had belonged to Sam MacCrae. As Glory snapped it closed, though, he caught a glimpse of some initials engraved inside the lid. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they were AJ.

  Alfred Jennings.

  “We should be getting on down to the courthouse,” Glory said as she put the watch away. She laid a five-dollar gold piece on the table and stood up. Luke and Pendleton were on their feet by the time she reached hers.

  Word of the inquest had gotten around town and probably spread to the ranches in the area, too, and as a result Painted Post was more crowded than usual this afternoon. An inquest wasn’t exactly the same as a trial, but it was interesting enough that Luke expected the courtroom to be full.

  As they approached the courthouse, Luke saw several men leaning on a hitch rail where a buggy was tied. He recognized the men first, and then the buggy. It belonged to Harry Elston, and the men leaning on the rail worked for him. Verne Finn gave Luke a sardonic grin.

  Pendleton had seen the gunmen, too. He said, “Looks like Elston’s in town for the inquest.”

  “That’s no concern of mine,” Glory said.

  “Could that have been his bunch kicking up that dust we saw this morning?” Luke asked Pendleton.

  “More than likely,” the foreman replied. “There’s a trail on the other side of that ridge that leads all the way through the valley and on up to Elston’s ranch. Wonder why he decided to come in.”

  “I suspect we’ll find out,” Luke said.

  Spectators had packed into the courtroom, and more stood outside. Luke, Glory, and Pendleton might have had trouble making their way through the mob if Whitey Singletary hadn’t been stationed outside the doors of the courtroom. The burly deputy bellowed, “Get outta the way! Let those folks through!”

  His voice was distorted by the heavy bandage over his broken nose. He glared at Luke with murderous hate in his eyes as Luke went past. He was tempted to make some comment, but setting Singletary off on a rampage wouldn’t really accomplish anything.

  Jared Whittaker was already inside the courtroom, standing to one side near the front of the room. He had his arms crossed over his chest and wore a scowl on his face that darkened when he looked at Luke. He didn’t have any friends among the local lawmen, that was for sure, Luke reflected wryly.

  Whittaker pushed away from the wall, walked over to meet them, and pointed at some empty seats in the front row.

  “Sit there,” he said curtly. “The judge’ll be here in a few minutes. And take your hats off. This is a civilized proceeding.”

  “I suspect that I’ve spent more time in actual civilization than you have, Sheriff,” Glory said as she removed her hat. Luke and Pendleton took off their hats as well.

  “Just because a town’s got a lot of people in it doesn’t make it civilized,” Whittaker said.

  “I’m surprised that we’re actually in philosophical agreement on something, Sheriff,” Luke told him.

  Whittaker just glared at him and went back over to lean against the wall.

  A few minutes later, a door on one side of the room opened, and Whittaker straightened and called, “All rise!”

  Everybody in the courtroom got to their feet as Judge Hiram Marbright came in. He was a middle-aged, heavyset man with graying rusty hair and a face like a bulldog. Instead of judicial robes, he wore a brown tweed suit, boiled white shirt, and string tie. As he sat down behind his judge’s bench, he picked up a gavel, rapped it sharply, and growled, “Court’s in session. Sit down.”

  With a shuffle of feet, everyone in the room did so.

  Marbright took a pair of spectacles from his coat pocket, unfolded them, put them on, and picked up a sheet of paper from the bench in front of him. He glanced at it briefly, then said, “This is the official inquest into the deaths of one Dave Randall and an unknown man hereafter referred to as John Doe.”

  Luke and Glory glanced at each other. Dave Randall was the dead rustler Harry Elston had claimed he’d fired. They hadn’t known that Randall’s death was going to be part of the inquest as well. That probably explained why Elston was here.

  “This isn’t a trial,” Marbright went on. “We’ll seat a jury, and then I’ll hear testimony regarding these deaths. There won’t be any lawyers or objections or folderol like that. We just want the facts, and then the jury will determine the disposition of the case.”

  The judge picked six men from among the spectators, evidently citizens of Painted Post with whom he was acquainted, and told them to take a seat in the jury box. Since there were only six of them, they all fit in the first of two rows of chairs inside the box.

  “Our county coroner is Claude Lister,” Marbright continued. “Are you satisfied with the jury, Claude?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Lister said.

  “All right, then, you’ll be the first one to testify. Come on up here.”

  Lister took a seat in the witness chair and Whittaker swore him in. Marbright asked the undertaker to tell the court how the two decedents had met their demise.

  “They were shot, both of them.”

  “A single bullet wound to each, or multiple wounds?”

  “Just a single wound apiece, Your Hon
or.”

  “Well, that was good shooting, anyway,” Marbright said, which drew chuckles from some of the spectators. “Do you have anything else to add? Anything unusual about the condition of the bodies?”

  “No, sir. They were just dead, which is the way I nearly always get them.”

  Marbright frowned and said, “Nearly always?”

  “Well, you remember, judge, when old Harvey Driscoll woke up just when I was about to embalm him.”

  “That was lucky for old Harvey,” Marbright said. “Taught him not to pass out in an alley so drunk that nobody could tell if he was alive or dead!”

  The spectators laughed again as the judge told Lister he could step down.

  “I’ll hear from Gabe Pendleton next.”

  Pendleton looked uneasy as he went up to be sworn in. When he was seated, Marbright asked him to state his name and occupation for the record.

  “Gabe Pendleton. Foreman of the MC Ranch.”

  “Describe the incident that occurred the day before yesterday in which the deceased named Dave Randall lost his life.”

  “Well, Your Honor, some of the ranch hands and I were out checking the stock when we heard gunshots coming from the direction of a place we call Coyote Ridge. We went to see what the commotion was about, and when we got there, from the top of the ridge we spied some men around a branding fire. We knew they were rustlers, so we opened up on them.”

  “Just a moment. How did you know they were rustlers?”

  “They weren’t any of our crew,” Pendleton said. “Anybody else branding cattle on MC range is a rustler, plain and simple.”

  Marbright nodded and said, “All right. What happened then?”

  “They jumped on their horses and took off. They were shooting back at us, and they were shooting at a rider out on the flat in front of the ridge, too. He had them sort of penned in, so we chased ’em along the top of the bluff. That fella Randall, he was one of them, and during the fight he got shot out of the saddle. From the looks of it he was dead when he hit the ground.”