She smiled, lessening the severity of her abrupt speech, and she had all her own teeth, Ten decided. She also had Priscilla’s gray eyes. A bit more at ease, he told her the story. When he had finished, she spoke.
“This doesn’t sound like the Priscilla I know. When she was little, she spent her summers at our horse ranch in Kentucky. The child was always being thrown, and I feared she was going to kill herself. But she never gave up.”
“This is different,” said Ten. “She’s not thinkin’ of herself, but of me. We’d planned to ride to the high country, to start us a ranch, and she feels like she’s let me down.”
Charlie Two Hats’s tally revealed the Lipan Apaches had fifteen hundred longhorns in their canyon holding pen. They would sell what they had and join the gather, riding the brakes and roping as many more cows as they could find.
“Catch cow,” said Two Hats, “all same pen.”
“Good,” said Marty. “Put our cows in the canyon with their gather?”
Charlie Two Hats nodded. It would take an enormous burden off Marty and the outfit, allowing them the freedom to rope wild longhorns without fear of Comanches or outlaws stampeding what they’d already gathered.
“This may be easier than we thought,” said Marty. “With the Lipans out there in the brakes with us, and our gather goin’ in their canyon, I reckon we can spend a day in town.”
Following his return from St. Louis, Ten had paid Charlie Two Hats and his riders for the first trail drive. Marty had no idea what Indians might do in town, with money in their pockets, so he laid a warning on Two Hats.
“No whiskey, Charlie. Comprender? No firewater.”
“Comprender,” said Two Hats. “Malo.”
It was good advice, as far as it went. Marty, as he was to discover, should had prohibited gambling along with the whiskey.
When Ten, Jesse Chisholm, and Prudence Edgerton reached the hospital, they found Priscilla distraught and angry.
“A man from the newspaper was here,” she cried. “They’re going to print something about me!”
“Let them,” said Ten. “If we don’t tell them anything, what can they say, except that you’re in the hospital? The doctor won’t talk to them.”
While the arrival of Prudence Edgerton had some positive effect, there was no real change in Priscilla. The New Orleans papers speculated in print as to the reason for her continued stay in the hospital, and Ten finally pulled his Colt on a reporter who persisted in hounding him. But there was much interest in Priscilla because of André LeBeau’s confessed ties to Jason Brawn. While Brawn had been arrested, he had hired the nation’s best attorneys and had posted bond. He would soon be going to trial.
Jesse Chisholm left for Indian Territory on the first of February. His last visit to Priscilla accomplished no more than had the first. Prudence Edgerton took a hotel room, while Ten remained in the private room adjoining Priscilla’s room at the hospital. It seemed the grandmother’s presence had accomplished little.
“Ma’am,” said Ten, “I’m sorry I brought you all this way for nothing, but I thought—”
“You thought it would help her,” said Prudence Edgerton, “and I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t sent me that telegram. Now stop calling me ma’am. I’m Prudence.”
“All right,” he said, “Prudence it is.” Despite their predicament, he grinned at the peppery woman.
“I’ve run the doctors ragged,” said Prudence, “and I’m satisfied there’s nothing more they can do. Dr. Bannister says she needs something strong, a shock, to jolt her out of that state she’s in. He says she’ll walk again only if something cuts her to the quick, touching her heart and mind in such a way that she forgets this affliction.”
“But what?” Ten cried. “What’s it going to take?”
“Give her another week,” said Prudence, “until Jason Brawn’s trial ends. Priscilla’s in for the shock of her life, and perhaps you will be too.”
It was near sundown Saturday evening when Marty led the outfit into San Antone. They rode past the ruins of the Alamo, the famed old mission where 180 valiant men had stood off Santa Ana and the Mexican army for thirteen days. They reined up before the little hotel where Marty, Wes, Chris, and Lou had stayed before.
“Charlie,” said Marty, “this is where we’ll be if you need us. Now the rest of you can stay where you like, or sleep in the brush. We’re goin’ in and have ourselves a bath before we do anything else.”
Two Hats and his riders went clattering away. The little hotel had but one bathtub, and it took a while for each of them to have a turn at it. Afterward, they found a restaurant and had supper.
“This bein’ Saturday night,” said Marty, “the barbershop ought to still be open. Me and Wes is needin’ our ears lowered.”
“Then walk us back to the hotel,” said Chris.
They had to wait their turn, and were an hour getting out of the barbershop. Marty eyed the Mexican barber with misgivings, but didn’t say anything until they’d left the shop.
“Makes me almighty nervous, havin’ a Mex standin’ over me with a straight razor, after the whippin’ we give ’em at San Jacinto.”
They passed the Alamo Saloon, and found four of their horses tied at the hitch rail.
“Them damn Injuns,” said Marty. “I’d better not find ’em bellied up to the bar. Come on, let’s see what they’re doin’ in there.”
Cactus, Crowspeak, Sashavado, and Tejano would have been far safer at the bar. Instead, they sat around a poker table whose fifth occupant had the look of a professional gambler and killer. He wore a solid black coat, a white boiled shirt, and a flowing black string tie. His face was thin, his ears large, and his brushy black moustache curled up on the ends. A high silk hat was perched on his head, tilted rakishly over his left eye. He might have been an undertaker, and as Marty and Wes were to learn, it was a look that suited his reputation. Smoke shrouded the room like a fog, and the lamps that hung from the ceiling were barely visible. Marty and Wes moved closer. Tejano was shuffling the cards when the little man in the silk hat twisted around in his chair and spoke to a young man standing behind him. His voice was cold, deadly.
“Friend, I don’t take kindly to strangers comin’ up behind me, puttin’ their hands on me. Now, vamoose.”
“I’m with the newspaper,” said the young man persistently. “Is it true that you’re Ben Thompson, that you’re going to Mexico to join the army of Emperor Maximilian?”
Before the unfortunate newspaperman knew what was happening, he found himself hoisted up on his toes, a fistful of his shirt in Thompson’s left hand. The Colt in Thompson’s right was cocked and ready, its muzzle under the very nose of the inquisitive young man.
“I said vamoose,” Thompson snarled. With a violent shove, he sent the unfortunate young man sprawling to the sawdust floor. Thompson turned back to the poker table, the Colt disappeared, and the gambler took his seat. He ignored the cards Tejano had dealt him, and when he spoke, it was loud enough for everybody to hear.
“I don’t like the way you deal, chief.”
When Thompson kicked back his chair, Marty shot out the lamp that hung almost directly over the poker table. His second and third shots took out two more lamps, with a shower of oil and a tinkle of glass. Somebody in the rear of the saloon got into the spirit of things and shot out the rest of the lamps. Marty and Wes began fighting their way toward the door. There was the sodden thud of fists, shouts, curses, the tinkling of breaking glass, and a resounding, jangling crash that could only be the big mirror behind the bar. Being afoot, Marty and Wes lost themselves in the shadows. Looking back, they saw riders galloping away into the night.
“My God,” breathed Wes, “just who is Ben Thompson, anyhow?”
“There’s not a colder-blooded killer west of the Mississippi,” said Marty. “In New Orleans he once challenged another man to a knife fight. They fought in a darkened room, with the door locked.”
February 1, 1867. Ten sat in
a chair next to Priscilla’s bed while she stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. It was Sunday night, and the lamp had been lighted on the nightstand. Rain rattled against the small window next to Priscilla’s bed. Jason Brawn’s trial would begin in the morning, and the newspapers continued to print gossip, going so far as to resurrect old stories wherein Brawn had courted Priscilla. Ten kept the papers from her; things were bad enough. He wondered at Prudence Edgerton’s keen interest in the trial of Jason Brawn. She had delayed her return to Louisville for a week, and Ten had agreed to accompany her to the courthouse until the trial was over. He had a sickening feeling Jason Brawn would wriggle off the hook and go free. The defense attorneys had been talking to the press, making no secret of their strategy. André LeBeau had been into Jason Brawn for more than fifty thousand dollars in gambling debts, and when he had tried to collect, LeBeau hadn’t been able to pay. LeBeau had been a vindictive man, and before taking his own life, had framed Jason Brawn with a bogus confession. There wasn’t a single witness against Brawn, the defense lawyers crowed. LeBeau was to be branded as the culprit behind the smuggling and black-marketing activities the government was attempting to pin on Jason Brawn.
Ten and Prudence reached the Federal courthouse an hour before Brawn’s trial was to begin, and then almost didn’t get a seat. When Brawn entered the courtroom with his attorneys, he was smiling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Look at him,” Ten growled. “He’s got it all bought and paid for.”
“Maybe not,” said Prudence. “It’s not over yet.”
For three days the prosecution dragged through the dismal reading of John Mathewson’s files and LeBeau’s final twelve-page letter. On the fourth day, the judge cleared his throat.
“Will there be any witnesses for the prosecution?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the Federal prosecutor. “The prosecution calls John Mathewson to the stand.”
To Marty’s surprise, there was no trouble as a result of the saloon brawl. Union troops occupied San Antonio, of course, but he suspected they wouldn’t become unduly upset, as long as Texans were fighting Texans. If the soldiers involved themselves in every Saturday night saloon fight, they’d soon have time for little else. When the four Indian riders showed up Sunday afternoon, they were the envy of their comrades. Sashavado’s left eye was swollen shut, and their cut and bruised faces were ample proof of the conflict. They knew they were in for it, and Marty didn’t disappoint them.
“Pay attention, you slick-dealin’ jaybirds,” he said sternly. “From now on, when you sit in a poker game, keep it honest. I don’t care how much you cheat one another, but next time you cold-deck a snake-mean killer like Ben Thompson, I’ll back off and let him shoot your gizzards full of lead.”
Their gather, even with the help of the Lipan Apaches, went more slowly than expected. Each day they rode farther south, and the herd grew not nearly as rapidly as they had hoped.
There was pandemonium in the courtroom when John Mathewson stepped out of the judge’s chambers to the left of the bench.
“Order!” the judge shouted. “Order, or I’ll clear the courtroom!”
Mathewson had brought with him additional evidence against Jason Brawn, but it soon became obvious the Federal prosecutor had something more serious in mind.
“Mr. Mathewson,” said the prosecutor, “last September second, you were ambushed on the docks by several armed men. Did you recognize those men?”
“I did,” said Mathewson. “A pair of Jason Brawn’s hired killers.”
“I object,” Brawn’s lawyer shouted.
“Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge cut in, “are you prepared to prove that accusation?”
“We are, Your Honor,” said the prosecuting attorney. “These men should already be in custody.”
“Objection overruled,” said the judge. “Let us dispense with this one question at a time by the prosecution. Mr. Mathewson, please explain to the court how and why this took place, and your role in it.”
“This is highly irregular,” shouted Brawn’s lawyer. “I object.”
“Objection overruled,” said the judge. “Go ahead, Mr. Mathewson.”
“Black-marketing and smuggling ran rampant during the recent war,” said Mathewson, “and Jason Brawn was the only man powerful enough and rich enough to handle it. He played on LeBeau’s weakness for gambling because he needed somebody to take a fall. Trouble was, I saw LeBeau for the puppet he was, and began using him to get to Brawn. That’s when Brawn decided to get rid of me. When I found his killers were stalking me, awaiting their chance, I gave it to them. When I returned from a trip, to Washington, I made known the time of my arrival, and purposely took a boat that arrived after dark. There were government agents trailing the would-be killers who trailed me. I purposely let them make their play on the docks, so I could disappear into the river. I was picked up by an unmarked, unlighted government packet, and I’ve been under cover in St. Louis until now.”
“Phenomenal story,” said the judge. “Mr. Prosecutor, have you anything to add?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “I expect these two would-be killers will sing like mockingbirds. In view of that, the prosecution will be filing charges of attempted murder against Mr. Brawn.”
“Your Honor,” bawled Brawn’s lawyer, “we request a recess until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, to study this, ah…new development.”
“Does the prosecution have any objection?” the judge asked.
“None, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor.
“Under the circumstances,” said the judge, “bailiff will take the defendent into custody. Court is recessed until nine o’clock in the morning.”
Newspapermen and friends literally mobbed John Mathewson.
“Come on,” said Prudence. “We’ll have our turn with him. First, we’re going to see someone else.”
Emily, Priscilla’s mother, had stepped out of the judge’s chambers and stood there uncertainly. She wore a long dark dress, and her hair, even with some gray, reminded Ten of Priscilla’s. Ten was uncomfortable, not knowing how to greet her. She ignored his outstretched hand and threw her arms around him. When she backed away, there were tears on her cheeks, and her first words were almost a whisper.
“How…is she? How is Priscilla?”
“Not good, ma’am,” said Ten. “She doesn’t believe she can walk, and she won’t try.”
“Oh, I’ve wanted to go to her,” cried Emily, “but I wanted John with me, and he couldn’t reveal himself until after his testimony.”
Ten felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face a grinning John Mathewson.
“I’ve blessed the day I sent you to save Priscilla,” he said, “and cursed myself a thousand times for leaving you to face all the dragons alone. But we had to convince Brawn he was rid of me, and give LeBeau time to break.”
“You did what you had to do,” Ten said, “and I don’t think anything less would have worked. I’d go through it all again for Priscilla, but now she’s needin’ help beyond what I can give.”
“We have a surprise for her,” said Mathewson. “The day after Emily became a widow, she and I were married in St. Louis.”
“I’m glad for both of you,” Ten said, “but I doubt it will be enough of a shock to help Priscilla.”
“There’s more,” said Prudence. “Let’s go shock that girl out of her sickbed.”
When they reached the hospital, Ten, Mathewson, and Prudence remained in the hall, allowing Emily to enter the room alone. She paused in the doorway, and at first Priscilla could say nothing. When she spoke, it was with a sob.
“Mother?”
Emily dropped to her knees beside the bed, and there were no words, only tears. Finally Emily got to her feet, drying her eyes on a white linen handkerchief.
“Priscilla,” she said, “I—There’s someone I…want you to meet.”
She went to the door and John Mathewson accompanied her into the room. P
riscilla looked at him uncertainly, never having met him.
“Priscilla,” said Emily, “this is John. John Mathewson. He and I were married in St. Louis.”
Priscilla’s face went white. She almost fell out of the bed, using the bed post to pull herself shakily to her feet. John Mathewson had backed away, leaving Emily and Priscilla face-to-face.
“All these years,” cried Priscilla, “you’ve lived a lie, taking a lover but keeping the LeBeau name. He was no good, but he was my father.”
“Priscilla,” Emily cried, “André LeBeau was no more a father to you than he was husband to me. Your real father is John Mathewson!”
33
For the next week, John Mathewson spent at least an hour a day with Priscilla. Nobody knew what they talked about, but Priscilla’s cheeks began to fill out, her appetite improved, and she began to walk. The day Priscilla left the hospital, they celebrated with a gala supper in one of the fanciest hotel dining rooms. Priscilla sat between John and Emily, while Prudence and Ten sat on the other side of the table.
“It’s time I was going home,” said Prudence. “Is there any reason the four of you can’t go with me? Ten and Priscilla already owe me a visit, so why don’t we just make it a family affair?”
“I’d like that,” Priscilla said. “The rest of our outfit is in Texas, gathering another herd of longhorns. I think I’m going to write them a letter, in care of Captain Fanning, at Fort Worth. I’m going to ask them to finish this gather and take the herd on to Abilene. Me and Ten can meet them there. We can take a steamboat from Louisville to St. Louis, and from there to Kansas City, and ride the train on to Abilene.”
“Why is it so important you be in Abilene?” Prudence asked. Her eyes were on Ten, but he nodded to Priscilla, and she continued.
“Because we’re going from there back to Texas,” said Priscilla, “and this time, we’ll be buying mostly breeding stock. Ten and I are looking forward to that. I’ll never forget those first few days in New Orleans, when he promised I’d ride alongside him into the high country, when I was convinced I’d never walk again. He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and if I never do anything else, I’m riding with him to the high plains.”
The Chisholm Trail Page 34