The Running Gun

by Jory Sherman

  “I’m Leon Law,” he said. “At your service.”

  “Now, that’s a real coincidence,” Allison said and laughed out loud.

  Dan walked quickly from the bar, feeling that he had been the butt of one big joke.

  Chapter Seven

  Dan knew he would have to come back to Waco, so he paid his hotel for three more days before he left, shortly after a breakfast of corn meal grits, bacon, eggs, and coffee. The little dining room had been deserted, and the cook was the only one there. He looked as if he’d made a night of it, with his eyes all bloodshot and his hands shaking like leaves in a windstorm.

  It pained Dan to trade Blue, but he knew he had to change horses. Too many people had seen him on that horse, and it carried Krebs’s brand on it. He did some trading at the livery, without having a bill of sale for Blue. The stables were clean, filled with the normal smells of urine and horse apples, fresh straw in the stalls, and grain and hay in the bins. They boarded, bought, and sold a number of horses, from what Dan could see, and had a good selection of saddle horses for sale or trade.

  “Long as you’ll sign a bill of sale to me, swearing the horse is yours legal, I’ll trade with you,” the stableman said. His name was Art Means, and he knew horseflesh.

  “I come by him fair and square,” Dan said, not wanting to tell Means the horse’s name. He might remember it to the wrong person.

  He traded Blue for a claybank gelding, sixteen hands high, with no blaze and only one white stocking, a flax mane and tail, good teeth, freshly shod, deep chest and good bottom. Art said the horse was six years old, and Dan verified that by looking at the horse’s teeth. He called the horse Dapper and put him under his single-cinch saddle. He traded even, much to the delight of Means, who knew he had gotten the better of the deal.

  He had not seen any more of Clay Allison or Leon Law, but the bar had been closed when he left the Double Eagle. He carried his bedroll, saddlebags, rifle and scabbard with him to the livery. By late morning he had let Blue go and taken possession of Dapper.

  He rode out of town without drawing attention to himself, and then, to make sure, he rode along the Brazos, past the old Indian village where the Texas Rangers had built their fort in 1837, then turned and rode the other way to see if anyone was following him. He remembered that the town of Waco had been established a dozen years after the fort was built, enjoyed some prosperity, with plantations springing up that grew corn, cattle, and cotton until the war. The war took a lot of the men away and the town almost died until the Chisholm Trail ran through it and started it booming again. But with rowdy cowboys, pistoleers, hard-cases, gamblers and the like, until it was where it was on this day, a town feeding on the rabble that came to it, left their money, and rode on to other cattle towns farther north.

  He looked at the once proud plantations that had lined the river and saw how dilapidated they had become since the war. Fields went untended, the livestock looked poor, as well. His own place was a few miles south and had not been as elegant as the plantations. His mother, Eileen, had kept it up since his father deserted them, and, of course, he and Jason had worked the land and made their small ranch prosperous, at least for their own modest needs.

  He did not want to arrive at his mother’s until after dark, a good four hours ride from town. He spent part of the afternoon at a creek he knew, resting beneath the shade of a cottonwood, admiring the new horse which was feeding on the succulent grasses that grew next to the creek banks.

  He thought of his mother and fretted at the worry she must be carrying. Calvin Harris had said he would stop by and tell her that her son, Jason, was dead but that Dan was still alive. Jason’s death must have torn her apart with the grieving for him. And he knew she would worry about him as well.

  He knew he could not tell her much about what had happened to him, but he would talk about Jason’s death, and he would have to lie about escaping from jail in Abilene and leave out the details. That was a promise he made to U.S. Marshal Ben Alexander. Lying to his mother would be hard, but it was necessary.

  He picked up a stick and began to draw lines idly in the dirt. He daydreamed and thought of Priscilla Reed and the letter she had written him while he was up in Kansas. It made his heart swell to know that she cared for him. He had loved her from afar and had been unable to express his love for her, his yearning. He wanted to see Priscilla, but he was not only timid about approaching her at her folks’ home, but scared, too. There was so much he wanted to tell her, so much more he could not tell her.

  He dug a hole in the dirt and then scribed a circle around it. He looked down, feeling that he was in some kind of hole, and surrounded by fences, barriers. Trapped in a limbo of life where he could not see out, could not get out. It was all very depressing as the sun eased across the sky in a vast arc and then began its slow descent toward the western horizon.

  A meadowlark trilled its brief song, repeated it with slight variations, then went silent. A bob-white quail took up the call as Dan mounted up and started riding slowly toward where his mother’s small ranch lay. He passed desolate cotton fields that now lay like graveyards with dead sticks for markers. The cornfields were just as untended; the few dead stalks still remaining were crumpled into limp globs that resembled the carcasses of large dead insects. Crows flapped in the distance, silent in the long shadows of afternoon, and the sun descended into a pool of fire in the west, leaving bright salmon clouds slowly turning to ash.

  He saw the golden light leaking from the windows when he was still far off. The moon was not yet up, and he could see only dark shapes that might have been anything, but were not human. The house seemed smaller in the dark, even from a distance, smaller than he remembered it being when he left. He smelled the scents of his mother’s garden and the musk of it gave him a heady feeling.

  Dan tied the reins to a peach tree that grew on the edge of an orchard surrounding the back and sides of the house in a large U-shape. He crept on foot through the orchard, which stopped a few yards from the back porch. The house seemed so small and black in the darkness, but the windows were visible, glowing with lamplight and he made out the outline of the back door, its openings gilded by that same light.

  He smelled the aromas drifting from the kitchen and knew his mother must be in the middle of canning. He knew the door would be open.

  Still, he knocked softly when he stood on the small back porch with the railing he and Jason had built for it.

  The door opened, and a black face peered blankly at him.

  “Oralee, it’s me. Dan,” he said, in a coarse whisper.

  “Who is it, Oralee?” He heard his mother’s voice, still strong and throaty.

  “Why it’s Mister Dan, Miss Eileen.”

  His mother screeched. “Dan!” There was elation in her voice.

  Dan stepped inside and his mother raced across the hardwood floor to embrace him. She peppered his cheeks with kisses and squeezed him so tightly he could hardly breathe. He put his arms around her and hugged her gently, until they both gasped for breath.

  “Oh, Dan,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you, to know you are safe and back home. Dear, you just don’t know how much I’ve worried about you.”

  “I worried about you, too, Ma.”

  Oralee had stepped to the side when mother and son came together. She beamed at the reunion and when Dan and his mother broke their embrace, she stepped in and put an arm around Dan, planted a kiss on his forehead.

  “It is good to have you back,” Oralee said.

  The kitchen was filled with steam and Dan smelled boiling tomatoes and green beans. Every burner on the wood stove bore a boiling pot. Jars were lined up on the sideboard and he heard the clink of glass from one of the boiling pots.

  “We’re just finishing up our canning for the day,” his mother said. “But, I want to talk to you. You must have so much to tell your old mother.”

  “I will finish the canning,” Oralee said. She was a middle-aged woman who helped his moth
er in the garden and with the washing. She was a widow, who lived alone on their property. Her husband, Miguel, had died a few years ago from a rattlesnake bite, and she had no children.

  “Would you, Oralee? Thank you. Then you must come to the front room and listen to what my son has to say.”

  “Yes, yes,” Oralee said. “Go, go.” She shooed them out of the kitchen. His mother took off her apron then fluffed her hair as they both entered the front room after a short walk down the hallway.

  Dan sat in his favorite chair and Eileen plopped down on the divan, tossing her apron to her side after wiping the perspiration from her face.

  The two exchanged meaningless pleasantries and then Dan removed one of his boots and took out the wad of money he had gotten in Abilene.

  “That’s Jason’s and my pay for driving Mr. Harris’ herd up to Abilene,” he said.

  “Mr. Harris did stop by and tell me about poor Jason,” she said. “I cried and cried.”

  She was crying again, he noticed.

  “Ma, I can’t stay here,” he said. “I’m still huntin’ the man who murdered Jason.”

  “But, Dan, that’s a job for the law. You belong here at home, with me. Priscilla has pestered me to death asking about you, wondering when you were coming back home.”

  “She has?”

  “Near ever’ day, Dan.”

  Dan felt a rush of pleasure and his face flushed with a sudden explosion of hot blood spreading to his capillaries in a rosy blush. “Why, that’s plumb wonderful,” he said.

  “So, give up this dangerous hunt for your brother’s killer. God will punish that man for what he did.”

  “Ma, it’s not that simple. I’m wanted by the law, myself. I’m not guilty, but some people think I am. There’s a reward for my capture.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, my.”

  He explained the parts of his story that he could to his mother and hoped she would believe the lie and not question the omissions. She was a tall, thin woman, with wiry muscles in her limbs, but she looked frail and old for those moments when she was hanging on his every word.

  “I’m learning something about my father, too,” he said.

  “Virgil?”

  “Yes. I think he was at the fort in Abilene. And he rode with Quantrill’s Raiders. He was part of that raid in Lawrence.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Your father would never have taken part in such a disgraceful and sinful activity as that. Not Virgil. He would not have murdered innocent people.”

  Dan could see that his mother believed that about his father. “But, he left us, Ma. No tellin’ what all he did.”

  “Well, if he rode with Quantrill,” she said, “he was forced into it.” She paused. “Virgil is still alive, then?”

  “Yes, I think so. Someday, maybe, I’ll find him, too.”

  “I always held out hope that Virgil would return home one day,” she said. “But now, with Jason gone, and you a wanted man, I just don’t know.”

  She lost her composure then, and doubled over as tears flowed down her cheeks and she began to sob. He could feel her grief and her loneliness, but he had no comfort for her.

  Oralee entered the room and sat down on the divan beside his mother, wrapping Eileen in her arms.

  Dan sat there, helpless. Then he heard hoofbeats. Horses. Coming fast.

  “Ma, I’ve got to go. Somebody’s coming.”

  Before she could say anything, Dan dashed from the room. He ran out the back door and into the night. His heart was pounding, the blood throbbing at his temples.

  And, he hadn’t even told his mother the one thing that he came to say to her that night. He had wanted to tell her that he loved her. And now, it was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Dan ran into the part of the orchard that was at the side of the house. He leaned against a persimmon tree to catch his breath. The hoofbeats drew closer and he pinpointed them as coming down the lane toward his house. When his heavy breathing subsided, he crept from tree to tree until he was within earshot of the front porch. He hugged a tree to present less of a silhouette, and waited.

  He counted four riders, three of them with rifles at the ready as they rode up to the house, bristling with belligerence. They lined up just in front of the porch as if ready to do battle.

  “You, in the house,” one man called. “Come out here.”

  Dan recognized the voice.

  The front door opened and Eileen Cord stepped out.

  “What do you want?” she said. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Deputy Frank Gaston from Abilene, Kansas, ma’am, and this is Marshal Harry Simms from Waco, with two of his deputies. We’re looking for Dan Cord, wanted for murder in Kansas.”

  “He’s not here,” Eileen said.

  “Have you seen your son, Mrs. Cord?” Simms asked.

  “No, I have not. You’ve got a nerve riding up here with your guns and disturbing my peace.”

  “We have information that your son is in the area,” Gaston said. “I aim to arrest him and take him back to Abilene to stand trial for murder.”

  “I haven’t seen my son. I don’t know where he is. But, I know he’s no murderer.”

  There was a discussion among the lawmen that Dan couldn’t make out.

  “Do you mind if we look inside your house?” Simms asked.

  “I most certainly do,” Eileen said.

  “Why? If you’ve nothing to hide…,” Gaston said.

  “I do not wish you to violate my privacy. I’m in the middle of canning and I don’t want you men traipsing through my house. My son is not here.”

  More discussion among the lawmen. Hoarse whispers, gruff explications, whispered words.

  “Ma’am, we won’t mess up your house. We just want to take a look,” Simms said, trying to put politeness into his voice.

  Dan stiffened, wondering what his mother would say to that request.

  “I’ll allow one of you to come in my house,” Eileen said. “And you others just put your guns down, or aim them down at the ground. I warn you, the one who comes inside, you’ll have a scattergun on you the whole time.”

  As if to emphasize her words, she turned and beckoned to Oralee, who stepped into the doorway, brandishing a shotgun. Then, she vanished, stepping aside.

  Even more discussion among the men wearing badges.

  The men lowered their rifles and aimed them at the ground. Gaston dismounted.

  “All right,” he said. “We accept your terms, Mrs. Cord. But you must have that woman put away her shotgun.”

  “No,” Eileen said with a firmness in her voice that made Dan’s heart swell with pride.

  Gaston walked up the steps and entered the front room. Eileen followed him.

  Dan waited in the orchard, his nerves twanging like plucked guitar strings that were all out of key. The men outside raised their rifles again and Dan tensed, ready to draw his six-shooter and lay into them if they raised those rifles to their shoulders. He heard footsteps on the hardwood flooring inside the house, muffled, hollow, quietly booming. The minutes dragged by and he scarcely breathed. The horses stamped their feet and switched their tails. The wait was agonizing for Dan.

  The men waiting outside built smokes and Dan saw the ghostly plumes envelop their faces, wafted away in the breeze like floating scarves made of the sheerest gauze. A few moments later the front door opened and Gaston emerged. Dan’s mother did not come outside, but stood in the doorway.

  Gaston walked down the steps, then turned to face Eileen.

  “If that boy of your’n shows up, Mrs. Cord, you get word to the sheriff in Waco. Otherwise, you’ll be harborin’ a fugitive from justice and will be thrown in the hoosegow and tried in front of a judge and jury.”

  “I surely wouldn’t turn my own son in to a man like you, Mr. Gaston. Good evenin’.”

  Dan smiled. Good for you, Ma, he spoke in his thoughts.

  “We’ll get that boy, ma’am. If he shows up here, you tel
l him I’m lookin’ for him.”

  “I’ll tell him that, Mr. Gaston.”

  Gaston stamped off to his horse, plainly angry that he had not found Dan inside the house.

  “What’d you find in there?” one of the men asked Gaston as the Abilene jailer mounted up.

  “Not a damned thing. He ain’t been here. Yet.”

  “Let’s ride on back to Waco,” Simms said.

  Another man said, “This was a wasted trip, damn it all.”

  The lawmen turned their horses and rode off down the lane, disappearing into the darkness.

  Dan waited a while longer, then crept out of the orchard and went again to the back door. He tapped on the door and Oralee, carrying a shotgun, opened it a crack.

  “Dan?”

  “Yes. I’m coming in.”

  “Es muy peligroso,” she said.

  “They’ve gone, Oralee. I won’t be long.”

  His mother’s face was pale as chalk, but she smiled weakly when she saw Dan enter the kitchen. She held a sheaf of papers in her hand. She looked down at them, burst into tears, and then ran into the front room. Dan could hear her sobbing and the horrible sound of it stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He stood there, looking at Oralee, who bore a sad expression on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Dan asked Oralee.

  “Your mother weeps for you,” she said. “For what you have done.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you better go, Dan. You make your mother to cry.”

  Dan struggled to regain his wits. He hadn’t expected this. His mother had been so strong in facing up to Gaston and now she was crying her heart out. He wondered what Gaston had done to her, or said to her.

  “I’m not leaving, Oralee. Put that damned shotgun down and get the hell out of my way.”

  Oralee laid the shotgun down on the counter and stepped aside. Dan swept past her and strode down the hall into the front room.

  His mother was sitting on the divan. She had laid the papers out on the little table in front of it and was sobbing uncontrollably. He looked at the papers, saw that they were newspaper clippings, a wanted poster, and a list of charges against him. He sucked in a breath and sat down next to her. He put an arm on her shoulder, and she jerked away from him.