The Running Gun

by Jory Sherman

  Orange flame, sparks, lead and wadding exploded from the two muzzles, lighting up the four people like a photographer’s exploding phosphorous. Myrle and Priscilla both screamed in terror. Dan pulled the shotgun out of Malcolm’s hands as he lunged forward. He knocked Reed to the ground. Myrle screamed again.

  “Don’t kill us,” she shouted.

  “Dan….” Priscilla said, a pleading in her voice.

  Malcolm lay on the ground, shaken, staring up at Dan, who held the shotgun by the barrel. Dan shifted it in his hands, so that the business end was pointed away from Reed. But Dan did not hand over the weapon.

  “I mean you no harm, Mr. Reed, Mrs. Reed. But you jumped to conclusions that just ain’t so. I’m not guilty of those crimes I’m charged with, but you got it in your heads, just like my ma, that because a piece of paper says I done something, that it’s the gospel truth.”

  “If it says you’re a criminal, you’re a criminal,” Reed said. “I swear, you’re just like your father. Virgil was never any good. He ran off and deserted you boys and your mother. And you’re cut from the same bolt of cloth.”

  “Malcolm, please,” Myrle said. “Hear the boy out.”

  “Dan,” Priscilla said, “give me the shotgun.” She stretched out her hand.

  “No, not yet, Priscilla. Your mother wants to hear me out, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “Dan…I—I’m afraid of you,” Priscilla said. “You—you’ve changed. You never wore a gun before. You have that pistol on your belt. You look like a gunman. What happened to you?”

  “No, I haven’t changed, Priscilla. I carry a gun because there are men trying to kill me. I mean to defend myself, that’s all. But inside, I haven’t changed. I’m not a gunman. It’s you who’ve changed. All of you. I’m not a criminal. I haven’t done anything wrong. But, you have, all of you. You’ve wronged me.”

  Dan cracked open the shotgun and threw it down in disgust. Scooter growled and his ears flattened. His lips curled up as the dog bared its teeth.

  Dan walked slowly over to his horse and climbed into the saddle. The Reed family remained frozen in fear as he turned the horse and looked down at them.

  “I thought you cared for me, Priscilla,” he said. “But, you’re just like everyone else. You believe what was on that flyer. Without any proof. Without asking me for an explanation. I won’t be back.”

  “Dan…” Priscilla started to say.

  “Hon, you shut up,” Malcolm said.

  “Hush, child,” Myrle said, backing up her husband.

  Scooter whimpered and cowered as Malcolm grabbed his coat at the back of the neck.

  “You get on out of here, Cord,” Reed said. “And stay away from us or, by God, the next time I see you, I’ll shoot you dead and collect that reward for your miserable body.”

  Dan said nothing, but rode away. He felt that there was now a heavy weight on his back. He slumped in the saddle. He couldn’t fight the Reed family for what they thought. No more than he could fight his own mother. In their eyes, he was a wanted criminal. And he couldn’t even defend himself if they let him. Right then, he wanted to choke that U.S. Marshal and beat him to a pulp. Alexander could have cleared his name if he had wanted to. Instead, he was using him, like a damned decoy, to catch Jake Krebs. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. The world wasn’t fair. He might just as well be a criminal, he thought. That was the way everyone looked at him.

  If the shoe fits... he mused, and kicked Dapper in the flanks, putting the claybank into a gallop down the lane that led away from the Reed place. He never wanted to see any of them again. Ever.

  But the moment of rage soon passed and Dan was gripped with an incredible feeling of loneliness. Seeing Priscilla again had dredged up all of his buried feelings for her and now he was sorry he had spoken so sharply to her and her parents. It couldn’t be helped now, though. What was done was done.

  He rode into Waco late that night when the sliver of moon hung high in the sky. He rode to the stables, unsaddled, and put Dapper in an empty stall. He poured two hatfuls of grain into the feed bin and walked to the Double Eagle, keeping to the shadows, though the streets were deserted.

  He slipped upstairs to his room, unnoticed, with the sounds of raucous laughter drifting up through the flooring from the bar below. He closed and latched his door and leaned a chair under the doorknob, just in case someone tried to break in. He would have time to go for the pistol lying next to his pillow.

  “What has my life become?” he whispered in the darkness as he lay down to sleep.

  He was truly living the life of an outlaw, he thought, and wondered if he would ever know true freedom again.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Dan saw the black horse at the hitch-ring in front of the Waco Hotel, some blocks from the Double Eagle, he stood frozen in his tracks. A cold chill crept up his spine. The horse glistened with a sheen of sweat, faint lines of lather just beginning to form, showing Dan that the horse had been ridden fairly hard into Waco.

  The horse was Duke—Jake Krebs’s horse.

  The Republic Hotel was even seedier than the Double Eagle, and was not on the main street, but on one of the back streets. Dan had come upon it by accident, since he was looking for the newspaper offices. The building that housed The Waco Times-Express was on that same street, three doors down from the hotel. He had been in there all morning, reading some of the back issues of the weekly, looking for any information about Jerico Jones, the man Marshal Alexander had told him would be a witness against Krebs in the murders of those three hands who had driven Calvin Harris’s cattle as far as Belton where they had been murdered.

  In Belton, Krebs had stolen the herd, then he had switched all the brands with a running iron, making Calvin’s 2 Bar 7 brand into the 2 Bar T. He did this before Dan and Jason were hired on for the drive to Abilene and the brothers had no idea that they were driving stolen cattle. Marshal Ben Alexander had told Dan that Krebs was a master thief and had done this many times before in order to finance bigger crimes.

  According to Marshal Alexander, there was a witness to the murders of the three drovers, and to Krebs using a running iron, a major offense in itself. Stealing cattle or horses carried a hanging penalty. Krebs was guilty of much worse crimes. The witness was Jerico Jones, and Alexander had told Dan that Jones was being held for his own protection in Waco. Probably at the jail. The authorities were just waiting for Krebs to be arrested so he could stand trial.

  He left the newspaper and walked down the street. He needed to double-check the horse he had spotted earlier. The horse looked like Duke, but Dan needed to make sure.

  He gave the appearance of looking in store windows as he sauntered along the boardwalk to get a closer look. When he was near where the horse was tied, he glanced at the ground around the animal. What he saw on the ground, removed all doubt that Krebs was in town.

  There, where the rider had dismounted, was another of Krebs’s trademarks. Plain as day.

  Dan saw an unlit cheroot lying in the dirt next to Duke, its butt-end chewed and mangled by Krebs’s teeth. Krebs never lit his cheroots. He chewed the ends and threw them away.

  That was enough for Dan.

  He turned and headed back to the Double Eagle, his mind racing.

  At the newspaper, he had spoken to a young clerk, asking him if he could read back issues of the newspaper. The clerk had not asked for his name and Dan hadn’t asked the man for his. Instead, the young man had led him to a back room where there were stacks of newspapers on shelves, with recent editions on tables and benches.

  “This is what we call the morgue,” the young man had said. “I haven’t caught up with all the filing yet, but there’s a table and chair where you can look through the papers.”

  The table, with two chairs, sat in the center of the room. The clerk had explained that the papers on shelves were filed by date. The ones on the floor were stacked according to date, as well, but were not in good order.

  Dan
had found only two items of interest in recent editions of the newspaper.

  One was an item that appeared in the crime column months before.

  It read:

  An unidentified man was taken into custody by Town Marshal Harry Simms. The man is being held as a material witness to a shooting near Belton.

  The other item that caught Dan’s interest was only a few days old.

  The story ran under the headline:

  GRAND JURY CONVENES IN SAN ANTONIO

  A contingency of Texas Rangers will escort a murder witness to San Antonio soon, where the man will testify before the grand jury. Details of the crime and identity of the witness were not forthcoming from either the marshal’s office in Waco, or from the Texas Rangers headquartered in Waco.

  Dan realized that the items referred to Jerico Jones, the man who had witnessed the murders of Calvin Harris’s drovers in Belton. And, it appeared that Jones would be taken to San Antonio to testify before a grand jury. Or maybe the rangers had already escorted Jones to San Antonio.

  Before he left the newspaper office, Dan asked the clerk if he knew anything about grand juries.

  “A little,” the clerk said.

  “Can you tell me what you know?”

  “Sure. First of all, they’re secret. They’re held in certain cities at certain times, like whenever a prosecutor thinks he needs the special powers of a grand jury in order to arrest and convict someone of a crime. So, they seat a grand jury and this jury can call any witnesses and ask any questions and hand down an indictment. That’s about all I know. They don’t call for grand juries very often.”

  “What about the one in San Antonio?” Dan asked. “I saw something in the paper about it being convened.”

  “It actually hasn’t convened yet,” the clerk said. “It takes time to get jurors and they’re in the process. I expect that one will be ready to hear cases in a month. Maybe in less than a month. Or maybe longer.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anyway, when a grand jury is in session, they can hear cases from all over the state, pretty much. And nobody knows which ones, or anything. It’s very secret. And very powerful. You don’t want to go up before one if you have anything you don’t want them to know.”

  Dan reached the Double Eagle, still pondering what he had learned. And, what he had not learned.

  If Jake Krebs was in town, and it appeared that he was, the Texas Rangers must be getting ready to escort Jerico Jones to San Antonio. Krebs must have found out about it and was out to keep Jones from testifying to the murders Krebs had committed in Belton.

  If Krebs was in town, where in hell was Marshal Alexander? Ben would surely know about the grand jury, too. And that the rangers were going to ride down there with Jones. If Alexander was in Waco, why hadn’t he told Dan any of this?

  Dan felt even more isolated as he entered the hotel’s deserted lobby. He stopped at the counter and rapped on it. The clerk emerged from the back room.

  “Key,” Dan said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man turned to the array of pigeon holes and stretched his hand toward the number of Dan’s room.

  There was an envelope in the cubby hole.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Martin. You have a letter here. It’s not from the post, but was delivered this morning.”

  Dan looked at the envelope. The name Jason Martin was written on it in block letters.

  “Who brought this?” Dan asked.

  “A young boy. A Mexican, I believe.”

  “Thanks.” Dan took the key. The clerk disappeared into the office. Dan climbed the stairs, his heart pounding.

  Who, he wondered, had sent him the envelope? Who had known he was using the name Jason Martin? He hadn’t told anyone where he was or what name he was using.

  He entered his room like a thief, closing the door quickly, locking it. He sat down and placed the envelope on the table, almost afraid to open it. He waited until his pulse slowed down, glancing at the door as if expecting it to break open at any minute, letting lawmen rush in with guns drawn to arrest him and throw him in jail.

  He looked at the handwriting on the envelope: JASON MARTIN.

  Each letter carefully printed out. Seeing the name gave him the eerie feeling that he was being watched. But it was quiet in the room. It was quiet in the hall outside. It was even quiet outside, on the street.

  No one was chasing him, but his hands were clammy with sweat, and there was that telltale fluttering in his stomach again. He realized that feeling as the beginning of fear. He wasn’t afraid of anyone, or anything, though. He was just afraid of someone he could not see. Someone who knew the name he was using.

  He drew in a deep breath and held it. He picked up the envelope and held it up to the light from the window. Whatever was inside was dark, darker than the envelope. He shook it so that the contents slid to one end. Then he tore open the other end and fingered the papers inside so they would slide out.

  A folded piece of brown paper slid out, followed by a bunch of crisp banknotes. Ten new bills, to be exact, all in ten dollar denominations. A hundred dollars. He picked up the square piece of brown butcher paper and unfolded it. There was writing on it in that same hand, all block letters, all capitals.

  HERE IS YOUR SALARY FOR TWO MONTHS.

  I FOUND YOU EASY, SO BE CAREFUL. AM GOING TO SAN ANTONIO TO TESTIFY BEFORE GRAND JURY. WITNESS TO FOLLOW SOON ESCORTED BY TEXAS RANGERS.

  JK WILL WANT TO KILL WITNESS. FOLLOW RANGERS AND YOU MIGHT FIND JK.

  BE CAREFUL. HE WILL HAVE MEN WITH HIM.

  THIS IS THE TIME OF DANGER.

  YOUR FRIEND,

  B.

  B, Dan figured had to be Marshal Ben Alexander. JK, of course, was Jake Krebs. The witness had to be Jerico Jones.

  Dan counted the money, took off his boot, folded up the bills and put them in his sock, then slipped his boot back on his foot.

  He looked at the letter again.

  How in hell, he wondered, was he supposed to find out when the Texas Rangers were taking Jones to San Antonio? Jones was being held in jail by the town marshal, Simms. And Gaston was probably staying close to Simms.

  He couldn’t watch the jail day and night to see when the rangers came to get Jerico Jones.

  No, he had to find out another way.

  “Damn you, Ben,” Dan muttered, throwing the note back down on the table.

  He stood up, his mind racing. Evidently, Jones was still in Waco. When had Ben written that note? It was delivered that morning while he was out, but there was no telling how long Ben had been in town. But, very recently. He had probably ridden out this morning after making sure the money and note were delivered. He felt like chasing after Ben, trying to catch up with him. and make him spell out how he, Dan, was supposed to know when Jones would be taken down to San Antonio.

  He couldn’t go to the jail and ask.

  Nor could he ask the Texas Rangers, whose fort was right there on the Brazos, within walking distance of the hotel.

  Dan sat back down at the table. He gazed out the window, mulling over those questions and more. He sat there for a long time, pondering, wondering over and over how Ben expected him to do the task he had laid before him.

  There were a lot of questions.

  There were no answers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dan had not thought of his father since leaving Junction City, Kansas. Now, for some reason, he asked himself another question that seemed to come out of nowhere.

  What would my father do?

  And, he wished Jason were still alive and with him so he could talk to him. At that moment, everything seemed hopeless, and he had nowhere to turn for advice, comfort, or simple companionship.

  Before his father had left the family so suddenly, Virgil Cord had been Dan’s idol. He and Jason both worshipped their father, who taught them so much when they were growing up. He had taught them how to tend to their stock, how to hunt and fish, how to track animals and men. To Dan, Virgil was a god, the
smartest man in the world, a man who could do no wrong.

  It was early fall, when the leaves were changing, the sumacs glowing scarlet in the piney woods of east Texas, the willows flashing butter-gold leaves in the breeze, the oaks flaring with deep burgundy, tawny, and umber leaves and the green of the pines looming tall above all the splashes of color.

  Dan, his father, and his brother Jason, were hunting deer in the woods that bordered a lake. The air was crisp and dead leaves moved like the rattling skeletons of crabs with each flicking gust of sporadic winds. Between the skittering claws of the fallen leaves, there was a silence deep and solemn, like the reverent hush in an empty church.

  That was their first deer hunt, his and Jason’s with their father, and both boys were excited.

  “When do we get to shoot a deer?” Jason had asked.

  “In a day or two, maybe,” Virgil said. “First, we are going to look through the woods.”

  “For deer?” Dan asked.

  “Not for deer, but for signs of deer.”

  It was exciting and mystifying for Dan. They had walked with their father as he studied the ground for tracks. When he found them, he showed the boys the impressions the deer made with their hooves and dewclaws. He showed them the difference between a buck’s tracks and a doe’s, and told them how to measure the weight of the animal by the depth of its tracks. He showed them rubs and scrapes the bucks made to mark their territory, made them smell the strong urine the buck had sprayed on the leaves above a scrape, where he had rubbed his antlers against a tree trunk.

  They walked wide circles and took intersecting paths and the boys itched to see a deer, to shoot their muzzle-loading rifles which they had practiced with for long hours with their father watching them, showing them how to aim, how to adjust the sights for windage, how to lead a moving object, how to hold their breaths and gently squeeze the triggers.