by Paul Colt
The afternoon dragged into a flaming sunset. The walls of the McSween house were riddled with bullet holes. Broken glass littered the floor. Shards of china and porcelain lay where each shattered piece had fallen. Bullets scarred and splintered finely crafted furniture and polished wood finishes. The remnants of a once-genteel life laid waste in the onslaught of all-out war.
McSween stirred in the corner. He looked around as though waking from a bad dream.
“It will be dark soon. Is there a whole lamp left to be found?”
“No light,” the Kid said. “Light a lamp and them boys over there have a target.”
“What do we do about food?”
“Jim, see what you can find in the kitchen before it gets dark.”
The big man moved away from his post and disappeared in the shadows.
Evans and Bob Olinger circled the back of the store. Evans showed himself to the guards. A whispered exchange passed them on. Olinger carried a heavy can of coal oil. They paused in the shadows to watch and listen. The house was dark with no sign of a guard. Evans drew his gun, motioning Olinger to stay under cover. He stepped into the starlit yard. Nothing moved. Could they have left the back door unguarded? He approached the back porch. Nothing. He waved Olinger out of the shadows to the side of the porch. From there they could pour without risking the sound of climbing the stair.
Black liquid, silvered in starlight, spilled under the door. The slosh of the can sounded like a roaring rapids in the stillness. It raised no alarm. Olinger emptied the can. Inside, the black flood soaked the plank floor. He stepped back. Now it seemed the only thing that might give them away was the smell. Evans snapped a lucifer. He tossed it onto the spillway. They ran as an orange carpet of flame spread across the kitchen floor.
Jose Chavez smelled it first from the window closest to the kitchen. Then he saw it.
“Fire!” He ran to the kitchen. Flame pooled across the floor, slowly climbing the walls and blocking the door. He fell back from the heat. French bounded up behind him, silhouetted in the firelight. A shot rang out. The big man cursed, grabbed his arm and dove out of sight.
Chavez crawled to his side. “How bad is it, Jim?”
“No more’n a scratch. Do somethin’ about that fire.”
Billy and Big Jim grabbed the blankets they’d slept on and beat their way across the floor to the kitchen pump. Jim pumped furiously as the Kid doused the floor and door frame with buckets of water. As they worked, flames crept up the walls, climbing relentlessly toward the floor above. Billy set down the bucket to the realization, time would run out. Roasted or bullet-riddled, either way it made for poor choices.
Time passed. Heat and smoke grew in intensity. Flames lapped the floor above. It spread across the second floor, shedding a thin sheet of smoke through the ceiling to the rooms below. From the floorboards on the second floor, it was a short climb to the bare roof timbers above. Embers fell like heavy rain. Fire burned through the ceiling in McSween’s office. A rafter crashed to the floor in a shower of sparks.
McSween sat balled in a corner hiding behind his knees. Salazar and Chavez waited white-eyed at their windows. French and O’Folliard turned to the Kid, their faces red masks in the glow of firelight.
“What are we gonna do, Billy?” Big Jim asked.
“How the hell should I know?” Why the hell should I know?Somebody had to. Another timber crashed through the floor above. It was up to him. “Mr. McSween, me, Tom, Big Jim and Jose are gonna make a break for the corral. Eugenio will stay with you. Soon as we draw fire, you sneak out the back. Get down to the river. If we get through, we’ll find you. If’n we don’t, find your way out of town.”
McSween stared vacantly. Salazar nodded. He understood.
“OK, boys, let’s don’t waste no more time. That roof’s gonna come down any minute.” He led the way through the smoky kitchen to the smoldering back door. The starlit yard looked quiet. Quiet didn’t start fires. He drew his gun. “They’re out there sure as hell.”
The boys drew their guns. They broke from the back of the house, dark figures silhouetted in firelight ran for the corral beyond the store. Dolan men fired from the shadows. Muzzle flashes and powder smoke targets bloomed in the night. Billy and the boys fired on the run. They reached the corral. “I’ll hold ’em, boys. Get them horses saddled.”
Another timber crashed into the parlor behind them. Flames licked at the front door, cutting off any escape there. “Mr. Mc-Sween, we must go.” Salazar pulled his patron toward the kitchen by the arm. The sound of gunfire in the darkness outside roused him. McSween straightened up, strangely alert and led the way to the door.
“We’re coming out!”
One of the Dolan men, young Bob Beckwith, stepped out of the shadows, thinking McSween had decided to surrender. “Come out with your hands up.”
McSween led Salazar into the yard.
“With your hands up,” Beckwith said.
“Surrender? Never!”
Shots erupted in the darkness behind the store and from behind the tree line at the back of the house. McSween’s body jerked, hit by one bullet after another. Beckwith died in the crossfire. Salazar fell with multiple wounds.
Ledger and Roth ran out to Mrs. O’Hara’s porch at the sound of gunshots. The McSween house gave the night sky an unmistakable orange glow.
“I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this,” Ty said.
Lucy and a shaken Susan McSween followed them to the door.
“What happened?” Lucy asked.
“Best you two stay here. Me and Johnny will have a look.”
Evans crossed the street to the Slurigos’ house. Dolan and Pep-pin waited on the porch.
“It’s over. Some of ’em got away, but McSween’s dead. That should be the end of it.”
“Tell the boys I’m in the cantina,” Dolan said. “The drinks are on me.”
Men silhouetted in harsh orange firelight drifted toward the cantina and the growing sound of a raucous celebration. The door to the Tunstall store stood open. Men inside took what they wanted. Roth stopped a man with a whiskey bottle on his way to the store.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“McSween’s dead. The others run off.”
“I was afraid of that,” Ty said. “We’ll have to tell Susan.”
Across the street from the store, Dudley’s troops withdrew from their line to a campsite south of town. Ty found the colonel in the yard of the Wilson jacal. Dudley read Ledger’s disappointment.
“Sorry for the way things turned out, Ty.”
“Sorry. Sorry don’t make it right. They were wrong on both sides. You could see that as plain as me. Why didn’t you stop it?”
“I did what I could to prevent it. In the end, I had my orders.”
“Your orders were wrong.”
“Soldiers don’t make that decision.”
Ty clenched his jaw, seeing Dudley as if for the first time. “Soldiers don’t make that decision. Men do.” He turned on his heel and started back to Mrs. O’Hara’s and another widow.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
July 20th
The Kid rode north with French, O’Folliard and Chavez. They had no way to know the fate of McSween and the others, but the shooting behind them said the escape had not come to a peaceful end. Likely they’d lost the battle to Dolan and the army.
The Kid called a halt in the gray light of dawn near a slow running creek. The horses needed water and rest. He had a hunch and made no attempt to conceal their presence.
“You think they’ll come after us?” O’Folliard asked.
“They might.”
“Maybe we ought to hide out for a spell.”
“Yeah, but not yet.”
French eyed their back trail. “So what are we gonna do, Billy?”
“Rest the horses and ride upstream.”
The sun passed overhead early in its afternoon decent. The creek bed crawled along, climbing a narrow draw. The Kid let the roan pick his way t
hrough the rocks trailed by men dozing in their saddles. His eyes flicked back and forth across the rock walls beneath the wide brim of his sombrero. He watched and waited, wondering how far they had to go.
“Hold it right there and nobody move.” The command had a hard steel edge. Men snapped awake, reaching for their guns and belatedly thinking better of it.
“Cut the shit, Doc. It’s me, Billy.”
Scurlock showed himself in the rocks above. “I thought you was, but I couldn’t be sure.” Middleton, Bowdre, Brown and Coe hid in the rocks on both sides of the draw.
“Where we camped?”
“There’s a blind turn up yonder. We’re camped in some caves just beyond. We’ll meet you there pretty quick. John, you and George keep an eye on their back trail. The Kid here probably left enough trouble behind him to turn out one hell of a posse.”
Billy smiled that crooked smile of his and rode on. A half mile up the draw the creek disappeared in a blind curve. Around the curve it opened onto sandy banks. A grassy bottom climbed a gentle slope to the west dotted with willow and white oak. Horses were picketed there with graze and water. Across the stream two caves gouged the east wall of the draw. The larger one sheltered the campsite. Billy stepped down on the creek bank.
“Home sweet home. Com’on, boys, pull down your gear and picket the horses.”
Sitting around the campfire that night at the mouth of the cave, Billy recounted the burning of the McSween house and their escape for Doc and his men.
“What happened to McSween?” Doc asked.
The Kid shrugged. “We heard shots. If it came to gunplay, who knows what happened. One thing’s sure, Dolan won the fight.”
“We was licked when the army threw in with them.”
Middleton turned to Doc with the faces around the fire. “So whatdowedonow?”
“I expect it’s over. McSween’s dead or ruined. I don’t see Chisum fightin’ the army. Hell, I don’t fancy facing cannon again, either. The pay ain’t that good. I’m ridin’ out in the morning before Dolan and his boys decide to come after us.”
Middleton, Coe and Brown nodded agreement.
“What about you, Jim?”
“I been lookin’ after Mrs. McSween for some time now. I reckon she still needs lookin’ after, at least for a spell.”
“You’re crazy if you go back to Lincoln,” Doc said.
“Maybe so. Then again, if the war’s over, why should anyone care?”
“What about you three?” He looked from O’Folliard to Bowdre to Bonney.
The Kid shrugged. “We’ll figure somethin’ out.” The other two nodded.
A sad departure and hopeful beginning made for a bittersweet ride down to South Spring. They stayed in Lincoln long enough to see Susan through her husband’s funeral. Lucy’s departure made room for her at Mrs. O’Hara’s while she decided her future.
Ty fought the feeling he’d failed to prevent the disaster in Lincoln. Lucy and Roth wouldn’t allow his misery. She was on her way to a new life with the man she loved. Roth had newfound confidence the cattle business would bring them success. South Spring didn’t feel like home, but it would.
EPILOGUE
LasVegas, New Mexico
Christmas Eve, 2011
Rick gently closed Lucy’s journal, careful of the cracking yellowed pages. The war ended. Great-great-grandpaTy and Greatgreat-grandma Lucy found each other amid the violence, bloodshed, politics and greed historians call the Lincoln County War. At least that made for something of a happy ending. Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story. The war launched the outlaw career of young William Bonney otherwise known as Billy the Kid. In a way, that brought the saga full circle for Rick. For him, it all started with Great-great-grandpa Ty’s account of the Kid’s death. In an odd historical twist Ty and Lucy’s stories followed from that. But such is often the discovery of history. One chapter leads to another without necessarily falling in chronological order. In the end, his great-greatgrandparents’ legacy was one of high adventure, courage and love a great-great-grandson could take pride in. Rick smiled and switched off the desk lamp.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Lincoln County War is an enormously complex story. The business dealings, disputes and political maneuverings among the principals are enough to leave an MBA, a lawyer and a CPA all scratching their heads. The author has taken creative license in simplifying these aspects of the story while adhering to the basic events and motivations of the characters. The story is further complicated by the number of individuals and factions who became involved over the course of the hostilities. At the height of the conflict the McSween and Dolan factions swelled to significant numbers of supporters on both sides. The author has chosen to limit the number of characters presented to the most notable. Researching historical events invariably uncovers inconsistencies. By various accounts, for example, the cousins George and Frank Coe may have (1.) been confused for one another by some narratives; (2.) changed sides during the conflict; or (3.) fought on opposite sides. For purposes of this story the author has chosen the third interpretation. Where there is any conflict between historical fact and the author’s interpretation, it is the author’s intent to present a fictional account for the enjoyment of the reader.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Colt’s critically acclaimed historical fiction crackles with authenticity. His analytical insight, investigative research and genuine horse sense bring history to life. His characters walk off the pages of history into the reader’s imagination in a style that blends Jeff Shaara’s historical dramatizations with Robert B. Parker’s gritty dialogue.
Paul’s first book, Grasshoppers in Summer,received Finalist recognition in the Western Writers of America 2009 Spur Awards. Boots and Saddles: A Call to Gloryreceived the Marilyn Brown Novel Award, presented by Utah Valley University.
To learn more visit Facebook @paulcoltauthor.
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