Ben allowed himself a few moments to admiringly drink in the sight of the girl he longed for. His heartbeat increased and the tender side of his emotions gave him a lump in the throat. Ben truly loved Maybelle, with a sweet longing and caring unusual for a boy so young. But the gentle feelings were there, and Ben wanted to let her know of them that very night.
Ben took a deep breath. Then he pushed his way through the party-goers and finally approached her. “How do, May—er, I mean Miss Beardsley.”
Maybelle looked up and saw him. She displayed no pleasure at the sight, but she forced a polite smile.
Ben cleared his throat and made a slight bow. “Would you—uh—like to dance?” He gestured clumsily. “I mean, when there’s—er—some music?”
Maybelle laughed. “That’s the best time.”
“Yeah. I reckon. So—would you?”
“No, thank you. Maybe another time.”
A feeling of the old hurt kindled itself within him, but Ben tried to ignore it. He smiled weakly. “Sure, later, huh?”
“Perhaps,” Maybelle said.
Ben backed away with an uncertain expression on his face. He turned and joined some other loose fellows at the other end of the armory.
He asked her twice more and each time was refused. He decided it best to let a little more time slide by before he tried again. He made several trips to the punch bowl feeling very unsure of himself. He could not admit to himself what he knew was true: Maybelle Beardsley did not like him. His sacrifices and daydreams of the evening were all for nothing. His thoughts were interrupted by another boy his age.
“Hey, you, Ben Cullen,” he said. “Somebody wants to see you outside”
“Who?” Ben said.
“All I’m supposed to tell you is that somebody wants to see you in the alley,” the boy said. Then he moved off.
Ben’s spirits soared. Perhaps Maybelle wanted to meet him alone. Maybe she wanted to pour out her heart to him and let him know their feelings were mutual and a great love existed between them.
Ben hurried outside and walked around the building to the alley. He didn’t find Maybelle but he did walk straight into Oren and a couple of his friends.
“Howdy, Oren,” Ben said with a chilling feeling of foreboding.
“Hey, Ben Cullen, I got something to tell you,” Oren said, pushing him back against the wall. “You know what it is?”
“No. I don’t reckon I do.”
“Well, I’m telling you to leave my sister alone,” Oren said. “She wanted me to tell you not to ask her for no more dances. What do you think of that?”
Ben knew Oren was speaking the truth. He’d made a fool out of himself. Again, that stubborn pride got him into trouble. “I’ll do as I please.” It was a statement of hurtful defiance.
“Oh, you will, huh?”
Ben looked at the other boys now joining his tormentor.
Oren reached out and mussed his hair. “Hey!” he yelled looking at his hand. “You got your scalp smeared with lard?” He sniffed at it. “Whew! Smells like a big, ol’ thick bucket o’ perfumed hog fat’s been melted over you, Ben Cullen. Is that what it is? A bunch o’ pig fat on you, huh?”
Ben didn’t answer the ridiculous question. His hair was the same as every man jack’s at the dance. And that included Oren Beardsley’s.
“Hey, Ben Cullen, when I talk to you, you answer, hear?”
Ben remained silent.
“Hit him, Oren,” one of the other boys said. “Teach him a lesson.”
Oren complied and Ben’s head snapped back. A second and third blow dumped him to the ground. Oren reached down and grabbed Ben’s hair. “I’m gonna do you a big favor, Ben Cullen. I’ll get that awful oil outta your hair.” He picked up a handful of dirt and began rubbing it onto Ben’s head. The effort created a muddy mixture in the heavy hair oil. Then Oren began pulling and tugging with wild giggling.
Ben, the pain unbearable and blinding, fought back as best he could. Oren continued the torment for several more moments before he finally ceased his efforts and stepped back.
Ben lay there, his scalp feeling as if thousands of hot needles had been pushed into it. He tried to get up but Oren pushed him back into the dirt.
“Now you stay away from Maybelle, you hear?” Oren said. “You’re just trash, Ben Cullen. She don’t want you embarrassing her no more by hanging around.”
Then Ben was left alone as the others walked back to rejoin the dance.
He limped down the alley. The suit was a rumpled, dusty mess and his hair was full of dirt, some of which was on his face in muddy streaks. The feeling of anguish and humiliation was so great it seemed to squeeze the air from his lungs. As he walked along he noticed he was behind the Beardsley dry-goods store. Standing there, another emotion suppressed the hurt and embarrassment.
Ben Cullen became angry. Then that anger grew until he was uncontrollably infuriated.
He looked up and down the alley, then walked up to the back door of the business.
The memory of that moment was never clear to Ben. It was a lengthy spasm of an exploding, insane temper that ended with him being dragged down the street, kicking and bellowing, by the town sheriff.
His trial took place within ten days of his breaking into the Beardsley store. At the time his right eye was still swollen shut and the knot on his head had barely subsided. These injuries weren’t from his encounter with Oren Beardsley. They were from tangling with the local law officer.
The charges against him were burglary, breaking and entering, destruction of private property, resisting arrest, and assault upon a law officer.
The courtroom was set up in the local saloon since the town hall was still under construction at the time. The judge, seated at a desk brought in for the occasion, directed activities from one end of the room. The jury was situated behind the bar proper while the witness chair had been placed next to the judge. The crowd assembled around the tables in groups as they eagerly anticipated the event.
Ben’s lawyer was a local by the name of Harry Seed who displayed as much fondness for the bottle as he did for the practice of law. But, despite the seriousness of the charges, the attorney was unworried, and assured Ben that at worst he could expect ninety days’ confinement and to be ordered to pay for the damages he did. Then the attorney settled back to nip at his flask as the proceedings went on.
The prosecutor, who traveled with the circuit judge and picked up his cases from the local sheriffs when he arrived in their towns, was a gaunt, dark, and somber man with the meanest eyes Ben Cullen had ever seen. He glared in righteous anger at the boy to such an extent that Ben instinctively slunk down in his chair.
Harry Seed smiled and tippled.
Sheriff Milburn Rawlins was the first witness. In response to the prosecutor’s questions he testified: “I was on my routine rounds on the night of August 27, 1881, when I heard a noise in the Beardsley dry-goods store.”
“Which is located in this town?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Sheriff Rawlins answered. “Anyhow, I looked through the winder and I seen Ben Cullen in there tearing hell outta the place.”
“Is the aforementioned Ben Cullen in this room at this time?”
“He sure as hell is,” Rawlins said pointing to Ben. “There’s the no-good little sonofabitch!”
Henry Seed tossed off another drink from his flask.
Rawlins continued. “So I went in there and the kid was going crazy. He was throwing stuff'around and breaking up anything he could get his hands on. I told him to stop and the little bastard jumped on me. Well, I cold-cocked him with the barrel of my Smith and Wesson and drug him off to the calaboose.”
The prosecutor, satisfied, turned to Seed. “Your witness.”
Seed stood unsteadily. “Goddammit, Milburn, are you positive the kid you arrested was Ben Cullen?”
“Damn right!” Rawlins exclaimed.
Seed smiled at the judge. “Well, I’m sure as hell not go
nna ask him no more questions.” The crowd laughed and Seed waved to them as he sat back down.
The next, and final, witness for the prosecution was Oren Beardsley, who testified that Ben Cullen had been bothering his sister at the dance and that after a well-deserved thrashing, the cad had crawled off down the alley muttering curses and threats of revenge.
Henry Seed also had no questions for Oren and sat back to toss off a few more drinks until he was asked if the defense was ready.
“We are, Your Honor,” he said standing up.
“Then begin.”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said, staggering a bit as he approached the bench to present his case.
“Hell, Your Honor, Ben Cullen is guilty as charged,” Seed said. “There ain’t no sense in denying that. But he’s never been in trouble before and he was mad at Oren for beating him up like that. What he done was wrong and he’s sorry as hell about it and throws hisself on the mercy of this here court. I’m positive you’ll come up with the right ending to this whole affair.” He walked back to Ben and turned to face the judge. “That’s it.”
The judge looked over at the prosecutor. “You want to sum up your case?”
“Think it’s necessary?” he answered.
“Hardly,” the judge said. He pointed to Seed and Ben. “Approach the bench.”
Ben, his mind calculating how he would have to pay the Beardsleys out of his salary at the livery, had to hold Seed up as they stood before the judge.
“First off, I find you guilty of all charges,” the judge said. “The worstest thing you done was to destroy private property, boy. This here country is based on the premise a man’s home—and that means his private property—is his castle. What kind o’ place would this be if ever’ hard-working businessman got his place busted up whenever someone got riled at him? Well, I’ll tell you—it’d be a mighty sad state of affairs. Then you was disrespectful to authority. That’s law and order, boy, the thing that keeps us from being animals and preying on each other and living miserable, worthless existences in a world of ruin and chaos.”
Ben, his head bowed, cringed before the bawling out as his lawyer stared down at the floor in a drunken reverie.
“You hear what I’m saying to you, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben answered in a somber voice. “And I truly regret—”
“Regret? Regret?” the judge exclaimed. “Boy, you’re just about to learn what regret really is. I hereby sentence you to be confined in the Kansas State Penitentiary for a period of ten years at hard labor. And while you’re up there digging coal I want you to spend ever’ day thinking on the wrongs you done.”
“Ten years?” Ben asked in a quaking voice.
“Court adjourned!” the judge announced banging his gavel. Then he stood up and looked down at the small youth’s pale face. “Ten years!”
Chapter Three
When the ambush had been sprung on him after leaving Paco’s camp, Ben went down with the wounded horse. Now he sat up in the grass dazed, his head spinning and aching from being slammed into the ground. He felt extreme vertigo and confusion, but recovered in time to crawl low to the animal and drag the Winchester from its boot on the saddle.
As he scanned the horizon for signs of his attackers, he gave his mount a quick inspection. The stallion was clearly dying. A lucky shot had hit its neck just behind the jaw and evidently struck up into the horse’s brain.
As his mind recovered from the fall, Ben became more alert. He realized he couldn’t remain where he was. Recalling a small gully filled with deep, thick buffalo grass a short distance back, he eased down on his belly and inched toward its protection.
Ben stopped his progress every few moments to listen for movement around him. But there was only silence. Such soundlessness, when no prairie creature stirs nor a meadowlark sings, was a dead giveaway that there were intruders in this natural domain.
Ben wished he knew how many dry-gulchers there were out there. Like most small skinny men, he had a natural knack for silent movement. An old friend once had said that Ben Cullen could do the fandango on a tin roof wearing Mexican spurs and not make a sound. He crawled across the ground and finally eased himself down into the deep vegetation of the gully before he treated himself to a short breathing spell.
Then he went after the bushwhackers.
The depression he was in sank no more than three and a half feet into the prairie earth, but the buffalo grass growing in it was more than six feet high. “He ain’t here with the horse.”
Ben froze at the sound of the voice. He turned back to face the direction he had just come from.
“Charlie! Dan! Did you hear me?” the voice yelled. “I said he ain’t at the horse.”
There was a lack of wit and intelligence in the voice and Ben knew a real slow thinker had come along for the ride.
“Can you hear me, fellers?” the voice yelled again. “Hey! Charlie! Dan! Where you at?”
Ben grinned. He figured Charlie and Dan were old-timers and right now were cringing in anger as their stupid friend not only gave himself away, but inadvertently informed their prey that there were three of them.
The sound of the dimwit thrashing through the grass faded away, then grew louder as he walked back and forth. “The feller’s gone! C’mon out!” he hollered. “What’re y’all waiting for, huh?”
Ben suddenly froze as he sensed movement behind him. He slipped through the grass to the opposite side of the gully and spotted a cantankerous old man, his features wearing a furious expression as he unknowingly crawled toward Ben. Ben took careful aim with the Winchester and fired. The oldster’s frown disappeared as the heavy slug caved in his face and, at almost the same instant, took out the back of his head in a spray of blood and brains.
“Hey! Hey!” the dimwit yelled at the sound of the shot. “Who did that? Charlie? Dan?”
Ben squatted down and crawled without sound for twenty yards until he reached the opening end of the earthen slash he had been using for cover.
“Charlie! Dan! Where are you?” the dimwit pleaded. “Hey, this ain’t a bit funny, huh? I’m getting mad, that’s what I’m doing.”
Ben remained quiet as the dimwit ran back and forth looking for his companions. He figured he would let the stupid bastard do his work for him. Eventually the dumb gunhawk would have to stumble across his surviving companion.
And, within five minutes, he did.
“Damn, Charlie! What are you doing down there?” the dimwit asked. “Didn’t you hear me a-hollering for you?”
“Shut up, you shitass!” the elusive Charlie cursed. “If you wasn’t my cousin, I swear I’d shoot you.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I said shut up!’
“Where’s that old fart Dan, huh? Did he fire that shot or did you?” the dimwit asked.
Ben’s carbine kicked back against his shoulder and the bullet slammed into the man called Charlie, kicking him over on his back. A quick working of the cocking lever, another shot, and the final slug made the man’s skull explode. Then Ben swung the muzzle toward the dumb one as he chambered another round.
“Hey!” the dimwit yelled stupidly. He looked down at his dead cousin then back at Ben several times trying to comprehend the reality of the dangerous situation he was in.
Ben walked up to him holding his carbine ready. “Drop your gunbelt!”
“Y-yes, sir,” the dimwit said, hastily obeying.
“Y’know, I think you’re prob’ly just about the dumbest sonofabitch I’ve ever run into,” Ben said. “Why don’t you take a walk back to where you came from?”
“I’d rather ride my horse.”
“Well, you ain’t getting your damn horse back,” Ben snapped. “I could shoot you as dead as your pards, but I’m taking pity on you, you poor dumb shit-for-brains. Now, don’t make me change my mind. Get moving—now!”
The dimwit hesitated, then began walking away. He looked back several times, but continued traveling until he disappe
ared over the horizon.
The entire episode turned out to be a blessing for Ben Cullen. Despite the bruises and the delay, he managed to get a better horse—after turning the other two loose—and the contents of the would-be ambushers’ three saddlebags added to his larder and ammunition supply.
Without even a last look at the two dead men sprawled around in the general vicinity of the dying horse, Ben once against took up his western trek into the Indian Territory.
Ben rode all the rest of that day and into the night before he finally stopped and settled down into a simple camp to pass the night. The next morning, early and after a skimpy breakfast of coffee and beef jerky, he was once again bound for the safety offered in the land of the Kiowas.
Although there were no signposts, Ben knew when he had ridden into the area he had chosen for a hideout. The open wilderness and isolation from other people promised him almost-unlimited safety. He pushed on impatiently in the comforting desire of penetrating deeper into the wild country. He topped a rise and, in angry surprise, reined in so hard his horse whinnied a sharp protest.
Spread out before him in orderly rows of tents, shacks, and new buildings under construction was a brand new settlement—deep in the heart of the Kiowa country.
After staring at the scene for several moments, Ben decided the best thing he could do would be to ride in and assess the situation and find out what had been happening in the territory during his absence.
A tent, bearing a sign announcing it as the business establishment of an attorney-at-law, stood at the edge of the place. Charlie stopped his horse and looked down at the man standing in the opening of the canvas establishment. “What is this place? It must have just popped up here.”
“It sure did, mister,” the man said pleasantly. “Let me be the first to welcome you to the town of Hobart, soon to be the pride of Oklahoma Territory.”
Desperado Run (An Indian Territory Western Book 2) Page 3