The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  The resin in the new lumber made it a torch, and a hundred men could have done nothing to save the house. It was engulfed in flames, and above the roar and crackle of them was the more ominous sound of weakening, creaking timbers.

  Stevens said, “Look,” and horror filled his voice.

  The fire made the prairie as light as day, and Nelson saw the body lying a few yards in front of the burning house. He forced his horse as near as it would go to the heat, then swung to the ground. He heard Stevens call, “Wait!” and did not stop.

  The heat was terrible. He could feel his skin drawing under its fiery touch. The body was Jennings’, and it had been mutilated and scalped. Through the open doorway of the cabin, Nelson saw three other bodies. No man could possibly reach them.

  He bent and seized Jennings’ feet and dragged him to the edge of the light. He drew a fresh breath, and his lungs felt as though they were seared.

  Stevens asked, “Indians?” He looked at Jennings and turned his head.

  “What white man would do this?” Nelson said savagely. “The others are inside. The same—” His breath clogged his throat as the horrible thought struck him. His face went haggard and drawn, and he said, “Oh, God, Chauncey. I moved Leah and her father from camp this afternoon.” He broke into a run toward his horse.

  The horse was weary from the run here, but Nelson could not spare it. Leah, Leah, Leah. It pounded at him like a great hammer, and each stroke added to his frenzy. The memory of those mutilated bodies was a knife striking deep into him. It could not happen to her. It could not happen.

  As distance fell behind him and he did not see the glow of another fire, hope came to life. It was destroyed by the thought that the trees along the creek would hide it until he was almost there. And a wagon would not make as big a fire as a cabin.

  He saw the glow when he was less than a half mile away, and something went dead inside him. He did not slacken pace, but he knew he was too late.

  The wagon had burned poorly. It was only half consumed when he reached it. Anson Mills lay in back of it, sightless eyes staring at the sky. He had been shot in the chest, but not scalped or mutilated.

  Sickness gagged Nelson.

  Stevens put a hand on his shoulder and said, “She’s not here.”

  The words penetrated the dumb misery filling Nelson’s mind. She was not here. He said it again and again. She had escaped or perhaps had been carried away. He would not dwell on the latter possibility; he could not.

  He bawled, “Leah!” at the top of his voice, and ran out of the radius of the light. He called her name over and over, and despair was creeping in when he heard her faint answer.

  He ran toward the sound, calling her name, and when he received no response, he knew his overwrought nerves had tricked him. He stopped and said, “Leah,” and all the despair in the world was in his voice.

  She came out of the brush, her sobbing making her words incomprehensible. He seized her shoulders hard and pulled her to him, his arms going about her. He stroked her hair as she cried. She cried like a child, utterly heartbroken. He was aware that Stevens stood behind them.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he, Nelson?” she finally asked.

  He said. “Yes,” in a voice filled with misery for her.

  “He was happy here, Nelson. For such a little while. I’m glad he had that much.” She hiccupped and moved back against the restraint of his arms.

  He kept his body between her and the wagon. He did not want her to see her father.

  “I was out gathering firewood when they rode up. I heard Father call, ‘Who’s there?’ and climb out of the wagon. I heard the shot and his scream.” She shuddered and bit at her lower lip.

  “How many?” Nelson asked in a savage voice. “Indians?”

  “I didn’t see them. I hid. I knew I couldn’t help him. I kept crawling deeper into the brush.”

  For the first time he saw her torn dress and the scratches on her hands and face.

  “They looked for me. Once I thought a horse would step on me. I heard one of them swearing. In English, Nelson.”

  His eyes went hard. It was not likely that Indians would swear in English, and it was more unlikely that they would look for a girl they did not know existed. Someone knew Leah was with her father, and that someone had looked for her. He did not put his conjectures into words. The evening had brought her enough shock.

  “I heard you calling, Nelson, but I was so frightened that it took me several moments to recognize your voice. Oh, Nelson!” Her voice was choking up again.

  Stevens said, “Take her back to camp, Nelson. I’ll attend to Anson.”

  Nelson gave him a grateful glance. He helped Leah into his saddle and led the horse toward camp. He looked back once. Stevens followed a good distance behind them, his horse burdened with a grisly object.

  The camp was aroused by the time Nelson reached it. People crowded around, questions on every pair of lips.

  He quieted the babble and said, “Indians. They killed Jennings and his family and Leah’s father.”

  He turned Leah over to Mrs. Howerton. The two women were nearly of a size. He said, “She needs clothes and sleep.”

  Mrs. Howerton made sympathetic sounds as she led Leah away. Leah followed like a stunned child. Merciful shock had her now, and Nelson hoped it would last until long after she had fallen asleep.

  A lamp was lighted in the Howerton wagon, and he saw the figures of the women silhouetted against the canvas wall. One of the figures raised its arms, and the other tugged a dress over its head. Nelson turned hastily away.

  He sent men to the Jennings place to bring back Jennings’ body, then walked to his campfire. Stevens had coffee on, and he poured a hot, strong mugful and handed it to Nelson.

  Nelson burned his tongue, and against the pain and worry of the evening he said savagely, “God damn them, Chauncey. I’ll find them. I’ll find every filthy, sneaking bastard of them.”

  Stevens murmured, “Would you still be so worked up if it had been only the Jennings place they hit?”

  Nelson stared at him, feeling his throat tighten with anger. He said with slow, harsh deliberation, “I’ll attend to my own personal business, Chauncey. Just as I expect every other man to attend to his.”

  Stevens kicked at the campfire, sending its embers flying. He stalked off into the night without looking at Nelson.

  Nelson methodically stamped out each winking coal before he turned to his blankets. He did not give a damn what Stevens thought or how he acted. He lay awake a long time. He cared. Stevens was a known factor, one that he could depend upon. This breach between them, coming on top of everything else, made the night too great a burden.

  He was awakened early in the morning by a persistent hand shaking him awake. He swam groggily up out of sleep and stared into the face of the man bending over him.

  Brenner said, “Nelson, more trouble.” Ordinarily he was a placid-faced man, but now his face was twisted with worry. “They hit a six-wagon caravan about five miles from here. Everyone was killed and scalped.”

  Nelson threw the blankets from him and tugged on his boots. He awakened Stevens and said, “Chauncey, they struck again. Get some of the men together. Maybe we can find a trail.” It was possible, but not probable.

  With twenty hard-eyed, eager men he looked at the plundered, half-burned wagons. The bodies of the drivers and merchants lay in pitiful crumpled heaps. The strike had been deadly and without warning, and Nelson doubted there had been time for any kind of defense. This had been a merchants’ caravan, and remnants of trade goods were scattered everywhere.

  He said in a low aside to Stevens, “The scalping was done to make it look like Indian work. But they left too many things dear to Indian hearts.” He pointed to unraveled bolts of bright cloth, piles of shining trinkets, and a boxful of cheap mirrors. He moved to the last wagon and sniffed. The heavy reek of whisky permeated the air.

  He poked about in the charred refuse and pulled out the head
of a barrel. Black letters reading “Monongahela Whisky” were stamped across it. He saw the charred remains of other barrels, and his eyes burned.

  He said, “Bury them,” and looked about for hoof marks. He found them everywhere he looked. The raiding party had split in every direction.

  He said, “Shod horses,” and his eyes were bleak as he looked at Stevens. “I want to get to town as fast as I can. It takes time for a drunk to wear off.”

  They left the burial party to its distasteful task and rode toward town. He glanced at Stevens. The bright gleam was back in his eyes. The strained words between them were forgotten under this emergency.

  The town was just awakening as they rode into it. A man was out before his store, pulling down hastily nailed boards from the window and door.

  Nelson reined up beside him and asked, “What happened?”

  The man turned his head, and Nelson recognized Elisha Maddy, one of the few honest merchants in town.

  Maddy said, “I never saw so many drunks in town in my life. Somebody must have been giving out free whisky. I thought they were going to tear the town down.”

  Nelson looked at Stevens and nodded, his lips a thin, white line. He swung down from his horse and tied it to a rack, and Stevens followed his actions.

  They went down the street on foot, and a man turned the corner and lurched into Nelson. Nelson shoved him away, and the man teetered, flailing his arms to catch his balance.

  “Don’t shove me,” he said. His words were thick, almost inarticulate. “I’m a regulator.” Last night’s orgy had dulled his eyes, and his lips hung slack. He had been sick, and vomit stained his clothes, adding to the filth already there.

  “Not for me, you’re not,” Nelson snapped. He lashed out, and his fist smashed against the unshaven jaw. The head flew back. The man’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he pitched forward on his face.

  Stevens glanced at the unconscious man. “Do you think he was one of them?”

  “I wish I knew,” Nelson panted. “I’d kill him.” The devil’s fire burned in his eyes. “He boasted about being a regulator. I want to see Sepúlveda and this so-called Captain Payne.” He went down the street with long, fierce strides.

  * * * *

  Payne paced back and forth across the earthen floor. Jarmon sat at the table, his face bloated and sullen. Sepúlveda sat in a corner, studying a crack in the wall. Let the gringos quarrel; he wanted no part of it.

  Payne said, “You did it up brown, didn’t you? You had orders for the Jennings place. No more.”

  Jarmon growled, “I told you I wanted that woman. She wasn’t there, or I’d have got her.”

  Payne stopped his pacing, and his eyes filled with murderous fury.

  Sepúlveda rose and walked to the window.

  Payne shouted at Jarmon, “You really stamped around, didn’t you? Then the caravan. What did you bring in?”

  “Nothing,” Jarmon muttered. “It was junk.”

  Payne had trouble with his breathing. His face was mottled, and the pupils of his eyes shrank in size. “You didn’t overlook the whisky, did you? You left the things an Indian would take. If O’Shaughnessy has a brain—”

  Sepúlveda called, “O’Shaughnessy and the other one are coming down the street.” His figure went stiff in fearful anticipation.

  “By God, I should kill you,” Payne said in a low, deadly voice. “Get out of here. Seeing you here would be all he needs to tie everything up.”

  Jarmon locked eyes with him, then got to his feet and slipped out of the back door. Payne looked at that broad back, and his fingers touched the butt of his gun.

  He was smiling when the front door opened. “Morning,” he said. “You’re out early, ain’t you?”

  Nelson marched across the floor and stopped a few feet from him. Payne’s smile faded at the look in his eyes.

  “I thought I told you to report to me when you formed your regulators.”

  “I knew you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you with something I could do.”

  Nelson grabbed a fistful of Payne’s coat and jerked him close. “Whisky was taken from a caravan last night. And your so-called regulators were drunk in town. Drunk, when a dozen of them couldn’t raise the price of a drink.”

  Sepúlveda glanced frantically around, then ducked for the nearest corner.

  Payne said, “Let go of me.” Only his eyes showed the rage boiling within him.

  Nelson shoved him away. “I’ve only suspicions now, Payne. By God, if I knew—”

  Payne said, “You’re jumping at guesses. I offered help, and—”

  “Take your damned help,” Nelson snapped. His eyes raked the cowering Sepúlveda. “I’ve seen fake titles signed by that. I don’t think he has the intelligence to sign his name unless someone guides his hand. Maybe you’re that someone, Payne.”

  Payne straightened his coat. He said in a soothing voice, “You’re making a lot of wild guesses. You’re turning down help you’ll need.”

  Nelson’s eyes bored into him. “Am I? I think he’s your alcalde. I don’t like him—or you. I’m calling for an election next week. I’m running Chauncey Stevens as my candidate for alcalde.”

  Payne purred, “Saucedo sure won’t like having you take things into your own hands this way.”

  “I’m writing Saucedo and telling him what’s been going on here. He’ll be interested to learn.”

  He turned and stalked toward the door, Stevens at his heels. He stopped and said, “After we get hold of the records, those fake titles won’t do anyone any good.”

  He moved aside to let Stevens pass and slammed the door behind him. Bits of dirt from the sod roof fell on the table.

  Payne’s hands opened and closed. “So he’s writing Saucedo, is he? We can write him, too. I think a letter from you, José, will carry more weight than one from O’Shaughnessy. I think I’ll run Sam Tribble as my candidate. José, you just lost your office. Too many Americans coming in to vote for a Mexican.”

  Sepúlveda let out a long, relieved sigh. The office was becoming a burden. These gringos went crazy when they were mad.

  Payne said reflectively, “Someday I’m going to have to kill that O’Shaughnessy. I sure am.”

  Chapter Seven

  Leah’s father was buried in the afternoon. Nelson stood beside her during the simple service. She was dry-eyed, and her cheeks were hollow. Nelson suspected the tears had all been shed during the lonely night hours.

  Brenner read from the Bible: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow…” His words were halting but not without dignity. He finished and closed the book. The first clods fell on the hastily constructed coffin with a booming, hollow sound.

  Leah closed her eyes, and Nelson saw a shudder run through her. She swayed, and he thought she might be going to faint.

  He touched her hand and said, “Leah, I want to talk to you.” He wanted to put his arms about her.

  He led her from the range of sympathetic but still curious eyes. He leaned against a wagon wheel and asked, “What are your plans now?”

  She shook her head, a weary gesture of resignation. “I haven’t thought that far ahead, Nelson.”

  “Are you going back East? To family or friends?” He hated to ask those questions.

  Her smile was a pale ghost of its former self. “There was only father”—she choked a little—“left. As for friends, we never stayed in one spot long enough to make any.” She went on in a voice so low he could scarcely catch it. “He was getting weaker and weaker. Deep down, I knew.” The pale ghost came back to her lips. “It’s something no one will ever admit.” A sob choked her.

  He saw the flash of fright in her eyes, fright born of loneliness and of the unpredictable future. His voice was gruff. “You have friends, Leah. Here. There’s no reason for you to be concerned about the future.” His words quickened, and he did not look at her. He wanted her to stay, he wanted her to stay so badly. “My office is almost finished, Leah. I think o
f the mountain of records to be kept, and I don’t know which way to turn. Stevens is busy with other matters, and so am I. Now, with this election ahead of us, there’ll be even less time for details. I need someone I can trust. Leah, will you take care of those details for me?”

  “If I thought you really needed me, Nelson…”

  His laugh rang out, a relieved sound. “I do, Leah. We’ll talk about it more in a day or two.”

  His stride was vigorous as he moved away. He could turn to the multitude of things ahead with a peaceful mind.

  Stevens found him in the office, just finishing the letter to Saucedo. Nelson looked up and grinned. “His Honor, I hope.”

  Stevens solemnly shook his head. “I’ve been trying on the title all day, Nelson. It still doesn’t seem to fit me.”

  “It will,” Nelson said. “I’ve told Saucedo everything that’s happened here, the crooked titles and all. He doesn’t want things to go badly any more than I do. I think I’ve given him enough evidence to make him willing that Sepúlveda be thrown out. And when we get hold of those records, I’m going to check into Captain Payne’s titles.”

  He sealed the letter and handed it to Stevens. “Get a rider to take that to San Antonio. Then we’d better do some electioneering.”

  * * * *

  Payne grinned as he watched Sepúlveda scrawl his signature. “Won’t that make Saucedo wild? He’ll go straight up when he hears how all the poor Mexicans are being abused. José, you’ve done more to them than O’Shaughnessy could ever think of, but Saucedo doesn’t know that. I can just see him stamping around his office and screaming that the American is taking the law into his own hands. Saucedo is a hotheaded little cuss. That’s good for us.” He started for the door. “Get that off to Saucedo right away. Come on, Sam. We’ve got to be seeing about lining up some votes.”

  Tribble heaved himself to his feet and lumbered after him. Payne looked at him and said, “Alcalde.” He burst into a roar of laughter.

  They stepped out into the street, and Jed Flory came toward them.

  Payne said, “Here’s the first vote.” He stopped Flory and said, “How’s it going, Jed?”

  Flory mumbled a return. He seemed reluctant to talk, and Payne’s eyes narrowed.