Holding his middle and wincing in pain as soon as he’d climbed down off his horse, Hicks said, “Oh, we’ll be sure and do that. First chance we get.”
Bob pointed down the street to the log building that housed his office and the jail. “After I talk to the doc and drop you fellas off, you come on down there when he’s finished with you. I’ll have a report made up of today’s incident that you can sign. Just for the record. Then we’ll see what we can do about finding you someplace to stay and maybe some short-term work to help you get on your feet.”
“I don’t know why you’re going out of your way to be so friendly, Marshal,” said Streeter. “But we sure appreciate it. And you can count on us not playing you false for all you’ve done.”
“I am counting on it,” Bob replied bluntly. “Just keep in mind that it would cause me considerable annoyance if I found out I went to all the trouble of saving you from hanging only to have you turn out to be a couple of lowdown ingrates.”
CHAPTER 8
“So, basically,” Bob was saying, “all I accomplished out at the Rocking W was to make things worse. Usually, when Wardell or some of his boys come to town, they ain’t too rowdy. Not near as bad as some of the other outfits around. After today, after I stuck a burr good and deep under the saddles of about half a dozen of ’em, I doubt that will remain the case. I expect they’ll be showing up with fire in their eyes, primed for the least excuse to raise some hell.”
“If that’s what they’re looking for, we can sure accommodate ’em,” said Fred.
“Yeah, I suppose so. We’ve done it before.” Bob sighed. “It’s just that, doggone it, I went out there with the intent of calming things some. I sure missed that by a mile.”
“I doubt those two fellas who dang near got hung saw it that way. You calmed things a whole lot where they were concerned,” pointed out Fred.
“I guess there’s that,” Bob allowed. He got up from behind his desk, went over to the stove, and poured himself some coffee. This late in the day he knew the brew would be stout enough to disintegrate a stirring spoon, but that fit right in with his mood. “I’m still finding it hard to believe Wardell has got himself worked into a state where he’d try something like that. One of his own men said he acts crazy over the thought of somebody rustling his cattle. And that same fella admitted it’s kinda iffy whether or not there’s even that big a loss. Most of it could have been just winterkill.”
“So you continue to think that most of what’s driving him is his hatred for Carlos Vandez and Mexicans in general? That he just can’t stand the thought of sharing a property line with the V-Slash?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Bob, grimacing after he’d taken a drink of his coffee. “Seems like a lot of bother to go to out of just blind hate. But I’ve seen that kind of thing before in old Indian fighters—ones who harbored the ‘only good Indian is a dead Indian’ mentality all the way to their own graves. So I know that kind of attitude exists.”
“Yeah, that’s unfortunately true.” Now it was Fred’s turn to heave a sigh. “And as further proof that Wardell is ready to push to the limit his notion about fighting rustlers—even if they don’t really exist—I found out some things about that while you were away.”
Bob sat down behind his desk. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Fred hitched up a seat for himself. “I got to thinking about the question of whether or not Wardell went ahead and sent for some hardcases to add to his crew. It dawned on me that the only way he could have done it—since he only just started talking about it a day or so ago, after Marshal Morrison failed to go out and see him about his rustling problem—was by mail or telegraph. Right?
“Now I know that neither Old Man Higby, the postmaster, nor Harold Feeney at the telegraph office are supposed to discuss what passes in or out under their noses. And I gotta say that they’re both pretty tight-lipped about their business. But I also know that, with a little patience and the right approach, each of them can be nudged into revealing certain things.”
“How about you?” Bob said, an edge of impatience cutting into his voice. “What’s it gonna take to nudge you into revealing whatever it is you’re working up to?”
“Okay, okay. Long story short: Neither Wardell nor any of his men has mailed anything at the post office for weeks. But . . . Smoky Barnett, Wardell’s ramrod out at the ranch, did send a telegram on the afternoon Marshal Morrison rode out of town without stopping at the Rocking W. The telegram went to the Concordia Hotel in Denver. The words were something to the effect of: Have your kind of work here after all. Come right away. And even though Barnett was the one who sent it, he signed it as “E. Wardell” . . . I think that’s why Feeney was willing to talk about it. He thought it was a strange message and, ever more, he thought it was suspicious that Barnett didn’t sign with his own name.”
“Yeah. That is a little odd,” Bob said with a thoughtful expression. “Of course there could be all sorts of logical explanations.”
“Yeah. But it could be summoning a hardcase like Wardell talked about, too . . . ‘Your kind of work after all’ . . . Makes it sound like there was some prior discussion but Wardell held off. Now he’s no longer willing to.”
“Well, we’ll just have to keep a sharp eye out. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Good thinking and good work on getting the information, Fred. Feeney didn’t happen to remember a name, did he?”
Fred nodded. “Matter of fact, he did. Like I said, the whole business had been eating away at him some. I think he was glad to get it off his chest. I checked the name he gave me against my memory and our Wanted files. Nothing came up, for whatever that’s worth. In case it might mean anything to you, I wrote it down on that piece of paper I laid there on your desk.”
Fred pointed.
Bob glanced down at his deputy’s neat scrawl. Rance Brannigan, it read.
CHAPTER 9
Bob spent the next forty-five minutes feeling like he’d been gut-kicked by a mule. That’s how hard the name Rance Brannigan hit him.
The worst part was trying not to show it, fighting not to reveal that the name had a connection to his past and what that dark, buried (he thought!) past was. Having Fred know him so well and being so perceptive only made it worse. Bob could tell right away that Fred sensed the change in him after hearing the name. At first, out of courtesy, the deputy held back from saying anything. But it was just a matter of time before his caring nature would cause him to start prying a bit.
Luckily, it wasn’t long before Hicks and Streeter showed up following their sessions with the doctor. That shifted the direct focus away from Bob.
After necessary introductions were made, it was revealed that Hicks did indeed have three cracked ribs and both men received some stitching up. But other than a wealth of additional scrapes and bruises, there was nothing more—no broken bones or internal injuries or anything of that sort.
“For as bad as I ache all over,” Streeter said wryly, “it seems like the damage oughtta be worse. But I reckon I’m willing to settle for some aches over what almost was. Had they gone ahead and stretched our necks, we wouldn’t be hurting at all—but we’d also been slightly dead.”
Following some additional small talk, Bob turned the two drifters over to Fred. Nobody knew more people or more about what was going on around town than Fred. This made him a natural for fixing Hicks and Streeter up with somewhere to stay and finding some short-term work to help them get back on their feet. He was already chattering with ideas and possibilities as he led them out the door.
Alone, Bob slumped in the chair behind his desk.
Rance Brannigan.
Jesus Christ!
Of all the names or situations to crop up out of his past, few could have been worse. Was there a chance it could merely be somebody with the same or similar name? No, that seemed highly unlikely. Rance was a pretty distinct handle. Attach the hardcase gunny description and it only served to solidify the identification all the more. And,
yeah, Bob’s past encounter with Brannigan had been down in Texas. But so what? A man could travel, couldn’t he? After all, Bob had found his way from Texas to Rattlesnake Wells. No reason Brannigan couldn’t find his way to Denver . . . and from there now summoned to be on his way here as well.
Bob sat staring at the handwritten name on the piece of paper for several minutes, his mind and stomach churning. Then, abruptly, he grabbed the paper and balled it in his fist, squeezing as hard as he could, as if trying to squeeze away the existence of the person represented there.
Releasing the crumpled wad of paper, he got up and went out the door.
* * *
There was only one person he could talk to about it.
One person who knew the full story of his past.
One person who could calm him and help sort out some kind of rational plan for dealing with this unexpected twist that threatened their way of life here and everything they’d worked so hard to establish.
“Maybe he won’t recognize you,” Consuela said. “It’s been nearly seven years. And for all that time everyone has believed the Devil’s River Kid to be dead. Is it not possible that Brannigan will see in you merely the resemblance without believing you to actually be one and the same?”
“That’s mighty thin, ’Suela,” Bob replied. “It’d be real nice to think he could shrug it off that easy. But it’s too risky to count on. He was there that day when I killed Sam Ramsey and those other three men. When Ramsey went down, Brannigan was the one who took charge of chasing me into the teeth of that blizzard . . . He was the last one to give up, almost at the cost of losing his own life to the storm.”
Bob was sunk deep in the oversized easy chair in the living room of his home. Consuela was wedged in beside him, her legs across his lap, her head resting on his chest. Bucky was out playing with some of his school chums.
“And even after everybody else was willing to write me off as dead,” Bob continued, “Brannigan was the last holdout. Since my body was never found to give absolute proof I was a goner, he continued to have doubt. I learned that pretty convincingly during those weeks I was holed up at my folks’ place. He kept coming around, kept watching.”
“Yes. He also came around there before Priscilla, Bucky, and I left for Chicago. After we believed you were dead,” Consuela admitted. “He was a very determined man.”
“The kind of man, you think, who would mellow so much with the passage of a few years? The kind of man who would take a good look at me and shrug it off as just a strong resemblance?”
“It’s not totally impossible,” Consuela insisted, though the conviction in her voice was weaker. “In such an unlikely place after so many years . . .”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if he was just passing through, only gonna be in town for a day or two,” Bob said. “But if he hires out to Wardell and hangs around for a while—especially after the way I tangled with that Rocking W bunch today—he’s bound to be aimed at paying particular attention to me. How long, then, before he hears about you and Bucky and how hard will it be for him to get a good look at the both of you? Given all that, you really think there’s any chance somebody like Brannigan won’t be able to add up the pieces and get them to total Bob Hammond, the Devil’s River Kid?”
“Okay. So what?” said Consuela, trying to sound defiant but not quite hiding a faint tone of anguish. “What can he prove? What harm can any accusations he makes truly do to us? Who’s going to take the word of a stranger, a hired gun, against that of a trusted town marshal like you’ve proven yourself to be?”
Bob hugged her closer, appreciating her support and encouraging words. “That might work with the local folks. For a while, anyway. But the Devil’s River Kid is wanted on some pretty serious charges back in Texas. Five or six counts of murder—no matter how justified—don’t get easily set aside. Especially not with somebody like Cameron Bell hell-bent on seeing punishment dealt out. If he got word from Brannigan that I was still alive, he’d bring every ounce of his wealth and influence and thirst for personal vengeance to bear all over again, and it wouldn’t be no time before proper Texas authorities—maybe even a Ranger or two—would come looking for me. If not them, Bell would reissue his Dead or Alive reward, and you’d see gunnies of every stripe flocking to try and claim it. It’d look like a second gold rush on our town.”
Consuela lifted her face and looked up at him. “You make it sound so . . . hopeless. Is the answer, then, to pack up our things and leave here before Brannigan shows up? We could make up some kind of excuse—who could dispute it? Brannigan would never see you, so he could never recognize you. Your secret would stay safe. We could find somewhere new to settle and—”
“No!” Bob surprised even himself with the firmness of his refusal. Then, softening his tone, he said, “I don’t know yet what the right or best answer is . . . But running away ain’t it. What about the lives we’ve built here? What about Bucky? What will he think? He was too young before to fully understand. If he must find out that I’m a wanted outlaw, then so be it. I’ll explain the whole story and, if I’ve succeeded in being the father I tried to be, he’ll understand. But to break all of that to him and then have him see me run away on top of it?” Bob gave a fierce shake of his head. “No. No, I’m not ready to do that.”
A curious smile, proud and loving yet with a trace of uncertainty, maybe even fear, played across Consuela’s lush mouth. “I’m glad you don’t want to run. I don’t want to, either. And nothing anybody could ever tell Bucky would stand a chance of diminishing his father in his eyes. You never have to worry about that.”
Bob pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring, “However this turns out, I’m just sorry I have to drag him and you through it with me.”
“I took a vow only a few months ago, remember?” Consuela said. “I meant every word of it, including the ‘better or worse’ part. Bucky’s vow is in the blood he shares with you. So going through this—or whatever else life might throw our way—together is all part of the deal.”
“You’re right,” Bob said, feeling his own pride and affection well inside him. “I guess I’d be a lot sorrier if I didn’t have you and Bucky in my corner, no matter what comes along.”
CHAPTER 10
Texas, seven years earlier
The Devil’s River Kid had become his identity in the minds of most people.
All but forgotten was Bob Hammond, son of Rafe and Martha Hammond, husband to Priscilla, and father to Bucky. Only that precious handful, along with Consuela, younger sister to Bob’s best friend Ramos, remembered him for who he truly was, who he’d always been. After his retaliation for the murder of Ramos—and that’s what it blatantly had been, no matter how the influence of Cameron Bell’s money and power had corrupted the local law into seeing it differently—Bob Hammond was the one branded an outlaw, a killer.
Enraged, fueled by the thirst for payback and still more vengeance, Bob had declared war on cattle baron Cameron Bell and the insatiable empire he’d built up under his Liberty Bell brand. If they wanted to call him an outlaw, by God, he would live up to it in spades.
So for the better part of a year Bob had been raiding and raising hell with Bell interests all through Calderone County. Scattering cattle and horse herds, wrecking containment pens and fences, blowing up irrigation canals, burning down barns, destroying storages of grain and hay, and threatening those who did business with Bell to break with him and his corrupt ways else they suffer some of the same. Through it all, he avoided capture by repeatedly fleeing into the Devil’s River wilderness area that he knew so well from having explored and hunted in it since boyhood days with Ramos—hence, the Devil’s River Kid tag being slapped on him.
The Kid’s ultimate goal was to cause so much trouble throughout the region and break down the defensive layers around Bell to a point where the local law could no longer cover up for him and the Texas Rangers would be called in. They, the Kid was confident, would dig until the evidence of Bell’s intimidatio
n and extortion and overall bullying tactics to build his empire at the expense of all the smaller ranches around him was sufficient enough for them to bring action against him. As part of all the havoc he was wreaking and in spite of the small army of gunmen Bell hired to ride against him, the Kid took great pains not to harm or kill any individuals.
Although the county sheriff named him a murderer for the shooting death of Willis Breen, Bell’s first hired gun, who had goaded Ramos into a fight he had no chance of winning, the Kid knew there were those who’d seen the truth of his encounter with Breen as a case of him simply being faster on the draw than the vaunted gunman. Therefore, as long as his subsequent actions refrained from more killing, he calculated that the Ranger investigation he was hoping to bring about would ferret out that truth and clear him of the charge for Willis’s murder.
As the months passed, however, the Kid was discouraged to discover that others who’d been intimidated and cowed by Bell—men he’d counted on to be inspired by his acts and then make their own break with the corrupt, power-hungry cattle baron—showed no signs of doing so. The irony of it being that, as long as the Kid was unwilling to kill and go the full limit, the others remained too fearful of crossing Bell. And as long as they stayed cowed and the local law kept covering up and making excuses, the hope of drawing necessary attention from the Rangers was stillborn.
The grueling months of being on the run, living in the wilderness, and having to stay separated from his family eventually took its toll on the Kid. Especially as it grew increasingly clear that his hopes of bringing Bell to his knees were falling miserably short. The final straw was seeing—during the infrequent visits he managed to sneak in—that his always-frail wife appeared to be fading a little more each time and his toddler son was growing up with a stranger for a father. As a particularly bitter winter neared its end, the plan was made for Priscilla and Bucky, accompanied by Consuela to care for them, to return to Priscilla’s hometown of Chicago as soon as the weather was finally clear. When sufficient time had passed and it could be determined that prying eyes were no longer watching them, Bob would slip away and join them. Reunited again, they would leave Chicago under altered identities and find somewhere to settle and begin new lives.
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