Devil Rising

by R. B. Conroy

  “Supposed to be, but the stage broke down, a wheel busted out at Comanche Pass. Judge Oliver didn’t get in till last night. So the hearing’s at ten o’clock this morning, fifteen minutes from now, like I said.”

  “Enough of this chit-chat, we’re ready to see Fuller!” Canady demanded, as his left arm leaned on Jon’s desk.

  Jon stared at Canady as he walked toward the nasty gunman. Butch’s arm rose off Jon’s desk, he moved out of the way.

  “Pardon me Sheriff,” he said sarcastically. His thin, muscular frame moved sideways as Jon passed.

  Jon stared hard at Canady as he sat down in his swivel chair. “Let them in, Ed!”

  Ed walked over and held the gate open. “This way, fellas.”

  Jon fell back in his chair, his arms folded on his chest. “Leave your gun belts on my desk, fellas.”

  Canady sneered, as the varmints begrudgingly unbuckled their gun belts and tossed them on Jon’s big desk.

  The door clicked open as Ed turned the key. “You got company, Zing.”

  Fuller’s narrow, pocked face cracked with a smile. “Howdy Butch, ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  Canady’s hand reached forward, the two gunmen shook. “Good to see you, Zing.”

  “This here’s Clive Cook,” Canady said.

  “Howdy Clive, I’ve heard about you!”

  The big door banged shut, the lock clicked. Ed went back to the office area; he picked two cups off the pegs behind the stove and poured him and Jon a fresh cup.

  Jon reached in his jean pocket and lifted out his pocket knife. The large blade swung open, Jon snatched a hunk of a wood out of his left desk drawer and began to carve. Ed slid a fresh cup of coffee in front of him.

  “What’s this all about?” Ed asked.

  Jon looked pensive. “Well...I think they’re needing another gun.”

  “So they think if they bail Fuller out, he’ll join up with them.”

  “Yea, you hit the nail on the head, Partner.” The knife blade disappeared into the white pearl handle. He frowned as his huge hands engulfed the steaming cup of coffee. “These boys are starting to make me real mad, Ed.”

  Ed’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t say!” He knew what that meant.

  “Yea, I--”

  “We’re ready,” a loud voice from the back interrupted the tough sheriff.

  “Go let them out Ed, before I lose my temper,” Jon snarled.

  Ed grabbed the keys from the peg, pushed through the gate and unlocked the cell.

  There were smiles and handshakes all around as the three men departed the cell. An ugly grin broke out on Canady’s square dark face as he brushed by Ed.

  Ed quickly locked the cell door and hurried to get their gun belts. Jon’s legs dropped off the desk; he pushed his chair backward and stood up.

  “Just keep one thing in mind, fellas.” Jon spoke calmly, eyes locked on Canady as the men strapped up.

  “What’s that, Sheriff?” Norton asked.

  Canady stared back hard at Jon.

  “You may think you got a pretty cute plan here, but you’ll never have enough men, I promise you that.”

  “Just visitin’ an old friend, Sheriff, that’s all.” Canady smirked, hands held high, as he stepped backwards, never taking his eyes off Jon. Canady kept Norton and Cook behind him as they backed out the door.

  Ed pulled the curtain back on the front door, and watched as the three varmints mounted up and rode away.

  Ed looked over at Jon. “Can they bail him out, Jon?”

  Jon’s chair banged into his desk; he walked over by Ed and looked out the window as dust from the departing riders drifted by the pane glass window. “Fraid so. Judge Oliver ain’t got much to go on. Jack’s on the mend, Doc says he’ll be up and around in a few days. Besides, Fuller wasn’t the trigger man anyway; he just stole some supplies. Bail will be pretty low and Faraday’s got the booty. Fuller will be out a here by sundown,” Jon predicted, certain that Faraday’s camp was arming up, and a showdown was imminent.

  * * *

  “Watch out, Isaiah!” a little boy screamed. The youngster’s little friend dove to the side of the dusty road just in time. The thundering hooves of Canady’s big horse pounded the ground next to the little boy as he and the others charged out of town.

  “How far to Jed’s place?” Web shouted. The bill on Web’s hat blew flat as the three men raced forward.

  “It’s just down the road a ways!” Canady replied. The whip cracked on his horse’s hindquarters, Canady pushed him hard.

  “Buk, buk, baaack!” “Buk, buk, baaack!” Wings flapped and feathers flew as the chickens scurried to get out of the way of the approaching riders. The two horses came to a stop in front of Orton’s small log cabin. Web jumped down, wrapped the leather straps on the peg, walked over and knocked on the rickety door. “Anybody home?” he shouted.

  “Who’s callin’?” a voice shouted from the back of the house.

  “Web Norton!”

  Jed rubbed his soiled hands against his cloth apron as he approached the three men. He extended his hand to shake.

  “Of course, good to see you Web.”

  “Hello, Jed,” Web replied as the two men shook hands.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Canady,” Jed said.

  Butch nodded at the chunky farmer.

  “Mornin’ Clive.”

  “Good Morning Jed,” Cook said politely.

  “How are you today, Jed?” Web asked.

  “Not too bad, I guess.”

  “How’s business?” Web asked.

  “Well, I’m makin’ enough with my chickens to get by, nothing more, thank you. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, gentlemen?” Jed’s eyebrows raised a little as he awaited the answer.

  Web’s freckled face broke into a smile as he replied. “We were just in the area and thought we’d stop in and say hello.”

  “Well then, how ’bout some coffee? Just made a pot a few minutes ago.”

  Web’s eyes went in the direction of Clive and Butch; they nodded in the affirmative. “Sounds good Jed.”

  “Come on in.” The old door creaked as Jed popped the latch, pushed it open, and motioned for the men to come in.

  “Thank you Jed,” Web and Cook replied. Canady stayed quiet.

  Jed grabbed a couple of metal cups off the wood shelf next to the stove. “Black?” Steam rose as the hot black coffee flowed into the cups.

  “Ain’t no other way, is there?” Web joked. Canady and Cook nodded.

  Jed set the coffee in front of his guests. “Sit down, please.”

  The wooden stool slid between his legs as Web pulled it backward and sat down. Canady just stood twirling his mustache, staring at Jed. Clive Cook pulled a stool back and sat down.

  “Sure nice to have some company, gets awful lonely out here.” The large man smiled. “How are you and Alex doing’ since you won the election, Clive?”

  “Fine, Jed. We’re looking forward to working with you on the County Commission.” The steam disappeared as Clive blew on the hot coffee, he took a sip.

  “So am I,” Jed said. “You can tell Alex that, so am I.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear that. We want to see this county move forward, and we’re going to need your help to do that. We can see some room for improvement here in Mesquite County.”

  “Oh, is that right? What kind of improvement you talking about?’’

  “We think some changes are needed in this county,” Clive said nervously.

  “Changes? What changes?”

  Cook hesitated and then replied. “We’re thinking that Stoudenmire fellow is getting a little too big for his britches. Drinking on the job, and shooting anybody that crosses him. We think we need a more measured man as sheriff of this county.” The stocky Brit’s eyes peered upward, waiting for Jed’s response.

  “Well, I know the sheriff might take a drink now and then. But I swear, I ain’t never seen the man drunk on the job. And he nev
er shoots nobody, that don’t need shootin’. I’m afraid I kind of disagree with that one. I think we need the sheriff right where he’s at.”

  Canady grimaced.

  “Uh, Jed, you know it’s going to take three votes to get anything done around here. And Mr. Faraday and I are really counting on your vote,” Cook said.

  “There’s a lot a things I just might agree on, but getting’ rid of our fine sheriff isn’t one of ’em.” Jed seemed agitated; he yanked the handkerchief from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Umm, I was hoping you’d look at it a little--”

  “Now you listen to me, fat boy,” Canady interrupted Cook. “We’re asking nice now, but if you keep bucking us, it could get rough around here!” Butch’s dark eyes peered at Jed from under his black silk hat. His right hand had a firm grip on his shiny Cimarron.

  “No! You listen to me!” Jed snapped back at the gnarly gunman. “You’re threatening’ me, because you think I’m poor and desperate, you think you can push me around. You’re afraid of Baldwin and Hancock; they got money and influence. So you’re coming’ after me. Well, you’re barking’ up the wrong tree Mister, cause I ain’t no crook.” Sweat from Jed’s brow dripped down on his canvas apron as he rebuffed the gnarly gunman.

  “You better think twice about what you’re saying Jed, we mean--”

  Before Cook could finish Butch Canady jumped out his chair. He yanked the gun out of its holster and spun it on his finger. Then he grabbed it by the barrel; his leather vest flew open as he raised his arm. The butt of the gun smashed into Jed’s skull.

  “Hey, what the--!” Jed screamed as his large body flew sideways out of the chair. His head crashed against the iron leg of the black pot belly stove. His hands covered his face, blood started to trickle from between his fingers, he was moaning in pain.

  Canady leaned toward the fallen man and raised the gun again.

  “Stop! That’s enough Butch! We don’t want to kill him!” Web shouted.

  The gun fell slowly to Butch’s side; he looked down at the fallen man. “Let this be a lesson, you best be with us, and not agin us. Next time I ain’t going to stop!” He kicked Jed’s fallen coffee cup, and the tin mug bounced off Orton’s covered face.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Web said as he pushed away form the oak table.

  Canady slowly backed away, eyes locked on his fallen prey. “Damn chicken farmer anyway!” He dropped his six gun in his holster as he turned and hurried out. The door banged shut.

  Inside, still stunned by the clubbing, a defiant Jed Orton whispered, “You go to hell Canady!”

  Outside, the three curly wolves mounted up. “Let’s head back to town. That bail hearing should be over by now,” Web shouted. The leather strap snapped hard against the hindquarters of Web’s gray stallion; the horse leapt forward. Canady and Cook were close behind. The broilers squawked and scurried out of the way. The men rode hard toward town, anxious to add another gun to their potent arsenal.

  * * *

  The swinging door banged against the wall of the Barbee. Jon was in a dark mood as he moved toward the bar for his daily lunch. “Usual, Sam,” he barked.

  Sam smiled, looking dapper in his red leather vest, white cotton shirt, and bow tie. A bottle appeared from under the bar. Sam poured Jon a shot. The glass slid in front of big Jon.

  “What’s up, Jon? You look a might boiled today!”

  “I don’t like the way things are shaping up around here, Sam. Faraday’s moving faster than I thought he would. Looks like Zing Fuller might be joining their camp.” Jon grimaced, his big hand ducked under his black vest as he snatched a Havana out of his shirt pocket.

  “Zing Fuller? Hell, I thought he was in jail for the Malone shooting!” Sam exclaimed.

  “He was! The Judge went lenient on him because he didn’t shoot Malone. The bail’s only two hundred dollars. Clive Cook and the boys were at the jail this morning to see Fuller. They were talking real low, something’s up.” Jon’s head fell backwards as he downed the shot. The thick glass slammed on the bar.

  “That’s not good!” Sam replied. The Early Times splashed into Jon’s glass again. He usually only had one but Sam apparently thought he needed another. “Canady’s as mean as they come, Fuller’s a nasty gun for hire, Cook is fast and deadly with a six gun, and he’s bearing a grudge for that whippin’ you gave him. And Web can hold his own with anybody. And guess what?”

  “What?” Jon seemed annoyed. His blue denim shirtsleeve slid across his mouth. The empty shot glass hit the bar.

  “Even Alex Faraday is good with a gun! He won the rifle shooting contest at the fair last fall. They say he wears sometimes and he always carries a Derringer up his sleeve. I guess he was quite the marksman over there in merry ole’ England. Looks like you got your hands full, big guy,” Sam exclaimed.

  Jon’s face pruned as the whiskey went down. “You’re just full a good news, ain’t you, Sam!”

  “All you got is yourself, Ed Morgan, Camp, if you deputize him, and Jack Malone, who’s still on the mend. Don’t sound good to me, Jon.” Sam’s eyebrows rose as he awaited Jon’s answer.

  “What’s the old Bible saying Sam? Oh ye...?”

  Sam answered, “Men of little faith.”

  “Yea, yea, that’s it. Ye men of little faith.” Jon smiled and looked over at Sam. “I can take care of myself, Sam. Don’t you ever worry ’bout that.” Suddenly, Jon’s blue eyes darted to the left, out at the street. The dust flew as two horses came thundering past. Jon recognized Canady’s clay.

  “Gotta go, looks like the boys are heading down to the jail with their damn bail papers! Hold that lunch, Sam!” Jon reached in his front pocket; a silver dollar clanked on the bar. “See you later.” The front of Jon’s brown felt hat was tipped down; he turned and hurried out of the Barbee to the jail.

  Cook and the boys tied up out front and hurried in.

  Jon approached the jail and stood for a moment by the slightly open door, looking in on the crafty varmints.

  “We’re here to pick up Zing!” Cook demanded as he tossed the bail agreement on Ed’s desk. A startled Ed looked up at the anxious pokes. Without saying a word, he slid his left hand under the inked document and pulled it up where he could read it. He put on his reading glasses and tapped them down his nose with his index finger. His head leaned back as he read it carefully.

  “Looks okay Gentlemen. There’s only one problem,” Ed said, as he peered over his glasses at them.

  “What’s that?” Cook said impatiently.

  “The sheriff isn’t here to sign the release.”

  Just then the front door swung open. The three surprised hombres jumped backward out of the way as the big sheriff hurried in. Butch Canady’s thin right hand went instinctively onto the handle of his six gun. Seeing no threat from the sheriff, it fell to his side.

  “I guess we just solved that problem Deputy,” Canady said. His thin lips were curved in an ugly smile.

  Jon gave the varmints a hard look. His leaned over and grabbed the document off Ed’s desk and quickly read it. Ed slid his desk drawer open, pulled out a pen and handed it to Jon. Jon reluctantly took the pen from Ed, poked in the black ink bottle on Ed’s desk and signed the crinkled release.

  Jon looked hard again at Cook and Canady as he turned and walked over to the cell area. He unlocked Fuller’s cell and opened the door. “Get your stuff together Fuller. You’re out of here. Your court date for stealing those supplies is a month from this Thursday. Your horse is down at Camp’s. You owe him two bucks.”

  “We took care of that, Zing.” Web smiled at their new compadre.

  “Thank you, Web,” a surprised Zing replied as he gathered up his belongings and hurried out of the cell.

  Ed unlocked his lower desk drawer. He leaned down and pulled out Fuller’s Uberti and holster. He dropped them on his desk. “Your gun is over here, Zing.”

  Zing hurried over to Ed’s desk. The nasty gunman quickly
strapped on his six gun and tied down. Then he turned the door handle and hurried out; Cook, Norton and Canady were close behind. Canady gave big Jon a nasty grin as he walked past.

  * * *

  Jed Orton’s arm slipped off the table top, his body fell hard to the ground as he struggled to get to his feet. His large torso rolled gently from side to side. His swollen right eye was crimson and black, an ugly sight. Suddenly, he rolled hard to the left and came up on one knee. His right arm moved up and thumped on the oak table top. Bracing himself with his right hand, he leaned forward and pushed himself up to a standing position. Woozy, he steadied himself, untied the red checkered handkerchief from around his neck and wrapped it around the deep bloody gash on his forehead. Legs wobbling, he staggered out the door, hopped on his donkey Charlie and headed for town.

  “Aw-EE!” “Aw-EE!” the large gray-dun Jack brayed loudly, his short legs moved stiffly and quickly, just short of a gallop as they headed through the barnyard toward town.

  “Get me to the sheriff, Charlie, please get me to the sheriff,” Jed whispered to his old friend. Charlie’s eyes widened, he looked up at Jed as if to say I’ll try.

  * * *

  Nearby, Little Bear, a Pawnee Indian, the only survivor of a brutal war with the Cherokees some years earlier, was gathering sticks for a fire. His small wood hut was some hundred yards from the road, just a short distance from Jed’s chicken farm and well hidden among the desert ironwood and velvet mesquite. Still leery of retribution from the Cherokee, he lived quietly in the woods, Jed was one of the few people who knew where he lived. Well liked, Little Bear got by doing odd jobs for people in town. Hungry, he was gathering twigs to build a fire and cook the jackrabbit he had killed earlier in the day.

  The twigs snapped underfoot as Little Bear slowly prodded through the thick woods. He stopped suddenly, his ears picked up the sounds of Charlie’s brays. Those brays sound different, Jed’s in trouble, Little Bear thought. He slid the stone tomahawk out of the sash around his waist as he hurried through the heavy brush toward the road. Now within fifty yards of the trail, he could see Jed wobbling atop the fast walking donkey.