After General Sam Houston had annexed this land from Mexico, the country was open for everyone who sought his fortune in the great state of Texas. Businessmen invested money, and the seed of enterprise began to grow quicker still after what they called in these parts the War of Northern Aggression. Ranches had been built, and the era of cattle raising had begun.
More and more gringos came to Texas. They were followed by gunfighters and gamblers. One of these men was Sam Wilcox.
Mexico had been involved in a bloody civil war at the time, and Wilcox had taken a part in it. Eventually he had been pursued back to the border by a squad of angry federales. He had been fortunate to reach the safer side of the Rio Bravo one step ahead of them, and then decided to make his way to Indio Plains, there to see what other work could be had for a man of his talents.
The town was full of men like him. Many had crossed the border to Mexico in the expectation of making money from a conflict that was not their own. Others had the law on their heels and needed a place to disappear to.
He booked himself into a cheap hotel and reflected on just how close a call it had been, getting out of Mexico with those federales on his tail. He was under no illusions—he’d been damned lucky to escape in one piece. Finally he left the hotel by the fire stairs and followed a small alley to the main street. The sun had already disappeared behind the hills, and the coming darkness had brought Indio Plains’s nightlife alive.
A few shots sounded in the distance, followed by the rebel yells of a few drunken cowboys. He heard piano music from the Pine Tree saloon on the other side of the street – and the rough laughter of men in that building. He wanted to continue on his way, but stopped seconds later when the sound of a woman singing reached his ears. He hesitated a few seconds longer, but decided finally to enter the saloon.
The air was thick with smoke. It formed a visible cloud near the wooden ceiling and swallowed the light of the big coal oil lamps.
The painted singer had just finished her song. A thundering applause followed. The woman was happy and acknowledged her male audience, which had gathered before the small stage, with a friendly smile. While they cheered and threw their hats into the air, she disappeared behind a velvet curtain.
Wilcox worked his way to the bar and gestured to one of the two barkeepers. The man put a glass onto the bar and took down a brown bottle, from which he poured whiskey. Wilcox paid for the drink and turned his attention back to the stage.
The liquid tasted like pure moonshine and burnt like hell as it went down. Wilcox shuddered.
“It tastes like panther piss, but you can live on it,” said a voice behide him.
He turned and looked into the freckled face of a tall cowboy. The man wore old breeches, a faded shirt and a hat which had seen better times.
“I’m Tom Delhart,” he introduced himself. “I work for the Davison ranch. The brand is the Broken D. Perhaps you know it?”
“I only just got in,” Wilcox replied. “Name’s Wilcox, by the way.”
As he mentioned his name he studied the cowboy closely, but Delhart gave no indication that he has heard of the name. Instead, the cowboy asked him if he had business in Indio Plains.
“Just passing through,” Wilcox replied. “Tomorrow I’ll be on my way north.”
“Well, you sure came to the right establishment,” Delhart said with a smile. “A woman of beauty and refinement don’t come along too often, but that’s what they got here tonight.”
“The singer?”
“Uh-huh. Miss Lilly Belle. Voice of an angel.”
“I caught the tail-end of her act. She sure can sing.”
“Stick around a while. She’ll be back shortly. Will you have another drink?”
Before he could reply, there was a volley of pistol shots from out on the street. A moment later a group of boisterous cowboys came hustling inside. Their leader was a young man with dark hair.
Suddenly it went very quiet at the Pine Tree saloon. For long seconds you could almost have heard a pin drop. Then the piano player started playing again, and the party atmosphere picked up again.
“That’s Melvyn Hancock,” whispered Delhart. “He’d been coming in every evening to hear Lilly Belle sing.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is.”
“Is she his woman, or something?”
“No. But that won’t stop the likes of Melvyn Hancock. He thinks he owns her already. Far as he’s concerned, Lilly Belle is his woman. So be careful what you do or say around him, if it concerns her.”
Wilcox watched how the young man and his friends took over three tables before the stage—effectively the best seats in the house. With a loud yell Hancock ordered whiskey. The two barkeeps hurried to deliver it.
Wilcox sighed. He had seen men like Melvyn Hancock too many times to recall. Hancok was the spoilt son of a well-connected cattle baron, who thought he could buy the whole world with his dad’s money. Trouble always followed when someone tried to step in the way of a man like that.
“Here she comes!” whispered Delhart.
Lilly Belle strode onto the stage to the strains of Streets of Laredo. All conversation ceased.
Lilly had changed her outfit, Wilcox noted. Now she wore a dark blue satin dress. She was intensely pretty, and Wilcox could understand why Melvyn Hancock was attracted to her.
“I wanna hear something sweet and nice—jus’ like you, pretty one!” yelled a drunken cowboy.
Hancock turned in his chair, his eyes full of anger. The cowboy turned pale and decided to leave.
Then Lilly Belle began to sing. Her voice was perfection. Mostly she sung about the lives of the cowboys to whom she was performing. When she ended, the saloon was filled with enthusiastic applause and appreciative cheers.
Melvyn Hancock stood up and went to the stage, where Lilly Belle was still acknowledging the applause of her audience. As soon as she saw Hancock, however, Wilcox saw her face change, her good humor evaporate.
“Nobody can sing like you, Lilly!” Hancock called, and grabbed at the girl’s arm.
Though she tried to resist, Hancock almost pulled her down off the stage and through the crowd toward the bar. Wilcox’s mouth tightened, for he had never cared to see a woman treated so. Hancock, however, was different. He treated her like some of his father’s stock.
“Come on, darlin’!” he said with a wide grin.
He tried to drag her into an embrace but Belle stiffened noticeably. Hancock reached for a fresh glass of whiskey and thrust it at her. She didn’t want it, that much was obvious. But Hancock’s face seemed to harden almost imperceptibly, and he gestured that she should drink up. Reluctantly she did so.
Hancock roared with laughter as she almost choked on the fiery spirit.
But then he noticed Wilcox looking at him, and all at once the laughter stopped.
“You,” he said.
The saloon was suddenly quiet as the grave.
“What about me?” asked Wilcox.
“New around here, ain’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Lookin’ for some action?”
“Not really.”
“I got some action for you,” said Hancock, as if he hadn’t heard Wilcox’s reply. “Poker game. Always like to play me some poker when I come to town. Why not sit in?”
Wilcox recognized the warning Lilly tried to send him with her eyes. But something in Wilcox, some madness, recklessness brought on by the whiskey and the fact that he despised men of Hancock’s type, made him say, “Sure. Why not?”
Hancock thrust Lilly aside and returned to his table. Wilcox followed.
“Pull up a chair, stranger.”
Wilcox did.
The saloon was still silent. The light atmosphere of just minutes before was now a distant memory. Hancock snapped his fingers and one of the barkeepers hurried over with a fresh deck of cards and a new bottle of whiskey—the special stuff, Wilcox noted idly, not the varnish the other patrons were expected
to sup.
“Got a name?” asked Hancock.
Wilcox said yes and told him what it was.
“I’ve heard that name before,” said Hancock. “Could it be that you’ve spent some time in Mexico lately?”
“What if I have?” asked Wilcox.
“Nothin’ to me,” was Hancock’s answer.
He broke the seal, shuffled the deck, dealt hands for himself, Wilcox and two of his cronies.
“No limit,” he said. “Happy with that?”
Wilcox nodded.
“Let’s play,” he said quietly.
Chapter Nine
Those who stood around the table to watch the game fell silent.
The rancher’s son was known as a very good gambler. Hardly anyone liked to spend time with him at the table, for the outcome was clear from the start. Hancock was going to beat them and beat them hard. He always played to win—for Melvyn Hancock, it was the only way to play.
Wilcox took his cards. He held nothing spectacular, but showed nothing of his disappointment on his face. Instead stayed calm and watched the other players instead. Hancock set down a ten-spot.
“I bet ten bucks,” he said with a predatory smile.
His two companions took the bet, and Wilcox did the same. Then he threw two cards away and chose replacements. Immediately his hand looked healthier: aces and eights.
Hancock wanted to see what he had, and Wilcox showed it.
“This round goes to you,” he said.
Now it was Wilcox’s turn to shuffle and deal. He himself was unlucky this time and lost some of the money which he had won in the first round.
They played for another fifteen minutes. Sometimes Hancock won, sometimes Wilcox did. The other two men, Higgins and Ferris, lost consistently.
Lilly had come closer to watch. Now Hancock grabbed her arm, drew her close and kissed her.
“Had enough?” he asked Wilcox.
Wilcox only smiled. “Have you?”
Hancock’s smile died. “Not hardly.”
He snatched up the deck, shuffled, cut, shuffled again and dealt.
Wilcox inspected his hand. Two aces. Hancock seemed satisfied with what he had. Wilcox decided to throw away three cards. Hancock gave him three new ones. Wilcox picked up the first and found himself with another ace.
“What about the other two?” Hancock asked testily. “Don’t let’s take all evenin’ about it.”
Slowly Wilcox picked up the second card. It was a nothing card. But the third …
A fourth ace.
He took out the rest of his money and put it down on the table between them.
“Five hundred dollars,” he said softly.
Hancock’s face showed nothing.
“See you,” he said after a moment. “See you five hundred … and raise you five hundred.”
A gasp went through the onlookers.
Wilcox hesitated momentarily. “I’ll see your five hundred,” he said quietly, and set more cash money onto the growing pile.
“I call,” said Hancock, and flung down his cards with a triumphant smile. “Four kings.”
The tension was almost palpable now.
Wilcox said, “Sorry, Hancock.”
And set down his four aces.
Hancock went pale.
As Wilcox reached for the money he muttered something soft and unpleasant. Then he repeated it a little louder. “You cheated.”
Wilcox froze, said, “Tell you what—I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You cheated!” Hancock snapped, louder. “No one knows cards better than me, and certainly not the likes of you!”
“Mel … ” murmured one of Hancock’s companions.
But Hancock didn’t hear him, or chose not to. Instead he reared up out of his chair, reached for his Colt and brought it out in a blur.
Wilcox was way ahead of him. He fired from under the table—the bullet tore splinters up out of the center and the bullet sizzled on to smack Hancock dead in the sternum. It rocked him back, the chair skittered away behind him. Hancock managed, “You … you … ”
Then he dropped the gun and followed it down, his limbs loose and lifeless.
One of Hancock’s companions drew his gun and got off a shot, but Wilcox had seen him from the edge of his vision and threw himself sideways, out of his chair. Rolling, he came up on one knee and returned fire. His bullet stopped the other man in his tracks. He stumbled back with a loud yell, hit in the shoulder.
“That’s enough!” yelled Wilcox. He came up on both feet, Colt at the read. “Anyone else want to take part in this game?”
No one moved, save for one man, who said, “You just killed Matt Hancock’s son, Mister! He’ll hunt you down for that!”
“It was self-defense,” replied Wilcox.
“You think that’ll cut any ice with Matt Hancock?”
“I’ll testify that Melvyn drew first!” said Lilly, her voice tremulous.
“We could all testify that Mel drew first,” said the other man. “But it wouldn’t do no good. That boy was the apple of his pappy’s eye.”
Wilcox had an unpleasant feeling there would be more killing before this thing was settled. “Take him home,” he said, indicating the body. “Tell his old man what happened. And tell him he’d better accept the truth of it or pay the consequences, the way his boy did.”
“We’ll take him home, all right,” answered another of Hancock’s cronies. “But Mr. Hancock won’t take this lying down. You don’t know it yet, but you’re already dead!”
Wilcox stayed quiet, while the men picked Hancock up and carried him away. Only a pool of blood remained on the sawdust floor.
“... and since that day Matt Hancock has been searching for me,” finished Wilcox. “The woman testified before the circuit judge, and a couple other witnesses too. But it wasn’t enough for Hancock. I left town, and hoped to leave that business behind me at the same time, but Hancock had other ideas. He hired killers and sent them after me – and now it looks like they’ve finally run me to ground.”
Tom, his sons and Jay Durango had listened closely to Wilcox’ story. Now everything made sense, and the rancher saw many things from a different point of view.
“Gordon Kelly and his companions’ll come out to Rancho Bravo, there is no doubt about that,” said Tom. “But we’ll be waiting for them.”
“This isn’t your fight, Mr. Calhoun.”
“We took you in and patched you up, Wilcox. That makes it our fight.”
Wilcox shook his head. “No. I’ll ride on, clear the territory, go someplace new.”
“And they’ll dog you every step of the way,” said Jay. “No, Wilcox. Best you make your stand right here, where you got some allies.”
“Jay’s right,” said John. “You can’t run forever.”
Tom turned to Billy. “Grab a horse and ride to San Angelo quick as you can,” he said. “Tell Tate Clayburn what’s happened, and then send a telegram to the US marshal in Indio Plains. He needs to know what’s going on here.”
Billy stood up and headed for the door. “On my way.”
The rancher nodded.
“And Billy … ?”
“Yes, pa?”
“Ride wary, son. If you see this man Kelly and his companions, avoid them.”
Billy nodded and left the room.
“John,” the rancher continued. “You and Jay talk to the rest of the boys, let them know what might happen. I want night-watches on the tower and on the other side of the valley. If these sonsofbitches show their faces anywhere around here, I want to know about it.”
Jay nodded briskly. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
He and John left the room.
Tom said, “Honesty’s always the best policy, Wilcox. Now we know the truth of the matter, I think we should start over, don’t you?”
For a moment Wilcox was lost for words. “I don’t know what to say,” he managed at last. “It’s been such a lonely trail … I never
expected anyone would ever give me the benefit of the doubt. I still don’t like the idea of your men risking themselves on my account, but I know you – and they – mean well, and I thank you all for it.”
“Forget it,” said Tom. “Hopefully the US Marshal will contact Matt Hancock and let him know that no matter how much clout he wields, he can’t take the law into his own hands. If Hancock calls his men off, it’s over.”
“And if he doesn’t … ?”
Tom’s face hardened. “Then it’s war,” he said.
The sun had disappeared behind the hills and evening spread across the brasada. Soon the moon would rise.
The silhouette of a man in a long duster stood out against the evening sky. He had positioned himself between three large bushes and a couple of rocks, from which he could watch the land before him.
A coyote howled in the distance, and the chirping of crickets was the only sound. During the day the brasada was a hostile, oven-hot country. By night the temperature could drop close to freezing. The man began to shiver while he was watching the land. He thought about his two companions, who were sitting before a warming fire down in a ditch. At least they were able to warm themselves. But Jimmy Evans – Gordon Kelly’s blond companion – still had three hours of watch duty left to go.
He felt the cold seep deep into his body.
Just then Jimmy heard a sound in the distance. There – again. This time more clearly. It sounded like approaching hoof beats.
Seconds later he recognized a lone rider in the distance. The moonlight showed him clearly. He was heading for their hidden camp – and fast.
Who is this hombre? And why is he holding his horse to such a reckless pace?
Jimmy took up his Winchester and ran as quick as he could down to the ditch where his companions, Kelly and Dub Winfield, had erected their small camp.
“Gordon, there’s a rider coming!” he reported. “Coming in from the southwest – from the direction of Rancho Bravo!”
“Hellfire!” muttered Kelly, standing up.
Dub Winfield also clambered to his feet. Both men grabbed their guns and then started following Evans back up out of the ditch.
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