“McKean, father and son, Dan Charboneau, Crain, Jakes, and your brother.”
“Not Reed. I can believe all the rest, but they had to have him at the point of a gun to have had him there.”
“Believe what you wish. How much farther?” He motioned toward the mountain.
“Half mile,” she said in defeat. “Don’t kill him. He’s all I’ve got.”
“You stay here. I don’t intend to kill anyone.” He reined Mouse around and pushed him up the path under the dripping ponderosas. After a hard lope, the steepness soon forced him to back off to a long trot. The way grew more like a cow’s face and the pony was forced to cat hop up the rivulets of brown water rushing down the trail. Hooves slipped and the horse hunched up to regain his footing. Finding the solid parts, he recovered and went on.
At the edge of a meadow, Luther could make out a big bay horse at the rack before the small cabin. Someone in a slicker came around the side of the shack leading a horse with something strapped over it. Too late.
He reached back and jerked the Winchester out of the scabbard. The familiar hat worn by the man on the ground was unmistakable. Matt McKean did a double take, then whipped back his slicker, went for his pistol, and fired at him. The range was too long. Nevertheless, Luther stepped off the horse and rested his rifle across the seat.
“Give up, McKean, I’m the law! You’re under arrest.”
“Go to hell!” The man punctuated it with two more shots.
“Whoa,” Luther said sharply to the upset Mouse. The rifle stock jammed in his shoulder, he cocked the hammer and took aim down the rain-splattered barrel. His rifle roared. Shocked by the report, Mouse hunkered down. Matt McKean threw his arms up and fell back on to the porch, hit hard in the chest.
Talking softly to the pony to settle him, Luther levered a fresh shell in the chamber. When McKean did not move from where he lay, Luther swung up and advanced on the cabin. Was he too late to save poor Reed? He almost knew the answer as he eased his way up, convinced McKean was either dead or near dead. The dark hole was in the center of his chest and red blood issued forth on his white shirt. The man’s eyes were closed. Luther shook his head with disgust. McKean had made his own decision about that.
He walked over and took the blanket-wrapped form off the horse. Then he carried the body inside and laid it on the cot. When he peeled the wool blanket back, he saw the blackened bullet hole in Porter’s forehead. Thirty minutes too late.
He closed Porter’s eyes. Then turned at the sounds of his sister on the porch, her sharp gasp as she discovered McKean’s body. He rushed to block the door and prepare her for the loss.
“Reed! Reed? Did you kill him?” She tried to push past him.
“No. We were too late. McKean had already done that.”
“You mean he’s dead?”
Luther nodded and let her pounding fists ricochete off his arms and chest until she collapsed in a heap in the doorway.
“Can’t be—can’t be …” she sobbed.
He looked out across the basin. A rainbow had formed. Somewhere off east where it struck the earth must be the pot of gold. Maybe right on Doc’s house there in Fortune, where Tillie was staying. No telling who that girl had invited to their wedding by this time.
He helped Margie Porter to her feet and led her inside the shack. Then he sat her down in a chair with her back to her dead brother.
“It’s going to take me some time to get everything together. Will you sit here while I do that?” Luther asked.
“Yes,” she said, sounding numb.
“Won’t make it any easier, but I’ll send you my foreman to help you with the ranch until you can decide what you want to do.”
“That’s very generous. But will he work for a woman?” She peered up at him through wet lashes.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he will.”
“I can help you now, Mr. Haskell. I’m better,” she said with a newfound resolve.
He listened. The rain on the roof no longer drummed. The storm must be over. Thunder sounded distant again. “You gather the horses. I’ll tend to the rest of this.”
He watched her get up, pause to look at Reed, then go outside. Tough girl, but she’d have a good foreman. He could hardly wait to tell Hirk.
Everyone in Fortune turned out for the wedding. Margie Porter took charge of the event. The Texan Saloon was washed down and polished for the reception. Two fat steers were butchered and Bones barbecued them for twenty four hours over a spit. Luther’s cowhands grew weary of hauling and splitting wood for the old man’s fires, and peeling potatoes. Every Dutch oven in the community was borrowed for the biscuits.
Bones complained about all the females bringing pies and cakes. He’d wanted to do that, too. Tillie and Margie made a quick trip to Winslow and found a wedding dress. No one recognized Margie’s spruced-up new foreman, Hirk Silver. Haircut, shaved, polished boots, in a new hat and outfit, he looked ready to bust his buttons. So by the afternoon of the ceremony, every cowboy, woman, youngun, drifter, farmer, rancher, storekeeper, and logger was in town dressed in their Sunday finest.
Standing near the cooking, taking it all in, Jules said, “It looks like civilization has struck Fortune in the face,”
“All we lack is the governor,” Jinx said, seated in a chair where he could see everything going on.
“No,” Pyle, Luther’s new trail boss, said, going by with his arms full of split wood. “He came in an hour ago.”
“For the wedding?” Jinx asked in awed disbelief.
“Yeah. Something about Luther’s boss, the major, having to run a jail and he couldn’t be here.”
“Luther,” Sterling began. “The major wants you to finish the rest of the roundup. Since Mr. Allen was so gracious to hire you and all. Will that interrupt your honeymoon?”
They walked beyond the corrals, through the thinly wooded pasture. Luther shook his head. “No, Tillie won’t mind. We’ve discussed it”
“Good. Also, I have some serious news to share with you. Gerald and I spoke about this via telegram before I came up here. Not good news, I’m afraid. Before I left Preskitt, I also visited with the county prosecutor. He doubts that a grand jury will ever charge those ranchers with the crime. Strong sentiment in this territory about that kind of vigilante action. I know you’ve worked hard.”
“Maybe it won’t happen again, sir.”
“I hope you’re right. Perhaps your efforts here will stop it from ever happening again.”
“I hope so, too. I guess we better get back or they’ll think that I’ve run out on the bride.”
“Oh, yes. Isn’t it such a shame that her own family couldn’t be here for this?” Sterling asked.
“Yes, it is,” Luther said, and almost laughed aloud about her being so tickled that even Winston, the livery man from Winslow had come down for the festivities.
Thunder rolled in the distance. Let it rain. Nothing would spoil this day. He glanced back at Ben, who was trailing along with them. Guess, old boy, we’ve got us a housekeeper.
Ben sneezed and licked his face like he approved.
I want to dedicate this book to some great cowboys in my life, folks who opened gates of opportunity. Others were good friends and some plain touched me along the way. They’re in that great pasture in the sky because the boss man needed them up there.
The list goes like this: Shorty, who gave me wisdom and some “jobs” I’ve enjoyed. Ben, who loaned me a great horse when I needed one and lots of good advice. Pete, who always had a smile and a rodeo to announce. Wilford, who showed me the wagon road and made a great pard. Bill, whose rough-sounding ways always held a ring of honesty. Phil, who had a great gift to be an announcer. Loyd, whom you could sure count on for the extra mile.
Then thanks to my writers’ group, who gave me some wonderful advice regarding this book, and Lynn Carney, who slaved on it to dot all the i’s. Hat’s off to my wife, Pat, who delivered food, water, and encouragement to the computer through the entire
time this book was being created.
And to all my readers, thanks.
Dusty Richards
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY DUSTY RICHARDS
Servant of the Law
The Lawless Land
Rancher’s Law
INVITATION TO A HANGING
Jakes had the hemp strands slung over the thick branch and the nooses dangled in place. The men loaded the rustlers in their saddles. Somewhere a noisy magpie scolded them. Matt searched up and down the two dusty ruts for sight of anyone or thing. This needed to be over quickly in case some others came along.
He stepped to Stearn’s pinto. The noose looked to be set right around the man’s throat. The long knot was beside his left ear, so when the horse was driven out from under him, the fall with the weight of his body would snap his neck.
“You have anything you want to say to God or us about your crimes?”
“You boys are making the biggest mistake of your lives,” Dikes said. “I just hope God forgives you.”
Matt moved back. Each rancher held a coiled up lariat in his hand. At his nod, they busted the horses on the butt. Their mounts charged away. The unmistakable snap of spines cracked like gunshots …
RANCHER’S LAW
Copyright © 2001 by Dusty Richards.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781429939904
First eBook Edition : July 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2001
Rancher's Law Page 26