Abilene Gun Down

by Jory Sherman

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Coe.”

  “One more thing and then I’ll shut up. That muerte. The Mexicans say you sit with death. You ride with death. All your livelong days. They don’t look at death as something to be feared, but more like a gift. A chance to learn, the way they put it. I don’t know about that, but I do know we live with death. It’s in us and around us. So if you live, if you beat the hangman on this business, you keep that in mind. Live with death. Don’t run away from it. Because as sure as I’m standin’ here, if you run, it’ll catch you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Mr. Coe.”

  A few minutes later, they heard the latch clatter on the door and two men walked down toward their cell. One was the jailer, the other a sturdy bearded man, muscular and bulky, with a pistol on his belt.

  “Ben,” Coe said. “About time.”

  “I ought to leave you in here, Phil, you sonofabitch,” Thompson said. “But the place is going to fill up tonight. Big herd comin’ in now.”

  The jailer opened the cell door.

  “Ben, this is Jed Brand. They’re buildin’ that gallows out there for him.”

  Thompson looked at Jed, nodded.

  “Suerte, kid,” Thompson said. “Luck to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”

  “You ’member what I said, Brand. Death is sittin’ right next to you on that bunk.”

  Thompson took off his hat and slapped Coe with it. Coe ducked and walked out of the cell, a grin on his face. Thompson put his hat back on and looked at Jed, touched the brim of his hat.

  “Phil’s right, you know. Be seein’ you, Brand.”

  After they left, it was quiet. Jed wondered what Ben Thompson had meant when he said that he’d be seeing him.

  Did he mean later, at the Bull’s Head or later, in hell?

  CHAPTER

  9

  THE HAMMERING AND SAWING WENT ON UNTIL LATE that night, and then it stopped. The voices faded away and moonlight filtered through the window of Jed’s cell. That was when the loneliness and the melancholy struck him, plunging him into a hollow cavern of despair. He missed Dan. He missed his mother, Ellen. He wondered if his father was still alive, and if he was, where he was. He had never felt so alone. He almost hoped the marshals would bring in some of the drunken Texans who were carousing at the Bull’s Head Saloon.

  He could hear the muffled sounds of laughter floating on the night air, laced with the tinkling notes of a piano and the occasional rippling twang of a banjo and the high-pitched strains of a fiddle. If all had gone well, he and Dan might have been down there at the saloon, having a drink, listening to the music, talking with the other Texans about home.

  Finally, Jed drifted off to sleep. The pain in his head had subsided and was now only a dull and distant throb that seemed timed to his heartbeat. The hard cot was a welcome bed after so many nights spent sleeping on the ground under the stars. He slept and did not awaken until the cell began to take shape in the early light of a slow dawn when a lone rooster crowed somewhere beyond the fog of sleep.

  A jailer named Hoyt served Jed beans, beefsteak, and strong coffee for breakfast. When Jed tried to talk to him, Hoyt said he didn’t know anything about his case and that he was going home when he was relieved in a few minutes. No one came to carry away Jed’s empty plate for an hour after he had eaten. Then another man came for his dirty dishes and this man was uncommunicative as well.

  Jed was beginning to feel that the lawmen had forgotten about him and were just going to let him rot in that jail cell. All kinds of crazy thoughts bubbled up in his mind and he knew they all led down dead-end streets. There was nothing fruitful about speculating on his fate. He would just have to wait and see what happened.

  Later in the morning, he heard a commotion out in the jail office. Loud voices. Then the door opened and two men approached Jed’s cell. He recognized one as Whitby. The other man was taller and wore ordinary clothes such as what a cowman would wear. No fancy belt, no brocaded vest, no silk shirt, no fancy pants. His lumpy face was laced with spidery red veins around his nose, the sure sign of a drinking man. He carried himself well, Jed thought. The two men stood there for a moment. Then the jailer, who was named Anderson, came up, rattling keys on a large ring. He opened Jed’s cell door.

  “You can both go in,” Anderson said. “I’ll have to lock the door. Just holler when you want out.”

  “Thank you, Steve,” Whitby said.

  The two men entered the cell. The jailer locked the door and returned to the front office.

  Jed sat there, wondering what Whitby and the other man wanted.

  “Mr. Brand, this is Malcolm Trent,” Whitby said.

  Trent extended his hand. Jed shook it. There was strength in Trent’s grip, maybe a sign of self-confidence, Jed thought. Trent didn’t overdo it, but the handshake was vigorous. But as Jed looked into Trent’s eyes, he saw that he was looking at an old man. There were puckers around Trent’s mouth, lines in his face beyond the red veins. And there were saltings of gray in his hair. And, too, there was a sadness in his eyes, eyes that were wet as if he had been shaving raw onions. The pouches under his eyes added to the look of sadness on Trent’s face. But Jed sensed that there was iron in the man, a determination that kept him not only alive, but vital. As if he were on a mission of some sort and would not die before he accomplished it.

  “You’re in quite a fix, Mr. Brand,” Trent said. “May I call you Jed?” His voice was soft and deep, as if it were weighted with much thought.

  “That’s all right. I’m innocent, Mr. Trent. Silas Colter killed those two marshals and my brother.”

  “I know that, Jed. I’m here to help.”

  “How do you know I’m innocent?”

  “Rufus here told me he found out who the real seller of those cattle I bought from you was. Silas Colter. I’ve had dealings with Colter before. Had I known it was his herd, I never would have dealt with him. He used your name on the telegram he sent.”

  “That doesn’t prove my innocence.”

  “No, and it really doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not. The town, this dirty, mean, drunken little town, has already convicted you, Jed. Two U.S. marshals are dead and someone must pay.”

  Trent walked over to the other bunk and sat down. Jed could see the inner frailty of the man. He looked strong, but he heard Trent’s knees creak as he sat down. Unconsciously, perhaps, Trent began rubbing one knee as if to knead the soreness out. Whitby walked over and stood next to Trent as if on guard, ready to tend to Trent if he needed his assistance.

  “That’s not fair,” Jed said.

  Trent chuckled.

  “No, it’s not, Jed. But, you’re paying for some of the sins of Texans who came here to Abilene before you. Rowdies, hell-raisers, ne’er-do-wells, ruffians. They shot up the town, burned down the jail, and raised hell with Abilene’s citizens. Until Bear River was hired and came here, this was a wild and lawless town.”

  “If they hang me, it’s still a lawless town, Mr. Trent.”

  “Call me Malcolm, Jed. And, you’re right, of course. I talked to Marshal Smith about you over at the Drover’s Cottage this morning before I came over here. Then, Rufus and I looked at the evidence they have on you.”

  Whitby cleared his throat as if he were warning Trent not to go too far.

  “What evidence?” Jed asked.

  “Evidence that will never come up in court, I’m afraid. Even Bear River admits that. But he is powerless in the harsh light of public opinion.

  “Evidence that can clear me?”

  “Possibly. A good lawyer could probably get you off anyplace but in Abilene. I could probably get you off. But that isn’t going to happen. As I said, the town has convicted you. As far as the fine citizens of Abilene are concerned, you murdered three men in cold blood.”

  “Like hell I did,” Jed snapped.

  “I like your fire, Jed. I like your gumption. You’ve got sand. Grit. But it’s not enough to get you ou
t of this pickle barrel, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s the evidence that will clear me?”

  Again, Whitby cleared his throat. Trent ignored him.

  “They found a pistol in your hand, Jed. There were three empty .44 caliber cartridges in them. That showed that three shots had been fired from that Colt. But your cartridge belt contains bullets in .45 caliber. You own a Colt, I presume.”

  “Yeah, I did. Colter took it. And it was a Colt .45.”

  “Smith knows that you didn’t kill those men. He believes your story. And so do I.”

  “And so do I,” Whitby said. “Knowing what I know now.”

  “Be that as it may,” Trent said. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Jed. I am going to arrange your escape from this jail. From the clutches of Abilene. Tonight. You will not stand trial here in this scurrilous town.”

  “But … I want to stand trial. I want to prove that I’m innocent.”

  Trent snorted and got up from the bunk. His knees creaked once again. He walked toward Jed and looked down at him with kindly eyes.

  “You’re not going to stand trial, Jed. Do you know what they’ve done?”

  “No.”

  “Someone, I don’t know who, has replaced all those .45 caliber cartridges in your gun belt with .44s. In short, you don’t have a case.”

  “So, I am being framed.”

  “Like a picture,” Trent said.

  Jed rubbed his neck, thinking of the rope and the gallows.

  “It’s just not fair.”

  “You keep saying that. Maybe it’s starting to sink in. Now, you may wonder why I am willing to help you escape.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. First, listen to me. Tonight, at midnight, the guard leaves the jail to make his rounds. Before he leaves, he will unlock your cell. The door to the office will be left unlocked. There will be a saddled horse, your horse, waiting for you at the stockyards, tied to the fence on the farthest side. Your Henry rifle will be in its scabbard. Your pistol, with .45 caliber cartridges, will be hanging from the saddle horn. There will be ammunition and food in your saddlebags. Your bedroll will be tied behind the cantle.”

  “How …?”

  Trent rubbed two fingers together. “Money,” he said. “What is indelicately referred to as bribes. All for a good cause.”

  “And what’s the good cause? To free me from a certain hanging?”

  “That’s part of it, Jed. But it’s not a free ride out of town. I want you to do something for me.”

  “And what is that, Malcolm?”

  “I want you to find Silas Colter. And, when you do, I want you to kill him.”

  Jed rocked backward on the bunk. He looked up into Trent’s eyes and saw the coldness there, the determination. He saw, in their glittering depths, the look of a killer.

  “There’ll also be money in your saddlebags, Jed. Lots of money. I’m willing to pay you for killing Silas Colter.”

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?” Jed asked.

  “Because, Jed, I’m an old man, and I’m dying. Before I go, I want Colter rotting in his grave.”

  Jed felt a chill run through his heart. He was being hired to kill a man he would gladly kill for free. He felt a great weight settle on his shoulders. He had never killed a man before. He had never wanted to kill a man before. And now, if he took Trent’s money, he would be obligated to do just that.

  “An eye for an eye, Jed,” Trent said.

  Jed slumped over, his mind racing. If he did what Trent asked, he would be no different from Colter.

  If he killed Colter, he, too, would be a killer.

  CHAPTER

  10

  TRENT’S EYES WERE BORING INTO JED’S. THE EYES were full of hatred. Jed could almost feel it, almost touch it. He dropped his gaze and the feeling was still there. It filled the cell and it filled him.

  “There’s more to it, isn’t there? You’re not out anything. You got the cattle you paid for.”

  “That’s right. And they’re already on the train heading east. I’ll make a tidy profit on the transaction.”

  Jed looked up again at Trent. The man’s eyes had softened some, but they were still filled with the smoke of anger, the murky wisps of a hatred that had arisen from someplace deep inside Malcolm Trent.

  “So why do you want Colter killed?” Jed asked.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you that, but maybe I should. First, though, I want you to be aware of why it’s so important you get out of Abilene before you come up in front of the judge, two days hence. I knew those U.S. marshals, one of them quite well. Cal Garner.”

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I didn’t know ’em at all.”

  “Cal’s got a brother. He’s older. He’s a United States marshal, too. Smith sent a telegram to him in Kansas City, told him about the murder, named you as the killer.”

  “So, does he want revenge, too?”

  “He’s probably on the way out here now. By train, I imagine. He wants justice for his brother, Luke does, and he might not wait for the judge to hang you.”

  “This Luke would take the law into his own hands?”

  “No, I think he’d turn in his badge first. He and Cal were as honest as the day is long. I just want you to know how serious your situation is.”

  “I know,” Jed said. “Now, what’s the real reason you want Colter dead?”

  Trent walked a few paces away, his back to Jed. Then he turned and stood still. Several moments passed before he spoke.

  “Colter used to work for me,” Trent said. “Back in Joplin, Missouri. I trusted him. But the man’s greed was too much for him. I ran a freight outfit, and we had a large shipment of money come through. For safekeeping, I had the money in the strongboxes stored in my house while we waited for a wagon to take it on up to Kansas City. Colter wanted that money and he went to my house while I was at the freight office. My wife and brother were there. He murdered them both. In cold blood.”

  Jed swallowed hard.

  “He got the money and left for Texas. I moved up here to Abilene, knowing sooner or later, he’d show up. Colter always wanted to go to Texas and get into the cattle business. He knew I was here, though, and stayed out of my way. This is the closest I’ve been to him. That’s why I want you to go after him.”

  “Where is he? Where do I look?” Jed asked.

  “He’s burned himself out in Texas. I have reliable information that he’s working out of Lawrence, Kansas, now. That’s where you’ll find him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of his men told us he had set up a freight business there. But it’s only a front. The man’s a killer and a thief. He looks for opportunity. He preys on people. Lawrence is not that big. Someone will know him. He might be using a different name, but you know him. You know what he looks like. I’m counting on you, Jed.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to be home. My ma needs money. She’s been poorly of late.”

  “Jed, you have to make up your own mind. You have to determine where your loyalties lie. Colter killed your brother. What are you going to tell your mother? That you let his killer go free?”

  “I don’t know, Malcolm. I’ll have to think about this.”

  “Well, you don’t have much time. You have to leave at midnight. It’s your only chance to escape the hangman’s noose.”

  “I’ll do what I think is right,” Jed said.

  “Fair enough,” Trent said. “Rufus, summon the jailer. Good luck, Jed Brand. I hope you make the right decision.”

  “I hope so, too, Mr. Trent. Uh, Malcolm.”

  The two men shook hands as Whitby called down the hall for the jailer. In a few minutes, Whitby and Trent were gone. Jed sat there, pondering all the information he’d learned from Trent. He wondered if he could trust him, after all. Since coming to Abilene, he had met with nothing but deception. Deception after deception, including the replacement of his .45 cartridges with .44s so that he would
be blamed for killing his brother and the two marshals.

  The cell across from Jed’s began filling up later that morning as jailers carried or escorted men who were drunk or beat-up or both. None were brought to his cell and Jed supposed that was because of the bribes Trent had paid so that Jed could make his escape that night.

  Jed didn’t know any of the men. None of their faces were familiar to him. They looked like ordinary boys who had drunk too much whiskey and gotten into fights. Most of them slept and those who stayed awake were too sick to talk to him.

  Shortly before midnight, Jed heard the door to the office open. He heard footsteps heading his way. Then, a rattle of keys and he heard the tumblers in the lock on his cell turn. He couldn’t see the jailer’s face in the darkness, and he really didn’t want to know who the man was making it possible for him to get out of jail.

  Jed waited, listening to the sounds in the office. The jailer had left the door open a crack and he could see a thin slat of light streaming through it. There were footsteps and a shuffling of papers, clicks of something metallic. Then he heard what sounded like the front door opening, and then a loud slam as the door was closed.

  Quietly, Jed stood up and walked to his cell door. He opened it and was glad that it didn’t squeak. He tiptoed down the hallway, stood outside the office for a moment, listening to make sure that the room was empty.

  He opened the door wider and peered inside the office.

  No one was there.

  Jed entered the office, which was lit by a single oil lamp. His shadow on the wall startled him, but he took a deep breath and went to the door leading out into the street. He opened it and listened for several seconds. He heard footsteps some distance away. They were going away from him. He slipped outside into the night and hugged the wall of the jail, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. Down the street, he saw streaks of light striping the street and heard noises from the saloon.