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Widowmaker Jones

Page 11

by Brett Cogburn


  “You’re not a comforting man.”

  The Ranger headed for the inside of the saloon. “The judge will get to you in time.”

  Newt listened to the sergeant’s boots thumping on the porch boards, and when he was gone he dug one heel into the dirt and watched the little dust cloud it caused at the end of his outstretched legs.

  The bear was chained only ten feet or so from the end of the porch, and it ambled to the end of its chain with its ears pinned like a mad horse. The chain stopped it barely short of Newt, but it reached out with one paw and made a swipe at him.

  Newt crawled up on the end of the porch, giving him a little more distance from the bear, and kicked another cloud of dust at it. “Get out of here.”

  “Don’t go accosting my bear,” the judge’s voice said from behind him. “I can’t stand an animal beater.”

  Newt twisted and saw the judge standing behind him, holding two beers by the bottle necks.

  “I told you I wasn’t buying any more beer.”

  “They ain’t for you.” The judge stepped past him and off the end of the porch. “You don’t pay your bills, nohow.”

  The bear gave the judge the same mad look and ducked its head and threatened to paw at him. The judge ignored the threat and held out a beer to his unruly pet. The bruin immediately swiped at the bottle, but the judge jerked it away and produced a foot-long scrap of one-by-four plank from his back pocket. He struck the bear a resounding blow on the top of its head with the piece of board, and the bear whimpered like a little kid and cowed down before the judge.

  “That’s better,” the judge said.

  “Thought you didn’t like cruelty to animals,” Newt said.

  “We’ve all got to learn our lessons. Spare the rod and spoil the bear.” The judge held the beer out again, and this time the bear squatted on its rump and reached gingerly for the bottle with both paws. It jammed the bottle in its mouth, holding it like a sucking baby. “Ever see the likes of that?”

  “I didn’t come down here to watch bears drink beer,” Newt said.

  “You’re a surly sort.”

  “You ain’t seen surly yet.”

  The judge handed the bear another beer and watched it go to work. “Are you really after Cortina?”

  “I was till I run into you.”

  “Cortina won’t be easy to catch, and not a man most would like to corner if they did.”

  “You turn me loose, and I’ll handle him.”

  “Think you’re tough, don’t you? I’ve seen plenty of others who thought the same.” The judge rubbed his beard in thought. “Think those scars of yours give you an edge?”

  “I’ve got it to do. That man took from me.”

  “How much gold did he take from you?”

  “Better than four thousand, give or take an ounce or two.”

  The judge let out a low whistle. “That’s a pretty good stake, but you must put a pretty cheap price on your skin to go traipsing after more trouble with Cortina.”

  “He tried once and didn’t get it done. We’ll see how it goes the next time.”

  “Talk’s cheap.”

  “You let me loose and I’ll quit talking.”

  The judge stood. “No, I’m going to have to think on you some. I’m still not sure you didn’t kill Amos Redding. Might be I should send one of those Rangers back up the trail and make sure you’re telling the truth.”

  “You don’t think I killed him, but I’m not sure what your game is.”

  “When a man gets to be my age, he gets to really disliking surprises. I let you ride off free, what’s it going to look like on me when some posse comes riding up the next day looking for you because you really did shoot Amos? I’ve got my good name to look out for.”

  “Your good name?” Newt scoffed and wanted to spit.

  The judge looked down at him and his face turned hard with the red coming to his cheeks. He pointed to the roof. “Yes, my good name. You read that sign up there. I’m the law here, and the only law in these parts. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Come morning, Newt woke with a crick in his neck and a sour taste in his mouth. The plank porch was too hard to sleep on, and the bare-beaten ground he had chosen for his bed was little softer. He rose and dusted himself off as best he could with his hands shackled and the chain rattling around his knees.

  It was the sound of a crowbar punching the earth and grating on the gritty sand and rock that woke him. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and tried to make out the fellow digging a hole on the edge of the street in front of the saloon. He was a young, wiry lad with a black mustache and sweat already soaking through his shirt. A skinny cow pony stood three-legged nearby, with its head sagging and one rein draped on the ground. Tied to its saddle horn on the end of a rope was a heavy cedar post about fifteen feet long.

  The young cowboy continued to beat out his hole, without consideration for those who still might be sleeping so early in the morning. No matter the racket, the bear was curled up asleep and didn’t stir.

  Newt barely had time to take a seat on the end of the porch before the four Rangers trooped out of the saloon carrying their bedrolls on their shoulders. Last he remembered before he gave in to fitful sleep was the Rangers’ voices coming through the walls, still telling stories and swapping jokes until the wee hours. Every one of them looked sour and hungover after their long night of the judge’s hospitality and cheap whiskey.

  Three of the Rangers went around the corner toward the horse corral in back, but the sergeant took the time to set a graniteware plate containing some chili and beans and a soggy corn tortilla on the porch beside Newt.

  “Much obliged,” Newt said.

  “Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it. The judge claims he makes his chili con carne out of goat meat, but from the taste of it I suspect he isn’t above slipping a little rattlesnake or armadillo in the pot when goat prices get too high to suit him.”

  “I’ve eaten snake. Wouldn’t recommend it, but a man can live on it in a pinch.”

  “You and the judge ought to make a pair then, if you’re so open-minded and tolerant of culinary deficiencies.”

  “Where is that highbinder of a judge?”

  The sergeant ignored him and went after his comrades, leaving Newt to sample the judge’s cooking. The first bite confirmed the Ranger sergeant’s opinion of the judge’s cooking skills, but Newt was too hungry to be picky and made do with what was offered.

  No less than the judge himself finally came out the front door, rubbing his jowls with one hand and scratching at the seat of his pants with the other. He was wearing a sugarloaf sombrero, which was the third hat Newt had seen him in. Obviously, the judge was a man of many hats: one for bartending, one for court, and one for whatever the morning held in store.

  On stiff knees the judge stumbled over to the end of the porch and handed Newt a tin dipper of water. “I imagine this prisoner bit has left you thirsty.”

  “Where are those Rangers going?” Newt asked.

  “Back on patrol.” The judge waved a hand in several vague directions at once, as if that accurately identified their heading. “They’ve promised to check into your story once they make it up to Fort Stockton.”

  “And how long will that be? I don’t relish the thought of being chained to your porch for much longer.”

  “Could be a week or two.”

  Newt set down his plate and looked the judge in the eye. “I’m about to decide I don’t care for you.”

  The judge grunted like a straining old bull. “They’re leaving you in my custody. Got a chore you might help me with.”

  “You’ve got a lot of gall to suggest I help you with anything.”

  The judge pointed at the cowboy digging the hole. “That’s my boy, Sam. See that post there he drug up? Know what I’m going to do with that post?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Sam is a slow worker, but he’ll have that tall post se
t in the ground by the time we’re back.”

  “What do you mean when we’re back?”

  “He’s going to nail a good stout cross member to that post before he raises it, and I’m going to hang Cortina from it, or I ain’t a Bean from Mason County. A Bean always means what he says and says what he means.”

  “You still haven’t said what you meant by ‘we.’”

  “You’re going to ride down into Mexico and help me catch that saucy Mexican bandit. I’d send the Rangers, but they don’t have jurisdiction down there. Law don’t go far in Mexico, anyway.”

  “I don’t need any partners.”

  “You can rot here chained to this post while I’m gone or go with me. I’m doing you a favor. You’re under suspicion of committing murder and have already refused to pay your bar bill. I’m giving you a chance at a suspended sentence and something to work off your debt.”

  “Are you still trying to get me to pay for beer I didn’t drink?”

  “Needless to say, your record in my town doesn’t put you in a good light so far, and a less likely man for the mercy of the court I probably couldn’t find if I searched for a long while.”

  “Yet you would trust me to go after Cortina with you?”

  “I didn’t say I trusted you.”

  “You ought not. I’m building a pretty good grudge.”

  “You’ve got to promise me one thing if you want me to turn you loose.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Promise you won’t kill Cortina when we catch him, no matter what he did to you.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “I don’t want Cortina shot down below the border by any old fellow like yourself. I want him brought here and hung by yours truly. If I let him get off with my jaguar hide folks are going to start saying old Judge Roy has lost his mettle, and just any fool bandit with some guts can ride in here and take from him,” the judge said with the gravel and the crankiness coming back into his voice. “I won’t have anyone laughing at me and my court.”

  “Say I went with you. How do you know I won’t waylay you or run off the first chance I get?”

  The judge pointed to the four Rangers riding around the corner leading the Circle Dot horse and another saddled spare. “Those boys yonder might not look like much, but they’re tougher than whang leather and would as soon quit a criminal’s trail as would a bloodhound with six legs and three noses. They owe me a few favors. Might be I’ve kept my mouth shut when they delivered a little vigilante justice without the court’s blessing and wrote them up some papers to make things look legal for them.”

  “What are you getting at? Quit beating around the bush.”

  “You run off on me, or cross me in any way, and you won’t come back to Texas without them after you. I’ll write up all kinds of charges against you. Might be if they caught you they might be tempted to be a little prompt and enthusiastic in their duties.”

  “Thought this all out, have you?”

  “Your choice. You do what you think is best, but I don’t have time to wait around. I won’t be the laughingstock of the border. No, sir, I’m going to have the last laugh when I stretch Cortina’s neck. Make an example out of him.”

  Newt calculated the head start Cortina had on him—one that was growing by the second—and weighed that against the bad feeling he had about any deal with the judge. In the end, he held up his shackled hands. “Let me loose.”

  The judge pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. He didn’t wait around but stepped off the porch and went to the horse the Rangers held for him. For a man who appeared well past his prime, he put a boot in the stirrup and stepped up easily enough, although he sat a saddle slumped over like a sagging sack of grain.

  Newt went to the Circle Dot horse, checked his rig, and then mounted. The sergeant held out his Smith pistol, and he took it from him and shoved it into his holster.

  “Don’t you disappoint the judge,” the sergeant said. “He’s a friend of ours.”

  The Rangers spurred off before Newt could say a word to them. He was left alone with the judge.

  The same red rooster from the day before flew up and landed on the back of the judge’s saddle skirt. The judge held out something to it, and the rooster pecked it from his hand.

  “You going to haul that bird with you?” Newt asked.

  “Old Shanghai is a good friend of mine,” the judge said. “Won me many a peso fighting him when he was younger. He can go where he pleases.”

  “Just thought it was odd, that’s all.”

  “Daylight’s a-wasting.” The judge started his horse off with the red rooster riding calmly on the back of the saddle.

  Newt pulled in behind him and they followed the railroad tracks out of town at a slow walk with the rising sun in their eyes. The judge rode a pencil-necked gray gelding with its mane rubbed out and weeds tangled in its tail. Other than a long-barreled Colt shoved behind his belt buckle, the judge had no other firearm, despite their intention to go manhunting.

  “Where are we headed?” Newt asked. “You know something I don’t?”

  “I know that Cortina’s got himself a sweetheart,” the judge said, filling one cheek with a wad of chewing tobacco. “Young, pretty little thing. Her daddy’s got a fine rancho and hacienda a day’s ride west of Piedras Negras. A hacendado like him don’t have any use for the likes of Cortina, but that girl don’t have his judgment. She’s been meeting that thief on the sly when he’s in the country. Like I said, she’s unusually pretty, and he’ll go to her like a fly to sugar. You can bet your last dollar on that.”

  “You can’t be sure he’s headed that way.”

  The judge pulled up his gray nag and twisted his head away from the sun and squinted at Newt. “I brought you along for muscle and not your wits. We’re going down below the border. You ever been down there?”

  “No, I never.”

  “Then you’ll do well to listen to me. It’s a whole nother world. Hard country. Easy to lose your bearings. Many a gringo goes over the line and can’t find his way back. Been down there several times myself, and I like to have not got back every time.”

  “What’s that Jersey Lily bit back there on your porch?”

  “You’re a slow reader of signs. It’s taken you two days to get a handle on them all.”

  “You have a lot of signs.”

  “You’ve never heard of the Jersey Lily? Miss Lillie Langtry?”

  Newt shook his head.

  “Finest-looking woman on God’s green earth. Saw her in person once, but an angel like her don’t even recognize the likes of me or you in a crowd. She had a voice like you never heard. Named my saloon in her honor, and then the town.”

  “She must have made quite an impression on you.”

  “Don’t speak slightingly about her. You ain’t worthy to lick the dust from her dainty little high-button shoes. If I close my eyes and listen close, I can still hear her sing. Makes me feel kind of floaty when I do, and makes me want to sing myself.” The judge cleared the phlegm from his throat, hacking and spitting, and then began to sing loudly and mostly off key. “Oh, do you remember sweet Betsy from Pike? She crossed the high mountains with her lover Ike. With two yoke of oxen and a big yellow dog. And a tall Shanghai rooster and one spotted hog. Too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-oo-ra-li-ay.”

  Newt hoped the song didn’t have many verses.

  “You feel free to sing along if you have the voice for it. I find that a good bass goes well with my fine Irish tenor,” the judge said, and cleared his throat again in preparation for another verse.

  Newt resisted the urge to reach out and knock the old highbinder out of his saddle, feeling the irritation crawl up his spine and settle like a heavy weight on his chest. The devil on one shoulder argued with the angel on his other. Behind him, the sound of the cowboy digging the posthole for Cortina’s hanging post rang like a church bell in his head. Hard country, indeed. Hell and Texas.

  Chapter Fourteen


  It took Kizzy and Fonzo the better part of the afternoon to bury the dog and to wrestle and roll the dead horse out of its harness. And it took them even longer to capture the wily mule and to get their equipment wagon off the road and to cover it with cut brush. They were still two miles out from Piedras Negras, and it was near dark when they met the southbound stagecoach.

  It was traveling at a high clip, and Kizzy felt in danger of being run down and barely managed to pull the living quarters wagon to the side of the road before the stagecoach came flying past with the driver up in the seat and hauling on his ribbons in a unsuccessful attempt to slow his runaway team. Through the cloud of choking dust both of them noticed that the stage was pulled mostly by the mules formerly belonging to them.

  “Those mules never did mind well,” Fonzo said. “I’m almost glad the rurales stole them.”

  “Knotheads or not, they were our knotheads,” Kizzy said. “We’d have to rob a bank to buy more mules.”

  “Those rurales must have sold them to the stage company as soon as they hit town.”

  Kizzy nodded.

  “They won’t suspect that we will do anything about it,” Fonzo added.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it. Best thing is for us to keep a low profile and take a look around for Cortina and your horses.”

  “It wasn’t right, what those rurales did.”

  “No, but if you get us in trouble with them we won’t ever get the horses back. Who’s going to believe us? Those rurales are the law. It’s our word against theirs.”

  “I don’t want to let it lie. I can’t.”

  “Do you want to end up like Father? Listen to me.”

  Fonzo looked at her, his jaw trembling with passion and his eyes wet with tears and anger. “Are you scared, sister?”

  “Yes, but we will see this thing through and have your horses back. Promise me you will not try to make trouble with the rurales if we meet them again.”

  He hesitated long before he nodded agreement. “It’s going to get worse. This thing we do will not be easy.”

  “I know. That’s what scares me.”

 

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