“Yeah.” McCafferty looked at Bell. “I didn’t much appreciate what you said earlier about me bein’ a tyrant and all, Andy, but I reckon you got a duty to do what you can for that murderin’ skunk.”
Bell got to his feet and said, “I, uh...that’s all right, Boone. I’m glad you understand.”
“Sit down, McCafferty,” Stark said. Both men warily resumed their seats. Stark continued, “Normally, I’d declare a mistrial. The prosecution and the defense are just too blasted cozy. But I think I know what happened here, and nothing is going to change the facts.”
“Danged right it ain’t,” McCafferty muttered.
“Just a couple more questions...How long did Mr. Bell arrive at the ranch before you sent your men to look for Jeff?”
“Oh, shoot, an hour maybe. Maybe not that long. In fact, he asked where Jeff was. Wanted him to be in on the talk, too.”
“What did he do when you said Jeff wasn’t there?”
Bell got to his feet. “Your Honor, I’m very puzzled by this line of questioning.”
“Hold your horses, counselor,” Stark advised. “Answer the question, Mr. McCafferty.”
“What did Andy do? Well, I think he said maybe somebody should go look for Jeff, since he’d been gone a while.”
Stark nodded. He had one more question, and the answer to it would tell him whether the theory that had formed in his mind was right.
“Mr. McCafferty, was Mr. Bell’s hand sticky that afternoon?”
“Sticky?” The rancher looked completely confused. “Now that you mention it, I reckon it might’ve been. He kept wipin’ it on his pants, and he didn’t want to shake hands with me like he usually does.”
Stark nodded, and as he did so, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Bell was still on his feet, and the lawyer’s hand had snaked under his coat.
Stark exploded up from his chair. The LeMat came out of its holster and was leveled at Bell in the blink of an eye. Bell had a gun in his hand, too, but it was only halfway out from under his coat. He turned pale as he found himself staring down the barrel of Stark’s gun.
“Best put it on the table, counselor, and step away from it,” Stark warned.
“You...you...we can’t have a gunfight in here with all these innocent people,” Bell said.
“Won’t be a gunfight. Just be one shot.”
Bell sighed, then slowly and carefully placed the little pistol on the table in front of him and stepped back.
The town hall erupted in sound. Everybody was yelling questions, wanting to know what was going on.
Stark’s gavel pounded until things quieted down. Still covering Bell with the LeMat, he said to the county attorney, “Mr. Hairston, I’d strongly recommend that you make a motion before the court to dismiss the charges against Tyler Ketchum.”
Hairston nodded glumly. “I make such a motion, Your Honor.”
“Granted.” Stark nodded to the stunned-looking defendant. “You’re free to go, Mr. Ketchum.”
“Wait just a minute!” McCafferty yelled. “Are you sayin’ Andy killed my boy?”
“That’s right,” Stark said. “Jeff had had enough business courses in college to tumble to the fact that Bell’s been robbing you blind, McCafferty, probably for years. Likely he hoped he was wrong, so he asked Bell to meet him. He wanted to see what Bell had to say for himself. Instead, as soon as Bell realized that Jeff was on to him, he killed him, most likely with that gun that’s lying on the table. Then he heard somebody coming.” Stark nodded toward Ketchum. “Bell hid and when he saw Ketchum and recognized him, he got the idea of framing him for the killing because of the trouble between the two of you in the past. He hit Ketchum from behind with something, a branch, maybe, and knocked him out. Then he built a fire, altered those brands–badly, according to Orrie, which told me that an experienced hand like Ketchum hadn’t done it–and arranged things to look like they did when Orrie and the others found Jeff. He had to hide Ketchum’s axe, though, so there wouldn’t be any proof he was really trying to cut down a Christmas tree, and that’s when he got the pine sap on his hands. Simple as that.” The judge added dryly, “Plain as day.”
Brundage asked, “You want me to lock up Mr. Bell, Your Honor?”
“I think that would be a good idea, Marshal.”
McCafferty shook his head as Brundage led Andrew Bell away and the crowd in the town hall began to disperse. “It’s mighty hard to believe,” he said, “but I reckon it could’ve happened that way.”
“Bell pretty much admitted I was right when he went for his gun,” Stark pointed out.
“Are you gonna preside over his trial, too?”
“No, I think that would be a conflict of interest, since I’ll have to testify against him. We’ll get another judge in here to take care of that, after the holidays.”
Tyler Ketchum came up as Stark was talking. He had been hugging his wife and children in relief. Now he traded wary, unfriendly looks with McCafferty. They still didn’t like each other, even though Ketchum had been cleared of Jeff McCafferty’s murder.
Ketchum turned his back to McCafferty and said, “Your Honor, my wife and I would be mighty pleased if you’d come out to my place and have Christmas Eve dinner with us. You’re welcome to stay the night and spend Christmas with us, too.”
“I think I’d like that,” Stark said with a smile. “A man who’s always traveling like I am doesn’t get too many home-cooked meals, especially at holiday time.”
The two of them lingered as the courtroom cleared out. Stark said quietly, “There’s just one more thing, Ketchum. I’m going to ignore the fact that the steaks your wife fries up for us tonight will probably be stolen beef.”
The young rancher stiffened. “Stolen?” he repeated. “What are you talking about, Judge Stark?”
Stark’s eyes narrowed. “I’m talking about the fact I didn’t say anything about where Bell got that running iron. He found it in your saddlebags.” When Ketchum opened his mouth to say something, Stark stopped him with an upraised hand. “I know how it is when you’re struggling to make a go of a place and it seems like the other fella’s got everything in the world. You think he won’t miss a cow here and there. But it’s still rustling, Ketchum, and I want it to stop.”
For a second, Ketchum still looked like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed and nodded and said, “It will, Your Honor. You can count on that.”
“Good.” Stark clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Just let me go get my hat, and maybe we’ll ride out to Pine Ridge and finish cuttin’ down that Christmas tree. It’s time your kids had one.”
Presents for One and All
It started snowing around the middle of the afternoon, the flakes spitting down in haphazard fashion at first from the hard, leaden sky but then falling thick and fast. With the temperature well below freezing, it didn't take long for the ground to turn white.
Cobb spotted the old man on the wagon a couple of hours later as the gray light was beginning to fade into an early night.
The brim of Cobb's hat was pulled down low over his ugly, rough-hewn face. He was a big man in a thick sheepskin jacket. It was considerably better than nothing, but it didn't keep all the cold out. Over the past few hours of riding, a chill had seeped into Cobb's bones. He needed to find shelter, see if he could scrounge up enough dry wood for a fire to warm him and his horse. Otherwise they might not make it until morning.
Coming across a ranch would be even better. Getting inside out of the weather sounded mighty appealing right now.
Problem was, Cobb didn't know if there were any ranches around here. His job as a Texas Ranger had taken him all over the Lone Star State, but he didn't think he'd ever been through this particular part of the Panhandle before.
Not only that, with the snow falling so thickly and the light going, it was possible he could ride right past a ranch house and miss it if it was more than a hundred yards away.
A gully would do. That would get him ou
t of the wind, and it was snowing, not raining, so there wouldn't be any danger of a flash flood.
Those thoughts were moving slowly through Cobb's brain, which had been made sluggish by the cold, when movement up ahead caught his eye. He reined the big dun to a halt and squinted through the curtain of falling snow. A dark, bulky shape moved from right to left in front of him, seemingly crawling along. After a few moments he realized it was a wagon being pulled by a team of horses or mules.
Whoever was driving that wagon had to be on his way somewhere, which meant there was a ranch around here. Maybe even a little crossroads settlement. Some place with a pot-bellied stove. And coffee, thought Cobb, imagining the warmth spreading through his body from a steaming cup of Arbuckle's.
He heeled his horse into motion again, urging the weary animal into a reluctant trot as he veered left to intercept the wagon's route.
The snow was a couple of inches deep on the ground by now, and it helped to muffle the horse's hoofbeats. The wagon's driver heard the rider coming, though, and hauled back on the reins. The team came to a stop.
Cobb was about twenty yards away when the driver swung up a rifle and pulled the trigger.
A startled curse exploded from Cobb's mouth when he heard the whipcrack of the shot and saw flame spurt from the rifle's muzzle. As he brought the horse to a skidding halt, his right hand reached toward the revolver holstered on his hip, under the jacket. He stopped the move when he saw the driver lower the rifle and aim at him.
"I put that first one well over your head, mister!" the man yelled. "If you try to pull a gun, I'll put the next one right through your gizzard!"
"Hold on, hold on," Cobb called back. "You've got it all wrong, old-timer. I'm not lookin' for trouble."
"A man I don't know comes chargin' at me out of a snowstorm, I ain't gonna wait around and ask him what he's lookin' for."
"Fair enough," Cobb said. He had lifted both hands so they were in plain sight and still held the horse's reins in his left. "Is it all right if I come closer?"
"Slow and easy," the driver said.
Cobb sent the horse forward at a walk now, keeping his hands elevated. As he came closer, he got a better look at the man on the wagon seat.
Cobb had already made out the white beard that came down over the driver's chest. Now he could see the round, red-cheeked face above it and felt the scrutiny of eyes set deep in pits of gristle. The man watched him with a peculiar intensity, as if he could see right into Cobb and tell what sort of hombre he was.
The man wore a knitted red cap and a checked flannel coat. The rifle in his gnarled hands was an old Henry. He had one foot in a high-topped black boot propped against the wagon's brake lever.
The wagon bed was loaded with some sort of cargo, but Cobb couldn't tell what it was because a big piece of canvas was stretched over it and lashed down. He could see things poking up against the canvas in places.
"That's close enough," the driver said when Cobb was twenty feet away. "Who are you, mister, and what are you doin' out here in the middle of a snowstorm?"
"Could ask you the same thing," Cobb said.
"You could, but I'm the one holdin' the rifle."
That drew a chuckle from the big man.
"I was headed for Amarillo," he said. "Thought the sky looked like it might have some snow in it, but I figured I could make it before the storm got here."
"Figured wrong on that, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I reckon."
"Got business in Amarillo?"
"That's right." Cobb didn't offer an explanation of what that business was. He was supposed to pick up a prisoner who was wanted in Parker County and take him back down to Weatherford. The fella had robbed the bank and gunned down a couple of well-respected citizens on his way out, and the authorities wanted to make sure that when he swung, it was in front of the hometown folks.
The man on the wagon seemed to be thinking about it, and he must have decided not to press Cobb on the issue. Instead he asked, "What's your name?"
"Cobb. How about you?"
"They call me Pop Edmunds."
"Glad to meet you, Pop," Cobb said. "Is there a ranch around here close, or a town?"
Edmunds stared narrowly at him. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, I didn't figure anybody would be out drivin' around in a wagon if there wasn't some sort of civilization in these parts."
Edmunds snorted and said, "It's stretchin' things a mite to call it civilization, but we're a few miles away from a place called Antelope Springs. Ain't much to it. Couple cabins and a general store that's a saloon, too."
"As long as there's a place to warm up, that sounds mighty nice to me," Cobb said. "You mind some company?"
Edmunds didn't look all that fond of the idea, but after a moment he shrugged.
"Sure, come on if you want. Since you ain't from around here, you might not ever find the place on your own."
The old-timer slapped the reins against the backs of his mules and started the wagon moving again. Cobb turned his horse to ride alongside.
They hadn't gone very far when Cobb stiffened in the saddle and turned his head. He could hear a little better out of his left ear than he could his right, probably because with him being right-handed, more gunshots had gone off on that side of him over the years.
"Sounds like riders comin' up behind us," he said.
Immediately, Pop Edmunds became agitated.
"Dadblast it!" he said. "You slowed me down too much, Cobb. We ain't gonna make it to the springs in time!"
"In time for what?"
"To keep from bein' ambushed!" Edmunds grabbed a whip that was stuck in a holder next to the brake lever and began popping it over the heads of the mules. When that didn't do any good, he lowered his aim and snapped their rear ends a time or two with the whip.
That did the trick. The mules surged ahead against their harnesses, and the wagon began to move faster, bouncing a little as it careened along. The Texas Panhandle might look completely flat, but it really wasn't.
Cobb turned his horse and reached for the butt of the Winchester that stuck up from its saddle sheath. He had no idea who was behind them, but Edmunds seemed convinced the riders meant them no good.
If that was true, they might think twice about it after tangling with a Texas Ranger.
There was still enough light for Cobb to spot the men riding toward him. They were far enough way that they were only dark shapes against the white, snow-covered ground. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired a warning shot, just as Edmunds had let loose with a round in his general direction earlier.
That didn't cause the riders to slow down. In fact, Cobb saw a few flickers and heard the sound of shots drifting to him on the wind.
The varmints had opened fire on him.
He might have stayed and put up a fight, but he could tell now there were about a dozen riders pounding toward him. Those were bad odds. Besides, he didn't really know what was going on here, and he was reluctant to kill anybody when he didn't have the whole story. For all he knew, Edmunds might be an owlhoot of some sort. Those riders could be a posse trying to run him down.
Cobb had once heard an actor in a traveling show spout some line about discretion being the better part of valor. That made sense right now, he thought.
He wheeled his horse around and galloped after the wagon.
It didn't take long for Cobb's rangy mount to catch up to the wagon. As he drew alongside the seat, he yelled at Edmunds, "Why are those fellas after you?"
The old man ignored the question and kept whipping the mules.
"Is there any place we can fort up around here?"
That made Edmunds glance over at him, anyway. Then the old-timer swung the wagon to the north.
Cobb hoped he knew what he was doing.
They had gone about a quarter of a mile when something jutted up from the prairie ahead of them. It was a column of rock, maybe fifty feet wide and half that tall. Large slabs had sheered off
its sides during the passing years and now littered the area around its base. Edmunds headed for those boulders.
That wasn't a bad idea, Cobb thought. They could take cover among the rocks and hold off the pursuers. At the rate night was settling over the landscape, it would be completely dark in an hour, maybe less. Then the men on horseback wouldn't be able to prevent Cobb and Edmunds from slipping away. There weren't enough of them to completely surround the rocks.
Edmunds wheeled the wagon behind a slab-sided boulder big enough to give cover to him and his team. Cobb pulled the dun to a halt behind a somewhat smaller chunk of rock. He was out of the saddle in an instant with the Winchester in his hands. The dun was well-trained, accustomed to the sound and smell of gunfire, and would stay where it was as long as its reins were dangling.
Cobb thrust the rifle around the rock's edge and cranked off three swift rounds. He didn't aim over the riders' heads this time. The bullets kicked up snow and dirt in front of them, forcing them to haul back hard on their reins. They turned their horses and galloped back the other way to get out of rifle range.
"Look at 'em run!" Edmunds whooped. "You put the fear o' God in 'em, son!"
"Feared of gettin' ventilated, more like," Cobb muttered. He had twenty cartridges for the rifle in the pocket of his jacket. He took out a handful of them and thumbed fresh rounds through the loading gate until the repeater was fully loaded again. He asked again, "Why are they after you, old man?"
"I don't see as how that's any of your business," Edmunds said.
"I just got shot at because of you. That makes it my business." Cobb thought about taking out his Ranger badge and showing it to the old-timer. That star-in-a-circle made anything his business if he said it was. But he held off on that, knowing that folks were more likely to speak the truth if they didn't know they were talking to a lawman.
"All right, all right," Edmunds said after a moment. "They're after what's in the back of my wagon."
"Then they're thieves?"
"Damn well betcha they are."
"You got any proof of that?"
Edmunds snorted and said, "I used to ride with 'em. That proof enough for you, sonny?"
Powdersmoke Christmas Page 3