Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel

by Summers, Gerald Lane

  When Edson was finally ready, bill paid and Maggie kissed one last time, Mobley mounted his horse and the three of them set off for the train depot. There was an answer to all this somewhere, he thought. He just needed to piece it all together. Problem was, he was not good at piecing things together, because he’d never allowed himself to become involved in conspiracy or plot, and did not ascribe such behavior to others.

  Jack was right about one thing, though. Whoever was behind the Comanchero attack on Marsten had plenty of resources. All those Winchesters,—the gold.

  Winchesters? Oliver’s men were carrying new rifles. Mobley abruptly pulled Meteor to a stop in the muddy street. He may not be able to figure the why of it, but he could certainly collect and add up the facts in the meantime. That’s all a good investigator had to do, keep gathering the facts until even a blockhead could see where they led. Edson and Jack stared over at him curiously. He stepped down from his horse and pulled his docket book from the saddle bags. Somewhere in there he had recorded the serial numbers of the rifles taken off the dead Comancheros and those confiscated from Oliver’s men. After a few moments of study, he confirmed his fear. The numbers were consecutive. The rifles had all come from the same case lot. Whoever this government man was, he looked to be directly involved with the Comancheros as well as Judge Oliver.

  * * *

  Mobley stepped onto the boardwalk and scraped mud from his boots before looking up at the sign in front of the gunsmith shop. Jack and Edson did the same. The sign stated simply: Ed Roos - Guns.

  Ed Roos was an old curmudgeon. Wiley Miner had regaled them with stories of how Roos had served with Three Legged Willie Williamson in one of the first organized ranger companies out of San Felipe de Austin. Later, he’d fought with Sam Houston in the Texas War of Independence. But his days as a ranger had come to an end at the battle of Elkhorn Tavern when a Union cannonball destroyed his left kneecap. He’d not lost the leg, but it healed stiff and straight as a bedpost and prevented him from riding. He was not, according to Wiley, a happy man.

  Mobley scraped more mud off his boots at the doorway mat, and then opened the door to the jingling of a spring-loaded bell. He ducked under the short door jam and stepped inside. Jack and Edson followed. A tall, skinny old man with wild white hair growing down to his collar looked up from his work behind the counter. It had to be Ed Roos. Beady little eyes stared out from a mass of facial wrinkles. The man said nothing.

  “Howdy,” Mobley said as he walked up to the counter. The man’s face turned snarly, his upper lip pulled back. “We’ve come for a little information.”

  Roos slammed his hand on the counter, startling an old hound dog asleep at his feet. “Then get out. This is a gunsmith shop, not a public gossip trough.” He turned back to his workbench, mumbled an oath, sat down and began tinkering with an old carbine.

  Mobley looked at Jack, who glared back at Ed Roos. Edson was leaning against the wall, still hung over and clearly willing away the loud words. Mobley turned back to Ed Roos. “Well, you crusty old fart. We didn’t come in here to play pitty-pat with a senile old Texas war horse. We came here to get some genuine business done. You’ll get paid for your services, if they’re worth the powder to blow ‘em to hell.”

  “Old fart, is it?” Roos jumped up, pivoted on his game leg and reached under the front counter for his pistol. “We’ll see who the old farrr—.”

  Jack’s pistol came out in a blur and was under Ed Roos’s nose before the man could complete his sentence. Mobley was impressed. He’d thought for an instant of drawing his own pistol, but Jack’s move had beaten him to it. The draw had been smooth and very fast, nothing short of fantastic.

  Mobley smiled, allowing his face to scrunch up. He leaned forward on the counter and stared hard. “Easy there, Mr. Ed Roos. We’re not here for trouble. I am United States Circuit Court Judge Mobley F. Meadows. These are my marshals, Jack Anthony Lopes and Edson Rabb. The marshals think you might have some information they need for an investigation they’re conducting. So, let’s all just settle down, and we’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

  Roos tried to step back, but the gun barrel followed him. Jack’s arm was stretched to the limit as the old man found himself up against his work bench, unable to go farther. He looked cross-eyed at Jack, respect beginning to show in his eyes. He hesitated, his eyes darting between Mobley and back to the gun barrel.

  Then, his eyes widened. “Are you the judge who smote them Comancheros?”

  Mobley crossed his arms on his chest. Word certainly had gotten around. “Indeed I am, although my marshals played no small role in that particular bit of unpleasantness.”

  Roos tried to push Jack’s barrel away, but it didn’t budge. “Why didn’t you say so? Why, hells bells, I ain’t interested in killin’ no genuine Texas style hero, judge or not. What can I do for you boys?”

  “Now, that’s a mite more sociable. Let him have his nose back, Jack. I think we can do business here.”

  Jack slowly lowered his pistol, but did not put it back in his belt. Some people might trust a smiling Texas Ranger, but Mobley could see Jack Anthony Lopes was not one of them. Jack stepped back from the counter, expanding his field of fire and continued a hard glare.

  Mobley put his rifle down on the counter under the appreciative eye of Ed Roos and reached into his saddle bags for the docket book. He dropped it on the counter in front of the now curious man.

  “Mr. Roos, I have a list of serial numbers here, twenty five in all, belonging to a batch of new ‘66 Winchester repeaters. I wonder if you might be able to match them up with a buyer. We think it’s possible you sold the case lot these weapons came in.”

  Roos continued to stare at Mobley’s new ‘73 Winchester, as he nodded his head. “If they were sold north of Austin and weren’t stolen from the army, I probably did sell them. Let me see those numbers.”

  Mobley opened the book to the page where he had written down the rifle serial numbers. Ed looked closely at the numbers for a few seconds, smiled as he shook his head.

  “Up to no good, ain’t he?” Roos looked up at Mobley, but received no answer. Roos snorted. “Government man, he said. Came in here about two months ago and commandeered all of the repeatin’ rifles I had, including these fifteen listed here. You said you had twenty-five numbers? Are they consecutive with these?”

  “Yes, they’re all one after the other.” Mobley looked at Jack and back to Roos.

  “I can check my records for you to be sure, but there’s no doubt in my mind. These weapons all came from a shipment I’d ordered for Wiley Miner. The numbers ring a bell.”

  “Would you please check,” Mobley said. “We may need documentary evidence for a trial some day.”

  “Sure ‘nuff, no problem. It’ll take a minute or two for me to find the record book. If you want, you can take the whole book for your proof. Just get it back to me when you’re finished. I have another I can use in the meantime.”

  Mobley nodded. “That’s right nice of you, Mr. Roos. Now, what do we owe you for this service?”

  “Why, nothing sir. If the law needs help, it can always count on Ed Roos, hero of the Battle of San Jacinto, Texas Ranger, upstanding citizen, and formerly one fine lookin’ young man.”

  Even Jack had to laugh at that. He put his pistol back in its holster. Ed Roos disappeared into the back room of his shop while Jack, Mobley and Edson looked over the weapons on display in the small, well kept store. Roos was a collector of old guns as well as a seller of new. There were several antique French dueling pistols, a display case of Colt’s Patterson revolvers, many obsolete but salable Spencer repeating rifles, and one genuine Walker’s Dragoon horse pistol on special display. A plaque under the pistol declared, “This Walker’s Dragoon used by Ed Roos during his years as a Texas Ranger.”

  Mobley looked closely at the old weapon. It was in immaculate condition. “Whatever happened to the rangers, Edson? No one talks about them much anymore, least way’s far as
I can tell.”

  Edson started to answer, flinched one painful eye and placed his hand over the other. After a few seconds delay, he whispered. “They were disbanded after the war by Governor Davis. Good riddance, if you ask me. They were a dangerous bunch. Heroes to the early Texans, but their methods left much to be desired.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Jack said, smiling at his friend’s obvious discomfort. “Down on the border the people were terrified of them. If I could’ve caught one of them, I’d be wearing his hide on my boots right now.”

  Edson nodded. “I hear Richard Coke is saying he will reinstate the ranger companies if he is elected, but who knows. Governor Davis may surprise everyone and win the election yet.”

  “Not likely,” bellowed Ed Roos as he came out of his back room. “That miserable sack of sheep dip won’t get a single vote he don’t buy, I’ll wager. He won’t even come up here, the durn coward. The people of Waco would string him up so fast you could hear the rope sing all the way to San Antonio and back.”

  Everyone laughed at the old Ranger as he handed a large ledger book to Mobley. “Says right in here, page 43, the case lot you’re interested in was sold to one J.F. Lance from the Texas Reappraisal Commission. Any of you heard about that outfit?”

  Mobley and Jack looked at each other, but said nothing.

  “No? Well, never mind,” Ed said. “It’s supposed to be some new idea of Governor Davis’s to reassess land values around the state. He’ll never make it work. People won’t let him get away with it.”

  Mobley stepped back to the counter and examined the record book. “Did this man show any proof of his identity?”

  Ed nodded. “He had a paper showing his appointment. It was all official, seal and all.”

  Mobley nodded. He turned to look at Jack, who was reading a yellowed notice tacked to the wall. Jack cleared his throat.

  “It says here a shipment of gold coins, all dated 1872, was stolen last year during a train robbery by Kinch West and his gang. Anyone taking one of the coins in trade is to report it immediately to the nearest U.S. Marshal’s Office.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Mobley was deep in thought as they mounted and prepared to ride on to the railroad depot. He now had evidence … of something. Rifles being supplied to criminals and public officials by a government man. Stolen gold being used to pay the criminals by the same government man. A government man who, according to Edson, had a reputation as a woman gutter. Judge Oliver and his pack of ruffians from Austin. Could the government actually be behind the Comanchero raids, or is all this a just as ruse to slander the administration?

  He took a deep breath. It was too late to keep it all a secret. Ed Roos would probably figure it out, and once news leaked, it would spread across Texas like wildfire. But there was nothing he could do about it. He could only continue to follow his instincts and see where they led.

  As he reined Meteor to follow Jack and Edson, he saw Ed Roos hurry out of his store and hobble up the street ahead of them. Mobley felt his shoulders sag as he watched the old man stick his head in every door along the way and yell something to the occupants.

  Jack was about to protest, but it was too late. An old lady pointed at them and began shouting. They continued on, trying to hide from the stares and shouts as more and more people came out to look at them. The farther they got, the more noise was made, until finally at the corner of Washington and 2nd Streets, they were forced to a halt by the cheering crowd.

  Cowboys began shooting off their guns and horses started bucking. Women and children stayed back on covered wooden sidewalks, clapping and cheering, while men started crazy dances in the street. A mass of humanity encircled them, touching, offering handshakes and well wishes until it became ludicrous.

  They edged the horses to the railroad depot on Third Street and stepped down, trying without success to keep people at arms’ length. A well dressed middle aged woman with a little blond girl in her arms rushed up and thrust the child at Jack. Taken aback, Jack did not know what to do. The child hugged him around the neck and kissed him on the cheek. “Are you my daddy?” she asked innocently as she continued to hold tightly to his neck.

  Jack pulled back. He tried weakly to pry the child off as he backed away, but she continued to hug him while her mother beamed. It was no good. Jack had always had a weakness for little girls. To him, they represented the purity of soul and innocence he had thought represented the best of humanity. He’d thought the same of his own mother; but somewhere along the line, he’d lost that connection and replaced it with hate for those who had stolen it from him. Deep in his mind, he longed for its return.

  As the girl held him tight, his heart melted. He reached around to return the hug. “No, little lady, I’m not your father,” he said softly, “—but I sure wish I was. You’re such a beautiful child, I could wish for nothing better.”

  He handed the child back to her mother, who smiled coyly and batted her eyes. “I am Mavis Hunter, Marshal. I own the Railroad Restaurant and Hotel just down the street. Please come and see me when you get back from wherever you are going. You’ll have free meals as long as you wish.”

  “Well, now,” Jack said, pleasantly surprised. He looked the lady over and realized that behind her rather plain and conservative dress, she was a nice looking woman. “That’s an offer I’m not likely to pass up. We really don’t know when we will be back—not more than three weeks, I hope.”

  “I’ll be here, Marshal, no matter how long it takes.”

  Similar things were happening to Mobley. He was swamped with well wishers. Ladies abandoned propriety, hugged and kissed him, men slapped him on the back and offered all manner of opportunities from free lunches, clothing, and ammunition to buildings from which he might conduct his court. Mobley was embarrassed and knew he was blushing right down to his toes.

  Edson could barely be seen. Young women by the score had grabbed him and dragged him off of his horse. He tried to resist at first, but found it impossible. He pushed, hugged and kissed his way to the depot boardwalk where he figured to make a stand on a stack of traveling trunks until the girls came to their senses.

  After several minutes of incredible celebration, Mobley noticed a strange thing. A sour-faced man, bald and dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit pushed his way through the crowd, sparing no one in his way a sharp elbow as he came. He sported the most outrageous beard Mobley had ever seen. All white, it grew thickly from his chin and jowls and reached in three thick ropes all the way to the center of his large pot belly. Several others were helping him fight his way in.

  Mobley leaned toward Jack, raising his voice over the ruckus. “Who do you suppose that could be?”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed as he stepped protectively in front of Mavis Hunter and her child. “I don’t know, but he looks important.”

  When the man finally pushed his way to the front of the depot and stepped up beside Mobley, he raised his hands for quiet. The crowd seemed to recognize him and did as he requested. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man yelled. “I am happy to present to you, Judge Mobley F. Meadows, and his deputies, Jack Anthony Lopes and Edson Rabb.”

  Jack leaned closer to place himself between the man and Mobley. But it didn’t work. The man spread his arms wide and embraced Mobley, pounding him hard on the back as he did so.

  “Judge Meadows,” the man continued loudly as he stepped back. “I am Richard Coke, Attorney at Law and candidate for the office of Governor of the great State of Texas, at your service sir.” He grabbed Mobley’s hand, raised it in the air, and turned back to the crowd. “With this fine man on the federal bench and me in the Governor’s office, we shall return Texas to the path of righteousness. Let’s hear it for Judge Mobley Meadows.”

  The crowd again seemed to go crazy, jumping up and down, screaming and finally breaking into a chant, “Coke and the Judge. Coke and the Judge. Coke and the Judge.”

  Mobley was overwhelmed. He didn’t know this man from Adam’s walking s
tick, yet here he was, being cheered as if he were part of the man’s campaign team.

  Richard Coke clearly didn’t care whether Mobley liked it or not. He was not about to allow this much adulation to be heaped upon anyone in Waco without pulling a little of it in his own direction. Mobley had seen the type before. By reputation, Richard Coke was Waco’s leading citizen, a county judge in his own right, founder of the first law firm in the county, and probably the next governor of Texas. He was pushy, his antics rough, but he could not be taken lightly.

  The crowd ultimately began to quiet down, and then break up. Most of the people were tired of listening to Richard Coke’s hackneyed speeches and did not want to hear another. Mobley caught Jack’s and Edson’s attention; made his apologies to Mr. Coke and suggested to his deputies they go down to the depot window to buy tickets to Austin. Coke remained on the loading platform and continued with his speech, but the remaining crowd, consisting of a determined group of cowboys and buffalo hunters, followed their new heroes. This group was very drunk and apparently determined the merriment should continue.

  Mobley stood before the ticket window. Jack and Edson surveyed the scene. Both of them looked nervous. He turned and scanned the crowd. What was it? The cowboys? Men as thoroughly drunk as these might do anything. Yet he felt nothing. They were just having fun. He turned back to the window.

  Jack scanned both sides of the street. He nudged Edson. “Keep your eyes open. Something isn’t right here.” Edson nodded and loosened the pistol in his belt.