by Cotton Smith
He took a step, stopped, and returned to his guns. Withdrawing the Colt from its holster, he shoved it into his waistband and covered the handle with his vest. That felt better. Something about being unarmed didn’t seem right. For the first time, he noticed the vest was discolored in places. He rubbed on the spots vigorously but soon gave up on the idea. Trail dirt had long ago taken up residence in the fibers. He would just have to rely on his charm and headed for the breakfast table.
Bea Von Pearce and Hattie were already seated at the heavy planked table. The dining area was set off from the main room by hand-painted dressing screens. He removed his hat and laid it on a chair, drinking in the coziness of the room and the memories lingering there, before coming to the table. He couldn’t help noticing three heavy candlesticks on the mantel. All three candles were lit. That’s good luck, it ’tis, he told himself, but worried that the middle candle seemed to be spitting flame.
He shrugged his shoulders and went on, reciting a silent chant to counteract the potential bad news if that candle went out unexpectedly.
On the wall behind Bea was a heavy gold-framed painting of a rich-looking countryside. It wasn’t land Kileen could recall seeing. Perhaps it was Germany. Or, maybe, the Texas hill country around Fredericksburg. He knew many German families had settled there.
“Ja, Herr Ranger Kileen, it ist der Vader Land. Mein dear Herman brought it over.”
“Looks mighty fine, mum.”
“Please to call me Bea.”
Kileen gave his best closed-mouth smile. “Aye, Bea it shall be. An’ all blessin’s on ye.”
“Sit down hier, Herr Ranger Kileen.” She motioned toward the empty chair to her right.
“ ’Tis Thunder friends be callin’ me. Please . . . Bea.” “Thunder. You ist full of der power, like Thor.” Her eyes sparkled and sought his.
He blinked, shrugged, and sat down.
Bristow china and heavy iron utensils awaited them at each setting. In the center of the table was a dark red glass vase proudly presenting a fistful of flowers plucked from the garden out back. The table was laden with bowls of steaming potatoes and sausages, one plate piled with hot biscuits, and another with fried eggs. A gravy bowl was nearly overflowing with heavy gravy. A smaller dish held yellow butter. On an adjoining narrow table sat a large blackened pot of coffee.
Kileen couldn’t help thinking how unreal it was. The woman was nearly ruined, her last cattle run off, and here was a breakfast fit for royalty.
Bea’s cheeks were rosy from the heat of cooking and she looked at the big man with her best coquettish smile. “Ve are sehr happy to haff you join us. Few Rangers come hier . . . or any strangers to come, for this matter. It ist good to haff a man in der haus once more.” The gun in her apron pocket clanked against the table as she sat.
Kileen was amused and wondered to himself if she went to bed with that apron on. His wondering slid further, picturing the robust woman welcoming him to the same bed. He returned her warmth with a fetching grin of his own but remembered to keep his mouth closed.
“This sure be lookin’ mighty fine as a fresh Irish morn, mum,” he said in his most gallant manner. “Mighty fine. Me stomach be thankin’ ye already. ’Tis too bad the lads had to go without such a celebration, carryin’ only a little sup they be.”
She nodded, and her eyes lowered toward the folded hands in her lap. The move surprised the big Ranger, who was about to grab his fork. But he lowered his hands to his lap and watched her in silence.
Quietly Bea asked, “Hattie, vill you please to read to der table. Ja. Be thankin’ Gott ve be for der breakin’ our fast.”
Hattie glanced at Kileen self-consciously as he tried to appear accustomed to such a procedure. “Dear God, thank you for this food and for this day and for all the blessings you have given us.” She peeked at Kileen through half-closed eyes. “An’ thank you for Ranger Kileen and Ranger Carlow. An’ Mr. Nichols. Amen.”
“Amen,” Bea added. “Danke, Hattie, that ist done vell.”
“Amen it be, me lass.” Kileen nodded. “I be likin’ that, too.”
“Please to help yourself, Herr Ran . . . Thunder. There ist plenty.”
“Thank you, Bea. I not be seein’ food this good in a long time.”
The compliment spread across Bea Von Pearce’s face as a wide smile. “Oh, it ist naught. Ich am to fear der biscuits ist not so gut. They be not vat Ich to vish for.”
His mouth half-full of a bite of biscuits and butter, Kileen hurried to swallow the morsel so he could refute her statement. “Mum, this be tastin’ like it be made by the sweet angels themselves. By me blessed mither’s grave, none better have I had.”
Bea’s cheeks glowed. “Yah to make a woman proud, Herr Thunder.”
Chapter Twenty-six
After serving Kileen and Hattie, Bea filled a plate for herself. Kileen asked her if she sang while making her biscuits. Wide-eyed, she responded negatively, and he was clearly relieved but didn’t explain further. Soon they were busy with their food, eating in silence as was the habit of most Western people.
It was Hattie who first severed the mealtime quiet. “Ranger Kileen, do you like these flowers? I picked them today, just for you. They’re from our garden.” As an afterthought, she added, “An’ for Ranger Carlow an’ Grandma an’ Charlie, too. Mr. Nichols, too.”
Wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin, Kileen said, “Oh, they be very pretty, me lass. Thank ye for the kindness. It gladdens me heart.” He was glad to see the flowers weren’t red and white, for that was an omen of death. Purple, pink, and blue blooms were just fine, he assured himself.
Outside, a noise trying not to be heard caught his attention and he froze. “ ’Tis the sound of company, me thinks.”
Before Bea could respond, Kileen was at the front window looking outside, grabbing his rifle as he passed. A buggy pulled by two marching gray horses crossed the open yard and pulled up in front of the house. Morning sunlight danced off blond hair under the driver’s bowler hat.
“It ist Dr. Holden.” Bea was standing next to him. She smelled of biscuits and woman and a light scent of something sweet.
“Aye, the blackguard hisself. I shall be greeting him meself.” He strode to the door and whipped it open with his left hand, holding the gun in his right. He stood framed in the doorway, levering the gun into readiness.
“Be of care, mein Thunder, he ist der devil,” Bea said as she turned to see where Hattie was.
Dr. Holden’s surprise came immediately to his eyes and just as quickly disappeared into a polite stare. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I am Dr. Holden. I came to call on Mrs. Von Pearce and see how she is doing.” He stepped from the buggy and wrapped the reins around the hitching rack. “I brought along something to make her feel better. A tonic of considerable performance.”
“Aye, the only tonic the fine lady be needin’ is the returnin’ of her herd,” Kileen growled. “The herd your men be takin’ last night.”
“I beg your pardon? My men did no such thing. You must be mistaken, sir.”
From behind Kileen, Bea declared, “Ist no mistake, Herr Dr. Holden.”
Kileen cocked his head to the side. “An’ that witch o’ a wife of yours killed two innocent men an’ be takin’ their ears an’ paintin’ their faces—with their own blood.” His face was dark and his eyes narrowed. “Ye both will hang.”
The second part of Kileen’s statement hit the doctor like a bullet. His face whipped itself into a rage, then fell back again into placid gentleness so fast Kileen wasn’t certain he had seen it.
“Sir, I am a humble practitioner of medicine. Not some bandit. My wife is at our home—in town.” Dr. Holden straightened his shoulders and reached back into the buggy for his bag. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to see Mrs. Von Pearce and make sure that she is well.”
“ ’Tis a good idea that you stay,” Kileen said, pointing his rifle at Dr. Holden’s stomach. “Until me nephew and his friends be returning
with the lady’s fine herd.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Dr. Holden’s question was a hot poker.
“ ’Tis a question for the ages, me doctor. Who do we be?”
“Your name, I meant, sir.”
“Oh, of course. How rude I be,” Kileen said. “I be Texas Ranger Aaron Kileen. Me friends call me Thunder. Ye can call me Mr. Ranger.”
“Drop the gun, Lucent. Or I will kill the little girl.” The hard, crisp voice was behind Kileen. From inside the house. It was strangely familiar, even though he hadn’t been called by his real last name, Lucent, in years.
The big Ranger eased slowly around to face the voice that demanded his surrender. Bea had already turned and was frozen in place.
An ebony-skinned man with a gleaming face and tiny eyes glared at him. He held Hattie with his left hand as if she were a toy. His sleeveless shirt revealed powerful arms. Under his flat-brimmed hat glistened a gold earring dangling from his left ear. A red sash held a black-handled pistol matching the one in his fist.
Kileen knew the man as soon as he faced him. Selar Viceroy. They had fist-fought in New York. On the docks. For money. Everyone wanted to see the two hated races, Irish and Negro, go at it. Viceroy had won in a long, bloody contest that left both men battered. That was years ago. But it wasn’t seeing an old adversary from those bare-knuckle days—or even the gun in Viceroy’s hand—that bothered Kileen. It was the black man’s manner: he had become a killer. Kileen had seen that look before in John Wesley Hardin, Clay Allison, Silver Mallow, and a few nameless others. The war had done it for some—or been the excuse.
Viceroy would break Hattie’s neck and not think about it. Ever again. He would do it as Kileen fired. If he did.
“Put down the gun, or I will kill the girl. She would not be the first child I have killed, I assure you.” The black man’s voice was clipped, almost musical, and his English precise. “It is good to see you again, Aaron. What a nice surprise. I have thought often about beating you again. Your name was Lucent then. I heard about what happened, and I am not surprised that you have changed it.” His white teeth glistened as a sneer took over his face. “You should be ashamed of yourself, robbing a bank and putting a policeman in the hospital. My, my. But I can see why you weren’t making enough money fighting. You weren’t good enough, were you?”
Kileen’s shoulders rose and fell as his gaze took in Hattie’s terrified eyes. He tried to concentrate on the moment instead of yesterdays. Behind him Dr. Holden’s footsteps onto the porch were hurried, shuffling to a stop and rushing on again. The physician strutted inside, brushing past Bea to examine Kileen haughtily. He grabbed the Winchester from Kileen’s hands.
“Well, well, big man, looks like things have changed a bit.” Dr. Holden’s voice clicked into a condescending whine as if prescribing treatment to a patient. “I’d like you to meet Viceroy. He’s Jamaican, or something like that.” He licked his lower lip. “He gets paid to kill. I pay him well. I want you to do exactly what Viceroy here says, or have you ever seen a child’s neck snapped? It’s quite an interesting sight, medically speaking.”
Everything in Kileen wanted to attack, and the black man guessed it. “Don’t try it. She will die before you strike him. I won’t wait for orders, Aaron. This is about money. Nothing personal. That will come later—after the girl and the woman are dead.” His white teeth returned in a leering smile. “I want you to remove that pistol now, too. Use your left hand.”
Kileen’s angry glare frightened the doctor so much that he stepped back three steps to keep the big Ranger’s intensity from reaching him. He tried to point the rifle but couldn’t find the courage to do it.
“I said drop the gun.” Viceroy moved his left forearm against Hattie’s neck. Her eyes pleaded with Kileen. A tiny tear escaped from the corner of her right eye and trickled down her cheek.
Kileen’s pistol thudded against the floor, and the big Ranger stood with his hands at his sides. “Don’t ye hurt the wee lass, or . . .”
“Or what?” Dr. Holden couldn’t hold back a snicker. He gradually aimed the Winchester at Kileen but kept the same distance.
“Or ye will not be havin’ enough bullets to stop me from snappin’ your black neck.” Kileen’s challenge sought Viceroy’s eyes, then went back to Dr. Holden.
“An’ your puny one.”
The black man’s dark eyes sparkled in response, and he, too, looked at the physician for approval to complete his task.
Moving slowly toward the black outlaw, Bea began to sob loudly, holding her hands to her face. After three small steps, she dabbed her eyes with her left hand; her right hand slid into her apron pocket.
Kileen knew well what was hidden there. What would she do? Threatening Viceroy and Dr. Holden with a gun would only result in a surrender of her weapon or Hattie’s death. Or both. He frowned and started to tell her not to try it.
“Lassen . . . p-please . . . not to hurt her, Herr Viceroy. Take me instead.” Bea’s face was painted with tears.
Viceroy watched her and looked again at Dr. Holden for direction.
The physician smiled. A long, thin smirk full of satisfaction settled on his pale face.
Kileen’s fists tightened, but he didn’t move. Should he risk grabbing Dr. Holden? Could he reach him before the doctor ordered Viceroy to kill and force a trade? Or would the black man not wait, like he said? Maybe he should rush the black man when Bea neared. Could he be swift enough? Kileen’s mind was a murky fog, fighting through regurgitating memories of New York, awful things he had long ago locked away. No one out here knew what he had done back there to give his sister and her young son a place to live and food to eat.
He had already decided to die trying to save Bea and Hattie. The only question was how to accomplish the saving.
“Not a bad idea, Viceroy. Let them trade. An old woman’s neck is just as interesting to break. We’ll make it look like an accident,” Dr. Holden declared, and winked.
Viceroy nodded and reached out to grab Bea’s left arm, releasing Hattie at the same time. The widow’s right hand stayed in the apron pocket as he yanked her to him. He pulled the German widow close and locked his left arm under her chin. It was too swift for Kileen to move.
The black man’s eyes found Kileen’s to acknowledge he had anticipated the big Ranger’s trying something. “Don’t try it, Lucent. You aren’t that good.”
Kileen’s gaze went gratefully to the little girl scurrying toward him.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Kileen flinched as a bullet thudded into the wall a foot from his right arm. Dr. Holden dived for the floor. The rifle he held clanked against the wood. His hat spun away and raced toward the doorway. Hattie stopped in midstride. The black man’s eyes bulged as blood streamed down his throat and swamped his shirt. Smoke from Bea’s previously hidden pistol encircled his face.
As soon as the black man had pulled her to him, Bea had drawn her gun from the apron, jammed it under his chin, and fired three times as fast as the doubleaction could work with her finger squeezed against the trigger. Her bullets drove directly up through his chin and into his brain, taking away all but reflex. The fourth shot was from Viceroy’s gun. It was his bullet that flew past Kileen.
Another bullet from Bea’s gun tore into Viceroy’s heart as she reached across her body, pushed the gun against his heaving chest, and fired. His left arm tightened momentarily against her throat, but the death wounds in his brain and heart caught up with the instinct and his arm flopped downward. His pistol slid from his limp right hand and found the floor. She shoved the dying gunman away and pointed her gun at the cowering Dr. Holden.
Staggering from the destruction to his being, Viceroy opened his mouth but only a rush of blood came out. He took a half step forward, wobbled, and tried again. A river of blood preceeded a crackling declaration. “L-Lucent, I . . . I was so l-looking forward to b-beating you to d—” He slammed headfirst into the floor.
From his crouching position, Dr. Ho
lden stuttered, “M-my G-God, you . . . you k-killed him.”
Kileen moved more swiftly than anyone would expect a big man could. Putting his boot on the rifle to keep it in place, he yanked Dr. Holden to his feet. He grabbed the doctor’s hat and jammed it on the frightened man’s head. Half dragging and half carrying him, Kileen took the protesting doctor out of the house and into the ranch yard. Dr. Holden struggled against the big Ranger’s powerful grip, his feet barely touching the earth.
“See here, sir. I am a phys—”
Kileen’s huge right fist smashed into Dr. Holden’s face. Blood and teeth popped like corn over a fire. Kileen’s second punch tore into the man’s stomach, jackknifing his body and taking away his air.
With a childlike whimper, the doctor collapsed, but Kileen held him upright, with his right hand grasping Dr. Holden’s bloody shirt.
“Ye miserable excuse for a man, talkin’ of a little girl’s neck, were ye?” Kileen’s backhanded slap snapped Dr. Holden’s cheek sideways, tearing his lower lip and turning his teeth crimson. “Hopin’ to take the fine lady’s ranch, were ye?” A second slap rammed the physician’s head in the other direction.
Kileen pulled back his left fist, holding the doctor upright with his right, for a final blow.
“Kommen, Herr Ranger Kileen. Be der dear fruend—and please to helfen me to get the dead African from mein haus, vill you?” Bea stood on the porch with Hattie clinging to her leg. Her pistol was nowhere in sight. Her face sparkled with dampness, and her usual glow was deeper.
“Aye, me lady. Just one wee moment longer.”
“Ach der lieber, der doctor ist nein a problem. Meine haus ist.” Her voice was insistent.
Shrugging, Kileen released the unconscious doctor and let him slump to the ground as if a bundle of laundry. The big Ranger walked straight to Bea and stopped a foot away. He grinned without opening his mouth. He had just realized she had not been crying in the house, at least not from fear; she had been setting up Dr. Holden and Viceroy so they would allow her to get close. Then she had acted without hesitation. I’d best be rememberin’ the Widow Von Pearce be dangerous when angry, he told himself, and wondered if she would be as aggressive in bed.