Frank said, “What do we do with him, Kate? This boy doesn’t belong on a trail drive. You heard him, he’s a sodbuster’s son.”
“We can’t leave him here, Frank,” Kate said. “We’ll have to take him with us.”
“You’ve already got Hank Lowery, Kate,” Frank said. “Do you really want to take on another passenger?”
Kate frowned. “Hank pulls his freight.”
Frank made no comment on that, knowing Kate had the right of it.
“Sam can help Lem Winston,” Kate said. “He’s a smart boy, and he’ll make himself useful.”
Frank smiled. “Kate, you can’t save everybody you meet. I mean Lowery, trying to deny that he’s a shootist, and now this boy.”
“I can save some of them,” Kate said. “At least the ones who come to me for help.”
“You’re a good woman, Kate,” Frank said. “I just hope that one day Lowery or this nameless kid won’t turn on you.”
“He has a name. His name is Sam Chisholm. Sam because I like that name and Chisholm—”
“Because of the trail,” Frank said.
“Exactly.”
“If he was still alive I’m sure old Jesse would be mighty pleased to hear that,” Frank said.
* * *
The boy spent the next three days helping Lem Winston, fetching water and firewood, and he showed some flair as a biscuit shooter, a talent that pleased Winston so much he predicted that young Sam could look forward to a bright future as a range cook.
But on the fourth day when Lem Winston went to roust Sam from sleep the boy was gone. The thin light of dawn had not yet chased away the late-lingering stars when Winston raised the hue and cry. Kate rose from her blankets and joined in the search of the area around camp but there was no sign of the boy.
“It’s like he just vanished off the face of the earth,” Winston told Kate. “Mr. Cobb says he probably headed south, but he’s not sure.”
When Frank returned to camp he said, “I’ve pulled the hands off the search, Kate. The kid’s gone for good.”
“I thought he might stay,” Kate said. Disappointment shadowed her face. “He seemed to have settled down.”
“With a boy like that you can never tell,” Frank said. “He was a wild one, and they never stay long in one place.” He smiled. “Pity. I was starting to like him.”
“Me too,” Kate said. “I’ll miss him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Three days after the boy called Sam vanished a black man rode into camp at suppertime. He carried a Colt on his right hip and had a Winchester rifle in the boot under his knee.
The man sat his horse as courtesy demanded and said, “Smelled your coffee from a ways off. I could sure use a cup.”
Kate said, “Light and set and make yourself to home. Are you hungry?”
The man had a good, open smile under his great dragoon mustache. “Missing my last three meals, or is it six? I can’t quite recollect”
“We set a modest table, I’m afraid,” Kate said. “But if beef and beans are to your liking, then you’re welcome to join us for supper.”
“Best offer I’ve had all day, ma’am,” the man said. He swung out of the saddle with considerable elegance and then touched the brim of his hat and said, “I’m a Deputy United States Marshal for the Indian Territory by authority of District Judge Isaac Parker. My name is Bass Reeves, ma’am, and I’m right glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Mrs. Kate Kerrigan, and this is Frank Cobb, my segundo,” Kate said. “Pleased to meet you, Deputy Reeves.”
Reeves took Kate’s extended hand. For a long moment his gaze lingered on Frank, taking his measure, and then he nodded. “Likewise. Glad to meet you both.”
Later as Reeves sat by the fire and ate, Kate said, “Mr. Reeves, did you by any chance see a boy in your travels, thin, about ten years old with a mop of yellow hair?”
“Kin of your’n, ma’am?” the lawman said.
“No. He stayed with us for a while. Just a few days and then he suddenly left.”
“I buried a boy like that,” Reeves said, his fork poised between his plate and mouth.
Kate looked stricken. “Buried him? When?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Then it can’t be the same boy,” Kate said.
“Maybe not, but the description matches,” Reeves said.
Frank said, “How did the boy die?”
Reeves’s expression didn’t change, the face of a man who’d seen violent death in all its forms. “Beaten to death. Something inside him broke.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Kate said.
“Farmer by the name of Lucius Baggot,” Reeves said. “He knew I planned to arrest him for the boy’s murder, and he came at me with a scattergun.”
“And you killed him?” Frank said.
Reeves shrugged. “Like I said, he came at me with a scattergun.”
Kate and Frank exchanged glances and Kate said, “Where . . .” Something caught in her throat and she tried again. “Where did you bury him, Mr. Reeves?”
“On a ridge about three miles west of here. I made a cross out of wood I took from the Baggot cabin and I said the words over him. I did my best for the boy, ma’am.”
Frank saw the horror in Kate’s face and said, “Must be a different boy, Kate. It can’t be Sam.”
But he saw by Kate’s desolate look that she thought otherwise.
Bass Reeves, a perceptive man, said, “Mrs. Kerrigan, sometimes in the West strange things happen that can’t be explained. One time I heard that the souls of murdered people can’t rest and they wander the earth in search of justice. Could be the boy who came to your wagon was long dead but his soul was not at peace.”
No!” Kate said. “I’ve made my mind up and that’s not how it was, that’s not how it was at all. The boy who came here was named Sam Chisholm and he’s still alive and well. He’ll grow up tall and strong and marry a pretty girl and make his mark and build a fine life for himself.” She smiled and nodded. “Yes, that’s how it will be.”
“Then I reckon you’re right, Mrs. Kerrigan. If you say so then that’s exactly how it’s going to be,” Bass Reeves said.
* * *
Kate Kerrigan opened her eyes and stared at the shadowed ceiling. Bill Cody was right. The boy, the one called Peter, must be punished for his part in freeing the Indian. She would do it tomorrow . . . a hug, a please-don’t-do-that-again, and a second hug.
Kate smiled, her mind made up. She’d punish Peter tomorrow and now she’d say her prayers and wouldn’t think about it any further.
After all, tomorrow was another day.
BOOK TWO
The Murdering Savage
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the morning of the horrific murder and scalping that terrorized Bill Cody’s encampment, a man rode onto the Kerrigan spread with blackmail on his mind. The man’s name was Slide McKenzie and he demanded a hundred thousand dollars, payable in cash, or he’d destroy everything Kate had worked for.
“If you don’t pay up, the angel of death will descend on this ranch and destroy every blade of grass and slaughter every cow that now stands on its pastures,” McKenzie said.
As she always did with strangers, Kate had met McKenzie in her parlor and now she stared at him with incredulous eyes. “Are you making a joke? If you are I don’t find it funny,” she said.
“No joke, missy,” McKenzie said. He smiled, sure of himself, as slick as polished ice. “The money or total destruction. The choice is yours.”
Kate rose from her chair and yanked on the scarlet pull that hug alongside the fireplace. After a few moments the parlor maid, pretty in her black dress and starched white apron, stepped inside and said, “You rang for me, ma’am?”
“Yes, Winifred. Go tell my sons and Mr. Cobb to come here at once.”
“Mr. Quinn and Mr. Cobb are out on the range, ma’am, but Mr. Trace is to home,” the girl said.
“Then go f
etch him,” Kate said.
After the maid left, McKenzie threw himself into a chair and said, “Aren’t you gonna offer me a drink, Mrs. Kerrigan? Ain’t that a common courtesy among high society folks like you?”
His swamp water eyes slimed over Kate’s body, shapely in her day attire of striped, pale blue cotton blouse with a high collar, and leg-of-mutton sleeves. Her simple white skirt was made of sturdy cotton twill, short enough to reveal high-heeled ankle boots that matched the shade of her blouse.
“You’re a fine-looking woman, Mrs. Kerrigan,” McKenzie said. “If you’re nice to me maybe I can lower my price a little.” And then, because he was what Trace Kerrigan would later call, “lowlife white trash,” he added, “Say by two dollars.”
Two dollars was the going price of a hog farm whore, and Kate was aware of the implication, but she ignored the remark and said, “Don’t sit in my presence unless I ask you to, McKenzie. On your feet or I’ll have my hands horsewhip the hide off you.”
McKenzie was livid, but he stood and said, “I’ll remember this. Soon you’ll come crawling to me on your hands and knees begging for mercy. Well, little Miss High and Mighty, you won’t get any. Lay to that.”
The door opened, and Trace Kerrigan stepped inside grinning. But then his eyes moved from his mother to McKenzie and the grin slipped and vanished. “What’s the trouble, Ma?” he said.
Now twenty years old, Trace had inherited his late father’s height and wide shoulders. He’d lost out in the handsomeness stakes to his brother Quinn, but his quick, easy smile, outgoing personality, and good nature were enough to set female hearts aflutter.
“This . . . creature . . . is demanding I give him a hundred thousand dollars,” Kate said. “His name is McKenzie, and he says if I don’t do as he says he’ll harm the Kerrigan ranch.”
“Harm? Who the hell said anything about harm? I said destroy, lady. I’ll lay it to waste.” McKenzie smirked as he said that last.
Most dictionaries define smirk as a smile that suggest self-satisfaction, smugness, or even pleasure at someone else’s unhappiness or distress. Usually a smirk is enough to get a man knuckled, but that morning Trace badly wanted to draw his gun and put a bullet into McKenzie’s belly.
“And you told him to go to hell, Ma,” Trace said.
“I haven’t told him anything yet,” Kate said.
Trace nodded. “Then I will. Mister, you go to hell. If you object to my saying that, then shuck iron and get to your work.”
McKenzie held his vest open. “I ain’t heeled, sonny,”
“Trace, that’s enough,” Kate said. “I will not have violence under my roof.” Then, “Before I have you thrown out, McKenzie, what is the nature of the destruction you threaten to visit on the KK?”
The smirk again. “Mexicans.”
Kate was surprised. “You mean the Mexican army?”
“No, I mean Mexican peasants, thousands, tens of thousands, hungry for land and hungrier for beef. One word from me and they flood north into the Promised Land, and by that I mean the Kerrigan range. When they get through here all that will be left is a wasteland. Catch my drift?”
Trace said, “McKenzie—”
“Call me Slide, since me and your ma are gonna to be such good friends, an’ all.”
Trace’s smile was thin. “All right, Slide, here’s something to think about—you’re not going to make it back to whatever rock you crawled from under because I’m going to kill you.”
McKenzie looked sly, like a fox contemplating a chicken coop. “Figured you might come around to saying that, sonny. But killing me won’t make any difference. If I don’t make it back to the Rio Grande alive my associates will wait a week or two and then start the Mexicans north.” The man grinned. “You can’t win fer losing, huh, sonny?”
It looked to Kate that the hotheaded Trace would draw, no matter the consequences, but she’d weighed McKenzie’s threat and decided it should be investigated. Now, playing for time, she said, “Even if I believed you, it will take me a while to accumulate that much money.” Feeling Trace’s outraged glare burning into the side of her face, Kate said, “I don’t keep a hundred thousand dollars in my safe.”
“You got a week, seven days, lady,” McKenzie said. “I’ll be back on the eighth day, and I’ll expect my money to be here waiting for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kate said.
McKenzie shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’ll see what you can do. Just do it.”
“Very well. You can go now, McKenzie,” Kate said.
“If you don’t have the cash then have the deed to your ranch,” the man said. “One is as good as t’other.”
Beside her Trace tensed, but Kate gave him a warning sidelong glance. “Get out of my house, McKenzie, now,” she said. “I can’t stand the stink of you.”
“Seven days, lady,” McKenzie said as he walked to the door, hastening his step as Trace moved to go after him.
* * *
“Trace, wait,” Kate said. She waited until McKenzie slammed the parlor door shut and then said, “Take two of the hands with you and follow McKenzie’s trail. I want to know what’s happening down there on the Rio Grande. As far as I’m concerned, everything north of the river is KK range and if there are Mexicans there, we’ll move them.”
“Thousands, ma? Tens of thousands?” Trace said.
Kate nodded. “Yes, I know. We may need a little help from the army.”
“Damn it, Ma, we’ll need a lot of help from the army.”
“Please, Trace, no profanity,” Kate said. “Now go see what’s stirring up those people. I want to know what hold McKenzie has over them.”
“If it comes down to it, will you really pay McKenzie?” Trace said.
“We’re Kerrigans, Trace. We meet force with force, and we pay tribute to no one.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Ma,” Trace said, grinning. “For a moment there I thought—”
“I was playing for time,” Kate said. “You thought I could be intimidated, and that surprises me. Trace, your mother doesn’t scare easily. In fact, Kate Kerrigan doesn’t scare worth a damn.” She smiled. “And I’ll say an extra rosary tonight to atone for the cussword.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An hour later Trace Kerrigan rode out with a couple of steady hands and took up McKenzie’s trail.
Kate stood at an upstairs window and watched them go, fearful for her son and what he might encounter between the ranch and the Rio Grande. Slide McKenzie had upset her more than she’d let Trace know. Although she felt capable of handling any emergency, shooting down Mexican peasants fleeing yet another famine was not to her liking. A couple of months before she’d been told by her driver, Shorty Hawkins, who heard it from a Texas Ranger who’d stopped by the ranch for a meal, that there was already starvation in the states of Sonora, Chihuahua, Coahuila, and Durango, and at least three thousand deaths, mostly children and old people. At the time Kate had determined to do what she could to help, but President Porfirio Díaz’s government forbade her to cross the Rio Grande, telling her, Mexico puede hacerse cargo de su propio . . . Mexico can take care of its own.
There the matter had ended, but now, if the vile Slide McKenzie was telling the truth, the affair was right back on her front doorstep.
A tap-tap on the door and a moment later the parlor maid stepped inside. The girl’s face was pale, and she looked to be in shock. “Ma’am, there’s been a murder,” Winifred said. “Mr. Cody said for you to come at once.”
“Is he downstairs?” Kate said.
“No, ma’am, Mr. Cody is staying by the body. He sent one of his bronc riders to tell you.”
“Help me get changed, Winifred. Is Mr. Cobb back yet?”
“No ma’am.” Then, “Do you wish me to get Flossie?”
Flossie was the lady’s maid, and therefore the only one who was allowed to help Kate with her wardrobe.
“No, Flossie will be indisposed for a few days,” Kate said. “
In the meantime you will act as lady’s maid.”
As Winifred helped her undress, Kate’s sense of unease grew. First McKenzie’s threats and now this murder. It was promising to be a dreadful day. She changed from her day dress into a fringed, buckskin skirt, blue shirt with full sleeves, a wide belt decorated with silver conchos, and riding boots. Unless out riding, Kate never carried a gun around the ranch, but it was a measure of her anxiety that she took a Remington derringer from a dresser drawer and slipped it into her skirt pocket. The derringer was a gift from Kerry Clooney, the Scarlet Harlot, who had carried the little .41 in a garter under her trademark red dresses during all her Western adventures. After Kerry, a lovely Irish girl, shot an abusive suitor to death in Dodge, Kate had saved her from a hanging. “The pistol will bring you luck, Kate, me darlin’,” Kerry had told her, and now as Kate patted the Remington into place she figured she’d need all the good luck she could get.
* * *
“An unlucky day for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, Kate,” Bill Cody said. “I haven’t seen the like since my days as a cavalry scout in the crusade against the murderous savage.” Bill struck a tragic pose, placed the back of his hand against his forehead, and said, “Oh, what these eyes have seen.”
“Where is the body?” Kate said.
Bill was aghast, or pretended to be. “Kate, such womanly eyes as yours should not behold such a scene of horror. I think it’s best I describe it, well, in not too much detail, and let you draw your conclusions from there.”
“I’ve probably seen worse, Mr. Cody. Please lead the way.”
“You are determined?”
“I am resolved, sir.”
“Then I’ll take you to the scene of the crime.”
“Who was the victim?” Kate said.
“One of my riders and sharpshooters, a former cowboy who had an arrogant way about him that not all liked, myself included.”
“Ah, then you have many suspects, Mr. Cody?”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 9