Hate Thy Neighbor

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  As he buttoned his shirt Ducking Jim Benson looked down at Ingrid Hult, who lay on her cot, the thin sheet that covered her revealing every voluptuous curve of her naked body. Ingrid was, he decided, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Their lovemaking was a problem, but nothing that could not be solved with time, patience, and understanding. As soon as he took Ingrid in his arms she became rigid and unresponsive, something closely akin to fear in her eyes, and it tore at his heart.

  “I’m so sorry, Jim, please forgive me,” she told him as she’d done so many times before. And he answered her as he’d always done. First his shy smile and then, “It will take nothing but time, my angel.”

  “I try,” Ingrid said.

  “I know you do.”

  “The memories come back . . .” Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut. “I see the faces again, one after the other, like in a bad dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real.”

  Benson sat on the cot and took the woman’s hand. “We’ll make it right one day soon. You’ll see.”

  He rose to his feet. “I have to go, Ingrid.”

  “Jim, there’s been so much killing, so much blood,” Ingrid said. “Is there no other way?”

  “With men like Slide McKenzie there never is another way. He slithers in the slime, and that’s the only way of living he understands. Everyone lives, Ingrid, but not everyone deserves to. McKenzie is one of them.”

  “The man never did me any harm, until today,” Ingrid said. “Perhaps I should talk to Mr. Cody, tell him everything.”

  “No, it’s too great a risk. Bill might turn you over to the Rangers and you’d be put on trial and maybe hanged or sent to a women’s prison for years,” Benson said. “This time we’ll do it my way.”

  Benson shoved a Remington revolver into his waistband and then covered it with his coat.

  “Jim, are we doing the right thing?” Ingrid said. She sat up in the cot and held the sheet to her naked breasts. “In the past did I do the right thing? Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord. That’s in the Bible.”

  “We’re both in the right,” Benson said. “An eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth. It also says that right there in the Bible. Who dare judge us later and say what we did was wrong?”

  Ingrid lay back on her cot. “Slide McKenzie. I didn’t even know the man before today and now I will kill him.”

  “No, I’ll kill him,” Benson said. “If there is blame to be laid for his death, then let it be laid on me.”

  “But, Jim—”

  But Benson was gone.

  Ingrid Hult buried her face in her hands. It began with the death of her fourteen-year-old sister and would end with the destruction of five men, four of them by her own hand. The cowboys who had raped Kari into suicide had paid the blood price, the wergild as her Viking ancestors had called it, and now Slide McKenzie, who had sought to profit by it, would also die.

  And what of the Indian, Cloud Passing? She had scalped the rapists and murderers, a horrible deed that had made her sick to her stomach, to shift suspicion to the Cheyenne. Ingrid would not allow the man to hang for her crimes. No, claiming the wergild was not a crime, it was justice. Thank God Cloud Passing was still at large, but if he was condemned to death she would speak up and absolve him of all blame . . . and die in his stead. If that must be the way of it, then so be it. She’d go to the gallows willingly knowing that her sister Kari, beautiful, laughing Kari, was avenged, and in the end that’s all that mattered.

  An hour later five shots smashed the quiet evening into a million shattering shards of sound and then alarmed voices cried out into the clamoring night.

  Ingrid Hult buried her face in her pillow and cried bitter tears.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “Five shots at close range, Kate,” Buffalo Bill Cody said. “One through the palm of his left hand as he tried to fend off the murderous balls. The wretch died like the dog he was.”

  Kate Kerrigan stared at the body of Slide McKenzie slumped on the bottom of the cage. A look of horror was frozen on the man’s face, and the front of his shirt was black with congealed blood.

  A giggle, and then, “He looks like a shotgunned bunny. What’s that thing on his head?”

  This from Annie Oakley who stood on tiptoe and peered over Bill Cody’s shoulder.

  “His jaw was broke,” Bill said.

  “Who broke it?” Annie said.

  Bill shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  Annie turned her attention to Kate. “One of your hands do this, empty a six-gun into him, Mrs. Kerrigan? Or did you gun him yourself? I understand his name was McKenzie, and he was trying to blackmail you.”

  Kate’s reply was icy. “No, I did not shoot him, Mrs. Butler, and neither did any of my men.”

  Annie smiled. “Well, somebody sure as hell did.”

  “Someone with a grudge,” Bill said. He very carefully studied the ground at his feet and didn’t look at Kate.

  “My son is still held hostage,” Kate said. “McKenzie’s death solves nothing.”

  “Then let’s hope your boy Quinn and Frank Cobb can free him,” Bill said. “Kate, I’ve thought it over and I must confess that I still favor an attack with overwhelming force.”

  “I’ve already had this discussion with Hiram Clay,” Kate said. “I didn’t like the plan then and I don’t like it now.”

  “Yes, it has its risks,” Bill said. “Well, Frank Cobb has a reputation of being good with a gun. If anyone can prevail, he can.”

  “Let us pray so, Mr. Cody,” Kate said. “I’m pinning all my hope on the speed of Frank’s gun. In the meantime, you have a murderer in your midst, and I suggest you make every effort to find him.”

  “Whoever he is, he’s long gone,” Annie Oakley said. “I doubt you’ll ever find him.”

  That surprised Kate. Annie seemed very keen to derail any inquiry into the matter. To test the waters she said, “We can’t pin this one on the Indian, can we?”

  “Perhaps not,” was all Annie Oakley said before she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Then Bill Cody said, “Kate, if he was one of mine I’ll find him, though McKenzie was a man who badly needed killing, so if you will forgive the expression, dear lady, who the hell cares?”

  Kate smiled. “Mr. Cody, I agree with your sentiment entirely, yet I can’t help but think that the murder of the three cowboys is somehow linked to McKenzie’s death.”

  It was Bill’s turn to be surprised. “A most singular statement, Kate, but an erroneous one, I fear.” He shook his silvery head. “No, McKenzie was killed by someone who hated him. He was a shady character, and I suspect a figure from his past was the culprit.”

  “Or his present,” Kate said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Between them, using horses and ropes, Trace Kerrigan and Cloud Passing pulled down a section of the mission wall on top of the bodies of the Boswell brothers. Trace said that all things considered, it was a better burial than they deserved, interred in what was surely still holy ground.

  Josiah Mosely was in bad shape. He wasn’t getting any better, as though he’d already given up the fight for life.

  “We have to get him to the KK,” Trace said. “Josiah needs a doctor real bad.”

  Cloud Passing shook his head. “Mose-ly can’t ride.”

  “He’s a small man,” Trace said. “I’ll take him up with me.”

  “He needs doctor, you say,” the Indian said. “You speak the truth.”

  “Yeah, and he needs one soon,” Trace said. “I don’t want him dying on me. I won’t allow it.”

  Pulling down the walls had taken time, and there was no alternative but to ride out under the noon sun. Trace had Mosely in front of him, holding him upright in the saddle. The man was as light as a slender twelve-year-old, and it took no great effort to support him. But after an hour the front of Trace’s shirt was stained with Mosely’s blood and the little man breathed in short, shallow gasps.

/>   “Cloud Passing, we’d better stop and let him rest for a while,” Trace said. “He’s in a bad way.”

  “Hot sun no good,” the Indian said. “Maybe better to wait for night and then ride.”

  “If Josiah doesn’t get medical help soon he’ll die,” Trace said. “We can’t afford to waste a whole day. He can rest for half an hour and then ride again.”

  The Cheyenne’s face was grim. “He is a dead man, Kerrigan. I told you Indian sometimes wrong about such things, but that was a foolish thing to say. Look at his face. The death shadows gather like dark clouds in a rain sky.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to let him die,” Trace said. “Now help me get him down. He’ll feel better once we get him into some shade for a spell.”

  Mosely flopped like a rag doll as Trace and Cloud Passing lifted him from the saddle and laid him on his back in a clump of brush that afforded some protection from the merciless sun. Trace put his canteen to the young man’s mouth, but Mosely turned his head away, murmured something, and refused to drink. Trace untied his bandana, wet it down, and placed it on the wounded man’s forehead. It was a caring gesture but did as little good as Cloud Passing’s use of his horse to block out the relentless sunlight.

  Trace said to the Indian, “He’s resting now, breathing easier. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “He’s dying,” Cloud Passing said. “Not long now.”

  Anxiety spiked in Trace. “Help me get him on the horse. The sooner we reach the KK the better.”

  The Cheyenne made no answer. He stared beyond Trace to the north, his face both puzzled and uneasy. Trace read Cloud Passing’s troubled eyes and turned. “Oh my God,” he said.

  His hand dropped to his gun.

  * * *

  “It’s Trace and the Indian, got to be,” Quinn Kerrigan said.

  “Sure looks like it,” Frank Cobb said.

  He reached into his saddlebags, found his field glasses, and scanned the distance. “It’s Trace and the Indian all right,” Frank said. “And they don’t look too friendly.”

  “They think you’re Slide McKenzie, Frank,” Quinn said. “If Trace cuts loose with a rifle we’re both on a stony lonesome. He doesn’t miss too often. Quick, get out of those damned duds.”

  The clothes to match McKenzie’s outfit, black vest, dirty white shirt, and gambler’s sleeve garters had been hastily tacked together to pass muster at shooting distance, and Frank ripped them off, stripping down to his vest. He’d loosely bandaged his chin and tied it at the top of his head, and this he gratefully discarded. He put the glasses to his eyes again.

  Trace and the Indian still seemed wary, but were not pointing guns in their direction any longer. “I think they recognize us,” Quinn said.

  “I hope so,” Frank said. “I don’t trust the Indian and I trust Trace even less.”

  * * *

  “Damn it, Frank, I was getting ready to shoot you right off that horse,” Trace Kerrigan said. “Why did you dress up like Slide McKenzie? And you, Quinn, you look like a raggedy-assed saloon swamper.”

  “Well, ask your brother,” Frank said. “It was his bright idea.”

  “We came to rescue you, Trace,” Quinn said. “I figured if we looked like McKenzie and a helper—that’s why we have the big money trunk on the packhorse—we could get close to the Boswells and cut loose. Hey, is that the rainmaker lying there?”

  “Yes, it’s Josiah Mosely. He killed the Boswells and then Cloud Passing freed me. He’s shot real bad.”

  Frank Cobb was incredulous. “Did I hear you say that Mosely killed the Boswells?”

  “As far as I can piece it together, he walked right up to them, drew, and killed them both,” Trace said.

  “Hell, I don’t believe it,” Frank said. “That’s impossible.”

  “Believe it,” Cloud Passing said. “It is how it happened.”

  “You saw it, Indian?” Quinn said.

  “Yes, but from a distance, away from the guns. Mose-ly wanted to do this thing alone.” Cloud Passing stared right at Frank. “He is a great warrior, and now he is dying, and when he is gone I will do him great honor.”

  Trace said, “Just so you know, Frank and Quinn, the Boswells would’ve pegged you as imposters way before you got within shooting distance. Even sitting a horse, Frank, you’re six inches taller than McKenzie and twice as wide in the shoulders. It’s kind of noticeable, and the Boswells were noticing men. They underestimated Josiah Mosely, and that was their big mistake. They wouldn’t have underestimated you.”

  “I underestimated him myself,” Frank said. “And that was my mistake.”

  He swung out of the saddle and took a knee beside the wounded man and used Trace’s bandana to wipe the fever sweat from Mosely’s face. “How you doing, pardner?” he said. “We’re going to get you home to the ranch.”

  Mosely’s eyes flickered open. He looked into Frank Cobb’s face and smiled. “Tell Kate . . . tell her I loved her.”

  Just that and nothing else. And then all the life that was in Josiah Mosely left, and Frank reached down and gently closed his eyes. “He’s gone,” he said. “Damn it all, Josiah Mosely, you were a man.”

  Cloud Passing took a cross-legged seat on the ground, placed his forearms on his knees, and sang the Cheyenne death song for the fallen warrior.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Frank Cobb, feeling a gnawing guilt for failing to respect a man who turned out to be braver than himself, arranged Josiah Mosely’s funeral.

  The young man was buried in the cemetery on the ridge overlooking the Kerrigan mansion, and despite Kate’s protest that it was a pagan practice Frank laid Mosely’s revolvers in the coffin and buried him with a dog at his feet. The dog was Slide McKenzie.

  The funeral made Bill Cody uneasy. Bill, a Methodist, was only as religious as he cared or needed to be, but in common with Kate he thought the warrior burial belonged to Dark Ages and had little to do with Christianity.

  But Frank was unrepentant.

  When Bill took him to task, Frank said, “Josiah died a noble death, and I buried him as a fallen warrior should be buried, with his weapons and a dog at his feet. We should all aspire to such an honor.”

  Bill did not pursue the matter, mainly because a funeral breakfast had been laid out in Kate’s kitchen and the six fried eggs, bacon, and pork sausage on his plate demanded his immediate attention.

  Frank, still upset over his past treatment of Mosely, his dislike and disdain for a man who had deserved better, had little on his plate when Kate took him aside.

  In a whisper she said, “Where is Cloud Passing?”

  “He’s holed up somewhere, Kate. He says it’s a place where he and Josiah repaired the balloon.”

  “His life is still in great danger, Frank. Now more than ever.”

  “Do you care that much, Kate?” Frank said.

  “He helped save my son’s life, so yes, I care that much,” Kate said.

  “I think he’s safe for now,” Frank said. “Nobody with a lick of sense believes that he somehow made his way back to the camp and shot Slide McKenzie.”

  “Who did, Frank?” Kate said.

  The segundo shook his head. “I have no idea. It’s a big mystery to me.”

  “I think it’s the same person who murdered the cowboys,” Kate said.

  “Could be,” Frank said. “I can’t say for sure. I’m not a Pinkerton.”

  “I’m not, either, but I still intend to find out,” Kate said.

  * * *

  But the work of the ranch had to continue, and Kate Kerrigan was forced to shelve her investigation, at least for a while.

  She sent a thousand cattle a hundred miles south to occupy the grazing land all the way to the Rio Grande. With the chuck wagon rolled a second flatbed, this one loaded with the prefabricated walls and roof of a line cabin. Once the cabin was built her riders could keep watch on the river and warn of any further incursions by Mexicans.

  A few days after the herd le
ft for the river, a puncher reported that rustlers had struck on the west bank of the Pecos close to the New Mexico border and had made off with thirty head.

  As she always did on those occasions, Kate rode with Frank and the hands and took part in a running, long-range rifle battle that resulted in no casualties on either side. The rustlers made good their escape, but the KK recovered its stolen cattle. Kate ordered the torching of several cabins located just across the border that she suspected belonged to the bandits. Despite the tearful pleas of their families, she burned the rustler cabins to the ground and confiscated eight horses, some hogs, and a Holstein milk cow. On a pine tree near one of the burned-out cabins Frank Cobb tacked up a carved wooden sign that read RUSTLERS BEWARE. Whoever the cattle thieves were, there is no record of them ever again lifting Kerrigan cattle.

  * * *

  Kate Kerrigan returned home to a pair of missives that intrigued her.

  One was a gold-edged invitation from the White Star shipping line requesting her to cross the Atlantic on such and such a date as their guest on the new passenger liner the Oceanic. White Star noted that His Grace the Duke of Argyll, the richest man in Scotland and owner of several large cattle ranches in Montana and Wyoming, would make the crossing on that date and was most anxious to meet her. The invite was for four months hence, well after the gather, and Kate decided a sea voyage might be a great adventure and was worthy of some serious thought.

  The second was of greater moment since it was a note from Annie Oakley “requesting an audience at Mrs. Kerrigan’s earliest convenience.”

  Kate read the note, read it again, and then said, “Bitch.”

  * * *

  “How nice to see you again, Mrs. Butler,” Kate Kerrigan said, smiling. “By the most fortuitous happenstance you were just in time for tea. Winifred, you may pour.”

  Kate waited until the tea was poured and then picked up a knife. “May I slice you a piece of cake?”

  Annie nodded; she was a plain girl in a plain cotton dress with a plain manner of speaking. She stood in stark contrast to Kate’s silken, exquisite beauty.