Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, now we don’t have to hang him. He swore on his mother’s grave that he didn’t kill any of the Mexicans, so maybe he’s suffered enough.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Even if you believe him about the Mexicans, it was my cattle he helped scatter all over the range.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s always that,” Frank said. “I reckon it’s a hanging offense.”

  Kate poured more coffee into Frank’s cup and said, “I know you’ve had no sleep and are all used up, but do you feel like riding?”

  “I’ll ride. I’ll catch up on sleep later.”

  “Good.” Kate turned to Moses, who held a plate under his chin and was scraping up the last of his breakfast eggs. “Mose, make me a hangman’s rope with thirteen coils on the noose. Unlucky for some.”

  Frank smiled. “Who you going to hang, Kate?”

  “Hopefully nobody, but I’m keeping my options open. Do have that last slice of bacon and help yourself to another biscuit, Frank.”

  Black Barrie Delaney delicately dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “What course are you laying, Miz Kate?”

  “I’m headed for Ezra Raven’s spread,” Kate said.

  “That damn rogue,” Delaney said. “I’ll come with my cutlass and split him from skull to chin.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Barrie Delaney. You and your shiftless crew will get to work on my house, and if I don’t see progress by the time I get back, I’ll find another place to stick your cutlass. Oh, I do declare, the coffee is getting cold.” Kate stood then turned. “Mr. Delaney, why are you still in my presence?”

  “I’m just going, Miz Kate, and thank ’ee kindly for breakfast.” The man rose to his feet and winked at Frank. “A poor sailorman’s work is never done.”

  “Barrie Delaney, you wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if you tripped over it,” Kate said. “You’re more used to cutting throats than cutting lumber, I’ll be bound.”

  Delaney left the cabin and waved to his crew, who’d filled up on coffee and Jazmin’s flapjacks and were lounging under the shade tree. “Come on, you damn lubbers,” the captain yelled. “Let’s build the nice lady a house.”

  Kate shook her head. “How did Black Barrie Delaney and his pirates ever escape the gallows? It’s a mystery to me.”

  * * *

  Kate ordered four of the hired hands to mount up. In addition, she planned for Frank and her son Trace, a first-rate rifleman, to ride with her.

  Hank Lowery volunteered, but Frank would not hear of it. “Lowery won’t carry a gun, and an unarmed man will be of no account when we brace Ezra Raven.”

  “Then he can stay behind with Quinn and the others and help brand whatever calves we can find.” Kate stared at Frank. “I won’t argue the point with you, but I admire Hank Lowery for trying to change and leave his guns behind.”

  “I won’t argue, either, Kate. A man has the right to choose to be unarmed and defenseless if he wishes,” Frank said. “I just don’t want him anywhere around me.”

  Kate was silent for a moment, trying to come up with the last word. After a few attempts, she said finally, “Well, I think Mr. Lowery is to be commended, so there.” She turned and walked to her horse, her slender back stiff.

  * * *

  A couple miles south of the Raven ranch house the trail divided. One branch led straight ahead and the other made a sharp turn toward a collapsed soddy so old that no one knew who built it, when, or why. Frank took the straightaway and after a few minutes they came on a dozen fat cattle grazing on both banks of a narrow stream. All of them bore the KK brand.

  Trace said, “I would never have trespassed this far onto the Raven range to hunt our cattle.”

  “I think that’s the whole idea,” Kate said. “Raven expects us to obey the rules.”

  Frank Cobb nodded in agreement and poked Lou Standish in the ribs with his rifle. “Were you a party to this?”

  The man winced and jerked in the saddle. “Yeah, following Mr. Raven’s orders.” His hands were tied behind his back and to keep him honest, he rode bareback on a gray mustang. “See up ahead, the dead cottonwood that fell into the stream one time?”

  “I see it,” Frank said.

  “Mr. Raven ranged his Big Fifty on that there tree.”

  “And you’re riding point, Standish.” Frank grinned. “The thought that a Sharps rifle could be aimed right at your belly must be a tad worrisome.”

  “I’ll holler when we get closer to the cabin,” Standish said. “Mr. Raven will recognize me.”

  “You sure?” Frank said.

  The puncher shook his head. “Hell, mister, I’m not sure of anything.”

  “Well you can be certain of this,” Kate said. “Make a fancy move and I’ll shoot you right off that pony.”

  Standish grimaced and shifted his weight on the little gray’s bony back. “Lady, you’d be doing me a kindness.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Raven ranch house was a large, two-story edifice set among pines and wild oak. It had been recently painted white and the door, like the one to Kate’s cabin, complete with brass knocker and handle, had been imported from back east. But there the resemblance to the Kerrigan place ended. Flower boxes hung under all four lower-story windows, but all they held were a few stems that stuck up like dead twigs. A small flower and vegetable garden to the left of the house had gone to weed and cactus. The brass on the door was dull and had not been polished in a long time.

  Kate read the signs.

  A woman had once lived there but no longer. It seemed that she’d left suddenly and bequeathed to Ezra Raven a fine house without a soul. It was a fine house, one Kate could only dream about, but sadness—a darkness and a sense of loss—surrounded the place. She felt it deeply.

  Beside her, Frank Cobb yelled, “Ezra Raven, if you’re to home, show yourself.”

  A few tense moments passed. A window curtain flickered and then the door opened. Ezra Raven, big, bearded, and commanding, filled the doorway. “Have you finally come to your senses and are ready to sell, Mrs. Kerrigan?”

  “No, but I’m here to ask you to come to yours, Mr. Raven,” Kate said.

  “What the hell?” Raven’s black eyes burned on Standish. “Lou, what are you doing with them?” To Kate, he asked, “Why does my puncher have a noose around his neck?”

  Before Kate could answer, Standish said, “They’re going to hang me, Mr. Raven, for drifting the Kerrigan cattle.”

  Raven looked at Frank. “Damn. Are you Cobb?”

  “I’m Cobb.”

  “Is the hangman’s noose your doing?”

  “No, it’s mine,” Kate said. “And right now I’m inclined to use the same rope on you, Mr. Raven. Why did you scatter my cattle?”

  “I didn’t drift your herd, and anybody who says I did is a damn liar,” Raven said.

  “I say it, Raven,” Frank said.

  “Big talk, Cobb,” Raven said. “If Poke Hylle was here, he’d make you sing a different tune.”

  “Boss, Poke is dead,” Standish said. “And so are Dave Brisk and Verne McCoy.” He nodded in Frank’s direction. “He killed all three of them in Tobias Briggs’s place. Briggs is dead, as well.”

  That news hit Ezra Raven hard and he gasped as though he’d just been punched in the gut. “No, that ain’t true. Not Poke.”

  Misery written large on his face, Standish said, “But it is true, boss. Poke drew down on Cobb an’ got shot. Cobb shot Dave and then Verne. And Briggs got shot. Hell, everybody got shot excepting me.”

  Raven stared at Frank, his mouth slack. “Poke drew first, but you had time to haul iron and gun him?”

  “Yeah, that’s how it happened, Raven,” Frank said. “Poke Hylle was good with the Colt, real fast on the draw and shoot. And he had sand. But I was more than a shade faster and I got sand of my own.”

  The conversation cut off there as two of Raven’s punchers rode in from the range, dusty, dirty, and on the hunt for coffee. The clack-clack of levered Wi
nchesters from Kate’s party welcomed them.

  After looking from Raven to Kate Kerrigan and back again, one of the riders summed things up in his mind then said, “Is there trouble here, boss?”

  “No trouble,” Kate said. “If Mr. Raven agrees to my terms.”

  The rancher was almost apoplectic with rage. “Terms! What are you talking about, lady? Terms? You don’t give Ezra Raven terms.”

  “It’s quite simple, really,” Kate said. “You will use your men to help me round up my herd—the one you scattered, Mr. Raven. Remember? Only after that job is completed will you carry out your own gather.”

  “Damned if I will!” the big rancher said.

  “Kate, do you want me to hang Raven as a rustler and murderer now or later?” Frank said.

  “Not yet. Let’s hope we won’t need that unpleasantness. Mr. Raven, you willfully scattered my cows all over the range. It’s only right that you gather them up again.”

  “I’m no rustler,” Raven said. “And where do you get this murderer nonsense, Cobb?”

  “Your segundo Poke Hylle and four of your hands, including Standish here, killed and robbed three Mexicans just south of the Briggs place,” Frank said. “They may have been acting on your orders, Raven, but even if they were not, they were your men and that makes you responsible and just as guilty.”

  “Lou, is he telling the truth?” Raven said.

  “I had no hand in the killing, boss,” Standish said. “It was all Poke’s idea. You know how he hated Mexicans . . . and everybody else who wasn’t white, come to that.”

  “I gave no such order,” Raven said.

  “You’re guilty nonetheless,” Frank said. “You deserve to hang, Raven. Anybody ever tell you that you got a neck made for a rope?”

  One of the Raven punchers, a kid with a round face as freckled as a robin’s egg, lowered his hand toward his holstered gun.

  “Esau, leave the iron be. Cobb will kill you.” After the cowboy pulled his hand away, the rancher said, “The last thing I need is another dead drover.” He glared at Kate Kerrigan. “And if I don’t round up your herd?”

  “Then I’ll hang you, Raven,” Frank said. “Today or another day, it doesn’t make any difference to me, but depend on it. You’ll swing and soon.”

  “You gonna let your hired man talk to me like that, Mrs. Kerrigan?” Raven said.

  It could have been a statement of defiance but wasn’t. Coming from a man who normally cut a wide path and had a history of riding roughshod over lesser men, it sounded like weakness.

  “Yes I am, Mr. Raven,” Kate said. “And I’ll let Frank Cobb hang you with my blessing. You have a choice to make. For your sake, I hope it’s the right and honorable one.”

  “Damn it, lady. Do you have balls under that skirt?” Raven said.

  Kate’s beautiful face hardened. “Mr. Raven, push me hard enough and you’ll sure find out.”

  Raven had lost Poke Hylle, his ace in the hole. When he looked into Frank Cobb’s eyes, he saw resolve and a readiness to kill. He saw the way of his own death and made up his mind. His hands were no match for Frank Cobb. It went against the grain, but he had to eat crow. “All right, Mrs. Kerrigan, I’ll round up your herd . . . but when the work is done, I expect your hands to help gather mine.”

  “Apologize to Mrs. Kerrigan for the remark you just made,” Frank said, his eyes hard. “A gentlemen doesn’t speak that way to a lady. Not in my presence he doesn’t.”

  “I apologize,” Raven said. “I’m a rough-mannered man and not often in the company of ladies.”

  Kate let the man save face. “Your apology is accepted, Mr. Raven. I have already forgotten the matter. As to helping you with your cattle, that sounds perfectly agreeable to me. I’m sure working together in perfect harmony we can get the job done.”

  Frank Cobb took his foot out of the stirrup and used it to shove Standish off the mustang. He fell so hard the loud thump made Kate’s horse start. “Raven, I guess you’ll need this one for the roundup.”

  The rancher turned to his riders. “Help Lou to his feet. Untie his hands and get the damn noose off him.” He looked at Kate. “Would you really have hanged me, Mrs. Kerrigan?”

  “Oh yes, most assuredly.” Kate smiled. “Here’s an invitation, Mr. Raven. After the gather is finished and before we take to the trail, you must come to my place for afternoon tea and we’ll have sponge cake. Have you ever eaten sponge cake before?”

  The big rancher seemed at a loss for words, but finally he managed, “No. I guess not.”

  “You will like it very much,” Kate said. “It’s Queen Victoria’s favorite, you know.”

  * * *

  Ezra Raven was as good as his word, and the Kerrigan hands rode with his own to complete the gather and get the yearlings branded. A month later, he and Kate were ready to take to the Chisholm, but he never did show up for afternoon tea.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A cattle drive could run into a lot of problems before the cows got to where they were supposed to be. Stampedes, drought, floods, and sickness were common. As Kate Kerrigan drove her three thousand head north, the prairie grass was fresh and the Canadian and Cimarron rivers were wet and so were their streams.

  After two months on the trail and only a couple days before they reached the cattle pens at the railhead one of Kate’s drovers was thrown by a mustang and busted up his leg. He rode into Dodge City in some style in the back of the chuck wagon.

  Kate took one look at the bustling, roaring cow town and decided she had never seen the like. Even the wild Five Points district of New York couldn’t compare to the dusty, smelly, fly-ridden Gomorrah of the Plains. Everything and everybody in Dodge was “full up and raring to go” as the eastern newspapers said. Everybody lived for the day and to hell with tomorrow.

  Most frontiersmen considered Dodge the finest city in the West, a seductive, beckoning utopia where a man could get anything he wanted—for a price. But some citizens of the more respectable sort believed the devil had carelessly allowed a chunk of hell to slip though his scaly hands and it had landed smack dab in the middle of the Kansas prairie.

  Kate rode past dozens of saloons, brothels, and dance halls. Among the finest were the Long Branch Saloon and the China Doll cathouse. But the establishment that was causing the most stir that hot summer day was a newly constructed false-fronted building named the Top Hat. A sign hung outside the glass doors.

  GRAND OPENING TODAY

  GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!

  The Finest Spirits, Cigars, and Games of Chance for the Sporting Gentleman

  ~Maddox Franklin, Prop.

  To get Mr. Franklin’s message across, a pretty woman, naked as a seal, paraded up and down outside the establishment on a white horse led by a small black boy dressed like a Moor in scarlet tunic and feathered turban. The young lady’s long blond hair was strategically arranged to cover her nudity but it was, as Kate would say later, “at best, a hit-and-miss arrangement.”

  “Dodge is quite a place, huh, Ma?” Trace said, grinning. “And that there gal is Lady Godiva right from the history book.”

  Ignoring Frank’s grin, Kate said, “You stay away from that den of iniquity, Trace. Girls, girls, girls indeed. Better you remain in your hotel room and read the Holy Bible and better Lady Godiva found herself some decent, modest clothes.”

  “You listen to your ma, Trace,” Frank said. “Reading scripture sure as hell beats whiskey, cigars, and naked women.”

  Kate glared at him, but Frank’s face was empty as he studiously looked straight ahead.

  * * *

  Once the Kerrigan herd had been penned, Kate sought out the cattle buyers and arranged for a count. Because of the easy trail conditions, the beeves had put on weight and were in prime condition. She expected top dollar and was paid thirty-five dollars a head for her twenty-eight hundred steers for a total of ninety-eight thousand dollars.

  After paying off the hands, Kate took rooms for herself, Trace, Frank, and Hank Lower
y at the respectable and whisper-quiet Drover’s Rest Hotel. Despite making a huge profit, Kate insisted that Frank and Trace share a room. Lowery, still a pariah despite having done a man’s part on the trail, had a room by himself.

  That evening after dinner, Kate lingered to drink coffee and bade the others to do the same. The sounds of Dodge City drifted into the dining room—the roars of whiskey-drinking men, the brassy laughter of painted women, and the constant tinpan cacophony of competing pianos and banjos. “I told Ollie Bligh to set out for home tomorrow morning with the chuck wagon.”

  “I hope he’s a better driver than he is a cook,” Frank said.

  Kate nodded. “That may be so.” Having some empathy for bad cooks, she added, “But he does try, bless him. Trace, you will accompany the wagon and see that Ollie stays away from the bottle.”

  Trace was crestfallen. “But Ma—”

  “No buts, Trace, and no maybes. Do you remember what happened the last time you were here?”

  “I remember.”

  “You were wounded and forced to kill a man,” Kate said.

  “Ma, I said I remember.”

  “I’ll feel better when I know you’re on the trail back to Texas. And first thing after breakfast tomorrow you will be.”

  “Why don’t we all head back?” Frank said. “There’s nothing in Dodge I need to do that I haven’t done many times before.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure that is the case, Frank,” Kate said. “And please spare me the details of what you’ve done before. I’ll stay in Dodge until I can arrange a bank transfer and discuss a few business details with my cattle buyers. That will only take until the day after tomorrow and then we’ll leave. Trace, you’ll be slowed by the wagon so I’m sure we’ll catch up with you on the trail.” Kate looked around the table. “Well, are we all in agreement?”

  “Would it make any difference if we were not?” Trace said.

  Kate shook her head. “Not a bit.”

  Before leaving Texas, Hank Lowery had traded his gambler’s finery for range clothes, but he still managed to look elegant as he rose to his feet. He was still unarmed. “I’m off in search of a friendly poker game. The sixty dollars you paid me, Mrs. Kerrigan, is burning a hole in my pocket.”