Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “I always am, Kate.” His lopsided grin made his fine-cut features look ten years younger.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  On silent feet, Frank ground tied his horse and advanced on the camp. He had no doubt it was the Garvan boys, but there was always the possibility that the fire had been lit by other travelers.

  A projecting wedge of limestone rock gave him cover while he viewed the camp from a distance. The moonlight helped visibility, as did the fire, its smoke heavy with the smell of mesquite and greasewood. Four men squatted by the fire, all of them big, red haired, bearded and dressed in greasy buckskins. Each held a rifle across his legs and wore a holstered Colt. Josiah, recognizable by the huge bowie knife stuck into his belt, sat in shadow beside Jazmin. He was trying to make the Mexican woman drink from a bottle and roared with laughter as she choked, the whiskey running down her chin.

  In the space of a moment, Josiah Garvan changed from man to raging animal. He tore the front of Jazmin’s dress apart, exposing her breasts. Snarling, he drew his knife. His brothers cheered him on, cursing and laughing, urging him to unspeakable violence.

  Frank liked Jazmin Salas. She was pretty and a real nice lady. On top of that, she was a wonderful cook. Even more, she was part of the KK Ranch. To Frank that made her within hollerin’ distance of kin.

  A lesser man would have figured the odds were too steep, turned away, and run for help. Frank Cobb was not such a man. In the West, a man measured his manhood by his readiness to do what needed to be done and by doing it well, without a backward step. If he turned away and left Jazmin to her terrible fate, he would be much less than a man. He would be a craven creature unfit to ever again enter male company.

  Driven by a hard, inflexible code, Frank did what he had to do. He drew his Colt and walked into the Garvan camp.

  Josiah saw him first. He jumped up, yelled something that Frank didn’t understand, and threw his knife, a backward hurling motion calculated to surprise. The Bowie had to cover about ten feet, a split second in time.

  A draw fighter’s hair-trigger reactions were strong in Frank and he flung himself to the side even as the knife left Josiah’s hand. Frank thumbed off a shot while he was in the air. Later, he would say that his bullet and the outlaw’s knife crossed each other in flight. Josiah’s Bowie missed by a foot. Frank’s bullet did not. Only when Josiah slammed onto the ground did Frank know he’d made a solid hit. For the moment, he ignored the big man on the ground and shot at one of his brothers, who stood in the flickering firelight, a rifle to his shoulder. The scarlet-slashed darkness was not good for aimed fire and the man hesitated. He screamed when Frank scored, his bullet hitting Jud Garvan in the belly. He jerked back, his Winchester spiraling away from him.

  Josiah Garvan had been hit hard, a sucking chest wound he knew would be the death of him. He pushed to his feet and stumbled toward Frank. With his Colt at eye level, he shot wildly as he went. Frank did not return fire, knowing the man would be dead shortly. That was proven a moment later when Josiah staggered and fell flat on his face, entering hell with a curse on his lips.

  From the shadows, the surviving Garvans were firing rifles.

  Jazmin, sobbing and bleeding from a thin cut across the top of her breasts, ran to Frank. He had time to yell only one word, “Run!” His breath hissing through his clenched teeth from the pain of his wounded side, he grabbed Jazmin’s wrist and dragged her after him. One of the Garvan brothers had found the range and bullets split the air close to Frank’s head as he and Jazmin escaped into the darkness.

  But not for long.

  Frank had seen saddled horses backed up to a stand of stunted live oak and skeletal cottonwood and he knew the remaining two brothers would mount up and come after them.

  His horse stood silvered in a shaft of moonlight, as though made of polished iron, and around it the night was vast. The animal raised its head when Frank got near but stood as he mounted, pulled Jazmin behind him, and kicked the bay into a gallop, striving to get a head start.

  Frank heard the Garvan boys a distance away, but they were riding hard to catch up. Far off, thunder rolled above the Gulf and with it came a strong wind. Jazmin grabbed on to Frank’s waist and buried her face in his back.

  He turned his head and yelled above the noise of the wind and his galloping horse. “Not far. Kate is close with a dozen riders.”

  Frank didn’t know if the woman heard him, but she clutched his waist tighter, communicating her fear. His gaze reached out to the darkness ahead of him, probing its limitless depths.

  Behind him, Frank heard the flat statement of rifles. He turned and looked. Crimson muzzle flares blinked like the eyes of a dragon. He thought about snapping off a couple shots in return, but Jazmin was already scared and the bang and flash of his Colt would only terrify her further and accomplish nothing.

  The Garvans were gaining, firing from the saddle, and with its double load Frank’s horse was tiring.

  My God, where was Kate?

  * * *

  Kate waited until she saw the flame of firing rifles and the fluttering white skirts of Jazmin became visible in the gloom. She shrugged the blanket off her shoulders and drew her Colt. “Forward!” she yelled, putting heels to her horse.

  Her line of riders charged, Barrie Delaney and his pirate brigands yelling war cries in some heathen tongue far from English. She was aware of Frank galloping through her ranks with Jazmin clinging to him for dear life. The way ahead was open but for two buckskinned riders who rapidly drew rein, shocked by the new development.

  Then disaster struck under the bright, uncaring moon.

  One of the Garvan brothers threw his rifle to his shoulder and snapped off a quick shot. Kate heard the bullet thud into Barrie Delaney, who was riding beside her. The old pirate grunted and swayed in the saddle, but he remained on his horse.

  The reaction from Kate’s men was immediate and deadly.

  Everyone, Kate included, cut loose a barrage of fire that sheeted lead into the Garvans. Both men went down with their horses and for a moment the ground ahead was covered with screaming, kicking horses and cursing men. She drew rein to avoid a collision and yanked her mount to the right of the tangle. One of the fallen riders jumped to his feet. He’d lost his Winchester but grabbed for the Remington on his hip. Several of Kate’s men fired at the same time. Hit again and again, the Garvan brother fell. A dying horse’s steel-shod hoof crashed into the man’s head and if there had been any life left in him, a shattered skull ended his career of rape and murder.

  One of the hands dismounted and shot the injured horses. He then checked on the brothers and looked up at Kate. “Dead as they’re ever gonna be, boss.”

  “Where are the others?” Kate said.

  Frank rode into the circle of riders. “They’re dead, Kate. I killed them both.” Jazmin still clung behind him. “She’s in a bad way.” He helped her down.

  Kate stepped out of the saddle and took her in her arms. “Jazmin, are you all right? Did they—”

  Jazmin lifted her head, her pained eyes free of tears. “Yes. All four of them.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven help us.” Kate hugged Jazmin close, her own eyes filling with tears. “Oh, my poor darling.” She looked down at the woman’s bloody chest. “My precious girl, what did they do to you?”

  It was a time for the women to be together.

  Frank called the men away and pointed to the dead Garvans. “One of you men throw a loop on that carrion and drag it somewhere where the coyotes eat. We’ll do the same with the other two.”

  Kate overheard. “Not all of them, Frank. I want the oldest to hang.”

  “His name was Josiah, but he’s dead, Kate. I shot him.”

  “I know,” Kate said, her arm around Jazmin’s shoulder. “Carry out my order, Frank. And Trace, see to Captain Delaney. He was hit.”

  “I’m here.” Delaney rode out of the gloom holding an old-fashioned iron breastplate in his hands. He put his
forefinger though a hole in the armor and waggled it at Kate. “A rifle bullet did that. Dead center in the dark. Now that’s good shooting.”

  “Are you wounded?” Kate said.

  “No. The bullet bruised my chest is all. But for a moment there I thought I was a dead man.”

  “Captain, where did you get that contraption?” Trace said.

  “Well, sonny, I’d like to say I took it from a Portugee sea captain on the Spanish Main or I’d like to say it I inherited it from my old grandpappy, a seafaring gentleman of fortune like meself. But truth to tell, I bought it in a general store in Boston town for three dollars and ten cents.” Delaney tossed the punctured breastplate into the darkness. “I was told it would turn any bullet and maybe a cannonball and that was a damn lie. I was robbed, and there’s the truth of it.”

  “You were lucky, Captain,” Trace said.

  “Aye, lad, I was.” Delaney looked around him, his eyes lingering on Jazmin. “But there are some who were not as lucky as me this night, lay to that.”

  * * *

  Kate Kerrigan hanged a dead man from a branch of the skeletal cottonwood close to where he died. Jazmin insisted on being there and watched the body strung up. Kate’s riders gathered around and watched Josiah Garvan rotate slowly in the breeze. His eyes were wide open, staring into eternity.

  There was a profound hush about the place, making Kate’s voice clearly heard. “This man was a rapist, a murderer, and a thief. He invaded my home, and I can neither forgive nor forget any of those things. That is why his body will hang here until it rots.” She looked around at her men. “Is there anyone who wishes to say something in this man’s favor or say a prayer for his soul? In my heart I cannot bring myself to do either of those things.”

  Her question was met with silence.

  “Frank?”

  “I have nothing to say,” Frank Cobb said.

  Barrie Delaney, not the most sensitive of men, spoke. “I have something to say ... may the souls of him and his brothers burn in hell and be damned.”

  Frank’s smile was faint. “Captain, you have a way with words.”

  “Aye, the only words the scoundrels deserve.” Then Delaney did something that surprised everybody. He reached into a capacious pocket of his blue coat and produced a little medal on a silver chain. He leaned from the saddle and handed it to Jazmin. “It’s a Miraculous Medal, me darlin’, blessed by a priest back in the old country. Wear it around your neck and it will help bring you peace.”

  Without a word or a change of expression, she did as he suggested.

  Kate fought back a tear. “Now we’ll leave this terrible place and return home to the KK.” She smiled at Delaney. “God bless you, Captain.”

  The old pirate nodded. “He’s always done that, Kate me darlin’. By His holy grace I became the most feared buccaneer on the Seven Seas and He helped me send many a lively lad to a watery grave with a musket ball in his bowels.” Delaney crossed himself. “And there’s the honest truth of how the Good Lord has oft times favored me.”

  “When I say my prayers tonight I will have words with Him about that.” She urged her horse into motion. “Now to get Mose and the children. Tonight we’ll all pray that they make a speedy recovery from a terrible ordeal that was thrust upon them.” She smiled. “And Frank, the good words include you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Winter was cracking down hard when Kate and her family moved into their fine new house. Taken from the cabin, the front door with its polished brass fittings was flanked by two Corinthian columns. The front of the house had four windows on the first floor and two bay windows at ground floor level, all glazed thanks to the depredations of Coot Lawson and his gang of rogues. It was a clapboard, white-painted dwelling built in high Victorian style and she considered it a good beginning, replaced only when she built her future mansion in the Greek style with eight columns out front . . . and the same door.

  Hank Lowery was buried in the ranch cemetery on the ridge, and Kate placed a gravestone above his grave. Frank wanted the words of “The Longdale Massacre” under Lowery’s name, but she would not hear of it, chiding him for wishing to speak ill of the honorable dead.

  The ashes of the wagon train dead were placed in timber boxes each marked with a brass plate on the lid that that read NIRVANA. The plates, decorated with angels, were fashioned by Marco Salas, and all agreed that he’d done a magnificent job. Kate had a rock cairn built above the grave.

  Marco, Jazmin, and their children moved into Kate’s vacated cabin and seemed happy enough, but Jazmin was not well mentally. She still cooked, and did it well, but needed all the care, attention, and understanding that Marco and Kate could give her. The men of the KK Ranch tiptoed around her as though they believed that all the male species shared the blame for what had happened to her.

  Captain Barrie Delaney and his rogues decided that life ashore was not for them and they left to return to the Octopus. As he explained, “Texas is just a tad too lively for poor sailormen, Kate me darlin’. We long for the quiet solitude of the sea and the cry of gulls instead of the roar of six-shooters.”

  She hugged the old captain and then said with a tear in her eye, “You’re a pirate rascal, Barrie Delaney, but I’ll miss you. Please don’t return to your old ways. I don’t want to hear that you died at the end of a rope.”

  He grinned. “Well, Kate, here’s the good news. I believe that old Queen Vic bears me no personal animosity and I am free to set a course for West Africa, where her majesty’s Royal Navy is paying a gold sovereign for every blackamoor freed from a slave ship. The Octopus is a fine, fast craft, and her cannon can make short work of any slaver we encounter. Why, a man can become rich, his pockets full of British gold, in no time.”

  “Then good luck to you, Captain Delaney. I’ll say a prayer for you every night of my life.”

  The old pirate said, “Of course, my offer of marriage still goes, sweet Kate. We can sail the main together.”

  She smiled and let him down gently. “I’m wed to the KK, Barrie, but your offer is indeed gracious. Now be off with you before I change my mind.”

  * * *

  A week before Christmas while a frosting of snow lay on the range and breaths smoked in the cold air, a carriage and pair drew up outside the house with a top-hatted, red-nosed driver at the reins. The ends of his woolen muffler almost trailing to the ground, the man climbed down from the seat and opened the door. A portly man in a fur-collared astrakhan coat stepped down, walked to the house, and introduced himself to Moses, who was acting as a butler in a splendid tailcoat with silver buttons. He bowed the gentleman inside.

  Kate met the man in the hallway as Moses announced in a deep tone, “Mr. Barnabas Vanstone Lynn of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.”

  The man bowed. “At your service, madam.”

  “I’m Kate Kerrigan, owner of the KK ranch. What can I do for you, Mr. Lynn?”

  “I have made a somewhat arduous journey to speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance, dear lady, to wit: the continuing prosperity of the Kerrigan Ranch.”

  “Are you selling something, Mr. Lynn?” Kate said, frowning.

  “Selling something? Yes, I am. I’m selling the future, Mrs. Kerrigan. Your future.”

  “Then you’d better come into the parlor. Did you use a crystal ball to peer into my future, Mr. Lynn?”

  “No, ma’am. I used only my good business sense.”

  Moses relieved Lynn of his coat, cane, and hat, and the man sat by the fire and accepted Kate’s offer of brandy.

  “I’ve just moved into my house and I apologize for the sparse furnishings,” she said, handing him a glass.

  “Your ravishing beauty is furnishing enough for any parlor, dear lady. To say it dazzles the eye is indeed an understatement.”

  Kate smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Lynn. You are very gallant.”

  Lynn produced a silver cigar case from the inside pocket of his broadcloth coat. “May I beg your indu
lgence, ma’am?”

  “Please do. I enjoy the fragrance of a good cigar.” She waited until the railroad man lit his cigar. “Shall we discuss your business now? Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten your coach driver, Mr. Lynn. I can’t leave him waiting outside in the cold.”

  “Do you have a kitchen, ma’am?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then never fear, Jonathan Thorne will find his way to it. He has a nose for such things,” Lynn said. “And now to business, and no, I don’t have a crystal ball. You are no doubt aware, Mrs. Kerrigan, that several railroads, including the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, and the Union Pacific have recently laid tracks deep into West Texas.”

  “Yes, I have heard that.” She found his gleaming head more interesting than his talk of railroads. He was completely bald and his scalp looked as though it had been shined with furniture polish.

  “Now let me ask you this. Are you wedded to the Chisholm Trail? In other words do your cow”—he put in a verbal space—“boys enjoy a two- to three-month cattle drive through some of the most hostile country in the nation?”

  “I’ve found it both tiring and dangerous.” Where was this talk leading?

  Lynn was shocked. “You, a lady, went up the trail to Kansas?”

  “I surely did, Mr. Lynn. After all, it was my herd, was it not?”

  “Mrs. Kerrigan, you are indeed a remarkable woman, brave as well as beautiful. Now I have another question to ask. Is it true you recently acquired the ranch of one”—he took a small notebook out of a pocket, flipped it open, and read briefly—“Ezra Raven?”

  Kate was surprised, but she answered evenly, “Yes, I did. Mr. Raven is deceased and I took over his range.”

  “And that makes the KK Ranch the largest in this part of Texas, does it not?”

  “Yes. I now run cattle on one and a quarter million acres. But there are bigger ranches elsewhere in Texas if your railroad is interested in buying. I’m afraid the KK is not for sale.”

  Lynn smiled. “I’m selling, not buying, Mrs. Kerrigan, remember?”