The Avenging Angels

by Michael Dukes

  Stepping lightly, he crossed the floor and moved into the hall, holding the Winchester in both hands. At the door of the back room he stopped to press his ear against it, straining to pick up any sound. The room on the other side was silent as the grave, and, when he entered, Kings saw nothing but a wooden pallet on the floor and some hides that had been used as blankets.

  Suddenly, there was a thud, and Kings felt a brush of air as the door was kicked closed behind him. He stiffened at the unmistakable touch of a double-barreled shotgun against his spine, and the silence was shattered by a hoarse voice.

  “I got you dead to rights, mister. You wanna take another breath, you set that Winchester aside, nice an’ easy. Good. Now get them hands up. Turn real slow.”

  The man was craggy-faced and completely bald but with a long unruly beard. The weapon in his hands carried an oily gleam and, unlike the rest of his belongings, appeared to be in fine working condition. He stood wide-legged in his long johns and trousers, eyeing Kings with hostility.

  “You got a belt-gun under that coat?” he asked.

  Never one to argue with a shotgun, Kings nodded.

  “I’ll ask you to drop that, too. Left hand. And that sack you got there.”

  The sound of the belts falling to the floor was magnified in the stillness. The trapper seemed to loosen with the knowledge that the man before him had been disarmed, and he straightened as much as age would allow. “Now, then,” he said, breathing heavily, “would you mind tellin’ me what the hell you’re doin’ in my place? Mean to murder me in my sleep, do ya? Steal my hides?”

  Kings shook his head. “Lost my horse and my way. Luck led me to the stream, and I followed it here.”

  “You come outta them hills on foot? Generally, a man without a horse in these parts is a dead man.”

  “Didn’t come very far.”

  The trapper was unconvinced, and it showed in his expression. The story, while plausible, was not without its curiosities. The fellow before him was tall and, apart from the bulk of his coat, seemed well-made. The lines in his face spoke of a harsh past. Even so, a long-legged man with good wind and a strong will would be hard-pressed to last very long out there if he was unfamiliar with the land. For twenty years the trapper himself had scratched a difficult living out of these mountains, reaping what he could from creation, but he had learned the hard way, and over time.

  Maybe this stranger was telling the truth. Then again, maybe he did, in fact, have murder and thievery on his mind. If the former, he could move on. If the latter . . . well, it was the trapper’s hands that held a gun.

  “You don’t see a lot of cotton this high up, friend,” he said, gesturing to the sack at Kings’s feet.

  “That’s true enough,” Kings conceded, “but I never said I was carryin’ any.”

  “What if I was to ask you to set it down and slide it over to me?”

  “I’d say what’s in this sack is no concern of yours.”

  “Is that so, now?”

  “Only bring you trouble you don’t need.”

  “Trouble with the law, I guess you mean. That case, I don’t suppose you would be of a mind to steal my hides, would ya? Money in there, I expect. Somebody’s hard-earned savin’s?”

  Kings did not deny it, but neither did he admit it. Valuable time was slipping away, as he needed to be, so he affected an unassuming tone and said, “If you could spare some coffee and mebbe some food, I’d be obliged. If not, I’ll be on my way.”

  He had gradually lowered his arms to waist-level, palms out. While interrogating him, the trapper had failed to notice this, but he noticed when Kings started to bend over to retrieve his pistols.

  “Hold it there!”

  Kings moved fast, imperceptibly so, and before the trapper’s finger could tighten against the trigger, Kings swatted the double barrels aside. The force of the blow swung the trapper half-around. Snatching up one of his belts and gripping it by the pistol, Kings swung hard at the back of the man’s skull and felt the holstered iron connect with bone. The trapper collapsed without a sound, as did the shotgun.

  It was a hell of a way to begin the new year.

  There was a rear door, and, exiting through that, Kings went to the lean-to. In it he found, among other tools, a length of thick rope that he used to truss the old man up, hand and foot. A sizable lump had begun to form on the fellow’s head, but he was still breathing, and Kings bound him in a way that would not hopelessly ensnare the man like the animals he trapped. He should be able to free himself within an hour or two, though Kings would be long gone by then.

  Before he left, he sat down, briefly, to his first meal in nearly twenty-four hours. From one of his reclaimed saddlebags he brought out some food he had packed for the trail—jerked venison and a few biscuits, which had gone as hard as the jerky. It wasn’t a feast, but it would tide him over for now, and the trapper’s coffee was good and strong. He boiled one tin and stowed another couple in his bag.

  As he chewed and drank, giving his sore-footed body a chance to recuperate, he realized how physically exhausted he truly was. He filled and finished off one last cup, wondering whether he should chance a quick and much-needed catnap. Heavy though his eyes were, Kings decided he couldn’t risk it if he hoped to stay ahead of his trackers, who would no doubt be getting an early start this morning, if they weren’t already on the move. Though he hadn’t kept diligent track of time over the last few miles, he estimated it was about four in the morning.

  Outside, he took down one of the hides, shaking as much of the stiffness out of it as he could before rolling it up like a bedroll. At the corral, he allowed John Reb to eat from a feeder bag he filled with some grain.

  When a sufficient amount had been consumed, Kings nudged the big head away, refilled the bag, and hung it over one of the corral posts for the mule. He mounted up, and, with the Winchester again in its scabbard, gunbelts on his hips, and the loot sack on his back, he eased through the open gate. Closing it behind him, he rode out.

  The sun would be rising soon. He tied himself to the saddle with more of the trapper’s rope, in case his fatigue got the best of him. As he steered his horse toward the pines at the edge of the clearing, Kings allowed himself to reflect on what he’d barely ridden away from. And on the men who hadn’t.

  Sam Woods, Dick Osborn . . . Bob Creasy, Davis, and Foss . . . Simmons. Leroy Brownwell. Why should he, the worst of them all, be so lucky as to be breathing free air now, to be as confident as he was now? The fear he had felt as he crawled loose from that avalanche only a few hours ago was diminishing with every step, even more so now that he had recovered the stallion. Given a good enough lead, a desperate man could vanish forever. He had before and was about to again.

  John Reb walked on toward the Texas line.

  CHAPTER 23

  On the morning of January 8, 1879, John Bevans and Fernando Elías loaded a pair of wire-cutters and a half-dozen spools of barbed wire into the back of a wagon and drove out to the low hills west of the big house. Both were experienced rangemen, adept at working all manner of four-footed livestock, be it horses, cattle, or sheep, and didn’t care much for work that couldn’t be done from horseback. Still, this needed doing.

  With after-breakfast cigarettes dangling from their lips, they took turns condemning fence-mending as old ladies’ work, then shared a chuckle at the thought of Mrs. Jackson in a sweat-stained shirt and rough jeans, stringing wire.

  Eventually they reached the section of fence that required their attention. Bevans wheeled the horses so he could ease in parallel to it.

  This was the sight that greeted Kings as he moved into the open from a stand of live oaks. Leading John Reb and a bay gelding stolen from a homestead just outside San Angelo, he was mounted on a buckskin whose previous owner, a lone Comanche boy of no more than sixteen, had attempted to count coup on Kings five days before on the desolate Llano. The boy had failed. Apart from that encounter, it had been an uneventful journey, though a grueling o
ne—a hungry journey, a cold journey, and, more importantly, a posse-less journey. He was glad to see it come to an end.

  He had made it.

  Fernando was the one to spot him, but he could only squint and was unable to identify who it was. Touching Bevans’s arm, he ducked his chin in the direction of the blurry shape moving toward them. “Mira.”

  “Whaddayou reckon?” Bevans asked.

  Fernando claimed his Winchester from the footboard. He straightened and balanced the rifle muzzle-up on his thigh to let the incoming horseman take note and beware. “No sé,” he replied, curling his thumb around the hammer. “He has two horses?”

  “Three.”

  They sat until the horseman came within sixty yards. Bevans caught a glimpse of the white-stockinged black stallion, and only then did he think to examine the rider’s posture, which enlightened him, as it had on his last visit. He told Fernando to lower the Winchester. “It’s Kings.”

  “Pero ¿dónde ’stán sus hombres?”

  “English, ’Nando, English.”

  “His men, where are his men?”

  “That’s a good question, amigo. Go-oo-od question.”

  Kings reined to a halt with only a few yards separating them. The San Angelo bay had been walking sluggishly with its head down and jostled into the Comanche horse from behind. Snorting in surprise, the bay tossed its head, making Kings’s arm rise and fall almost in a salute, but he still hadn’t acknowledged the rangemen. They looked him over and knew he had come a long way.

  A moment passed as Kings examined them in turn, frowning as if struggling to place them. Then he nodded, glancing from one to the other. “Fence-mendin’,” he croaked. He sounded as if he hadn’t spoken in some time.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Kings nodded again, as though giving approval to the work.

  “Surprised to see you back so soon, Kings,” Bevans said.

  He gestured in a vague direction meant to encompass the big house. Clearing his throat, the man declared, “I’m headin’ in.”

  “Sure,” Bevans said, watching him closely. “Go right ahead. There might be some breakfast left over.”

  The Virginian kneed the buckskin, but the ranch foreman detained him with a hesitant question: “We’ll be out here most of the mornin’, Kings. Should we, ah . . . we need to be watchin’ for anyone else to come along?”

  Briefly, there was no sound except stamping horses. Eventually Kings shook his head, his grimy features bleak. Then he spurred off at a twelve-legged lope.

  Bevans and Elías watched him go. When the receding shapes shrank to gnat-size, Bevans glanced at his Mexican friend and tossed his head as a signal that they should get to work. He stood, buttoned his coat all the way to his chin, and got down.

  Titus Jackson balanced one-legged with his right foot on the bottom step of the veranda. He was buckling his spurs and did not notice when Kings seemed to materialize out of thin air behind him. Taken off guard by the clatter of a gate latch being lifted, Titus spun and watched as the strange man turned three strange animals into the main corral. Squaring his shoulders, Titus walked out to meet him, purpose in every step, and loudly—perhaps too loudly—asked the man his business.

  Kings closed the gate and stepped out into the open, hefting his saddle against his right thigh. His rifle hung at his back, dangling muzzle-down from his left shoulder by its sling, as did the cotton sack. He did not identify himself immediately, figuring that the Jackson boy should have no trouble recognizing him.

  He figured wrong. Titus’s walk had slowed, and he was no longer as bold as he had been just a second ago, with the obstruction of the corral to divide them. He stopped with twenty paces between them, squinting.

  Kings knew what the kid saw, what he looked like. A thought struck him then, and a smile tweaked one corner of his mouth. As disheveled and fatigued as he was, he could still make young bucks like this one, full of juice, stop in their tracks and wish for a Bible.

  He was the first to speak, waving his free hand. “Take ’er easy, Titus. Shape I’m in, you could order a Colt by post and still beat me to the punch.”

  Titus looked incredulous for a moment, then laughed uneasily. “Hellfire, is that you, Mr. Kings?” He glanced around. “You come in by yourself?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We need to expect anybody else?”

  “Nope.”

  Beyond, the front door opened, and a pair of hounds surged inelegantly onto the veranda, woofing as they went out to investigate. Their master appeared in the doorway with his hands curled around a cup. As the hounds began to bark, Arthur Jackson turned and ambled back into the dining room, where Belle was handing dirty plates to Oralia.

  His daughter looked up, catching sight of him from the tail of her eye. A small smile dimpled her face, and, for a bright, brief moment, Jackson was taken back to a time when he could still hold her on his lap as they rode two-to-a-saddle. His memories shot forward to the night of Kings’s last departure, recalling all that had been said between them as a lamp, trimmed low, flickered into the wee hours.

  Since then, Jackson had told himself—more than once—that no matter what had been said, no matter what promises had been made, nothing was set in stone. Nothing, save that Belle was in love with a man whose better qualities were outweighed by his status as one of the nation’s most elusive and notorious criminals. It seemed a cruel joke to be played on a father who had chased away every reputable suitor between here and Austin.

  In sixty-one years of living, he had been brave in the face of many challenges—execution at the hands of a foreign army, drought, disease, near bankruptcy, and stock theft. Against all these he had come out on top, but he’d been powerless to prevent the deaths of three of his five children, those things most precious to him. As a result, he had loved and cherished the two that remained like no father, to his mind, ever had—grown closer to his children than any father ever had. And he had defended them, over the years, like a lion, but now, as he returned to the door to meet the man who had sworn to take his daughter away, Jackson looked within and found himself unprepared, once more unable to defend.

  Kings had set his rifle and gear down on the porch, unaware of Jackson’s presence on the other side of the cloth-screened door, and was swatting the dust from his clothes.

  Jackson said, “Gabriel,” and edged the door open to let him in. He extended his hand, which Kings accepted. “You’re back.”

  News of what happened at Justicia had not yet been made public—at least not via the state legislature—but a vague overview of what transpired on New Year’s Eve had circulated by word of mouth. Its reach only extended to a few counties outlying Justicia, however, and so Jackson was in a position of complete ignorance when he said, “You look like hell. What’s happened?”

  Kings was about to reply when Mrs. Jackson appeared beside her husband. She covered her mouth and touched his arm. “My Lord, son,” she breathed, “are you all right? You look exhausted!”

  “That’s an accurate assessment, ma’am.”

  The major coughed, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back. “My dear, if you could fill Gabriel a hot bath . . . ?”

  With a perceptive glance at her husband, Mrs. Jackson left them, calling for Oralia’s assistance. The Mexican woman came out into the parlor, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She swept past the men, hurrying to catch up to la Señora, but paused briefly to look back at Kings.

  Ya regresó el Señor Reyes, she thought, then wondered with a quiet smile as to who would be happier to see him . . . la Señorita Belle, or the girls.

  Kings waited until he and Jackson were alone again, but the major waved a hand. “We’ll talk later,” he said, then ducked his head toward the kitchen, where clattering dishes sounded. “She’ll wanna see you first.”

  Belle was at the sink with her sleeves up to the elbows, scraping plates clean and dousing them in a sudsy washbasin. As she paused to tuck a loose strand of hair behind an ear,
Kings stomped his boot three times, making the jinglebobs of his spurs chime like bells. She turned and her eyes went round. The plate in her hand slipped from her fingers with a splash.

  “You are a welcome sight,” he said, with a tired smile.

  “Gabriel!” He stepped into the kitchen, and she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. “I couldn’t stop worrying,” she said in a rush. “You—you said there weren’t gonna be but one last job and that after that we could be together, but it all seemed too good to hope for, and I knew . . . I knew you’d be killed—”

  “It’s like I said, darlin’ ”—he kissed her on the mouth—“I always turn up.”

  “Is it over?”

  “It is, for both of us.”

  Belle collected herself then, remembering propriety, and stepped back. She cleared her throat and wiped away the beginnings of moisture from the corner of one eye. “You look done-in. Would you like me to fix you a bath?”

  “Your ma’s already on that.” He crossed the floor to a small table in the corner, one arm held out and feeling for the nearest chair as though he were blind. Gripping the backrest, he sagged onto the seat with a mighty sigh. “I could use a drink.”

  “Oh. Oh, of course!” She glanced around, then gestured toward the pot on the stove. “Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Water.”

  He sat there and listened to her quick step and the swishing of her skirts as she took a glass from the cupboard and went out the back door to the pump. There she would find Oralia and her mother, and avert her eyes to keep her excitement secret.

  It was very quiet in the kitchen, and, with an elbow on the table and his cheek resting in his open palm, Gabriel Kings allowed his eyelids to droop. Just for a few seconds, just until she came back.

  Such a quiet kitchen . . . He could get used to a quiet kitchen with coffee on the stove and patterned paper on the walls. The thought faded, and so did he.