“We’re with you, Edna,” one of the younger matrons said. “We’re not going.”
Reddy looked alarmed. “Ladies, you’ll be in harm’s way, and think of the children.”
“Our children will be by our sides where they belong,” the woman called Edna said. “We live as a family, and if need be we’ll die as families.”
Crane stepped beside Reddy. “Listen, you women,” he said, “Reuben Stark is a madman. If he takes this town, he’ll let his men kill and plunder, and none of you will be safe. You’ve all read the history books, and I don’t have to tell you what happens to women when a conqueror takes a town.”
“You’re talking about rape, aren’t you, Marshal?” Edna said. She was thin and hatchet-faced and her skin was as brown as an old saddle.
Taken aback by the woman’s frankness, Crane struggled to find words, but when he eventually tried to speak, the woman talked over him.
“There’s one way to avoid all that, Marshal. Just make sure you defeat Reuben Stark and destroy his followers, even if you die in the attempt.”
Two hours later, the drumming started.
It began as the afternoon sun parched the sky to the color of a dried-out lemon. Heat fell oppressively on Rawhide Flat. The air buzzed with flies, and the lizards and panting dogs sought shade. The outhouses behind the saloons ripened, adding their odors to the stench of the cattle pens and acrid counterpoint of dust and sweat.
Crane had relieved Mayor Reddy of his command and had deployed his riflemen along both sides of the street, concealed in the saloons, stores and a few houses. He had called in the flankers and they now added their rifles to the others.
In total, he had around forty men to defend the town. How many of those would stand when the shooting started, he did not know. Most of them, he hoped.
No matter, the big gun would have to make up the numbers.
It sounded to Crane that Stark’s disciples were beating on their wagons with sticks, the rhythmic throb of dim drums traversing the dreary distances of the day.
Masterson had been dozing. Now he lifted his head wearily and said to Crane, who was standing at his post beside him, “Gus, what the hell is that?”
The marshal smiled. “Stark’s drum corps.”
“What’s he doing that for?”
“Trying to scare the hell out of Rawhide Flat.”
“Looks like he’s succeeding,” Masterson said. He nodded into the street.
Men were stepping out of their hiding places, asking each other what the noise was about and what it boded for the town.
Crane walked to the edge of the boards. “Men, it’s only Stark trying to soften us up and scare us.” He smiled, trying to make light of it. “Must be a trick he learned from the Indians.”
A short, stocky redhead who had the beaten-down look of a man with a nagging wife and a bunch of kids, said, “Well, if he’s trying to scare us, he’s doing a real good job, Marshal. Them drums has me spooked.”
“Don’t fret none about the drums,” Crane said. “It’s time to start worrying when they stop.” He waved a hand. “Now you men get back to your positions.”
Reluctantly, the street cleared and the marshal looked at Masterson. “I’ve got some things to do, Paul. Will you be all right?”
“Before you go, get me another bottle. From the waist down I can’t feel a thing, but every inch of me above my gun belt buckle hurts like hell.”
Crane got a bottle of whiskey from the saloon, handed it to the sheriff and stepped into the street.
The drumming grew louder, setting the marshal’s teeth on edge and twanging his stretched-taut nerves.
He was scared to death and it was a realization that did not sit well with him.
Chapter 39
One thing every cowboy learns sooner or later is that if you’re riding point on a herd, look back every now and then to make sure it’s still there.
Now Crane stood at the door to the sheriff’s office and glanced up and down the street, checking on his men.
To his relief, riflemen still stood behind doors and windows, their eyes on the street outside. He had feared the drumming had so unnerved them that a few of the men might skedaddle. But they were still there and vigilant, some with wives close, and the marshal’s confidence grew that they would stand on this ground.
But how many men would he lose, even in victory? How many widows and orphans would be left to cry salt tears and bury their hurting dead?
It was not a thought to dwell on, and Crane dismissed it from his mind.
He wished the drumming would stop.
Gingerly, wary of the whole place tumbling down on his head, he stepped into the office. The Gatling gun stood in the middle of the floor, spare magazines stacked beside it.
Earlier, before the carpenters got to work, Crane had helped manhandle the gun inside. Now, squat, ugly and venomous, it was ready to spit out a thousand rounds a minute.
The gun’s inventor, Richard Gatling, had thought the weapon’s presence on the battlefield would be so devastatingly lethal that it would put an end to wars.
Thousands of dead men had since proved him wrong.
Satisfied that all was in readiness, the marshal was about to step outside, when a tap at the door stopped him.
“Gus, are you in there? It’s me.”
Sarah’s voice.
The girl wore her new dress and hat and looked young, pretty and vulnerable.
“You just wake up?” Crane asked with pretend gruffness.
“The drums woke me. Who’s doing that?”
“Stark. He wants us to know he’s near.”
The girl didn’t have to pretend fear. It was clear in her eyes for anyone to read.
“Gus, I want to stay close to you,” she said. “Don’t leave me for a minute.”
“When the shooting starts—”
“Then more than ever.”
“Come in,” Crane said. “And step careful.”
Sarah walked inside. Everything but the stove had been cleared out of the office to make room for . . .
“What’s that thing?” Sarah asked.
“It’s called a Gatling gun.”
“What does it do?”
“It shoots a heap of bullets in a very short time. Stark doesn’t know we have it.”
Sarah was silent for a few moments as her child’s mind tried to grapple with the concept of an automatic gun and the implications of its effect on charging men and horses.
Finally she gave up, resorting to what she knew and could handle. “Gus, I’m starving.”
“Then let’s get something to eat.”
They had steak and potatoes at Ma’s Kitchen and were the only customers. It seemed that the relentless racket of the drumming had spoiled appetites all over Rawhide Flat.
After they ate, Crane borrowed a hammer from a hardware store and he and Sarah sought out Simeon Pearl.
The undertaker met them at the door of his house.
Yes, the sign was ready. And it was as fine a piece of artistry as had ever graced the fair town of Rawhide Flat, even if he said so himself.
Crane thanked the man and complimented him on his work; then he carried the sign to the edge of town. He planned to set it up between the mission and the railroad station where it would be seen by riders coming from the north.
He used the hammer to stake the sign deep and steady, then stepped back to admire his and Pearl’s handiwork. The marshal had to admit the sign was simple but very professionally done.
WELCOME REV. STARK~ PEACE TALKS THIS WAY>
When loved ones pass on
in Rawhide Flat,
let Simeon Pearl, undertaker,
guide them through
the Pearly Gates
“It’s very pretty,” Sarah said. “Nice colors.”
“I hope Stark heeds it, is all,” Crane said. “I need him and his men in the street.”
“For the Gatling gun?”
“For the gun to do it
s work, yes.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. Then a small frown gathered between her eyes.
“Gus, will a lot of men die?”
The rattle of the Starks’ drums sounded like rain on a tin roof.
“Some. I hope not many.”
Suddenly the girl’s eyes seemed distant, as though she was looking into a hidden place that only she could see.
“Men will die, Gus. And a woman.”
She shook her head, clearing the vision from her mind.
“What woman?”
“I saw a woman in black. A holy woman. A nun, I think.”
Crane felt a chill, recalling that night in the train. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
“The drumming is getting to you, Sarah,” he said.
“You’re seeing things.”
He was lying to the girl, and to himself.
“Well, yes, maybe that’s it,” Sarah said.
When the marshal looked into her eyes he saw that she did not believe him.
“I’d like to see Paul now,” she said.
“You look real purty, Miss Sarah,” Masterson said.
The girl smiled. “How are you feeling, Paul?”
“Great, from the waist down. Above that, not so good.”
“I’d like to take you back to the hotel where I can look after you.”
“I’d just die on you real quick. You don’t want to see that happen.”
“No, I don’t. But I think Gus and I should be with you.”
Masterson managed a small laugh. “The last thing I want is to see that long, Yankee face of Gus’ looking down at me while I lie abed. I’d swear he was the angel of death.”
“He refuses to move from where he’s at, Sarah,” Crane said. “He’s a mighty irritating man.”
“You know why I’m here, Gus.” The eyes the sheriff lifted to Crane were fevered and sharp with urgency. “I hope he comes soon. I don’t think I can make it much longer.”
Masterson read the question in Sarah’s eyes and said, “I want to kill him for what he did to Maxie Starr. You didn’t know her, but she was a friend of mine.”
Sarah looked at Crane. “Gus, I’d like to stay with Paul for a while. Is that all right?”
“Ask Paul.”
“Bless your heart, girl, sure it is,” the sheriff said, without waiting to be asked. “I’d admire to spend time in the company of a beautiful little gal like you. But as soon as Stark’s sighted, you go.”
Masterson lifted the bottle from beside his chair. “And one other thing—I hope you won’t object to my drinking ardent spirits.”
The sun sank lower in the sky and soon would relinquish center stage to the cratered moon. The night birds would peck at the first stars and the darkness throw a thick cloak over Rawhide Flat, hiding its shabby, weathered ugliness.
Crane had walked to the edge of town, staring into gloom that stared back at him, and now he retraced his steps, the wind talking to him.
And only the wind.
The drums had stopped.
Filled with a sense of urgency, he started to run. As he passed the Texas Belle he yelled to Sarah, “Get the mayor! Tell him we need lamps! Every lamp he can find.”
Without waiting to hear the girl’s answer, he ran to the end of the street, then into a saloon. Only a startled bartender was inside, and Crane told him to light the inside lamps and those on the boardwalk.
He did this in every saloon in town, and when he returned to the Texas Belle, Reddy and a few men had gathered a large collection of oil lamps and outdoor kerosene lanterns.
“Mayor, put a couple of lanterns at the table. Then you and the other men take your places,” he said. “Use as many lamps as you need. I want Stark to be able to see you and the money bags.”
Crane grabbed a couple of larger lanterns and said to the men with Reddy, “Stand all the lamps you can find on the walks along the street. I need this town to be lit up like a Mississippi steamboat.”
After getting a few nods and mutters in reply, Crane walked swiftly toward the sign he’d erected. He hung a lantern from the top of the support post and laid another in front.
Stepping back, he decided that the lamps lit up the sign just fine. Stark couldn’t fail to see it.
Now all he needed was some luck, of late a commodity in very short supply in Rawhide Flat.
Chapter 40
It looked to Crane as though every available lamp in town had been lit, and a rose and orange glow filled the street. Wicks guttered in the rising wind, trailing smoke that hazed the air and filled the night with the acrid smell of whale oil and kerosene.
Mayor Reddy and four other of the town’s notables, including the corpulent, slightly bug-eyed banker, sat at the table. All were dressed in broadcloth and top hats, but looked distinctly uncomfortable.
With a nod to Masterson, Crane got a bottle from the bar of the Texas Belle and hurried back to the table. He handed the whiskey to Reddy.
“For God’s sake, pass this around. I don’t want anything to scare off Stark, and you men look like you’re attending your own wake.”
Reddy drank gratefully, then passed the bottle to the man sitting next to him.
“You think he’ll come in the dark, Marshal?” Reddy asked.
“He’ll come. Stark has a keen sense of the dramatic and he loves to make an entrance.”
“I don’t like this, Marshal, a gunfight in darkness when you can’t see the other man a-coming at you. Seems to me we’re trying to run a bluff with an empty poke.”
“We got the Gatling gun in our poke, so it isn’t near empty. Besides, in the dark you’ll have a better chance of getting away clean when the shooting starts.”
Reddy shook his head. “A night engagement against a superior enemy is a recipe for disaster. Look what happened to Longstreet and Bragg at Brown’s Ferry in ’sixty-three when they launched a night attack. They were routed.”
“We’re not attacking, Mayor. We’re defending.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to make a difference.”
Depressed by Reddy’s defeatism, Crane turned away, but someone shouted his name and he raised his eyes to the flat roof of a false-fronted butcher shop.
“Better come see this, Marshal,” the man on the roof said. He was one of Hollister’s punchers who had survived the canyon massacre, and had a bandaged left shoulder.
“What is it?” Crane yelled.
“Better you come look fer your ownself.”
Helped by a water barrel and its drain pipe, Crane scrambled onto the roof.
“Lookee,” the puncher said, pointing with his bearded chin.
The man’s gesture was unnecessary. The marshal could see for himself.
It looked like a piece of the night sky had fallen to earth and the stars had settled on the high plains. The hard glitter of two hundred pinpoints of light scarred the darkness, coming on relentlessly. Crane was awe-struck, like a rookie Roman sentinel on the border of the empire seeing the torches of an invading barbarian army for the first time.
“What do you want me to do, Marshal?”
Crane tore his eyes away from the advance of Stark’s hordes.
“Huh?”
“Want me to stay on the roof?”
“No, get down and take up a position in the street. And keep out of sight until the shooting starts.”
Crane led the way and when he regained the street, he yelled to Reddy, “They’re coming, Mayor. Now stay at the table.”
Then a thought struck him.
He needed a band! But was there time?
Quickly, the marshal walked along both boardwalks, calling out to his hidden riflemen for musicians. After a few minutes he’d attracted three volunteers, a banjo player, a trumpeter and the cowboy from the roof who claimed he could squeeze out a tune or two on the concertina, if one could be found.
The trumpet player, a small, plump man with a pleasant face, said there was such an instrument gathering dust in Nathan Goldberg’s dr
y goods store.
Fretting over the delay, Crane told the man to go get it. A few moments later the marshal heard glass shatter and wood splinter.
“No key,” the cowboy said.
The plump man returned with the concertina and Crane said, “We need a good, rousing tune to welcome Stark and his men.”
“I can play lead on Dixie,” the plump man said. He looked enthusiastic.
“I can play that,” the puncher said. He looked scared.
“I can fake it,” the banjo player said. He didn’t look anything.
“Right,” Crane said, hoping he hadn’t left it too late, “get your instruments, then come with me.”
Several more agonizing minutes dragged by before the musicians returned.
Crane led them to the welcome sign. To the north the flare of bobbing torches was very close, no more than half a mile away.
Stark’s people were coming on in complete silence, the ominous hush unnerving the marshal even more.
To the musicians he said, “Play the tune—”
Nervously the trumpeter put his instrument to his lips.
“Not yet,” Crane snapped. “Wait till I give the word.” He pointed. “See that white rock?”
The men nodded.
“When the first of them get to the rock, turn and lead them into the street. Don’t stop playing. You got that?”
“Marshal, what are we going to do when the bullets start flying?” the banjo player asked.
“Just run like hell for cover.”
Now the dangers of the job they’d volunteered for dawned on the three men and they exchanged concerned, frightened glances.
“As soon as Stark’s men are in the street, run,” Crane said. “You’ll have plenty of time before the shooting starts.”
The men didn’t look convinced, and the marshal said hurriedly, “They’re almost at the rock. Now, let’s strike up with ‘Dixie,’ boys.”
Reluctantly, the musicians launched into the rousing requiem for a lost cause.
The result was a discordant cacophony of sound that hurt the ears, though the melody was there, playing hide-and-seek among the tangled notes.
Crane raised his hands and conducted his men for a few moments, his head swiveling constantly to look over his shoulder.
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