The Breckenridge Boys
Page 14
Too, in the brief time he’d known Clay Breckenridge and Jonesy Pate, he’d come to admire them. Watching them as they interacted, joking one minute, arguing the next, made him long for a close friend of his own.
It was well past midnight, and he was fighting to keep from nodding off when the sound of a high-pitched voice sent a chill down his spine.
“Let that shotgun slide to the ground and kick it away,” Top Wilson said. He was pointing his pistol at Eli’s head. “Any coffee left in that pot?”
Wilson had taken a slow zigzag route from his hideaway, sometimes even crawling on hands and knees. When he reached the barn, he slowly slid against the wall that faced away from town. He barely breathed. The familiar night calls of birds and insects were the only sounds Eli heard until Wilson stepped into the yellow light of the lantern and spoke.
Taking Rayburn by the shirt collar, he pulled him inside. “What I’m wanting to know,” Top said, “is who it is down there in the saloon.”
“Saloon’s closed.”
Wilson delivered a backhanded slap that sent Eli to his knees. “I know Jennie’s hiding there, and Madge is likely keeping her company. But who are the menfolk, and what’s their interest in this matter? They part of Baggett’s crew, maybe?”
Still on his knees, Rayburn raised his palms and shrugged. Wilson cursed and kicked him in the chest. “Old man, you’re going to tell me what I’m asking for,” Top said. “Only question is how bad hurt you’re gonna be before you get around to it.” He leaned forward and delivered a stinging blow to the side of Eli’s head, then began to laugh. “I’m in no real hurry, so just go right ahead and bleed all over yourself while I have me some coffee.”
After retrieving the pot and lantern from the bench outside, Wilson squatted in front of the moaning Rayburn. “Hey, I know you, don’t I? It’s you who used to shoe my horses for me back when I was working for that devil down in Palo Duro Canyon.”
And with that, he was again off on a rambling harangue about the evils of Ben Baggett. “I’m going to kill him, you know? Kill him and cut his tongue out. Maybe worse than that. Whatever it will be, I’ll make sure it hurts. But first, I got business to tend to over at the saloon.”
* * *
* * *
CLAY STEPPED OUT onto the porch and saw that Rayburn’s lantern was no longer burning. The bench was empty. Rushing back inside, he shook the dozing Pate awake and called out to Madge and Jennie.
“Something’s happening,” he said. “Eli’s no longer sitting outside. . . .”
“Could be he just had need to stretch his legs or tend to personal matters,” Jonesy said. “If there was trouble, wouldn’t he have fired a warning shot like we discussed?”
Breckenridge didn’t bother to answer. Nor did he voice his concern that Rayburn might be in serious trouble.
“Madge, you and Jennie go back in the kitchen and stay put. Jonesy, there’s stairs out back that lead up to the roof. Leave Madge her shotgun, and you take my Winchester. Anything you see from up there that doesn’t look right, shoot it.”
Clay positioned himself by the front door, squinting into the darkness. “He’s out there,” he said. “Close.”
* * *
* * *
WILSON’S PATIENCE HAD run out. He stuffed a gag in Rayburn’s mouth and tied him to a spare wagon wheel that was leaned against the livery wall. “I’d shoot you now and get it done with,” he said, “but I fear the noise would alert your no-name friends.”
Rayburn, unconscious, heard nothing he said.
Wilson struggled to concentrate on his next move, his head throbbing. Why did a simple matter like getting Jennie Broder have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t he just walk up to the front door of the saloon, politely call her name, take her by the hand, and be on their way out of this good-for-nothing town? Why were people always making things hard for him?
Now there was probably going to be shooting and some killing before his job was done.
The more he assessed the situation, the angrier he got. Yet for a moment he was suddenly thinking clearly. He checked that he had ample ammunition for his Peacemaker and filled one of his pockets with shells for Rayburn’s shotgun. Anticipating need for a quick getaway once he had Jennie, he saddled a horse being kept in a nearby stall and tethered it near the livery doorway. Probably a better mount than the one he’d left down in the gulley anyway, he thought.
After taking inventory of his arsenal, he extinguished Rayburn’s lantern and dug in the battered owner’s pockets for his matches. From a shelf, he took down a jug of coal oil.
One way or another he was going to get Jennie and her defenders out of the saloon.
The first shot rang out after he’d made it just a few steps from the livery door. It had come from the rooftop of the saloon and had missed by a considerable margin. Slowed by the load he was carrying, Wilson stumbled to a water barrel and hunched down behind it. More shots kicked up dirt.
In return, Wilson emptied both barrels of Eli’s shotgun toward the roof before abandoning it to lighten his load. “Listen up,” he yelled. “I ain’t aiming to hurt nobody. Just send Jennie out the front door, and we’ll be on our way without nobody getting shot.”
The reply was three quick pistol rounds.
The moonless night and the fact he was wearing all black worked to Wilson’s advantage. Hunched over, he ran toward the mercantile as shots buzzed past. Safely there, he shoved his shoulder into the locked front door, breaking it down. Inside, he knelt beneath a window and fired a rapid volley of shots toward the nowdark saloon.
“Can’t neither of us get a decent shot,” Jonesy said as he moved to sit next to Clay. “From up on the roof, I didn’t even have sight of where he’s holding up.”
“We may be here until daylight,” Clay said. “If he’s got a thought-out plan other than hunkering down and waiting, I got no idea what it might be.” As he spoke, two more shots thudded into the saloon wall.
Wilson, in fact, was already putting a plan in motion. Crawling through the darkness, he found a wooden barrel filled with mops and brooms for sale. Holstering his pistol, he lifted two of the mops, then continued crawling toward the rear of the store, taking with him Eli’s lantern and the coal oil.
He’d decided there were only two people shooting at him from inside the saloon. There had been no activity from the rooftop since he’d reached the mercantile. If Wilson was lucky—and God knew it was time for him to have some luck—the attention of the men shooting at him would remain trained on the front of the store.
Before slipping out the back, he doused the heads of the mops with coal oil. Then, carrying them, the lantern, and the can of fuel, he slowly crept down a pitch-black alleyway that led to the toolshed behind the saloon.
Pate was getting impatient. “I can’t say I don’t mind not being shot at,” he said, “but this waiting makes me nervous. Think we’ve got us a standoff?”
Breckenridge was also getting impatient—and puzzled. He fired a shot in the direction of the mercantile and waited for one in return. Instead, what he heard was the breaking of glass in the back, near the kitchen.
Pressed against the building, Wilson had sloshed the coal oil against the wall until the can was empty. He then lit the lantern and set the heads of the mops afire. He hurled the lantern through a window and tossed the mops, spearlike, onto the roof of the saloon. Finally, he put a match to the wall of the building before running back toward the mercantile.
There was a loud whoosh as the night wind sent flames racing along the wall. Inside, Jennie screamed when smoke began filling the kitchen.
“Oh, my God,” Clay said as he raced toward where the women were hiding. He cursed himself for not having realized the degree of Wilson’s insanity. He thought he heard someone laughing in the distance, yelling, “Now you’ve got to come out.”
Which was true.
“I don’t see we’ve got much choice.”
Outside, Wilson had taken advantage of the mayhem to reposition himself behind a water barrel in front of the burning saloon. The night sky had turned red orange as the flames ate away at the ancient lumber. Occasionally, a series of popping sounds could be heard as liquor bottles exploded.
“Come on out, Jennie,” Wilson shouted. “I’m waiting. Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . .”
“We can’t wait any longer,” Clay yelled to Pate. “You and me, we’ll walk out shoulder to shoulder, shielding the women. Figure on starting to shoot as soon as we clear the door, ’cause he’ll most likely do the same. We gotta count on him not taking us both down before one of us kills him.”
When they stepped onto the porch and fired their first shots, Wilson began yelling, “Hey . . . hey . . . let’s don’t have us no gunfight. I ain’t here to kill nobody or be killed myself. I’m protected here, so odds are in my favor. All I want is for Jennie to step forward.”
“Ain’t happening,” Clay replied.
“Then you do your best to shoot me, because I ain’t leaving without her.”
As he spoke, there was a flash of movement in the shadows behind him. In the rush to exit the burning saloon, Madge had turned away from Pate’s protection and slipped out a side window.
Top Wilson was unaware that she was standing behind him when she raised her shotgun and pulled the trigger. It was the first time she’d ever fired it. Instantly, his head disappeared in a crimson burst of blood and torn flesh. For a split second he was a grotesque statue, standing headless, before he pitched forward.
Smoke was still coming from the barrel when Madge let it slide from her hands. She was dazed and crying as she stood, watching her saloon burn, then looking down at Wilson’s limp body.
“Good riddance,” she said.
* * *
* * *
IN THE LIVERY, Rayburn was struggling to free himself when Clay and Jonesy entered. They untied him and removed the gag. “It’s over,” Clay said.
“Anybody get hurt?”
“Only the man who done this to you. He’s dead.”
Eli smiled. “You finally got him.”
“Nope, wasn’t me.”
Pate brought Jennie and Madge to the livery and did his best to make them comfortable. He tried to lighten the mood, but soon realized it was a futile task. There was little talking. At one point, Jennie walked over and gave Madge a hug and whispered, “Thank you.”
Clay sat near Madge but said nothing, even when she asked Eli if he had some salve and bandages in the livery that she could apply to his wounds. He told her he would find something as soon as he unsaddled the horse Wilson had planned to ride out on and returned it to the stall.
Down the street, the blaze was beginning to go out and would soon be nothing but smoke and embers, a charred hole left in the heart of Tascosa.
The quiet remained throughout the remainder of the night. Daylight would come soon, time enough for talk and considering what the future held.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BEN BAGGETT WAS pumping his arms into the air, sloshing whiskey from a glass held in one hand and dropping cigar ashes from the other. Though few details were known, it hadn’t taken long for word of Top Wilson’s death to reach the canyon. “I can only hope it hurt like the dickens,” he said. “Worse than all the misery he’s caused me.”
The only thing that kept the news from being perfect was the fact Baggett’s money was still missing. “But I doubt he was smart enough to hide it too well,” Baggett said. “We’ll find it.”
He summoned Bootsy to his side. “Ride into Tascosa tomorrow and pay a visit to the Boot Hill caretaker,” he said. “I want it made sure Wilson’s remains ain’t buried anywhere near the grave of my boy.”
* * *
* * *
IN TOWN, PEOPLE quietly milled in the street, taking in the devastation. A few looked for Madge, in hopes of offering condolences, but were unable to find her.
Jennie’s father and grandfather had arrived in their buggy early in the morning and taken the women out to the farm. Though he felt the danger had passed, Clay promised to ride out later in the day to check on them.
Even before Bootsy arrived, Wilson’s body had been wrapped in a canvas tarp and taken to the cemetery, where a grave had been dug on the far back side, among the nameless who had been buried there over the years. There would be no marker to signal its location.
“You ask me, they should have just tossed what was left of him into the fire,” Jonesy said as he and Clay watched the body lifted onto a mule to be carried to its final resting place.
Like everyone else, Breckenridge and Pate hadn’t talked much in the immediate aftermath of the fire. Tired but unable to sleep, they sat outside the livery in the event Eli needed something. He was going to be okay, but mending from the beating he’d taken would be slow and painful.
Pate finally brought up the subject on both their minds. “We come all the way out here, and deal with all manner of misfortune and foolishness, all to rid the world of the man who killed your brother. Then, lo and behold, a lady who ain’t never even fired her own shotgun before gets it done while he’s not even looking.”
Clay was silent for a few seconds. “You think she’s gonna be okay?”
Pate nodded. “About blowing the guy’s head off or seeing her saloon get burned down? I wouldn’t worry on either count too much. She’s a strong lady. I’ve seen that as we’ve come to know her. I’m of a mind she’ll get past all this sooner than you expect.”
He smiled and added, “But it could be she might need a little help with her suffering. You know, my main sorrow’s reserved for the loss of a mighty fine saloon. What’s a man gonna do about getting himself a drink around here now that it’s gone?”
* * *
* * *
THE LAST THING Breckenridge had expected to feel once Top Wilson was dead was guilt. Yet, as he rode out toward the Broder farm, he measured the misfortune his presence and purpose had dealt Madge. It had cost her everything, and he felt he was to blame.
When he arrived, she and Jennie were in the garden filling their wicker baskets with vegetables. Both stopped and waved. Cyrus Broder came onto the front porch and did the same.
Clay had not yet bothered to clean up, and he smelled of smoke and coal oil. As he walked toward them, he could see that both women looked exhausted.
“How you ladies doing?” A foolish question.
It was Madge who answered, “Keeping ourselves busy.”
“I was wondering if you might have a minute or two for us to talk,” Clay said.
Madge handed her basket to Jennie and moved toward Breckenridge. “I guess we should,” she said.
They walked toward the stream at the far edge of the pasture, quiet at first, as if each was waiting for the other to begin the conversation. It was Madge who did. “I haven’t slept a solitary wink,” she said. “I close my eyes and see it all over again. The fire, that man.”
“That’ll soon pass, I expect. I can’t tell you how badly I feel about all the troubles I’ve brought into your life. I wish I knew how to make it up to you.”
“He was a bad man, wasn’t he?”
Breckenridge was quickly reassuring. “He caused bad things to happen to a lot of people, not just my brother. He was one of those men with an evil soul who thought only of himself and the hurt he could cause others. He was bad, and he deserved to die. It just should have been me who killed him,” Clay said.
Tears came to Madge’s eyes. “I thought I was cried out,” she said.
“What are your plans?”
“I’m thinking about that, but do
n’t yet have any answers. Jennie’s pa has invited me to stay here with them for the time being, and I’ve accepted his kindness. And though I’ve got no interest in returning to town anytime soon, I’ve promised Jennie I’ll accompany her to the next Sunday singin’.”
Clay gently hugged her. “One day at a time,” he whispered. “The saloon . . .”
“To be honest, part of me is glad it’s burned and gone,” she said. “I always hated that place. It was a bad mistake from the start. Too many bad memories of my no-good husband, drunks, cussing, card cheating, all that fighting going on. Never was a business I could feel any pride about. But like I told you a while back, it was all I had. I got up this morning without even any clean clothes to wear until Jennie loaned me some of hers. I know it’s improper for folks to discuss their money worries,” she said, “but since you’re no doubt wondering, I might already have a solution for that. At least for now. Jennie’s grandpa’s getting up in years, and while we were talking on the ride out here, he mentioned that he’d like to retire and let me and Jennie run the mercantile. I’d like that, though I suspect it will only last until he gets bored and wants to come back to work.”
“You got good friends, Madge,” Clay said. “And even with all that’s happened, I’d like to be considered one of them. Jonesy feels the same.”
She kissed him softly on the cheek, and they turned back toward the cabin. Both were smiling. “I guess Mr. Broder will invite you to stay for supper,” she said. “We got vegetables, fresh from the garden.”
* * *
* * *
IN THE LIVERY, Jonesy and Eli sat dozing. Weary from the sleepless night, they would wake, talk a bit, then sleep and snore some more. During one of their alert moments, Pate began to laugh. “Ain’t we a pair?” he said. “Me with my broke shoulder bandaged up and you all bruised and swollen, looking like death warmed over.”