He couldn’t believe what he had just read. Pig Deconer had been a friend, a good friend. He hadn’t even been on active duty. Judge Cline and Johnson were dead, too. And another man he didn’t know, but a man who done his duty.
What was going on? The main connection between four of those murders was obvious, as McNelly had observed: all were tied to the arrest and conviction of Tanneman and Hillis Rose. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Both were dead. So why now? Besides that, Carlow had seen no signs of a gang riding with Tanneman and Hillis, other than the two brothers—and they were dead, too. Was there really a gang? Kileen thought so; evidently McNelly did, too. Enough that he would stop in San Antonio instead of heading on to the border.
“Time, I’m so sorry. That must have been bad news,” Mrs. Jacobs said, studying his raw, taut face.
He explained what the wire had said; his shoulders rose and fell in an unspoken sorrow.
She was silent as well, leaving him to his grief, then decided she must speak. “I can’t give you any help with that awfulness, Time. But I do know that problem in the saloon wasn’t Ellie’s husband’s doing. He’s a very nice man. A good man.”
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. Jacobs.” His mind barely returned to the fight.
He walked to his horse and yanked free the reins.
“Your hands and face need tending. They’re bleeding!” she said without moving toward him. “Your eyebrow, it’s cut.”
“I’ll be fine. Isn’t the first time.”
She shook her head. “Lordy, how well I know that. You and your friend Shannon used to get into scrapes about every day, it seems to me.” Her smile was forced. “I remember you two running around, just looking for trouble. And usually finding it.”
He bit his lower lip, but didn’t speak, then decided to retrieve the locket and knife from his saddlebags.
“Mrs. Jacobs, I would like you to take these back with you. To Ellie, ah, Mrs. Wittlock,” Carlow said, extending the wrapped brooch and the sheathed knife. “That makes the gifts from you, not me. Tell her to sell them if she wants to and buy something else. That’s fine. I don’t want them.” He paused. “Tell her to let her husband give the knife to Jeremiah. That all right with you?”
Looking down at the offered presents in her hands, Mrs. Jacobs said softly, “She talked about you. Every day. She cares for you. Even now. It’s just…”
“I’m sure it’s for the best.” He swung into the saddle.
A broad-chested man burst through the saloon doors. His pipe looked like it was part of his face. His round face was beet red and framed by long muttonchop sideburns. He saw Carlow and pulled the pipe from his mouth.
“Ranger Carlow! Please, a moment.” He hurried to the mounted Ranger. “I’m Topper Gustavson, editor of the
Bennett Gazette.
A moment, please.”
“How are you, Topper?” Carlow responded, crossing his arms on his saddle horn.
“I’m doing well,” Gustavson said, then saw Chance beside Carlow’s horse and pointed with his pipe. “My God! Is that…a wolf?”
“Part. He and I fit together real well.”
“I should say.” Shaking his head, Gustavson held out his hand. “I just wanted to thank you for ridding our territory of that awful Silver Mallow. Did a big story on it. Got the information from the
Presidio News.
You know, hometown boy makes good.”
Carlow shook his hand. “Thanks, Topper. But I doubt Bennett would want to claim me. Besides, I had a lot of help.”
“Inside there,” Gustavson motioned toward the saloon. “That’s not the way Bennett feels about you—or your uncle. Not at all.” He waved both arms vigorously. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories about what you did for Bennett and the cattlemen around here. I know there are some who don’t like the Irish, but those…don’t count.” He returned the pipe to his mouth and puffed on it vigorously.
Carlow nodded, his face unreadable.
Mrs. Jacobs licked her lips. “Ranger Time Carlow is a very special young man, Topper. Texas is very lucky.”
“If you want to press charges against those three, I’ll stand as a witness.” Gustavson frowned, reinforcing his intent.
“Appreciate that, Topper,” Carlow said, “but no. Got more important things to do.”
Carlow told him about the telegram and Gustavson gulped his dismay and asked if he could report the news. The young Ranger shrugged his shoulders and said that was Gustavson’s business, not his.
“Got to be riding. Good to see you again, Mrs. Jacobs,” Carlow said. “Nice to meet you, Topper.”
“You, too, Ranger,” Gustavson said. “I’m going to do a story on that fight. It was really something to see.”
Shifting his weight in the saddle, Carlow glanced at Mrs. Jacobs. “I wish you wouldn’t, Topper. Some innocent people might get dragged into it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t. Trust me. Bennett doesn’t need a story like that.”
“Aren’t you going to stay in town? At least for supper?” A small tear gathered at the corner of Mrs. Jacobs’s eye.
“No. Need to get going.” He gave a weak wave and nudged his horse into an easy lope. Chance yipped and followed.
Holding the gifts to her bosom, the old woman watched him leave and murmured, “You’re a good man, Time Carlow. Bennett doesn’t know how good. Neither did Ellie.”
Gustavson looked at the older woman. “You like that young Ranger, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Man, he sure handled himself inside. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it. Why do you think he didn’t want me to write about it?”
Mrs. Jacobs turned toward him and smiled. “Someday I’ll tell you.”
Time Carlow let Shadow have his head as he rode without thinking. Occasionally, Ellie’s face would break through and he would hear again: “I wasn’t even sure you cared any more—or were alive. You didn’t write me…for a long time.”
His face was sore, his left eye nearly swollen shut, his eyebrow throbbing, and his knuckles cut and puffy. He wasn’t aware of how long they had ridden, or even the direction. But when Shadow stopped, he nodded.
They were beside the creek where his mother and best friend were buried, only fifty yards downstream. Carlow’s initial focus was a timbered creekline off to the left. Twisted underbrush and saplings butted up against the greasewood, cottonwood and willow trees. An occasional pecan tree stood proudly. As far as he could see was grassland, dotted with cattle. Open range.
He dismounted and began unsaddling the fine animal. He led the horse to the creek and let him drink his fill. Chance joined him as he soaked his sore hands, then his battered face in the water. The cut in his eyelid had closed and was now only sore. Afterward, he used his saddle rope to tie Shadow to a small cottonwood with enough room to graze. He wiped down the horse with his saddle blanket, stopped and looked around. Dusk was closing in. Sounds of nightfall were beginning to come alive. He didn’t mind. There was nothing about this day he wanted to remember.
For an instant, he wanted to ride back to Bennett and tell Ellie that he loved her and that she should go with him. That thought was followed by an emptiness he had known before. When his mother died. When Shannon Dornan had been killed.
He stared up into the graying sky and screamed, a sound like a wounded wolf.
Shadow’s ears straightened and he tensed. Chance turned to look at him, as if seeking a brother. His body shook and his arms fell to his sides. Even his soul ached. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t slept under a roof since being in Angel’s house when he had been wounded. All he owned were some guns, bullets, a knife, travel gear and a good horse. What he made as a Ranger went into a bank account, except for living expenses. Kileen had almost forced him to do that. Long range, a horse ranch of his own. Like Mirabile. That would be years coming, he decided. More likely, a bullet would find him first—and no one would care. Except for his uncle.
Enough, he finally told himself. Enough of feeling sorry for himself. He wasn’t the first man to be rejected by the woman he loved.
He forced himself to gather firewood and soon had a small fire going. The fire was cradled within a narrow but shallow ravine, to hide its light. He had lived too long in the wilds of Texas not to be careful. His fire soon took Ellie’s letters and the one he had carried to give her. A small cast-iron skillet warmed some salt pork and cut-up wild onions he had secured days earlier. He gave most of the meat to Chance and threw the onions in the fire. He wasn’t hungry. Coffee didn’t taste good either. He started to pour the rest of the pot to douse the remaining coals, but decided against it. He might want coffee in the morning.
Gathering his blanket from the saddle, he grabbed his Winchester from its sheath and carried them away from the dying fire and his munching horse. Kileen had taught him the wisdom of that. After laying out the blanket, he returned for his saddle to use as a pillow, just as he had done countless times before.
He unbuckled his gunbelt and removed his hat, boots and leggings, but left on his long coat and pants. He should clean his guns, but didn’t want to. He didn’t want to do anything and lay down with his hand carbine next to him. Crickets had begun their night serenade. He loved the sound, but tonight it just made him feel lonelier than ever. Chance wandered close and finally lay down next to his master. A pale moon was working its way into control of the sky. He closed his eyes, but the day’s awfulness rushed into his mind.
His face was sore and his hands swollen from the fight, but that wasn’t bothering him. What was chewing on his mind was the fact that the men in town would brag they had run him off. It shouldn’t matter, he kept telling himself. But it did. The town may not have liked him—or his uncle—because they were Irish, but nobody sent him away.
Nobody.
He knew his uncle wouldn’t agree, although Kileen had a long history of dealing with this kind of problem directly. Kileen might say Carlow should ride on, but the big Irishman wouldn’t have done it himself. Not like this.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
He sat up. The crickets were silent.
Chance was immediately alert.
“It’s all right, boy. Just me. You settle down,” he whispered and patted the wolf-dog on the head. He crouched and slipped toward a gathering of rocks, taking his hand carbine with him. His bare feet didn’t like the uneven ground, but he barely noticed. Chance trotted at his side, then stopped, growling in his throat.
Someone was there! Off to the left was a tree’s shadow with lumps where they shouldn’t be.
Hushing Chance again, Carlow was certain more were out there. Wandering thieves? Or more trouble from town? He was betting on the latter as he eased behind the cluster of rocks to determine his next move. To his left, the trail wound like a broken finger, pointing northward through a wall of proud trees. He studied the shadows extending confidently, stroked by moonlight.
A man was standing beside a large oak. Looking closely, Carlow could see the thin line of black that was the man’s rifle at his side. Two more men were a few steps away, also with rifles. He guessed it was the bunch from the saloon. Their intent was obvious. Right now, they were trying to see where he might be. His fire offered little help, its brightness extending only three or four feet. They hadn’t seen him, didn’t know where he was.
Studying the terrain for the best route, he decided to loop them and come up from behind. It would take longer, but he was more likely to get close before being noticed. Yet every noise seemed loud as he crept closer. Every rustle of his coat seemed like a roar to him. Every touch of his bare feet on the hard ground seemed like thunder. Every escaping breath was a recital. Even Chance’s crouching advance sounded like a galloping horse.
Still, the men didn’t notice. They whispered to each other, trying to decide how best to proceed. The big man in the middle had to be Connor Atkins.
Another voice answered, but Carlow didn’t recognize it.
He knelt beside a fallen log and watched a ground squirrel scurry away, squeaking obscenities at being disturbed. Carlow lifted his head around the end of the log and considered the next phase of his advance. Ahead of him was a maze of trees, rocks, dead branches and hardy weeds.
No sign of the waiting men was evident from this angle. Carlow knew it was unlikely there would be, until he had completed at least a half circle. He told Chance to remain where he was. Minutes later, he had worked his way around to a cluster of undergrowth and small boulders gathered for a meeting only they understood.
Belly down, he sorted through the gray shapes ahead. There were four, not three. One was definitely Atkins. The bald-headed cowboy and the stocky man were also there. A fourth he didn’t recall seeing before. The man was his height, wearing a business suit. A hawk nose was the only feature Carlow could distinguish from the night’s shadows. A favorable sliver of moonlight indicated his pants were tucked into long boots. In the man’s hands was a Springfield rifle. Carlow had a funny feeling this was Thomas Wittlock, Ellie’s new husband.
The men were facing the other direction, toward his camp. Waiting longer would only increase the likelihood of his being discovered. He raised the hand carbine. It was moderately comfortable in his stiffened fingers, but he couldn’t grip the handle as tightly as he wished. He would wait to cock the weapon until the last second. The noise would definitely give away his position.
He slowly released a deep breath through his closed mouth. As he stood, the gun barrel clanked off of a triangular-shaped outcropping of a boulder and the resulting noise clamored for attention in the night. Carlow froze in place. A glance at the boulder made him realize a shard of moonlight nestled where he had hit it. He shook his head at the coincidence.
If the noise had any effect on the four men, it didn’t show. Satisfied that his mistake hadn’t changed anything, Carlow resumed his stalking, being more careful this time not to hit the rocks. In a dozen catlike steps he was ten feet from them.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Carlow growled and cocked his hand carbine, holding the butt against his right thigh, and added, “Don’t turn around. Drop your guns. Do it now.”
All four froze.
The stocky cowboy muttered, “It’s four ag’in one.”
Carlow fired and relevered. The bullet spat up dirt inches from the man.
“You’re right. I’ll get lead into three of you before anyone turns around. Who thinks he’ll be the lucky one?”
Three rifles bounced on the ground. Connor Atkins gripped his weapon, his fingers tightening and loosening.
“Well, Atkins, you’re not as smart as I thought you were,” Carlow said. “You just made yourself my first target.”
The big man rolled his shoulders and let his rifle slide to the ground.
“Now your gunbelt, Atkins. You, too, Baldy.”
The loosened gunbelts thudded on the ground.
“Think you’re pretty slick, don’t ya, Irishman?” Atkins snorted.
Carlow didn’t like their calmness. The man he thought was Thomas Wittlock kept glancing over at Atkins.
A hidden gun.
“Slicker than you might think,” Carlow said. “For an Irishman.” He quietly moved three steps to his left. “Take out that hideaway pistol, Atkins. With your fingers. Move real slow. I’m getting tired of all this.”
Glancing at Wittlock, Atkins’s shoulders rose and fell. His right hand moved slowly toward his waistband. Just where Carlow had guessed it would be.
Carlow moved again. Three more steps to the left.
Atkins raised his left hand slowly into the air; his right was unseen. The big man spun toward where he thought Carlow was standing. The Ranger’s movement was enough to give him an edge.
Atkins’s derringer roared orange flame into the darkness.
Carlow said, “You don’t deserve it, but I’m giving you another chance, Atkins. Your cousins would be alive today if they hadn’t tried shooting it out with us.” He motioned with his gun. “You’ve got another bullet in that thing. You can try to cock it and be dead—or drop it and live.”
“Shoot ‘im. Shoot ‘im,” the stocky cowboy muttered.
Atkins shivered and tossed the gun toward Carlow.
Carlow walked over and picked it up. He glared at the stocky man. “You, the one with all the advice. Here.”
He threw the derringer at him. The man’s hands moved toward the flying weapon, but not fast enough. It bounced off his stomach and fell away.
“Pick it up. I’ll give you a chance,” Carlow snarled. His face was dark with fury; the soreness around his left eye was throbbing worse than before. “More than you bastards were going to give me.”
The stocky man shook his head.
“What about you, Baldy? Wanna give it a try?” Carlow pointed his hand carbine at the man’s midsection.
“N-no sir, not me. No sir.”
Licking his dry lips, Carlow said, “You know, I could shoot all of you. Right now. Most would, I reckon. Nothing worse than dry-gulchers.”
“W-who are you?” Thomas Wittlock quivered.
“You already know who I am. Who are you?”
“Ah…Thomas Wittlock. From Bennett. I’m a respected businessman there.”
“And why are you—and your friends—sneaking up on me?”
Wittlock hesitated and looked away. Right now he would rather have been almost anywhere else. Anywhere.
“I asked you a question.”
“Ah, we…ah, we came out here to see you. To talk with you.”
The laugh that came from Carlow was more of a panther snarl than a jovial response. “Come on now, Wittlock. You can do better than that.”
“It’s…about my wife. Ellie.” His words trailed off.
Carlow shook his head. “You left your bride’s bed to come out here just to talk with me? Come on, Wittlock. I’m not one of your idiot friends here.”
Atkins’s face tightened.
“Yeah, Atkins. I said you were an idiot.”
Finally, the bald-headed man blurted, “It wasn’t my idea. Honest. Atkins paid me an’ Shorty. We were supposed to rough you up. Get you away from Bennett.”
“I’m not in Bennett.”
“I know. I know.” The bald-headed cowboy was waving his arms now. “Mr. Wittlock was behind it all. Paid us. Thought you was gonna take his wife ‘way.” He folded his arms and looked at Atkins, then at Wittlock, and jerked his chin down to reinforce his statements.
“Well, I’ll take it back, boys. It’s Wittlock who’s the biggest fool.” Carlow waved his gun in the businessman’s direction. “Anyone who knows Ellie…Mrs. Wittlock…knows she wouldn’t make a commitment like marriage—and break it. Not for anyone.”
The bald-headed man looked at Atkins and frowned.
The stocky cowboy, Shorty, snorted. “I told you so.”
“Well, gentlemen, here’s what we’re going to do,” Carlow said. “We’re walking back to your horses. They must be just over that ridge.”
Minutes later, the fivesome were approaching the four tied-up horses. Carlow ordered each man to free his horse and give it a hard slap on the rump. The animals whinnied, snorted and bolted for town.
“Now, you boys will have a nice long time to talk this over,” Carlow said. “I’m letting you off real easy. Think about that, too. I could arrest all of you for attempted murder of a state lawman. But I won’t. Just think of it as my gift to Ellie on her marriage.”
His eyes narrowed. “But if I see any of you again, I’m going to kill you.” He paused. “All except you, Wittlock. Ellie’s too special a gal to be a widow. Again. And Jeremiah’s too good a kid. You take care of them, Wittlock. They deserve better than you. But that’s what they signed on for.”
With a glance in his direction, the four men began walking toward town, grumbling and cursing at each other.
“Let them go, Time,” Carlow said to himself. “It doesn’t matter what they say about you in Bennett. It doesn’t matter that they’ll claim to have run you out of town. It doesn’t matter what Ellie thinks. Not anymore.”