Deep in the Heart of Trouble (36 page)

chapter THIRTY-FOUR

ESSIE PUSHED several cartridges into her rifle. “Find as many of the women as you can, Shirley, and meet me by the hanging tree.”

“You can’t go out there alone,” Shirley said, handing Essie another cartridge from the box.

“Nor can I spare the time it would take to get the girls.” She cocked the lever, seating a round. “If we’re lucky, the mob won’t make it to the cottonwood tree. But if the men can’t stop them at the jailhouse, I want to be waiting for them at the other end.” She placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “Don’t let me down, Shirley.”

“I won’t, Essie. We’ll be right behind you.”

Tony heard the crowd of men well before they reached the jailhouse. The sheriff positioned himself at the window, his rifle aimed at the crowd. “They’re here, son,” he said over his shoulder, “but don’t worry. Help’s a-comin’.”

Before Tony could respond, a voice from outside pierced the air.

“Give us your prisoner, Sheriff!”

“You know I won’t do that, Howard,” Melvin hollered back. “I’m under orders to protect him and I aim to do just that. Now, you boys just go on home before somebody gets hurt.”

“We’re takin’ him, Sheriff. We’re takin’ him and seein’ that justice is served.”

The crowd hollered and cheered.

Melvin cocked his gun. “Not another step, Howard, or you’ll be the first to go.”

“That wouldn’t be very smart, Sheriff, shootin’ the grandson of Texas’s secretary of state.”

Melvin looked down the site of his rifle. “My prisoner isn’t going anywhere.”

Footfalls rushed up the steps. Melvin opened fire, startling both Tony and the crush outside. The pack fell back for a moment, leaving Howard writhing in agony on the stoop.

Word quickly passed through the throng in front of the jail and down the street that the former deputy had been shot. Then, as if an unseen flag had been dropped signaling the start of a race, men stampeded the jailhouse. Some jumping through the window, others busting through the door.

Melvin fired, wounding at least a dozen before the mob seized him by the shoulders, disarmed him and hurled him back.

The screams of the injured echoed in Tony’s ears, blood pouring from their wounds. Melvin was cut off from Tony’s view as the mob surged forward, stepping on and over the fallen men as if they were sacks of potatoes.

At first it seemed as if the crowd of roughs were strangers to Tony, but as they dragged him from his cell, he saw their leaders were from Morgan Oil. Men who’d done Darius’s dirty work for him. Many with shady pasts. Darius had provided a haven for men of their ilk—roughs who were loyal to his brother, even if it wasn’t for edifying reasons.

Tony could smell the alcohol on their breath. He fought and kicked and bucked but was only rewarded with beatings and rougher treatment as he was dragged down the street toward the big cottonwood tree on the outskirts of town.

The two armed riders waiting for the mob gave them pause. Tony’s left eye was swollen shut, but his right still worked fine and shifted to a man and a woman on horseback. On the left was Russ O’Berry, the best friend Tony’d ever had, sitting atop a horse at least eighteen hands tall. He sported a pistol in one hand and a bullwhip held casually within his other. To his right was Essie Spreckelmeyer, aiming a loaded rifle at the hearts of Tony’s captors.

His stomach clenched. What the blazes did she think she was doing here? The crowd slowly drew to the base of the tree, becoming unusually quiet in order to ascertain the dangers posed from this unexpected quarter.

Russ scanned the crowd. “Afternoon, Horace. Norman. Paddy. I reckon you know Tony here hasn’t had a trial yet?”

The mob was supposed to provide anonymity. This recital of specific names caused a disconcerting murmur to pass through the crowd.

“Our argument ain’t with you, Russ,” one of the roughs called out, “so just git outta the way ’fore we string you up, as well.”

Faster than a striking snake, Russ stung the rowdie across his cheek with the bullwhip, leaving him with a red mark but no broken skin.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Russ said, controlling his horse with his thighs. “And if anybody makes a move, my whip’ll slice a whole lot deeper.”

The man’s eyes blazed while he touched his cheek, but he remained silent.

“Now, release the prisoner.” Russ’s voice rang with authority.

The crowd fell back in disorder, but the men holding Tony kept their grip firm.

A voice from the back cried out, “String ’im up! The woman, too!”

The mob gained a new surge of momentum. Tony’s heart hammered. Where were the men Melvin had sent for? He struggled, then pitched forward, while several shots sent hats flying. A hush spread over the assembly.

Tony glanced up. Russ covered the crowd with his pistol while Essie began to reload.

Through the tight mass, Ewing pressed forward. “Stop this at once!” he cried. “Let Morgan go!”

The butt of a wooden bat descended onto the preacher’s head. He crumpled to the ground. Essie gasped, momentarily losing focus.

The crowd immediately took advantage of her distraction and surged forward, pulling her from her horse. Russ couldn’t shoot without the risk of hitting her. His whip lashed out, and though several men screamed, the throng managed to catch hold of the whip’s tail and jerk, tearing it and the pistol from Russ’s hold and spooking his horse. He inflicted some damage with his boots and fists but was no match for the number of men who dragged him from his saddle.

“We want a hangin’!” the men began to chant. “We want a hangin’!”

The atmosphere took on that of a distorted carnival. A boomer in well-worn denims slung a rope across a great limb of the giant tree while someone else slipped its noose over Tony’s neck. Rough hands threw him up on Essie’s horse. Others held her and Russ back.

“No!” Essie screamed. “Please! He’s innocent! Let him go!”

Russ flung men from his body like a dog shaking water from its fur, only to have another swarm of rowdies wrestle him to the ground over and over until he had no fight left in him.

In that moment, a tremendous fear gripped Tony. Not for himself, but for Essie. For Russ. And for Russ’s family if something happened to him.

He dared not think of what the mob had done to the sheriff. For nothing short of death would have been able to keep him away.

The sun began its descent, beating down on the ruddy faces of the rowdies who’d worked themselves into a greater frenzy than before. Nothing could save Tony, his best friend, or the woman he loved. Nothing but God Almighty himself.

Sacrifice me, Lord, but save the others. Please.

“Quiet!” someone roared. “I wanna hear his neck snap!”

The throng whooped and the ground shook with suppressed violence.

Tony braced himself. A quiet fell upon the gathering. After a couple of seconds, Tony realized the ground was still shaking, not from the agitated crowd but something else entirely.

He, along with all those present, looked to the east as over a hundred riders on horseback galloped up and quickly surrounded the rioters. A huge cloud of dust enveloped them.

When it began to settle, the silhouettes of armed men and women slowly took shape, their expressions serious, their weapons primed. Tony looked over the faces of his rescuers.

Grandpa, Jeremy, Moss, and a multitude of other men who worked for Sullivan Oil. The Baker brothers and their crew of rig builders. Men who worked for Morgan Oil but weren’t in Darius’s back pocket. The sheriff, the judge, and the women of the Corsicana Velocipede Club—Shirley, Mrs. Lockhart, Mrs. Dunn, Mrs. Vandervoort, and a dozen more. His gaze stopped on Anna. Did she even know how to use that weapon she was holding? But her attention was completely focused on the crowd.

“Release Miss Spreckelmeyer and Russ O’Berry!” the sheriff ordered.

The men holding Essie and Russ did not respond. Several guns swerved toward them, taking a bead on their hearts. They let go and raised their hands.

Russ quickly recovered his bullwhip. The men gave him a wide berth. Essie scrambled to Tony’s horse, grabbing its reins and holding it still.

Tony looked down at her, then saw Finch for the first time. His cousin broke through the crowd and moved to the horse’s flanks. He raised his hand to strike the mare when his wrist was caught midair with the whip and jerked back in an unnatural direction.

He screamed as the bones in his wrist broke, still unaware that Russ had saved his life, for several guns were seconds away from riveting Finch with bullets.

The assembly stilled, not wanting to draw the attention of the armed men—or women.

“Corsicana is a good, wholesome town,” Melvin roared. “And I, for one, will not stand still while you besmirch its history with a lynching.”

“But this man murdered his own brother in cold blood!” Finch shouted, cradling his broken hand.

“I have a dozen women here who say otherwise,” Melvin responded.

The crowd murmured.

Tony kept his gaze pinned to Finch, uncomfortable with the man’s proximity to Essie. From the corner of his eye, he saw Judge Spreckelmeyer slide off his horse and circle round Finch from behind.

“These gals have some mighty convincin’ evidence that it was his cousin, Finch Morgan, who killed Darius,” Melvin continued, spitting to the side. “And not just him, but he maybe killed his wives, too.”

The shock of this unexpected news rippled through the crowd.

Russ quietly approached Tony, while Finch and the rest of the mob were preoccupied.

“They’re lying,” Finch shouted, reaching across his body for a knife.

The judge pressed the barrel of his gun into Finch’s back. “Raise your arms, Morgan. Nice and slow.”

Finch lifted his left arm. “I can’t raise the right,” he said, pushing his words through clinched teeth. “My hand is hanging by a thread.”

Spreckelmeyer patted him down, relieving him of his knife. Russ quickly released Tony’s bound hands.

The mob’s thirst for blood shifted its focus. “Hang Finch Morgan!” they began to chant. “Hang Finch Morgan!”

Tony slipped the noose from around his neck and swung off the horse. “Get Essie outta here
now
!” he said to Russ.

Russ grabbed Essie, but the crowd was already surging toward Finch. Pulling her against him, Russ readied his whip. Tony stood in front of her, effectively sandwiching her between the two of them.

The sheriff swung his horse to the front, raised his rifle toward the sky and fired.

The crowd quieted.

“I’ll be taking Finch up to Fort Smith for a hearin’, so you can rest assured justice will be served.”

“Let’s save ’em the trouble!” somebody shouted.

Melvin stilled his prancing horse. “Well, now, much as I’d like to oblige you, I’m afraid I’m bound by oath to do otherwise. If it makes you feel any better, though, Hangin’ Judge Isaac Parker will be waiting for us.”

The mob cheered.

“Right now, though, we’d like everybody to go on home and settle down a bit. Show’s over.”

There were some token protests, but being surrounded by a hundred armed men and women dampened the crowd’s enthusiasm. With more encouragement from the sheriff and his posse, the gathering began to disperse, then changed courses altogether when Mr. Rosenburg hollered, “Free drinks at my place fer the first fifty patrons.”

Tony turned to Essie.

“Ewing,” she said.

“I’ll go find him,” Russ offered, then headed to the spot where Ewing had fallen.

“You all right?” Tony asked her.

“I think so,” she answered, her voice shaking. “You look awful, though. Does it hurt terribly?”

He touched his cheek and eye. “I’m fine. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Is anything broken?” she asked, running her hands along his chest, arms, and hands.

“I don’t think so.” He threaded his fingers through hers, putting a stop to her examination. “What possessed you to take on that mob with nothing more than Russ and a rifle? You about scared me to death.”

“I knew the women would come as quickly as they could. I just decided not to wait on them.” She smoothed a tuft of hair sticking out from his head. “On my way here, I ran into Russ and he insisted on coming with me.”