Texas Blood Feud (9 page)

Sheriff Bob Trent was a big man, Six-four, broad-shouldered, in his late thirties. His cold blue eyes looked hard at Chet as the younger man explained his plight. Trent slouched down in the barrel-back chair that creaked on its springs, and tapped the desk with a pencil.

“So we have three rustlers hung and they’d driven your remuda almost to the Red River. They damn sure weren’t going to sober up and bring them back.”

“No.”

Chet went on to explain the rest. The schoolhouse incident, the planned ambush he broke up, which Trent laughed over, the chase to the ranch, and the death of the two mares. Even the shooting at the house.

“Damn, Byrnes, you’ve got a full-fledged feud going on down there.”

“I don’t want anyone killed, but I’m going to fight fire with fire.”

“I understand. I’ll ride down there day after tomorrow and find Earl. Maybe we can call a truce.”

Chet nodded. “I hope you aren’t wasting your time.”

“I don’t have any deputies to keep you apart. I’d appreciate you holding off on anything until I see what I can do.”

“You have a deal.”

They shook hands, and after picking up a few things Susie had forgotten, Chet headed for home. Roan had a good rocking stride and Chet crossed a few ridges to shorten his ride, rode down through the backcountry, and arrived home after sundown.

Susie came out with a candle lamp and joined him.

“What did he say?” Susie asked, walking with Chet to the corral.

“He’s coming down and talking to Earl day after tomorrow and try to arrange a truce.”

“Truce? We never started this war.”

“We’ll wait and see what he can arrange.” Chet undid the girths and swung the saddle off. Lugging it and the pads for the tack room, he looked over at Bugger in the starlight.

“Heck’s already fed and watered him,” she said

“Good bunch of boys. Couldn’t make it without them.”

“Do you have any ideas about what we need to do?”

He shook his head. “It’s like the Comanche threat, only these people live much closer. No telling what or how they’ll strike again.”

“What about the spring cattle drive?”

“They will pressure folks not to send cattle north with us. That would hurt, but nothing I can do about it but continue planning on the drive. We’ll have a thousand head counting the ones I bought in Mexico. And on top of that I need to sign up a thousand more.”

“Will that work if you don’t get any more?”

“The additional thousand head would sure cover our expenses.”

She led Roan over to turn him into the lot. Chet caught up with her, threw his arm over her shoulder, and they went to the house. What would he do without her? His one grown-up ally at the ranch.

His supper was warming in the oven, but his appetite wasn’t ravishing. She brought him some coffee and then she sat down. “I wish Mother would get out of bed. She’s so stubborn.”

At the click of heels on the floor, they turned to the door of the dining room. Louise appeared. He nodded to her.

“I have decided to go to Shreveport. I don’t believe all the things that you have said about it.”

“You can take the mail buckboard from Mason to San Antonio and catch the train from there. How much money will you need?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

It was way more then she needed, but he never flinched. “When will you go?”

“I can’t talk any sense into my sons, so I’m going this time by myself. Since Susie has that girl to help her, I plan to leave next week.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone, I mean anyone, my plans. We’ll take you to Mason on the day before and you can catch that buckboard. I’ll get the money out of the safe when you’re ready to leave.”

“I don’t understand all this business. The Reynoldses surely aren’t that stupid.”

“They planned to gun us down going home from the funeral. Senselessly murdered two great brood mares, and chased those boys in the yard shooting at them to kill. I think their threat is very serious.”

“Have you reported it to the law?”

“Sheriff Trent is going to try to arrange a truce.”

“Texas law. A truce in a war we did not start?”

“I’m warning you. Don’t tell a soul about your plans.”

“Good night.”

He and Susie waited to talk until the front door closed behind her.

“Why, she could go to Europe on that much money.” Susie scowled at him.

He held up his hands. “I want her to go and see how bad it really is.”

“I know. She’s no help here anyway.”

He reached over and patted her forearm. “We’ll see.”

She agreed.

Under the cold starlight, he walked to the bunkhouse. In his room he lighted a candle lamp and then stoked the small wood stove. A little heat wouldn’t hurt. He struck a match, and soon his kindling was taking off. He added some split wood and closed the door. Jake Porter was probably at home this evening. Wednesday was when he went to town to play cards.

He’d go over the next day and see Marla. In this fracas, he needed the loyal ones. Since he couldn’t have her, he’d have to share her with Jake. Damn, what a mess.

His sleep proved troubled. There were more ambushes and bushwhacking. Once during the night, he sat straight up in bed broken out in a cold sweat. Who had they killed this time? He couldn’t see the victim’s face. Short of breath like he’d been running a hard mile—he still didn’t get there in time to stop them.

His bare feet on the gritty floor, he mopped his face in his calloused palms. So many things wrong and they all looked insurmountable. He dressed, then put on a felt vest and jumper against the night’s chill. His hat on, he left the bunkhouse and went to catch a horse. Maybe he could ride away some of the things making his belly growl and churn. He caught Big Tomas. A horse, sixteen hands high. Chet loaded his kac on him and quietly rode out of the compound. A man without a purpose, he swung north to check on the brood mares. They were mostly standing asleep around the springs in the starlight. He could see little wrong with them. Then he wanted to go by Mayfield. He wanted two bottles of good whiskey. It wouldn’t help anything but to get drunk at home. He wouldn’t give a damn.

Fall back in the bottle again. The Comanche had come close to making a drunk out of him. The Reynolds clan really might. At six, he walked into Casey’s Saloon. The big Irishman looked up and smiled from behind the bar.

“You can’t sleep?”

“It’s been a problem of late.”

“Them Reynolds fellas sure have been talking tough about you.”

“They shot at my boys, murdered two good brood mares, and tried to ambush us coming home from that funeral.”

“I don’t doubt it one bit. They’ve talked real bad in here about you all.” Casey put a bottle and a glass on the bar for him. “I’ve seen the likes of this before. Dumb hillbillies out of the mountains of north Georgia.”

“They’ll all be in a common grave if they mess with me very much more.”

“Ah, son, I’ve seen these feuds in Ireland, too. They can go on for years.”

Chet sipped the whiskey and nodded. “It won’t take me long to clean them out.”

“Just be careful, son. They’re back-shooters.”

He agreed, and Casey ordered them both breakfast from the woman he lived with. Hard-looking, with an angular face, she smiled at Chet and went off to fix it in the back. The whiskey didn’t help him feel any better, so he quit drinking it.

Her hot coffee was rich, the ham tasty, and the scrambled eggs good. He buttered some biscuits and enjoyed them. “Good food. I was beginning to need something.”

“Aye, breakfast is an important meal of the day, laddie.”

“You miss Ireland?”

“It was a green land. But two kinds of people lived there, rich and poor. And the poor, God bless them, were so far down the ladder, you couldn’t reach them.”

“I see what you mean.”

“My lucky day was when I landed in Houston and started to build me a nest egg. Then I came up here and bought this place. It was hard at first, but now it is much easier. Her and I get along.”

Casey refused to let him pay for his meal, and sold him two bottles of whiskey. “You’ll figure a way out of this mess. I know you will.”

“I’m damn sure going to try.”

He rode Big Tomas down south to a small Mexican village and bought Louise a full-length black and white woven poncho. She might not wear it, but she’d need it traveling in this hot/cold weather. The woman wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with string. Polite and quiet, she said, “Your lady will like this. It is very fine craftsmanship.”

He nodded.
His lady
. Not quite.

It was close to sundown when he came in the back way at Marla’s. The buckboard was gone and so was the team. He eased himself around the outhouse, crossed the yard, and rapped lightly on the back door—no answer. He went around front to see if she was outside tending stock. She might be feeding chickens. No sign of her. Then he discovered the front door was wide open. His hand went for his six-gun. No good reason for that—

Inside, he called for her and went inside the kitchen. Despite the darkness, he knew at once something was wrong. There’d been a struggle and several things had been turned over. He went to the bedroom door off the kitchen, and in the last rays of light coming in the window, saw her bloody naked body sprawled facedown on the bed.

NO—no—no. He fell on his knees beside the bed. But already, her flesh was cold to his touch. Some madman had carved her up. It was the cruelest thing he’d ever seen outside of Comanche handiwork. Then he rose and saw where she’d written a name in her own blood on the sheet. Kenny R—it was plain as day. That could only be one person. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

What should he do? Get stoned drunk. No, he needed to go and find Jake. After all, she was his wife. Then Bob Trent—there was a strong case here. Good enough to swing a man legally. He paced the floor wanting to cover her up, but yet not wanting to disturb the evidence.

He picked up a page of stationery stained with a bloody boot print from the floor under the edge of the bed.

Damn. He folded it up. She was finally going to leave him. She knew all along about his infidelity. But no doubt one of the Reynolds clan must have followed him here. Oh, damn, what next? The grisly murder scene made him go outside and puke. He braced his shoulder against the porch post for support, the sour vomit fumes burning the lining of his nose. No matter the pain he felt, he still had an obligation to her. He’d ride to Mayfield, find Porter, and then Justice of the Peace Gunner Barr.

It was past ten o’clock when he located Porter playing poker in the Red Horse Saloon. He waved him over to the bar. Peter came across and frowned at his interruption. “What’s wrong?”

“Brace yourself. I’ve got some tough news.”

“Go ahead. What is it?”

“Sometime after you left the ranch today someone murdered your wife. I was passing through and stopped. The front door was wide-open. I found her inside all cut up by some maniac.”

“You see anyone?” Porter looked powerfully upset.

“I hated to be the one told you about this. No, they were long gone when I got there. But she left a name written in blood.”

“Who?”

Chet shook his head. “We need to get Doc and Barr to go up there. I never disturbed a thing.”

“Who was it, man?”

“You’ll see. I’ll go get Doc. You go get Barr.”

“Give me a whiskey,” Porter said to the bartender. “Someone has murdered my wife.”

Doc and Barr rode in Doc’s buggy. The word was out, and a handful of locals accompanied them in the frosty starlight. It was two in the morning when they reached the ranch.

Barr asked Chet to describe how he’d found her.

“Front door wide-open made me suspicious. I knocked, no answer. I found there had been a struggle in the kitchen. You will see that. She’s in the bedroom. But I must warn you—it made me puke.”

“Where is the name of the killer you said she’d written in her own blood?”

“On the sheet by her right hand.”

Jake Porter went in the bedroom with Doc and Barr, and came right out to collapse on the kitchen floor. Chet brought him a chair and helped him get up and seated on it. The man’s face was blanched snow white.

“Oh, dear God, how could someone be that cruel?”

Chet wanted to know the exact same thing. He sent one of the men after a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags.

Looking sick to his stomach, Barr came out shaking his head. “They raped her, too, Doc said.”

“Judge, tell us who she named as her murderer,” said Jake.

“Kenny R.”

“That has to be Kenny Reynolds.”

Barr never nodded to agree; instead, he pushed his way out the back door to puke off the back stoop. He vomited and vomited until he was racked by the dry heaves.

He came back in bleary-eyed. Wiping his mouth on a crumpled-up handkerchief. “I’ll have the hearing day after tomorrow. I’ll need you there, Byrnes, to testify. Then I want the rest of you to go read what she wrote on that sheet and testify as well. Doc has her covered up. You wouldn’t want to see the poor woman anyway.”

He took the half glass of whiskey and thanked Chet. “Times like this, I’d rather have a small-town law practice.”

Numb, Chet started for home. Porter ran out and shouted for him to stop. “I’m sorry, Byrnes. I never had chance to thank you for all you did for me today. I’d found her like that, I’d’a been a screaming imbecile.”

They shook hands and Chet rode on. He was one—a screaming imbecile. All his planning to sneak in there and they’d still seen him. Must have been obvious as all get out.

“What’s wrong?” Susie asked, running out to meet him in the cold predawn. “I can tell by your look like something bad’s happened last night.”

He nodded woodenly. “They murdered Marla Porter.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you more later.”

“Heck will put up your horse. Come in and set down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”