LV.
Marshal Hickok and Leo Moretti, the bartender, ran into the Alamo Saloon. Mitchell was lying on the floor. A pool of blood was slowly expanding on the wooden floor surrounding Mitchell’s right shoulder. Mitchell, flat on his back, was staring at the ceiling, holding his left hand on the wound and moaning in pain.
Hickok ran to the lad and knelt down beside him. Mitchell turned his head and looked into Hickok’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Jim.”
“How bad are you hurt?”
Mitchell coughed and moistened his lips with his tongue. He was about to speak when the doors of the saloon swung open. Abe Jackson, the Texas Ranger, rushed in, followed closely by Doc Minnick.
Jackson pointed. “There he is, Doc.”
Doc Minnick hastened to Mitchell’s side, opposite Hickok. He knelt down and set his medical bag on the floor. “Lie still, son.”
The doctor withdrew a pair of scissors from his bag and cut away the bloodiest part of Mitchell’s shirt. Then he examined the wound. He withdrew a sterile bandage from his bag and placed it over the bullet hole. “Here, Marshal, keep pressure on the bandage.” He glanced up at Jackson and Moretti. “You men, pick him up and carry him outside to my wagon. Two of you will have to ride along
so you can carry him into my office. Be careful of his shoulder. His collar bone is broken. Try to keep pressure on the wound to keep down the bleeding.”
LVI.
After Doc Minnick pulled up in front of his office, Hickok and Jackson carried Mitchell into the building. Doc Minnick directed the men to a back room where they laid Mitchell onto a table.
“I’ll take care of him from here.”
“How is he, Doc?” Hickok asked.
“He should be fine. Now let me get to work.”
Hickok and Jackson walked out of the room into the front office. “Okay, spill it,” Hickok said.
“Nothing much to tell, Marshal. He started gettin’ liquored up and accused me of being responsible for him losing his job. Next thing I know, he’s drawing down on me.”
“Yeah, I figured all that. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What then?”
“Mitchell’s left-handed. You plugged him in the right shoulder. That means you took the chance of spinning his shootin’ hand around toward you. If you weren’t going to kill him, why didn’t you shoot him in the left shoulder to spin his gun away from you? Mitchell’s fast enough that he might have put a bullet in you, even though you got one into him first.”
Jackson remained silent for a moment. “That’s a clever observation, Marshal.” He smiled slightly and then looked down at his right arm.
Hickok looked too. Jackson’s shirt sleeve was torn in a neat horizontal slit!
Jackson looked up, still smiling. “He is fast, Marshal.”
Hickok was stunned. “Are you hurt, man?”
“No, it’s just a scratch. Another few inches, though, and it coulda got real serious quick.”
“You took an awful chance, Ranger.”
“Yeah, well, I thought it was better not to put his shootin’ arm out of action in case you planned to hire him on again. Once you take out a fella’s arm with a bullet, it’s never the same.”
Hickok glanced down and then nodded slowly. “Well, even though Mitchell probably doesn’t know it yet, he owes you a lot. For that matter, I do too. Thanks, Ranger.”
“So, why did ya fire Mitchell? Seems to me you’re gonna be short-handed at a time when you need help the most. I already warned you, Marshal. The Staytons are on their way. Every day that goes by, they’re gettin’ closer. I can feel it. And they’ll hit this town like a tornado comin’ down main street.”
“As far as help is concerned, I’ve already contacted a deputy out of Dodge City. A fella named Ed Clayborn. Ever hear of him?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Well, this Clayborn fella was working with Billy Brooks. Brooks and Clayborn were hired as private lawmen by some of the merchants in Dodge. Recently the two lost their jobs when the townsfolk formed a vigilance committee to takeover enforcing the law. Anyway, according to my old buddy, Charlie Bassett, down in Dodge, this Ed Clayborn is good with a gun and has a level head on his shoulders. I wanted to wait until me and Mitchell had our talk this morning before I committed to hiring Clayborn. Seeing what’s happened, I better send a telegram to Clayborn to tell him he’s hired. He said he could get here in a couple of weeks.”
LVII.
Julie Weber closed the Bible and stood up. She had finished reading the entire Book of St. Luke. Even the notion of a classroom devoid of students could not dim the joy she felt from reading about her Savior.
She drew in a deep breath and stretched. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you very, very much.” She reached into her bag and withdrew two apples. One was for her lunch, the other was for Grace.
When Julie stepped outside, she was struck by the beauty of a heaven of blue sky and a carpet of green grass dotted with wildflowers.
Grace had looked over at the sound of the door, and the horse nickered when she saw Julie.
Julie walked over to Grace and patted the animal on the neck. “Hi girl. Here, come with me.”
Julie led Grace to a nearby tree and then sat down in the grass. She held out one of the apples for Grace.
After a moment, Julie took a bite of her own apple. Her gaze fell upon the lonely road that led to the center of town. One day, sure enough, the children would be traversing that road to and from school. It would happen, no doubt. In her mind, she clearly saw the picture of children on the road, as if it were happening that very moment.
She closed her eyes and then drew in a breath and exhaled. The apple was sweet and juicy. She felt a slight breeze lift a few strands of her hair. Having chewed the apple thoroughly, she swallowed. “Thank you, Lord, for your love and utter goodness. Thank you for erasing all those negative thoughts! I was acting childishly. Forgive me, dear Lord for being so willful. I forgot that everything happens in Your time, not mine. I’m so thankful to You, Lord, for the gift of salvation and for all the good things You provide. How very blessed I am! How very great and beautiful You are—so very worthy of praise and adoration. You’ve washed away all my cares. How can my heart feel anything other than total thankfulness when You’re always here with me, caring for me, and nurturing me with Your mercy and love? I am Yours, totally. Do with me what You will! Keep me humble, dear Lord, that I may be a good and faithful servant. Nothing else matters. No, nothing else matters a whit!”
She stood up with tears of thankfulness in her eyes. How very great was her Lord!
She patted Grace on the neck and held out the remainder of her apple, which the animal gladly took into its mouth and chewed with a few loud crunches. “And you’re an absolutely beautiful girl. I love you, Grace.”
A few minutes later, Julie walked back into the schoolhouse. “Okay. Now what? Something tells me I should stay until school lets out. How would it look if a student did show up, and the teacher was playing hooky? No, we mustn’t ever let that happen! So now, Julie, how is the best way to fill the time between now and three o’clock?”
She glanced down at the open Bible on her desk. “Of course. How could I do anything better than to spend time in Your Word, dear Lord?”
LVIII.
Ed Clayborn placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. He lifted the reins, and the horse stepped out in a lively trot and then accelerated to a smooth and easy three-beat gait.
Clayborn was not quite six feet tall in his boots with two inch heels. His dark complexion, along with piercing brown eyes and almost black eyebrows, intensified the impact of a normally serious expression that seemed to imply the dangerous question, “Are you gonna force me to kill ya?”
Raised on a small ranch in west Texas, Clayborn had grown up learning the ways of men who cared for, herded, and drove cattle. Ranching was hard work, but Clayborn had taken it in stride, knowing no other way to make a living.
By the time he was twenty years old, he had made several trips north on large cattle drives. He had accepted the long days in the saddle and the nights that were much too short to ever catch up on sleep. The harsh conditions were simply part of the job to get the cattle to market. He also learned much from the tough breed of men he rode with. For the most part, they were serious types whose chief concern was the welfare of the herd.
On the drives, after the drovers and the cattle had completed their wearisome trip north, the cattle were herded into gigantic pens, and the shared responsibility of looking after the herd was lifted from Clayborn’s shoulders. With an exhilarating sense of freedom and the satisfaction of a job well done, he, like the rest of the cowpokes, dutifully lined up to receive their long-awaited pay. The cash was showered upon him like the drenching of a waterfall. He found that he could avail himself of all the seedy pleasures offered by a cattle town, and at the end of his stay still have a few dollars left over. Inevitably, however, the time always came to head back south and begin the process all over again.
After Clayborn’s numerous trips back and forth, the adventure of the job began to fade. The work had degenerated into a tiresome routine, and he began to seek other employment. His toughness and his ability to handle a gun eventually landed him a job as a deputy in a small town. There, over the stretch of two years, Clayborn learned the trade of a lawman. He quickly adjusted to the lifestyle of staying in one place, and each night he appreciated slipping his boots under the same comfortable bed.
Eventually he heard of an open deputy’s position in a bigger town that offered more pay. He applied for the job and was hired. After a few years in that town, he heard of a job offered in Dodge City. Again he migrated north and hired on in Dodge as an assistant to William “Billy” Brooks, a former buffalo hunter, stagecoach driver, and most recently, a city marshal for the wild cattle town of Newton, Kansas.
Clayborn, accustomed to quiet law-abiding towns, had had a rude awakening when he rode into Dodge, and he
had never gotten over the regret of leaving his former position. Dodge was a wildly violent town, and Billy Brooks was just as wild and violent. In his first month alone, Brooks had been involved in an average of one gunfight every two days! In a single particularly bloody incident, Brooks had killed four men. The officials of Dodge had come to question Brooks’ tactics, but when he was accused of murdering a man in a dispute over a dancehall girl, he was summarily dismissed.
At about that time, Marshal Hickok in Abilene began looking for a potential replacement for Deputy Mitchell. Clayborn, having no wish to remain another day in Dodge, quickly answered Hickok’s appeal.
On the morning of the fifth day of Clayborn’s travel out of Dodge en route to Abilene, he topped a small rise and pulled up.
There, before him on the plains, a herd of bison was grazing. The guttural grunts and groans of the great beasts filled the air as they meandered westward. Their number of about fifty comprised a few bulls, mostly cows, and several calves.
Clayborn sat quietly in the saddle, watching the animals. He remembered that in his younger days he had seen herds so large that they had reminded him of a flowing river that stretched almost from horizon to horizon. Those were the days before the Civil War had ended. Now the white man had come with his rifles, and he slaughtered the animals for their hides. Gone were tens of millions of the animal. Soon gone too would be the lifestyle of the Indians who depended on the bison for food, and who made use of every part of the relatively few animals they killed.
In the early evening, Clayborn rode into Great Bend, named for its location on a near-half-circle zigzag in the Arkansas River.
Great Bend also sat on the Santa Fe Trail, a major transportation route connecting Franklin, Missouri, with Santa Fe, New Mexico. The trail served as a vital commercial and military highway, opening the region to economic development and settlement.
In not-so-distant years, Great Bend had been plagued with numerous raids by hostile Indians from various tribe factions, including those of the Comanche, Cheyenne, and Apache. Clayborn knew, however, that most of the unrest had ended about four years ago, evidenced by the decommissioning of nearby Fort Zarah and the coming of the railroad about a year ago. The guise of civilization, however, meant letting down one’s guard only for fools. Whereas men of the time had experienced and survived the violence of the recent past, they inevitably carried it forward in their attitudes and actions.
Clayborn had passed through Great Bend on previous occasions, as the town had always been a place for passing through more than for anything else. Great Bend, in fact, had been a passing-through point for such men as Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Buffalo Bill Cody, and General George Armstrong Custer.
Riding down the bustling main street of Great Bend, Clayborn was struck by the same notion he had had in Dodge: This point on the map had drawn the class of people that the cattle trade normally attracted; that is, mostly thugs and harlots, banes to every community seeking to civilize itself.
He pulled up the reins in front of the saloon that looked the most peaceful. At least, it was the biggest, and he hoped it meant it was the most peaceful. Before he swung down from the saddle, however, he unstrapped the thong on his pistol.
When he entered the saloon, he walked to the bar and ordered whiskey. About six other men were lined up abreast at the bar. Behind him, the smoky room droned with loud indistinguishable conversations of men at tables, punctuated occasionally with abrasive laughter when a cowpoke won a hand at poker. A rather large man wearing a dirty gray hat and smelling like the rotting flesh of a buffalo bellied up to the bar beside Clayborn. As the man raised his arm and called to the bartender, he leaned to one side. His bulk shoved Clayborn sideways, causing Clayborn to spill his drink onto the bar.
Clayborn felt the tingle of hot blood rush into his ears, always an indicator of instinctual rage that was part of his temperamental side. The large man was drunk, however, and Clayborn judged that the action had been unintentional. He stepped back from the bar and looked down its length to pick an open spot to which he could move.
As Clayborn stepped back, the space beside the large man opened up, and the man sprawled out even more. The man’s arm he was using to prop himself up slid into the spilled whiskey, and he glanced down, annoyed. He looked around at Clayborn. “Hey, fella, you’re a sloppy rascal. You got my arm all wet!”
Clayborn blinked slowly and tightened one side of his mouth, thinking, “That’s about right. The drunk spills my whiskey and then he blames me.”
“You need to be taught some manners, mister!” the large man bellowed.
Clayborn stepped farther back, out of range, in case the man decided to swing at him. But the drunk straightened up, squared off, and lowered his hand to his side. His body language meant only one thing.
“You’re drunk, mister. And I could outdraw you when you were pure sober. I apologize for spilling my drink, and I’ll be glad to pay to have your shirt cleaned.”
The man was unmoved. “Yeah, but who’s gonna teach ya some manners?”
Looking into the man’s eyes, Clayborn shook his head. “Don’t do this. Not over a shirt. I’ll buy you a new one.”
By now, however, Clayborn had already heard the scrape of chair legs on the floor. Then, as if everyone else in the saloon simultaneously spied the two men squared off, the room erupted into the roar of men scrambling to escape the line of fire. Clayborn mourned the sound, because with everyone watching, the large man would believe he could not possibly back down. Clayborn grew wary to perceive the man’s initial move and reluctantly accepted the notion he was about to kill another man.
Clayborn watched the man’s eyes glance around the room. For an instant the man’s facial expression changed, as he realized everyone was watching him and that the situation had turned ominously to that of life and death.
When the man’s gaze again fell upon Clayborn, Clayborn knew the time had come and, as he had predicted, the man’s hand moved in a snake-like quickness to his gun.
Without hesitation, Clayborn drew and fired. The bullet penetrated just below the breast bone, thrusting the large man back against the bar. Clayborn crouched, ready to fire a second shot, if necessary. But the bullet had struck with particular finality, and Clayborn saw that another shot was not required.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clayborn saw flame belch from iron and heard the first of two shots fired by a stranger to his left. Clayborn whirled and saw two men standing behind him—two men who had intended to shoot him in the back when their friend, the large man, had been killed.
The stranger fired the second shot so quickly that the sounds of the two shots combined into a single percussion that rocked the room. Both men went down, the first one falling flat on a table as a result of being shot low in the stomach, the other man hurled backwards as a result of a bullet between the eyes.
Clayborn and the stranger stood their ground, weapons at the ready, in case any others in the crowd wished to press the point. None did.
“Much obliged, mister,” Clayborn said, never meaning words so earnestly. A shiver raced down his spine as he realized how close he had come to death.
The stranger glanced over and nodded. Then he plucked two cartridges from his gun belt and reloaded the weapon on the spot. After he holstered his pistol, the stranger turned back to the bar. “Whiskey.”
LIX.
On Friday at about noon, Julie heard a knock on the schoolhouse door. Sitting at her desk, she had been absorbed in the Book of Romans, written in the early spring of A.D. 57 by the apostle Paul in Corinth to the church at Rome to explain the Good News of salvation.
She stood up and walked to the door. When she opened it, she was pleasantly surprised to see Parson Blane. He smiled and said, “Hello, Miss Weber, I hope I’m not disturbing you. I figured you probably take a lunch break around noon, and I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Hello, Parson. You’re not disturbing me at all. I’m glad to see you. Come in.”
After Blane removed his hat and stepped through the doorway, he looked around in amazement. “Where’s the children?”
“If you’ve come to see children, Parson, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to their homes and pry them away from chores.”
“You mean the children haven’t come to school?”
Julie looked up into his eyes. “Not one for the entire week.”
“Oh, Julie. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“But why are you here if there’s no students?”
“I’m here because I’m the teacher, and this is a school day. This is where I belong, and I’ve decided I’ll stay here everyday whether the children come or not.”
“Humph.” Blane glanced into her eyes and nodded. “I understand.”
“What do you have there in your hand?”
“It’s what I’ve written so far.”
“Of course. Your treatise on the Book of St. Luke.”
“I thought...well...you said you might help me by taking a look at it.”
“I’d be happy to, Parson. Here, let me see.”
She reached out, and Blane glanced down, noticing a beautifully feminine hand.
“I figured I’d drop it off so you could look it over when you have some free time. I don’t need it back right away. I thought I’d take a break from writing for a few days.”
“All right. Would you like me to give it back to you at church on Sunday? That way, you won’t have to make a special trip out here next week.”
“Oh, I don’t mind making the trip.”
Julie glanced up and smiled. “All right.”
Blane watched her turn and place the pages on her desk. “Well, uh, I guess I better get going.”
“Thank you for stopping by, Parson.”
“My pleasure, Miss Weber. Thank you for taking a look at what I’ve written. I hope you can read my chicken scratch.”
“From what I’ve glimpsed, it looks like you have nice penmanship. I don’t think I’ll have any problems at all.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled.
Blane found himself smiling too. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. As he was putting on his hat, he said, “That’s a good-looking palomino.”
Julie followed him out the door and walked past him to the horse. “Parson Blane, I’d like you to meet Grace, the prettiest mare in the West!”
Blane chuckled. He took off his hat and bowed from the waist, “Hello, Grace. I believe Miss Weber is right. You’re about the prettiest horse I’ve seen in a long, long time.”
Julie laughed. “And this one is yours.” She stepped around Grace to the Black. “He’s beautiful, Parson.”
“Thank you. That’s part of why I need to take a break from writing for a few days. The big boy needs some exercise.” He walked over and patted the animal on the chest.
“Where do you ride?”
“Oh, I’ve got a few favorite spots.” He turned toward Julie. “Maybe you and I could go on a ride together sometime.”
She glanced up. “May...be.”
LX.
When James Gainsford, the Marshal of Great Bend, rushed into the saloon and saw three men dead on the floor, he was furious. He walked over to the bartender. “What happened, Joe?”
“That big man on the floor started a fight with that man.” The bartender pointed at Clayborn. “Then the other two on the floor were about to shoot him in the back, when that man gunned them down.” He pointed at the stranger who had saved Clayborn’s life. “Everyone saw it, Marshal. The big man started the whole thing.”
Gainsford pointed at Clayborn and the stranger. “You two come with me.”
“What for?” the stranger protested.
“You’re gonna fill out a report and then you’re gonna get out of town. That’s what for!”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Marshal.”
“According to the law, that’s right. But we got a rule in this town. If you murder a man, you go to jail. If you kill a man in self-defense, you fill out a report and you leave town. It’s either that, or I throw you in jail until you fill out a report and leave town. That’s the rule. No argument.”
“Marshal?” the bartender said, crooking his finger.
Gainsford leaned over and the bartender whispered, “I’ve seen a lot of gunplay in here. But, Marshal, never in my life have I seen someone as fast with a gun as that one.” He nodded toward the stranger.
Gainsford straightened up and looked the bartender in the eyes. The bartender raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Okay,” Gainsford said, “I always check them against wanted posters anyway. Thanks, Joe.”
An hour later Clayborn and the stranger, who had said his name was George Digby, walked out of the marshal’s office. Digby turned to Clayborn. “So, you’re a lawman going to Abilene? I’m on my way to Abilene too. I got some business there. Mind if I ride along?”
“Not at all. It’ll make the trip go faster. But I’m bushed. I won’t be able to ride far tonight.”
“Well, we can’t stay in town, otherwise Gainsford is gonna throw us in jail. I don’t like being pushed though.”
Clayborn glanced over. “The marshal seemed serious enough, and this town is nothin’ but trouble. What do ya say we mount up? Where’s your horse?”
“In front of the saloon.”
“Yeah, mine too. Let’s get goin’.”
The two mounted up and rode north out of town. The temperature had cooled from what had been a hot day, and the moon was almost full, which provided ample light to see the trail.
They rode for about an hour. Clayborn felt weary, and his eyelids continually drooped. Finally, Digby said, “What about over there in that stand of trees? I’ll build a fire, and then we can get some sleep.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
A half hour later, Digby had lit the fire and put on coffee. Clayborn had rolled up in his blanket and lay motionless. Digby could hear Clayborn’s steady breathing, interspersed with faint snoring.
Digby sat by the fire for almost a quarter of an hour, drinking coffee and occasionally glancing at Clayborn. All the while he carefully listened to Clayborn’s breathing to detect any change.
Finally, Digby stood up and walked over to Clayborn. He stood motionless for several moments. Then he knelt down and quietly began rummaging through Clayborn’s gear.
Clayborn was traveling light. One saddlebag was filled with a few personal items: a shaving kit, a small mirror, and a hair brush. Alongside the kit were a couple of boxes of handgun ammunition and a box of rifle shells.
The other saddlebag contained a change of clothes: a shirt, pants, a couple of pairs of socks, and a bandana. At the bottom of the saddlebag beneath the clothes, Digby found a spare pistol. He looked over at Clayborn for a moment, making sure the man was still asleep. He then strapped the saddlebags closed.
He stood up and once again looked at Clayborn. He stood motionless for several moments, watching the man. Then he stepped over to the fire and sat down. After he had finished drinking the rest of his coffee, he spread out his bedroll and lay down. But he did not close his eyes.
When the sun came up, Clayborn’s dream gently deposited him on the doorstep of wakefulness. He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. After a moment, he rolled over. Digby was sitting by the fire, pointing a gun at him!
TO BE CONTINUED
