Town Tamers (29 page)

F
inding their camp was easy.

The smoke gave them away. They’d kindled a fire and made themselves comfortable. A log had been pulled up for Studevant and he was drinking coffee and going on about something or other.

Marshal Pollard had hunkered across from him with a tin cup in both hands and was sipping and listening.

Deputy Agar stood nearby, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.

The other deputies, all five of them, were lounging and talking.

Concealed by the low branches of a spruce, Asa took a deep breath. He was about to do something reckless, and he didn’t give a damn.

The Winchester shotgun held one in the chamber and four in the magazine. Five shots weren’t enough to drop eight shooters, but he didn’t care about that, either.

There sat Arthur Studevant. Who had raped a young woman. Who’d had others beaten. Who had people murdered. Just to further his own ends.

Asa didn’t care about that, either.

Not anymore.

All that mattered to Asa was that his son had been beaten and shot and his daughter hurt.

This wasn’t about town taming anymore.

This was personal.

Squaring his shoulders, Asa marched into the clearing. They didn’t see him right away.

It was the marshal who noticed first. His mouth fell and he sat stock-still with the tin cup halfway to his mouth.

“. . . should be back by sunset,” Studevant was saying. “That’s what they told me and they always keep their word.”

“It will be something if those Gray fellas of yours bring the Delawares back alive,” Deputy Agar said.

By then Asa was close enough and he stopped and said, “They won’t be bringing anyone back.”

Studevant gaped.

The five deputies looked confounded.

Deputy Agar bawled, “It’s him!” and went for his hardware.

Asa shot him in the chest.

At twelve feet the force was enough to hurl Agar off his feet and the spread was enough to blow a hole in him as wide as a watermelon.

Before the body hit, Asa had jacked the lever and pointed the Winchester at the Lord of Ordville. “Guess who is next.”

Arthur Studevant took a swallow of coffee and said, “Well, now. This is an unexpected development.”

“Your Gray Ghosts send their regards from hell,” Asa said.

“You killed both of them? I’m impressed.”

“I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to end your days.”

“Asa Delaware,” Marshal Pollard said. “I was right that it was you and yours. I figured it out after we left town this morning. I should have figured it sooner but you threw me off with those disguises and that kissin’ business.”

“It was supposed to throw you off.” Asa took a couple of steps so the tin star didn’t block his view of the deputies.

“What do you want, Delaware?” Studevant said.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Asa was so eager to squeeze the trigger, he had to will himself not to.

“You do me and the others will gun you.”

“Count on it,” Marshal Pollard said.

“A grown man should know when to keep his mouth shut,” Asa said, and curled his finger on the trigger.

Pollard had no chance to react. The blast slammed him off his heels and smashed him flat onto his back with most of his neck missing and his face mangled.

Asa worked the lever and again swung the shotgun at Studevant.

“Here now. You can’t shoot me in cold blood.”

“Funny words coming from you.”

Studevant glanced at the deputies. “Carnes? The rest of you? What are you waiting for? You’re five to his one and he can’t have more than a few shots left.”

A deputy with a walrus mustache stood. “Just so we’re clear. If I gun this old goat, I get Pollard’s star?”

“The job is yours, Carnes,” Studevant said.

“You hear that, boys?” Carnes said to the other deputies. “I’m your new boss. Anyone who wants to keep his job, the ball is about to drop.” He squared on Asa and sneered. “You can’t kill all five of us, mister.”

“I don’t know,” Asa said. “As bunched together as you are—” He didn’t finish. He shot Carnes in the head, pumped the lever, and shot at two deputies who were shoulder to shoulder. The buckshot riddled both, and that left two who were further apart. He charged them as they drew. With a flick of his wrist he fed the last shell into the chamber and took off the top of the quickest’s head.

Not breaking stride, Asa drove the stock into the mouth of the last, drove it once, twice, and a third time. The man crumbled, gagging and spitting blood and teeth. Asa kicked him in the neck, and he went limp.

Asa reached for his cartridge belt.

Behind him, a gun hammer clicked. “I wouldn’t, were I you.”

Asa imitated stone.

“You can turn around,” Arthur Studevant said. “I want to see your face when I do it.”

“I want the same thing,” Asa said as he slowly rotated. He let go of the Winchester and it clattered at his feet. Crossing his hands in front of him, he stood as if meekly awaiting his fate.

Studevant had risen and held a short-barreled Starr revolver he must have produced from under his jacket. “I can’t describe the pleasure this will give me.”

“I’ve noticed you like to hurt folks,” Asa said.

“Only those who stand in my way.” Studevant’s eyes glittered with spite. “I’d love to beat you to death with my cane, but I don’t know where your brats are, so I’d better get this over with.”

“I would have liked to take my time with you, too,” Asa said. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

“I do,” Studevant said. “I always have my way.”

“At what cost?” Asa said.

Arthur Studevant laughed. “At no cost to me but at great cost to others. And do you know what? It doesn’t bother me a bit, grinding others under my heel. The little people of this world have only themselves to blame for being little. I’m worth more than all of them put together. I’m important. I matter. I’m
somebody
.”

“You’re dead,” Asa said, and in a flash he raised the Remington derringer and shot Studevant smack between his important eyes.

T
hey had placed four tables together at one end of the outside café at the Poetry House so that there were enough seats.

They all came.

Cecilia Preston, smiling, at peace with herself for the first time since the murder of her husband.

Cornice Baker, who would never be at peace again, the memory of her daughter searing her every waking hour.

Bedelia Huttingcot, the dove who gave up selling her charms for money at the cost of being scarred the rest of her days.

The miner who had stood up to Studevant and had his house burned down and his little girl along with it.

They all came.

Asa, wearing his derby and slicker and usual clothes, listened to their thanks and shook their hands, some with tears in their eyes. He said little.

Noona had on her everyday clothes. She smiled and told them no thanks was needed, that it was what they did for a living.

Byron didn’t say much, either. He sat across from Asa and they stared at each other without hostility for the first time in a very long time.

At last everyone had said their piece and got up to go.

Cecilia Preston put her hand on Asa’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “What you did was no small thing.”

“Like my daughter told you, it’s what we do.”

“You have saved lives. You have saved God knows how many from suffering as we have.”

Cecilia rose onto the tips of her toes and kissed him.

“God be with you, Asa Delaware.”

“Carter,” Asa said. “It’s Asa Carter.”

Then the townsfolk were gone and the three of them were alone.

Noona said huskily, “Well.” She embraced Byron and kissed him. “I’ll miss you, idiot.”

Byron managed a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry, sis.”

“Don’t you ever be,” Noona said. “You’re happy. You have found peace.” She grinned and poked him in the ribs. “Or at least that Olivia gal.” She touched his face, and smiled, and turned away.

It was Asa’s turn. “There are no words,” was all he could say.

“I love you, Pa.”

Asa looked down at his boots and had the illusion they were misty as from falling rain. He blinked and recovered enough to say, “I love you, too, son. I wish you the best.”

“It’s not like we’ll never see each other again. I’ll come visit you two, and you two better come visit me.”

“We will.”

Asa started to turn but stopped and opened his arms and they hugged. For a moment, in his mind, Asa was holding a ten-year-old cheerful bundle of vigor, and it was almost more than he could endure.

Asa and Noona shouldered their carpetbags and their weapons and bent their steps toward the train station.

For Asa, sounds seemed to come as if from a great distance, and the street seemed strangely deserted even though it was full of people. “Damn,” he said.

“I know,” Noona said.

“How about you? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to anymore.”

“I like killing bad people. I like it a lot.”

“Some would say it’s not fit work for a female.”

“This female doesn’t care what other people think. I live as suits me, not as suits anyone else.” Noona grinned. “I learned that from my pa.”

Asa stood straighter and gave his head a toss, and suddenly the world around him was restored to its usual state.

“I can’t wait to get home and relax for a spell,” Noona said.

Asa made a strange face and said, “Uh-oh.”

“Don’t tell me. So soon?”

“I had my mail relayed, and a letter caught up to me from the mayor of a small town called Kimbro.”

“Are you sure it’s the mayor this time?”

Asa laughed.

“Let me guess. They have some bad men who are giving them problems?”

“They do.”

“Then we’ll rest up a day when we get home, and get to it. We are the town tamers, after all.”

“That we are,” Asa said.

Read on for an excerpt from David Robbins’s

BLOOD FEUD

Now available from Signet.

S
ummer green clothed the rugged slopes and deep valleys of the Ozark Mountains. Bears and cougars prowled, coyotes yipped and coons ran, and a wealth of birds warbled and sang. It was a beautiful land, and it was a beautiful girl who came to Harkey Hollow.

The girl was all of eighteen. Tawny of skin, with corn silk hair, she moved with agile grace. She wore a plain homespun dress, green like the world around her, and nothing else. Her feet were bare. They had never known shoes.

Scarlet Shannon was her name, and she was where she should not have been.

Scarlet knew better than to come to Harkey Hollow, but she was fond of blackberries and they grew thick and delicious. She was wary but sure of herself, ready to flee should there be cause. She pricked her ears, and her eyes darted like a doe’s on the lookout for wolves.

The vegetation thinned. Scarlet hunkered behind a sugarberry tree and surveyed the hollow. The blackberry bushes were as thick as ever and hung heavy with plump berries.

Save for a few bees and a swallowtail butterfly, nothing moved. The only sound was the tweet of a wren.

Scarlet moved into the open. She hefted the old wooden pail she’d brought and scooted to the nearest blackberry bush. She plucked a ripe berry and plopped it into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she chewed slowly, swallowed, and grinned. She commenced to pick berries as fast as her fingers could fly. Every so often she glanced about her.

The sun’s golden glow splashed the hollow and the surrounding woodland, lending the illusion that all was well.

Scarlet went on picking. For every two she put in the pail, she helped herself to another. She plucked and ate, plucked and ate, moving deeper into the patch as she went. Once she looked up and saw how far she had gone and took a step as if to turn back but shook her head and continued plucking.

The cicadas stopped buzzing.

Somewhere a squirrel chattered as though it was angry and a blue jay screeched noisily.

Scarlet’s pail was half full. She came to a bush with some of the biggest blackberries yet and put two in her mouth. She bent to get at those near the bottom and heard the blue jay do more screeching. Belatedly, she realized what it might mean. Her fingers froze midway to a berry.

Just then the forest became completely still.

Scarcely breathing, Scarlet rose high enough to peer over the bushes. She scanned the woods. A goldfinch and its mate took wing and she studied the shadows where the birds had come out of the trees. Her whole body went rigid with dread.

Some of the shadows were moving.

Crouching, Scarlet moved deeper into the patch. She held the pail with one hand and the handle with the other so the handle wouldn’t squeak. Rounding a bend, she flattened on her belly as close to the bushes as she could without being pricked by thorns. She folded her arms and rested her chin on her wrist. Time crawled. So did a large black ant, practically under her chin. The temperature climbed. She closed her eyes and fought the tension inside her. The crunch of a twig brought her out of herself.

Harsh laughter pealed and a voice like the rasp of a file on a corn cutter hollered, “You might as well show yourself, girl. We know you’re in there.”

Scarlet bit her lower lip and felt the blood drain from her face.

“You hear me? We were coming for berries and seen you.”

Quietly, Scarlet rose but stayed stooped over. By small fractions she unfurled to where she could see over the bushes.

“We got you surrounded. You ain’t going to get past us nohow. Make it easy. Come on out. You don’t, you’re liable to make us mad.”

Scarlet counted seven heads. She dipped low and moved along the path, seeking another way out. But it appeared to be the
only
path, and meandered helter-skelter. Worse, it was taking her deeper into the hollow.

“We know you ain’t a Harkey,” the voice went on. “That means you’re one of
them
. You got grit coming here, girl, but it was awful stupid. What, there ain’t no blackberries on your side of the ridge?”

Some of the others thought that was funny. Scarlet almost went past a gap in the bushes. An animal trail, not as wide as she was, but it was better than being cornered. Flattening and holding the pail in front of her, she crawled. Brambles snatched at her dress and scratched her arms.

“I’m patient, missy, but I won’t wait forever,” the voice warned. “Either you show yourself or we’re coming in. And if you make us do it the hard way, there will be hell to pay. We’ll take it out of your hide.”

Scarlet wasn’t overly scared yet. She had confidence in her ability to outrun them if she could find her way out without being spotted. She wriggled along, wincing when she was scratched, until she came to the thicket’s edge. A shadow moved across the opening. One of her enemies was out there, pacing back and forth.

“Come on, girl,” the voice urged. “Don’t be this way. You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting away. Come out and I’ll treat you nice. You have my word.”

As careful as she could, Scarlet stuck her head out. A stocky block of muscle with no shirt and no shoes had his back to her. She drew her head back before he turned.

“Which one are you?” the voice called. “I don’t know all of you by sight. Those I’ve laid eyes on over to Wareagle won’t hardly ever give me the time of day.”

Scarlet had a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it. She slid the pail to the opening and deliberately moved the handle so it squeaked. Dirty feet appeared and a freckled face lowered and fingers as thick as railroad spikes reached down.

“Rabon! I done found her pail!”

Scarlet exploded into motion. She was out of the gap like a fox-chased cottontail out of a hollow log. Some girls would have scratched or pushed, but she punched him flush on the jaw. He fell onto his backside and grunted, more surprised than anything. It gained her the seconds she needed to wheel and flee into the forest. Her pail and the blackberries were forgotten. She had something more important to think of.

Scarlet flew. Shouts and the thud of pounding feet told her they were after her. She glanced back and her confidence climbed. She had a good lead. There wasn’t a boy anywhere who could catch her when she had a good lead. She flew, and she laughed. Her legs were tireless. She had taken part in footraces since she was knee-high to a calf, and could go forever. She needed that stamina now to make it over the crest before they caught her. Once she was on the other side, she was in Shannon territory. They didn’t dare follow.

Scarlet’s dress whipped about her. Her long legs flashed. The soles of her feet slapped the ground in a rhythmic beat. She glanced back again and laughed louder. She had increased her lead by a good ten yards. She vaulted a log and avoided a boulder and came to a leaf-covered slope where the footing was treacherous. She slipped but recovered and churned higher. Something moved in the leaves, a snake, and she bounded aside.

A rock missed her ear by a whisker.

Startled, Scarlet ran faster. She hadn’t thought they would resort to rocks. But then they
were
Harkeys, and as her pa liked to say, the Harkeys were worthless no-accounts. She concentrated on running and only running. A flat clear stretch gave her a chance to put more distance between them. She was almost to a stand of maples when pain flared in her left leg and it buckled under her and the next thing she knew she was tumbling cattywampus. She hit so hard, the breath was knocked from her lungs. She lay dazed, her ears ringing, her vision blurred, struggling against an inner tide of darkness.

Voices and a poke in the ribs brought her back to the here and now.

Scarlet blinked and looked up and felt the way a raccoon must feel when it was ringed by dogs. The seven of them were puffing and sweaty from the chase. Only four wore shirts, and the shirts they wore were little more than rags with buttons. The biggest had a shock of black hair that fell in bangs over bushy brows. His dark eyes regarded her as her little brother used to regard the hard candy in the general store at Wareagle.

“Well, well, well. Ain’t you a looker?”

Scarlet realized her dress had hiked halfway to her hips. She sat up and smoothed it and stood straight and tall. Her left leg still hurt and when she put pressure on it, she winced. “Who threw that rock?”

“The one that hit you?” the big one said, and chortled. “That would be me. Good aim, huh?”

Scarlet hit him. She punched him on the jaw as she had punched the other one, but where the other one went down, the big one didn’t. His head rocked and he put his hand to his chin and did the last thing she expected; he laughed.

“Not bad. I’ve been hit harder but only by them that was larger than me, which ain’t many.”

“What do you want? Who are you, anyhow?”

“As if you don’t know. We’re Harkeys, all of us. I’m Rabon Harkey and these here are my brothers and my cousins.”

“You’re a Shannon, ain’t you?” one of the others said. “You look like a Shannon with that yellow hair and those blue eyes.”

“She’s a Shannon,” Rabon said. “She can deny it but we know better and now she’s in a fix.”

Scarlet put her hands on her hips. “I was picking berries. You had no right to come after me like you done.”

“You’re on Harkey land,” Rabon said. “That’s all the right we need.” He took a step and poked her, hard, in the shoulder. “What, you reckoned that since you’re a girl we’d go easy on you? That you could sneak in and steal our berries and if we caught you we’d let you go?”

“They’re not
your
blackberries,” Scarlet said. “They’re there for anyone who is of a mind to pick them.”

Rabon shook his head. “Not if they’re on Harkey land. Harkey blackberries are for Harkeys and no one else.” He crossed his thick arms across his broad chest. “The question is, what do we do with you?”

“You let me go or there will be trouble,” Scarlet warned. “My pa won’t take kindly to you mistreating me. I won’t tell him if you let me be. I give you my word.”

“Is that supposed to scare us?” Rabon snorted, and gestured at the one Scarlet had punched down at the thicket. “Are you scared, Woot?”

“I surely am not, brother,” Woot replied. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’m afeared of a Shannon.”

“What do we do with her?” the smallest and the youngest of them asked.

“We can’t beat her like we would a feller.”

“Why not, Jimbo?” Woot said. “It makes no difference to me. If they’re a Shannon they have it coming.”

Jimbo turned to Rabon. “It wouldn’t be right hitting a female. My ma wouldn’t like it. Your ma, neither.”

“You ever cut free of those apron strings, you might be a man, cousin,” Rabon said. “But you’re right. Pa is always saying as how we need to be nice to ladies. So we’ll be nice to this one if she’s nice to us.”

New fear clutched at Scarlet. “How do you mean?”

Rabon stood so they were almost touching. His breath smelled of onions and his teeth were yellow. “You’re more than old enough. I bet you have already, plenty of times. A few more won’t hardly matter.”

“No,” Scarlet said.

“It ain’t like I’m giving you a choice. It’ll be me first and as many of the rest as want, and you can be on your way.”

“No,” Scarlet said, more forcefully. She went to step around him, but he pushed her back.

“I’m not kidding, neither,” Rabon said. “Here or in the shade yonder. I’ll let you decide that much.”

Scarlet looked at each of them. She saw no pity, no mercy, only resentment of who she was or, rather,
what
she was. The only exception was the young one.

Jimbo; he was troubled. She appealed to him, saying, “Your ma wouldn’t like this. It’s not decent.”

“No, it’s not,” Jimbo agreed, and turned to Rabon. “All she wanted was some blackberries. You do this, everyone in the hills will be against us.”

“She won’t ever tell,” Rabon said, and took hold of Scarlet’s arm. “Will you, girl?”

Before she could respond Jimbo grabbed Rabon’s wrist and pulled his big hand off her. “No. I won’t stand for it. You hear? She’s free to go.”

Rabon’s features twisted in amazement and then fury. Yet he smiled and patted his much smaller cousin on the head and said, “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, the only reason I don’t stomp you into the dirt is because you’re kin. Remember that when you wake up.”

“But I am awake,” Jimbo said.

“You were,” Rabon said, and punched him. Rabon’s knuckles were the size of walnuts, his fist as large as a sledge. His blow lifted Jimbo onto his heels and sent him sprawling in a heap. Rabon rubbed his fist and regarded the rest. “Anyone else object?”

No one did.

Scarlet rammed her shoulder against Woot and drove him back. She was through the ring in a single leap and had taken several more strides when iron fingers locked in her hair and she was jerked off balance and slammed to the ground.

She fought but they were too many and too strong. Her arms and legs were pinned and spread and Rabon reared above her.

“Truth is, girl, I don’t care if your kin find out. I’m tired of the stupid truce. My pa and his stories, he had a lot more fun than me. Now I aim to have me some, thanks to you.”

And Rabon laughed.