CHAPTER 6
Though the throbbing in his head had ceased and his mind had begun to clear, Dalton still struggled to make sense of the things that had happened to him in the days since his arrival in Fort Worth. It was obvious his presence wasn’t welcome and the questions he’d been asking had displeased people. A picture, fuzzy and still without much shape, was slowly forming. Questions mounted and he had no real idea where to find the answers. Still, he was sure there was something amiss about John Rawlings being accused of murder, and it troubled him.
It occurred to him that he should talk to Mandy again and share his concerns, but he dismissed the idea of doing so immediately. In the first place, he really knew little more than he had when he first got to town. Second, he wanted his bruises to fade and be able to take a step without grimacing before he paid her another visit.
“Seems you’re feeling better,” Duke Keene said as he watched his visitor brush Dolly. “Wouldn’t advise entering no rodeos just yet, but I think you’re soon gonna be good as new.”
“I’m thinking of taking a ride over to the hotel so I can get my money and pay what I owe you.”
“That’ll be exactly nothing,” the livery owner said. “Fact of the matter is, I’m thinking it don’t make a lot of sense for you to be paying a dollar a day to stay there when my tack room and all its fine comforts are free for nothing as long as you need it.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Won’t be no bother,” Keene said. “Like I’ve done told you, it’s nice having someone to talk to besides myself and the livestock. And it ain’t likely you’ll be here that long anyway since there’s folks already wanting to run you out of town.” With the last observation, he chuckled. “Now that’s settled, we’ll get you saddled up and you can ride over to that hotel and get your belongings, then come on back. I’ll be expecting you to buy me some breakfast when you return.”
Later in the day, Dalton thought, he also needed to pay a visit to the laundry and give the women there a proper show of his appreciation. He knew that it was quite likely they had saved his life. He asked Duke where he could buy some penny candy for the little girl who rescued his hat.
In a shabby roadhouse several miles south of town, Sheriff Langston and Colonel Abernathy sat drinking tequila and talking in whispers despite the fact that they were the only ones in the place other than Luisa, the owner and cook. Scattered on the dirt floor around their table were discarded corn shucks from the tamales she had prepared for them.
“He looks like he was hit by a train,” the sheriff said. “He’s real beat up, limping around ol’ man Keene’s livery right now. My guess is that as soon as he’s fit to ride, he’ll be on his way.”
The Colonel poured himself another shot and cursed. “He wasn’t supposed to still be alive. And what about Rawlings?”
“Just sits in his cell, moaning and looking like his dog died. He’s not causing any trouble. His wife—a pretty little thing—came to see him the other day, but I told her visiting wasn’t allowed.”
“What if the lawyer was to get so lonely and dejected he hangs himself in his cell some night? Or tries escaping, making it necessary for a guard to shoot him?”
The sheriff shook his head. “We’ve got to be careful about the way we do things,” he said. “Trust me to handle it.” He barely made eye contact with the Colonel as he spoke. The man scared him.
“Just be sure and see to it that you do,” Abernathy said as he reached into his pocket, removed a pouch filled with gold coins, and pitched it across the table.
Ten years earlier, Colonel Raymond J. Abernathy had come to Fort Worth from Brownsville and paid cash for a small ranch that immediately began to grow and expand until, in just a few years, it was one of the largest spreads in North Texas. Tall and robust with a head of snow-white hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he was a secretive sort, never making mention that his military rank had been attained as a Union soldier rather than as a fighter for the Confederacy. Nor was anyone aware of how he had accumulated the money to buy his land. Some wondered if he might be from a rich family. Others had suspicions that his money had come by some illegal manner but kept the notion to themselves. And for good reason.
Abernathy’s younger days had, in fact, been spent along the border, evading the law as he rode with a band of Mexican cattle rustlers, robbed stage coaches, and was involved in a number of gunfights that he always seemed to win. He was never one to embrace fair play; it was said he once shot a man in the back after the man had rightfully accused him of cheating at cards.
A frugal man, he had no interest in a wife and family and had already accumulated a sizable stake before traveling north to join the Union. And by the time the war ended, he was ready to chase his dream of becoming a man of substantial means. Purchasing the Shooting Star at a cheap price after threatening the previous owner and his family was a start.
A familiar face around the Fort Worth stock pens where arriving herds were kept, he occasionally made legitimate purchases. However, when it came time for the cattle he’d bought to be delivered to his ranch, a willing and well-paid cowhand whom he’d quietly dealt with would arrive with a dozen or more Longhorns that the Colonel hadn’t paid for.
In time, after the number of stolen cattle had grown, he would order them driven back to the stockyards, bearing his own brand, and sold. The scheme had added considerably to the Colonel’s growing wealth and enabled him to continue accumulating small farms and ranches from frightened owners his men had threatened and driven from their land. If it meant burning a barn or two or the midnight rustling of a small herd from time to time, such was the price of doing business.
So, too, were the payments that ensured that the sheriff could be counted on to look the other way.
Abernathy’s philosophy was simple: Money meant power. And once he had enough of the first, the second came easily. Anyone who got in his way did so at great risk.
And this stranger from Aberdene was definitely in the way.
As he left the roadhouse, Abernathy nodded to the men who had waited outside while he spoke with the sheriff. They were quickly on their horses, ready to escort their boss back to the ranch.
“I’m told that the man you boys paid a visit to the other evening is now up and about, mending nicely at Duke Keene’s livery,” the Colonel said. The tone of his voice left little doubt that he was not pleased.
In town, Ben Dalton waited while the hotel owner retrieved his saddlebag from the locked chest behind the counter. “Smart that you took advantage of our safekeeping service,” the man said. “My woman who tidies up the rooms told me that you had visitors the other day. They had let themselves into your room and were looking around when she walked in to do her dusting. Said they weren’t at all friendly and left in quite a hurry.”
Dalton counted out what he owed for the room as the man behind the desk stared at his bruised face. “I assume you’re taking leave of our city,” he finally said.
He got no reply. Dalton was busy digging in his saddlebag for something he’d placed there before leaving Aberdene. After locating it and polishing his badge on his shirt sleeve, he attached it to his belt. He knew full well that he had no jurisdiction in Fort Worth, but it felt good to be wearing it.
Back at the livery, he tried to help Keene muck the stalls but was of little use as sharp pains ran down his rib cage every time he lifted a fork. “Don’t go taking this wrong,” Duke said, “but you could be more useful if you was to just get out of the way.”
Dalton retreated to a bench, silently watching as Duke completed his chores.
“Don’t recall you mentioning you’re a lawman,” Keene said, pointing toward the gold badge. “For that matter, you’ve not said what it is you’re doing in town, ’cept getting yourself beat up. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”
Dalton briefly explained his purpose, leaving out the fact that he had been summoned by Mandy Rawlings.
“Done stuck your head in a wasp’s nest, I reckon,” Duke said. “This ain’t the friendliest of places on its best of days, unless you’ve driven cattle here or are looking to make a fool of yourself over in the Acre. Strangers aren’t commonly welcome, particular if they’re poking around in another man’s business. I’ve lived here all my life and know that to be God’s truth. I’ve lived to this ripe old age by keeping my head down and tending my own knitting.
“I’ve got no personal knowledge of your friend, never having need for a lawyer myself, thank the stars. But if he’s got himself on the wrong side of Otto Langston, I’d say he’s in a heap of trouble.”
“What can you tell me about the sheriff?”
Duke turned his head toward the entrance of the livery, as if to make sure no one else was around. “He’s crooked as a snake. Been wearing his badge forever, it seems, and has managed to keep the right folks on his side. Done right well for himself from what I’m told, able to afford things a man on his salary ain’t likely to. You can figure that out for yourself.
“In Fort Worth, what Sheriff Langston says goes, no question asked. Cross him, and likely as not you’ll be visiting his jail or on your way out of town. I think he’s done given you your choice.”
While Duke went to get them coffee, Dalton pondered what he’d heard. “Maybe me staying here isn’t a good idea,” he said. “I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way on my account.”
Keene chuckled. “I ain’t concerned,” he said. “Man my age is no worry—or benefit—to anybody.”
Two nights later, someone set fire to the livery.