CHAPTER 17
The raising of the new barn at the Shooting Star was progressing swiftly, but Colonel Abernathy showed scant interest. Most days he sat alone in his office, brooding, drinking, and talking to himself. The recent string of mishaps and shortcomings, coupled with the growing resistance of the townspeople, gnawed at him.
If he didn’t soon get his hands on Thomas Cookson’s damaging exposé of his business dealings, all he had worked for could be destroyed. No effort—threats, bribery, arson, murder, and now kidnapping—had proved effective. He realized that the growing list of crimes he had orchestrated were enough to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.
As he viewed the situation through the bottom of his tequila glass, he saw nothing but dismal failure from those he had assigned the task of protecting him and his fortune. His inept hired hands had failed him; so had the sheriff. And the troublesome banker.
Abernathy’s mood was more dark and foul than usual when Raff Bailey entered his office to admit his recent foolish behavior. “I got myself drunk and fired some shots at the livery,” he said. “Nobody got hurt, but the sheriff said I was to tell you we’re all now barred from setting foot in any Half Acre saloon.”
The tipsy Colonel was on his feet, preparing to take a swing at him, when Bailey quickly pulled two torn pieces of paper from his hip pocket and laid them on the desk. “Sheriff Langston also said to tell you that he’s arranged for an exchange,” he said.
Abernathy fell back into his chair, put on his glasses, and slowly read the pieces of paper. One was the top of the first page the banker had written, describing his belief that the Shooting Star’s herd had been built on cattle rustling and shady dealings at the local stock pens. The other was the bottom half of a final page where Cookson wrote that he had financial documents proving his claims and was willing to swear everything he had written was the truth. His signature was attached.
The Colonel cursed under his breath. He didn’t have to guess what had been written on the missing pages.
Bailey, still feeling the effects of his daylong bout with cheap rye, struggled to remember everything he’d been told to say.
“You are to deliver the boy to the front steps of St. John’s Catholic. If he is unharmed and there is no shooting, you will get what it is you’re wanting and can ride away free.”
“And when is this to take place?”
“Noon Sunday, just as church services let out.”
“They’re wanting to do it in front of as many witnesses as possible,” Abernathy said. “I assume you’re to report my response.”
Bailey nodded. “As quick as you have an answer.”
“Tell them the boy will be delivered,” the Colonel said.
The plan was Dalton’s and at first Profer had balked. “We’ll lose all of our leverage,” he argued. “Giving up the details Cookson’s notes have provided us lets Abernathy go scot free. I absolutely forbid it. It’s totally foolish and in no way addresses the demand for justice in this matter.”
“I’ve always been a first-things-first kind of thinker,” the marshal said in a calming voice. “If there’s a way to see that little boy back home safe with his mama, to get the Rawlings family back together, I say we’ve got an obligation to do it. Then we can get back to figuring out how to deal with Colonel Abernathy. I promise you, he’ll still pay for what he’s done. I just can’t tell you exactly how or when. What I can promise is I’m not leaving until it happens.”
“Okay, okay,” the old lawyer finally said, “we’ll see to first things first.”
The church bells were chiming as members of the congregation exited into the sunlight, shaking hands with the priest and chatting noisily among themselves. Children dressed in their Sunday best rushed away to play for a few minutes before heading home. For most in the crowd, the only thing to anticipate was Sunday dinner and afternoon naps. Along the edges of the sidewalk, however, were a number of men who had neither heard the sermon nor joined in the singing. They had been summoned to their posts by Shelby Profer, who sat nearby in his buggy. Other guards mingled with the crowd while Dalton and Anson Kelly stood on the steps, shoulder to shoulder with Mandy. Sheriff Langston was alone, watching intently from the shade of a grape arbor.
Though the day was warm, Mandy began to shiver as she watched a half-dozen horses slowly approach.
Dalton squinted in their direction and was pleased to see a small child riding in front of the man who had earlier fired shots into the livery. Mandy, too, recognized the small figure and gripped Ben’s hand. As the riders got closer, he recognized several of the horsemen as Shooting Star cowboys he’d seen from time to time in Half Acre saloons. Colonel Abernathy, however, was not among them.
“Too cowardly to show his face,” Kelly whispered. “That, or he feared being arrested. Or shot.”
Profer was stepping from his buggy, a satchel under his arm, as Raff Bailey gently lifted the child from the saddle and helped him to the ground. Still wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he was taken, he had a frightened look on his face when he saw the large crowd. Then he began to smile and threw out his arms as he heard his mother’s voice and saw her running toward him.
As she lifted Alton into her arms, both were crying.
Profer approached Bailey and handed him the satchel. “I was hoping your boss would come for this himself, so I could give him a message,” the attorney said.
“I’ll pass it along,” Bailey said as he looked inside to be sure it contained what the Colonel was expecting.
“Fine, fine. You can tell him that in my eighty-eight years I’ve never seen a more cowardly act than him taking this child from his mother. There’s a special place in hell for men of his kind, and I’ll make it my final mission in life to see he gets there. I’d appreciate you passing that along, if you’ll be so kind.”
As the cowboys rode away toward the ranch, the churchgoers began to crowd around, at first silently watching the moving mother-son reunion, then bursting into applause. “This,” Mandy whispered to Dalton, “is the miracle I’ve prayed so hard for. Thank you. Thank you all.” Ben gently placed an arm across her shoulders and reached out to touch Alton’s hand.
Nearby, the dog that had befriended the child lay in the grass, panting. He had followed along from Luisa’s roadhouse and was exhausted. Alton, still in his mother’s arms, reached out for him. “They appear to be friends,” Dalton said. “I’ll take him back to the livery and see he gets fresh water and something to eat.” For a moment he found himself thinking of Poncho back on the farm.
People had begun to disperse when another group of riders approached. Three men soon joined the celebration: Duke Keene, Lanny Butler, and a clean-shaven, wide-smiling John Rawlings. Duke had traveled to the cabin and alerted the others that there was no longer a need to hide.
Dalton shook John’s hand, then watched as he and his wife embraced. Alton then climbed into his daddy’s arms.
Shelby Profer was standing near his buggy, watching, as Dalton approached. “You were right,” the lawyer said, “and I admire your wisdom. First things first. I’ll remember that.” He slapped Ben on the back. “To be honest, I can’t recall the last time I felt this good.”
The dog joined them, wagging his tail as Dalton knelt to stroke his fur. “I’m feeling pretty good myself,” he said.
“We should embrace this joyous occasion,” Profer said as he climbed into his buggy, “but there is still much to be done.”
At the Shooting Star, where the Colonel read the papers Bailey had delivered to him, then hurled them across the room, there was little evidence of joy.
Dalton was grooming Dolly and talking with Anson Kelly when Rawlings entered the livery. He had his son in his arms. It had been three days since the events in the churchyard.
“Alton’s been asking about ‘his’ dog,” John said, “so I thought we’d best come pay a visit.”
Dalton whistled and the dog appeared from Dolly’s stall, where he’d been sleeping since his arrival. His ears pointed upward, his brown eyes were bright, and he had obviously been bathed. When he saw the boy, he gave out a single bark and hurried toward him. He was licking Alton’s smiling face even before the youngster’s feet reached the ground.
“How’s everybody doing?” Ben asked as he watched them play.
“Adjusting,” John said. “The little one has some nightmares, so he’s been sleeping with Mandy and me. But he’s getting better, happy to be home. Mandy, she still cries some, though she can’t explain why. Says she’s just happy we’re a family again. So am I.”
He said that his wife would be inviting Ben over for dinner as soon as things have settled. “She wants everyone to come—you, Duke, Lanny, Mr. Profer . . .” He glanced over at Marshal Kelly and smiled. “You’ll be invited, as well.”
“You might suggest she not plan on cooking catfish,” Kelly said. “If she does, I seriously doubt Duke will be able to make it.”
John laughed, then turned serious. “The real reason I’m here, Ben, is to tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. Putting it in the proper words is impossible, but I owe you a debt I can’t possibly ever repay, for your help and a lifetime of being a good friend.”
Dalton quickly turned his attention to Alton, kneeling next to him to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “I realize he’s your friend, and you’re welcome to come visit him anytime you want,” he told the boy, “but since I couldn’t just keep calling him ‘dog,’ I gave him a name.”
“What?” Alton said.
“I call him Too.”
John interrupted. “Too?”
“Yep,” Ben said, “he’s now known as Poncho Too.”