CHAPTER 20
Sitting in his office, Sheriff Langston reluctantly accepted Dalton’s invitation to take a day ride out to Glen Rose Valley. Since Kelly had told Ben of his brief conversation with John Rawlings, the idea of seeing what the Colonel was up to had consumed his thoughts. It was time to make the owner of the Shooting Star aware that he had not been forgotten.
“We’ll not be welcome,” the sheriff warned as he unsuccessfully argued against the idea.
“We won’t trespass,” Ben said. “I just want to get close enough to have us a look through your spyglass.”
As he spoke, Langston had tapped out his pipe and was already taking two rifles from the gun case behind his desk. “If we’re going,” he said, “let’s get it over with. I know a little roadhouse along the way where we can have us some dinner.”
They rode in silence as the day quickly warmed. Finally, the sheriff spoke. “What good do you anticipate coming from this trip?”
“Can’t say. None, probably, but I’m tired of waiting for Abernathy to make the next move. You got any thoughts on what he might be thinking?”
“It won’t be nothing good, that I can assure you.” As he spoke he was pointing toward the faint chimney smoke rising from a small adobe building in the distance. “Yonder is Miss Luisa’s place. She’s unfriendly as a woke-up copperhead but makes real good tamales.”
Her ill-tempered greeting lent credence to Langston’s warning. She eyed the two men warily before nodding toward a table. “Is your other friend coming?” she said.
“Nope, just us. We’ll not be needing tequila today.” Langston didn’t bother explaining that this had long been his and the Colonel’s private meeting place.
They ate quickly, washing their meal down with day-old sweet tea. Luisa was hurriedly wiping the table even before they left their chairs. “When you see Señor Abernathy,” she said, “tell him he still owes me money for watching that boy,” she said. “And somebody should pay me for my dog that’s gone missing.”
Dalton glared across the table at the sheriff.
“I didn’t have any idea,” Langston said. “Swear to God.”
“If I ever find out you did . . .” Ben ended his threat in midthought, gritting his teeth as he walked away.
After a short ride they reached a mesa that afforded them a good view of the ranch. They tethered the horses in a stand of oak trees and stretched out on a large rock formation. The sheriff handed his gold-plated spyglass to Dalton.
In the distance he could see the newly built gate and guardhouse. In every direction he looked, men were riding along the fences, rifles across their saddles. They would occasionally stop and take long looks into the distance, then continue. In the compound, however, there was little activity. The corral was empty except for a half-dozen goats and a few chickens, and the doors of the new barn were shut. Focusing on the main house, Dalton could see no activity.
“They’ve hunkered down,” he said. “There’s not much ranch work going on that I can see. Everybody’s standing guard, like they’re expecting a raid. It makes no sense.”
“That’s just the Colonel taking extra care,” the sheriff said. “All he’s worried about is his own sorry hide. He’s built a fort around himself. You seen enough?”
“Let’s wait a little longer and see if he shows himself.”
It was almost two hours before Abernathy finally stepped out on his front porch, flanked by two armed ranch hands.
Dalton watched as the Colonel lit a cigar, talked briefly with his men, then slowly paced the length of the porch. “He looks nervous, like he’s expecting someone to jump out of the bushes and shoot him.”
“If that happens,” the sheriff said, “I’ll be wanting my glass returned so I can see it for myself.”
“Let’s head back,” Dalton said. “I’ve seen what I came to see.”
He was untying the horses when there was a rustle in the nearby bushes. Then one of the ranch hands stepped into view, pointing a cocked rifle. He had been alerted to their presence by the guard keeping watch from the loft of the barn. There was a slight tremor in his voice as he ordered the intruders to raise their hands. “And they best be empty,” he said.
Though he couldn’t recall his name, the sheriff recognized the young cowboy. He’d spent some time in the jailhouse drunk cage. “You’ve got no cause for this,” Langston said. “We’re not trespassing on Shooting Star property.”
“But you’re spying on it, ain’t you? I figure that’s just as bad. I’ll thank you to let your gun belts fall to the ground and get on your horses. Head them down to the main gate.”
As the sheriff climbed into his saddle, he glanced over at Dalton. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.
Ben just nodded. “And turns out you were exactly right.”
They were ushered into Colonel Abernathy’s office, where he sat smiling. Two men stood by the door, another at his side.
“The governor don’t get this amount of protection,” Dalton said.
“ ’Cause he doesn’t have the money I do,” Abernathy shot back. “Tell me what it is you boys are doing out this way, spying on my property.”
Neither replied.
“I’m of a mind to just have you both shot and be done with it. I suspect a stranger from out of town and a betraying, lying sheriff wouldn’t be too greatly missed. Besides, you were trespassing as far as I’m concerned.” He removed his Colt from its holster and placed it on the desk. “First, though, I want to offer a suggestion that just might provide a way to see your sorry lives spared.”
The sheriff was no longer attempting to hide his apprehension. “What would that be?” he said.
“First of all,” the Colonel said, “Mr. Dalton here gets on his horse and rides back to wherever he came from, promising never to show his face in these parts again. I’ll thank him to take that prissy lawyer, Rawlings, with him as well. Second, things go back to the way they used to be. I get full cooperation for my business dealings.” He pointed toward the sheriff. “Starting with you.”
One of the cowboys standing behind him cleared his throat. “Oh, and my men will again be welcomed to whatever drinking establishment they choose.”
Dalton leaned forward and placed his palms on the corner of Abernathy’s desk, convinced he had only a few seconds to live. “You think people are just going to forget the things you’ve done? The people you’ve killed and robbed and run off their land?” he said. “Just today I saw where you kept that little boy and it made me wonder what kind of a man could even consider such a thing. You’ve got no right to even be breathing.”
The Colonel was reaching for his pistol when a series of explosions rattled the windows and shook the floor. His gun slid from the desk and the guard standing nearby lost his balance and fell to his knees.
Having no idea what had just happened, Dalton and the sheriff were quickly on their feet and out the door, running toward their horses.
Earlier, Anson Kelly had argued against the proposed trip as strongly as the sheriff. There was nothing to be gained from it, he pointed out, but if Dalton was so stubbornly determined, he would go with him. Ben had declined the offer, saying it would be best if Kelly remained in town and looked after things at the livery.
His horse was saddled and waiting as he watched Ben and the sheriff ride away. After making a quick purchase at the feedstore, he tracked them to the roadhouse, then on toward the Shooting Star. He then hid in a shallow gully to watch as his friends were ultimately captured and escorted to the ranch.
Lighting the corncob pipe he had borrowed from Keene and hiding his sidearm in his saddlebag, he casually rode toward the entrance to the Shooting Star. When a cowboy emerged with a raised rifle, ordering him to stop, Kelly gave a look of mock fear and lifted his hands. “I’ve just come looking for work,” he said. “I mean no harm.”
The weary guard lowered his rifle and turned to announce a “stand down” to another hand who had remained in the guardhouse, napping. The short diversion allowed Kelly time to slip two sticks of the feedstore dynamite from beneath his shirt sleeve and put their fuses to the bowl of Duke’s pipe. He then tossed them into the doorway.
The explosion and fire caused his horse to rear, but Kelly quickly got him under control and pointed him toward the compound. As he galloped past the splintered remains of the guardhouse, the only remaining evidence of its former occupants was a lone hat lying nearby, flames rising from its brim.
As Dalton and Langston spurred their horses and hurried toward him, Kelly tossed another stick of dynamite in the direction of two men who were taking aim. Only one got off a shot before they were engulfed in a blanket of smoke and dust.
By the time they reached where Kelly waited, the sheriff was slumped in his saddle, the back of his shirt damp with blood. There was a pained look on his pale face as he gripped the saddle horn in an effort to stay astride his horse. Dalton reached out to steady him as they joined Kelly en route to safety.
In the distance, the Colonel stood on his porch, fanning away the smoke, insane with rage. “Go after them,” he yelled. “Kill them.”
No one made a move.
Duke and Lanny joined them as they sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office, anticipating word on the sheriff’s condition. There was a wash of relief when they saw Doc Thorndale enter with a smile on his face. “The bullet entered his lower back and exited just above his belt line,” he said, “leaving him with a couple of busted ribs and all internal organs functioning and in good shape. He’s in a great deal of pain, but he’ll survive.”
Relieved by the news, Duke listened as Dalton described their bizarre rescue. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said, looking at Kelly. “However did you even imagine such?”
“A few years back,” Kelly said, “we had this young fella who set out to be a bank robber. Said he was tired of working at the feedstore. Anyway, he didn’t own a gun, so he used dynamite instead. And it worked pretty good for him. He robbed two or three banks in neighboring towns before I finally caught him.”
“How’d you catch him?” Lanny said.
“He forgot to bring along matches to the last bank he figured on robbing.”
Keene slapped his knee and was still chuckling when he stood to leave. “Another thing that amazes me is Ben here apparently has himself a guardian angel. If I’m remembering correctly, this is the second time somebody’s kindly pulled his bacon out of the fire.”
Duke gave Lanny a wink as he walked away.
By the time Finis Jacob, editor of the Fort Worth Record, learned of the shooting, the sheriff was already up and about, reporting to his office daily. He still moved gingerly and wasn’t up to riding a horse, so he was making his daily rounds in a buggy.
His trips along the Fort Worth streets, tipping his hat to those he passed, looked more like a victory parade than carrying out any peacekeeping duties.
To the readers, Otto Langston had become a hero, even to many who had long viewed him as just another corrupt politician, woefully unqualified for his job. Jacob’s first story, headlined “Sheriff Wounded in Shooting Star Gun Battle,” had redeemed him. The next, “Heroic Sheriff Already Back on the Job,” suggested he was deserving of a medal.
The Record account said Langston had fought off three rifle-wielding assailants, killing them all.
“Reckon the sheriff owns the paper?” Duke said after reading the second article. “This reads like he wrote it himself. Him or one of those dime-novel dandies from back east.”
The truth of the matter was that Jacob, who spent much of his time gathering information from a bar stool in the Half Acre’s Red Eye Palace, had heard vague rumors about the Shooting Star incident but had not even interviewed Langston to hear his version. Nor had he ever visited the Colonel’s ranch. Bored with writing about the Summer Festival, school plays, and ladies’ garden meetings, he had simply decided to provide his readers some excitement and give his circulation a boost, never mind facts.
Only Jacob and the sheriff would know that the stories were the product of unbridled imagination. And it was highly unlikely Sheriff Langston would be inclined to speak out against anything that praised him so highly.
When the issues of the newspaper were delivered to the Shooting Star, the maid wisely saw to it that they were tossed into the trash bin before the Colonel could see them.