CHAPTER 24
The mare was quickly aware that an inexperienced rider was in the saddle. The two-year-old dapple gray moved along in a jerky gait, occasionally pitching her head against the reins and briefly balking when being turned in a different direction. John Rawlings wondered if he should have selected an older, less stubborn mount. But in the horse barn near the cattle yards, the manager had assured him she would be ideal for the day trip he planned, so long as he allowed her occasional stops for rest and water. He had pocketed the dollar rental fee and smiled when he told the young lawyer there would be no extra charge for helping with the bridle and saddle.
Rawlings had ridden little since his boyhood days in Aberdene, generally walking or riding in a buggy to his destinations in the city. Yet as they made their way farther south, into the rolling hills and through bright displays of summer wildflowers, man and horse made their peace. Rawlings welcomed the unclaimed spaces and fresh breeze. The sweet smell of leather beneath him and the sight of foxes and coyotes hurrying from his path were an enjoyable experience he’d almost forgotten.
One day, when things returned to normal and his son had grown, he wanted Alton to be introduced to this world where people didn’t crowd streets and have to climb stairs to reach their home. There was a gentleness to the open range that made John homesick and envious of his friend Ben, who had made the decision to live his life in a quieter, more peaceful environment.
As he rode, Rawlings briefly dismissed his mission and found himself thinking back to their days growing up, and of the event that had begun their friendship.
It was the final day of the school year, and Ben was astride his mule, LuLu, headed home to tend his chores. John was still standing on the school steps, saying goodbye to several young girls who had crowded around him.
A boyfriend of one, the son of a local hog farmer with a reputation as one of the toughest bullies in school, approached the gathering and made it clear he didn’t like the attention Rawlings was being given. “Just because he’s a pretty boy and his folks got money don’t make him nothing special,” he said, grabbing his girl by the arm and pulling her down the steps. When she cried out, Rawlings, though skinny and no fighter, tried to shove the bully away.
As he did, two other farm boys appeared from the side of the schoolhouse and together they began to taunt young Rawlings. One slapped him hard in the face and another tripped him, sending him facedown into the schoolyard dirt. As the girls looked on, the three began kicking and punching, laughing and calling their outnumbered victim names.
Turning to see what was happening, Ben Dalton kicked his heels into LuLu’s side and was not even out of his saddle before he reached the melee and put out a scuffed boot that knocked one of the attackers away. He quickly dismounted and buried a fist into another’s rib cage before pulling the other off Rawlings and landing a blow that broke the youngster’s nose.
It was over in minutes. The three thugs limped away, one wiping blood from his face. Something about “this ain’t over” was called back in a less than enthusiastic tone.
Ben reached a hand toward Rawlings and helped him to his feet.
Dirty and embarrassed, John brushed at his pants as the young girls looked on silently. He whispered a thank-you to Dalton.
“Sorry for butting in,” Ben said, “but three-on-one didn’t appear to be a fair fight. I figure you could have handled them yourself one at a time.”
He was walking back to LuLu when Rawlings called out. “I’ve seen you in school, but I don’t know your name,” he said.
“Ben. Ben Dalton. You’re Johnny Rawlings, right?”
By the end of that summer they had become the best of friends.
When he stopped at a stream to let his horse drink, those days still replayed in his mind. And as they did so, he realized how dependent he had been on Dalton’s protection. And now, years later, they were adults and nothing had changed.
It was time, he had decided, to fight his own battle, time he confronted the doubts of his own self-worth.
Since his son’s return, ugly images of what the child endured had haunted him. In sleep, he heard Alton’s tiny voice crying out and had visions of the fear and despair on his wife’s face. That he had been hiding away to avoid a return to jail, not even aware his child had been kidnapped, and providing no help finding him, shamed him. And always running through those troubled thoughts was the image of the Colonel, the culprit of his nightmares.
His plan, which he’d shared with no one, was hardly well-conceived. He’d even had difficulty locating the pistol his father had given him as a gift on his twentieth birthday. And when he did find it, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fired it. He was only vaguely aware of the location of the Shooting Star ranch until he stopped into a dingy roadhouse and was given directions by a foulmouthed Mexican woman. And once he arrived, he had no idea how he might get past the watchmen he’d heard Dalton and Anson Kelly talking about.
All he knew was that he wanted the chance to look Raymond Abernathy in the eye, then put a bullet in his head.
Mandy returned home, tired after hours of trying to sort out Shelby Profer’s office and miffed that her husband had not come to help. At least he could have stopped in and taken Alton home for his afternoon nap. She was ready to chastise him but found the apartment empty.
Rushing downstairs, she found B. J. Wong, who was still keeping watch. He was immediately aware of the urgency in her voice when she asked that he leave his post long enough to deliver a message to Ben Dalton. “Tell him,” she said, “that my husband is gone and might be in trouble. I think he’ll know where to look for him.”
Only minutes after Wong relayed the message, Dalton and Anson Kelly had saddled their horses and grabbed rifles and, with only a couple of hours of daylight left, were headed south.
“For a big-shot lawyer,” Kelly said, “your friend don’t seem all that smart.”
Dalton didn’t bother to disagree.
In the distance, Rawlings could see the guardhouse and quickly turned the mare toward a thick line of scrub oaks. After a mile, he found a secluded spot and dismounted to contemplate his next move. From his vantage point he had a good view of the seemingly endless fence line and a small herd of cattle grazing in the nearby pasture.
He held his breath as two ranch hands slowly rode past. A half hour later, they returned, headed in the opposite direction. As the sun began to set, Rawlings mentally timed the route of the guards. They rode by several times, obviously assigned a certain stretch of fence to protect, usually carrying on a conversation that John wasn’t close enough to hear. Neither seemed too concerned that their area of responsibility might be breached.
The early-evening sky had turned a clabber gray by the time Rawlings tethered his horse and made his way toward the fence. He estimated he would have at least a half-mile walk to the Shooting Star headquarters.
He made it less than three hundred yards.
A rider he’d not seen galloped toward him from the opposite side of the herd, pointing a rifle. “I’ve got permission to shoot you where you stand,” the cowboy called out, “or you can toss away any weapon you’ve got and come along with me.”
With his hands tied behind him and a rope around his neck, Rawlings walked unsteadily toward the ranch house, the guard close behind him. His plan had failed badly.
He was breathing heavily and bathed in sweat by the time he was pushed through the door of Colonel Abernathy’s office.
“I see we’ve got ourselves a visitor,” the Colonel said, “and he looks somewhat familiar. Rawlings, isn’t it? What bring you out this way?”
He got no response.
Abernathy gave a slight nod to the guard, who stepped forward and delivered a blow to John’s midsection.
The Colonel watched him gasping for air and smiled. “A man trespassing this time of the evening could get himself shot. Wouldn’t violate law one, which as a lawyer you already know. But before I shoot you, I’d like us to have a conversation.”
Rawlings’s only response was to glare at Abernathy. The guard hit him again, this time in the back of his head so hard that he stumbled forward, close enough to the Colonel to smell his foul breath. Finally, he spoke.
“All you need to know is that I came here to kill you for what you did to my little boy,” he said. “Though I’ve obviously failed, there are others waiting to do what I couldn’t. Even if you shoot me, I can rest in peace knowing your miserable life will also soon be over.”
“You might get yourself a chance to live if you’ll tell me what I need to know. Killing you will give me little satisfaction, only soiling the room and making it necessary to dig a hole to put you in. All you need to do is tell me what your friends in town are planning to do.”
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Without prompting, the guard delivered another blow to Rawlings’ head, this time hitting him in the face hard enough to cause his ears to ring and blood to spew from his mouth and nose.
“Take him away,” Abernathy said. “See that he gets a good beating, but don’t kill him. I’ll let it be a preview to his people of what’s to come Saturday if what’s left of him makes it back to town.”
Two other guards had located John’s horse and brought it to the compound. After he received the ordered beating, they lifted him into his saddle and tied him down.
Rawlings was unaware when the mare began to trot down the trail, past the guardhouse, and into the still-warm darkness.
Dalton and Kelly were halfway to the ranch and about to give up their search for the night when they saw a horse standing in a meadow, grazing on wildflowers. Riding closer, they realized that a motionless figure was slumped in the saddle.
“I fear that’s him,” Kelly said as they slowed their approach, hoping not to spook the horse.
Rawlings’ face was so swollen and caked with blood that it was almost impossible to recognize him. He was unconscious and one arm dangled loosely at his side. Dalton gently placed a hand to a wrist that appeared to be broken and was surprised when he felt a pulse. Seconds later he heard a barely audible moan.
“He’s alive, but just barely.” Ben cut away the ropes that bound Rawlings to the saddle and laid him on the ground. “I fear moving him, so I’ll stay here while you ride to town and get the doctor. Tell him we’ll need a wagon.”
He was pouring water from his canteen onto a bandanna and wiping Rawlings’ face as Kelly rode away.
Throughout the night, Dalton tried to keep his wounded friend comfortable. He had removed the rent horse’s saddle and blanket and fashioned a makeshift bed and pillow, and poured sips of water into John’s mouth while watching out for any of the Shooting Star men. He talked quietly, urging Rawlings to be strong until Doc Thorndale arrived. “We’re going to get you back to Mandy and Alton,” he said.
It was almost dawn when John opened his eyes and tried to focus on his friend. “Am I dead?” he said, making a pained effort to smile.
“Not even close. You’re going to be fine just as soon as you get home and in a decent bed.”
In the distance he could hear the clatter of a wagon approaching. Showing its driver the way was Anson Kelly. Duke Keene was holding the reins while the doctor sat next to him, his medical kit in his lap. Resting between them was a shotgun.
They were pleased to see Rawlings lift his head as they pulled up next to him. Duke nodded his approval and began chuckling. “Don’t see any need for a burying today,” he said. As the doctor examined John, the livery owner told Ben he’d put hay and blankets in back of the wagon. “I also brought you some coffee, though it might be cold by now.”
“He’s in pretty bad shape,” Doc Thorndale said, “but he’ll make it. I seriously doubt that would be the case if you boys hadn’t found him. Near as I can tell, he’s got only one broken bone—his wrist—but more cuts and bruises than I can count. The ride back to town won’t be comfortable for him.”
Dalton hitched Dolly to the back of the wagon and sat next to Rawlings. Each rough spot Duke drove over caused a muffled groan behind him.
The sun was up as they neared Fort Worth and John reached his good hand out to Dalton, signaling him to lean closer. “How many more times do you figure on having to rescue me?” he managed to whisper.
Ben laughed. “As many times as it takes, I reckon,” he said.
As the wagon neared the doctor’s office, he could see Mandy, with Alton in her arms, waiting on the porch.
A steady parade of visitors came to the doctor’s office to check on Rawlings. His wife had left his side only long enough to make arrangements for a friend to watch Alton. She had asked Ben if it would be all right for Too to stay with her boy, and he’d taken him by the apartment. Shelby Profer did his best to act as if he were displeased that such a fool’s errand had been undertaken but ultimately placed a gentle hand on John’s shoulder and wished him a speedy recovery. Lanny Butler came with Duke, who brought a bowl of chili for Mandy. “If you’re determined to sit and be nursemaid, you need to keep up your strength,” he said. Sheriff Langston stopped in long enough to assure John that his assailants would soon pay for their actions.
Dalton and Kelly waited until late in the day to visit. The warm towels Mandy was applying had reduced some of the swelling to her husband’s face and a plaster cast was on his injured wrist. Doc Thorndale had stitched cuts to his chin and forehead.
“Ain’t you a sight,” Kelly said as he stood at the foot of the bed. “I bet seeing you scared little Alton plumb out of his britches.” Dalton made no comment as he shook Rawlings’ good hand.
Mandy didn’t leave her chair at the bedside but looked up at the two men. “The doctor says you two finding my husband saved his life,” she said, “and for that I will be forever grateful. Thank you both.”
John slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and motioned Ben to come closer. The swelling and the pain medication the doctor had given him made speaking difficult. “Saturday,” he said in a gravelly whisper. “They’re coming Saturday.” He then eased himself back onto the mound of pillows behind him and closed his eyes.
“You did good, John,” Ben said. “You paid a high price, but you found out what we needed to know. Get yourself some rest and let us take care of things from here on.”
As he and Kelly prepared to leave, Mandy got to her feet. “Ben, can I have a word?” She kissed her husband on the forehead and followed the visitors into the hallway. Anson, sensing they needed a private moment, told Dalton he would see him back at the livery.
“John’s going to be okay,” Ben said. “You need to get some rest. Go home and be with your boy.”
Mandy nodded, but he knew she would ignore his suggestion.
“I’ve asked far too much of you already and have no right to ask for more,” she said, “but I have one more thing I hope you’ll do for me. And God help me for even asking.”
“Anything . . .”
“Kill that evil man, Ben,” she said. “Kill him and put him out of our lives forever.”
That evening, those who had visited Rawlings earlier assembled in Profer’s office. Mandy’s cleaning efforts had made it possible for everyone to find room to sit or stand without worry of being caught in an avalanche of books and papers.
Sheriff Langston was the last to arrive and the first to speak. “Until the mayor sees fit to accept my resignation,” he said, “I remain the sheriff and plan to do my best to protect this town and the people living in it. I can’t do anything about what’s gone on before but feel bad about it and accept my punishment. But now I’m here to help. Me and my deputies.
“I know Colonel Abernathy better than anyone else in this room and can offer a guess of what he’s capable of doing and how he might go about it.”
Profer, seated behind a reasonably clean desk for the first time he could recall, applauded Langston. “Any insight you might provide, any thoughts you can share, are welcomed. You were not invited here so we could stand in judgment. Please continue.”
“I can’t speak to any real success he had during his service with the Union,” the sheriff said, “but I know he enjoys thinking like a military man. Whatever he’s planning will be carried out as if he was making an assault on Confederate enemy. Those under his command are ruled by their fear of him and will blindly follow his orders. No one will be safe, mainly because he has no regard for anyone standing in his way.”
“What you’re saying,” Dalton said, “is he’s flat-out crazy.”
“And has been made more so by your presence,” Langston replied. “I know this for a fact from previous conversations we’ve had. More than once, he urged me to kill you myself, even offering generous payment once it was done.”
Dalton felt a rush of concern as he listened, not for his personal safety but for the possibility that by coming to Fort Worth he was responsible for all that had happened—and would happen.
Kelly read his thoughts. “The only one responsible for all this is Abernathy himself. Sooner or later, someone was bound to stand up to him. And once that happened, there was going to be a firestorm. Poke a man not thinking straight in the eye and he’ll seek revenge a hundred times over.”
Langston also offered reassurance. “It embarrasses me to say it, but what you’ve done,” he said, looking across the room at Dalton, “is what I should have a long time ago.”
“So,” Profer said, “we know the enemy, when he plans to attack, and, most likely, where. What is our plan to defeat him?”
“I’d just as soon him and his men didn’t fill my livery full of bullet holes or burn it down,” Keene said. “That, and I hate to think of innocent folks, particularly young’uns, getting themselves hurt.”
“He’s got only one way to get here,” Dalton said. “I say we should confront him before he can get this far.”