CHAPTER 29
Saturday morning broke clear and dry, the storm clouds replaced by sun and a bright blue sky. The rain had not ended until late the previous night, causing Dalton and Kelly to wait until well after dawn to head toward the Glen Rose Valley. “It’s unlikely the folks from the ranch will be traveling early,” Anson said. “Even if they do, we’ll meet up with them long before they can get here.”
Ben detected an unusual sense of dread in his friend’s voice.
“I’m just getting a little homesick,” Kelly said. “I’m ready to get this over and done so I can get on back to Brush Creek.” He laughed. “Never thought I’d be saying that.”
Dalton had also been thinking a good deal about home. “If I’d had any notion of the trouble I was going to start,” he said, “I’d have stayed in Aberdene and minded my own business.”
Kelly grinned. “Oh, I doubt that. I’m thinking you had good reason to come running like your tail was on fire. I can even call her name if you like.”
Ben made no comment except to say, “Well, at least I wouldn’t have imposed on you to get involved.”
When the group—Dalton, Kelly, and eight others—arrived at the roadhouse, they saw that their planned hideaway could no longer be used. Water was rushing over the creek banks, rising toward the back of Luisa’s little adobe building. She had difficulty finding enough dry wood for her stove to heat her tamales for the arriving men.
“Not sure I can recall ever seeing a lady cook wearing a sidearm before,” Kelly whispered.
“My suggestion is you only tell her she looks nice and that her tamales are the best you ever ate,” Ben replied.
“Yeah, and that we’re mighty proud she’s on our side,” Kelly said.
Aside from eating and cleaning mud from their boots and the horses’ hooves, there was nothing to do but wait. As the day dragged on, the tension built and some began to wonder if Abernathy’s men were even coming. Others suggested they mount up and ride out toward the Shooting Star to see if they could intercept the people they were waiting for.
When Luisa offered to pass around a couple of bottles of tequila to calm nerves, Dalton told her he didn’t think it a good idea. She took a long drink from one of the bottles herself, then put them away.
It was dusk when Dalton finally saw tiny flickers of light in the distance. As they got closer, he said, “It appears they’re carrying torches. Spread out and find the best cover you can.”
He climbed into the saddle, placed a Winchester across his lap, and took a position in the middle of the muddy road. Since it was him they were coming for, he was going to make things easy. Behind him, rifles and handguns were pointed in the direction of the oncoming riders.
An hour earlier, Langston, Keene, and Profer had watched from the shelter of a grove of scrub oaks as Abernathy’s men mingled outside the bunkhouse, waiting to leave. They saw the torches being lit and the men carrying them lead the way toward the ranch entrance. It was difficult to tell from such a distance but there appeared to be six, maybe eight, of them. They were riding two-by-two at a good pace. “I know the Colonel’s horse,” Langston said, “and don’t see it. He’s staying behind, just as we expected.”
The sheriff had led the way out of Fort Worth and onto a trail used by Shooting Star cowboys to herd cattle to auction. It reached the fence line of the ranch a hundred yards from the back porch of the main house.
Profer was the first to dismount, glad to be back on solid ground. “If it wasn’t for my bad knee,” he said, “I’d give strong consideration to walking back to town.” He was dreading the distance to the ranch house.
Langston took the lead since he was most familiar with the layout of the ranch. “My guess,” he said, “is that the Colonel will want those watching over him to stay close. So most likely, they’ll be standing outside the door of his room.” He added that somewhere in the house would be the cook and maid, whom they would need to silence.
A smoky ring circled a bright moon, lighting their way as they reached a corral, then walked along the edge of the garden. It didn’t appear there was anyone standing guard on the porch. “We’ll go in through the main door,” Langston whispered. “Abernathy’s room is upstairs.”
They had only taken a few steps inside the house before a chorus of screams erupted. Relieved to finally have Abernathy quieted, the women were in their nightgowns, having tea before they retired for the evening. Pistol in hand, Duke rushed to the kitchen to quiet them.
Alerted by the noise, the two guards raced to the top of the stairwell and began shooting in the direction of the shadowy intruders. Profer ducked behind a china cabinet as Langston returned fire. One of the guards let out a loud grunt before lurching forward and tumbling down the polished stairs. The other watched in stunned dismay until the sheriff took aim and shot him in the chest. Seconds later he, too, was on the floor.
Keene had returned after quieting the women and helped Langston move the bodies away so they could make their way to the second floor. Profer stared briefly at the two dead men, grotesquely entwined, their lifeless eyes open. He hadn’t even been aware that he’d drawn his pistol.
The three men held their breath as they made their way down the dark hallway that led to the master bedroom. The sheriff broke the silence. “He’ll be armed,” he whispered.
After they had positioned themselves near the closed door, Langston called out a warning. “We’re coming in,” he said, “and unless you want to die in your bed, you’ll put your weapon aside.”
The reply was two booming shots that left gaping holes in the door.
“Your men are dead and the women are downstairs in their sleeping clothes,” the sheriff yelled. “You’ve got nobody to do your fighting for you. You’re all by your lonesome.”
“Otto? That you?” Abernathy replied.
“It is, and I’ve got others with me. We’re armed and ready to blow your head off if need be. Do yourself a favor and allow us to come in without more shooting.” As he spoke he pushed the door open just enough to see the foot of the bed. Quickly, Duke shoved him aside and rushed into the room, pointing his Peacemaker at the bewildered Colonel.
His shotgun, which he’d not had time to reload, lay across his chest.
“Don’t kill me . . . please.” Abernathy’s voice was weak and pleading as Langston approached the bed and pushed the barrel of his pistol against his forehead.
“It’s something I should have done a long time ago,” the sheriff said.
Shelby Profer stood at the foot of the bed, his pistol now at his side, letting his eyes roam the room. On one wall was a large oil painting of the Colonel, proudly astride his horse, his pearl-handled pistol on his hip. Atop a nearby table was a clutter of mementos: trophies and ribbons won by his prized cattle and medals he’d been awarded while a Union soldier. Next to it was a well-stocked liquor cabinet, complete with rows of crystal glasses. A half-dozen pairs of polished boots were lined up neatly on the floor of an open closet. It was the room, the lawyer thought, of a self-absorbed man.
“Arrest him,” he said.
Keene’s eyes widened. “We ain’t going to kill him? We come all this way, wading through mud up to our shinbones, and now we’re not . . .”
Profer nodded toward the sheriff. “Do your duty and place the man under arrest.” He didn’t bother explaining that in correspondence with the Texas governor he had been assured that Colonel Raymond Abernathy—murderer, swindler, kidnapper, and thief—would, once captured, be tried in an Austin courtroom. Shelby Profer, Esq., would come out of retirement to serve as prosecutor. If the attorney general approved, John Rawlings would be his second chair.
Keeping his pistol to Abernathy’s head, Langston told Duke where he could find rope in the barn.
“Hook up a wagon while you’re there,” Profer said, “and do it quickly. We’ve got one more thing to do.”
“Should we allow him to get dressed?” Langston said.
The attorney looked in the direction of the closet. “Yes, of course. I think his Union uniform would do nicely.”
When Bailey and his men saw the lone rider waiting in the road, they came to an abrupt halt. From the distance, it was impossible to see who it was or determine what kind of threat he might represent. Almost a half hour passed before Bailey instructed his followers to remain in place and began slowly riding toward the figure.
“This is as far as we’ll allow you and your men to go,” Dalton said as Bailey neared. He warned that there were others with him, armed and ready to see that they advanced no farther. “I’d like to see this matter end without bloodshed,” he said, “and would appreciate hearing your thinking on the matter.”
“You know I’ve got no personal grudge against you,” Bailey said, “but if we turn back, the Colonel will—”
He was interrupted by distant yelling and the creaking sound of a wagon headed their way. Keene was standing in the driver’s seat, holding the reins in one hand and waving wildly with the other. Profer was at his side, hanging on for dear life, and Langston trailed on horseback. The wagon rolled past the stunned ranch hands and on toward Dalton and Bailey.
“Y’all done any shooting yet?” Duke said as he reined the horses to a halt.
In back, the Colonel sat, bound and gagged, his leg bleeding again. “He’s on his way to jail,” Sheriff Langston said.
Raff Bailey was the first to laugh. “Well, I guess we can go home and tend the cattle,” he said as members of Dalton’s group emerged from their hiding places and gathered around the wagon, looking at the prisoner as if he were a carnival sideshow exhibit.
No one seemed disappointed that not a shot had been fired. Except, perhaps, Luisa, who came running from the roadhouse, screaming curses in Spanish as she approached the wagon. Before anyone could stop her, she slapped Abernathy hard in the face and again demanded that he return her dog.