CHAPTER 32
Dalton arrived at the ranch just after sundown and immediately went in search of Raff Bailey. “I think we’ve got trouble coming,” he said after finding him in the barn, bottle-feeding a prematurely born calf. He quickly recounted the murders that had occurred. “The only reason I can figure for Abernathy not also being killed is that they have some use for him. Either that, or he was in on it from the beginning.” He asked if any of the ranch hands had disappeared recently.
“Things have been pretty normal here since the Colonel was locked up. Everybody seems happy to be back cowboying like they hired on to do. Mr. Profer spoke to the bank and arranged that some of Abernathy’s money be released to pay wages and take care of whatever’s necessary to keep the ranch running.
“Mind you, we’ve had some sorry folks come through here in my time,” he continued, “but I’m hard-pressed to call the name of anybody who would help Abernathy out of the goodness of his heart. Now, if he was to offer money, that’s a different matter.”
“Anybody come to mind?”
“Probably about half of those who hightailed it back when the Colonel started talking about coming after you and your friends. Ones who jump to mind are the Sloan boys, brothers lacking in good sense and willing to do anything for a dollar. They’re the ones he paid to kidnap that little boy.”
“And cut Brent St. John’s throat while doing it,” Ben added.
“I ’spect they done that without a minute’s regret.”
“Gotta be them,” Dalton said. “Somehow, they’re figuring on getting a big payday from the Colonel, either for setting him free or by threatening him. Whatever the reason, they’re headed here because this is where Abernathy’s likely left some money.”
Ben felt comfortable talking freely with Bailey. Aside from the afternoon he got stumbling drunk and decided to shoot up the livery, he had never seemed a problem maker. When they faced off near the roadhouse, it had been obvious he wasn’t interested in a shootout. And since then he had worked hard to see that everything at the ranch went smoothly.
“When do you expect they’ll be coming?” he said.
“Should be soon if this is where they’re headed. I was thinking about settling into your loft and keeping an eye out.”
“I’ll fetch us a spyglass and keep you company,” Bailey said.
The closer they got to the Shooting Star, the more Abernathy’s mood seemed to improve. When they reached the edge of the far pasture and saw cattle grazing in the late-morning sun, he clapped his hands and let out a yell. “Ain’t that a pretty sight?” he said. “It’s mighty good to be home.”
“Where’s the money?” Claude said.
“Be patient. I’ll show you, but first let’s get us something to eat. I’ve also got tequila. It’s hid away, same as your money. No need for you boys to be impatient.”
On the distant horizon Dalton saw the three riders approaching. “That’s got to be them,” he said. As Bailey began to raise his rifle, Ben put his hand to the barrel, pushing it down. “I’ll be doing the killing,” he said.
He climbed from the loft and led Dolly into the safety of an empty stall, then found her a bucket of oats. That done, he placed Langston’s Winchester on his shoulder and walked slowly to the front porch of the ranch house, took a seat in the Colonel’s favorite chair, and waited.
The Colonel’s maid opened the front door slightly and peeked outside. Seeing the man with a rifle, she quickly closed it and hurried to the kitchen to warn the cook. Bailey went to the bunkhouse to instruct his men to remain inside.
As Dalton sat, his rage, unlike anything he’d ever felt, returned. He pictured Sheriff Langston, lying dead in a strange place, his final dream shattered; thought of little Alton, scared and calling for his mother as he was taken away; of the child’s father, brutally beaten and blamed for a crime he had nothing to do with; and of Brent St. John, losing his life for doing nothing more than trying to protect others.
An eerie calm fell over the compound as Ben awaited the sound of the men arriving. He watched as a mother hen and her chicks stopped chasing garden bugs and scurried under the porch. Drying bedsheets on the nearby clothesline made a soft snapping sound as they were whipped by the breeze. His finger already lightly pressed against the trigger, his thoughts went back to the conversation he’d had with Mandy, of the last request she’d made of him. “Kill him,” she had said.
Bailey stepped onto the porch, carrying a rifle he’d brought from the bunkhouse.
“This isn’t your fight,” Dalton said.
“I figure maybe it is,” he replied. “It’s time this mess the Colonel started comes to an end so everybody can get on with their lives.”
The three riders were in high spirits as they loped their horses toward the ranch house. Abernathy was laughing, his pain briefly forgotten. The brothers chattered away, excited in the knowledge that they were close to their money.
They all fell silent as they arrived at the hitching post.
Claude was the first to see the two men and reached for his pistol. He didn’t even get it out of its holster before the crack of a rifle shot fractured the morning calm. His hat flew away and his frightened horse reared, pitching him to the ground. As blood streamed from his chest, he struggled to his knees and tried again to get a grip on his sidearm. It fell from his hand when Bailey’s second shot found its mark just below his neck.
The other horses were stomping the ground and bumping into each other as Dalton called out to Abernathy. “Good seeing you again, Colonel.”
As he spoke, Calvin Sloan fired a shot that zinged past his ear and buried into the front door.
Bailey aimed to return fire but was distracted for a split second by the sudden sound of a fast-approaching buggy, its driver yelling at the top of his voice. Sloan fired a second shot that ripped part of Raff’s shirt sleeve away as it grazed his shoulder and knocked his rifle from his hands. Dalton stepped forward to shield him and returned Sloan’s fire. His bullet hit Calvin in the face, causing a spray of teeth and blood. He was dead before he slumped forward in his saddle and slowly toppled onto the body of his dead brother.
In the brief moment of confusion caused by the buggy, the Colonel kneed his horse and was galloping toward the open door of the barn. Ben aimed his rifle again but didn’t have a clear shot because of the frightened horses in his way.
As Abernathy limped into the darkness, the buggy came to a jerking halt in front of the porch. Duke Keene stepped down and looked at the Sloan brothers. “Good riddance,” he said as he stepped over their bodies.
“After getting your telegram, I started trying to figure where you might be headed. Looks like I guessed right.” He was carrying his shotgun. “How many’s left?” he said.
“Just the Colonel,” Dalton said.
Duke smiled and nodded his head. “There’s three of us and just one of him. This’ll be easy.” He was wrapping a bandanna around Bailey’s injured arm as he spoke. “Just a scratch,” he said. “I’ve seen way worse.”
“He’s got weapons in there,” Raff said. “Rifles, shotguns, and a barrel filled with ammunition.”
“If we hadn’t already done it once, I’d suggest we just set the building on fire,” Duke said.
He had barely finished his sentence when a shotgun blast came from the loft, tearing a large hole in the awning of the buggy. “Mr. Profer ain’t going to be happy about that,” Duke said. “I borrowed it to get out here. Lanny and John Rawlings took my wagon to go get the sheriff like you asked. Mrs. Rawlings is talking with a preacher about setting up a funeral service.”
Two rifle bullets buried into the porch railing.
“We need cover,” Dalton said, motioning toward the front door. Moving inside and peering from a window, they could see the advantage Abernathy had. From his perch, there was a panoramic view of the compound.
“Reckon he’s crazy enough to think he can shoot his way out of this?” Bailey said.
From across the way, Abernathy answered his question. “I know I’m going to die before the day’s done,” he shouted from the loft, “but it’ll not be at your hand, Ben Dalton. I’ll not give you that satisfaction.”
As he spoke, ranch hands began cautiously making their way out of the bunkhouse, weapons in hand, preparing to surround the barn. “Odds just got even better,” Keene said. “Doesn’t appear the Colonel has many friends, does it?”
Bailey looked over at Dalton. “What’s your thinking?”
“Let’s just wait for a spell. If he doesn’t come to his senses and decide to walk himself out, I’ll go in and get him. No way he’s getting away again.”
There was an occasional shot from the loft, but both the Colonel and the men waiting in his house seemed satisfied to just let time pass. The day dragged and by midafternoon Dalton suggested they alternate watching the barn and napping. He took the first watch and never surrendered it. “The only kind of tired I have,” he said, “is the one you get from sitting, doing nothing.”
The cook shyly peeked out from the kitchen, holding a tray of sandwiches, cups, and a coffeepot. Duke got to his feet and went to take it from her.
Dalton aimed at a small iron bell hanging over the opening to the loft and fired off a series of quick shots. “Don’t want him dozing off,” he said as it sounded for a moment like church services were about to begin. Keene nodded his approval and handed him a sandwich.
By dusk, frustration had set in. “The old fool’s just sitting up there, waiting to get himself killed,” Bailey said. “I think it’s about time we accommodate him. I don’t want this going on into the night.”
Dalton got to his feet. “Keep his attention for a few minutes,” he said as he handed his rifle to Duke. “Use this instead of your shotgun,” he said. He explained that while they peppered the loft with shots, he would make his way out the back door and try to get to the side of the bunkhouse without being noticed. “Once I get that far I can ask for cover from some of your cowboys.”
“Think you’ll get a better shot from over there?” Duke asked.
“Nope, but it’s the best way I can think of to get in the barn. Then it’ll be just him and me.”
Inside, Dalton knelt behind a feed barrel to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The only sound came from Abernathy’s abandoned horse, chomping at a bale of hay. In the stall across the way, Ben saw Dolly nuzzling the oats he’d left her. The rafters were empty and silent since the pigeons had swiftly deserted their roosts when the gunfire began.
Only when a volley of shots came from the house, answered by a shotgun blast from above, was Dalton certain of the Colonel’s location.
Seated to the side of the loft door, behind a barricade of hay bales he’d hastily fashioned, Abernathy alternately rubbed his swollen leg and took quick looks toward the house. Beside him were several long guns and a bucket filled with bullets and shotgun shells. The effort of arranging the bales and the rising heat inside had bathed him in sweat, and pains were shooting through his wounded leg. Parched from a lack of water, he still managed a hoarse curse when he saw the cowhands leaving the bunkhouse to circle the barn.
He was resigned to his fate but determined to have one last taste of revenge before dying, unaware that the focus of his anger was waiting below.
Dalton was struggling to decide his next move. He counted the rungs on the ladder leading to the loft, aware that he would be vulnerable should the Colonel hear him approaching. He holstered his Peacemaker after again making sure it was fully loaded and began taking off his boots. He also removed his hat.
Certain Abernathy would not come to him, he would have to confront him in the loft.
When several more shots came from the house, he left his hiding place and hurried to the bottom of the ladder. Above, he could hear the Colonel mumbling to himself as he reloaded one of his rifles.
In his sock feet, Dalton climbed a few careful steps at a time, only when there was gunfire from Bailey and Keene. After several minutes he reached a position where the floor was at eye level and he could see Abernathy’s back, his attention focused on the house. The loft was filled with stored hay that would offer Ben some measure of protection—if he could reach one of the stacks.
He ducked back below the loft’s floor level and waited for another exchange of fire. Instead, the next sound he heard was the Colonel’s voice.
Rising to his feet, Abernathy cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Dalton, show yourself. I’ll make you a proposition. What say we both walk out into the open where we can face one another? Best shooter wins. Simple as that.” Then there was a spate of maniacal laughter.
As he was calling out his challenge, Dalton quickly climbed to the floor of the loft and dove behind a stack of hay bales. Their sweet scent mixed with the smell of smoke and gunpowder.
“I’m here waiting,” the Colonel said as he aimed his rifle at the doorway of the house, hoping a target would emerge. “Come on out and we’ll get this done with.” He had no intention of it being a fair fight.
Dalton got to his feet, now no more than ten feet from Abernathy. “Let’s just do it right here,” he said.
The startled Colonel turned and fired toward the sound of the familiar voice, his shot nowhere close to doing harm. He ducked behind his barricade before Dalton could shoot back.
As soon as they heard Abernathy shoot, Bailey and Keene stepped out onto the porch and began firing repeatedly. Raff yelled at the ranch hands who were huddled behind water troughs and a nearby cistern. “Go, go, go,” he yelled, then returned to shooting in the direction of the loft.
The cowboys rushed into the barn, pointing their guns in all directions before realizing that Dalton and the Colonel were above them. “Colonel,” one of the hands called out, “you’ve got no chance. There’s guns pointed at you from everywhere you’re inclined to look.” For emphasis, he fired a shot into the floor of the loft.
Abernathy replied by putting the barrel of his shotgun against the floor and blowing a sizable hole through which he could see some of the men whose salaries he’d once paid. “You’re traitors, every one,” he yelled as he fired a second shot.
Then he was suddenly on his feet, standing with his back to the door, his feet spread wide, looking toward where Dalton was hidden. There was a calm, almost angelic expression on his sweat-drenched face. “I’m feeling mighty tired,” he said, “and am ready for this to end. I figure you are as well.
“But know this, Ben Dalton: I’ve got no apologies for things I’ve done. Look at this ranch, all the fine cattle, my house. I made more money than you’ll ever see. I did myself proud putting all this together. My life was good and getting better. Then you came and ruined it, came from God knows where just to give me all this misery.
“Now you’re here, wanting to kill me. I’ll not allow that to happen.”
Dalton had moved from behind the hay bales, his eyes fixed on the Colonel’s shotgun, which was pointed in his direction. He didn’t see the handgun until Abernathy lifted it from his side, placed it against his temple, and pulled the trigger.
For a moment everything moved in slow motion. The Colonel briefly remained upright as his pistol fell from his hand. Then he began to gently sway. Finally, he slowly fell into open space.
Duke Keene was among the first to reach the body. “He died just like the sorry coward he was,” he said, then looked up to the doorway of the loft where Dalton was standing. “Come on down and let’s go home,” the livery owner said. “I’ve got some explaining to do to Mr. Profer about the roof of his buggy.”
For some time, Dalton didn’t move, unsure how he felt about what had just happened. There was a calming evening breeze on his face as he slowly holstered his pistol. He watched as Bailey and the cowhands gathered around the Colonel’s twisted body, talking in low whispers. The cook and the maid left the porch to join them.
It would be a while before he would know if he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do when he answered Mandy’s call for help. All he knew at the moment was that it was finally over.
For the time being, that would have to be enough.