The Devil to Pay

“How is Jed Tillett, Kate?” Frank Cobb shrugged, as though the answer meant little to him.

“He seems stronger this morning,” Kate said. “I think he’ll pull through.”

“I can’t take the credit. I think his recovery is due to Jazmine’s beef broth and the fussing of the kitchen maids.”

“Every person is worth saving, Frank.” Kate sounded less than sincere.

For a moment, Frank lost himself in the emerald green depths of Kate’s eyes and then said, “All right. Tell me. What’s troubling you? You look worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

“But there’s something. Tell me.”

Kate shook her head. “Frank, it’s nothing really. It’s not important.”

“Tell me,” Frank Cobb said, his voice full of gentle insistence.

“My parlor maid . . .”

“Winifred?”

“Yes, Winifred.”

“A fine-looking girl.”

“Yes, she is. Well, she told me this morning that the Tilletts have already trashed their rooms. Winifred takes pride in her housekeeping and she’s very upset.”

“How were they trashed?”

“I don’t know. But it seems to be a terrible mess. Winifred wouldn’t tell me what they’d done.”

“White trash making more trash,” Frank said.

“Frank, don’t say that. Maybe they just don’t know any better.”

“Did you look at the rooms?”

“No. Winifred and Nora wouldn’t let me see them before they’d had a chance to clean up. I won’t go into details, but Nora said the smell was pretty bad.” Kate was in the barn with Frank and her son Trace during her usual morning visits to Pretty Boy, a recently purchased paint stud.

Her younger son Quinn was at Cornell studying engineering but had promised to return to the KK for Christmas. Quinn was on the university’s boxing team and that gave Kate no end of worry.

Trace had been silent, listening to the exchange before he said, “Ma, how long before Jed Tillett can get out of bed?”

“Not soon enough,” Kate said.

Trace frowned. “I don’t like them Tilletts—”

“Those Tilletts, Trace,” Kate said. “Your grammar is getting worse. That’s what comes of spending too much time around Frank.”

“I didn’t like those people from the moment I first set eyes on them,” Trace said. “They’re a rough bunch and probably thieves.”

“Well, I can’t throw them out,” Kate said. “God knows, they seem to have suffered enough.”

“I can throw them out,” Frank said. “Just give the word.”

“No, I don’t want that. Once Jed can get out of bed they’ll leave.”

“Unless they decide to be squatters,” Trace said.

“That won’t happen,” Kate said.

Frank said, “I hope you’re right.”

Kate let the subject of the Tilletts end there, though secretly she wished them gone. Not only were they dirty, they were exceedingly loud.

As the hands gathered outside, she watched Trace and Frank saddle their horses. It was time to check on the windmills and to cut winter hay, a task the cowboys hated. The KK had been the first ranch in Texas to install windmills on the range for irrigation, though Hiram Clay told Kate that the Matador and XIT ranches and the Francklyn Land and Cattle Company had quickly followed suit. So far the massive King Ranch in South Texas did not use windmills and none would be drilled until 1890.

Trace swung into the saddle and then looked down at his mother. “Ma, are you sure you’ll be all right left alone with them—those—Tilletts? They look like bad news to me.”

“As I said before—white trash,” Frank Cobb said with great finality, as though he’d summed up the family and would brook no argument.

“I’ll be just fine,” Kate said. “The Tilletts mean me no harm. Now go cut some hay.”

“Ma . . .” Trace began, his face concerned.

“I said I’ll be fine.” Kate patted the pocket of her suede skirt. “And I’ve got my derringer.”

Then, talking about his sisters, Trace said, “I’m glad Ivy and Shannon are visiting farmer John Wren and his wife. I wouldn’t want them to be around the Tilletts either.”

“If they were here, they’d probably enjoy the baby,” Kate said. “Or you and Frank would have them out helping to cut hay.”

Kate watched a deeply troubled Trace and Frank leave with the hands and then went directly to her bedroom, where she picked up a book by Mr. Dickens and tried not to listen to the noise the Tillett clan were making in the kitchen. She shook her head. Poor Jazmine.

An hour later Kate was still reading when hell came to the Kerrigan ranch.

* * *

What was destined be the most horrific day in Kate Kerrigan’s life began innocuously enough with a knock on the front door of her mansion. A few moments later old Moses Rice, the butler, told Kate that some gentlemen were outside and wished to speak with her on a matter of some urgency.

“Do you know them, Mose?” Kate said.

Moses shook his gray head and seemed worried. “No, I don’t, Miz Kate, but they’re a tough-looking lot. Cattlemen, I’d say. Maybe I should tell them to come back after Mr. Trace and Mr. Cobb and the hands ride in from the range.”

“I’m sure they’re just visiting,” Kate said. “After all, they did have the manners enough to knock.”

“It was a loud knock, Miz Kate. Made with a fist, I’d say.”

Kate laid aside her book and stood. She noticed a bulge at the waist under Moses’ white jacket. He’d taken time to pack his Colt, a thing he hadn’t done in years.

She forced a smile, suddenly her instinct for trouble telling her that danger had come to her door. “It’s all right, Mose. I’ll talk with them.”

“I can send them away,” Moses said. “You got no need to talk with their kind, Miz Kate. Some of them boys look like gunmen to me.”

Kate stepped to the old man, loosed one of the gold buttons of his coat, and removed the blue Colt. “You won’t need this, Mose. Now go tell our visitors I’ll be down directly. There is no need to invite them inside until I’ve had words with them.”

“But Miz Kate—”

“I’ll be down directly, Mose. Now tell them that.” Her voice was firm and a fine line appeared between her eyebrows as she frowned.

Mose had seen that line maybe a hundred times since they’d left Tennessee and he knew what it meant. Kate had made up her mind, and no power on earth would change it. “Yes, Miz Kate.” He glanced wistfully at his revolver and then stepped out of the room.

After Moses left, Kate took a few deep breaths to steady herself and then made her way downstairs to the front door.

Two armed men were already standing in the foyer, both so big that they made the large space seem small. The younger of the two, a towhead with a cruel mouth and reptilian eyes, held the Tilletts at gunpoint. Poter had a bruised swelling on his left cheekbone, and his wife, who looked terrified, clung to her young son. Edna Tillett held her child to her breast, her brown eyes wide and frightened.

The Tilletts’ obvious distress annoyed Kate, and her anger flared. “What are you doing in my home? Get out of here. Get out now!”

Seth Koenig’s hot stare lingered on Kate for a moment and then he said, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” Kate said.

“Jed Tillett. Where is he?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kate said. “Now leave before I call my hands.”

“Your hands are on the range cutting grass, lady,” Seth said. “Now, for the last time, where is Jed Tillett? If need be I’ll take this house apart to find him.”

Kate looked beyond the towhead to the older man. He could only be the rancher Frank Cobb had spoken about. “Are you Blade Koenig?”

“I am,” the big man said. He looked well-fed and prosperous, and his face was strong-boned with a heavy chin, the domineering, bold features of a man who would ride roughshod over any obstacle.

“Then call off your barking dog and get out of here,” Kate said.

“Give us Tillett and we’ll leave peacefully,” Blade Koenig said. “We’ve come all the way from the New Mexico Territory to find him, and we will not be denied.”

“The man is severely wounded and he’s under my roof and my protection,” Kate said. “Now be off with you. Whatever business you have with Jed Tillett can wait until he’s fully recovered.”

Seth Koenig turned to several gunmen and an unsmiling Indian who had crowded into the foyer. “Search the house. Find Tillett and bring him here.”

A couple of the men headed for the stairs, but Kate stepped in their way. “You will do nothing of the kind.”

From behind her, Moses Rice said, “You heard Miz Kerrigan. Get out of this house, all of you.” He advanced on the men, his fists balled, and ran into a sledgehammer.

The Colt of a gunman slammed into the side of Moses’ head. Moses had been old when he and Kate first met, and his hair had changed from gray to white. He could not withstand such a blow and fell in a heap onto the floor.

A red-hot anger spiked through Kate. She flung herself at the grinning gunman who’d buffaloed Moses, but Seth Koenig stepped between them and viciously backhanded her across the face. Stunned, she staggered and fell heavily. Her head hit the marble floor. Kate saw the horrifying events of the next few minutes through a semiconscious haze . . . a state she would later attribute to one of God’s tender mercies.

Two of the Koenig gunmen dragged a naked, screaming Jed Tillett down the stairs by his ankles, the back of his head rapping on every step. Dazed, Kate watched the men haul Tillett into the foyer. She heard Seth Koenig yell, “You spying son-of-a-bitch! It’s all up for you!” and then heard the cascading crashes of his Colt as he pumped shot after shot into Tillett’s thin body.

Horror piled on horror. Violence on violence.

“No!” Kate yelled. She tried to struggle to her feet as the screaming Tilletts, except for Edna’s baby, were dragged out the door. The Indian tore it from the woman’s arms and laid the crying child on the floor beside Kate. Her eyes met his, and in a moment of clarity, she understood that the man was saving the infant’s life. She also realized that no other lives would be spared that day.

The Indian passed Seth Koenig and a couple other men in the doorway.

Seth grinned and stood spread-legged over Kate, unbuttoning his pants. “Boys, I’ll have a taste of the redhead before we leave. Find the maids for yourselves. This one is mine.”

He kneeled, straddled Kate, tore off her blouse, and as she struggled, he tried to push up her skirt. As the roars of the other men and the shrieks of the maids rang through the house, Kate tried to reach the derringer in her pocket, but pinned down as she was, she couldn’t get to it. She was weakening.

Seth knew it, and his grin widened. “I like ’em sassy,” he said as his demanding mouth sought Kate’s. She tried to punch her would-be rapist, but he knocked her fist aside and slapped her again, a heavy blow that made her head spin. Claw, bite, knee . . . Kate tried every weapon she could muster, but Seth, laughing as he dragged down her underwear, defeated her every effort.

Kate refused to surrender . . . but she was being overpowered, slapped into submission.

Suddenly the massive bulk of Blade Koenig loomed above Kate.

The square toe of the rancher’s boot thudded like a battering ram into his son’s ribs, and Seth screeched in pain and rolled off Kate. He kept on rolling, and Blade followed, kicking his son mercilessly until Seth begged for mercy.

Blade hauled him to his feet and slapped him hard across the face, a smashing blow that sounded like a pistol shot. “We have enough villainy to do today without that. Damn you, Seth. Taking a woman who did not want you is how all this started.”

Seth’s eyes rolled in his head, and drool trickled down his chin as his father pushed him to the door.

Kate, angrier than she’d ever been in her life, finally reached her derringer. She snapped off a shot as Seth staggered through the doorway. Groggy as she was, her aim was off and she splintered the jamb inches above his head. Kate swung the derringer on Blade, but the man ignored her.

The two gunmen who’d accompanied Seth ran into the foyer.

The one with a badly scratched face said, “What the hell happened?” then read Blade’s eyes. “We didn’t do nothing, boss. Them damned serving women fight like tigers.”

“Get the hell out of my sight,” Blade said. “Both of you.”

The men, their eyes wary, gave him a wide berth as they stepped around him and scrambled out the door.

Kate’s derringer had not moved from Blade, but he continued to ignore it. He offered his hand to Kate, but she pushed it away and struggled to her feet.

The big man picked up the baby and said, “Lady, if you want this Tillett brat to live, put the stinger away.”

Kate shot him a look of pure hatred, dropped the derringer into her skirt pocket with one hand, and tried to hold her torn blouse together with the other. At that moment the kitchen maid, an Irish girl of seventeen named Biddy Kelly, Winifred the parlor maid, and Nora rushed into the foyer.

Winifred, face bruised, ran to Kate. “Oh, Mrs. Kerrigan, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kate said. “I hope I can say the same about you and Biddy.”

Biddy Kelly answered that. “We fought them off, Mrs. Kerrigan. They beat us, but we battled them.” Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes. “But one of them stole me silver claddagh ring. It was me father’s ring, Mrs. Kerrigan. After the British hanged him as a rebel, the British took it off his finger and gave it to me mum. Three months later she died of a broken heart and on her deathbed she left the ring to me.”

Kate glared at Blade Koenig. “And now the ring of an Irish martyr adorns the finger of a man who’s not fit to wear it.”

Koenig shrugged as though the matter was of little account. He sniffed and then shoved the crying baby into Biddy’s arms. “Take this, girl. It smells.” The man turned his attention to Kate. “Don’t try to follow us, woman. My son’s life is at stake, and if I need to, I’ll kill you or anyone else who gets in my way.”

Kate would not be intimidated. “When it came to women, children, and an old man you and your toughs acted very brave, Mr. Koenig. How will they do against grown and belted men?”

“They’ll stand, be sure of that. And if you don’t want this fine house burned down around your ears, you’ll hold your impudent tongue.” He touched his hat. “Now, good day to you, and pay heed to my warning.”

Kate would have challenged Koenig more, but Nora, who cradled Moses’ head in her lap, looked up at her and said, “Mr. Rice’s head is bleeding, ma’am.”

“See to him, Nora,” Kate said, breathing hard. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried across the foyer to the parlor and ran to the adjoining gun room, an oak-paneled space with glass-fronted racks, dozens of gleaming shotguns and rifles standing like bluecoat soldiers on parade. Under the long guns were stacked drawers where the pistols were stored. She grabbed an old .44-40 Henry rifle that was kept loaded in case of emergencies . . . she figured it was an emergency all right.

Kate retraced her steps to the front of the house, levered a round into the Henry’s chamber as she ran out the door, and stepped onto the porch. Behind her the maids yelled at her to come back inside, but she ignored them. She wanted just one clear shot at Seth Koenig, the man who’d tried to rape her. Her eyes scanned into the distance, but disappointed, she lowered the rifle. He was already far enough away that he lay beyond the range of her shooting ability and worse, he and his gunmen had roped their prisoners and were dragging them behind their horses. If Kate attempted a shot, she could hit a Tillett.

Moses Rice, blood staining his white hair, stepped beside Kate and gently took the Henry from her hands. “Miz Kate, there are ten of them.”

The ranch cook, a plump, red-faced man named Tom Ogilvy who looked jovial but was not, and Marco Salas, the blacksmith, arrived in a wagon a few minutes later and then stood outside the mansion like a pair of lost souls. Ogilvy carried a Winchester, but Salas was armed only with a hammer.

“We was up on the tree line with the Studebaker gathering firewood, Mrs. Kerrigan, and thought we heard shooting, but that old Morgan team will only go so fast.” Ogilvy looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here in time.”

Kate said, “Perhaps it’s just as well, Mr. Ogilvy. There were too many of them. They would have killed you for sure.”

Ogilvy looked at Kate’s torn shirt and frowned. “What happened, Mrs. Kerrigan?”

On any ranch the range cook was a highly respected figure who earned twice as much as a top hand.

Kate would normally have taken time to answer Ogilvy’s question, but concerned about Moses Rice, she said, “Talk to Nora. She’ll tell you all about it.” She took Moses’ arm. “Inside, Mose. Let me take care of that cut on your head.”

“Those were mighty bad men, Miz Kate,” Moses said.

Kate nodded. “Yes, they were, Mose. And I plan to hang every man jack of them from the highest tree I can find.”