CHAPTER 2
Katie Moran went into the kitchen when she heard someone come in the back door. She had a pretty good idea who it might be. “There’s a plate of supper that might still be warm in the oven, but there ain’t no coffee left.” With hands on hips, she stood watching her youngest son as he hurried to the stove to get the plate she saved for him.
“Thanks, Ma,” Flint said. “I knew you wouldn’t let me starve to death.”
“Where were you,” she asked, “if it ain’t anywhere you’re ashamed to say?” She took particular delight in teasing him because she trusted his judgment completely.
He took a big bite of a biscuit before he answered. “If I told you where I was, you might not believe me.”
“Try me,” his father said as he walked in from the hallway. “I saw you go into the barn leadin’ two saddled horses.”
Flint was surprised. It was his father’s common practice to retire to the front porch to smoke his pipe after supper when the weather was mild. But he didn’t sit out there this late.
“Those two horses are just here for the night,” Flint explained. “I’ll be takin’ ’em into town in the mornin’.”
“What happened to the two fannies that were settin’ on those saddles?” Jim Moran asked, concerned about just where his son had been for most of the evening.
“I arrested ’em,” Flint said, and went on to tell his father what had taken place on the riverbank not three hundred yards north of the house, while neither he, nor Flint’s two older brothers, Nate and Joe, were even aware of it. This, in spite of the fact that a single rifle shot was heard while the family was seated at the supper table. Only one remark was made at the time when Nate’s thirteen-year-old son, Jack, had speculated that they might be eating venison tomorrow night, since the shot sounded like one from a Henry rifle.
“There was one shot,” Jim Moran said, remembering. “How bad?”
“Nothin’ a-tall,” Flint said, aware of the look of concern on his mother’s face. “One of ’em took a notion to go for his gun, so I put a round in his hand. There wasn’t any more trouble after that.” He looked at his mother and apologized. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you I wouldn’t be here for supper.”
“And tomorrow, you’re gonna go into town to tell Buck Jackson about his prisoners he got while he was dead drunk.” Jim said. “Why bother? Roy can tell him what happened.”
“I reckon,” Flint allowed, “but I’ve gotta return two horses. I don’t want Sheriff Jackson to come after me for horse stealin’. And he can still do his job pretty well as long as it’s daylight.”
Jim shook his head impatiently. “Yeah, I reckon.” He looked at Katie and said, “He can’t help it. He’s got too much of that Bradshaw blood in him from your side of the family.”
“Guilty,” Flint sang out, having heard the accusation many times. “Me and Ma are the wild ones in this family. Ain’t that right, Ma?”
“That’s right,” she responded at once, knowing that her youngest son was nothing at all like his older brothers, who seemed to have come from the womb looking for land to farm. But unlike his brothers, Flint showed no interest in finding a mother for his future children, then watching them grow up to till the soil. To complicate the future of the Moran farm, Jim’s holdings amounted to little more than three hundred and fifty acres. And the family was growing rapidly. Soon it would be too little land to support the families. Flint had talked the problem over many times with Nate and Joe. They knew it would be easier on them all if Flint didn’t find that special woman and bring her home. Flint appreciated the fact that his brothers hadn’t come out with a suggestion that he should explore different parts of the country, but he knew it was time for him to move on.
* * *
It had become the custom for all of the family to eat breakfast together in the Big House. That was the name they called the original house Jim Moran built on the farm. When Nathaniel, whom everybody called Nate, got married, there was plenty of room for him and Margie to move in with his parents. When Joe married Peggy, however, it was obvious that there would soon be a shortage of space. Consequently, the Moran men built Joe and Peggy their own home. The big family breakfasts were continued because it served to set the work schedule for the day ahead of them. The three Moran women, Katie, Margie, and Peggy, all pitched in to prepare the big breakfast, with help from Margie’s eleven-year-old, Mary, and Peggy’s ten-year-old, Janie.
On this morning, there were many questions and much discussion about Uncle Flint’s arrest of two cattle rustlers. Thirteen-year-old, Jack, and Joe’s twelve-year-old, Jody, volunteered to do some of Flint’s usual chores for him, so he could go into town early. Flint didn’t comment on it, but it further emphasized the fact that they could do his chores in addition to their own with very little bother.
When breakfast was over, Flint left them to return the two horses that belonged to the outlaws.
As was usually the case, the little settlement of Tinhorn was quiet, even though it was Saturday. Flint expected there would be wagons in from the farms later to trade at Harper’s Feed and Supply and maybe make a visit to Jake’s Place for a drink of whiskey. He led the two horses to the jail but found the office door was locked with a padlock on the outside. He considered leaving the horses at the hitching rail but decided it best to take them to the stable and led the horses to the end of the street and Lon Blake’s stable.
“Mornin’, Flint,” Lon greeted him when he rode up in front of the barn. “Whatcha got there?”
“Mornin’,” Flint returned. “I’ve got a couple of horses that belong to some guests in Sheriff Jackson’s jailhouse. I woulda left ’em here last night, but it was late and you were already locked up. Did the sheriff say anything to you about ’em?”
“I ain’t seen Buck this mornin’,” Lon answered. “But if they belong to somebody he’s got in jail, he’ll be by to tell me about ’em, so I’ll take care of ’em for you. How’d you happen to end up with the horses, anyway?”
Flint told him about his arrest of the two cattle rustlers and expressed his desire to give his story to Jackson as soon as possible. “I just came from the jail and it was locked up. I didn’t even see Roy.”
Lon reacted with half a chuckle. “Did you look in the saloon?”
Flint said that he didn’t, assuming it was a little early for that possibility.
“Buck most always goes there to get a little breakfast,” Lon went on. “Jake’s wife, Rena, will fry him up some bacon and eggs.”
Flint shook his head, amazed. “Why doesn’t he go to Clara’s Kitchen where he could get a good breakfast at a fair price?”
“’ Cause he can’t get any of the hair of the dog that bit him at Clara’s,” Lon said. “Roy’s most likely there with him. He says Buck never has more than one shot. Says he just needs it to get his brain right-side-up in the mornin’.”
“You think he’d still be there?” Flint asked, thinking it was late in the morning to be eating breakfast.
“Probably so,” Lon replied. “That’s another reason he goes to Jake’s Place. It don’t matter how late it is, Rena will cook him up something. You go along, if you want to. I’ll take care of the horses and work it out with Buck when I see him.”
“Much obliged,” Flint said and turned Buster back toward the saloon.
* * *
“Yonder he is now,” Roy Hawkins said, alerting Sheriff Buck Jackson that the man he had been telling him about had just walked in the door. “He said he’d be back this mornin’ and here he is.”
“Flint Moran, huh?” Buck reacted. He knew of the three sons of Jim Moran, but there had never been an occasion to come into contact with any of them. He made it a point to take a good look at the young man who had paused inside the door to look for him. Since the saloon was almost empty, it didn’t take but a second. Buck took note of the expression of purpose on the young man’s face as he headed straight for the table. He walked with no hint of a swagger or the heavy foot of the farmer. Buck was reminded more of a mountain lion padding effortlessly.
“Sheriff Jackson,” Flint nodded. “Roy,” he acknowledged. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Buck replied. “We were just talkin’ about you.” He waited while Flint pulled a chair back and sat down, then continued. “I’m interested to hear your version of the arrest of two men who are settin’ in my jail. I had to take one of ’em to see Doc Beard first thing this mornin’ to get his hand fixed up. Did you bring their horses back?”
“Yep, I left ’em with Lon Blake just a few minutes ago,” Flint answered. “As far as my arrest, there ain’t much to tell. I caught the two of ’em stealin’ two cows from a little herd I take care of. I thought it would be the right thing to arrest ’em, instead of just shootin’ ’em, although shootin’ ’em woulda been a lot less trouble. I figured, if you had arrested ’em, you’da probably stood ’em up in front of a judge or something. That fellow with the wounded hand, I wouldn’t have shot him if he hadn’t drawn his handgun.”
Buck nodded his understanding. Then before commenting on the arrest, he said, “Roy and I are havin’ a little bit of breakfast, you want something to eat?”
“Thanks just the same,” Flint answered. “I already had a pretty big breakfast.”
“Just for the record,” Buck continued, “who helped you capture these two men? Was there a posse or a group of vigilantes from some of the other farms? I’ve had complaints from several other farms about stolen cattle just like yours, takin’ two or three at a time.”
“Ah, no sir,” Flint answered. “There wasn’t anybody there but me. And I don’t know about any vigilantes, if there are any.” He nodded in Roy’s direction and said, “Roy was a lotta help when I took ’em into the jail.”
At the lull in the conversation at that point, Flint began to feel a little uncomfortable with the slight grin that seemed to be fixed on Buck Jackson’s face. He was beginning to get the impression that something amused the sheriff about the arrest.
When the talk appeared to have stalled, Flint asked, “What will you do with those two men?”
“You did the right thing, bringin’ ’em in,” Buck replied. “We’ll keep ’em in jail till the first of the month when the circuit judge hits town. And that’s day after tomorrow, so you picked a good time to make your arrest. We won’t have to feed ’em that long. He’ll decide what to do with ’em. I expect you’ll be needed at the trial. Any problem with that?”
“No, sir,” Flint answered. “I’ll just come back to town day after tomorrow. What time do you want me here?”
“They’ll hold court at ten o’clock in the mornin’, so why don’t you show up here at my office about half an hour before ten.”
“I’ll be there,” Flint said. “Anything else you need from me today?”
“Well, yes there is one more thing,” Buck said. “Won’t take long. You in any hurry to get back to the farm?”
Flint said that he was in no particular hurry.
Buck told him he needed to have him sign a paper accusing the two of stealing his cows. “Somebody’s got to charge them with the crime, or there ain’t nothin’ for the judge to try ’em for, and I might as well turn ’em loose right now.”
Flint shrugged indifferently. “I reckon that makes sense,” he allowed, unaware that the sheriff was making it up as they sat there.
“Good,” Buck said. “I think we’re through with breakfast. Come on, and we’ll walk back to the office.” He got to his feet and called out to Jake Rudolph over behind the bar, “Put it on my bill, Jake, and tell Rena thanks for me.” He motioned for Flint to go ahead, then followed him out.
Roy picked up the two biscuits left on the plate and put them in his pocket, then followed the sheriff.
When they walked out the door, Buck commented, “I see you’re wearin’ a Colt Frontier Six-Shooter. Mind if I take a look at it?”
Flint turned and frowned. The sheriff seemed to have a strange way about him. “I reckon not, unless you’re gettin’ ready to arrest me for shootin’ that fellow’s hand.”
Buck Jackson, bigger than most men, reacted with a belly laugh suitable for a man of his size. “No, I swear I ain’t arrestin’ you. I just wanted to take a look at that handgun you’re wearin’.” He drew his weapon and offered it to Flint. “Here, you can hold mine while I look at yours.” He held it out until Flint took his gun, then pulled his six-shooter and handed it to the sheriff. Buck looked it over only briefly before commenting. “Four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. Are you pretty fast with this weapon?” he asked, as they traded weapons again. The shorter barrel was a common feature on the weapons of fast-draw gunslingers.
“Not particularly,” Flint replied while he dropped it back into his holster. “I like the shorter barrel because I can get it out quicker when I need to. Sometimes you don’t see that rattlesnake till he’s fixin’ to strike. And that’s a time when I don’t want a seven-inch barrel slowin’ me down.” He took Buster’s reins from the hitchin’ rail and led the buckskin away from the saloon.
“Is that six-shooter the gun you shot that one feller’s hand with?” Buck asked then.
“No,” Flint answered. “I shot him with my rifle.”
Buck stepped over next to Buster, reached up, and pulled Flint’s rifle out of the saddle sling. “That’s an 1864 Henry,” he announced. “Looks like you keep it in good shape. You any good with this thing?”
Flint, certain that the sheriff must have had more than that one drink with his breakfast, glanced at Roy, who wore an expression of total confusion.
“If there’s anything to hunt, I don’t ever go hungry,” Flint answered.
The sheriff nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer. “I remember when your pa bought that piece of land over by the river. I thought at the time that he had enough sons to make that land produce. You like to work the farm?”
“Nope,” Flint replied without hesitation.
Buck responded with an expression of surprise. “You don’t? Then how come you’re still on the farm? You’re the only one of the boys that ain’t married yet, right? Maybe, when you find the right woman, she’ll change your mind about stayin’ on the farm.”
“She’d have to be a mighty big woman,” Flint remarked, causing another chuckle from the sheriff.
When they went inside the sheriff’s office, Buck hurriedly searched through his desk drawers until he found a piece of paper. There was something written on the top portion of the paper, so he tore that off and laid the remainder on the desk. He produced a pencil then and laid it on the paper. “Can you write?” he asked.
Flint said he could.
“Good. Set down there and write down why you arrested those two in the cell. Then sign it, and that’ll do for what the judge needs.”
Flint sat down at the desk and wrote a very short report on the confrontation with the two cattle thieves on the family farm, signed it, and handed it to the sheriff, who only glanced at it before putting it in a drawer.
“Is that it?” Flint asked.
“Yep, that’s all I need,” Buck answered. “You gonna be goin’ back to your farm now?”
“I thought I would,” Flint answered, still confused by the sheriff’s whimsical attitude, half expecting to be stopped again when he headed for the door.
But the sheriff walked to the door and held it open for him. “I’ll be talkin’ to you again before long,” Buck said as Flint walked past him.
“Right,” Flint responded, although he was thinking, I should have just shot those two.
The sheriff stood in the doorway of his office and watched Flint climb aboard the buckskin. When Flint loped off toward the end of the street, Buck looked back at Roy and said, “Keep your eye on the office. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He walked out the door and headed toward the bank.
“Howdy, Sheriff Jackson,” Robert Page, one of the bank’s two tellers greeted him.
“Howdy, Robert,” Buck returned. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Baxter if he ain’t too busy. Is he in?” He looked across the lobby and noticed Baxter’s office door was closed. “If he’s talkin’ business with somebody, I can wait till later.”
“He’s in,” Page said, “and there ain’t nobody in there with him. He’s just got his door closed while he has his coffee. I’ll tell him you wanna see him.”
Buck stood there and watched Page walk across the lobby to tap lightly on the president’s door. Then he stuck his head in to deliver his message, and in a few seconds, the door opened wide and Harvey Baxter signaled Buck to come on over.
Page asked if he would like a cup of coffee when they passed each other, but Buck said no.
He refused another offer of coffee from Baxter when he walked into his office. “I just drank about a gallon of it before I came up here. I’ll just take a minute of your time, Mr. Mayor.” He paused a moment to let Baxter know this was official town business, then he made his announcement. “I’ve found him, Harvey. I’ve found the very man we’ve been lookin’ for.”
Baxter’s eyebrows raised and his face lit up in anticipation.
“He just dropped in on me this mornin’. Flint Moran.”
“Moran,” Baxter echoed. “Flint. That would be the youngest of the three brothers, right?”
“Right.” Buck went on to tell the mayor all about the incident with the two stolen cows that played out during the night. The would-be rustlers were sitting in his jail as they talked. “Young man’s a crack shot with a rifle, but instead of just shootin’ those two birds when he caught ’em with his cattle, he arrested them and brought ’em to the jail last night.”
“How do you know he’s a crack shot?” Baxter asked.
“He was out there on that dark riverbank and one of the rustlers drew his handgun. Moran shot the gun outta the rustler’s hand with a Henry rifle. I had to take the man to see Doc Beard this mornin’. Hell, even after the man drew on him, Moran still brought both of ’em to jail, instead of pumpin’ a .44 slug in each one of ’em. I’d say that shows some determination, and it also tells me he ain’t tryin’ to make a name for himself with the Colt six-shooter he wears. Four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel tells me he’s most likely pretty quick with it, if he needs to be.”
“And you’re sure you want to offer him the job as your deputy?” Baxter asked. He and the sheriff had already had several discussions about Jackson’s problem, which was bound to become the town’s problem in the event a criminal element might decide Tinhorn was prime for the taking. Since there were no candidates for the sheriff’s job, the council, with the mayor’s direction, had decided the answer, at least temporarily, might be to hire a deputy. Their thinking was that the town might not attract the outlaw trouble some other towns were subject to, simply because of Sheriff Buck Jackson’s reputation. If the deputy was good enough to watch the town at night and jail any troublemakers, the message should go out to all drifters and hell-raisers that they wouldn’t be tolerated in Tinhorn. For Buck Jackson would be very much on the scene every day until after suppertime when his demons visited him. An added plus would be the potential for Buck to train the deputy to eventually take his place.
“Are you sure?” Baxter repeated his question, knowing how important it was, not only to Buck, but to the entire town.
“Yeah, Harvey, I’m sure,” Buck answered. “I don’t think we will ever find anybody as qualified for the job as Flint Moran. I just know what he’s got inside him that makes him a fighter, but he’s got a calmness about him that makes you think he ain’t gonna go off half-cocked.”
“He’s a farmer, Buck,” Baxter reminded him. “He’s a member of a farm family. A lawman might be the last thing he’d consider. And what about his wife? What will the little woman think about him leaving the farm?”
“Take my word for it,” Buck insisted. “He ain’t a farmer, and he ain’t got a wife. He’ll be leavin’ that farm pretty damn soon now, I guarantee you, and I’d just like to catch him before he heads out of this part of Texas.”
“Well, I believe you’re sold on this young man, so I’ll give you my backing when I talk to the council members tonight. And I’ll let you know in the morning what the decision is. All right?”
“All right,” Buck replied. “I appreciate it, Harvey.” He turned and left the office, nodding to Robert Page on his way out.
The sheriff knew Harvey Baxter would push for his decision. He also knew that in an earlier day, before his wife, Beca, was taken home to the angels, Baxter would have requested his presence at the meeting, so he could answer the members’ questions. It sickened him to know he could not function after dark without his whiskey to drive away the demons until he finally slumped into a comalike sleep. On some nights, he was lucky not to have the recurring dream of his wife being crushed beneath the team of runaway horses pulling a freight wagon loaded with barbed wire.