Kinsman of the Gun

  Kinsman of the Gun

  Cheyenne, 1888. Ezra McPherson is a gunfighter who cannot escape the past, and Luke Tisdale is a young doctor whose brother has been murdered. Marcus Stokesbury and Eloise Endicott are journalists who are intrigued by the mystery surrounding Ezra. Together with Richard Swearingen, a cattle baron who seeks to establish a kingdom in Wyoming, and Andrew Swearingen, a man who has killed but who is now willing to take an extraordinary step to prevent bloodshed, they all become embroiled in a story of love, greed, betrayal and sacrifice.

  By the same author

  Days of Dust and Heat

  Kinsman of the Gun

  Walton Young

  ROBERT HALE

  © Walton Young 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2934-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Walton Young to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This novel is dedicated to my wife, Suzanne

  Chapter 1

  Ginevra Swearingen stood on the parched grassy hilltop overlooking the Medicine Bow River. Lightning streaked across the black Wyoming sky, yet there was no thunder. There was no rain. Only moments ago Ezra McPherson had stood beside her and held her and told her not to be afraid. The dry-weather lightning would not reach them.

  Now he was gone. He had returned to Cheyenne. She longed for his touch. She wanted to be held again by the man she had believed was dead. He looked so much older. He probably thought the same thing about her. The lines in his face were deeper. The hair and mustache were gray. Strength clung to him, as it always had, and from the strength he exuded comfort. His hands were hard, but they held hers with a gentleness she had felt from no one else. Somehow, when he was with her, she did not worry about how things would turn out. He would make things right. She believed him – the lightning would not touch her.

  ‘Lightning, come again! I’m not afraid of you! Can you turn back time?’

  She stood, alone, and waited for the lightning to answer, but no answer came. In the darkness above the distant mountains, the lightning curled up and refused to appear.

  ‘Can you turn back time? What’s the matter? I’m not afraid of you. Are you afraid of me?’

  She called louder. Still, no reply came. And she dropped to the hilltop and stared at the mountains. No, not even Ezra could make things right, not this time.

  ‘My son. A killer.’

  If the lightning could burn away the present, she could keep her younger son, Andrew, from living a life defined by the Colt on his hip. She could prevent him from going to the Two Rivers Saloon and shooting and killing a man. And she could do more. She could prevent him from lynching a man. Ezra told her about the lynching. She knew he did not want to tell her, but he had to. He wanted to help, and this was all the help he could give. The sheriff would come for her son. Andrew had to leave Wyoming and never return. The shooting in the Two Rivers was called self-defense. Lynching was something else.

  ‘I will make Andrew go to California. He may not want to listen, but he’ll have to. I have money. I’ll give it to him. He can start a new life. The law won’t look for him there.’

  She thought about the mother who tonight mourned a son who had died at the end of a rope. She wondered who she was, who the boy was. She wondered what he could have done to deserve such a fate. Probably nothing. Why would Andrew have done such a thing?

  ‘His father, Richard. He is responsible. I blame him. No, I blame me. I was too weak to stand up against Richard. I let him destroy our son. But Ezra has told me what I must do, and I will do it. There is still time to save him.’

  She stood and looked at the faraway mountains one last time. She went to her mare and rode down the hill and left the Medicine Bow behind her.

  At the edge of Cheyenne, Ezra reined in the stallion beside the city cemetery. He stared at the dark monuments and thought how things don’t work out the way you planned. John Tisdale, Luke’s brother, would not be returning to the East for burial. He would be buried here in the cemetery at two o’clock in the afternoon. The young woman who was John’s friend, and perhaps much more, had convinced Luke that burial here in Cheyenne was the right thing to do. It was what John would have wanted. She seemed to know what she was talking about, and Luke believed her. For that matter, so did Ezra.

  Her name was Meta Anderson, and she reminded Ezra so much of Ginevra many years ago. It wasn’t just the brown eyes. It was the desire they had to escape the West. Ginevra did not want to live her life on a farm. The city called, and she heard.

  Perhaps I should have gone with her, he said to himself. But what could I do in a city?

  And then there was the small matter of the war. It was over, at least for many folks, but not for him, not for Jesse, not for Frank. There was a time when Ezra thought it would never be over, but one day he realized it was. The killing had to stop. By then Ginevra was gone, and he figured he would never see her again.

  Ezra left the cemetery and rode to the livery. Old Smitty limped out of the darkness of one of the stalls.

  ‘I figured you’d be in bed,’ Ezra said.

  ‘I like to check on the gents and ladies that call this livery home. I’ll brush this fellow down. Isn’t he something special?’

  ‘That he is. I might decide to buy him if you’ll sell him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t sell him to just anybody. It’s got to be someone who knows horses, and I can tell you know them. If you want him, let me know. I’ll make a fair deal.’

  ‘I trust you. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘By the way, one of your friends has been looking for you. It ain’t none of my business, but he seemed awfully concerned.’

  ‘Thanks, Smitty.’

  Ezra walked toward the hotel. The street was empty. No horses, no bicycles. Even the saloons were quiet. He passed the gentlemen’s club, and he had the feeling he always had when he passed it – the feeling of being watched. He stopped and looked up at a second-story window. Yes, someone was there. He could not see him, but he knew.

  Beneath the overhang of the hotel, Owen Chesterfield sat in a straight chair. His bowler was in his lap, and his bald head was visible in the darkness. He stood and walked down the steps and met Ezra in the middle of the street.

  ‘Just where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I thought I’d see the country in the moonlight.’

  ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s an old friend. I knew her in Missouri.’

  ‘Stirring up old friendships isn’t the best thing to do right now. You don’t belong out here in the West. Your home is back East. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  ‘You don’t let me forget.’

  The electric street lamps flickered. Ezra walked past him, but Owen’s question stopped him.

  ‘Back in Misso
uri, did you love her?’

  ‘Owen, you’re the nosiest rascal I’ve ever known.’

  ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘Maybe I did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you marry her?’

  ‘Because I was a fool. Letting her go was one of those mistakes I keep paying for. The debt is never settled.’

  ‘If you get it in your head to marry her now, you’ll have to take her back East.’

  ‘I’m not sure her husband would like that.’

  ‘Damn. You mean you’ve been gallivanting around the countryside with another man’s wife?’

  ‘I wasn’t gallivanting.’

  ‘You’re asking to get killed.’

  ‘I’m not worried. I have the protection of a Pinkerton.’

  Ezra almost reached the steps, but again he stopped.

  ‘Eloise knows who you are,’ Owen said. ‘Stokesbury does too. They figured it out.’

  ‘Is she going to print it?’

  ‘The newspaper is just up the street. Why don’t you go ask her?’

  ‘Did you ask her not to print it?’

  ‘I did. Eloise Endicott likes you, maybe as much as the woman you’ve been wandering around with. I don’t think she’s going to print something to endanger you. But, Ezra, other people are going to find out who you are. You just can’t keep something like that a secret forever. Some young fellow will think if he kills you, he’ll be famous.’

  ‘I guess he will. But like I said, I’m not worried. I have the protection of a Pinkerton.’

  Ezra went inside the hotel. Owen ran his hand across his head.

  ‘Damn, after all these years, I still expect hair to be up there,’ he said.

  He lit a cigarette and stared up the street. No lights spilled from the windows of the Cheyenne Daily Times. He figured Eloise Endicott had put her paper to bed. When it comes to tracking down a story, she’s as good as any reporter in Chicago, he said to himself. And, for that matter, Marcus Stokesbury isn’t too shabby. Stokesbury, from the Atlanta Constitution, was a long, long way from home. Endicott and Stokesbury had put their journalistic heads together and figured out – at least, they thought they figured out – the mystery of Ezra McPherson.

  I don’t think she’ll publish the story, Owen thought. But, then, she’s a newspaperwoman. If she has a story worth printing, she may decide to print it, and soon the whole West will know that the fastest gun in the James gang is alive and well in Cheyenne, Wyoming. How many will come to try their luck against him? How many will lie in wait, beside some road, a Winchester aimed at the middle of his back?

  ‘Ezra, you’ve got to go back East. You can’t stay here. If you do, you’ll get yourself killed.’

  Andrew Swearingen leaned against the banister of the upper veranda and saw the riders. A half-dozen. They came up the long drive and disappeared into the barn. After a few minutes they emerged and went to the bunkhouse. They were serious. He knew because they did not talk. They did not laugh. Perhaps they were just tired. After all, it was late, which made him wonder what they had been doing. Rayburn would know. Later, Andrew would ask him. As foreman, Rayburn knew everything that went on at the ranch. Maybe he had sent them to lynch someone else.

  He bowed his head and wanted to cry. He closed his eyes. All he could see was the young rancher swinging wildly at the end of a rope. And he saw the rancher’s young brother, the hate burning in his eyes.

  ‘If he ever has the opportunity, he will kill me,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Who’s going to kill you?’

  Andrew’s brother, Peter, opened the door and came onto the veranda. Peter was two years older but, to Andrew, the difference in their ages seemed much greater. Peter was taller, at least a head taller. Standing next to him, Andrew felt small, and he remembered what Rose had called him in the upstairs room at the Two Rivers – ‘the runt of the litter’.

  ‘A lot of folks would probably like to. You want a cigarette?’

  ‘Mother doesn’t like you to smoke.’

  ‘I do quite a few things she doesn’t like. How is Anne?’

  Andrew struck a match on the banister and lit both cigarettes. Small clouds of smoke fled into the night.

  ‘She’s uncomfortable. I’ll be glad when the baby gets here. So will she.’

  ‘She’ll be OK. I know she will.’

  ‘I’m worried, Andrew. In fact, I’m scared. If anything were to happen to her—’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ Andrew said. ‘She’s strong. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘I appreciate the words of encouragement. You know, I haven’t seen much of you lately.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you have.’

  ‘You’ve probably heard. I killed a man – in the Two Rivers.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard.’

  ‘He left me no choice. At least I keep telling myself that.’

  ‘Was he going to kill you?’

  ‘Yes. He had a pistol. He went for it. I drew faster, and now he’s dead.’

  ‘You’re right. You had no choice.’

  ‘Rayburn taught me how to use a gun. I remember the first time I shot a tin can off a fence post in the pasture. There’s no telling how many bullets I used before I hit that can. Finally, when I did hit it, I thought I was really something. I wanted to make Rayburn proud. I didn’t want him to think he had wasted his time on this kid from New York. But more than that – I wanted to make Father proud. I had this idea that proving myself with a pistol would make me a man. I wanted Father to think I was a man.’

  ‘Killing that fellow in the Two Rivers – do you think it made you a man?’

  ‘Peter, I keep seeing that farmer lying on the floor, his whole body shaking, the blood coming out of his gut. How can something like that make anyone a man? And then the lynching. . .’

  Andrew wished he had not mentioned it.

  ‘What lynching?’

  ‘Yesterday we strung up a young guy that Rayburn said was rustling our cattle. I wanted to stop it. I didn’t think that fellow stole any of our cattle. I don’t believe any jury would have convicted him of rustling, but there was nothing I could do. You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘I have no reason not to believe you.’

  ‘When I woke up this morning, I came out here on the veranda. It was almost as dark as it is now. There was only the faintest glow of the sun. I suddenly realized I don’t know who I am. Peter, it was the strangest feeling. I thought I was becoming the man I was supposed to be.’

  ‘You’re young. You’re still searching for who you are. I’d say that’s normal.’

  ‘No. I feel lost, awfully lost. I’ve been with a whore. Rayburn made all the arrangements. I guess that, too, was supposed to make me a man. But it’s all empty. I hit her the other night. I bloodied her face. I shouldn’t have done that. A man wouldn’t have done that. And when I close my eyes and see that farmer on the floor and that boy swinging from the end of a rope, I know that’s not who I am. People will think it is, but it’s not.’

  ‘Father knows who you are, and he’s proud of you. That should be of some comfort. You see, he’s not proud of me. He thinks I’m soft, too soft to be any good in business. But I am good in business. My approach just differs from his. He came out of the war a hardened man. He has tried to build an empire here in Wyoming. Building an empire, I suppose, requires men like Rayburn – men like you, Andrew. I’m best suited for the East.’

  ‘Peter, there’s something I’ve never told you. You’re the rock in this family. I’ve never told you this, Peter. I’ve always admired you. Sometimes I think our noble family is going to hell, but you’re steady, firm. You keep the royal ship from going under. Don’t worry about what Father thinks. At least you know who you are.’

  Peter finished his cigarette and tossed the butt over the banister.

  ‘Did you know that John Tisdale’s brother has come to take him back East?’ Peter asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sho
uld have been at dinner yesterday. It was quite interesting. Father invited John’s brother, Luke, who’s staying in Cheyenne. There were these two other fellows. Marcus Stokesbury is a reporter for the Atlanta Constitution. Don’t ask me why he’s all the way out here in Wyoming. But the fellow I’m really curious about is Ezra McPherson. He’s the man who stopped the train robbery. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. I’ve never met a gunfighter, unless you consider Rayburn that. But one thing is for sure – Ezra McPherson is a gunfighter. He just has that look about him. Eloise Endicott was also there. Imagine – two newspaper people at our dinner table.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess it was interesting.’

  ‘Well, that’s not all. I think Mother and McPherson know each other.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘First of all, when she came into the parlor, when she saw him, she turned deathly pale. The way they looked at each other at the dinner table – I’m telling you they know each other. They probably knew each other in Missouri.’

  Another rider galloped up the drive and headed to the barn.

  ‘That’s Mother,’ Andrew said. ‘She must have heard you talking about her. She’s the only woman I know who wears a silk dress when she rides a horse. I wonder why she’s out so late. Maybe she followed Father into town to see what he does.’

  ‘She knows what he does. You and I know what he does. Brother, you’re not the only one who visits whores, and he doesn’t care about keeping it a secret. Well, I’m going to turn in.’

  Peter opened the door but hesitated.

  ‘Andrew, watch yourself.’

  Near the front steps Ginevra stopped and looked up at Andrew. She did not speak. She did not lift a hand in greeting. And then she was gone.

  He thought about turning in as well, but he knew he could not sleep. After ten or fifteen minutes, footsteps sounded in the upstairs hall. She wants to talk, he said to himself, and I don’t want to talk to her. She came onto the veranda and stood close to him. In her hands she held a small brown leather case.