Kinsman of the Gun Read online

  ‘No rush, Josie. I’ve got some thinking to do.’

  He thought about the letter of resignation he needed to finish writing. It lay in a desk drawer back in his office. Mayor Payne is sure going to be surprised, he said to himself, but it’s time. It’s past time. These old bones are creaking more than the saddle.

  ‘You hear my bones creaking, Josie? That’s right. It’s my bones, not the saddle.’

  Zeke Stuart is an able deputy, he thought. He’ll make an able sheriff. He’s young. He’s got a lot to learn, but he’ll be all right.

  Or will he? He tends to be rash, and that can get a man in trouble, especially a lawman. But he’ll mature. Some things you just learn with age. The challenge is you have to live long enough to learn those things.

  He looked to his right and to his left, at the vast prairie that stretched to the hills and to the mountains. He envisioned Swearingen’s men crossing the prairie to attack the homesteaders. He envisioned the homesteaders crossing the prairie to stop them. War. Range war.

  ‘That’s what’s coming.’

  He had seen it before. He would be leaving Stuart right in the middle of it. Maybe he is too young for that, he thought, and I’m too old. Stuart will need help, but who’s going to help him?

  Once I turn in my badge, I don’t want to hang around. I won’t be here to help.

  He thought about Penelope. She had wanted him to give up the law a long time ago.

  ‘Let’s go someplace peaceful,’ she had said. ‘You’ve given your life to the law. It’s time to walk away from it.’

  ‘I should have listened,’ he said. ‘Josie, I should have paid attention to what she said. I wish you had known Penelope. You would have liked her. She would have liked you. I should have taken her out of this country. She might never had got typhoid. She might still be alive today.’

  He urged Josie forward. Suddenly he thought about the three strangers from the East – young Luke Tisdale, on a mission to retrieve the body of his brother. Accompanying Tisdale was Marcus Stokesbury, a reporter from the Atlanta Constitution.

  ‘Josie, can you believe a reporter from the Atlanta Constitution is in Cheyenne? Why didn’t he stay in Atlanta? You’d think there’s enough news where he came from to keep him busy.’

  And then there was Ezra McPherson. He had quickly made a name for himself. He stopped a train robbery. He killed most of the robbers. He had to be Luke Tisdale’s hired gun. They wanted to know who killed Tisdale’s brother, John. Whoever did it was going to pay. Harrison saw it – saw the desire for vengeance in their eyes – and that desire never led to anything good. Just more killing, more quests for vengeance.

  ‘What a trio of pilgrims. Do I want to leave that for Zeke to handle? It’s one thing to handle a drunken cowpoke causing too much of a ruckus. It’s something else to deal with a gunslinger like McPherson. And that’s what he is, Josie, a gunslinger, pure and simple. Is Zeke ready for that?’

  A rider approached in a full gallop from behind.

  ‘Hold on, Josie. Let’s see what this fellow’s in such a hurry about.’

  The rider drew closer.

  ‘Well, I guess you located the young Swearingen,’ Harrison said.

  The barrel of the .45 shone in the sunlight. Two quick bursts from the pistol shattered the quiet of the prairie. The bullets struck Harrison in the chest and upper abdomen. He reached for the saddle horn but, instead, fell. The fall seemed, to him, to take forever. When he hit the ground, he could not feel it beneath him. His vision was blurred. He could tell that the man was still on horseback. He struggled to breathe, to find enough air to carry one word that would be no more than a whisper.

  ‘Why?’

  The man fired another shot.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I did not know John Tisdale well. I wish I had known him much better. It was always a pleasure to talk to him. He was always friendly. He was always optimistic. You see, he believed in the growth of this country. He wanted to be a part of it. I know because he told me.’

  The sun beat down on the cemetery. Timothy Monroe, the Methodist minister, stood, bare-headed, in a black suit. Sweat glistened on his red face and darkened his white collar. Marcus Stokesbury wondered how many funerals the minister had conducted in this cemetery. The minister was not a young man. Marcus surmised he had presided over many funerals, and many were probably for men like John Tisdale, shot down in an alley with no witnesses, only endless speculation as to who did it.

  ‘One afternoon I was riding back to town from one of the ranches that surround Cheyenne. John was also returning to Cheyenne from the Swearingen ranch. Our paths merged and we rode together and talked. He was exuberant. “I’m going to get married,” he said. “I’m going to be one of these ranchers,” he said. “Oh, not one of the big ones. I’ll start out small. But I want to build something and make my wife proud.” He was a young man with a dream.’ Monroe paused and stared first at Luke, then at Ezra.

  ‘I had a distinct impression of John Tisdale. He was a man who deplored violence. Still, he became caught up in it. Some of you may want vengeance. That is understandable. The murderer has never been caught. I’ve spoken at too many of these funerals. Violence has taken the lives of too many people lying in this cemetery, lying in the potter’s field, lying on the prairie where no one came to bury them. If you’re a kinsman of the gun, consider what John would want. He would want to stop the killing.’

  Marcus studied Ezra. His face was hard, and Marcus wondered what he must be thinking. ‘A kinsman of the gun . . .’ Marcus let the words seep into his memory. One day, hopefully soon, he would return to the newspaper in Atlanta and sit at his desk and feel the impatient eyes of his editor fixed upon him and he would write the article about Ezra McPherson. He would remember the minister’s words. Someday he would ask Ezra what he thought about them. Did he consider himself ‘a kinsman of the gun’? He knew what Ezra’s reply would be, and it would be no reply at all.

  Then Marcus turned his attention to the men and women who had come. Beside him was Eloise Endicott, a fellow journalist, publisher of the Cheyenne newspaper. She wore a long dark blue dress and matching hat with a wide brim. Jennifer Beauchamp, the schoolteacher from South Carolina who had come West to start a new life, stood next to Luke. The young doctor’s eyes remained fixed on the open hole in the earth. On the other side of Luke stood his friend, Ezra McPherson, and Owen Chesterfield, a Pinkerton. All the men held their hats in their hands. Meta Anderson was there, along with a man and woman that Marcus figured were her parents. When the minister spoke of the woman John Tisdale intended to marry, Marcus knew he spoke of Meta. She and her parents were dressed simply. Life for them on the Wyoming prairie, Marcus imagined, was hard, too hard to be able to afford anything that came close to fine clothes. Zeke Stuart, the deputy’s badge bright in the sun, was there, and Marcus wondered why. The Swearingens were absent. Marcus had expected them to come.

  The monuments in the cemetery were both plain and ornamental, and Marcus thought about Oakland Cemetery back in Atlanta. It was a place to escape to. You could wander among the trees and monuments and think. You could look at the tombstones and see the history of Atlanta that stretched back before the war. You could look at the city cemetery of Cheyenne and see that history taking shape.

  ‘Luke Tisdale, John’s brother, wants to say a few words,’ Timothy Monroe said.

  Jennifer touched Luke’s hand, only for a moment.

  ‘John liked to encourage people,’ Luke said. ‘If people were ever down, he tried to lift them up. Sometimes I didn’t know whether I would get through medical college, but John encouraged me. He kept me going. He was a brother. He was a friend. John, I’m going to miss you.’

  Luke wanted to say more, but he decided that was enough. He stepped back to Jennifer. He didn’t remember much of what the minister said. He remembered ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ but that was about all. And then the service was over.

  He saw Meta, and he thoug
ht he should say something to her. John would want him to.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Luke said. ‘Are these your parents?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meta said.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ the father said. ‘Meta, we’ve got to get back.’

  ‘I’ll come directly.’

  Meta held purple New England aster. It was a flower John liked. He liked the name, especially the New England part. ‘New England in Wyoming,’ he would say. ‘Two worlds I love.’ She walked to the grave and looked down at the plain pine box. She could not believe that a box could hold someone like John. His dreams were too big to be contained in such a box. She looked up and saw Eloise. Her dress was beautiful. Meta felt shabby and ashamed. She should have worn something special for John, but she had nothing special and as long as she lived on the desolate prairie, she would have nothing. John had helped her dream of possibilities, but he was gone and so was the dream.

  Eloise walked to her and for a while neither spoke. The sun lit up the aster, and Meta kneeled and tossed the flowers onto the coffin.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Eloise said.

  ‘I have to go. Ma and Pa are waiting.’

  Meta walked to the wagon where her parents sat. Her father fidgeted with the reins.

  ‘She loved him,’ Eloise said.

  ‘Yes, I think she did,’ Luke said.

  Ezra laid a hand, strong and sun-darkened, on his shoulder.

  ‘Ezra, I wish I could find who did this,’ Luke said.

  ‘Whoever did this is a coldblooded killer,’ Ezra said. ‘Killing comes easy to him.’

  ‘In other words, I’m not the kind of man to go after such a killer.’

  ‘No, Luke, you’re not.’

  Ezra put his black hat on, and he and Owen headed for the gate. Stuart stood by himself.

  ‘Deputy, you look lost,’ Owen said.

  ‘I didn’t know John Tisdale. I just thought I should come. Don’t ask me why. I just did.’

  ‘Well, that’s mighty kind of you.’

  ‘Deputy, something’s troubling you,’ Ezra said. ‘No point in telling me there’s not. What is it?’

  ‘The sheriff.’

  ‘What about the sheriff?’ Owen asked.

  ‘He rode out to the Swearingen place early this morning. He wanted to talk to Andrew Swearingen about the lynching. He should be back by now.’

  ‘Maybe he stopped at a friend’s place to have a cup of coffee,’ Owen said.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t guess I should be bothering you about this, especially right after a funeral. We didn’t exactly make you feel welcome when you got to Cheyenne. I’m worried.’

  ‘Let’s saddle up,’ Ezra said. ‘We’ll go with you. Owen, we’ll get horses at the livery.’

  Marcus and Eloise walked with the minister out of the cemetery. The gravediggers slouched outside the gate, near the black hearse with two large windows on each side. They grinned at Marcus. He thought that if a buzzard could grin, it would look something like that.

  Luke and Jennifer were alone. She took his hand, and he wanted to tell her how much he appreciated her being there. He looked into her eyes, and he knew it wasn’t necessary. They left the grave, and the New England aster glowed on the lid of the coffin.

  The old man sat, cross-legged, next to the small campfire, a sweat-stained flop hat on the ground at his side. Already the sun burned the eastern sky. Behind him flowed a stream, shallow but swift. In his lap he held a Sharps. It was cocked. He kept a finger on the trigger. A black patch covered his left eye. With his good eye he focused on the rider who had come into his camp.

  ‘Nice looking mare you’re riding, sonny,’ the old man said.

  ‘She gives me no reason to complain.’

  ‘Then she’s a whole heap better’n most people.’

  ‘I just need to water me and my horse.’

  ‘Help yourself. It don’t belong to me. I’m simply passing through, same as you, I figger.’

  Andrew led the mare to the stream. He kneeled and cupped his hands and drank. The water was cold. Amazing, he thought, in this heat. He drank again and stood.

  ‘I see you looking at my coffee pot,’ the old man said. ‘Now that you’ve had some water, sit a spell. Pour yourself a cup of coffee.’

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  The old man pulled a tin cup from the saddle-bags next to him and tossed it. Andrew poured, then sat and waited for the coffee to cool. He stared across the prairie. In the distance vast rocky peaks stood guard in the west.

  ‘You’ve been doing some riding,’ the old man said.

  Andrew nodded.

  ‘Let me guess. You were calling on a young lady, but then her husband came home early, or maybe, even worse, it was her daddy, and so you had to make a hasty getaway.’

  ‘Nowhere close. This heat is playing tricks with your imagination.’

  ‘Where you coming from?’

  ‘Cheyenne.’

  ‘Ain’t been there. I hear tell there’s a lot of money there.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Well, I wish money could solve the world’s problems, but it never has and never will. Of course, if somebody wants to give me money, I ain’t gonna turn it down.’

  The old man laughed and then coughed.

  ‘It has to be lonely out here all by yourself,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I’ve got my horse and I’ve got my mule. I ain’t lonely. You can always talk to a horse and a mule, and they ain’t gonna argue back. Tell me, sonny. What are you running from?’

  ‘What makes you think I’m running from something?’

  ‘I’m a pretty good judge of people. I can tell when they’re trying to get away from something, and I can tell when they’re in a hurry to do it.’

  You’re a nosy old man, Andrew thought, and he wanted to tell him, but the rifle made him reconsider. Red splotches dotted the old man’s face above his white beard.

  ‘I see you’re taking an interest in this rifle,’ the man said. ‘It’s a Sharps, 1874. I’ve knocked down many a buffalo with it. Had to keep the railroad men’s stomachs full. Also needed to draw a paycheck when the prospectin’ warn’t going good.’

  The old man wore buckskin. His horse and pack mule stood, hobbled, beside the stream. A shovel and pick, tied on the mule, caught Andrew’s attention.

  ‘How long you been a prospector?’

  ‘Since Dahlonega. Ever heard of it?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Down in Georgia. Big gold strike there a long time ago. I took a Cherokee wife when I was there. Finest woman the sun ever shined on. Her and me left the north Georgia mountains with her people. The government said they had to go West. She didn’t make it. I held her in my arms when she died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We have to go on, sonny. I kept going West. To California. One of these days I’m gonna strike it rich. I thought I’d head up into the Black Hills. I hear tell there’s still some nuggets up there. I may find a few.’

  ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘A Comanche took a liking to it in Texas before the war.’

  Andrew wondered how far he had ridden. He wondered where he was. Surely he was out of Wyoming.

  ‘What’s your name, sonny?’

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘If I had any friends, they’d call me Phil.’

  The old man’s voice was raspy. It was as if he dragged his words across sandpaper. His white hair was thin on top and long in the back. His beard had not seen shears in many months. He wore dark brown moccasins.

  ‘Them two biscuits and salt pork in the skillet are yours if you want ’em.’

  ‘They would go good with the coffee. Thanks, mister.’

  ‘You know, there’s nothing like a good cup of coffee to get the day off to an acceptable start.’

  Andrew ate quickly. Biscuits had never tasted so good. He finished the coffee. He looked at the mountains. Tall, rugged. They almost touched the
sky. Beyond the mountains he would be safe. He would settle in California. That’s what his mother wanted. It was a good idea. He had enough money to buy a small ranch. The only problem was that he really didn’t know anything about ranching. That was one thing Rayburn hadn’t taught him.

  ‘I need to be moving on,’ he said.

  ‘You know, sonny, running isn’t going to take care of the problem. It’s always going to be there. You think you can escape it, but you can’t. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. You’ll think you’ve heard something. You’ll think they’ve found you. You’ll reach for your Colt and you’ll realize your hand is shaking. You wouldn’t be able to hit anything if you pulled the trigger. You’ll try to go back to sleep. You’ll close your eyes. But if you’ve killed a man, you’ll see his face. You’ll see the blood around the hole where your bullet took him down. And you know what? You’ll cry – like a baby. You’ll keep running, but the past will haunt you. You’d better realize it now. You’ve got to stand up and face it. Running ain’t going to do any good.’

  Andrew stood and went again to the stream and bent and cupped his hands and splashed water into his face.

  ‘I’m just an old man. You don’t have to believe a word I’ve said.’

  At night Andrew had closed his eyes and had seen the farmer on the floor of the saloon, the dark blood pooling around his quaking body. Again he reached into the stream and drank. Then he went to his horse.

  ‘No need to rush off,’ the old man said. ‘Talking is the only thing I’m good at.’

  ‘Mister, I appreciate your hospitality. I hope you find the gold you’re looking for.’

  ‘I hope so too. I don’t think you’re looking for gold. Whatever it is you’re looking for, I hope you find it.’

  Andrew took one last look at the mountains. Beyond the peaks he would be safe. No one would find him. Money could give him a new life. He looked at the cold stream. He looked at the old man, who lifted a hand in farewell, and then he spurred his horse back toward the east. He did not go far. He figured he should pay something for the coffee and food. The old geezer looked like he was broke. He reined his horse in to return.