Kinsman of the Gun Page 6

  ‘I didn’t like you the moment I saw you,’ Stuart said. ‘I don’t know if I like you now. But I reckon I could use your help. I’d be obliged.’

  ‘If Ezra is your deputy, then you need two deputies,’ Owen said.

  ‘I thought you’re a Pinkerton,’ Stuart said.

  ‘I am. When I left Chicago, they told me to do what I need to do. This is what I need to do. Marcus, how about it? Do you need another job?’

  ‘I think I’ll stick to newspapering.’

  ‘Zeke, take off that deputy’s badge and give it to one of these gentlemen,’ Payne said, and he reached into his coat pocket. ‘Here’s the sheriff’s star. Slade gave it to me a little while ago. He said we might be needing it. Zeke, step up here.’

  Stuart rose from the chair and walked past Ezra and stood at the desk. Payne pinned the badge onto Stuart’s vest.

  ‘Zeke, raise your right hand. Do you hereby swear to uphold the law here in Cheyenne, Wyoming?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Congratulations. You’re now the sheriff. I’m sure there’s another deputy’s badge in a desk drawer.’

  He walked to the back of the desk and pulled open a drawer.

  ‘We’re in luck,’ he said, and he handed the badge to Owen. ‘Well, what is this?’

  He lifted a piece of paper and read.

  ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Mitch’s letter of resignation. I had no idea he was planning to retire. For the life of me, I just can’t understand how some things work out. Damn.’

  Ezra and Owen walked along the sidewalk. Marcus, with Eloise beside him, followed. He was thankful to be out of the sheriff’s office, away from the unbearable closeness, away from the heat trapped in the small room, away from the men who struggled to discover what to do. Stuart was not ready to be sheriff. Marcus was convinced of it. He was fortunate he would have someone like Ezra to guide him, to tell him what to do. He would just have to listen, and Marcus was not so sure the young sheriff of Cheyenne was willing to listen.

  ‘Well, Ezra, how do you feel now that you’re a deputy?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Same as I felt before I was a deputy.’

  Two cowboys stumbled out of the Two Rivers and sang and shouted and staggered toward their horses. And then they were gone.

  ‘I don’t hear any piano music,’ Owen said. ‘Marcus, do you hear any piano music?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘Were you wanting to dance?’ Ezra said.

  ‘Not with you, friend. I had Miss Endicott in mind.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Mr Chesterfield.’

  ‘I was pretty good in my day.’

  A buggy raced down the street, past the dark window fronts, and stopped beside them. Luke gripped the reins tightly. Jennifer Beauchamp sat beside him.

  ‘Where are you going in such a rush?’ Ezra asked.

  ‘Peter Swearingen came to get me. His wife is in labor. Jennifer and I are on our way.’

  ‘Owen and I will catch up.’

  In an instant the buggy was gone.

  ‘I like how you speak for me,’ Owen said. ‘Are you sure you want to go back out there? Rayburn may be there this time.’

  ‘Stokesbury, you coming?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m coming.’

  ‘Can you ride a horse?’ Ezra asked.

  ‘I’m going to ignore that question.’

  ‘I’ll tell Zeke where you’re heading,’ Eloise said.

  The three men found Smitty in his small lean-to office.

  ‘After Peter Swearingen came to me, wanting to know where he could find Doctor Tisdale, I had a feeling you gents might be needing horses. We’ll get ’em saddled before you can say jack jabbit.’

  They galloped out of town, past the gentlemen’s club, past the quiet, small houses, past the city cemetery. Soon Marcus realized he had never seen anything so massive and so beautiful as the Wyoming prairie at night. The stars – and he thought there must have been at least a million of them – and a crescent moon lit the way. Beyond the prairie the mountains rose, dark and watchful. They crossed the Medicine Bow River, and the water splashed cold and refreshing against their legs. They caught up with the buggy. Jennifer held onto her bonnet with both hands.

  They rode less than two hours, though it seemed to take much longer. The prairie was endless in the moonlight. Marcus wondered if all this land belonged to Swearingen, and he wondered why anyone would need so much land. Perhaps one day he would ask him – and then perhaps not.

  Swearingen sat in a dark red wingchair in his study. He heard the shrieks from upstairs and he rose and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of bourbon. He needed something, something to help him deal with the screams. Then he heard the horses. They were moving quickly up the long drive.

  He rushed out of the study, down the hall, and onto the porch. Ginevra was already there. She held a small kerchief in her hands and she kept twisting it. She looked at her husband and smelled the alcohol. Luke jumped from the buggy and ran around to the other side and gave Jennifer his hand. Ezra and Ginevra looked at each other but did not speak.

  ‘Luke, I can’t tell you how grateful we all are,’ Swearingen said.

  ‘This is Jennifer Beauchamp. She’s going to assist me.’

  ‘I’m going to help too,’ Ginevra said. ‘We already have the water hot. I’ll have it brought upstairs. Peter got back just a few minutes ago. He’s upstairs with Anne.’

  The three hurried inside. Ezra, Owen, and Marcus dismounted.

  ‘Sir, I don’t believe we’ve met,’ Swearingen said.

  ‘Owen Chesterfield’s the name.’

  ‘You men come inside for some refreshment,’ Swearingen said. ‘I’m sure you’re thirsty after the long ride out here.’

  ‘We don’t turn down refreshment when it’s free,’ Owen said. ‘It is free, isn’t it, Mr Swearingen?’

  ‘Free? Hell no. How do you think I made all my money? Not by giving stuff away. But come on in. I may change my mind.’

  Swearingen laughed. He saw the outlines of two cowboys standing next to the corral.

  ‘Hey, you men, take care of these horses,’ Swearingen called out.

  He led Ezra, Owen and Marcus into the parlor.

  ‘All the servants are busy with the baby, so I’ll do the pouring myself. I trust whiskey is acceptable to everyone.’

  ‘Water will be fine,’ Ezra said.

  ‘I’ll take water also,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Whiskey will do just fine,’ Owen said.

  Peter came down the stairs and sat on the sofa near the front window. Swearingen held a glass toward him, but he shook his head. The others drank and listened. Shrieks spilled down the stairs, and Peter put his face in his hands.

  ‘She’s a tough one, Peter,’ Swearingen said. ‘She’ll be all right.’

  Sometimes even the tough ones don’t make it, Marcus thought, and he suspected Peter might be thinking the same thing.

  ‘Luke is a fine doctor,’ Ezra said. ‘Your wife is in good hands.’

  ‘Pull off your coats, gentlemen,’ Swearingen said. ‘It’s too hot to be formal.’

  Swearingen lifted his glass but hesitated. In the dim light silver stars caught his attention. Both Ezra and Owen wore one.

  ‘I didn’t know you gentlemen had become enforcers of the law.’

  ‘It wasn’t something we planned,’ Owen said. ‘The situation just presented itself.’

  ‘I know what you’re talking about. Sometimes an opportunity, totally unexpected, comes along and you have to seize it. But I wasn’t aware that Sheriff Harrison intended to hire anyone else.’

  ‘Harrison is dead,’ Ezra said.

  Peter removed the hands from his face.

  ‘Dead? But he was here this morning.’

  ‘And I assure you,’ Swearingen said, ‘he was very much alive when he called on us.’

  The clock on the mantel ticked, and Peter stood and walked to the hearth and then back to the sofa and then to the side window and b
ack to the sofa and then to the hearth.

  ‘Damn, boy, stop that pacing,’ Swearingen said. ‘You’d think you were nervous.’

  On top of the mahogany table next to the chair where Owen sat lay a book. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He lifted the book and held it close to his eyes and then he moved it farther away, then farther.

  ‘That’s Ben-Hur,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Ben who?’

  ‘Ben-Hur. It’s a popular novel. A lot of people are reading it.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘That’s one of my wife’s books,’ Swearingen said. ‘At night she always has a book in her hands.’

  Owen flipped through the pages.

  ‘I wish they made the words larger. A little hard for an old man like me to read.’

  Ezra saw Owen’s difficulty. Then Anne cried out, and Peter grabbed the edge of the mantel. Swearingen poured another glass of whiskey and handed it to his son.

  ‘Here. Drink this. I insist. It’ll help. It’s going to be a long night.’

  Chapter Seven

  Rayburn stood in the darkness of an alley across the street from the jail. Earlier, as he sat at a table next to the window in the Three Rivers, he noticed Cheyenne’s city councilmen bunched together on the sidewalk. They walked, it appeared to Rayburn, reluctantly toward the jail. He set his glass down on the table and followed. The alley was a good spot to observe what was happening.

  He lit a cigarette and waited. He wondered what the discussion was about. Sooner or later he would find out, and then he would report to Swearingen. The door creaked open and the councilmen filed out. Well, they’ve got a bit more spring in their step, he said to himself. Something happened that seemed to please them.

  Soon after the councilmen emerged, Ezra McPherson and Owen Chesterfield appeared, followed by Marcus Stokesbury and Eloise Endicott. They seemed to be in no particular hurry. Rayburn threw down the cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot.

  Ezra McPherson. Rayburn recognized him, even in the darkness. Ezra McPherson was one man Rayburn thought he’d never lay eyes on again. But there he was. The only man Jesse James ever feared – or so the story went. You heard all kinds of stories. Still, Rayburn believed it. After Ford killed Jesse, everyone, it seemed, expected McPherson to seek vengeance. Everyone in Missouri, it seemed, thought Rayburn had something to do with getting Ford to pull the trigger.

  To those Rebs, I was just a no-good Yankee scoundrel, he thought. I could have told them I had nothing to do with Ford and Jesse, but it would have been absolutely pointless. I wish I had had something to do with it. Then I could have gotten a job in one of the traveling shows. I can hear the introduction: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the man who put an end to Jesse James.’ I could have made good, easy money in one of the traveling shows.

  Everyone expected McPherson to take care of Ford and then to come after Rayburn. In fact, Rayburn himself expected it. He sent men to eliminate that possibility, and the men did not return. The next day came, and then the next, and still there was no pursuit of vengeance.

  ‘McPherson is just biding his time,’ the people said.

  Farmers came into town on Sundays for church, and Rayburn had ears among them. After the service was over, they huddled next to their wagons and buggies and speculated.

  ‘Maybe Ezra is just waiting to see what Jesse’s brother is going to do.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re forgetting Ezra quit riding with Jesse and Frank.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. I heard he was tired of the killing.’

  ‘For him, the war was over.’

  ‘How can it be over? How can it ever be over?’

  ‘For Ezra, it was over.’

  ‘Yeah, but that was before Ford killed Jesse. Now it ain’t over.’

  The days passed, and still Jesse’s friend sought no vengeance. People said the waiting was making Ford crazy. No one had seen McPherson for days. His neighbors got together and rode out to his farm. Maybe he was sick. Maybe one of his mules had kicked him and he couldn’t get out of bed. But he was nowhere to be found. The house was empty. The barn was empty. No horses, no mules, no cows, no chickens.

  ‘There’s always chickens running around,’ one said.

  ‘There’s nothing here. It’s downright ghostly. What do you think happened?’

  In the late afternoon sunlight Stitch Felker rode up on a sway-back mare and stared at the neighbors who huddled outside Ezra’s house and spat tobacco juice and laughed.

  ‘You men are a sorry, lazy sight for old eyes like mine,’ Felker said. ‘You ain’t going to find Ezra McPherson anywhere around here.’

  ‘What are you talking about, old coot? Do you know something we don’t know?’

  ‘I reckon I do. Ezra’s gone. Gone for good. He’s been gone for days. He has plum skedaddled. Before he left, he brought his span of mules over and gave them to me. You heard right, gents. He gave them to me. I’ve always said he had the finest span I’ve ever seen. He knew I’d take good care of them. “But, Ezra,” I says, “where is you heading?” “I can’t say,” he says back. “But what about Ford?” I asks. “Ain’t you going to kill him? There’s not a jury in Missouri that’ll convict you.” He didn’t answer. “Is Frank going to do it? Folks are actually placing bets on which one of you is going to pull the trigger.” He still didn’t answer. All he said was, “Whatever tack there is in the shop is yours. You’ve been a good friend, Stitch Felker,” he says. And then he rode off. The blackness of the night clean swallowed him up. He warn’t never much of a farmer. He was better with a Colt .45 than with a plow. All I can say is now I’ve got the finest span of mules in the county.’

  Rayburn heard about the visit to the McPherson farm. He found it hard to believe, so he too rode out there. The door to the house stood open, as if it were inviting him to step inside. He kept his hand on his pistol, and he heeded the silent invitation. Nothing but darkness. A few chipped dishes cluttered the dry sink. A dirty linen towel lay nearby.

  ‘Well, I reckon he is gone,’ Rayburn said. ‘I never thought he would just up and leave. But, by damn, that’s what he’s done.’

  He walked outside and looked toward the barn. No point in going there, he thought. Ezra McPherson is gone. Those nosy neighbors were right. And they were right about something else. This place is ghostly.

  The wind stirred and Rayburn felt uneasy. After Jesse James’s death, Ezra McPherson was a threat. He had to be eliminated, so Rayburn sent a group of men to do the job. And every one of them is dead, he said to himself. Not a one came back alive. But maybe, just maybe, one of them got lucky before he breathed his last and put a bullet in old Ezra. Maybe old Ezra went off somewhere like a wounded dog to die. Maybe he is dead. That explains why this place feels haunted.

  Rayburn shook his head. I don’t need to think like that, he said to himself. If Ezra is dead, then there’s nothing to worry about. His ghost sure as hell ain’t going to bother me.

  Now, standing across the street from the Cheyenne jail, Rayburn observed not a ghost, but Ezra McPherson himself. If I had a rifle, Rayburn thought, I could put a hole in him. But the time is not right. It will be, though. He shouldn’t have come back. That was a mistake, and that mistake will get him killed.

  Ezra and his companions walked down the sidewalk. Rayburn recognized the man walking alongside him. He did not remember the man’s name. He had seen him a day or two before Ezra disappeared from Missouri. He must have had something to do with it. Rayburn heard the fellow had met with the governor. Again Rayburn thought about the ambush on a lonely country road. He had planned it carefully, yet somehow Ezra escaped. Rayburn suspected the man now walking alongside Ezra must have had something to do with that too.

  A buggy hurried down the street. It was Luke Tisdale and the schoolteacher. He had heard about her. She had come from South Car
olina with her boy. She was the sister of Silas Taylor’s wife. It was interesting that she would be going for a buggy ride with the young Tisdale at this time of night.

  ‘Well, I reckon since her old man is dead, she’s looking for a little companionship with the young Tisdale.’

  They talked. Rayburn couldn’t hear, but there seemed to be some urgency. Then the buggy was gone, and so were the others.

  Rayburn reached for another cigarette and a match. He stopped before striking it on the leather sole of his boot. Two riders approached, slowly, almost as if they were not moving. At the end of the street they looked small and, at first, he did not recognize them.

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing.’

  Andrew Swearingen and Curly Pike rode past the Two Rivers. Andrew looked at the light escaping from one of the upstairs windows. Rose would be in the room, and she probably would not be alone. He thought about Sven. He remembered the young farmer reaching for the old pistol tucked in his belt. He remembered feeling the Colt in his own hand and feeling the trigger. Then the farmer lay on the floor.

  ‘What you’re doing is crazy,’ Curly said. ‘I swear being in the sun so long has done something to your brain.’

  They stopped in front of the jail and dismounted and tied the reins to the hitching post. The town was quiet, quieter than they had ever heard it. They heard no laughter, no piano music. Curly didn’t like it. It reminded him of the quiet before a twister. Andrew unbuckled his gun belt.

  ‘Andrew, don’t do this,’ Curly said.

  ‘I’ve been a part of the bloodshed. Maybe I can keep more of it from happening.’

  ‘And maybe there are frozen snowballs in hell.’

  After the meeting with the city councilmen, Stuart persuaded himself to sit behind the desk. He figured it was something Harrison would have wanted him to do. He was the sheriff now. He should sit where the sheriff was supposed to sit. He did not sit long. Eloise Endicott came into the office. Years ago his mother had told him, ‘Boy, when a lady enters the room, you stand up. Show that you’ve got some manners.’ He stood and couldn’t help smiling. His mother would be proud.