“Here comes Lucas,” another local said, looking out the window. “Looks like his horse come up lame. Little Billy Thompson is tellin’ him about the shootin’, I reckon. Here he comes.”
The deputy walked in, looked at the bodies by the bar, and cussed for a few seconds.
“Jensen didn’t pull first,” a local said. “But he shore laid him out neat, didn’t he?”
“The sheriff ain’t gonna like this,” Lucas said. “All right, somebody tell me what happened.”
Clint’s joy at hearing about Raul was short-lived when one of his hands told him about the shooting in town. The hand took one look at Clint’s face and immediately found an urge to be somewhere else…quickly.
“I put one of theirs out of action and Jensen kills four of mine,” Clint muttered darkly. “I won’t have any hands left at this rate.”
His brother had been to see him and Clint told him he didn’t know anything about Raul. Fatso and the others were working the range clear on the other side of his place and he’d swear to that in a court of law. And to get the hell off his property and stay off.
Clint had slammed the front door in his brother’s face.
Furious, Harris Black wired a judge for advice. When the judge in the territorial capital of Helena ruled that the deathbed confession of Doug Randel could not be used in a court of law, the people in the sparsely populated area around Blackstown braced themselves for war.
It was not long in coming. Less than twenty-four hours after the attack on Raul and the shooting in the saloon, a group of Circle 45 riders—after getting juiced up on whiskey—decided to have some fun and hoo-rah a local farmer. They rode their horses through the family’s vegetable garden, shot the milk cows and the pigs, and trampled the chickens. The farmer grabbed a rifle and blew one rider out of the saddle. The Circle 45 riders shot him to bloody rags and as they were riding away, accidentally ran down one of the man’s children, a six-year-old girl. She died in the back of the wagon long before the nearly hysterical mother could get her into town and to Doc Garrett’s office.
So angry he was nearly trembling with rage, Harris Black rode out to confront his brother.
“It was a damn accident,” Clint told him. “The punchers was just having some fun, that’s all. The nester opened fire on them. What the hell was they supposed to do?”
“Fun!” Harris yelled at him. “Fun? A man and a little girl are dead. All because you think you’re some sort of king around here and the law doesn’t apply to you. I want the men responsible for this and I by God want them now, Clint.”
“I paid them off and fired them.”
“You’re a damned liar, Clint.”
Clint sucker-punched his brother, knocking him off the porch. The two brothers fought for a moment before Jud and half a dozen other men could pull them apart.
With hands holding both men, Clint yelled, “Get off my land, Harris. Get off and stay off. If you ever call me a liar again, I’ll kill you!”
“I’ll see you hang, Clint,” Harris told him. “You’re my brother, but you’re no good. You’re trash. You better toe the line from now on, Clint. Fire these no-count gunhands and walk light.”
“Get him on his horse and out of my sight!” Clint screamed. “Right now.”
In the saddle, Harris Black looked down at his younger brother. “You don’t even realize what you’ve done, Clint. You’re filled with such hate, you don’t know that I could arrest you for attacking me.”
“You want to try it now?” Clint challenged, as more of his hands gathered around.
“I’m not a fool, brother. I might get lead in you and a couple of your men before I was shot out of the saddle, but it’s just not worth it. You’re not worth it.”
“Get out while you still can, Harris,” Clint warned him. “Before your big flappin’ mouth gets you in trouble. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do to me; I run this country. Not you. Don’t get in my way, you might get hurt.”
Harris lifted the reins. “Mother would want you buried proper, Clint. I’ll see to that.” Then he added, “You poor damn pitiful fool.” He turned his horse and headed back to town.
14
Almost everyone who lived in the vicinity turned out for the funeral of the farmer and his daughter. Feelings were running very high and there was some talk of a hanging. Harris knew it was just talk and let it ride. But he knew that if more of this continued, the talk just might change to action. Just about an hour after the funeral, he watched it do just that.
An even dozen of Circle 45 riders came galloping into town, raising a cloud of dust and scattering people. A little dog was caught in the thundering hooves and was trampled. A small boy ran out and picked up the lifeless body of the pup.
“You dirty scum!” he screamed at the Circle 45 men. “Murderers. All of you. Patches didn’t do none of you no harm. Why’d you run him down, you…crap?”
One of the rowdies walked to the boy and slapped him down into the dirt. The blow brought blood to the boy’s lips. He lay in the dirt, sobbing, his arms wrapped around his dead pet.
“I’ll kick your guts out, you little turd,” the Circle 45 hand said menacingly.
The boy’s father ran out of his store, a shotgun in his hands. He was just lifting the weapon to his shoulder when six-guns roared. The father fell back into the store, dead.
Suddenly, the street was filled with armed men and women. The Circle 45 riders looked into the muzzles of six-guns, rifles, and shotguns.
Harris walked through the crowd of armed and angry citizens. “Put those pistols back in leather and get off those horses,” he told the bunch. “If you want to stay alive.”
The riders slowly complied.
“Doc,” Harris called. “How many bullet holes in Mr. Wisdom?”
“Eight,” the doctor called.
Harris pointed to the man who’d slapped the boy. “You’re under arrest for assault and battery against a child.” He turned and smiled at the 45 hands. “The rest of you are under arrest for murder.”
“He was fixin’ to kill Ned!” a hand yelled.
“After Ned threatened to do more harm to his son,” Harris reminded the tough. “Not a court in the land would have convicted him. But they’ll damn sure convict you boys.”
The deputies had collected the guns from the Circle 45 riders.
“You boys know the way to the jail,” Harris told them. “Now, move!”
Harris knelt down by the boy, who was still somewhat addled by the brutal blow from the tough. He helped the boy to his feet and handed the trampled little dog to a man standing near. “We’ll see that your puppy gets a proper burial, lad. Now you go on over to your ma. She needs you right now.”
Harris walked over to the tough who’d slapped the man and flattened him with one hard fist to the mouth. The Circle 45 hand lay in the dirt and kept his mouth shut. He could see cold, killing fury in the sheriff’s eyes.
“Goddamn filth!” Harris’s words were spoken low and hard. “If I wasn’t wearin’ this badge I’d kick your face clear off your brainless head and let the hogs eat it.”
The tough lay still in the dirt, blood leaking from his mouth. He knew that he’d get no more than a few days in jail and a fine for slapping the boy. He had not fired at the boy’s father, and he could not be charged with murder. When he got out of jail, then he’d settle with Sheriff Harris Black.
Harris jerked the tough to his boots and threw him toward the jail. When he was slow getting to his feet, he felt the sheriff’s big boot impact against his butt. He hollered and went sprawling face first into the dust. He crawled to his hands and knees and then came up cussing. He took a swing at Harris. Bad mistake.
Harris hit him five times. Blows so fast they seemed to come out of nowhere. The rowdy was slammed back against a hitchrail and Harris plowed in. Since the man’s face was already ruined, Harris concentrated his big hard fists against the man’s belly and sides. Ribs popped and the Circle 45 hand screamed in pain as the blows kept coming. When Harris was through, the rowdy fell to the dirt, his jaw broken, his nose flattened, his lips pulped and half a dozen ribs broken.