by
Normally, that close to noon, the wind was up and a man had to be careful to draw his hat close about his head. It was still and calm with only a cooling breeze to help relieve the heat from the high white sun. The constant pressure of the cattle herds was changing the appearance of the arid canyon land. He noticed that live oaks had spread through the canyon floor and the rank grass of the old days was grubbed close to the red soil. He thought of the first time he saw the Palo Duro. There were no trees and the belly high gamma waved like wheat through the gentle slopes of the basin. He remembered how he watched a herd of antelope working the south face of the slope and a few elk grazing a line strung along the north where a road now snaked up and over the rim. He took many of the beasts with his old muzzleloading plains rifle during that first season. Without that source of meat his family wouldn’t have survived those early years when their closest year-round neighbors were a hundred miles east. He thought of the crude one-room adobe dugout where he and his bride had settled, the Kickapoo he had hired to guard the place so they could sleep at night, and how frightened she was after that first Comanche raid. Later, she mustered her courage and increased her resolve to stay. He had been told that the old dugout was just a tool shed and a fine two-story house of stone had taken its place. She had built the canyon into a solid ranch after he left and their sons had made it greater. He would take one look at the canyon to satisfy his curiosity, perhaps ride by the house, and then try to find her. None of the boys would know. There would be neither displeasure nor harsh words. He just wanted to see the place and know that they were doing well. A lone horseman made his way at a gallop across the base of the canyon. When the rider turned from the road and started up the bald knob that crested below his position on the rimrock, McMurphy thought little of it. He figured it was probably just a cowboy resting his horse. When the man held up his mount behind the knob, pulled a Winchester from the saddle boot and skulked up the away face of the rock from the road, McMurphy smelled ambush. A buckboard came rattling down the south slope and across the road in front of the knob. As the bushwhacker worked his Winchester into position, McMurphy stepped to his sorrel and pulled a Remington .44/40 revolving carbine from his scabbard. He half-cocked the hammer and spun the cylinder to check his loads before drawing the sights on the bushwhacker. He wanted to shoot but decided it was probably best to sound a warning. "Hey! Down there! What you doing?" McMurphy mounted and made a way down the rimrock trail to the bald knob. The bushwhacker was a dark, heavily bearded man clutching his chest, curled into a ball on his side against the rocky knob. He made a grab for his holstered revolver when he heard McMurphy’s sorrel closing in from the trail above. McMurphy pulled his Remington, drew up his mount and leveled the carbine. "Unless you want some more ventilation," McMurphy warned. "Toss that smoke wagon aside." McMurphy returned the carbine to the saddle scabbard, drew a Remington revolver from its vest high holster, and swung down from his mount. He walked carefully to the bushwhacker, cocked his revolver and kicked the Colt out of reach. "Fetch it out," McMurphy said. The knife was drawn free of the boot and weakly chucked into the nearest brush. McMurphy nodded, let off the hammer to half-cock and holstered his revolver. He knelt beside the bushwhacker and pulled his hand away from the wound. "How bad are you?" "You’ve killed me. I’m dead center shot in the chest." McMurphy nodded. "You want a drink or something?" "Got any whiskey?" "I got a half-pint of Crow in my saddle bag." "Fetch it out," the bushwhacker said with a weak smile. McMurphy turned away from the man toward his saddle bag. "Ain’t you taking a hell of a risk? How do you know I ain’t got me a hide out gun, just waiting for you to turn your back?" "Hell, I ain’t no bushwhacker, either. This would have been my first. If times weren’t so tough, I’d a never accepted the job." "But you’d a dropped the hammer just the same, wouldn’t you?" McMurphy asked as he pulled the cork and offered the bottle to the bushwhacker. The man took a long pull on the bottle, wiped his mouth with his grimy thread-bare sleeve and smiled. "Hell, yes. I’d a shot him square in the gizzard if you hadn’t come along. I was to get a hundred dollars for shooting one man. I ain’t never had a hundred dollars at one time in my life." McMurphy nodded and gazed at the buckboard as it made its way up the slope of the rim. "I know who you are," the bushwhacker said before taking another swig of the whiskey. "I know you from the old days. You may be gray headed, heavier, and your rig fancy, what with that fancy frock coat, vest, nickel plated pistol and expensive saddle, but your voice and size are that of only one man I’ve ever known in my life." "From the old days, huh?" McMurphy asked. "And just how would you know me from the old days?" "Hell, I rode for you when we took that first herd to Kansas. If you ain’t Pommel McMurphy, then I’m a skunk’s butt." "Don’t know me though, do ya, Pommel? Been too many years, too many hard trails and too many poor cowboys between then and now for you to remember." McMurphy studied the stranger’s face for a while longer before conceding with a nod. "I’m Soap Withers. Now you ‘member me, don’t ya?" McMurphy smiled and nodded. "Soap Withers. You was always a good ole’ boy. What made you turn bushwhacker?" "Money. Ain’t no work for an old cowhand like me. I was tired of being hungry. So, when the offer was made, I said yes. Hell, I guess I’d shoot about anybody for a hundred dollars the way things are." "And now you’re dead," Pommel said. Soap took another swig of the whiskey and nodded. "Probably just as well. This way I can meet my maker with a clean slate. I’d a just blown the money anyhow. You probably done me a favor." The buckboard topped the rim and rolled out of sight. Pommel turned to face Withers. The whiskey was helping with the pain but the color was draining from his face. "Is there anybody I need to notify? " Pommel asked. "I appreciate that. No, there’s nobody. I’d like a burying if it ain’t too much trouble. I don’t much cotton to the idea of being coyote and buzzard bait."
Chapter 1
From the top of the rimrock, a man could see twenty miles of the Palo Duro in either direction. In the early years of the Commanche raids he often visited this same high lonely point. This time he only wanted to see the changes to the land since he had left twenty years earlier. He held up his sorrel stud and stepped carefully from his stirrup to the rocky floor. After so many hours in the saddle, he knees were stiff and the soles of his feet numb. He bent over and felt his back as he stretched his rigid muscles. The stud sighed from the relief of his two hundred and thirty pound burden and lowered his head to the ground for a shock of gamma grass. McMurphy let the reins drop free. He knew the well-trained animal would not roam with the reins down.
The bushwhacker jumped like a rabbit caught in a fence, swung his Winchester about and threw off a wild shot.
McMurphy drew down on the sights and dropped the hammer. He heard his bullet hit just before the bushwhacker flung his rifle clear, clutched his chest, and fell back against the rocky dome. McMurphy shifted his attention to the buckboard. It ambled up the canyon road, its team making the same easy gait as before. He doubted the driver had any idea of how close he had been to being shot.
The bushwhacker hesitated, nodded, and allowed the Colt revolver to drop.
"You win, hombre. I ain’t got no fight left in me."
"You got anything else on you that might cause a bit of mischief?"
"I got me a butcher knife in my boot top."
"You don’t have the look about you," McMurphy said as he pulled the bottle of whiskey from his bag. "You may be a bushwhacker, but I don’t see you as a hideout man."
McMurphy studied the man’s face carefully.
"I’ll put you under proper. Who was that fellow you were planning to plug?"
Soap Withers was quiet for a moment, as if confused by the question. "You mean to say you don’t know?" he asked. "Hell, I figured you were riding the rimrock to give him some protection."
"Why would I? I stumbled on this wreck by accident."
Withers chuckled softly, coughed uncomfortably and took another swig of whiskey. "Ain’t that ironical? I never heard of such a thing. Of all the men to fall into this fray, I would have never guessed."
"I’m afraid you’ve got the best of me," McMurphy said. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"That was Temple, your oldest son. You kept me from plugging your own boy."
"Temple? Why would anyone want to see him put under?"
"To get the land. They figured with him out of the way that Reese wasn’t strong enough to hold it all together and Pac was too worthless."
"Pac?"
"The youngest. Don’t tell me you don’t know your own kid’s name."
Pommel turned away toward the rim. There was still a faint rise of dust where the buckboard had just passed. "No, I never learned his name," he said quietly.
Withers coughed hard. Blood rose to the corner of his mouth. "I’m afraid this whiskey ain’t doing much more good. I think my lungs are filling."
"Who hired you? Who would be willing to pay a hundred dollars to see that boy dead?"
"I wouldn’t hardly call him a boy. He’s a tough hombre. Some say he’s the image of his old man. My orders were to kill him. It didn’t matter if I faced him down or bushwhacked him. But, hell, nobody would take on Temple McMurphy in a straight up gun fight."
"Who?" Pommel McMurphy asked. This time his voice was harder, uttered by a man used to having his orders followed.
"The Red River Ring. They hired me for the job."
"That don’t mean nothing to me. Who by name?"
"Nab Colredge made the offer, but I know he was speaking for his partners."
"And who are his partners?"
"Black Tom, McPherson and Blake. As far as I know they are the Ring."
McMurphy knelt beside Withers to better hear. "Black Tom Bent? Is he still in this country?"
"Hell, he’s the leader of the Ring. Other than the McMurphy brothers and Fritz Blomberg’s holdings, the Ring controls everything of importance in this part of Texas. Where you been?"
"Where would I find Black Tom?"
"Probably in Pampa or on his ranch. Blomberg and your boys control Silverton. As of right now, the Ring doesn’t venture south of the Palo Duro except to show fight or try some rustling. That’s the way of it and it’s been that way for a couple of years."
"Where’s the boys’ mother? Is she on the ranch?"
"No. She lives with her husband, John Fellows. He works for Blomberg and manages his bookkeeping and business affairs in Silverton.
McMurphy relaxed. "You feel like something to eat? I could fix a fire and fry up some bacon."
"Naw. By the time you get your skillet hot, I’ll be cold. You can have my rig. The rifle’s a good one. The horse ain’t worth a damn though and my old Colt misfires. My boots ain’t hardly six months old. Everything else is played out, like me. A hundred dollars would have put me right again. A hundred dollars would a...." Soap gasped for air as though he suddenly had a hand close over his mouth and nose. A bubbling throaty rattle came from his mouth.
McMurphy placed his left hand on Withers’ back and steadied his arm with his right. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
Withers did not answer. A slow whistling exhale came from his mouth and his eyes went dull.
McMurphy realized that he was providing the only force keeping Soap’s body upright. He allowed the old cowboy to go softly back against the rock. He noticed the worn holes in Soap’s shirt, the rotten leather of his belt, the embedded grime along his neck and jaw line. Soap had fallen far since those early days of the Sadelia Trail. A hundred dollars probably would have put him right for a spell but his glory days were long behind him. He was over-the-hill and too proud to admit it, even to the point of killing a man for a hundred dollars. McMurphy couldn’t help thinking that he probably had done Soap a favor.
Chapter 2
She stepped to the front window when she heard the dog’s commotion. She recognized him even with his back to her as he wrapped the reins through the hitch post ring.
"He got the letter," she said softly.
She reached into John’s hall desk drawer, fetched his .32 caliber revolver, and slipped it into her skirt pocket. She opened the front door before he made it to the porch steps. He was dressed well enough in spite of his chaps; gray vested suit, white shirt and black tie, matching gray Stetson and nickel plated revolver hammer jutting just past the line of his open coat. His shape and build were about the same as when he left, but his hair was gray and his fifty years showed in the lines of his face. She wondered how he’d react to her extra fifty pounds.
He looked up, stopped, smiled for a brief moment and removed his hat. "How are you, Mary? You look real good."
She could tell that in spite of the years that he was the same man. She was relieved that he was in good health.
"Thank you. The years pass." she said.
"I got your letter. It took nearly four months for the thing to catch up."
"I didn’t know if you would get it. I heard that you were living near Dallas."
"I was surprised when I got it."
"In spite of the letter, I can’t think of anybody in this world who will be glad to see you back."
He stood silently for several moments, placed his hat on his head and turned for his horse.
"Wait," she said urgently. "I shouldn’t have said that. I need to talk with you."
He hesitated by his horse, fumbled with the reins looped through the iron ring, nodded, and returned to the porch.
"I won’t be long," she said. "I’ve got some hot coffee on the stove. I’ll get you a cup."
Pommel sat on the porch steps and examined several nice homes lined on both sides of the street. He reasoned that her husband must be fairly prosperous or else she had done pretty well with the ranch.
"I suppose you still drink it black," she said as she stepped through the door.
"Yes, that will be fine. Thank you."
After giving him the cup, she stepped back to the door and leaned against the wall.
He waited watching the street traffic but she did not speak.
"There was a man on the road today who tried to bushwhack Temple," he said.
"Was Temple hurt?" she asked.
"No. He never knew about it. I stopped it before it took place."
"Stopped it how?"
"I killed him."
She was silent for a moment. "Do you know who the man was?"
"Soap Withers," he answered.
She stepped to the railing of the porch, folded her arms and nodded. "That would figure. Lately, he’s been seen with Colredge a lot." She moved down the steps so she could watch his reactions. "How did you find out what was going on?"
"I didn’t. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Otherwise, Temple might well be dead at this moment."
"Just an odd coincidence?" she asked suspiciously.
He nodded without looking away from his coffee cup. "I know what it sounds like but it’s the truth. Before he died, he told me of the Ring and the trouble you’ve had with them."
"The Ring is the reason I wrote you," she said. "They gave us some trouble for a while but we thought we set them straight. Now they’re back and worse than before."
He swirled his cup in a tight circle to catch the grounds before pitching the dregs. "I’d say they’re a long ways from being set straight."
"That’s why I wrote you. The boys aren’t experienced in these matters and it’s going to take a man with a particularly tough attitude to shut the Ring down."
"So you wrote me."
"You’re their father and you’ve… well, you’ve faced these problems before. I’m afraid it’s going to take someone who can be particularly unpleasant and I don’t want the boys to get hurt."
He placed the cup on the step and started for his horse. "From what I heard, you may be selling the boys short."
"Have you talked to the boys?" she asked.
"No, unless you say different, I’ll stay clear." He untied the reins and prepared his horse.
"It might be best if you spoke with Fritz Blomberg," she said. "You could probably talk easier with him."
Pommel lifted himself into the saddle and gathered his reins. "I’ve got nothing to say to Blomberg."
"Where are you going?"
"I guess I’ll ride up to Pampa and have a visit with Tom Bent."
"You do and it will be the last ride you make."
A cruel grin formed at the corners of his mouth. "I’m not over-the-hill yet. I can take care of myself."
"What do you think you’re going to accomplish?"
"Have a look see. Make some talk. Make a few holes if necessary," he said as he turned his horse away from the hitching post.
"I don’t want that yet. I want to do some planning before you just take over."
"No, you want to tell me what to do. I’ll play out my own string and tell you what needs doing if it comes to that."
"You haven’t changed one bit," she said bitterly.
"Not by a long shot," he answered under his breath.
She silently watched him ride away. When he was gone from sight, she started up the street towards Blomberg’s second floor office.
Blomberg was just getting ready to light his pipe when she walked into the room.
"Is there a problem, Mary?" he asked.
She stepped past his desk to the window. "I just saw Pommel," she said without looking at Blomberg.
"Where?"
"He came to the house. Said he shot Soap Withers to save Temple from being ambushed."
"I’m glad he was able to help. How did he look?"
"The same… older. He hasn’t changed that much."
"Is that all he said?"
She turned away from the window glaring toward the German. "Isn’t that enough?"
"Why is he here? Why now?" Blomberg asked.
"I wrote him about six months ago."
"You wrote him?" the elderly fat man asked as he finished lighting his pipe.
"You certainly seem unconcerned. What are we going to do? He said he was going to Pampa to confront Tom Bent. I warned him that he would be killed and he just laughed it off. What if Bent thinks the boys sent him? He could send his men back for revenge."
Blomberg lifted himself slowly from his chair and hobbled toward her. "Settle down. I doubt that Black Tom has ever laid eyes on Pommel. Quite frankly, I’m glad you wrote him. The idea of having Pommel involved could solve a lot of problems for us. We have never been able to move on the Ring in force without our men getting shot to pieces. If Pommel is anything like he was in the old days, he could make quite a dent before the Ring realized what was going on."
"Is that all this means to you?" she asked as she moved away from him. "How many people Pommel could kill before the Ring realized what was going on? That sounds like the kind of tactics the Ring uses."
"Maybe that is just what we need to do. If we don’t do something, it is just a matter of time before the Ring does some serious damage. I don’t like putting it this way, but chances are it will be one of your boys who gets hurt the worst. The local law is useless and I don’t want the Rangers involved. Pommel could give us a badly needed edge."
"Maybe we should just sell out and let the Ring have it?"
"You know Temple and Reese will never go for that. You’re making excuses when you know that we’re all locked into this fight."
She returned to the window and stared upon the empty street. "I’m scared. Things have gone too far. We’re going to be badly hurt if we don’t find a solution. I don’t want to lose the boys."
Blomberg kept his distance. "It may be providence that your letter reached Pommel."
"Don’t blaspheme, Fritz. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk."
Blomberg allowed her the privacy of her thoughts. He returned to his chair and tamped his tobacco before lighting his pipe.
"Why would he return after all these years, even if he got the letter? What does he hope to gain?" she finally asked, more to herself than the German.
"What did he say?" Blomberg asked.
"Only what I told you."
"Did he say where he had been or what he had been doing?"
"No, and I didn’t ask. He was dressed well. His horse and saddle were very nice. I imagine he’s done well for himself."
"It must have been difficult for you," Blomberg said.
She hesitated before speaking. "No. It’s been so many years. He was more like a ghost than my former husband."
"Has he changed?"
"No, he’s the same old Pommel. When I suggested he talk to you, he let me know in short order that neither of us had any sway over him what-so-ever."
Blomberg chuckled and shook his head. "That sounds like him. Remember when those Comancheros were raiding our herds in ‘57? Off he went, all by himself, to get that stock back. We all told him it was suicide. Told him we’d never see him again and he was a fool for trying. But, two weeks later, there he was, shot full of holes with thirty head more than what was taken."
"Fritz, please," she said softly.
"I’m sorry, Mary. I just remember those old days fondly and Pommel was a big part of our lives back then."
"I remember those days too. I remember the endless lonely days, and terrible nights. I remember trying to keep a ranch going and take care of two infants while Pommel was off chasing Comanches, or rustlers, riding for the Rangers, or fighting for the Confederacy. It was always something, wasn’t it? Pommel was a big part of our lives. A big empty promise with no time for his wife and boys. I remember how many times I made excuses and forgave him. And the one time I really needed...." She bit her lip and fought for control. Tears formed in her eyes and she turned back toward the window.
"I shouldn’t have brought it up," Blomberg said.
"I guess it hasn’t been so long, has it?" she asked after composing herself. "At least not long enough."
Fritz nodded and puffed his pipe. "I guess not."
She forced a smile and left the room.
Fritz hobbled to the window and watched for her. He smiled at her determined stride and swift pace. He took a puff on his pipe and thought of the first time he saw her. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, standing barefooted in front of that filthy adobe dugout with two half-naked blonde babies clutching her skirts and a ten-gauge shotgun almost as long as she was tall, in her hands.
"The hell it hasn’t," he said with a smile.