Forty-Four Caliber Justice (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

T
wo uneventful days
had passed since their camp on the Frio River. The sun was overhead when Fort Clark came into sight. Clay, astride the buckskin, riding next to Jake, was anxious to get into Brackett and the fort. This would be his first opportunity to confirm he was on the killers
’ trail.

“Let’s ride on into town, Clay,” Jake said. “The Pinders could be here. They’ve got no idea anyone is following them, so don’t go off half-cocked if you see ’em. We’ll try to check in with the fort commander and see if those soldier boys know anything—at least let them know what’s happened. We don’t want them coming down on the wrong side if shootin’ breaks out. You keep that shotgun handy.”

The two rode up to the fort. “Howdy,” Jake said to the private on guard. “We got freight wagons coming on behind us. Should be here in a couple of hours. You happened to seen or heard of six riders coming through these parts?”

The private thought for a moment. “Yes, siree, they was six come through here ’bout four days ago. Rough-looking characters. One was shot bad. Said they run into some Apaches. They took him to the infirmary.” He pointed to a sturdy rock building. “Reckon he’s still there. Can’t believe he ain’t dead, but he ain’t.”

Clay spurred the buckskin. The surprised horse leaped into a gallop toward the infirmary. Jake was right behind. Clay swung down off the horse and jumped onto the infirmary porch just as an army captain in a white coat stepped out the door.

Startled at seeing this big young man standing in front of him with a shotgun in his hand, he took a step back. Jake jumped up on the porch right behind Clay. “What’s going on here?” the surprised captain said.

Clay started to push past him when Jake grabbed his arm. “Clay, simmer down. Just hold on. We’ll git this figgered out.”

Clay turned on Jake with a fierce glare. “He’s in there, I know it.”

Jake held on. “Think, boy. Just cool down and think.” He looked around and could see several soldiers had stopped what they were doing and were watching. A couple had started for the infirmary. “We don’t want to make a ruckus here, Clay. Slow down.”

Clay looked around. He felt reason beginning to return. He took a deep breath, and turned back to the captain. “Captain, you’ve got a civilian in there who’s been shot up some?”

“I might,” the captain said, “but I asked you what’s going on here, and I mean to find out before you go a step farther.” The captain turned to the advancing soldiers and waved them off.

“Captain, that man is a member of a gang, the Pinder Gang. They killed my ma, pa, and a friend. They shot, hanged, and burned my pa and raped my ma. I reckon I have a right to see if the man you have is one of them.”

“How do you know it was this man?”

“The sheriff had posters on all those killers. I can identify them with the posters.”

“Captain, what’s going on here?”

Clay and Jake turned. The hard voice issued from an army colonel flanked by two armed soldiers.

The captain quickly explained what he knew.

“My name is Colonel Ranald Mackenzie. I am in command of this fort. What are your names?”

Clay and Jake introduced themselves.

“Mr. Barlow, no man races into my fort armed. You will put your weapons on your horse. That goes for you too, Mr. Coleman. Then we will go inside and see if this is one of the men you are after.”

Clay slid the Roper into the scabbard, then unfastened his six-guns and looped them over the saddle horn. Jake followed suit. The two men stepped back onto the porch as Colonel Mackenzie opened the door of the infirmary. They followed the colonel and captain inside. The infirmary had eight beds, four on each wall. Half the beds were occupied. The captain headed for the one at the far end of the room.

The man, apprehensive, watched their approach. Clay immediately recognized him as Birch Hayes, from the wanted poster. “That’s one of them, Colonel. He’s Birch Hayes, wanted for murder in San Antonio.”

“That’s a blamed lie,” Hayes said. “I don’t know who you are, boy, but you’ve got a loose mouth. If I wasn’t laid up here, I’d teach you to have some manners for your elders.”

Clay shuffled through the wanted posters, found the one he was looking for, and handed it to the colonel. “No lies, Hayes. You’re going to swing, and I’m going to watch.”

The colonel looked at the poster, then at Hayes. “You’re right, boy. This looks like your man.”

Hayes swung his head between Clay and the colonel. “Now see here, Colonel, there ain’t no proof. Anyway, I ain’t fit to travel. I’m lucky to still be alive, what with those Apaches attackin’ us and all.”

It was all Clay could do to hold back from choking the man to death. “You weren’t attacked by Apaches, you lying piece of dirt. You were shot by Slim when you rode into our ranch.”

Hayes looked nervously to the colonel. “Now, Colonel, I don’t know what this here boy is talking about. It was Apaches that done this, almost done me in too. We ain’t been around any ranch.”

“Colonel,” Clay said, “if you’ll let me get my bowie knife and give me just a couple of minutes, I’ll have this liar singing like a mockingbird. He’s lying, and it won’t take much to get the truth.”

“There’ll be none of that,” Colonel Mackenzie said. “I’ll hold this man until he’s able to travel, then he’ll be escorted to San Antonio and turned over to the sheriff.”

“Doctor, when your patient is ready to travel, let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said.

“Gentlemen.” Mackenzie motioned toward the door.

Clay’s vision was riveted on the killer. Jake took him by the arm. “Boy, we’ve got to go. Now.”

Clay turned for the door, then back to Hayes. “We’re not done, Mister. Not by a long shot.” Then he turned and followed them out of the infirmary.

“Mr. Barlow, I understand your desire for justice,” the colonel said, “but I want no violence on this post. Do you understand?”

“Colonel, that man was one of those that killed my folks. I reckon I know what kind of justice he needs.” Clay swung the gunbelt around his waist, fastened it, swung up onto his horse, and, without looking back, rode out of the fort.

Jake followed him. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’ll just wait and watch. I’m bettin’ he’s mighty nervous right now. As soon as he’s feelin’ up to it, I think he’ll try to escape. When he does, I’ll be waiting for him.”

“You plan on killing him?”

“That depends on him. I want him dead. If it’s a rope, I’m good with that, but if he forces me, I’ll kill him myself. Right now, I just want to question him and find out where Gideon Pinder’s going. I’m sure Pinder will have his gang with him. Then I’ll be able to even the score.”

“That’s a mighty big bite, boy, even for Bill Barlow’s son. You could be gettin’ in way over your head.”

“Jake, I realize that, but I don’t know what else to do. Those men killed my folks, and you know they’ll kill again. Their type has no remorse. They’ve got to be stopped. I just don’t see anyone else signing up for the job.”

Jake took his hat off and brushed his long hair back with his fingers. “Look, the wagon train’s in Brackett. Mr. Tropf will be unloading some of his supplies at the general store. He’ll spend the night here. We’ll be heading on for San Felipe del Rio in the morning. You’re welcome to continue on with us.”

“Thanks, Jake, but I think I’ll hang around here and see what happens with the army’s prisoner. I don’t imagine he wants to go back to San Antonio. If he tries to escape… No telling what kind of conversation we could come up with.”

“Reckon I’d do the same thing, were I you. But he ain’t goin’ to be doin’ any traveling for at least a couple of days. Come on with me. We’ll go into Brackett and get us some vittles that weren’t burnt over a campfire. Maybe I can round up something to wet my whistle.”

Clay agreed, and the two men rode the short distance into Brackett.

Jake stopped in front of the Cattleman’s Saloon. “The food’s mighty good. The liquor ain’t bad either. You a drinkin’ man, Clay?” Jake said as he stepped down from his horse and looped the reins over the hitching rail.

“Nope, Pa didn’t drink. Reckon he set me a good example. Although, I always did like a good sarsaparilla.” Clay followed Jake and looped his horse’s reins over the hitching rail.

The two walked into the saloon. Several of the bullwhackers were already inside. A couple of them nodded and went back to drinking. Jake walked over to a table and sat down, then motioned to the barkeep.

“Hildi,” the barkeep called to the back.

A tall woman of indeterminate age came out of the back and looked toward the bartender. He nodded toward Jake and Clay. She marched over to their table, gave Jake a look, and said, “If you’re looking to eat, we got some fine steak, and we’ll toss in some beans to go along with it. I’ve whipped up a tasty peach cobbler, if you’ve a need to cater to your sweet tooth.”

Clay smiled. “Ma’am, all that sounds mighty good. Could I have a sarsaparilla to go along with it?”

Jake grinned. “Hi, Hildi, been a while.”

“Quite a while, Jake. Understand you’re scoutin’ for this freight outfit.”

“Yep, keeps me eatin’.”

“Jake, you hear next year they may be startin’ the Rangers up again?”

“I heard that, Hildi. If we can get Coke elected and get that carpet-bagging Davis out of office, it just may happen.”

“You gonna sign back up, if’n you get a chance?”

“If they’ll take me, I imagine so. But here now, where’s my manners? Hildi, this sarsaparilla-sippin’ feller next to me is Clay Barlow. Reckon you remember his pa, deputy in New Braunfels back in the fifties.”

“Why, I sure do, had my cap set for him, but he never knew I was around. That little French girl from D’Hanis had his attention.” Hildi stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you, Clay. You look just like your pa, only bigger. How are your folks?”

Her hand disappeared in Clay’s when he shook it. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. My folks are dead. Murdered just over a week ago.”

Hildi stood silent for a moment, shocked by the news. “I’m mighty sorry. You’ll be looking for those who done it, I imagine.”

Clay nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll sure be doing that.”

“Hildi,” Jake said, “this here’s a growing boy. Reckon we could get him some food? I’ll have the same, but with a beer. We’ll talk later.”

Hildi nodded, her smile returning. “I bet we can do that mighty quick.” She turned and started for the kitchen.

“You better hurry up there, girl.” Cain Nestler was sitting with the bullwhackers and had already tossed back a few drinks. “That boy looks like he’s in mighty serious need of his sarsaparilla.” The other two men at his table roared along with him.

Clay looked over at the big bullwhacker. It was obvious the man was on the prod. Even at his young age, Clay knew what a bully looked like.
I’m tired. I really don
’t want to get into a fight with Nestler. It won’t accomplish
anything.

“Ignore him,” Jake said. “He’s trying to needle you into a fight. In his mind, he knows he can beat you. You’re going to have to fight him, but it doesn’t have to be now.”

“You’re right, Jake. I’ve more important things to do than fight a loudmouth.”

“What’s a matter, boy?” Nestler said. “You miss your mommy?”

Clay was on his feet instantly.

Nestler was grinning, as if he relished the opportunity to whip the kid. But Nestler’s type liked to talk, build up to a fight, belittle his opponent. He leaned back in his chair just as Clay walked up to him. Clay kicked the chair’s back leg, sending the big man sprawling. Nestler scrambled to his feet and met the barrel and charging handle of Clay’s Navy Remington with the side of his head. He crumpled to his hands and knees, and Clay hit him again across his left ear and head. His ear and scalp split, sending blood across the floor, but Nestler didn’t care. His nose smashed into the cedar planks of the floor as he collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.

Clay thumbed the hammer back on the Remington and swung the muzzle to cover the other bullwhackers who were with Nestler. “I aim to have my sarsaparilla in peace. I want no trouble. You might ought to have your friend looked at by the doctor before he bleeds to death.” His hands were steady, and his voice was calm, but inside, he was shaking like a cottonwood leaf in a windstorm. He’d had fights as a youth, and a couple of times he had felt anger build, but never had it reached today’s point. When Nestler spoke of his ma, all he could think about was killing the man. He wasn’t interested in fighting him. He just wanted him dead. Looking down on him now, he felt a twinge of regret. The man lay bleeding on the floor, blood pouring from his head wounds. Rage had taken over his mind. Adrenaline had coursed through his body, and this was the result. He felt small regret for Nestler, but more for his loss of control.

The two bullwhackers got up and went over to Nestler, stepping carefully to keep their boots out of the blood. One turned to Clay and said, “Boy, you might of killed him. He’ll be almighty mad when he comes to—if he does. You best watch out.”

Clay turned back to his table, holstered the Remington, and sat down. “Tell him to look me up anytime. When he does, he better be healed. There’s too many of his kind in this country. One less won’t make much difference. One more thing, Mister. I may be young, but I’m no boy. Remember that.”

The two men dragged Nestler out of the saloon, a trail of blood marking his passage.

Hildi came from the back carrying their drinks. The bartender had watched the altercation, silently cleaning a beer mug. When she came through the door, he said, “Hildi, after you get them their drinks, clean up the floor.”

She set the drinks in front of the them and reappraised Clay. “I’d say you’re a chip off the old block. Your pa could be sudden, just like that. I’ll bring your food in just a minute.” Smiling at Clay, Hildi said, “Gotta clean up this mess you made first.”

The two men picked up their drinks, saluted each other, and let the liquid flow down their throats. The sweet, cool bite of the sarsaparilla was soothing to Clay. He took another sip and set the bottle back on the table.