“Ride back out to the Flats and alert that idiot boy of mine that he’s caused himself a large measure of grief and is now in serious danger,” he said.

  In his hand was a small leather pouch filled with gold coins. “See he gets this and advise him not to spend it all on whiskey. Tell him I said he should head south and lie low somewhere until things settle.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Take him his hat and see to it he’s got ample ammunition. And tell him if he’s not of a mind to do as I say, he’s likely to wind up dead.”

  Chapter 20

  When Poppy reached the Flats late that afternoon, Pete Sinclair was standing in the doorway of the adobe building, wearing an abandoned serape he’d found. His hair was tossed, his beard in tangles, and traces of dried blood remained on his boots.

  “You, senor, are a pathetic sight,” Poppy said as he dismounted.

  Sinclair spat into the dirt. “I’m ready to be gettin’ home.”

  “Well, that ain’t happenin’ soon. I’ve come to deliver a message from your papa,” Poppy said as he began gathering wood for a fire. “You are not to return.”

  Pete cursed. “I’ll not have hired help tellin’ me what I’m to do.”

  “Ain’t me telling. It’s Mr. Sinclair’s decision. I’m just the messenger.”

  As he began building a fire, he told Pete of the arrival of men at the Bend and the likelihood they’d soon attempt to retrieve the stolen cattle. “They got some plan, which I believe will be carried out soon. We’re preparin’ for a fight.”

  “More’s the reason I need to get back.”

  “Ain’t the men who come for the cattle that should concern you. Jennings ain’t happy with what occurred in town. He’ll be looking for you, most likely to see you dead. For that reason, your papa says you’re to leave as quickly as possible. Ride to the south, he says, and hide until matters are settled.”

  “Jennings has no call to think it was me in the livery. Wasn’t nobody else around ’cept that Mexican who interfered and pulled me away.”

  Poppy rose, walked to his horse, and took Pete’s hat from the saddle horn. “Wasn’t Armando who made Jennings aware it was you who gave the beating to the young man.” He handed Pete his hat. “This was found there.”

  Pete took the hat and threw it to the ground. “Where is it I’m supposed to go?”

  Poppy placed the pouch of money and the bag of ammunition on the ground next to him. “Senor,” he said, “I don’t care.”

  • • •

  Giles Weatherby couldn’t shake the feeling that he was responsible for what had happened to Ira. Troubling thoughts raced through his mind when he was awake and visited his dreams whenever he managed to sleep. I should not have left Dalton alone at the livery. If I had returned in time . . . What if he dies?

  He was sitting on the steps of Doc Matthews’s house when Jennings and Bagbee approached.

  “How’s he doin’?” Jennings said.

  “Doc says no better, no worse. He ain’t opened his eyes yet.”

  “I’ll go in and sit with him for a bit,” Coy said, “but first, we got something we need to speak with you about.”

  Bagbee outlined the plan they had discussed the previous evening, saying that his men were already making preparations for the ride to the Bend. “We’ll be headin’ out well before sunup.”

  Coy explained the need to have the townspeople prepared in the event of problems in Phantom Hill.

  “My druthers would be to ride with you boys,” Weatherby said, reaching to touch the stock of his shotgun. “It’d do me good to look into Lester’s eyes when he learns somebody’s stood up to him and that cowardly son of his.”

  As he spoke, Miss Mindy approached, carrying a basket under her arm. “Since the doctor has shown no interest in visitin’ my kitchen,” she said, “it appears I’ve now taken on the added chore of deliverin’ what I’ve cooked.” She removed a towel from the basket and produced a slice of pear pie. Handing the plate to Weatherby, she said, “Till Ira’s appetite returns, I ’spect he’d like you to have this. I’ve seen you eat nothin’ in two days.”

  Giles accepted the pie and took a bite. “Much obliged,” he said. “But I wish it was Ira thanking you.”

  He quickly finished the pie, then got to his feet. “I’ll go see if I can round up some folks to stand guard here in town,” he said. “First, though, I need to visit the general store. It just occurred to me Dalton’s mule has had no peppermint sticks in quite some time.”

  Miss Mindy called out to Bagbee as Giles walked away, “Not that I was bein’ nosy, but I overheard some of what you’re plannin.’ See to it your men come to the kitchen this evening. Me ’n’ Jakie will make certain they’re properly fed.”

  “How you ’n’ him gettin’ along?” Bagbee said.

  Mindy’s response was a gruff look followed by a faint blush. “I reckon I’d like him better if he knew somethin’ ’bout cooking and had a few more teeth,” she said. “But, those matters aside, we’re doin’ better than I’d expected.”

  • • •

  Poppy returned to the Bend late in the afternoon and found Lester Sinclair on the porch, talking with Armando Blanca.

  “I don’t reckon the boy took kindly to my message,” Sinclair said as Poppy walked up the steps. “He wasn’t too happy, but I watched him ride out of the Flats before I left.”

  “And he was headed south?”

  “Seemed so.”

  “Such a fool,” Blanca said. “We will be better off with him far away.”

  Sinclair’s jaws clenched. Blanca, he knew, was right—particularly about his son being a fool.

  While Poppy was away, they had discussed how best to prepare for whatever the visitors from up north had in mind.

  “Some of the hands are already rounding up the cattle, bringing ’em in closer so we can keep a better eye on ’em,” Sinclair said. “We’ll station men in the pastures and here around the house.” He told Poppy to return to his position guarding the entrance. “Everyone’s been told to arm himself with a rifle. It’s Blanca’s idea that we put a man with good eyesight on the roof of the barn to keep watch. Beginning tonight, there’ll be little sleep.”

  As Poppy turned to go to the barn and feed his horse, Blanca walked with him.

  When they were far enough away that Sinclair couldn’t hear, Blanca said, “My men and I did not come here to get ourselves killed. You lied to us when we were hired.”

  “Not as I recall,” Poppy said. “Tell your men they’ll do as they’re told, what they’re being paid for. And tell ’em if they refuse, they’ll never see that little cantina in Mexico again. And that, you can be assured, is not a lie.”

  • • •

  With the crescent moon hidden behind thick clouds, it was almost pitch-dark when Miss Mindy and Jakie arrived in the pasture with lanterns and large pots of coffee. A chilling fog had settled over the encampment.

  Weatherby stood near Jennings, shivering as he watched the activity. “I got me a feeling something of a historic nature is about to get itself played out,” he said.

  Coy turned to him. “Historic?”

  “If things go as I’m hoping, this’ll be the day Phantom Hill starts to become the community it has a right to be.” He reached out to shake Jennings’s hand. “Just don’t get yourself shot again to make it happen.”

  “You just inform Ira I’ll be back soon to check on him, and I’d appreciate his being awake when I get there.”

  With the sheriff and Bagbee leading, the men left, again riding two by two. Those headed to the southern edge of the ranch, led by Tracker and Clay Taylor, had already departed.

  • • •

  They moved through the thick fog, slowly making their way across the prairie to the banks of the Brazos, and turned in the direction of the ranch. The only sound was the occasional squeak of a saddle as a nervous rider adjusted his position.

  Though it was still impossible to see the ranch house or outbuildings, Jennings raised his hand to halt the advance after they had ridden another mile. “We’re close,” he said to Bagbee. “No more ’n a couple of hundred yards, I figure.”

  Bagbee signaled for his men to dismount and spread out. Once they were in position, sheltered in tall grass and a small gulley near the hog pen, he and Jennings crept closer to the house.

  “How is it they haven’t yet been alerted to our presence?” Bagbee said. “They may be sizable in numbers, but not all that smart.”

  “They’re ranch workers, not soldiers,” Jennings said. “In whatever planning they considered, they must have figured we’d come at the ranch straight-on.”

  On a clear morning they would have been able to see that the ranch house was ringed by armed ranch hands, squinting into the murky gray in an effort to detect movement.

  Lying on their bellies behind a stand of mesquite shrubs a hundred yards away, Bagbee and Jennings were attempting to do the same.

  “Don’t think we can get much closer without bein’ in danger,” Bagbee said. “Only thing we can do is bide our time till it’s daylight and this fog lifts. Otherwise we’ll be in a position of fightin’ blind on unfamiliar ground.”

  They crawled back toward the others.

  An hour passed before the fog began lifting and they could finally make out the faint outline of the house and see the men standing around it.

  “I reckon it’ll be a waste of good breath,” Bagbee said, “but it’s time we see if this might be settled in a gentlemanly manner.”

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled in the direction of the house, “Hello the house . . . Hello, Lester Sinclair.” Bagbee called out, “We’ve come only for our cattle, not to do anybody harm. Have your men put their guns aside and assemble in the yard with their hands raised. Then we’ll be about our business and on our way.”

  The answer was a shot fired wildly from atop the barn. “They’re down near the river,” a voice yelled.

  “So much for gentlemanly behavior,” Jennings said as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder. Bagbee signaled the others to begin moving toward the house.

  A volley of shots was fired in the direction of the lookout, a cloud of gun smoke suddenly mixing with the fog. The man fell from the roof and lay motionless in the dirt.

  The attackers hurried toward the bunkhouse, taking cover behind it as bullets thudded into the walls. At the house, some men kneeled on the porch, their rifles resting on the railing as they took aim, while others retreated inside and fired from windows.

  Huddled against the fireplace in the middle room, Lester Sinclair barked orders and oaths. His voice was shrill and panicked. “See to it you kill ’em every one,” he said. “I want them all dead. Nobody’s going to treat me with this manner of disrespect.”

  As he spoke, several shots tore away the curtains from one of the windows and another of his men groaned and slumped to the floor. Sinclair swore louder as he crawled on hands and knees to hide behind his padded chair.

  • • •

  At the first sound of gunfire, Poppy left his post at the entrance to the ranch and rode quickly toward the compound. A full-fledged gun battle was under way as he arrived. He dismounted before his horse came to a halt and took a position at one corner of the barn. He began firing in the direction of the bunkhouse.

  No such heroics were being played out in the middle pasture, where Blanca’s Mexicans were instructed to watch over the cattle.

  Taylor and the men assigned him were surprised to reach the southern pasture and find it deserted. By the time they located the herd, it was unattended, the longhorns grazing quietly.

  As the first shots echoed through the thick morning air, the Mexicans had kicked their horses into a gallop and ridden away, headed toward the border. Leading them was Armando Blanca.

  At the compound the exchange of gunfire continued through the morning as sunlight finally peeked through the clouds and burned away the fog. From his spot at the corner of the bunkhouse, Jennings could see three bodies lying on Sinclair’s porch. Another was slumped over the railing. His rifle had fallen to the ground.

  From one of the broken windows, he saw a white kerchief being waved. “No more,” someone yelled. “We’re finished.”

  Bagbee eased his way to Jennings’s side. “Seems they don’t have much taste for fightin’,” he said. “But we’ll not leave our positions until they’ve come out into the open. Bein’ as you’re the sheriff, it should be your pleasure to give that instruction.”

  Jennings called out to the house, “Leave your weapons behind and show yourselves.”

  A single-file parade of ranch hands began walking into the sunlight, stepping over one of the bodies as they slowly made their way across the porch. Their hands were raised.

  By the time Clay Taylor and his men arrived, the Bend defenders were on their knees, guns pointed toward them from all directions. “Looks as if we’ve missed somethin’,” he said.

  “Bein’ as you’ve done little to contribute thus far,” Bagbee said, “you can see to it these folks are properly tied up.” He ordered the others to begin a search to make sure everyone had surrendered. “We’re in particular looking for ol’ man Sinclair, who don’t seem to be among these who kindly gave up.”

  “Reckon he’s lying dead inside?” Taylor said.

  “From your mouth to God’s ear.”

  While the house was being searched and weapons gathered, Jennings walked toward the entrance of the barn. He stopped in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Pointing his rifle, he said, “If anyone’s in here, you might want to join the others who have done give up. We need no more shootin’ today.”

  He was only a few steps inside when he felt the barrel of a pistol against the back of his head. “The shooting is not over,” a voice said. “Nor is the killing.” Coy heard the click of the gun’s hammer and closed his eyes tightly.

  There was a deafening sound. It took Jennings a moment to realize it had not come from a handgun. He turned in time to see blood pouring from what remained of Poppy’s face as he went to his knees, then pitched forward onto the ground.

  Only then did Repete Sinclair emerge from the shadows, smoke still wafting from the barrel of the gun he was holding.

  Bagbee was the first to reach the barn after hearing the shot. He looked first at Jennings, then the body, then the young man who was still holding the gun. He had already unholstered his pistol when Jennings grabbed his arm.

  “This young fella here has no responsibility for what was going on earlier,” he said. “His only fault is to be called a Sinclair. Wasn’t for him, I’d be shot dead instead of speakin’ to you. Leave him be.”

  Bagbee was holstering his pistol when they heard Taylor call out, “We found him.”

  They ran toward the back of the house, past a garden, and through the orchard. Taylor was pointing his rifle toward the ground, a wide grin on his face. On the floor of a dank root cellar, Lester Sinclair lay in the fetal position, his shaking hands covering his face.

  “I beg you don’t shoot me,” he said. His voice was almost childlike.

  Bagbee began to laugh. “Pull him outta there,” he said, “so the sheriff here can make a proper arrest.”

  “You know, I ain’t never arrested anyone before,” Jennings said.

  “I ’spect you’ll be gettin’ used to it. It’ll need doin’ before we can put all these cattle thieves in that new jail you got.”

  Bagbee was in the saddle, surveying the aftermath. The clouds had disappeared and the day was warming. He was clearly pleased that none of his men had been killed or injured. He was already planning to allow them time to rest a day, maybe two, before they returned to round up the cattle and begin the drive back toward the Red River. He would also see that those who died were buried.

  “I got no grievance against them,” he said to Coy. “They was just doin’ what their boss told ’em. Even that hand who near killed you in the barn.”

  Bagbee looked down at the huddle of men who had their hands tied behind their backs. “How far is it into town?”

  “Near five miles, I’m guessin’,” Jennings said, “if we take the trail leading from the entrance.”

  “I reckon a nice walk might do these fellas good.”

  “Wonder, could I ask a favor?”

  “What might that be?”

  “It’s a far piece for a man of Lester Sinclair’s age to be walking,” Coy said. “What’s your thinkin’ on taking him to town, all bound and looking pitiful, ridin’ in back of his own buggy? Maybe allowing Tracker to drive. Seems to me there’s folks in Phantom Hill who might find that a real amusement.”

  Bagbee was still chuckling as he told Tracker to hitch up the buggy.

  Chapter 21

  People lined the windswept street as the strange assemblage made its way into Phantom Hill. Jennings and Bagbee rode out front, followed by the buggy flanked by two armed riders. In it, Lester Sinclair, hands bound and his hat pulled low against his face, attempted to ignore the taunts that were shouted as he passed. Behind him walked ten exhausted ranch hands.

  “Got ourselves a parade,” Giles Weatherby said as he stepped out to greet Coy. “An honest-to-by-God parade.”

  Miss Mindy was standing in front of the recently finished jail, a ring of padlock keys in her hand. Lifting them up to Jennings, she said, “You’ll be needin’ these.”

  He had not even been inside the building since its completion. He entered and inspected the sturdy log walls and high ceiling, breathing in the clean odor of the earthen floor. Timbers had been deeply buried to discourage any occupant’s thought of digging out to freedom. The single, windowless room was barely twelve feet wide and maybe thirty feet deep. The prisoners, he realized, would be shoulder to shoulder once they were marched in.

 

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