Carnage of Eagles Read online

  He looked up from his work when he heard the shots, and, coming as they did, one right on top of another, he had the idea that his services might be needed. His suspicion was borne out a minute or two later when Deputy Sharp came into the funeral parlor.

  “Who’s that you’re workin’ on?” Sharp asked.

  “It’s Mr. Clyde Barton.”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard old man Barton had kicked the bucket. Anyway, a couple of cowboys tried to go up against Sheriff Poindexter, and they lost. So it looks like you got two new customers.”

  “Cowboys? What ranch?” Nunnelee asked.

  “There don’t nobody know. They was just passin’ through.”

  “Just passing through, and Poindexter killed them,” Nunnelee said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  “So, they will be buried at city expense, I take it.”

  “Yep. Ten dollars apiece, and all you have to do is dump ’em in a hole,” Sharp said with a little chuckle. He turned to leave.

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re layin’ in the floor back up there at the Hog Heaven.”

  Nunnelee sighed, then pulled a black sheet up over Barton’s body. “I’ll only be a few moments, Mr. Barton,” he said quietly.

  “That’s dumb, talking to a dead man like that,” Sharp said. “You know damn well he can’t hear you.”

  “How do you know he can’t?”

  “I just know, that’s all.” Sharp thought for a moment, then repeated, “That’s dumb.”

  “Think so? I’ve been around a lot more dead bodies than you have.”

  “You mean—you mean they can hear you?”

  “I’d better get the buckboard hitched up,” Nunnelee replied without answering Sharp’s question. Sharp stayed behind for a moment as Nunnelee went outside to hitch up a horse to his buckboard. This was a different horse from the two he used to pull the black-lacquered and silver-ornamented glass-sided hearse.

  Sharp spoke to the shrouded body lying on the preparation table.

  “Hey, Barton. Can you hear me?” Sharp asked. Then with a disgusted sigh, he chastised himself. “That’s dumb. Of course you can’t.”

  Sharp walked over to the table and pulled the black sheet back. Barton’s eyes were open, and he appeared to be staring at the deputy.

  Sharp felt a quick, gasping reaction from the unexpected sensation of being stared at by a dead man. He turned quickly and hurried out of the funeral parlor.

  “A couple of customers for you, Gene,” Beeson said when the undertaker stepped into the saloon.

  The two young cowboys were lying on the floor, one on his back and the other on his stomach.

  “Has Doc Gunter looked at them? Are we sure they are both dead?”

  “You can ask him, he’s right over there,” Beeson said.

  Seeing the undertaker, Doc Gunter came over to him.

  “They’re dead,” he said.

  “I understand they tried to go up against the sheriff.”

  “So I’m told; I wasn’t here.”

  “Beeson?” Nunnelee asked. “Is that right?”

  “In a manner of speaking, you might say they tried to outdraw the sheriff.”

  “What in the world would make them do such a thing?”

  “They didn’t really have much choice in the matter,” Beeson said. “It was either draw against him or stand there and let the sheriff shoot them down.”

  “What did they do to get the sheriff so mad at them?” Nunnelee asked.

  “That’s just it,” Beeson said. “They didn’t do a damn thing. Somehow Poindexter got it in his mind that the two horses they were riding had been stolen, and he planned to keep them in jail until he found out about it. That didn’t give those two boys much of a chance.”

  “I don’t suppose you know who they are, by any chance.”

  “They called themselves Hooter and Luke. That’s all I know.”

  “I hate buryin’ folks without even knowing who they are.” Nunnelee looked around the saloon. It was much more crowded now, the news of the shooting haven gotten out. “Would a couple of you boys help me out here?”

  Four strong young men came forth, and, with two men on each body, Hooter and Luke were carried out to the buckboard.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At one time, the sign on the window had read SORRENTO ADVOCATE. Harold Denham had paid Charley Keith, the local, and often drunk, sign painter, five dollars to do the job. He painted it in a beautiful three-color script, red outlined by white, outlined by blue.

  But now half the window was broken out and boarded over, so that all that remained of the sign was SORRENTO AD

  Denham still didn’t know who broke the window; several days earlier, he had been visiting with his friends in the Hog Heaven when he was summoned by someone to come quickly to his newspaper office. When he’d gotten there with the others, he found a brick lying in the middle of shattered glass on the floor of his office. Although he didn’t know who it was, because he had no proof, he had a strong suspicion that the window was broken by one of Sheriff Poindexter’s deputies. That suspicion was strengthened when Denham reported the incident to the sheriff.

  “Well, what the hell do you expect, Denham?” Sheriff Poindexter had asked. “Most of the stories you print are half-truths, or outright lies. You are bound to piss off the decent citizens of this town.”

  Now, several days after the brick incident, he visited the sheriff again, asking if he had any clues on who had vandalized his office.

  “I haven’t looked in to it that much.”

  “So, what you are telling me, Sheriff, is that you have no intention of trying to find out who did it.”

  “This town has over five hunnert people,” Poindexter said. “You expect me to question ever’ damn one of ’em just to find out who broke your window?”

  “I expect you already know who broke it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Poindexter asked, his one lidded eye glaring in hostility.

  “Why, Sheriff, I just mean that you have your fingers on the pulse of this town, and there are few people who can put anything over on you.”

  Poindexter stared at Denham for a long moment, as if judging his comment. He didn’t know if he had just been put down by the newspaper editor or complimented by him.

  “You just remember that,” Poindexter said. “If someone breaks the law in my town, they are going to pay for it.”

  “Like the two young men you killed yesterday?”

  “Exactly like the two men I killed yesterday.”

  “Whose names we don’t even know.”

  “That doesn’t matter. They had to have been outlaws, or they would have cooperated with me.”

  Denham knew that he was not the only one who wasn’t comfortable with the way the judge, the sheriff, and his deputies were running things. There was a mayor and city council, but they were so intimidated by Poindexter that they were afraid to do anything to go against him. The average citizen had told Denham that they felt oppressed, and they asked him—generally quietly—to please continue to report the truth in his newspaper.

  After setting the type for his lead story today, Harold Denham reread the article he had just composed. Although he had once had as many as three people working for him, they had been so intimidated by the sheriff and his deputies, all three of them had quit. Denham was now operating the newspaper alone, which meant he gathered the news, set the stories, sold the advertisements, sold subscriptions, and delivered the paper.

  Having heard the story of the shooting in the Hog Heaven, Denham interviewed a few people, promising them anonymity, then wrote the story that would appear in today’s newspaper. He knew it would not be a story that Poindexter approved, but he didn’t care.

  Even though the type was backward, Denham had been in the business for so long that he could read copy backward as easily as he could forward.

  He made a quick
perusal of the story he had just composed.

  Two Men Hurled into Eternity

  Yesterday afternoon a terrible shooting affair occurred at the Hog Heaven saloon. Two young men, their names as yet unknown except as they had referred to each other as Luke and Hooter, arrived in Sorrento, ostensibly to look for employment as cowboys.

  An altercation developed between the two cowboys when they expressed resentment over an unfounded accusation made by Sheriff Poindexter that they were horse thieves. Despite the young men’s believable claims that they were the rightful owners of the horses, Poindexter, without any cause for doubt, continued with his baseless accusations. It has been reported by eyewitnesses that the two cowboys attempted to walk away before the incident became even more confrontational, but Sheriff Poindexter would not allow it.

  Tempers grew hotter, angry words were exchanged, and the two cowboys went for their guns. Although the witnesses are all in agreement that the cowboys drew first, all, except Deputy Sharp, insist that the cowboys were “goaded into drawing,” by the sheriff who had no valid reason for their initial harassment.

  These are not the first unsuspecting, if not innocent, men to fall before the too ready guns of the sheriff and his deputies. And those who are not killed by gunfire often wind up at the end of a rope as a result of Judge Dawes’s perverted sense of justice.

  It is the opinion of this newspaper that the citizens of our beleaguered town are being held hostage to Judge Dawes and Sheriff Poindexter, who, with their minions, have turned Sorrento into their own private fiefdom.

  The two young men were buried last evening on the same day they were shot, put in rough-hewn pine boxes and laid side by side in a single, unmarked grave. This newspaper will attempt to learn their true identity so that somewhere anxious parents and family can learn the fate of their loved ones.

  Even as Denham was putting his newspaper to bed, some ten miles from town the Fort Worth to Sorrento stagecoach was making its return trip. The road was straight and flat, and the six-horse team was maintaining a swift, eight-mile-per-hour lope. The wheels of the quickly moving stagecoach kicked up a billowing trail of dust to roll and swirl on the road behind them, though a goodly amount of dust also managed to find its way into the passenger compartment.

  One of the women passengers began coughing. “Oh, this dust is awful. I can scarcely get my breath. Do something, Paul.”

  Her husband chuckled. “Tell me, Gladys, just what would you have me do?”

  “You could tell the driver to slow down. Perhaps if we wouldn’t go so fast, the dust wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “I can’t do that. He has a schedule to keep. And so do we.”

  The woman was traveling with her husband and a young boy. They were from Dallas but were relocating to Sorrento because Paul, who was a dentist, was planning to open a practice there.

  There was another passenger in the coach, a pretty, eighteen-year-old girl, but because of the way she was dressed, one had to look at her twice to see that she was Indian. The dress she was wearing was one that would not be out of place in any drawing room in Dallas. She took a handkerchief from her handbag, held it under the spigot of the water barrel, and wet it. She wrung it out so that it wasn’t dripping, then handed it to Gladys.

  “Try this,” she said. She made a motion with her hand, holding it over her nose to demonstrate.

  Gladys took the damp handkerchief and did as the young woman suggested. After a few moments, she took the damp handkerchief down and smiled at the pretty young Indian girl.

  “Why, thank you, dear,” she said. “But how is it that you aren’t bothered by it?”

  The girl smiled. “Oh, but I am bothered by it. It’s just that I’ve learned to put it out of my mind.”

  “You’re an injun, ain’t ya?” The little boy asked.

  “Kenny!” the mother scolded.

  The girl laughed. “That’s all right,” she said. She looked at the boy. “Yes, I am Comanche.”

  “The Comanche are the worst kind. The Comanche and the white man have been enemies,” Kenny said.

  “We used to be,” she said. “But we are friends now. My name is Mary.”

  “Mary? That’s a white name? Don’t you have an Indian name?”

  “Perhaps if I told you my whole name. It is Mary Little Horse.”

  “Mary, how is it that you speak English so well?” Gladys asked.

  “I was back East for two years, attending school.”

  “Oh, how exciting for you.”

  “Yes, it was,” Mary agreed. “And I saw many wonderful things while I was there. Once, I even got to go to Washington to see the Capitol. But I must confess that I am very glad to be coming home again.”

  “Yes, I suppose having been gone that long you would be more than happy to be coming back home.”

  Coop Winters and Travis Eberwine were waiting behind a large rock outcropping just around a sharp turn in the road. Winters was on top of the rock, looking back toward the direction from which the stagecoach would be coming.

  Eberwine was standing on the ground behind the rock.

  “Damn,” he said. “I got too many letters in my name.”

  “What?” Winters asked. He continued to stare down the road.

  “My name,” Eberwine said. “They’s too many letters in Travis. If I didn’t have no more letters than you have, I could do it. Or, iffen I had been named Tom instead of Travis. But I can’t do it with Travis, there’s just too many letters.”

  Winters looked down at Eberwine. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ever’ time I take a piss, well, what I try ’n’ do is write my name in the dirt, you see. But I can’t do it. I purt’ nigh always run out of pee ’bout the time I get to the ‘v.’”

  “We ain’t out here to be writin’ our names in the dirt with piss,” Winters said. “Now button up your britches and pay attention.”

  “All right, all right. How much longer before the stagecoach gets here, anyhow? I’m gettin’ tired of standin’ around.”

  “Wait a minute, I see it now,” Winters said.

  “You see the stagecoach?”

  “Well, I see a lot of dust flyin’ up, and the stagecoach is ’bout the only thing that can do that. Get ready, it’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  The passengers inside the coach heard the sound of gunfire from outside, then they heard the driver calling out to the team. The coach began to slow.

  “What was that?” Gladys asked.

  “It sounded like a gunshot,” Paul replied.

  “What are we slowing down for? We ought to speed up,” Gladys said.

  “I imagine the driver has no choice,” Paul said.

  The stage came to an abrupt stop, and they heard loud voices. A rider, wearing a handkerchief tied across the bottom half of his face, appeared just outside the stagecoach.

  “You folks in the coach,” he shouted in a loud, gruff voice. “Come on out of there!”

  Cautiously, Paul opened the door and stepped out onto the ground. Then he turned and helped his wife down, then Kenny. Mary exited last.

  “What is this? A robbery?” Paul said.

  “Well now, ain’t you the smart one?” one of the two riders asked. Both men had the bottom half of their faces covered. He held up a canvas bag. “I got the money pouch, and now, I’ll be troublin’ you folks for whatever money you have.”

  The outlaw got down from his horse and walked over to them.

  “You got the money shipment, isn’t that enough for you? Why would you want to take money from the passengers?” the driver asked.

  “Let’s just say I don’t like to leave money on the table.”

  “I don’t have that much money, and I’ll need what I have for us to get started in Sorrento. I’m not giving you one red cent,” Paul said.

  “Paul, give it to him!” Gladys insisted.

  “The hell I will,” Paul said angrily.

  The robber cocked his pistol. “Mister,
you’ll either hand it to me, or I’ll kill you and take it from you.”

  “All right, all right,” Paul said. He took his billfold out and handed it over.

  “There, now, that’s a good boy.” The outlaw looked at Mary. “And what about you?”

  “I have no money,” Mary said.

  “How did you buy a ticket with no money?”

  “The Indian school where I attended classes provided me with a travel voucher,” she said. “That was good for a ticket and meals until I returned home.”

  “‘The Injun school’?” The rider looked at her more closely. “By damn, you are a injun, ain’t you? Look at you, all dressed up like a white woman. And damn near as pretty, too, I’d say.”

  “Come on, Coop, we got the pouch and the dude’s poke. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Coop?” Mary asked. “You’re Coop Winters, aren’t you? I’ve heard of you.”

  “Injun, you know too damn much.” With that, he cocked his pistol and shot her, the bullet striking her in the chest. She fell back against the coach, then slid to the ground as blood gushed from the entry wound, soaking the entire top of her dress.

  “No!” Gladys screamed.

  Kenny started crying and knelt on the ground beside her. Mary smiled at him and tried to reach for his hand, but couldn’t raise her arm. She took a couple of gasping breaths, then died.

  “My God, you killed her!” Gladys said.

  “Yeah, well, it happens to all of us eventually,” the one called Coop said coldly.

  “Come on, Coop, we’ve got the money. Let’s get out of here,” the other robber said.

  When the stagecoach came into town, it arrived at a gallop, with the shotgun guard firing his weapon into the air.

  “Holdup!” he shouted. “The coach was held up!”