Journey into Violence Page 2

  “And a woman who will stick,” Kate said.

  “I have no doubt about that, ma’am. Your husband must be real proud of you.”

  “My husband is dead. He died in the war.” Kate smiled. “Now let me get the coffee.”

  As Kate walked away, the man said after her, “Name’s Hank Lowery, ma’am. I think you should know that.”

  She turned. “Did you think your name would make me change my mind about the coffee?”

  “Hank Lowery is a handle some people have a problem with, Mrs. Kerrigan. They rassle with it for a spell and either run me out of town or want to take my picture with the mayor. Either way, they fear me.”

  Kate said, “Now I remember. I once heard my segundo mention you to my sons. A lot of unarmed men were killed in some kind of fierce battle, wasn’t it?”

  “The newspapers called it the Longdale Massacre, but it was a gunfight, not a massacre. The men were armed.”

  “We will not talk of it,” Kate said. “You will drink your coffee, Mr. Lowery, and we will not talk a word of it. Does that set well with you?”

  Lowery nodded. “Just thought you should know, ma’am.”

  “Well, now you’ve told me. Do you take milk and sugar in your coffee? No matter, I’ll bring them anyway.”

  * * *

  “Is the sponge cake to your liking, Mr. Lowery?” Kate asked.

  The man nudged a crumb into his mouth with a little finger. “It’s very good. I’ve never had sponge cake before, and seldom any other kind of cake, come to that.”

  “I’m told that sponge cake is Queen Victoria’s favorite, one with a cream and strawberry jam filling just like mine.”

  Lowery smiled. “You’re a good cook, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

  “No I’m not. I’m a terrible cook. I can’t even boil an egg. The only thing I can make without ruining it is sponge cake.”

  “Then I’m honored,” Lowery said. “This cake is indeed your masterpiece.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lowery. You are most gracious. Ah, here are the girls at last, and Jazmin Salas is with them. She’s the one who cooks for the Kerrigan ranch and her husband Marco is my blacksmith.”

  Kate made the introductions.

  Aware of her twelve-year-old blooming girlhood, Ivy played the sophisticated lady and shook Lowery’s hand, but seven-year-old Shannon was predictably shy and buried her face in her mother’s skirt.

  “Beautiful children, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Lowery said. “They do you proud.”

  Jazmin’s gaze lingered on the man’s holstered Colt, fine clothes, and the silver ring on the little finger of his left hand. She guessed that Mr. Lowery had never done a day’s hard work in his life. Although she had heard of such men, they were as alien to her as the strange little Chinamen who toiled on the railroads.

  “Is the gentleman staying for supper, Mrs. Kerrigan? If he is I’ll set an extra place at table.”

  Kate hesitated.

  Lowery read the signs. “There’s no need. I should be riding on.”

  “Of course you’ll stay for supper, Mr. Lowery,” Kate said, recovering from her indecision. “I will not allow a man to leave my home hungry.” To lift the mood, she added, “We’re having chicken and dumplings. Is that to your taste?”

  “If it’s as good as the sponge cake then it most certainly is.”

  “Better,” Kate said. “Jazmin is a wonderful cook.”

  “Will we eat in the dining room . . . again?” Jazmin said.

  “Of course. Where else would we eat?”

  Jazmin’s eyes lifted to the table and chairs set up within the wobbly frame of the new house. “Yes, ma’am. Let’s hope the weather holds and there is no wind.”

  If Hank Lowery was amused, he had the good manners not to let it show.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kate Kerrigan’s menfolk rode in just as day shaded into night and Jazmin lit the candles on the dining room table. The men waved to Kate as they rode to the bunkhouse to wash off the trail dust. By the time Frank Cobb, her sons Trace and Quinn, Moses Rice, and eight punchers she’d hired for the gather and drive up the Chisholm had finished with the roller towel it was black. Moses changed it in a hurry, fearing Kate’s wrath because he hadn’t done it earlier.

  The hired hands ate in the bunkhouse, but Kate and her children considered Moses Rice family, even though he was a black man. He sat at the dining room table, as did Frank Cobb. The tension between Frank and Hank Lowery was immediate and obvious. As a guest, Lowery sat on Kate’s right side and Frank opposite him. In the flickering candlelight, the two men’s eyes clashed, challenged, and held. Trace Kerrigan, seventeen years old that spring and used to being around rough men, dropped his hand to the Winchester he’d propped against his chair. He would not allow gunplay at the table and certainly not with his mother in the line of fire.

  Lowery broke the silence and talked into an atmosphere as fragile as a glass rod. “Howdy, Frank. It’s been a while.”

  “Seems like,” Frank said.

  “You don’t want me here, do you?” Lowery said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I stayed for the chicken and dumplings,” Lowery said. “No other reason.”

  “Yes, there is another reason,” Kate said. “Frank, I asked Mr. Lowery to have supper with us. The decision was mine.”

  “Was that before or after he told you about Longdale, Kate?” Frank’s voice was tight, thin, and menacing. “Ask Lowery about Levi Fry . . . or did he already boast of it?”

  “Why don’t you ask me, Frank?” Lowery said.

  “Damn you, I will. Tell me why, when the old man was down on his hands and knees and coughing up black blood, did you put a bullet in his head?”

  “Whoever told you that is a damn liar,” Lowery said. “And you were a damn fool to listen to him.”

  “I won’t let you play Kate for a fool!” Frank’s chair tipped over as he jumped to his feet, his hand dropping for a gun.

  Two things happened quickly. The first was the clack-clack of the lever of Trace’s Winchester.

  The second was Kate’s shout of, “Enough!”

  “Both of you, back away from my mother,” Trace yelled. “By God, Frank, if I have to, I’ll kill you both.”

  “Stay right where you are,” Kate said. “Trace, put down the rifle. The other two of you sit down. It’s a beautiful evening. We’re sitting in my new dining room of my new home and I don’t want this occasion spoiled.”

  “Ma, will the house fall down while we’re eating?” Shannon said.

  The girl’s question made Kate smile and did something to ease the tension.

  As Frank picked up his chair, Lowery said, “Mrs. Kerrigan, it was far from my intention to spoil your dinner. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Lowery,” Kate said. “Now unbuckle your gun belt and you, too, Frank. Jazmin, take the revolvers into the cabin before you serve. Trace, you may give Jazmin your Winchester.”

  “I bet Lowery’s got a hideout stashed somewhere, Kate,” Frank said. “He’s not a man to be trusted.”

  Kate looked at the man in question. “Mr. Lowery, do you have a second weapon?”

  “No.” He opened his frockcoat. “Satisfied, Frank?”

  “I’ll only be satisfied when I see you dead.”

  “Everyone sit down,” Kate said. “I will not have our meal spoiled by bickering.” Then after a few moments, “Ah, there is Jazmin with the food at last. A hungry man is an angry man, my grandmother always said. Once we have eaten, we’ll all be perfect friends again.”

  “I doubt it,” Frank said under his breath.

  Kate chose to ignore that statement.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A high-riding full moon bathed the Kerrigan ranch in metallic light and out in the brush country coyotes yipped their hunger. The horses on the corral were restless, usually a sign that they’d caught the scent of a bear or cougar.

  As sleepless as the horses, Frank Cobb stood in darkness un
der the oak outside the cabin, the tiny, scarlet glow of his cigarette rising and falling as he smoked. He turned his head as the cabin door opened and Kate stepped outside. She wore a green robe over her nightdress and her luxuriant mane of red hair was pulled back with a ribbon of the same color. As she stepped closer, Frank saw that she carried a steaming teacup in her hand.

  “I brought you this. It will help you sleep,” she said, extending the cup and smiling. “It’s two o’clock in the morning and you have a full day ahead of you.”

  Frank took the cup and sniffed. “What is this?”

  “Chamomile tea. It’s very calming.”

  Several times on any given day, Frank was struck by what a spectacularly beautiful woman Kate Kerrigan was, and in the moonlight, he was enamored of her yet again. He sipped the tea then said, “I’m sorry about tonight, Kate. I guess I pretty much ruined everybody’s supper.”

  Kate smiled. “Trace and Quinn ate like wolves and so did Moses. Ivy and Shannon always pick at their food, so there’s no need to blame yourself for that. Why do you hate Hank Lowery so much, Frank?”

  “It’s getting late,” Frank said. “Best I turn in and grab some shuteye.”

  “It will take the tea some time to work, so tell me about him. Come into the house. We’ll sit in the dining room.”

  Despite his depressed mood, Frank managed a smile. “Kate, four framed walls and a few roof rafters don’t make a house, despite what the pirate tells you.”

  “It is a house because I say it is a house. Frames and rafters do not make a home. It’s the people who live within the walls that do that. Besides, I have my hearthstone in place, so the new Kerrigan home is on a firm foundation, even though it shakes and creaks.”

  Frank laid his teacup on the dining room table, pulled out a chair for Kate, and then sat.

  Kate eased him into his story. “All right, where is Longdale?”

  “It’s a settlement in the New Mexico Territory, up in the Rio Hondo country. Before the massacre it was a cow town like any other—small, dusty, and drab. Longdale slept six days a week and only woke up on Fridays when the punchers from the surrounding ranches came in to drink and dance with Annie and Bettie. It had a general store with a saloon attached, a blacksmith’s shop, some scattered cabins, and not much else.”

  Kate said, “Who were Annie and Bettie? Need I ask?”

  “Working girls, Kate.”

  “Ah, I see. Were they pretty?”

  “The punchers thought they were.”

  Kate smiled. “Please go on with your story. I ask too many silly questions.”

  “A waddie shot dead during an argument over water rights started it. The Rocking-J Ranch and the Slim Chance Horse and Cattle Company claimed the same creek that ran off the Rio Hondo and one morning during roundup their hands got into it. It started with fists and then went to guns and during the scrape a feller who rode for the Rocking-J by the name of Shorty Tillett got shot and another man was wounded.” Frank drank the last of his tea and built a smoke. “After that, both outfits gunned up and brought in professionals. One of them was a draw fighter out of Amarillo who called himself Stride Lowery.”

  “He was related to our Mr. Lowery?” Kate asked.

  That “our Mr. Lowery” rankled, but Frank let it go. “He was Hank Lowery’s twin brother.”

  “Oh, I see,” Kate said, but she really didn’t.

  Frank lit his cigarette. “The ranchers’ war lasted three months. During that time seven men were killed, another crippled for life, and Stride Lowery was one of the dead. Finally a peace conference was called, to be held at the saloon in Longdale. At three in the afternoon Levi Fry, owner of the Slim Chance, rode into town with two punchers. A few minutes later the Rocking-J crew arrived. Jesse George, a careful man, brought along three men. One of them was Mordecai Bishop, an Arizona Territory revolver fighter who’d made a name for himself as a fast gun in the Lee-Peacock feud in the Texas four corners country. Well, the seven men got to cussin’ and discussin’ and the ranchers poked holes in the air with their forefingers. They got to drinking and then to talking again.”

  Frank stopped talking and listened into the still, mother-of-pearl night. “Coyotes are hunting close. They’re making the horses restless.”

  “Did the ranchers reach an agreement?” Kate asked.

  “We’ll never know. Hank Lowery stepped into the saloon and locked the door behind him. He had a Colt in each hand, cut loose, and put a lead period at the end of the last sentence those boys uttered.”

  “But why?”

  “Why? It seemed that he blamed both parties for his brother’s death. Whatever the reason, when the smoke cleared seven men lay with their faces in the sawdust, five of them dead and two dying. Later I was told that old Levi Fry was gut-shot and crawled around the floor on his hands and knees coughing blood. Lowery’s guns were shot dry, but he drew a .32 hideout, shoved the muzzle into the back of Levi Fry’s head, and pulled the trigger.”

  Kate drew her nightdress closer around her shoulders. “Frank, why should the Longdale Massacre trouble you? You weren’t involved.”

  “But I was, indirectly anyway. I’d worked a roundup for old man Fry and he’d paid twice what he owed me. I liked that old man and he didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”

  “Hank Lowery says he didn’t shoot Mr. Fry while he was on the floor,” Kate said.

  “And you believe him?”

  “Well, no. But I don’t disbelieve him, either.”

  “Kate, Lowery is a cold-blooded killer. He proved it in Longdale.”

  “Has he killed anyone since?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, he may have. He says he has angry men on his back trail.”

  “Who are they?”

  “He wouldn’t say.” Kate was silent for a while. The moonlight tangled in her hair and turned the fair Celtic skin of her beautiful face to porcelain. Finally she said, “Hank Lowery wants to join our drive. He says he’s worked cattle before, and we could use another hand.”

  It took Frank a few moments to recover before he said, “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I’d speak to you. And I told him something else, Frank. I said if he killed a man while he was under my employ, I’d hang him.”

  “Kate, Lowery is a professional gambler. When was the last time you saw a gambler eating dust? Riding drag? And he’s a shootist. I bet you never saw one of them punching cows, either.”

  “And that’s the whole point. Lowery wants to make a fresh start and put his violent past behind him. He thinks he might prosper in Dodge as a merchant, perhaps in the lumber business.”

  “He wants to be a storekeeper? And pigs will fly.” Frank flicked away his cigarette butt. It glowed like a firefly before hitting the ground. “I’ll tell you something about the Colt’s revolver, Kate. It casts a mighty long shadow. A man who’s lived by the gun and made a reputation can run, but he can’t hide. Sooner or later the past catches up to him and he’s forced to draw the Colt again. John Wesley tried to go straight and so did Dallas Stoudenmire, two men I knew and liked. Now Wes is rotting in Huntsville and five months ago Dallas was shot down in El Paso. Lowery will end up the same way.”

  “I aim to take a chance on him, Frank,” Kate said.

  “Then you’re making a big mistake.”

  “I took a chance on you, remember? You turned out all right.”

  “Have it your own way, Kate. You’re the boss. But if Lowery harms or even threatens harm to me or anyone I know, I’ll kill him. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly,” Kate said. “But it will not come to that. I will not let it happen.” She rose and walked into the moonlight, her back stiff.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By cowboy standards, at forty years old Les Bowes was an old man, but there was not a man in Texas who knew as much as he did about cattle and their ways. He’d gone up the trail for the first time in 1866 with Charlie Goodnight and Oliver Loving and ten years late
r was a top hand on Goodnight’s JA Ranch in the panhandle. In 1880, he became a member of the Panhandle Stockman’s Association and had a hand in killing several nesters and rustlers.

  Stove-up and hurting, he’d nonetheless let Kate talk him into one more drive before he moved to Philadelphia to live with his widowed sister.

  As he spoke to Frank, Bowes’s face bore a worried expression. “The cattle are strung out all over the range. Even the yearlings are no longer close to their mamas.”

  Frank immediately saw the implications for a delay of the roundup. “How scattered, Les?” he asked as the other hands gathered around, their curiosity roused.

  “A fair number, maybe five hundred head, drifted south. That’s what I know so far. I suspect we’ll find other bunches to the west and north.” Bowes dropped his eyes to the cigarette he was building. “I saw hoss tracks, Frank.”

  “Rustlers?”

  “Could be.”

  Frank nodded. “Your mount is used up. Saddle another horse and we’ll go take a look-see.” He turned to Trace. “Keep bringing in the yearlings. I’ll ride south with Les. Lowery, you’ll come with me.”

  “I got a bad feeling about this scattered herd business. It’s making me uneasy,” Trace said, the branding iron with its distinctive KK head smoking in his gloved hand.

  Frank nodded. “Me, too, Trace. Me, too.”

  * * *

  Normally, a grazing herd will spread out in groups of three or four over several acres, but they will keep each other in sight. That wasn’t the case with the Kerrigan herd.

  “They’ve been hazed, deliberately scattered.” Frank lowered his field glasses. “They’re strung out for miles in every direction.”

  Nobody had asked his opinion, but Hank Lowery said, “That’s why the calves have been so slow coming in. The drovers can’t find them.”

  “That would explain it all right,” Les Bowes said.