The Lawless Read online

  Only when the two men had gone did Kate Kerrigan allow herself a tear.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Let him go, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Steve Keller said. “I guarantee Trace will leave a boy and come back a man.”

  “He’s too young to go up the trail,” Kate said. “He’s only fifteen.”

  “Around these parts that’s man-grown, ma’am.” Keller turned to Trace. “Don’t think that a thousand miles of Chisholm Trail is like a ride in the park. A cattle drive is hard work, making do and doing without, expecting the best and getting the worst. It’s riding wet, riding hungry, riding hurt. It’s laying your duds out over an anthill to get rid of the vermin and being told to do things that shouldn’t be asked of any human being. And if you do what you’re asked to do, you should have your head examined because you’re crazy. A lot of men don’t make it, some die, some turn back, but those who go all the way are forged in steel by the fires of hell itself and it shows in a man’s bearing and how he thinks of himself and treats others. And now I’ve done enough talking to last me the rest of the year.”

  He pushed his plate away from him and got to his feet. “Thanks for the bacon and biscuits. The best breakfast I’ve had in a coon’s age, ma’am. Now I got to be moving on.”

  “Where are you headed, Mr. Keller?” Kate asked.

  “Fall’s almost here and winter will come down right after it, so I figure I’ll head for Old Mexico and see what’s shaking the sagebrush. I never was a man for snow and brushing ice off my mustache.”

  “You are happy with what I paid you?”

  “You kept up your end of the bargain, ma’am. I got no complaints.”

  Standing tall and lean in the small cabin, Keller gave Trace his hand. “Colonel Hunt is a fine man and he knows cattle. You’ll learn a lot from him.” And to Quinn, whose eyes glowed with hero worship, “You’re a good rider, boy, one of the best I’ve ever known. Keep up with them studies of yours, but don’t let books hurt your eyes.” To the girls, “You’re growing into right pretty young ladies. Mind your ma now.” He shook hands with Moses. “Take care of them, all of them.”

  Then Steve Keller was gone. A man of the West, he was part of it and the West was part of him. One could not exist without the other.

  “Ma, I want to join the drive,” Trace said the next day. “I won’t stay safe and home and see our cattle leave and no Kerrigan with them.”

  “Trace, you heard what Mr. Keller said. It’s just too dangerous for a boy your age.”

  “Ma, you were younger than me when you lived in the Four Corners in New York. You told me once that every day was a struggle just to exist. It was that experience that helped you become the strong woman you are today. Ma, I no longer want to be referred to as a boy. I want to become a man. So, please don’t coddle me.”

  Quinn grinned. “Let Trace go up the trail and you can coddle me, Ma. I don’t mind.”

  Kate looked to Moses. “What do you think?” Kate said.

  The old man smiled. “You asked me that because you’ve already made up your mind, Miz Kate. I say let Trace go with the cattle and that’s just what you are thinking.”

  “It’s three months to Abilene and back, Trace. I’ll be worried out of my mind the whole time you’re gone,” Kate said.

  Trace smiled. “Thanks, Ma. And don’t worry. I’ve got a good rifle and a good horse and I can take care of myself.”

  It was with a heavy heart that Kate watched Trace ride away with the herd. She felt like a mother seeing her son go off to war, and indeed that’s what it was. He would fight a war with cattle, a war with weather, a war with the dust, drought, fire, and flood . . . and above all a war with himself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kate Kerrigan loved dappled places. A week after Trace left, she rode east into hill country and stopped at a favorite spot she’d discovered, a shallow bluff crested with wild oaks, its bountiful grass bright with yellow damianita and evening primrose. The day was hot, the sky blue except for a few white clouds that drifted like lilies on a pond, and a mild-mannered south wind stirred the tree branches.

  She sat at the base of an oak and as was her habit in recent days took a rosary from her riding dress and prayed for her son, the pink beads clicking through her fingers.

  Gunshots, very close, interrupted her devotions.

  Her first thought was that Apaches had waylaid a poor traveler, but then she heard hoarse shouts, the yells and curses of white men.

  She rose, put away the rosary, and slid her Henry out of the saddle boot. Moving slowly and carefully, she stepped to the edge of the bluff. Down below among the mesquite, a man lay behind his dead horse, a revolver in each hand. Less than a hundred yards away three mounted men sat their horses, presumably pondering their next move.

  It came soon enough.

  The three riders put spurs to their horses and charged, dust ribboning away from pounding hooves.

  Kate wanted to cry out, end it. But the men below would not hear her and even if they did, they would not care. She levered her rifle and fired a shot into the air, but the charging horsemen did not slow their pace or even look in her direction. They were firing with Colts, their arms extended in the old guerrilla fighting style.

  The man behind the dead horse stumbled to his feet. The entire left side of his gray shirt was scarlet with blood, but it looked like he was cut from the same cloth as Texas Ranger Luke Trent.

  The wounded man worked his guns steadily and Kate saw a puff of dust rise from his pants as he took another hit. The range was finally close and he came into his element. Thumbing his Navy Colts with amazing rapidity, he emptied two saddles and then the horse of his remaining assailant stumbled and fell.

  The horse went down hard, kicking up a tremendous cloud of dust. She watched its rider roll free until the man’s back fetched up hard against a rock. She heard him yell in pain. Big, bearded, and determined, he scrambled quickly to his feet and fired the same time as the wounded man. The man in the gray shirt took another hit, but the big man dropped his gun and clapped both hands to his eyes. Even at a distance, Kate saw blood seep through his fingers and pour down the back of his hands in red rivulets.

  The big man stood swaying for a few moments and then one of his scarlet hands left his eyes and he pointed at the man in the gray shirt. “That’s fer Will!” he yelled before pitching forward on his face. He lay still, spread-eagled in the dust.

  Kate watched the man in the gray shirt sway on his feet, trying to remain upright, but the effort proved too much for him. The Colts dropped from his hands and he fell on his back.

  Gun smoke drifted among the mesquite and dust kicked up by the battle drifted in the breeze and began to settle. The two surviving horses, one with the saddle hanging under its belly, grazed without concern as though the violent deeds of men had nothing to do with them.

  Kate mounted and took the gradual talus slope that led from the bluff to the flat. The sunny land was silent but scarred by the roar of guns. She rode with her rifle booted, considering that the dead posed no risk to her.

  She dismounted and one by one checked the bodies. All three of the men who’d taken part in the charge, big, fine-looking fellows, were dead, but the man in the gray shirt still lived, though barely.

  Kate found three bullet wounds. One was a grazing wound to the left side of his chest that for certain had broken some ribs. The man had taken another bullet in his thigh and a third, probably the last shot fired by the bearded man, had hit low on the right side of his waist about an inch above the gun belt. As gently as she could, Kate rolled the man onto his left side. The shot had passed through the man’s waist and exited through the thick muscles of his lower back. The ball had traveled in a straight line and come out clean, but the exit wound was large, ragged, and bloody.

  She nodded to herself. It was a death wound all right, unless this man had enough fortitude to bite back the pain and battle for his life. Few did.

  The man’s eyes flew open and she re
coiled in shock.

  “What are you doing to me, woman?” he whispered. “Go away and let me die in peace.”

  Once over her surprise, Kate was not intimidated. “I may do just that, mister, depending on how you answer my questions.”

  The man laughed and then winced as pain jolted through him. “I’m dying here, shot through and through, and she wants to ask me questions. Only a female would say that.”

  “Who are those men you killed?” She removed her shawl, folded it, and gently placed it under the man’s head.

  “I killed all three of them?”

  “Yes, you did. Are you an outlaw? Wait there a minute.” She stood.

  “I’m not going anywhere, lady.”

  Kate brought the canteen from her saddle and held it to the wounded man’s mouth. After he drank, then drank again, she said, “Who are those three men? I hope they’re not policemen.”

  “Policemen? Lady, this isn’t the big city.”

  “Who are they? Come now, answer me.”

  Blood stained the man’s lips and his breathing was labored. “If I answer you will you leave me alone?”

  She brushed a fly away from his face. “We’ll see.”

  “Those three called themselves the White Oak gang. There was four of them at one time, but I hung one of them. Will Stevens was his name. The two lying over there are Sid Collins and Danny Sadler. I’d say Danny was the worst of the bunch, made a hobby out of rape, if you’ll forgive the word. The one that done for me in the end was Will’s huggin’ cousin, Joe McDermott. Joe was a bad one, but true blue in the way he stuck by his kinfolk.

  “There, I’ve told you. Go away and let me make my peace with the Man Upstairs. Him and me haven’t exactly been on speaking terms. And don’t blubber. I can’t abide blubbering women.”

  “You need have no fear of that . . . Mister?”

  “My name’s Frank Cobb.” He saw the question in Kate’s eyes and said, “Oh God, you ain’t ever going away, are you?”

  Kate made no answer.

  He sighed. “Joe and them have been dogging my back trail for the past six weeks. I was sheriff of a small town on the Brazos by the name of Last Chance when I hung Will Stevens for murder and attempted bank robbery. Well, Joe made it known that the White Oak Gang was coming into town to kill me and then burn Last Chance to cinders. When the word got around, the nice townsfolk got together and run me out, said they didn’t want to take a chance on Joe McDermott. Well, Joe caught up with me here and you know the rest. Now you’re a right pretty lady, but leave me the hell alone.”

  “Think you can ride?”

  “Lady, I’m all shot to pieces. Hell no, I can’t ride. All I can do is die with as little fuss and bother to folks as possible.” Cobb grimaced as another wave of pain hit him. “Hell, I’m surprised I ain’t dead already. You’ve done near talked me to death.”

  Kate rose to her feet. “You lay still and drink plenty of water. I’ll send my son and hired man with our wagon to pick you up. Later, they’ll come back and bury your hurting dead.”

  “Good. I’ll be dead as a doornail by the time they get here,” Cobb said.

  Determined, she looked squarely at him. “No, you won’t die, Mr. Cobb. You won’t die because I do not wish you to die. And when I don’t wish a thing, it does not happen.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kate Kerrigan removed the ball from Frank Cobb’s thigh and patched up his other wounds as best she could. “Now it’s in God’s hands.”

  The three dead men were buried in the bluff above the cabin and the little cemetery grew. Moses made wooden crosses with their names on them and Kate said the words. The Kerrigan family allowed that outlaws though they were, the men were laid to rest in a decent Christian manner as befitted white men.

  The cabin was small and cramped, but a bed was made up for Cobb in what Kate optimistically called the parlor, a space to the right of the door that was furnished with a chair, table, and usually a bunch of wildflowers in a canning jar vase.

  To everyone’s surprise, he was sitting up in bed after a week and could step outside for fresh air and sunlight after three.

  Kate admired the man’s grit and one morning as they sat outside she told him so. “You’re a strong-willed man, Mr. Cobb. And I’m gratified that my efforts on your behalf were not in vain.”

  “I’m beholden to you, ma’am. And I do not say that lightly.” The sun had restored color to his face and Kate’s cooking was adding weight to his lanky frame. “I owe you my life.”

  “First of all, you may call me Kate. And secondly, you owe me nothing. I would have done the same for any poor soul in distress.”

  “Will you call me Frank?”

  “When I decide that you’ve earned that privilege, Mr. Cobb.”

  The man grinned and shook his head. “I’ve never met a woman like you . . . Kate.”

  “There are many like me. Unfortunately, they’re all in Ireland. Do you wish to cultivate that scraggly beard, Mr. Cobb?”

  “No, ma’am . . . Kate. But I’ll keep the mustache. It’s my only vanity.”

  “Then you may borrow my late husband’s razor. And you will bathe in the creek with plenty of soap. And you will leave off your clothes so they can be washed. I will not have a scraggly bearded man who needs a bath and wears dirty clothes around the Kerrigan Ranch.”

  Another week went by and Frank Cobb’s appearance passed Kate’s critical eyes, but only after she personally trimmed his mustache, telling him that a cavalry mustache was one thing, but a dead rat hanging under his nose was quite another.

  Although he still hadn’t fully recovered, Cobb did some chores around the cabin and helped Quinn and Moses with the horses. Despite his wounds, he moved easily, gracefully, with never a wasted movement. By nature, he was not a talking man, but when Kate or one of the others, including the girls, engaged him in conversation he gave them his full attention and looked straight into their eyes like a man should.

  All in all, Kate was well pleased with Cobb, not as a potential lover, but as a steady, hardworking man on whom she could depend. He’d already revealed his skill with a gun and before the month was out he would demonstrate it again.

  Hack Rivette was scum, an illiterate, brutish thug who had sunk to the bottom of the frontier pond and was happy to exist there amid the slime and filth. He made a living by theft, robbery, and murder and had a deep hatred for all humanity—man, woman or child. His only care was the fulfillment of his own twisted desires. Barely above an animal, he was vicious, deadly, and without pity.

  That such a man would happen upon the Kerrigan cabin was unfortunate but not surprising. West Texas was a haven for the lawless element—outlaws of every stripe, gunmen, con men. Led by the carpetbaggers and Yankees on the make, they were happy to feast on the carcass of the South. Hack Rivette fit right in. He’d found his happy hunting ground.

  He rode up to the cabin and sat his horse, looking the place over—fine horses in the corral, a milk cow and chickens in the yard, and a good wagon next to the house. Rivette smiled to himself. It seemed like a cozy berth to winter and with a bit of luck, he’d also find a woman there.

  In greasy buckskins and a battered Union kepi, he yelled, “Hello the cabin!” He packed two Army Colts, and a Henry rifle was nestled under his right knee.

  The door opened immediately and Kate stepped outside, a child clinging to her dress. Normally, she would have asked a traveler to light and set, but the look of the man gave her pause and she wished she hadn’t left her rifle behind. “What can I do for you?”

  The rider grinned.

  Kate watched his eyes undress her.

  “I’m a simple man, lady. Bacon and eggs is what I need. Just keep your brats away from me, especially when I’m drinking whiskey. Now come here and put my hoss in the corral, then me and you will get acquainted, like.” Rivette swung out of the saddle, and then his voice suddenly turned harsh. “Do what I say, woman. Git over here and take care of my hoss. Throw
that damned brat off your skirts before I do it.”

  Kate was suddenly frightened. Quinn and Moses were out hunting and Frank Cobb . . . well, she didn’t know where he was. He often just wandered off to be by himself.

  “Ma . . .” Shannon said.

  Kate’s fear turned to anger. “Get back on that horse, mister, and ride out of here. I have nothing for you.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll ride on come next spring and maybe I’ll take you with me if you’ve been nice, and I mean real nice, to me.” Rivette held out the reins. “Now take my hoss if you don’t want to feel the back of my hand.”

  “The lady told you to move on, mister.”

  Frank Cobb’s voice cracked like a whip in the silence of the afternoon. He stood at the corner of the cabin, his lean, ready frame and the guns on his hips telling the world that there stood somebody.

  Rivette jutted his slab of a chin in Kate’s direction. “Is that yours?”

  “The lady’s name is Mrs. Kate Kerrigan and she owns the ranch you’re trespassing on. Now get back up in the saddle and ride on out.”

  “If that’s yours, I want it,” Rivette said to Cobb. “And everything that goes with it. Now you get the hell out of here and don’t come back. I see your ugly face around here one more time I’ll put a bullet in it.”

  Rivette had intimidated many weak and timid men and had killed a few of them, but he quickly realized that Frank Cobb didn’t intimidate worth a damn. That meant a gunfight. The tall, lean man with the quiet eyes, steady hands, and twin Colts looked as though he’d been in shooting scrapes before.

  “I won’t tell you again, mister,” Rivette said, but a coward and bully at heart, he knew he’d lost the gunfight without a shot being fired.

  Cobb stepped away from the cabin, the ivory handles of his revolvers yellow as old bone. “You got a clear choice, mister. Pull those pistols or shuck the gun belt. But know that I’m not a patient man.”