MacCallister Kingdom Come Page 4

  Mickey took the towel and began drying his face. “You’re not funny, Jean Marie. Unlike you, I’ve been working hard in the field all day. What have you done?”

  “Nothing much. I just made some cornbread for supper is all.”

  “Big deal.”

  “And a cherry pie,” she added.

  Mickey pulled the towel down and looked at her. “You made a cherry pie?”

  “Yes, and I did it just for you. Mama wanted to do an apple pie, but I reminded her that you liked cherry pie better.”

  “Just for me, huh?”

  “Yes, just for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because you’re my big brother, that’s why.”

  “No, that’s not the only reason. You want something.”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “This is your brother you’re talking to, Jean Marie. Remember? Now, what do you want?”

  Jean Marie grinned. “Well, there is one thing.”

  “I thought so. What is it?”

  “I want you to talk to Papa for me.”

  “Talk to Papa? What about?”

  “About the barn dance in town Saturday night.”

  “What about it? He already said I could take you with me.”

  “I don’t want to go to the dance with you.”

  “You don’t? What do you mean, you don’t? I thought you were wanting to go to the dance,” Mickey said. “Girl, you need to make up your mind, one way or the other.”

  “I do want to go to the dance. I just don’t want to go with you. I mean, how do you think it is going to look to all my friends if my own brother takes me to the dance? They’ll think nobody but my brother wants anything to do with me.”

  “You do want to go to the dance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell me this, Jean Marie. How do you plan to get there, if I don’t take you?”

  Jean Marie smiled. “With Danny Dunnigan.”

  “You want to go to the dance with Danny Dunnigan?”

  “Yes, but Papa won’t let me go with Danny. He says I’m too young to go to the dance with anyone but a member of my own family.”

  “You are too young,” Mickey said easily.

  “Too young? I’m only one year younger than you are, Mickey Drew.”

  “That don’t make no difference. You’re a girl. It’s different with girls.”

  “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman . . . near ’bout.” Jean Marie leaned against the split-rail fence and thrust her hip out, proudly displaying the developing curves of her young body. “Mickey, please tell Papa to let me go to the dance with Danny. Papa will listen to you.”

  “Not about something like this, he won’t. Come on. Let’s go have supper. You made the cornbread and the pie, did you?”

  “Yes. Mickey, please talk to Papa.”

  “Maybe if we all three went together,” Mickey suggested. “That way it would look to your friends like you were going with Danny, and I was just tagging along. And to Papa it would look like Danny was just tagging along with us.”

  “Oh, Mickey! You think so?” Jean Marie said excitedly. She threw her arms around his neck. “You are the best brother in the whole world!”

  “I can’t be that much, if you don’t want to go with just me,” Mickey said, laughing.”

  As the two walked back up the path to the house, they saw two horses tied to the fence in front.

  “Who’s visiting?” Mickey asked.

  “I don’t know. There wasn’t anyone here when I left the house.”

  Mickey pushed the door open, then came to a complete halt, his eyes wide with confusion.

  Two strange men were in the kitchen, and both were holding guns in their hand. Marvin Drew was lying on the floor with blood pooling beside his head. Mickey didn’t know whether his father was dead or unconscious. His mother was standing to one side, her face contorted by confusion, fear, and grief.

  “Mama?” Jean Marie asked, barely able to get the word out.

  “Who are you?” Mickey asked angrily. “What are you doing here?”

  Neither of the men replied. The one with swarthy skin and dark eyes turned his gun toward Mickey and pulled the trigger. When the bullet struck him, Mickey felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a mule. He fell facedown onto the floor.

  “Mickey!” Jean Marie screamed.

  “Murderers!” Mickey’s mother yelled.

  “Which one of these two women do you want, Jaco?” one of the men asked.

  “Hell, Putt, it don’t make that much difference to me. They’s two of them, ’n two of us. I reckon we can just start out on one, then trade. That way, we can have ’em both.”

  “Yeah,” Putt said with an almost insane giggle. “Yeah, that’s a damn good idea.”

  Mickey could hear the conversation, but there was nothing he could do about it. Try as he might, he was unable to move. Just before he passed out, he heard a scream. Whether it was from his mother or his sister, he didn’t know.

  Chaperito, New Mexico Territory

  When Mickey came to he was lying in bed, with bandages wound completely around his stomach. Dr. Pinkstaff was standing alongside the bed, looking down at him.

  “Where am I?” Mickey asked.

  “You’re in my office. You gave us quite a scare, Mickey. I didn’t know if you were going to make it or not.”

  “Mom, Dad, Jean Marie! Where are they?”

  Dr. Pinkstaff reached out to touch his hand to Mickey’s shoulder. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. They’re—” he paused in mid-sentence.

  “They’re dead, aren’t they? Those men killed them.”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”

  “I know who it was that did it,” Mickey said. “I heard ’em talkin’, and I heard ’em call each other by name.”

  “Sheriff Baxter was hoping it would be something like that. He wanted to talk to you as soon as you woke up. I’ll go get hm.”

  Mickey lay in bed after the doctor left, replaying the event in his mind. He had, indeed, heard them call each other by name, or at least, by something. Whether or not that was their real names, he had no way of knowing.

  “You’re sure those are the names you heard?” Sheriff Baxter asked a few minutes later, after Mickey shared them with him. “Jaco and Putt?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, I know they’re kind of dumb soundin’, and I don’t know if that’s their real names, but that’s what I heard ’em callin’ each other.”

  “Was one dark, almost Mexican or Indian lookin’? And was the other one an albino?”

  “Yeah, one of ’em did look like a Mexican. The other one . . . what’s an albino?”

  “Someone that’s so pale that his skin is almost white.”

  “He had funny-lookin’ eyes, too. Like they was pink, or somethin’.”

  “Yes. The descriptions fit, and that’s their names, all right. One is A. M. Jaco, and the other ’n is Blue Putt.”

  “You know these men?” Mickey asked.

  “I don’t think there is a sheriff or city marshal in all of New Mexico who doesn’t know them. Or at least, know of them. You were real smart, Mickey, by pretending to be dead. That not only kept you alive, it means we’re going to get these outlaws for this.”

  Mickey didn’t tell him that he wasn’t purposely pretending to be dead. He wanted to get up, wanted to do something to help his mother and sister. But though he had tried hard, he had been totally unable to move.

  “Will they hang for killin’ Ma, and Papa, and Jean Marie?”

  “Oh, they’ll hang all right,” the sheriff replied.

  With the butt of his rifle resting on his hip, Sheriff Harold Baxter stood out on the front porch of his office, talking to a group of about twenty men. All were armed with various weapons from pistols to shotguns to rifles. “All right, you men raise up your hands,” he shouted.

  The men did so.

  “Do you swear to uphold the law, and t
o do what I tell you to do, and not to get drunk while you’re part of the posse?”

  “Damn, Harold, that’s askin’ an awful lot of Keith,” one of the men said, and the others laughed.

  “This ain’t no laughin’ matter,” Sheriff Baxter said. “Now I’m goin’ to ask you again. Do you swear to uphold the law, and to do what I tell you to do, so help you God? Say I do.”

  “I do,” the men of the posse replied.

  “Those of you that’s got good ridin’ horses, get mounted. If you ain’t got a good horse, go down to Finley’s Stable and pick one out. Better get a saddle too, if you need one. Tell Finley you’re in the posse, and he’ll charge it to the county.”

  As the posse broke up to get their mounts, a man with white hair and a long white beard called out. “When you catch them that kilt the Drew family, don’t bother to bring ’em back. Just hang ’em where you find ’em.” He’d been watching the swearing-in from the front porch of the feed store next door to the sheriff’s office,

  “Enough of that, Bowman,” Sheriff Baxter said, pointing toward the man. “When we find them, we’re goin’ to bring ’em back, ’n they’re goin’ to stand trial. Then we’ll hang ’em.”

  Those who were close enough to overhear the exchange laughed.

  Chapter Six

  Mescalero Valley, New Mexico Territory

  Jaco and Putt stopped just below a butte, then dismounted. Jaco handed the reins of his horse to Putt. “Hold the horses. I’m goin’ to climb up here ’n see if there’s anyone a-followin’ us.”

  Putt frowned. “What are you worried about? It’s been four days ’n there ain’t nobody that’s been a-followin’ us yet. Besides which, we kilt ever’one in the house, so there ain’t nobody that can say we was the ones that done it.”

  “It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Jaco said as he started up the side of the butte.

  Reaching the top, he shielded his eyes and studied the terrain all around them. He wished he had a spyglass, and thought it might be a good idea to steal one, if he could find one. Seeing nothing, he climbed back down. “I didn’t see nobody, so I reckon it’ll be all right to spend the night here.”

  “What about the bottle of whiskey we bought back at that store we stopped at? Reckon we could break it out ’n drink it now?” Putt asked.

  Jaco chuckled. “What the hell did we buy it for, iffen we didn’t plan to drink it? Let’s fry us up some bacon first, ’n maybe open up a can of beans.”

  “All right. I’ll get us a fire started.”

  The owner of Jim’s, Yes I Have It, Store, looked up with some trepidation when he saw so many riders stop in front of his place. He stepped behind his counter and reached down to wrap his hand around the shotgun that lay on the shelf. It was a foolish gesture—he knew he couldn’t fight off all of them.

  When he saw the star on the shirt of the man who came into the store, he took his hand off the gun and breathed easier.

  “I saw the name of the store. Would you be Jim?”

  “Yes, sir, the name is Jim Ponder. Can I help you?” he asked, putting both hands on the counter so the sheriff would know that he represented no threat.

  “Mr. Ponder, I’m Sheriff Baxter, and I’m looking for two men, one named Jaco and the other Putt.”

  Ponder shook his head. “No, sir, them names don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

  “One of ’em is kinda dark, like an Injun or a Mexican, or maybe he’s a breed. The other ’n is an albino, skin real white, and with—”

  “Pink eyes?” Ponder asked, completing the sheriff’s sentence. “Yes, sir, I seen ’em. I seen ’em both.”

  “When did you see ‘em?”

  “I seen ’em this very afternoon. They bought some bacon, beans, ’n a bottle of whiskey.”

  “Which way did they go from here? North or south?”

  Ponder smiled. “They didn’t go either way. If you’re a’ trackin’ ’em, it shouldn’t be all that hard. They left the road and headed east toward Round Mountain over in the Mescalero Valley.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Sheriff?” Ponder called as the sheriff turned to leave.

  Baxter stopped and looked back toward him. “What did them two boys do?”

  “They murdered a farmer, his wife, and their little girl. And they raped the wife and the little girl.”

  “Damn,” Ponder said. “I hope you find them.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Ponder. We will,” Baxter said resolutely.

  Just before dawn the next morning, A. M. Jaco was awakened from a sound sleep by a stream of water splashing on his face. He coughed, sputtered, and spat. Where was the water coming from?

  Jaco opened his eyes and saw Sheriff Baxter standing over him and buttoning up his pants.

  “Sorry to have to wake you that way,” Baxter said. “But I didn’t have any other water handy.”

  “You . . . you pissed on me?” Jaco shouted angrily.

  “Yeah, I did. Oh, by the way, Jaco, you and Putt are under arrest.”

  Jaco sat up quickly. Looking around, he saw as many as twenty armed men surrounding the place where he and Putt had bedded down for the night.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  “See here, my good man. I was told that the railroad did not run to a place called Chugwater. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right,” the ticket agent said. “If you want to go on to Chugwater, you’ll have to go by coach.”

  “How long of a trip will that be?”

  “About five hours.”

  “And, may I inquire as to where I might obtain passage?”

  “Right here.”

  “Really? I would not have expected that. I thought that the railroad and the coach lines would be competitive.”

  “Only when we’re goin’ to the same place.” The ticket agent picked up a printed booklet. “What is your name, sir?”

  “It is Hanson. Sir Calvin . . . ,” he stopped in mid-sentence and chuckled in embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. My name, sir, is Calvin Hanson.”

  The clerk wrote out the ticket, then stamped it, and handed it to Hanson. “An Englishman, are you?”

  Hanson smiled. “My accent always gives me away.”

  “Well, yes sir, that, but I could also tell by the hat you are wearing that you are English.”

  “I am an Englishman by birth, but I have chosen to live in this wonderful country and hope, soon, to acquire citizenship.”

  “And an American hat?”

  “Indeed, sir, and an American hat.” Hanson removed his hat and examined it thoroughly, turning it in his hands. “Though I must say, this hat is still in as good a shape as it was the day I bought it at Locke and Company Hatters on St. James Street in London.”

  “I’m sure it is a fine hat, Mr. Hanson. And welcome to America.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  After receiving directions as to the location, Hanson left the railroad depot and walked the two blocks to the stagecoach station. He much preferred to travel by train, where he could secure first-class accommodations. Stagecoaches were the great equalizer of travel—all passengers rode in the same general discomfort.

  Hanson carried a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other. When he reached the station, he checked his suitcase in to be carried in the boot.

  “We can put your briefcase back there as well, if you’d like,” the station manager said.

  “I appreciate your kindness sir, but I prefer to keep it on my person.”

  “I understand. You’re a drummer, aren’t you? You’ve got your samples in there. Notions and such?”

  “Yes, you are most astute, sir,” Hanson said.

  “Well, Mr. Hanson, you’re all checked in, so you may as well have a seat out there in the waiting room. The coach will be leaving in”—the manager pulled a watch from his pocket, opened the cover with his thumb, and looked at it—“another twenty minutes.”

  Hanson took a seat and, with hi
s hat on top of the briefcase that was lying on his lap, began his wait for the coach.

  Nine other people waited in the room, and he began calculating how uncomfortable the coach ride would be. Some coaches had a third seat in the middle, and three on each seat would enable the coach to accommodate nine. He thought of the other passengers he would be riding with, and wondered what they would think if they realized that he had thirty thousand dollars in cash in the briefcase he was holding. Almost subconsciously, he tightened his grip on the case.

  At almost exactly twenty minutes after he took his seat, a man carrying a shotgun stepped into the waiting room. “Folks, my name is Brody Pierce. I’m the shotgun guard. Hodge Weatherly will be your driver this mornin’. The team is hitched, ’n we’re ready to get started. Anyone holdin’ a ticket to Chugwater, come climb aboard.”

  To Hanson’s great relief, only three people responded to the call. A woman and two children got up, and Hanson hurried to reach the door first so he could hold it open for her.

  “Thank you, sir,” the woman said with a broad smile.

  “My pleasure, madam.”

  Chugwater

  Duff had come into town to visit with Megan’s brother-in-law. He met Jason at Megan’s Dress Emporium, where Megan, Melissa, and Timmy were also inside.

  “I swear, when you get Melissa into a store, it’s almost impossible to get her out,” Jason complained. “You could stick hot needles under my fingernails, or you could make me spend time in a store with Melissa. It’s the same thing.”

  Duff laughed. His own personal feelings about being in a store, any store anywhere, pretty much mirrored those expressed by Jason. “There’s always a good conversation going on in Fiddlers’ Green. What do you say we spend some time there?”

  The two men walked next door to the saloon.

  As a surprise for her sister, Megan had made a new dress of dark green silk for her, selecting a pattern from Harper’s Bazaar. With a bustle in the back and a frilled front, it was quite stylish. She held it up for Melissa to see.