Hell on the Prairie (18 page)

“
So that’s how you got to Matthias,
and eventually to Wolf Creek?” Quint asked.

Asa nodded, “We went to Matthias, that’s
where everyone kept telling us to go. I have a place there. I go
home to see Ruby once a week, the rest of the time I sleep in a
back room at the saloon. I don’t want her down here, it’s too rough
a place. I was doing a little whiskey selling and gambling from our
place in Matthias, until the Sheriff shut me down one day. He said
I needed to quit selling that whiskey that everyone was making and
selling to the Indians. It was nothing more than grain alcohol and
river water with red peppers and a twist of tobacco thrown in every
barrel. It was fiery stuff, and it would sure as hell get ’em
plenty drunk, though. Sheriff Satterlee was pretty decent about it,
even told me about a place that was for sale. He said that if I
wanted to be in business then I’d have to do it legal-like. I went
to see Jake Andrews to ask if he would put in a word for me so that
I could buy or rent that old building. He gave me a paper to give
to the banker.

“
So I came down and bought the
place.
My
place. I didn’t
have much money, but I was able to start in business right away. I
hadn’t seen nor heard anything about Watty Brown since that night
down in Texas. I think he was as surprised at seeing me as I was
him when he came in tonight.”

Quint nodded, “Well, he wasn’t alone
tonight. I take it you don’t know the other man, the one that I
shot?”

Asa shook his head, “No, I don’t know who
the other fella was. I’ve never seen him before tonight.”

Quint nodded. “Well, he was Watty’s sidekick
–most likely the two had struck up a friendship on a trail drive,
and were in town because the cattle drive is done. That fella may
be innocent of any other wrong-doing –but anytime someone starts
shooting at the law, just because he sees a badge, he’s likely to
have a bad day. Or his last day.”

“
If I was to get another chance, I’d
kill Watty Brown for his part in bothering Ruby, and for him
killing Fred Wilson,” Asa said.

Quint flashed a hard look at Asa, “I don’t
think you want to do that Asa. That skunk’s not worth getting
hanged over. That’s why I hit you back there. It would be better
for you and your wife to let the law handle it. Now, do you know
what county the Circle T ranch, and this town of Sweetwater, is
in?”

Asa thought for a moment, “I believe it is
Nolan County.”

Quint wrote on a note pad, then said, “The
law in Kansas is as good as the law in Texas. If it’s like you say,
that Watty Brown is wanted for murder down there, and if he lives
through that stab wound he’ll be taken back to answer the
charges.”

“
Then what?”

“
I’d say a Nolan County judge will see
him hanged.”

Asa grunted. “I hope so.”

“
Meanwhile,” Quint said, “Marshal
Gardner is not going to be happy to hear about another killing at
your saloon.”

Asa shook his head, “Marshal Gardner don’t
like me much. He treats me like I was still a slave. Sometimes I
think he’s just waiting for a reason to shut me down. I expect this
business with Watty Brown is reason enough.”

“
Marshal Gardner doesn’t have anything
against you personally, Asa. He’s just tired of all the violence
around your saloon of a night. Fact is, he’s been taking some heat
for it lately, and it’s got him on edge.”

Asa was quick to answer. “If that’s so, he’s
been on edge ever since I met him. And besides, I got no control
over what a man does when he’s drinking.”

Quint nodded. “Marshal Gardner knows that.”
He stared at Asa for a moment, then added, “The Marshal is a
logical man, and I don’t believe that he wants Asa’s Saloon to
close. He told me once that as long as your saloon is open, then
most of the violence is corralled in Dogleg City instead of the
establishments uptown. Do you understand what I’m saying, Asa?”

Asa got a distant look in his eye then
nodded, “I think so, deputy. Some life in this town is cheaper than
others, I guess. But I appreciate you trying to help.”

Quint smiled. “Once I explain things to the
Marshal, and we get confirmation from the Nolan County Sheriff as
to the warrant on Watson Brown, I believe things will work
out.”

“
So I can go back to work?”

“
Sure,” Quint said. “And maybe one day
this week we can go fishing again.”

Quint watched the older man trudge back to
Dogleg City, then put a pot of coffee on. There was no telling what
the rest of the night might bring.

THE END

MULE-SKINNERS: JUDGE NOT

By

Jacquie Rogers

Summer, 1871 –just east of Wolf Creek, Kansas

My pa wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. He’d flapped
his lips all the way from Missouri to the middle of Kansas, and I
reckoned by the time we did get to the ocean, I’d be ready to dunk
him in it.

“
One of the mules is lagging.”

“
Hermes,” I hollered. “Quit sniffing that bush
and get over here.” Sure, my mules were coddled, but they’d been my
only company for a year during the war, and the six years since, my
best friends. “You know you’re supposed to stay by the
wagon.”

The mule sent me a guilty look and trotted to his
spot by the rear wheel with the other three. I have eight mules,
but a harness for only four, so four mules pulled half a day, then
I traded them out.

“
Wouldn’t it be easier to tie the spare mules
to the wagon, Elsie?” My father, Obadiah Parry, had lost his wife,
son, home, and thought he’d lost me and the mules in the war, but
he’d run into me a few years back.

Believe me, the moment I saw that man was the
happiest day of my life. His brown hair had grayed and he’d hunched
over and slowed down considerable, but his blue eyes still had that
sparkle –the one that let you know there very well could be a frog
in the sugar bowl, so watch out. I wouldn’t call him a moocher, but
he did let me do the working while he did the talking.

“
Maybe, but I ain’t tying them up. They know
their jobs.” Unlike Pa, who was more of a dreamer than a doer. The
one dream he had that worked out was when he decided to start a
draft mule business with a mammoth jack he’d won in a card game. He
talked the local farmers who had quality draft horse mares into
giving him one foal for every two breedings. The result was more
than a dozen draft mule foals the next year, but then the war broke
out.

Now his dream was to go to California. I had eight
of the mules, the wagon, nowhere else to go, and I was happy to
make up for lost time with my pa. He had the gift of gab and a
hefty dollop of charm, which got me more than one well paying
freight job. We had a light load this time, though –supplies for
the trip west. But we had to take a detour to Wolf Creek to pick up
a wagon he’d won playing euchre last week.

“
You should let me drive for a while. The
mules need to get used to me, now that we’ll have two wagons and
two teams.”

“
They’ll figure it out once the time comes.”
Which I didn’t think would come. Most of Pa’s schemes didn’t pan
out. Besides, he didn’t hold the reins right, even though I’d
showed him ten times over.

“
Think that widow woman would go with
us?”

“
Nope.” The wagon that Pa won was at the
loser’s sister-in-law’s place in Wolf Creek. He’d been speculating
about her the whole way. All he knew was her husband got killed in
the war.

“
Pa, not everyone wants to go west. What would
she do out there?”

“
I hear there’s ten men for every woman. She
could find herself a rich husband. You could, too.”

I gritted my teeth and kept my gaze aimed straight
ahead. The war hadn’t been easy on our family and truth was, I had
no idea how to be a wife. The mules seemed a lot safer and a whole
lot less stubborn than most men I’d ever met. They worked harder,
too.

“
Could. Won’t hold my breath.”

“
I wish your ma and your brother was with
us.”

“
Me, too.” I missed them both something awful,
but tried not to think about it much.

“
Your ma wouldn’t approve of you wearing man’s
clothes, though.”

“
She would if it kept us alive.”

The war had been brutal to the Ozarks farmers. Our
family and the neighbors had watched all our worldly possessions
burn or be stolen. Many lost their lives –not from battles, but
from bushwhackers and jayhawkers. Both sides. Most of the raiders
were a bunch of outlaws looking for justification to do their dirty
deeds.

A year before the war ended, my brother Zeb had
disappeared from the field he was plowing. He’d only been fourteen
years old, and the family never knew what happened to him. The
neighbor boy, sixteen –same age as me –came up missing the same
day.

A few months later, Ma had died when she ran back
into our burning cabin to salvage the family’s bed linens after
some raiders had torched every building on our farm. Pa nearly died
of the smoke when he tried to rescue her.

But just now, we had troubles of a different kind. A
bullet whistled by my ear and then I heard the sharp crack of a
rifle.

“
A hold-up!” I yelled.

Four men, one riding on each side of the wagon and
two gaining from behind, gave chase.

“
Run, run, run!” The mules obeyed me, breaking
into a full gallop, and I could only hope the four loose mules
trailing behind stayed close.

“
Pa, take over.” I shoved the reins into Pa’s
hands and grabbed the double-barrel scattergun from the holster on
the side of the seat. With a firm grip, I fired a shot at the man
on the left, then squeezed off another round. The last one blew off
his hat and slowed him down some. “Hand me the Henry.”

The mules galloped as fast as they could pull, with
the wagon flying over ruts and bumps. “It’s blasted hard to shoot
and stay set.”

“
You can’t hit nothing with the wagon bouncing
around like this.” He passed the rifle to me anyway.

“
Maybe not, but they’ll have something to
think about.” I braced myself to cock it and aimed as best I could,
firing the first round. The man on the right flinched –a graze that
barely tore his shirt and not enough to do any good. He and the
outlaws behind them closed in.

“
Shoot his horse!” Pa said. “Bigger
target.”

“
It ain’t the horses I’m worried about.” I
fired another round at the man on the right. The scoundrels behind
them moved up fast, pistols blazing.

“
Stay low, Pa!”

The thief on the right fired three shots and Pa
slouched to the side, nearly falling off. His eyes bugged out and
beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Blood bubbled out of his
chest.

“
Pa!” I dropped the Henry, grabbed the back of
his shirt, and dragged him back up, but he’d let go of the reins
and they were trailing in the dirt. “Pa, are you alive?”

He didn’t say a word. My arm strained as I hung onto
him and my heart ached for my pa, my one last link to family, and
the dearest part of my life. I just hoped more bullets didn’t find
us as the mules raced on and the wagon jerked and jolted. I hung
onto Pa for all I was worth.

The other four mules weren’t in sight. With a little
luck and maybe a hand from the Big Man, I hoped they were all
right, but mostly that my father was alive.

The two men rode alongside the team, grabbed the
jerk line, and pulled them to a stop. The scruffy robber holding
back the mules was older, mid-thirties maybe, but the younger,
blond fellow appeared to be in charge. He had the weathered look of
a man who spent more nights under the stars than not, and didn’t
seem to care that we saw his sneering face. If I lived through
this, he’d regret that mistake.

“
Throw down your guns and your
money!”

I tossed my shotgun to the ground. “Ain’t got any
money.”

“
Get down and be real careful about it. The
old man, too.”

“
He’s shot. Hurt bad.” Much as it tore me up
to leave my father, I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good for me to
get shot, too, so I tried to make him as comfortable as I could and
then climbed down.

The blond fellow bit off a hunk of chaw and leaned
his forearm on the saddlehorn. “What’s in the wagon?”

Everything we owned, which wasn’t much. “Flour, salt
–supplies for the kitchen.”

The old one rode to the wagon, reached down, and
flipped up the canvas. “Yep, nothing worth a nickel.”

The leader spat. “Eh, I’ll take your mules, then.
Looks like I could get a good price.”

“
You can’t do that! I’ve gotta take my pa to
the doctor. He’s hurt bad.”

The old man stared at Pa for a bit and shrugged. “If
he ain’t dead already, he will be shortly.”

“
He needs a doctor.”

The blond one waved his revolver at me. “Step back
from the wagon.” He nodded at his partner. “Cut the leather and
make sure it ain’t usable. I’ll tie the mules to a lead line.”
Then, training his revolver on Pa, he said, “Girlie, you move a
muscle and I’ll put a bullet through the old fart’s gullet.”

He drew his other pistol with his left hand and
fired three shots in the air. While the older outlaw sliced the
harness leather, the other two outlaws rode in, kicking up dirt and
dust.