A Tale Out of Luck (26 page)

Kenyon remembered that the shopkeeper was a justice of the peace, but ignored the statement all the same. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, stepping between them to gather up the two arrows. The palpable enmity of the three citizens failed to concern him much as he got a close look at the arrow shafts.

One artifact appeared much older than the other. Here was the link between Black Cloud from the old days and Black Cloud of here and now. This new exhibit—because it was found in Tomlinson’s possession—could help cinch the case against the old Ranger in the murder of Wes James. And—though he might not ever come to trial for the killing of Jim Kenyon—Texas would know he was hanging for that crime, too, and the murders of two other Rangers, to boot.

Smiling, Lieutenant Matt Kenyon looked up at the bar owner, Flora. Expecting to see a sneer of hatred on her pretty face, he instead found her eyes peering outside through the moisture-fogged store window, a look of surprise quickly shifting to one of outright horror.

Kenyon put his hand on the grip of a Smith & Wesson revolver and turned. The distortions in the glass windows coupled with the condensation on the panes provided a surreal view of a buckboard rolling down the muddy street. The feathered ends of three arrows pointed skyward from the chest of a dead man who could be seen over the sideboards of the wagon. A grim lot of cowboys dragged along with the buckboard. Directly behind the wagon box, staring at the dead body, rode Captain Hank Tomlinson himself.

Kenyon stepped out into the cold, followed by the women and the store owner.

“Oh, Hank!” Flora said. Then she began to cry—apparently in sincere sobs of grief. She stepped right out into the street, dragging her skirts through the mud.

Kenyon looked at Tomlinson, the old Ranger’s face a gathering storm of anger. For the first time, Kenyon began to fear his inevitable clash. He thought for a moment that he would have to draw his firearm here and now when Tomlinson reached into the pocket of his heavy coat. But the old Ranger only pulled out a flask from which he took a long pull, turning the container upside down. Then he got down from his horse.

Still holding the arrows in one hand, Kenyon stepped into the street to get a closer look at the body. The Broken Arrow men—seven of them besides Captain Tomlinson—were quietly getting down from their horses, preparing to remove the body from the wagon.

“Wait,” Kenyon said, before they could lay hands upon the corpse. He compared the arrows in his hand to the ones sticking out of the body, and found a match. “Is this your foreman?” he said, looking at Tomlinson.

“He was my
friend
,” Tomlinson growled. “You still think I’m Black Cloud?”

Kenyon rolled the stiff corpse to one side and found the back of the dead man’s coat dry. “Looks like he fell back on dry ground. This man was killed before the norther hit yesterday. Where were you yesterday, Captain Tomlinson?”

“He was here in town,” Flora said. “He’s been here two days.”

Tomlinson took her gently by the arm, silencing her. “I rode halfway to Austin yesterday. When I saw the repair crew fixin’ the telegraph line, I came back here.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“No,” Tomlinson said. His eyes looked like those of a killer right now.

Kenyon was beginning to think this arrest might not go as easily as he had hoped, with seven of Tomlinson’s men standing at his side. He decided to try a change in the plan. “I need to speak with you alone, Captain. Right now, in the store.”

“Kiss my ass,” Tomlinson said. “Somebody killed my friend, Poli, the same way they got that rustler, Wes James. If you think it was me, then I guess you’ll have to do your duty. I’ll be over here in the saloon.” He looked at the store owner. “Sam, take care of Poli. All the finest, you hear?”

“I hear you, Hank.”

When Tomlinson turned for the saloon, a young cowhand followed. Kenyon saw a clear family resemblance in the build and walk of the two, and figured this young man for Jay Blue Tomlinson. The young cowboy grabbed a friend by the sleeve, also a youngster, with a Mexican look to him, though he had blue eyes.

“Come on, Skeeter,” the first cowhand said.

The one he had called Skeeter paused for a while, but eventually spat in the mud and followed the other two Broken Arrow men to the saloon. The rest of the cowboys busied themselves with the body of their dead friend. It was truly a sad scene, especially as it was reflected in the faces of those ranch hands. But Kenyon had other business to attend to. He saw his chance to arrest Tomlinson in the saloon now. The odds would be better there. Tomlinson had only the two youngsters to back him up, and probably wouldn’t risk injury to his own son.

Kenyon looked at Sam Collins and handed him the two arrows. “As an officer of the court, I expect you to properly catalog and store
all
evidence,” he warned.

“Have you absolutely no sense of decorum?” Collins hissed, grabbing the arrows. “This is a close-knit community. This man was one of us.”

“This is also a murder investigation. Act accordingly.”

With that directive, Kenyon walked in front of the wagon team, crossed the street, and strode long to enter the saloon not far behind Tomlinson and his two young hands. Inside the saloon, the former Ranger went straight for the left end of the bar. Kenyon angled to the right. Though his mind was absorbed with his plans to disarm and arrest Tomlinson, he nonetheless noticed an odd, unexpected exchange among the men in the bar.

Jay Blue Tomlinson followed his father, as one might expect. But the one called Skeeter lagged behind. Then, the big rancher, Jack Brennan, donned a smile and spoke to the young cowhand.

“Hey, Skeeter!” he said. “Come here and have a whiskey.”

And Skeeter joined Jack Brennan at the bar instead of the Tomlinson duo. Not only did this strike Kenyon as odd, but he noted that Jay Blue Tomlinson apparently disapproved, too.

That aside, Kenyon had work to do, and the sooner the better. So, he sized up the situation. To the far left, Hank Tomlinson stood, waiting for a drink. His son stood beside him. Next to them was Brennan, then Skeeter. Taking a moment to gather his gall, Kenyon stepped up beside Skeeter, and he happened to hear words pass between the kid and the big rancher.

“Did you tell ’em yet?” Brennan asked.

“No, sir. Not yet.”

Jay Blue pushed back from the bar. “I heard that, Skeeter. Tell who what?”

“We weren’t talkin’ to you, Jay Blue,” Skeeter replied.

With this distraction working in his favor, Kenyon swung away from the bar, toward the middle of the room. His heart was pounding with excitement. “Captain Tomlinson!” he said, his voice suddenly booming in the room. Everyone turned to look at him
except
Tomlinson. The retired Ranger was half turned away from him. “I have a warrant for your arrest!”

A moment of silence passed as Tomlinson took a shot glass and drained it in one fluid motion. “You want to serve it in hell?” he said.

Suddenly, he was itching for Tomlinson to pull that hog leg from his holster. “Put your hands up and we’ll have no trouble.”

Tomlinson’s neck turned, his cool blue eyes drilling the State Policeman. “We
already
have trouble. You picked the worst day of the year to mess with me, Kenyon.”

Kenyon’s eyes widened to take it all in. He knew his Smith & Wesson was ready, and so was he. Now he was really hoping Tomlinson would
try something. It would make his police career to take down an old Ranger gone bad. “Put your hands in the air!” he ordered. He was awaiting Tomlinson’s next move, but it was Jack Brennan who spoke up.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute!” As he spoke, he pushed Skeeter farther away and passed in front of Jay Blue to stand at Tomlinson’s side. “Who the hell do you think you are to storm into our town and boss our citizens around like this? Goddamn Republican State Police.”

“I don’t need your help, Jack!” Tomlinson growled, squaring off next to the big rancher.

The two stood there for a split second, side by side. Then, like a sledgehammer, Jack Brennan’s fist flew up from his hip, where his thumb had been tucked into his gun belt, and smashed into Hank Tomlinson’s nose quicker than a quail could burst from cover.

By reflex, Kenyon drew his revolver, but stopped short of firing.

Remarkably, the old Ranger stood for a moment, his head thrown back from the impact of the knuckles, blood gushing from his nose, until his knees buckled. By the time the elder Tomlinson hit the floor, Brennan had locked his two bearlike arms around Jay Blue Tomlinson’s shoulders, preventing him from reaching the sidearm he was groping for.

“Skeeter!” Brennan said. “Get his gun!”

Even in the chaos of the moment, Kenyon noticed the look of abject astonishment on Jay Blue Tomlinson’s face as Skeeter rushed forward to yank the Colt from his holster. He carried it aside, butt-forward, and placed it out of reach on a poker table.

“Skeeter!” Jay Blue gushed, locked in the crushing embrace of the much larger man. “What . . . ?”

Skeeter looked at Kenyon. “He carries a knife on his belt and one in his boot top, too.”

“Skeeter!” Jay Blue repeated. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m done takin’ orders from Tomlinsons,” Skeeter said. “I work for the Double Horn Ranch now.”

Stunned and disappointed at the interference of Brennan, Matt Kenyon approached the younger Tomlinson, covering him with his Smith & Wesson. As Brennan continued to hold Jay Blue, Kenyon found the knives where Skeeter had indicated. He searched the unconscious Captain Tomlinson for weapons, unbuckling the gun belt and tossing aside a couple of knives.

Now he looked back at Brennan. “Turn him loose and step back, Mr. Brennan! Nobody asked you for your help anyway.”

Brennan released Jay Blue and stepped aside. “I wouldn’t show you the shithouse door,” he insisted. “I did what I did because Hank Tomlinson doesn’t deserve to die at the gallows for killin’ a shit-ass State Policeman, which he was about to do.”

Kenyon had no intention of arguing this point with the half-drunken rancher. “You can be of service now by picking up the captain and carrying him to the jail cell in the back of the store.”

The whole time, Jay Blue Tomlinson had been staring in disbelief at the cowboy called Skeeter, who was standing in the middle of the room, looking detached and confused, as if he were about to break down and cry. Kenyon had no idea what was going on there, and didn’t really care. His concern was getting the two Tomlinsons behind bars.

“I’m going to have to lock you up, too,” he said to the younger man. “You shouldn’t have gone for your gun.”

Jay Blue stood tall and glared at Skeeter. “I’d rather go with my daddy anyway. Looks like I’m out of friends here.”

Brennan reached down with one hand, grabbed a handful of the material of Captain Tomlinson’s coat, took hold of a wrist with his other hand, and in one powerful motion hoisted Tomlinson across his shoulder. He proceeded out the door and across the street with Kenyon right behind, his muzzle trained on Jay Blue’s back. As they stepped into the store, he saw all the cowhands from the Broken Arrow look up from the corpse they had been hovering over, the shock and outrage quickly registering on every face. Sam Collins and the two ladies from the saloon also gathered the situation and gasped.

“Hank!” Flora screamed.

“Stand back!” Kenyon shouted, moving his Smith & Wesson up to the back of Jay Blue’s head for all to see. “These men are going to jail.”

“Why, you sorry son of a bitch!” said the tallest of the men, who stepped forward, trying to pull the tail of his buttoned-up coat over the grip of his revolver. At the same time, the Indian, Tonk, eased to one side to spread the field of fire, and Kenyon thought he might not accomplish this arrest without gunplay after all.

“No!” Flora screamed, grabbing the arm of the lanky cowhand. “He’s got Jay Blue!”

She seemed to jolt some sense into the men, though the anger in the room remained as thick as the mud in the street.

Kenyon’s voice rose to a shout: “I want everybody but Mr. Collins out of here
now
!” He waited as the cowboys and the ladies shuffled out of the store in unwilling obedience, then he ushered Jay Blue into the adjoining room added on behind the store.

“Put the captain on the floor inside the cell,” he said.

When Brennan had carried out his order and exited the cell, Kenyon said, “Jay Blue, you sit down on the floor beside your father.”

The boy obeyed, pulling the captain’s shoulders up to lean against him, so the blood would drain out of his nose instead of running back into his throat, choking him.

“You’re dismissed,” Kenyon said to Jack Brennan.

Brennan only sneered and left the room. Kenyon heard him stomping all the way out through the front door of the store. Now he holstered his Smith & Wesson. He shook the cage to make sure it was still firmly bolted to the floor. He felt along the tops of the flat iron bars that created the upper part of the cell.

“What are you doing?” Sam Collins said, having stepped into the lean-to room.

“Searching the cell.”

“For what?”

Kenyon shrugged. “A file, a hacksaw, a knife.” He looked under the iron shelf that served as a bunk. Finally, he took the thin cotton-stuffed mattress from the hard bunk and groped along its entire length. At one end, he suddenly felt something hard. Tearing the cover open at a weak spot in the stitching, he produced a key that looked remarkably like the one stuck in the lock of the cell door.

“Perhaps a key,” he said, conscious of the fact that he was gloating. He tossed the mattress out of the cell. Grinning now, Kenyon stepped out of the cage. He slammed the door and locked it, pocketing both keys. A rare sense of accomplishment flooded over him. This was his life’s work, all but completed. He felt the approval of his dead mother, vindication for his murdered father.

“Mr. Collins, I’ll be needing you to send some telegrams of my success here on this day.” He looked into the cell at Jay Blue. “I’ll be right here in the store, so don’t try anything.”

The younger Tomlinson looked at him with exasperated hatred. “What am I gonna try?”