Beyond Betrayal (33 page)

The men hesitated, looking at each other, looking at Earl. "I figure Simon's neighbors are none too happy with him right about now," Samson continued, "so you might want to practice with those guns a bit if your sidin' with Earl. You'll probably have to use them.” The knowledge that Simon Earl's neighbors might be gunning for Earl and anyone who'd worked for him seemed to do the trick. Dean Bradford dropped his Winchester first and slowly, carefully unbuckled his gunbelt, dropping his sidearm to the ground. Then he raised his hands.

"You're fired too, Bradford," Earl growled.

"Yessir, I reckon so," Bradford replied. He didn't seem too concerned.

A second later, the man Earl had called Rydan followed suit, dropping his weapon to the ground with a thud. He'd already been fired, after all. Then a young man that Samson had never met dropped a pair of pearl-handled pistols to the ground. Samson stifled a sigh of relief. He'd had the young man sized up as another
Kid Something
. "Bradford pick them all up and put them over by the tree to your right.” The tree was far enough away that the guns would be out of Earl's reach, and the path Bradford would have to take to get to it would ensure that he didn't cross between Samson and Simon Earl.

"Yessir.” Bradford bent to the appointed task, accomplishing it quickly and efficiently without any attempt at treachery.

"Now, you three can mount up and ride out," Samson directed the drovers.

"What about my guns, Sheriff?" the young man argued. "I saved a long time to buy those."

"They worth your life?" Samson asked.

"No, sir. But I want them back."

"If you drop in to the sheriff's office tomorrow, you can have your firearms back."

The three cowhands mounted and rode off without looking back. Cattle milled, lowing restlessly. Only Simon Earl and his son, Travis remained. Simon was bold and belligerent. "You ain't takin' me in alive, Chambers. I'm not gonna lose everything on account of some goddamn cows."

"Pa!” Travis looked just plain scared.

"Shut up, boy! You just do what I tell ya and everythin'll be fine."

Samson didn't like the looks of things. Glancing at his deputy, he saw an echoing worry in his eyes. With a gesture Samson suggested that Wilkes move around and try to get behind Simon Earl. Just in case.

Carl nodded and slipped off into the greying darkness.

"He's lying, Travis," Samson said. He wanted the young man out of the cross-fire, but he wasn't holding out much hope of getting him to ride out. "Your Pa's not going to get out of this, and if you aren't careful, you'll go down with him. Wouldn't it make more sense for you to run your Pa's ranch for him rather than to go to jail with him, maybe die with him. Why let some stranger take over everything you've worked for all your life?"

"Pa—?" Travis looked at his father.

"I told ya to shut up, boy!” And then, without warning, Simon Earl pulled his sidearm. Samson ducked behind a rock as a bullet whined over his head.

Damnation! He'd hoped that it wouldn't come down to a another gunfight.

When next he cautiously peered over the boulder, he was flabbergasted to see Simon Earl using his own son as a shield. "Pa?" Travis was obviously stunned as well.

"They won't shoot you boy. Will you Chambers?"

Samson didn't bother answering the question. "I can't let you leave here, Simon. You know that. Besides, you've got no place to go. What do you think this is going to accomplish?"

Earl didn't answer except to fire at Samson again. The bullet ricocheted off of the boulder and whined off into nothingness. There was another shot. And another. He dared not lift his head above the boulder to see what Earl was doing, so he tried moving to the side a bit. Another shot and something stung his arm. Samson jerked back behind the security of the boulder and glanced at the wound.

Just a graze. Nothing serious.

He figured Simon had two shots left before he either had to reload or switch guns. Of course Travis' pistol was real near to hand. Still it would be a momentary reprieve.

Taking off his hat, Samson lifted it slowly above the boulder attracting another round of fire. One shot. Two. That should do it.

"Hold it right there, Simon.” It was Carl's voice.

Cautiously, Samson peered over the boulder to make certain everything was under control. Wilkes had his pistol pressed to the back of Earl's neck.

"Let the boy go and drop the gun." Wilkes ordered. "Now!” Slowly, as hate suffused his features, Simon Earl obeyed. Carl's gaze flicked briefly to Simon's son. "Travis I want you to step away from your pa and drop your gunbelt. You understand me?"

Travis nodded and carefully, without making any sudden moves, complied. The young man still looked stunned. He'd learned something about his pa in the last few minutes that no man should have to learn.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

It was almost noon before Samson had everything tied up at the jail. Truth be told, his jail was getting a mite crowded, but Judge Niven was supposed to be back in town on Thursday so it wouldn't be for much longer. Heck! Thursday was
tomorrow
. A man sure could lose track of the days when he didn't get any sleep. Samson had been out of town for more than twenty-four hours. All he wanted to do was go to bed and get a few hours of sleep before the social tonight but with his stomach gnawing at his backbone the way it was he figured he'd better grab a little something to eat at the hotel first. He didn't trust himself to cook. With his eyes as blurry as they were, he wasn't sure he could boil water without burning it, let alone fry an egg. At least if he fell asleep over his plate at the hotel restaurant, Mrs. Schmidt would give him a nudge to get him moving on home.

"Hey, Sheriff," old Jeb greeted him as he passed the mercantile.

"Jeb," Samson nodded and halted. He was really too tired for a run-down of the local news, but he thought he'd better ask, just in case. "Anything been happening?"

Jeb nodded. "Yep. You want the funny stuff first or the sorrowful stuff?"

Samson sighed. He'd have to hear the sorrowful stuff eventually anyway, but he could sure use a laugh right now. "The funny stuff," he said.

Jeb narrowed his eyes, considering. "On secon' thought ya might not think it's as funny as I do. I sure hope ya didn' have any laundry over at Mrs. Vanbergen's.” Jeb chuckled and shook his head.

As a matter of fact, he did. "Why's that?" Samson asked.

"One o' them sachet kittens su'prised her real good when she went out ta hang stuff on the line."

"A skunk?"

"Tha's what I said, wasn' it?" Jeb demanded.

Samson ignored the question. Oh, boy! He hoped his good shirt hadn't been on the line when it happened. He'd wanted to wear it tonight. "Did the skunk spray her?"

Jeb grinned. "Got her real good. She done come runnin' over to the mercantile to get all the vinegar an' bakin' soda she could carry. 'Course old man Lowden was yellin' at her ta get out of his store, tryin' to chase her out 'fore she stunk up the place. An' him no bigger than a bar o' soap on wash day next to her," he grinned. "Coulda told him it wouldn' work. Mrs. Vanbergen wouldn' budge 'til he promised to deliver all the vinegar and soda he had over ta' her place.” Jeb shook his head again. "It sure was somethin' ta see."

A tired smile tugged at Samson's lips. Yeah, he could imagine the scene. Though he wouldn't have wanted to be too close to it himself. "I guess I'll have to find another shirt to wear to the social tonight."

"Social's postponed to Saturday," Jeb informed him without explanation.

Samson's brows arched. "Why?"

"On account o' the funeral taday. That's the sorrowful news I was talkin' about b'fore."

"Whose funeral?" he asked.

"Tom Cameron's.” Jeb shrugged and looked down the street toward the undertaker's. "He passed on las' night. Howard said his leg was darn near rotted right off. Hell of a way to go.” He shook his head sadly. "Funeral's over at the church at four o'clock."

"Ah, hell!"

"Yep," Jeb returned in full agreement. "That little lady of yours seems to be holdin' up purdy good. She's been keepin' Mrs. Cameron over to the hotel with her.” He looked up at Samson. "You gonna go to the funeral, Matt?"

Samson nodded solemnly. "Yeah."

Jeb nodded. "I figured."

"I'll talk to you later, Jeb."

Samson wasn't very hungry anymore, but he had to eat so he continued on down to the hotel. He wondered if he should bother Delilah and Mrs. Cameron to express his sympathies or just wait until the funeral to do it. Over a lunch of fresh trout which Freda Schmidt proudly proclaimed had been caught by her son Erich from the creek, Samson decided to wait to speak with Delilah and her sister. If they were managing to rest, he didn't want to disturb them.

He noticed that Mrs. Schmidt seemed to be affected by the news of young Tom's passing too. Her smiles were not quite as wide, her eyes were sad, and her conversation a bit stilted. In addition, that blamed dog of Delilah's was following Freda around looking so forlorn and lost that Samson began to believe Delilah's assertion that the dog understood far more than dogs usually did. Then again, Delilah had told him that she'd inherited the dog from some older lady who'd passed on, so maybe the little dog was simply wondering why she'd been handed over to yet another mistress.

His lunch over with, Samson decided to go home and try to catch a couple of hours sleep before the funeral. He'd been really looking forward to spending time with Delilah tonight, but she’d obviously be staying with her sister, and he was exhausted anyway.

*   *   *

After a brief funeral service, the congregation of Red Rock's only church gathered in the cemetery to bury one of its members. It was a bright sunny June day. "Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.

“
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return to unto God who gave it.”
The words began to run together, becoming little more than a jumble of sound to Delilah as she stared sightlessly at Reverend Duncan's black suited figure as he read from his worn leather-bound bible. Stifling a sob, she used a sodden handkerchief to blot a fresh bout of tears that rolled down her cheeks.

She hated death. It was the one thing in life that you could not fight against and win. At best, you could delay it. Young and old alike were struck down indiscriminately. There was no sense of correlation between a life well lived or poorly lived and the depths of the pain and suffering associated with dying. The entire process seemed completely random.

She gave Eve's hand a small squeeze; reassurance that she was at her side, a gesture to keep her from sinking too deeply into herself. Delilah was concerned about her. Eve hadn't slept much the previous night, but neither had she cried. In fact, she hadn't cried since the moment of Tom's death. She seemed almost too calm. Yet whenever Delilah had asked her if she was all right, she'd responded with a softly uttered, "I'm fine," and offered a wan smile before sinking back into a kind of stupor. Even now she stood tall, straight and pale; her eyes dry. But Delilah could sense a brittleness, a delicacy behind the rigidity that worried her. Eve reminded her of a piece of delicate china, beautiful but so fragile that it could shatter into a million pieces if not handled with exquisite care.

The hands from the Devil's Fork had arrived in town for the funeral and now stood on either side of herself and Eve, silently supportive as they cast the occasional anxious glance Eve's way. Delilah didn't know who had sent word to them but someone must have for she'd been so involved with Eve that she'd forgotten. It had probably been Doc Hale. He had taken care of most of the details.

Delilah saw other faces in the crowd she knew: Freda, Marc, and Erich Schmidt had come to pay their respects. Doc Hale stood near them, his hat in his hands and his head bowed. There were the Lowdens from the mercantile and the Metters from the livery. Miss Cora had come too, heedless of the ever-ready-to-criticize matrons of Red Rock. Since she had only known Eve in passing, Delilah felt certain that Miss Cora's presence was a gesture of support for herself, although Delilah had developed a thick skin long ago and was seldom bothered by wagging tongues. She noted that the town's respectable ladies kept their husbands firmly at their side and as far away from Delilah as possible. If she'd been feeling less depressed, she would have greeted the men whom she'd had occasion to meet in the Lucky Strike. However, of all the people in attendance, the presence that Delilah found the most disturbing by far was that of Samson Towers alias Matt Chambers.

She couldn't help but look at him. He was so handsome. And she so wanted to feel his arms around her again. But every time she looked at him, she found his eyes on her, gentle, compassionate and caring—and that made her guilt swell to near choking proportions. The letter she had planned to write him still lay unfinished on the table in her room. Yet she didn't have the courage to tell him in person. To see the expression in his eyes transform from caring into hate. To see that gentleness become rage.